A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Chapter 526 The Scent of The Grim Reaper - Part 8

She turned to Oliver again. "Can you hear me? Blink if you can," she said. Oliver could hardly formulate her instruction. He merely looked at her, as though she was the most interesting thing in the world, and in truth, she likely was. The world beyond death, and such an intensely beautiful woman, they hung together, in the strangest canvas a man could ever know.

He noted her golden eyes, the same colour as her hair. A lion's brown. A lion's will. He could feel it through her touch, as she gripped his hand. She had an incredible strength to her. It almost frightened him.

He'd thought that his will was what had gotten him to where he was. Where who was? He almost recalled his name. He almost collected his consciousness entirely.

"Terrible, it's terrible Lancelot..." Asabel said. "If we were back in my rooms, I might have done something for him... But even then, I don't know what poison they used."

"By all rights, the dog should have been dead already," Lancelot said.

She glared at him with such anger, that it seemed almost as if she'd strike him. But Lancelot held up his hands in entreaty. "What I mean to say, my Lady, is that you likely do not need to do much for him... He's Dominus' son, after all. The fact that he still draws breath, even after being poisoned, does that not say much?"

The girl considered it a second, her anger not fully fading until she accepted his conclusion. "He's strong, is what you mean?" She asked.

"...Begrudging as that is to admit. What the Patricks lack in all other areas, they were still the second strongest swordsmen the Stormfront had ever known. Or at least, that brute, Dominus was," Lancelot said.

"I will not have you speak ill of him," Asabel said. "I would have you control yourself, Lancelot. You can be gentle, I have seen you do so. You do not need to impress me by speaking as others do. I already know your own strength already. Even if the whole country curses him, Dominus was still a dear friend of Uncle."

"But he let him die—"

Lancelot couldn't hide the sweat that beaded his forehead, but the boy Oliver Patrick showed no signs of moving. His fear seemed to have been unfounded. He imagined he looked fairly ridiculous waving his sword around as he was, against an unarmed opponent.

"...Name?" Came a croaky voice from Oliver's hoarse throat, barely a whisper of the power that such a voice usually carried. He'd laid right on death's door for too long. Crawling back, if that was indeed what he was doing, it required all the strength of will that he'd built up over the years, and beyond that, even.

"Me?" The young lady asked, with a blooming smile. "I am Asabel Pendragon. That fool with the sword over there is Lancelot Swiftrider. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Oliver Patrick."

She introduced themselves both heartily, as though he was someone that she'd been aching to meet, with the sort of friendliness bestowed by someone who truly knew the other person. All the while, Ingolsol's weight beamed through Oliver's eyes, golden flecks, running with the purple of Claudia. It made Lancelot's spine tingle to see it. He thought he was strong... Or at least, amongst the strongest.

But what he felt rippling through the air was otherworldly. It was hard to even put a finger on.

"What manner of monster...?" Lancelot murmured to himself. Asabel caught him.

"Lancelot!" She told him off firmly. "Enough."

"Asabel..." Oliver repeated, as though it was a foreign word. Even with his consciousness brought to a head, even with the idea of self back in that mind of his, he could hardly comprehend what had happened to him, and what was about to happen. He merely repeated the name, as he watched the world through distorted and dizzy eyes, and he felt a deal of satisfaction well up, as his eyelids drooped.

"Tired..." he murmured.

His eyes closing once more prompted an alarmed yelp from Asabel, as she desperately sought to keep them open, worried – as she had been earlier – that death would soon follow, the second he ceded consciousness to the poison.