Chapter 2003: The Rumblings of War - Part 1
The darkness grew thinner, as the light of dawn finally started to pierce through. With it, the Hydra grew smaller and smaller, until it was invisible to the rest of the world, and even to Oliver himself. But it did not vanish. It still remained there, as a constant weight in Oliver’s heart, and even when he could not do battle with it any longer with his sword, Oliver did battle with it in the hallways of his mind.
Drenched in sweat, and thoroughly exhausted, Oliver found within himself an immense degree of satisfaction.
He had set out that night, feeling some sense in himself that he had a problem that needed to be solved, and desperately. And he had failed to solve it to a mighty degree. He found instead, that problem was likely to stay for much longer.
Yet, he found he did not mind that. The source of his fear, his weakness, his corruption. He knew it now. It would test him constantly, but at least now he knew his foe – the grandest foe that he was ever to face. Knowing that it existed, and it would likely be there for a long time for Oliver to battle with, filled him with an immense degree of strength.
He made no grand plans for the future, nor did he shatter through any of the problems that had accumulated. For those plans for the future were simply a cure for the fear that the Hydra presented – all that was founded upon that fear, Oliver knew to be corrupt. Instead, he heaved in a breath, and thought of nothing but his battle with that monster, all else, he was sure, as long as he did not allow the Hydra to affect it, would fall into place. For as long as he did battle with that creature, he was purer than Oliver Patrick. He was that boy that he occasionally saw in his dreams, that boy of immense power, with that white hair.
Chapter 8 – Rumblings of War
Men sharpened their swords, grinding away at the steel with borrowed whetstones, while smiths and their apprentices beat away at old metal, reshaping it for new owners.
"This amount of bloody work... and what’s the time to do it in?" One old smith muttered, hands folded in front of his chest as he watched his apprentices work. Three of them he’d had to put to the task, and they were all scurrying about in their anxiety, trying to bear the impatient looks of the soldiers that they were working with. And how could they not be? They didn’t have the experience. One of them he’d been forced to apprentice that very week. A mess of a job they’d be certain to do, and it was a wound to the old smith’s pride that their work would be done in his name. Yet what was to be done? The men in charge gave the orders, and all he could do was sigh and continue on his task.
And that was exactly what he did. A huge sigh, lofting the hairs of his mustache, as he turned back to the nobleman that he was dealing with. A low-ranking officer he might have been, but he was an officer nonetheless. It would have been a step too far in making the apprentices deal with him.
"The eagle," the man said again, his impatient, like the rest of them, was at a boiling point. "Do you not see it? It’s lost a wing."
He pointed to the impractical hilt of his sword, where an eagle had been placed, not as an engraving, but as an extra attachment to the sword itself. An extension of the hilt. As impractical as it got. The smith hated the sight of it.
He rubbed his thick grubby fingers of his eyes, getting more soot there than there already was, and leaving long streaks from where it merged with the sweat that glistened on his forehead. In here, one could easily forget the cold outside. That little part of Ernest, where a hundred different forges were set to work – somehow, they’d been put together quickly, by the whims of that frightening merchant known as Greeves, and then the forges had been made ready by the inspection of the King’s chosen smith in Daniel Harmon.
"Aye, I see it," he said.
"Then, you will see it fixed," the nobleman said. "The wing needs replacing."
"Give it here," the smith said, wrestling it from the other man’s grip, and half-wondering whether a man like Harmon would need to be dealing with requests as pointless as this one. Or perhaps his would be even more troublesome, given the level of nobility he would be serving.
The smith tested the blade. He found the balance point, and settled it over his finger. He grunted in acknowledgement of the man that had forged the piece. He must have known it was a stupid endeavour, but he’d still made that little silver eagle statue balance with the rest of the blade. He tried a swing. It didn’t take away from the recovery all that much. Then he looked down the length of the blade, levelling it with his eye. He saw not a single nick, nor bur on the steel. It was as sharp as he could make, and the blade was straight and true.
"Next," he said, handing the blade back.
"But you haven’t fixed it!" The nobleman said, outraged.
"Doesn’t need fixing, it’ll do its job," the smith said.
"I ordered you to fix it, you’ll fix it!"
"Nay. I was ordered to see the equipment of the men gathered here prepared for war. You need not a stinking eagle on the end of your sword for it to be a fit piece of equipment. On second thought, here, hand it back," the smith said, snatching it off him again. Then he retrieved his hammer, and smashed off the rest of the eagle entirely. He tested the balance again, to ensure that it was still satisfactory, and then, once more, did he hand the weapon back, this time with a pulp of silver along with it. "There you go."