A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

VOLUME 2 – THE NOBLE TITLE AND THE DEVIL'S POWER

Beam awoke with a start, panicked.

Swiftly, he whipped his legs out over the side of the bed, and rolled onto the hard stone floor, as he quickly scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide, and his hands ready for combat.

He waited a moment, and then two. Nothing moved, save for the beating of his pounding heart, and the slow steady breaths he drew in and out, as he listened in on the silence.

The fear did not quickly dissipate, but his mind quickly drank in his surroundings. A foreign place, that much was obvious. The walls were white-washed stone, their cleanness unfathomable.

There were pieces of furniture that he only knew of from the homes of the wealthy. They were the type of things he would expect to see in Greeves' quarters – no, they looked even too fine for him. These were a beautiful varnished dark wood, with shining iron hinges, and the ornate carving of a shield on their front.

There was a wardrobe at one end of the room – the room itself would have been big enough to be called a house back in Solgrim – and it stood massive, like the gates of an ancient city. It was nearly double the size of a man, and broad enough to be the width of two horses. He couldn't imagine ever owning enough clothes to fill it.

Then there were several chests, all in the same dark wood. An initial glance told him there were three, but when he dared to move, he saw that there was another at the end of the bed.

And then he noticed the bed itself. Four grand posters, an enormous thing, with near-transparent blue drape, hung up around it. It was so out of place in the eyes of a peasant boy, that his heart began to beat even faster. He would have been less alarmed to find himself back on the field of battle. This was something else. He had no idea where he was, or even really who he was.

He'd dreamed strange dreams, and the reality was no more sane for his liking. Panic welled p inside of him, as he found himself struggling to breathe. He looked down at the clothes he was wearing. A single night shirt, dark blue, hung down past his knees.

With an urgency that could have torn the cloth, he struggled out of it, and allowed it to fall on the grey stone, beyond the protection of the rug that encircled the bed.

"Ah…" A sigh of relief, as his fingers found the familiar scar on his stomach. Thick, and as ugly as it ever had been, he ran his finger along it. He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes, recalling the moment when the spear had tickled his liver through it. A memory that for years had caused him unimaginable torment, it now offered him some comfort, as he bedded in its familiarity.

Of course, that would be when the maid decided to return from her rounds.

Beam heard the latch of the door lifted behind him. He turned his head over his shoulder to look, just in time for the maid to step in, as she cleared the door with her shoulder, with her hands occupied by a bowl of water.

She noticed him. He noticed her. She was a pretty woman, who looked to be in her twenties. A black dress, and a white apron, with a white handkerchief on her head to keep her hair clear of her work. Calmly, she acknowledged him, hiding her embarrassment well, before immediately leaving once more.

"Hm…" Beam stared at the door a moment, as he heard her footsteps grow quieter and quieter as she walked away. It took him a moment to recall that he'd been entirely nude. For some reason, the shame that would have come in the past at such a realization – it was absent.

When he reached down to pick up the nightshirt, and put it back on again, he realized other things were absent too.

That presence that he had felt with him, for all those years, like the weight of a heavy rock, leaning on him, it was gone. It had grown so heavy as of late, that when the battle had come, and Francis had erected his dome, Beam could no longer hold him back from speaking. Your next read awaits at empire

Battle. There was another thing he recalled. Images flashed through his mind of that night. They were vague, and disconnected. It felt like someone else had performed those feats, and witnessed those things, and felt those pains. It was all strangely separate to him.

He put a hand to his chest, feeling suddenly numb. When he moved his arm, he noted the pain of all the wounds of the battle with it.

"So, it was real then," he acknowledged mildly. In his hurry to reaffirm his own existence, he'd ignored all the other wounds that littered his body, but now, as he began to wake up little by little, the pains assailed him, and he could tell where each wound was, without even having to feel with his fingers through his nightshirt.

The door opened once again sometime later. Beam wasn't sure quite how much time had passed. He had been mildly observing the room again, and trying to get his mind in order, searching for other emotions that weren't simply panic. He did not move from his spot.

When he glanced to look, he saw the maid again. She curtsied as she came in.

"Good morning, Master Oliver," she said. Her bowl was in her hands still. She went and put it atop the small table beside his bed, seemingly oblivious to the boy that she had left frozen in shock.

The panic that Beam had felt earlier returned, and his heart began to pound. He suddenly doubted all that he thought he'd remembered. That scar on his belly, where was that really from? He wasn't sure, and the more he thought about it, the more his head began to hurt.