And here he was, now that they had turned on him. They had given him a gift of the grandest sort, in Oliver's victory over Tiberius, and what had Oliver done with it? He'd run around in circles, barely managing to keep himself level. It was not only this battle, it was the weeks before it. He'd tainted his relationship with Nila with his weakness. He'd used her as a pillar, and rested his entire weight upon her, forcing her to deal with his weakness and suffering just as strongly as he ought to be dealing with it himself.
His allies, he'd plunged into chaos, by seizing a title, then refusing, or at least not knowing how to properly go about defending it.
He clenched his fist, then his teeth, feeling more useless than he ever had in his life. Three steps behind Blackthorn now, she fought hard on his behalf. He could hear the shouts of his men, as desperately they tried to work their way forward, waving those Patrick banners, fighting for the honour of their shared past together.
