It was to the point now, that Oliver wondered if he had made a mistake somewhere along the line. To have his men believing almost blindly like that, it was a worrying thing. But was he truly any different? Had he not come to rely on that very thing that had made him drive a knife through his hand? That insufferable sense of certainty, that some part of his felt, like a tiny little black diamond, hidden amongst mounds of hay, was that not the very thing that he had fallen victim to? Was it not these storms that had made them that?
The more they rode through them, the more faith that he had in that. He knew not how they'd achieve victory, or even against what, but he had faith that, given a storm, the Patrick men would know how to fly through. They'd find a way, whatever it took. A mad belief, based on nothing at all but that vague feeling.
