And Oliver was not even there to appreciate it properly. He'd gathered himself enough to form up his army, but when the necessity of his speaking had disappeared, so too had the necessity of his thinking. Greater problems took charge in his heart, as some part of him, with this encroaching tide of terrible blackness, realized something.
That what he had lost was not just the names of those who had died, not just the individuals themselves. He realized, with a sudden spring of terror, that what he had lost was everything. That, the hole left by them all together was not something that he could patch, or ever be filled. It robbed him of ever going back to what once was – those quiet days in Solgrim, with Ernest ever watchful nearby. Of the safety of his alliances with Asabel and with Blackwell, and the reassurance of all that Skullic had done and would continue to do for him.
