Before that moment, however, there were still those fits of passion. Those instances where significance wound up in him, and all was overturned before it. When the wind stirred, and brushed the hair above his ears. When his eyes sparkled, grey and blue, lacking the gold that once would have arisen in such circumstances, and almost seeming lonely for it.
Even in that highest degree of passion, there was that second thought, something was missing, someone was lost. A thousand different people. Everything was hollow. Only in surrendering it, in ceasing to think, was Oliver Patrick able to act.
As light as a feather, with not a thought of the past, nor of the future, for everything that he was, everything that he had become, they carried such a weight of significance as to make him immoveable.
His thoughts were only to the enemy in front of him, and to the noble challenge that it presented in the form of battle, even if it had come as a result of betrayal.
