Never had Fitzer been robbed of his will to fight more than he had in that battle against Tiberius. His fire had been firmly snuffed out. And who was it who had seen it lit again? There was that youth, that strange creature called Oliver Patrick.
He detested it, the memory of that elation. The feeling that had rushed through him when Oliver Patrick had put a crown upon his own head. The delight. The willingness to serve. The beauty of the scene. It ran through his head, again and again, as the most beautiful painting.
The contradictory emotions. There was no man in the Stormfront that he hated more than Oliver Patrick, and in the same breath, there was no man that he more wanted to fight beside. An enigma, a poison in the blood. Something of such grandness that could only exist for a split second at a time. A fissure within the realm of reality. Something that could at times leak through. There was nothing in all the world that he struggled more to define than Oliver Patrick.
