Oliver stumbles out of the smoldering house, shaking from head to foot. He shivers as if he’d been out in a blizzard rather than burnt almost to death. Or rather, burnt to death and then snatched back from one foot beyond the Veil by timely healing magics. His gaze is vague, his footsteps uncertain. Seemingly by instinct alone he manages to stay with the group, huddling close, lost.
He shudders when Fendric and Hirtius leave the interrogation and shrinks into a corner, unaware of the proceedings. Still senseless he mounts and rides, Shavah grumbling as she takes a squawking Winkle from the disgruntled and talon-scratched stable boy. She magnanimously fishes in Oliver’s pocket and flips the kid a coin, the first one she grabs, a fat silver piece, “Here. Sorry.” She flinches away with a growl and mutters darkly at the young owl’s broad flapping wings.
Oliver’s slumps as he rides, lolling dangerously from one side to the other only catching himself from falling by a good seat in the saddle. He slips off the horse, leaning against the lean flank for a long moment, the smell of horse and leather in his nose.
A flicker of vestments catches his eye and he turns toward them, toward Fendric, and drops to his knees, sobbing, “I saw His face…”
The horse, its head tugged around by Oliver’s grasp on the reins, peers curiously at the kneeling man and shifts its weight idly. “His face… so beautiful…” he weeps inconsolably, looking more like a lost child than a brutal and dangerous rogue or even a tired old man.
“Why?” he cries at Fendric and the others, “Why didn’t you…” he sobs, breath failing him, choking the last words, “…let me… go…” he chokes and lets go of the reins, wrapping his arms around himself.
“Arrowyn,” he rasps, head dropping down. The charms at his neck chime faintly with his shaking.
