There had been true praise as well, from his mother, and his father. He'd caused them no end of trouble, he knew that. There would constantly be a new idea planted in his head, to try something that he ought not have. Mixing dung with water, and then charcoal, and then deciding a few spiders added in for good measure wouldn't go amiss. He called it a potion, but his mother hadn't been terribly convinced when it stank out their home.
Effortless it had been then. Until it wasn't any longer. Until existence itself became suffering, and all that was important was snatched for it. When to crawl forward meant dragging one by one's nails across an old set of floorboards, bleeding as he went.
That suffering. The sheer weight that each step brought. That reassurance that indeed, he was struggling as hard as he could be.
"But why do you force yourself to struggle still?" A voice asked. A younger Oliver, by the name of Tempest.
