The Resentful - Part 4

"Where is my answer?" Oliver said. "Why do you not deign to reply? Do I shout my words into the wind? Do you know nothing, but standing there, shiftless, thinking yourselves to be blameless? Where went the ferocity with which you fought each other before?"

The silence the crowd sat in was practically unnatural. When the wind blew, to stir Oliver's blood-matted hair, it drowned out the small little whispers of noise that the crowd barely made, and reduced them entirely to void.

He had the alarming sense that, perhaps, even with all that he had, he could not move them. He'd been bold enough to feel fear, in allowing all that he was to the surface. But even with all that he was present, he found his words to be plentiful, and yet their effect minimal. The best he could do was hold them in place.