Oliver didn't know whether he had acted dishonourably yet, though he was quite sure that he walked the line. He balanced the tightrope, between honour and effectiveness, and the result was where he stood, not knowing quite what he was, or even entirely what was expected of him. He knew he ought to move to carry the responsibility that he had gathered, for the sake of their campaign, but what even was the path towards effectively doing that?
He wasn't so sure. He couldn't hold the idea in his head. It was one of those problems that he thought he might not be able to solve by simply thinking about. And so he kept moving. He found a tree that he had a familiarity with, for all the time that he had spent perched in its branches, and he threw himself up it, climbing from branch to branch, with a recklessness that seemed intent on inviting death, especially with each of the branches covered in slippery snow and ice.
