It was with great hesitation that the warmonger pressed against untried boundaries meant to keep him well secluded. Unfortunately, it had been quite some time since he’d convinced himself to explore anything outside of the gnawing melancholia roiling deep in his gut. Whether it was an omen or premonition he didn’t know or even particularly care to indulge. Instead, that sense of stagnancy and foreboding had only served to contain and isolate him against any further progress consorting with his new Night Court peers. In truth, he still knew so little about their pursuits that it made no difference to him if he was included or not. Perhaps that particular ruin was simply something he’d fostered of his own accord, but stubborn pridefulness kept him from shedding the incivility. There would be more time for it in this long life ahead. There would simply always be time.
Over the previous months Boleyn had taken to a very strict routine of patrolling the outer corners of Denocte. He wasn’t in the habit of seeking or obliging conversation and often found himself shirking well-traveled routes in favor of avoiding any source of companionship. Shortly after his arrival in Novus, the nightmares he’d been tentatively freed of had returned in force. However, in Boleyn fashion, the warmonger sought self-deprecating resolutions in order to spare his newly acquired entourage the burning weight of his sleepless glare. They often took root quite late in the night and when they dissipated at dawn, Boleyn was left feeling angry and bereft. The visions seemed to persist into his mornings whereupon he would begin another fruitless circle around the sun, so to speak. Hence, the routine and the monotony until he could fully come to accept and embrace another restive night.
However, when the sun grazed the distant horizon on another day meant to expire like all the ones before it, Boleyn found himself tracing an entirely new pattern. He wasn’t certain the cause of the change or what tempted him to the frosty waterfront of Vitreous Lake, but the buzzing tremors of restlessness had grown only more insistent (especially with the sleep deprivation he’d suffered of late). The past had always threatened to haunt his future, more questions than answers leaving a bloodied wake, but they’d been manageable for the last few years. Until they weren’t, he supposed. Perhaps that was the problem with Boleyn. Perhaps he couldn’t convince himself to settle and face the ominous truths that reared up during his quiet moments of complacency. Maybe he was destined to keep avoiding them at length, so long as he remained in the dark about the things he was too fearsome to face.
What would have happened if his father hadn’t been killed?
Would Bolyen stand a King if he hadn’t?
Why was that something that had ever crossed his mind?
Power was a funny thing in the grand scheme of life. It wasn’t that Bolyen had ever had designs on leadership or the consequent admiration, but it was the fact that his father sought it so desperately for himself and his son that made the idea so alluring. It was also the fact that such power had also come at the price of so much blood seen and unseen. That was what kept Bolyen awake at night, plagued by dreams of violence and killing without vice. It was like the past couldn’t let him leave without knowing why the power his father so loved had been the thing that ended him and left no answers on the whereabouts of his mother. Even as he watched the soft trails of frosty vapors curl away from his flared nostrils, he simply couldn’t focus on the beauty unfolding before him.
At the height of winter, Vitreous Lake appeared an almost barren land made of glass. The silence that stretched across the snow-covered banks seemed to embrace even his own thoughts, muting them until all that remained was a blanket of indecision. The warmonger had come this far with no real intent or reason but found himself pressing toward the shoreline anyways, his messy twist of mahogany locks trailing behind him like blood in the snow. Were he a picture he might appear battle-worn, but Boleyn knew better… He couldn’t slay the demons that plagued his mind so well as the ones that walked beside him. Perhaps that was why he preferred that he simply walked alone.
Over the previous months Boleyn had taken to a very strict routine of patrolling the outer corners of Denocte. He wasn’t in the habit of seeking or obliging conversation and often found himself shirking well-traveled routes in favor of avoiding any source of companionship. Shortly after his arrival in Novus, the nightmares he’d been tentatively freed of had returned in force. However, in Boleyn fashion, the warmonger sought self-deprecating resolutions in order to spare his newly acquired entourage the burning weight of his sleepless glare. They often took root quite late in the night and when they dissipated at dawn, Boleyn was left feeling angry and bereft. The visions seemed to persist into his mornings whereupon he would begin another fruitless circle around the sun, so to speak. Hence, the routine and the monotony until he could fully come to accept and embrace another restive night.
However, when the sun grazed the distant horizon on another day meant to expire like all the ones before it, Boleyn found himself tracing an entirely new pattern. He wasn’t certain the cause of the change or what tempted him to the frosty waterfront of Vitreous Lake, but the buzzing tremors of restlessness had grown only more insistent (especially with the sleep deprivation he’d suffered of late). The past had always threatened to haunt his future, more questions than answers leaving a bloodied wake, but they’d been manageable for the last few years. Until they weren’t, he supposed. Perhaps that was the problem with Boleyn. Perhaps he couldn’t convince himself to settle and face the ominous truths that reared up during his quiet moments of complacency. Maybe he was destined to keep avoiding them at length, so long as he remained in the dark about the things he was too fearsome to face.
What would have happened if his father hadn’t been killed?
Would Bolyen stand a King if he hadn’t?
Why was that something that had ever crossed his mind?
Power was a funny thing in the grand scheme of life. It wasn’t that Bolyen had ever had designs on leadership or the consequent admiration, but it was the fact that his father sought it so desperately for himself and his son that made the idea so alluring. It was also the fact that such power had also come at the price of so much blood seen and unseen. That was what kept Bolyen awake at night, plagued by dreams of violence and killing without vice. It was like the past couldn’t let him leave without knowing why the power his father so loved had been the thing that ended him and left no answers on the whereabouts of his mother. Even as he watched the soft trails of frosty vapors curl away from his flared nostrils, he simply couldn’t focus on the beauty unfolding before him.
At the height of winter, Vitreous Lake appeared an almost barren land made of glass. The silence that stretched across the snow-covered banks seemed to embrace even his own thoughts, muting them until all that remained was a blanket of indecision. The warmonger had come this far with no real intent or reason but found himself pressing toward the shoreline anyways, his messy twist of mahogany locks trailing behind him like blood in the snow. Were he a picture he might appear battle-worn, but Boleyn knew better… He couldn’t slay the demons that plagued his mind so well as the ones that walked beside him. Perhaps that was why he preferred that he simply walked alone.
Boleyn
@Caelum - I've picked up third for him to try to combat my distate for his writing style previously. I'm sorry about the switch-up!
