newredmuses (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
newredmuses) wrote2012-08-18 12:49 pm
newredmuses) wrote2012-08-18 12:49 pm
Post-Shrewsbury, Barplace
Harry would have hoped that death would be a little kinder to him, for all his sins. He rebelled against an anointed king, true, but surely God or the Devil would have forgiven that, given the justness of his complaint. He does not see this afterlife as a rebuke of his passions, nor his tendency to curse or lose his temper or fall prey to his own pride. A true punishment would have been directed. This -- this is mere aimlessness, a new set of rules and no familiar boundaries.
To the best of his reckoning, it has been a month since he arrived, bleeding and gasping on the floor. Warkworth, the king's court, Glendower's keep, Shrewsbury, all of it confounds his sense of what's real. He was in a hospital bed for some time, then told that the way home was shut to him and his clothes were not salvageable. Every morning, in the strange, small room he's been provided, he stares at his reflection and feels nothing like himself. Who is Harry Percy without his sword, his horse, his battered jacket, his life? This scruffy man in jeans and a t-shirt never led armies nor defied princes.
Harry was never one for sitting still, but he has grown too frustrated with pacing. He has been told that he may choose what to do next, but what does a choice mean when none are fulfilling? It is a thing he wrestles with, sitting by himself at the Bar, his back to the door, staring into the tea Bar believes he will like.
When he is this quiet, the other patrons have learned to leave him alone.
To the best of his reckoning, it has been a month since he arrived, bleeding and gasping on the floor. Warkworth, the king's court, Glendower's keep, Shrewsbury, all of it confounds his sense of what's real. He was in a hospital bed for some time, then told that the way home was shut to him and his clothes were not salvageable. Every morning, in the strange, small room he's been provided, he stares at his reflection and feels nothing like himself. Who is Harry Percy without his sword, his horse, his battered jacket, his life? This scruffy man in jeans and a t-shirt never led armies nor defied princes.
Harry was never one for sitting still, but he has grown too frustrated with pacing. He has been told that he may choose what to do next, but what does a choice mean when none are fulfilling? It is a thing he wrestles with, sitting by himself at the Bar, his back to the door, staring into the tea Bar believes he will like.
When he is this quiet, the other patrons have learned to leave him alone.