@johnseymour / 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓. hampton court knot garden, event thread.
‘You’ve been avoiding me, Seymour.’
Even in the dim glow of torchlight, John Seymour’s identity was clear. The King strolled with a leisurely pace toward the gentleman – whose fair shock of hair, parchment thin skin, and heaven-blue eyes were not unlike that of his headless ancestress – and locked gazes with him, his penetrating study unrelenting. The young King was as easily magnetic as his late father had been, but equally prone to Henry’s paranoia and distrust –– anxieties that plagued any dynasty as nascent and divisive as the Tudors. Dark, hawkish eyes regard Seymour with deeply-burrowed suspicion, for though he had pardoned the memory of his late family and installed John back at court – against the better judgement and fierce grumblings of his Boleyn relatives – William did not easily forget those bloody days of subterfuge.
The King took an almost perverse delight in toying with the green, innocent characters at court. His steely, protracted gaze was intended to cause hesitation and, admittedly, a healthy dosage of terror in Seymour – for John was one such courtier that Wills did not suspect of treason, but weakness.
'The tennis courts are not the same without your expert arm.' His tone dripping with playful displeasure, the severity of his glower eases into an expression both lively and mocking. Wills extends a hand, clasped onto John’s shoulder, and grins good-naturedly. ‘But never mind that. How does my good sir? Are the festivities to your expectations?’
