everything is... different, now.
charles looks at court through fresh eyes -- for despite his age, he had been naive. he’d been able to sit back with clean hands, watching as the wheels turned around him. but now, with his dispatch to the north... now that there is blood on his hands, souls on his heart... now he cannot see it the same way. guilt tastes sour, like spoiled milk left too long in a cup.
his loyalty to his king has caused the damnation of his soul. his wife will not meet his gaze, finding excuses to leave the room when he enters. he claims to have reconciled himself with god, and yet... when he kneels in front of the altar, he does not feel anything other than sorrow.
it’s convenient for him to place the blame on thomas cromwell. the man has, for all intents and purposes, spearheaded this entire reformation. sure, he’d had the boleyns on his side once, but... now, even the king seems to doubt his minister sometimes.
charles’ bitterness only grows when catherine loses her child, and he flees to court like a coward. his bitterness only grows, and so by the time that cromwell calls a council meeting while the king is in sequester, charles is seething. he makes his exit and manages to calm himself down somewhat, but when a messenger arrives and says that cromwell wants to see him later in the evening, he feels the bubbles of anger starting to churn.
“... master cromwell.” charles steps into cromwell’s rooms and ducks his head in the best form of a bow that he can muster. “i was told you wanted to speak with me.”
