Ah, the silence. How long had he been laying here? He wasn't sure; He couldn't count the seconds, as he'd slipped in and out of consciousness at least once or twice already. No one had come for him, and his senses were still so overwhelmed by the pain his father had inflicted on him-- it must not have been long. The rhythmic beating of his heart and thumping, pulsing rushes of pain from the new bruises and swelling he could feel forming on his body further cemented that.
His father had never loved him-- not truly. Valen knew this, because he knew what love felt like. His mother loved him-- she doted on him, practically smothered him, and had even threatened his health in her own ways-- but beyond those obsessive tendencies, he knew she still loved him, and that those acts were born out of her intense love for him. No, his father by comparison saw him for his worth-- a playing piece for him to move about the board that was Ardal, and the nation as a whole, while the council quietly deferred to his more sadistic tendencies so long as they were allowed to rule the state from the shadows.
He knew he was little more than a figurehead. A puppet. And yet, he was powerless to change his own fate. Perhaps his feebleness as a man was born from the fact that he knew how powerless he was in the grand scheme of the duchy-- in the grand scheme of his own life.
The blonde man was suddenly racked by lightning-- a sear of pain shooting through his torso and chest as he instinctively turned on his side and fell into a coughing fit, blood spewing from his lips with each aching breath. He wasn't surprised; He'd always had a weak constitution. It was no wonder to him that those strikes to his chest and ribs may have broken bone, or ruptured organs. Eventually the pain subsided, but like the ocean cascaded waves, so to did Valen understand that it would return.
Yes, the pain would always return. And when he healed, his father would likely beat him again for some other foolish mistake or perceived insult to his name that he'd made. There really was no other option-- no other future that Valen could envision for himself. This was, and had always been his life, and would likely always be his life. Until the day he died... perhaps even beyond.
Slowly, he picked himself up from the floor. His movements were unsteady-- unsurprising of someone who'd just experienced what he had. Tears ran down his face, though he was in so much pain that he hadn't noticed it. His golden locks were stained slightly red from whence the blood he spit out meshed with his hair. His eyes lacked life-- as if he'd lost his sight. He looked like a man on death's door-- perhaps walking through. He wandered, slowly, toward the window of his abode, and slowly, his shaky hands unlatching the lock that held the door-like windows closed, and he pressed them open, allowing a gentle breeze into the room.
Ah... He was so high up. The breeze felt so nice. As he slowly began to lean further and further against, and outside of the window he couldn't help but wonder... what would happen if...