He is an unlit match in a smoldering pit of embers and kindling. His darkened body lingers in the shadows of the threshold, eyes shifting from stranger to stranger like a laser light. He analyzes with a purpose, to seek those who are as enticing as he believes himself to be—but what use is that. In the end, they will die, and he will be left to live with a broken piece. His masculinity will once again be vulnerable, his what others consider “strong” appearance might just shatter into a million pieces. So whom must he associate with, and for how long should he do so; long enough to earn their trust but risk minimal damage in the grenade?
He is dampened today, why exactly today of all days is the day he feels uneasy about himself we will never know. Watching Boltar is like watching TV with no sound, like reading a book but not understanding the language of which it is written in. His actions and motives are unseen to anyone but himself; a useful tool in the master of war but yet he will never choose to put it to use. Boltar is your car with no gas—no ambition—to drive.
Perhaps this is what he searches for; gas to fill his tank; what a feeling, humbling, to be needed as much as you thrive to be used. He longs for a purpose past his own imagination, though fears his committal issues might stand in his way of real success. He could very well be useful, but the drive to make him continue being of service is what could be detrimental to his determination. There is so much land to cover, so much more beyond a kingdom border that he not only fears never having a purpose, but also to never be able to fulfill this purpose.
He came here in the understanding that it was a land he could wander till death did he part. His mother had been recently deceased and his younger self had no idea what would come of him. This land had brought forth the feeling of everlasting room to roam in safety—or, at least more so than where he had come from. And so here he had stayed in sickness and in health; forgiving his past and letting his future take first step.
Unfortunately his first step had never taken him beyond the blackness.
So here he is, lingering with hesitation on the border of the Threshold, wondering what it might be like to find a real purpose; struggling to take the step into sight and expose his real self—his grown self. A man, tall and broad with a tainted face and rusty tone, you could not blame him for being hesitant. What will they want from me? Why will they need me?
“Mother, this is only for you,” he mutters underneath his breath, dreading not only the awkwardness of socializing but also the sun that will attack his darker tone. He will do this for mother, be adventurous on her behalf and live a life only she could be proud of—he would be of use, and he would serve a purpose, and by the end of his life, there would be a title beside his name; and with that thought—that forceful drive of motivation and hope—our soldier steps onto the well worn playing field of the Threshold.
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