Space. Space. Dear gods, he needed space. He had been slowly drowning under his fiancé's presence for years. His eyes reflected someone else's vision, his stomach filled with every word he'd ever swallowed. His performance of a quiet, obedient, sycophantic future husband had soaked his skin through, but no longer! Now, he was in open air once more, his passivity oozing out of every pore, every burst of defiance and fit of pique wringing more from his sodden bones. Every bridge was tainted with his ex's perfumes, every plank and nail touched by those hands, and he would have none of it. He would not accept visitors along those old spans, and was willing to set the beams alight if that's what it took.
So he passed his time alone, but a new sort of alone; he was alone without being on tenterhooks, alone without expectation. Alone, staring into mirrors and searching for the self that once shone from his face. Alone, shouting at uncaring walls as his swallowed spites turned emetic. Alone, and not accepting visitors, fuck off, I don't care what House you're from anymore, your scones were always shite and you were terrible at hiding your affair with your maid, Daryl.
Alone, as his fevered temper broke and the poisons of his once-lover no longer tainted his showers.
Alone, as his momentum faded and he realized only a husk remained.
Alone.
Raw.
Ready.