George could very well have been dead. That's how he felt. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did. All he could see when he closed his eyes was the same image. The faces of the crowd as they looked up at the scaffold, the sawdust piled on the wooden planks before him. He could smell the stink of his own fear and taste the bitterness of blood in his mouth as the effort not to scream and sob all at once made him bite his own tongue.
The people at this place, this hell. Were beginning to notice that something was wrong. At least that's what it felt like. They kept a sharper eye on him, and every now and then he'd notice one of those coats following him. When they bought food they sat with him as he ate, making sure he ate a good portion of his meal. The person responsible for checking up on him and answering his questions had begun to try and coax words out of him. Though most questions weren't answered they seemed happy enough to answer about the devices they used, the odd little machines that George really didn't want anything to do with. Still he answered in hopes that it would make them go away sooner.
With each passing day he grew more haggard. His hair (or rather the hair of his new body) had grown past his ears and was uncombed and unwashed. Stubble had nearly become a full grown beard on his face. His dark hair seemed darker in contrast to his sickly pale skin and dark circles now drew attention to the brilliant blue eyes this body had once been blessed with. He'd lost weight and looked like he handn't slept in days.
Which he hadn't.
As bad as the visions were during the day, they didn't compare to the dreams. Where, even though he wasn't on the scaffold his sister was. It was like some horrifying vision of what could be...made grotesquely worse. In his dreams Henry stood with his hands raking moving hungrily over the body of the harlot Jane Seymour in the shadow of the Tower, the grass was soaked with blood, squishing sickly with each movement the crowd made. To his left were metal pikes each of them holding a head. His. His parents. His uncle. His friends, charged with the same crimes as he. All of them with their eyes wide open and their mouths gaping. Blood poured from their severed necks like a flood,
Towards the point where he woke up the blood would reach impossible quantities flooding the world like a dark red ocean. It over flowed onto the scaffold and soaked into Anne's dress as she lifted her eyes to the sky. The blade of the executioner flashed in the sunlight, exposing Henry's face in the shadow of the black hood.
George thankfully always woke up before his sister's head was cut off. But that didn't make the horrible nightmare any less terrifying. Looking up at the sky he tried not to remember. The memories hurt like knives and the more he thought about it the more the people at this place seemed intent on doing something about it. Already they'd made him sleep, not knowing that whatever potions they gave him locked him in the nightmares. Not aware that the more they did it the less he wanted to sleep. He'd found out that there was quite a fascination with his time period. For some reason the fact that Henry had married and killed so many women made it so everyone knew about him. George was just a face in the background, a man that might or might not have had inappropriate relations with his own sister. The idea that people actually believe the lies that man constructed for his own ends. It made him hate this time and place even more.