(no subject)

[meatbrained]

( five + one )

how it works:

i. post a comment with the characters you play.
ii. go around and prompt other players with a 5 + 1 prompt (e.g. "Five times Hope said sorry and one time he didn't")
iii. write a fic for the prompts people leave you!
iv. enjoy your fic? we hope?

Comments

[hotspurred]

I.

Henry says nothing as he holds his father's gaze, steadfast in his determination. He has learned from past mistakes: he does not ask to accompany his father to war, or point out his tutor's praise for his exceptional martial skill, or argue that he cannot be a knight in truth until he has seen battle, or plead that he wants his chance to add glory to their family's name, or reason that if Prince Edward could win great honours at Crécy at a mere sixteen years of age then surely fourteen is perfectly fine for retaking Berwick from the Scots. He focuses on keeping still and does not pace or fidget, even though he is restless with the need to act.

He waits for what feels an age with bated breath, ruthlessly suppressing his impatience. He is ready. He does not see why his father must weigh this decision for so long.

So when his father finally sighs heavily and says that he may come, Henry's restraint bursts, and his words come out in an exuberant rush.

“Thank you. I will make you proud.”

His father nods, and surprises Henry by stroking a hand over his head before placing a hand on his shoulder to steer him along. That rare gesture of affection is quickly forgotten, however: there are preparations to make.

(It is not until Thomas that Henry truly understands what his father stood to lose.)


II.

When Henry and his father have a full-blown argument it casts a black mood over the entire castle. Still seething, his anger a scorching, prickling heat raging under his skin, he heads to the one place at Warkworth that affords him the space to calm down: the private chantry his father had carved into the local rock. He does not pray. He merely sits on the floor with his back pressed to the wall and twists to press his cheek against the cool stone. His pulse pounds like thunder in his temples, and his head feels painfully tight. The contact barely helps.

When he hears echoing footsteps closing in, he knows who it will be before Thomas enters the main chamber. He fixes a heated stare upon the eldest of his younger brothers, but Thomas merely scoffs and makes his way over, sinking to sit beside Henry.

“You cannot help yourself, can you?” Thomas sighs.

“Tom,” Henry snarls, knocking Thomas with his shoulder.

They both know it's an empty gesture.

“Harry,” Thomas mocks, using the same tone, as Henry leans his weight against him.

They sit in silent companionship, and Henry's headache slowly eases. His temper dies down as the minutes pass. Thomas has always been good at grounding him. Eventually he is left only with regret for his outburst.

Grimacing, Henry stands up and extends a hand to Thomas. He tugs his brother to his feet, then pulls him into an embrace.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Thomas claps him on the back before they part.

“Uncle is doing the same for Father. We might have this resolved before the third course this time.”

These incidents tend to follow a pattern: when the family reconvenes for dinner, they spend the first course in awkward silence, apologies fill the second, all is forgotten by the fourth and it's as though nothing even happened throughout the last.

They head back to the castle side by side.

(He is twenty-two when his uncle returns from John of Gaunt's campaign in Castile. Their family is gathered, frozen by dawning realisation. They all know what it means that his uncle stands alone.

It is Henry who steps forward and shatters the silence – and therefore the denial – they cling to.

“Where is Tom?”)


III.

Seventeen when his father remarries, Henry is old enough that he doesn't pay particular interest to his his stepmother, born Maud Lucy, later Umfraville, now the latest Percy. They are a family in name, of course, and she grows close to his younger siblings, but it is almost a year before she and him find their footing.

It's unexpected.

Henry hates court. It feels much like poorly-fitted armour: uncomfortable to the point of pain and more harmful than helpful to his purpose. He cannot stand the rampant dishonesty or being forced to remain courteous with peers he would rather strike than converse with. He is perfectly aware that their subtle barbs are meant to provoke him into disgracing himself. But there is only so much that knowledge helps. He can feel his self-control fraying dangerously.

That is when his stepmother swoops in and chases them off with an edged wit that has them scatter in shame, defending his honour by allowing him to keep it intact.

He has done her a great injustice, he realises, as he offers her his arm. She has proved herself family in every sense of the word. He has always known that part of the reason his father married her was her vast inheritance, but only now does he grasp that she married her father for their legacy too. Never again does he doubt that she is match for any of them. She is the daughter of a formidable northern house in her own right.

That night, when their whole family is safely ensconced in their London town house, he catches her alone.

“You have my thanks for earlier,” he says to her, awkward but earnest, before he kisses her cheek. “Goodnight, mother.”

He can see her shock as he takes his leave, but she is smiling. He finds himself smiling in turn.

(He takes it to heart that one needs no shared blood in order to be family.)


IV.

He has worn armour since his childhood, and handled it even longer. He does not step out into Hadriel's streets without it – or he did not, before Kate's monster made a wreck of his harness. He feels half-naked without its familiar weight, the one consistent connection to his old life. Its loss unsettles him more than he is prepared to admit. So when Maketh invites him over only to have a whole new suit meant for him laid out, he is pleasantly surprised, to say the least.

As he teaches her about each piece and how it attaches, he wonders if she knows what it means to him. Probably not. When he pulls on his last gauntlet, his balance is righted again.

While they often misconstrue each other, he thinks that they understand one another in the ways that really matter. He cannot picture her in his world, but he nonetheless feels at home with her.

It is a mark of sincerity and respect that he kneels before her, one knee to the floor and one leg bent at a perfect ninety-degree angle. He sees his action surprises her, but when she salutes neatly a moment later, he knows that she gets the gist of it even if it is foreign to her.

“...Thank you.”

When he tells her it is a precious gift, he makes sure to explain why. Her reply only affirms his belief.

“Esperance.”

He was right to name her sister.

(Their time together is finite, but he is glad that for once, it won't end through tragedy. Should they have their way, they will choose their goodbye.)


V.

Henry marvels at the way Prince Edward can read a person, as though seeing straight to their soul. Edward cannot, of course, but he might as well. It is not enough that Edward is perceptive, clever, strong, skilled and charming – Edward carries the weight of England's expectations and hopes on his shoulders and still spares the time to truly look at those around him.

Restlessness is a frequent enemy of Henry's. There are periods when he feels too much, and his body seems a too-small vessel trying to contain a swelling pressure on the verge of exploding and rending him.

Somehow, Edward always seems to notice when that mood seizes him. Their eyes will meet, and then later – sometimes minutes, sometimes hours, sometimes days – Edward will pull him aside, and they will fight.

It is more like a battle than sparring – rough, raw – except they know and trust one another. Edward never fails to get how far Henry needs his limits pushed, and never judges his need for a visceral reminder than his physical self is resilient enough to withstand his overbearing emotions.

And every time, when Edward extends a hand to pull Henry back up to his feet from the ground, Henry clasps tightly and lets his hold linger longer than it should, a wild joy in his heart and at peace with himself. He smiles broadly, teeth showing, and thanks his prince, knowing that he would follow Edward anywhere.

(In that terrible period when Edward lies bedridden, gaunt and ill and dying, and he and Iamarl trade helpless looks, wondering day in and day out what portion of the burden that worsened Edward's state they contributed, how the pair of them will go on without him–

Even then, he thinks it cannot have been those moments, for in them he swore Edward seemed just as free as him.

Henry never knows relief quite so profound as when Edward miraculously recovers.)


& I.

Anguish is a band of iron crushing his chest, making it hard to breathe, and all Henry can do close Iamarl's dead violet eyes and drag her corpse a few metres to a nearby spot protected enough that she might not be immediately become carrion for monsters, and memorable enough that he may one day return for her bones and bury her as he cannot do now.

God forgive him. God take pity and rest her soul.

His grief is too vast and too new for him to even comprehend. For a single moment, he hates her, hates her for choosing to risk her life to save him from certain death. He hates himself for fighting so hard to stay alive and giving her that opportunity.

It quickly passes.

He sees the banners of their allies in the near distance, and knows that he must go now if he is to fulfil her dying request.

You must... watch the Prince...

It should have been her. She should have remained at Edward's side, and left him to his fate–

But she did not. He pushes back his exhaustion and silences his mind. He pulls out her hairpin and jams it under the straps of his vambrace. He tugs a gold bead from the end of one of her myriad braids and tucks it under the rim of his gorget where it pushes against his throat but will not be lost. He turns his back on her body and makes a run to safety.

(That night Henry kneels before Edward in the prince's tent and presses Iamarl's hairpin into Edward's palm. When Edward's fingers close around it, he presses his forehead against Edward's fist.

“It was her decision,” Edward says, his voice low. “Get some rest.”

Edward is right. They march straight to the next battle – their final battle against Diabolus and his endless monsters. If they do not win this then they are all dead, along with all hope for the world. There is no room for their private grief yet.

But there will be, he vows. There will be.)

[dogsanddaughters]

Oh, wow. These are beautiful.