❝you think Achilles was of impressive descent?
touch me one more time❞
The one where King Edward IV is captivated by Charlotte Neville and their love has far-reaching consequences. For Charlotte had a place in Edward's heart no one could tear her fr...
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January 1463
They have been living in bliss for four months when reality crashes down around Edward's head, courtesy of Cecily Neville.
It is a bitterly cold night, winter becoming colder. Edward spent his day listening to seemingly endless issues from the nobles and dealing with the pressure to choose a bride. By the time he finally sits to sup, half the castle is abed, and he barely tastes the food, physically exhausted and emotionally drained.
He is staring into his wine cup when Charlotte enters the room; instantly, Edward smiles, eager to see her after such a trying day. She has her hair unbound today, long waves of thick hair cascading over shoulders, and Edward longs to bury his fingers in it, to pull her close and kiss her until he forgets that he has a kingdom on his shoulders.
She'd had to let loose the waist of her gowns and had ordered for new ones to be brought to her with a high waistline, barely skirting around the questioning for the new style of dress she'd been preferring. Only yesterday, she had lamented how difficult it was becoming to mask her stomach, keeping herself wrapped in furs to add extra camouflage, and Edward touches the fur now, running his fingers over the soft texture before pushing it off of her shoulders, leaving her in one of the few dresses she had left unaltered, in the hope that after she give birth, it will still fit her body.
"You look as if you're going to take me on the table."
Edward smiles. "A better meal, for certain." His hands skim over her shoulders, across her collarbone; he moves to cup her breasts, but Charlotte twists, face pinched with discomfort as she shakes her head.
"They're sore today," is all she offers in explanation, carding her fingers through his hair. A wry smile tugs at her lips. "Everything's sore today. I'm going to be as big as a galley by the time this baby comes."
"A beautiful galley," he teases, running his hands over the swell of her middle. Without the heavy furs, her dress falling freely against her body as she leans back against the table, Edward can make out the unmistakable curve of his child. He leans forward, his hands on either side of her hips, and kisses the swell. "I'm so anxious to meet her."
"You're anxious? He is not kicking bruises into your ribs every day."
Settling his hands against her, Edward waits, hoping the babe will move so he can feel it. For weeks now, Charlotte has spoken of movement, but Edward has yet to experience it; there is something about knowing the child inside of her can move which makes everything feel real. There is a part of him which still cannot believe he is going to be a father; his own father always seemed so certain and brave, and Edward does not feel he is either of those things.
"He will be a big babe, I think," she murmurs, smoothing his hair with her hand, and Edward looks up at her, love swelling sharply in his chest.
