The Storm
The storm rages overhead; winds rattling the window, lighting illuminating the room even through the curtains, thunder shuddering through the house.
Sotherby lies awake, propped up against his pillows, watching the light and the shadows chase each other around the room. Something shifts against his chest and he looks down and smiles fondly at the sleeping prince - well, one of the sleeping princes curled up in the bed with him. He waits until the next flash of lightning to identify the sweet features of little Henry. Sotherby smiles and strokes the child's fine hair, provoking a tiny, sleepy smile on Henry's little red lips. Sotherby glances at the two other boys huddled against him. The middle child, sullen James, looks just as angelic as his little brother in sleep, a dark lock of hair tumbling over his face.
He shifts his gaze to the eldest boy with a soft smile. In the darkness, he can make out the pale features of the heir to the throne, smooth and perfect. For a moment, he feels guilty. Charles is a playful boy and though he pretends not to care about everything the adults fight over in his name, Sotherby knows him well enough to see the sadness in his big eyes. Charles understands his right and his duty. But it's not fair, Sotherby thinks, to burden such a perfect boy with the restrictions of ruling.
With a gentle sigh, Sotherby leans down and kisses Charles' forehead. As the room flashes white again, he murmurs the only thing he can ever say to his future king and his ward. 'I love you.'