𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑 || 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑾𝑯𝑰𝑻𝑬 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑬𝑵

𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑋𝐿𝐼𝑋

~My Love, my Heart, my Home~

Richard groaned contently as he awoke, the feeling of feathered pillows and linen sheets an unfamiliar one to his body but one he relished. Since leaving his sister's court in Burgundy over a month prior, he had not known the comfort of a soft bed, making do as most soldiers did with his cloak spread on the ground beneath him or a palette if he was lucky.

In the normal way of things, when on campaign he would be in no less comfort than when he was in a castle, surrounded by fine luxury but he had long since realised that the past months had been by no means the normal way of things. Not one moment.

He returned to England not a York Prince, the esteemed Duke of Gloucester (though Edward had told him countless times that the attainders placed on he and their kin were unlawful) but as an exile, as did his brother. They returned to find the land run by the very man their Father had fought to replace with the man whom they had thought of as a second Father by his side.

England was no longer the England they knew but Richard was determined to twist the very laws of time to restore the land to its former glory. Edward's glory.

Throughout their exile, the two brothers had only grown closer and Richard knew without a doubt that he was chief in Edward's confidence, higher even than Elizabeth which was an achievement he often found himself smirking at. There was none other that his King would turn to council first than him, always him. He trusted him implicitly and Richard treasured that trust more than he would the finest jewel.

He had always looked up to Edward, placed him upon a golden pedestal above all others which he gazed at for the entirety of his childhood but now, things had changed. They were equals. His brother viewed him no longer as a boy but a man, a man loyal to a fault and to whom he could entrust his very country to if need be.

They had endured six months of exile together and now they would take back England together.

As brothers, proud Sons of York.

Richard groaned again, his voice still heavy with sleep, but this time it was not from contentment, it was from irritation. An irritation conjured at the thought of the other son of York. The turncoat. The traitor. The lying bastard as Edward had once said. There were many names they could both assign to their wayward brother but one that would never again be bequeathed to him was beloved.

Of course he had slunk back to their side, like a snake to his hole when he realised there were no prizes to be won for him. They'd welcomed him with minimal warmth, knowing they could not stir any animosity at a time as uncertain as this, and after that their demeanour remained cool.