Days of the Dead Book 2: The Beggar's Tomb

Chapter 7: Family Therapy

Gideon
I return to Windsor just before dark. By now the guards have word I'm here, apparently, because they let me in however grudgingly. I want to go and check on Prince Harry before I pop back to Wales. I don't know if he'll be at dinner or not though so I'll have to skulk.
I did hope to run into Owen Tudor, but I wasn't exactly looking forward to it. Naturally he got a fast pass to the 'anger' stage of grief and is refusing to budge.
"What are you doing here?" He asks, sword on me, eyes red rimmed from crying and looking a few more steps closer to nervous breakdown than he previously did. He's cornered me in the garden, I was on my way back from the stables and he was doing his professional occupation of lurking I guess.
"Hi, nice to see you too Owen, been a minute, yes I'm here as Prince Henry's guest. You really should take some time off. Just saw your kids, they're crying their eyes out for their mum maybe go give them a hug?" I say, gently pushing the sword away.
"What?" He asks, pushing the sword back up.
"Oh. For the sake of time, I know, everything. Very sorry for your loss, please go hug those kids, they are miserable?" I say.
He just drops the sword and tries to punch me.
"Look," I catch his fist easily. I've had sleep and am not in the throws of grief. I trip him quickly, and pin him to the ground, "I don't pretend to know what you're feeling right now. And I realize you're never going to see this but I definitely have more in common with you than you know. And I get it, okay? You weren't allowed to love the person you did, it had to be a secret forever, and now she's gone and you're not allowed to mourn like you should and other people namely an eighteen year old child, are more in control of your life than you. And you can't say anything or feel anything, because if you do then you're dead. But I get it. As much as it doesn't feel like it right now you've got people on your side, including me, and those two boys who are a hell of a lot more lost than you."
"My life is cheap," he snarls, pushing me off of him, "Can you not see that? If one of them says a word—we are all three dead—,"
"That wasn't the queen to them. It was their mum, they don't know any different, and Prince Harry knows and he's not going to let you suffer," I say.
"You can't know that," he sighs, leaning back on his hands, tears fresh in his cheeks. He doesn't even bother rise, both of us just lying in the cold grass.
"Why do you fear Prince Henry and not—oh the King knows doesn't he?" I ask.
He looks at me darkly.
"The King knows, and anything that doesn't directly inconvenience Henry and make the crown look bad or worse affect Henry's beloved war money, isn't a concern, is it?" I ask.
"Something of that kind," he says, softly.
"Oh, that's a fun arrangement," I say, dryly. I mean, I assumed that Henry had an idea. But, I didn't know he sanctioned it. That's—oddly feminist of him? Or was it more of a don't ask don't tell type of thing?
Owen shakes his head.
"Owain," I say, softly, the welsh pronunciation. Oh-wine. Not the Anglicized version. "I'm not saying I know how this will all play out exactly. But you and the boys have a home in Wales whenever you want one."
"I can't leave," he shakes his head.
"Why?" I ask, gesturing vaguely to imply all the horrible things that have happened to him in this castle.
"That's her son too," he says, his voice bitter now, "Who do you think was there, Saint, when that boy was born?"
"You're talking about Prince Henry?" I realize.
"Do you know where her husband was?" He snarls, tears in his eyes, "In some trench in France. She labored for a day and night. And she cried and cried and she was so weak. They took the baby from her and she wanted to go see him and she collapsed in the hall. Who do you think carried her back to her bed? Held her while she cried? Told her the child was beautiful? I did. I was there. She made me swear that night to stay by that boy's side. And I will not break that promise to her. Him, and all the others. Who found Ned when he had a fever and went and hid in the stables? Who do you think carried Thomas all the way back from the orchard when he broke his arm? Who do you think held her while she cried that Kate wouldn't live through the night? I have always been there. And I will always be there."
"I know it was you, and not the King," I say, gently. I know that quite well.
"Now, he won't even look at me. Like he doesn't know who stared at him the night he was born, who listened every night when he wouldn't stop crying and wouldn't keep food down, like he doesn't remember me carrying him on my back when he'd get feverish and stumble on the stairs," Owen says, tears in his eyes, "I disgust him now."
"You should know the King also disgusts him. Like, constantly. Most of us do, but he doesn't blame you Owen. He didn't know, he thought nothing of your presence; he's innocent it was a bit of a shock," I say, "It was to Jasper and Edmund as well. All of them. Everyone needs time, but Jasper and Edmund have been ripped out of their home; they've lost everything."
"I'm losing my entire family," he says, voice breaking, "I don't understand why she'd leave. And now I have to choose and I cannot choose between them."
I want to ask him to sort of clarify, but he's crying so I figure this is therapeutic. I take it he means choose between protecting the royal children and his own sons?
"How did she expect me to choose?" He whispers, "She knew I wouldn't leave our Harry. She knew that."
"You don't have to choose. You're not sacked. Nothing's happened yet. This is all raw for everyone," I say. I don't know why I'm the Tudor family counselor tonight. I'm also recommending they find a better one. I am not good at any of this. "The boys are lonely and they miss you. We'll figure out something better."
"She couldn't stand their witchcraft. I talked to her about bringing them here. She said no, why do you think they were so locked up? They won't quit, either of them," he sighs.
"Yeah, that's really fine," I say.
"She hated the Archbishop. She didn't understand why these two we had for ourselves were like that she—I would tell them to stop they didn't listen. I don't know what to do with them," he sighs.
"Oh, they can come train with us in Wales I'm already running sorcerer lessons for kids who don't strictly listen to me, it's fine," I say, "And you're welcome to come as well. I know you've been probably alone, and hiding, for a really long time. But it doesn't have to be that way. You and the boys have sanctuary in Wales, anytime you need it."
"Thank you," he breaths, quietly, "That means—more than I deserve I suppose."
"You deserve safety for you and your children, no matter what life you've led, and loving someone who loves you back is no crime, doesn't matter who they are," I say.
He breaths, nodding again, "How did you know? Everything about us?"
"I don't know all just significant bits and pieces, due to magic, future, wizardry, tricks, related excuses," I wave a hand as if to elaborate, "I had my suspicions about your relationship, yes, and the kids, current events confirmed it, but."
He nods a little, "You saw Harry?"
"Yes," I say, "Earlier."
"How was he? He won't—he won't speak to me."
"He's hurt. You lied to him too, in his mind. And you know how religious he is, adultery is a sin," I say.
"God, does that boy think he won't commit any sins in the name of love?" He sighs.
"He thinks he's going to not, no, and back to me sort of knowing the future, no he won't commit many. But it's not that, he's—," really probably autistic and asexual if not entire sex repulsed? Said with love, considering I'm quite autistic, and last time I was in the hospital taking buzz feed quizzes I'm grey-asexual. So again, said with love, but that's kind of what the kid has going on. "—he's a bit different, and he's a kid who just lost his mum and found out she'd lied to him all his life. That's a shock he's a child whose mind did not dream of that happening."
"I know, I hate it. I hate that we hurt him. We never wanted to hurt him," he wipes his face with one hand, tears running down it, "I can't stand it. It's like I'm losing all of them. She left me here to take care of them and they all hate me."
"They don't hate you. For one thing Jasper misses you, for another Harry doesn't hate anyone I don't think he has a mean bone in his body." I say, patting his shoulder gently.
"Do you—have any idea what it feels like to have your boy look at you with complete and utter loathing? For everything that you are? And you're not his hero anymore. You're not the man who held him when he was hours old, who carried him to bed, who taught him how to hold a sword, who first lifted him onto a horse, you're not brave anymore, you're not a hero, you're not his hero, you're not the man he was learning to be, you're nothing. You're nothing anymore you're a disgrace. You failed him and you'll never get that back," he says, tears leaking from his eyes as he squeezes them shut.
"No, I don't. But the night my son was born I watched him breath and prayed to Gods I didn't know I believed in, that he'd live. Bargaining, anything, that I'd do whatever to keep him safe. Now I know that isn't easy. My own father couldn't do it; we still don't know, who he was. That's letting me down, irreparably, not even bothering to let me know who he was. But I'm fine. I'm strong without him. I figured it out. All of us do in the end, we find our way. And your boys know you are here to help them yes you and your mother hurt them right now that's going to be raw. That's going to hurt for a while all of you are in mourning and you all need time, all right? Time is the hardest thing to let heal you all, but it will, you cannot abandon them now out of fear. Speaking as someone who was abandoned, even if your best isn't near enough, it's better to have tried," I say, hands on his shoulders.
He sobs bitterly, pressing a hand to his face.
"Okay, I'm going to hug you now, come here," I say, wrapping him tightly in my arms. I don't think anyone has hugged him since this whole thing started because he melts, just like Harry did, sobbing.
"Why did she leave me?" He sobs.
"I don't know," I say, patting his back.
"Why would she leave me with them? She said it was time it's not time," he sobs.
"Shh," I say, hugging him tightly. He sobs for a minute more, just limp and miserable in my arms, his sword abandoned in the frosty grass next to us. Finally his sobs cease a bit and he leans back, wiping his face with his sleeve.
"You said they're all right though?" Owen asks, quietly, "Jas and Eddie? Little Jas is scared of the dark."
"They were okay, they're sad obviously and I don't think they're getting on with the nuns."
"That's fine they don't get on with anyone," he sighs, "She spoiled Eddie 'cause he'd sometimes listen and Jasper gets tame when he's tired but otherwise they're really horrible. I don't know what I'm going to do if they go to prison she'd be so upset, but I'm really not seeing them not dying or being arrested."
"They're little, just—don't worry about that for now," I sigh, "Just maybe think of someplace nicer for them to live?"
"I have no idea," he sighs.
"Okay, we'll work on that another day, then, yeah, um you all do need a minute and we've got this funeral to get through," I say.
"Oh god," he breaths, "Yes um—yes. What are you doing here anyway?"
"Talking to every member of your family at length. And now I was going to go check on Prince Harry," I say.
"Yes! Do that. He won't speak to me, as I said he hates me now and I can't—so how can I take care of him? Go see how he is—if he needs—if he's crying make him drink wine help with the headache, he needs to sleep he probably hasn't slept—,"
"I'll handle it," so glad I came to Windsor so various family members could ask me to check on each other because none of them are speaking for dramatic reasons. I'm being petty, but it's late and I'm very attached to chasing my Lowri around Harlech about eighteen times then carrying her to bed. It's a routine I'm attached to it. Then I play with the baby till he wears his magical little self out and is going to be good for his nurses. Again, a good routine I'm personally fond of it.
But that's selfish. My friends here need me. They're all going through a difficult time and they need the support right now. I'm just saying Windsor castle doesn't usually function like, well.
I head on inside, turning invisible so that I don't get waylaid again. Owen is the only dramatic emotional person I wanted to actually talk to.
I make my way back to the family apartments and Prince Harry's office. The door is open so that's a good sign. He's lying on the floor immobile with three dogs licking him so that's not a good sign.
"Your Highness," I bow and then close the door.
"Did you make me lie on the floor, then quote the Bible—so terribly— to put me to sleep?" He asks, not moving, a hand his laid over his eyes.
"Did it work?" I ask.
"Yes," he removes his arm from his eyes.
"Good," I say.
"Not at all good! No! I woke up and had to remember that everything that has ever happened to me is very real. That was completely upsetting! In order to prevent such torment in the future I'm never sleeping again," he says, climbing to his feet, unsteadily.
"Okay, that's one solution," I say, coming over to pour him some wine.
"Oh, allow me I enjoy it," he says, going to pour the wine for us, "You know when I was little, in retrospect probably the first time I met my father—he was hurt or something so he had to stay home for a bit and I kept waking up and wanting to go look at him. I didn't understand who he was exactly. My mother said he was my father and I thought he was my Heavenly Father as he hadn't been here. And that he was like god. So I kept trying to go and see him and he and the Archbishop gave up giving me back so they let me sit in their office, and my father taught me to pour the wine because I kept trying to touch it." He laughs a little, like he knows his experiences are not universal.
"That's sweet," I say, because at least the King wasn't cross. At least he was playing with his kid, sort of.
"I was probably four. Maybe less. I don't know. Anyway, he kept trying to stop me from running around, and since he was Jesus to me, or something, I told him that it hurts, well it doesn't hurt feels all funny, if you touch me anywhere but my neck, or stomach, or ankle. Well, I didn't say that I was tiny, I probably just said it hurt. Wonder what he thought of that," he scoffs, drinking the wine. To be clear, this kid hasn't eaten and he's only been drinking wine and has slept like three hours, he's very incoherent.
"I'm fairly sure he's never experienced pain before, so he took it at face value, and figured that was a valid thing to afflict humans," I say.
"Hm, probably," Harry scoffs, taking another drink as he goes to stare out the window. "You're careful, you've always been careful. Who told you I'm like this?"
"Long story. Magic, tricks," I shrug. I found out in the future, technically. So his future wife tells me in the future, which is actually sweet. "And you're not like anything. You're just you."
"I know I'm worse. I know how they look at me. I'm not my father. I'm not a solider. I'm not a warrior. I'm not a king. I'm the prince who looks sickly and should have died in childhood so we could all be sad. I always thought god might call me to be in heaven. But he needed my mother more than me," he sighs, "And she was committing adultery. Why doesn't he need me in heaven? Haven't I been a good servant? It's so terribly hard here."
"We need you here, prince," I'm cutting off the wine. You know things are bad when I'm the most level-headed person in the room.
"Did you go and see them?" He asks, voice strangled, face pressed against the window pane. It fogs with his hot breath, damp blonde curls sticking to it.
"Yes," I say, kindly.
"And?"
"They're both sorcerers, as you said. The younger boy, Jasper, has birthmarks on his face, just so you're aware, it's nothing wrong, he's fine. They're both sad obviously, and hurt that they were lied to," I say.
"And? They were cared for? Taking comfort in the church?" He asks. To be clear he'd love to be sent to a nunnery, especially right now. He definitely assumes that's a nice place to be.
"Ah, they were hungry. Stole food from the kitchen and they smacked their little hands. I fed them, they're well now," I say.
"That's horrible!" He says, knotting his shirt. "I won't leave them there but—and yet—I can't stand them here either. It's the most selfish thing I've ever felt. But I can't look at them. I don't want them to exist. It makes me sick."
"I know," I say, gently, "Isn't their fault though."
"I know," tears leak down his face, "I can't stand it. I can't stand anything."
"You're doing well. This has been a lot," I should have read some more articles on counseling and family therapy and fewer on how awesome the Black Prince is as a person. Never mind, that was important too. He's very awesome. "You need your rest. You're doing your best for your family right now."
"Owen. What of him? Have you seen him?" He asks, softy.
"Yes," I admit, "I did on my way in."
"How is he?" He asks, his voice strangled.
"Looks like he's been crying for the past five years. Like, so far from all right. Like, he may never actually become all right again. Not at all well. Tried to kill me for no real reason wound up hugging me and he doesn't even like me. He was worried about you," I say, gently.
"I'm worried about him. But I can't—how could he?" He whispers.
"His and your mother's sins, are between them and god. It's got nothing do with you, or how they love you, so—just don't think of it? I get it's gross and all that, like to know about but just—pretend it doesn't exist for a while?" I say, putting a hand on his neck, "Come by the fire, you're cold."
"How can I pretend it's not happening?" He asks, letting me lead him to the fire.
"So, it's something great you can do in your brain, just block out the knowledge that these people were definitely—fornicating—and just pretend that doesn't exist and if you start thinking about it, think about a book instead. Trust me. My mother—the woman who raised me—she started living with a man, out of marriage, when I was about nine or so, anyway he was fat and icky and yeah, I had to live there too. So I pretended it wasn't happening. I pretended I was going on an adventure to far away lands," I say, sitting down and patting my leg.
He sits down too, amicably, leaning against one of his dogs, "Really? That's awful, I'm so sorry."
"Yeah it is, but you know what? I don't think about it. At all. Just shut it out of your mind and hyper focus on what makes you happy," I know I'm really excellent therapist. It works, okay? It's not a mental illness if you're disassociating intentionally.
"Scripture," he says, pressing his face into one of his big dogs and closing his eyes.
"Ah—give us each day our daily bread, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed against us though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death we shall fear no evil and raise you up on wings of eagles and make you shine like the sun for surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life—ah nailed it," I say, because by the end of that he's sound asleep.
Mission accomplished? Eh, probably not. But close enough.