Tudor Roses & Romance

Chapter 21: Consequences

A house is made of walls, beams, boards, furnishings, and all the collective decorative objects inside of it. But a home is different. A home is more than something pretty to look at or fill with treasures. It's a source of inspiration, hope, and dreams. It's full of family, memories, laughter, and love.

For some, home is all of those things and more, but for others, home is hurt. It's a source of pain, neglect, and abuse. It stifles and draws out the worst in people, pushing them further away from love, truth, and light. Those are the ones who can't leave home fast enough because home has failed them. It collapsed from being a shelter blocking all sorts of storms and instead was the storm itself.

The home should always be more than that. It should, above all, be safe. The one place where a person can be their most vulnerable and authentic self. It should also be steady and true, navigating through any kind of rough or rocky terrain. Home ought to be an oasis where batteries can be recharged and unplugged, fostering a deep sense of rest and peace. A place to reset and redirect one's life or goals. That is what home should be.

And for the fortunate ones, the home isn't a fixed spot or a place on a map. It isn't a destination. No. Home is wherever the people who love you live. Not a location but a person. Because when all is said and done, love and home aren't where you came from but the person (or people) you're going to. It's simple but true... home is where the heart is.

At present, Charles's home is in the hospital. The moment the SUV stopped under the covered entrance, the Duke and his friend hopped out. The pair rushed inside and were escorted to a private wing used specifically for royals or notable patrons. The whole walk there seemed to drag on forever, as if one were marching toward a death sentence. Maybe he was, for all he knew.

Even a blind person could see the private wing was filled with the King's trusted advisors and the Queen's family. Charles should have expected them there, but that was the last thing on his mind. He didn't want to deal with any of them, especially Henry. Despite the place being stuffed with people and Knivert being by his side, the Duke felt so lonely that he could hardly take the next step. It's what comes after the next step that's bothering him.

Questions plague Charles's mind. Is Mary okay? Is his wife unconscious? Has she been hurt? What about the baby? So many wonderings, and yet Margaret's death continues to be a beast of burden after all this time. Something he can't seem to shake off thoroughly. Ultimately, everything comes down to timing, how one second, one minute, one hour could make all the difference. It's what marks the soul for better or worse. The choices a person makes matter because what we do with this one life we live is significant and impactful in ways we may never see. And for Charles, the last conversation with Mary is a source of great regret and sour distaste.

His throat grew dry, and his stomach started to tangle in knots the closer his feet carried him to his wife's room. The Duke and Knivert followed the spindly nurse until they came to the door. Tony told his friend, "I'll wait out here. Let me know how I can help and if you need anything."

Charles gave a nod, and Knivert squeezed his shoulder for support before entering the hospital room. There, the Duke found Mary lying on a bed hooked up to monitors. The irony was not lost on him that he called her weak and childish only hours prior, and now she truly did look frail and pitiful. It's all his fault. He put her there.

Mary's eyes raised to meet his, and he wanted to rush to her side, fall at her feet, and beg her to absolve him. But he couldn't because it felt as though his feet had lead in them. He couldn't move. Leave it to Mary to break through his outer shell to his heart. Soft and serene, with a hint of fragility, she said his name, "Charles."