Glory in Our Defiance • Zarry

22. - Keep On

August 1485, Windsor Castle

"Are you ready?"

Harry picks up his sword, trying the weight of it in his hand. Helen is standing not far from him, wielding a sword of her own. She's wearing pants and a flowing white shirt, a stark difference from her usual dresses. This is how Harry's been starting his mornings at least three times a week - training with her.

They've made up since Helen's confession. Because Melisende herself turned out to be not as terrible as she seemed at first, Harry decided to forgive Helen. He sought her out at court and talked to her about everything. In the end, she really had only the best intentions at heart. Harry has too many enemies to disregard a loyal friend like Helen, even if she wasn't always being truthful.

"I am always ready," Helen says with a smirk, already getting her stance on.

Skipping words, Harry swings his sword. Helen blocks him, meeting him with strength Harry was shocked by at first. She could easily take him down if she wanted to, even if Harry has a good few inches of height and pounds of muscles on her.

They continue to spar for long minutes that seem like an eternity and a second at the same time. Harry can feels beads of sweat running down his temples and his back but he's not stopping. Helen's gasping for air just like he is, yet her determination to continue doesn't falter.

Harry's stomach suddenly lurches. His vision goes black for a slit second before he runs to a bucket by the door and throws up.

Helen's at his side in a moment, caressing his back. "What happened? Did I hit your stomach? Are you alright?"

Harry shakes his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "No. No, you didn't."

"Are you ill?" Helen asks, the concern clear as she puts her palm on his forehead, trying to see if he's feverish or not.

"I don't know," Harry sighs, his arse hitting the floor as he plops down. "It's August, it is unlikely."

"Dear Lord," Helen gasps. "Could it be plague?"

"Plague," Harry chuckles agonisingly. "This has been going on for a week. If it was plague I would have been dead already."

"Oh, sweetheart," Helen smiles sadly, pushing Harry's sweaty hair out of his face. "Please tell me you did not let your Mother pressure you into having a child."

Harry's head is hanging low. "It was not my Mother. Melisende has helped me quite a lot and an heir would strenghten my position at court. And I would not have to worry about heir later. It is for the best."

"So you know for sure?" Helen asks.

Harry lifts his head up. "No. I have not seen the physician yet. But we have... you know. After the coronation."

After that night, Harry felt the regret right as he woke up the next morning, his thighs and arse sticky. He scrubbed himself in the bath furiously, as if it could take back what he had done. And then when the morning sickness started last week, Harry knew he had fucked up.

"Do you want me to go with you?" Helen asks carefully. "And does Zayn know?"

"I will go alone," Harry replies, standing up at last. "And no, he does not know. Not yet."

Helen looks at him with badly concealed pity. She knows that Harry resents this. From their conversations back in Wawrick, it's pretty clear to her that Harry didn't want to bear an heir this soon, that he was scared to do it at all. But it is what it is. Harry realized that if he doesn't want to end up with his head on the executioner's block, he's gonna have to grit his teeth and get through this.