It seemed to take ages for Charles to finally dry Cecily's tears. He'd tried just about anything and everything to stop the heart-wrenching sound of her wails. Of course, it would not have been as troublesome if he hadn't already been grieving for one daughter or stuck under the scrutinizing, pitying gazes of his court. He didn't want their pity! He didn't need their pity! Why could no one understand that? After wandering the gardens slowly with his daughter for a while, he'd finally been approached by Harold Pierrepont, who had nothing to say except that he was sorry. In his anger, Charles simply snapped at the man, cursed him, and caused Cecily to whimper again.
Having realized that there was no benefit being around others, the monarch had simply retired to his study with Cecily, knowing no one would come in there unless he told them to. Charles clutched a book in his hands, trying to read past the first page but finding himself unable to as his mind dwelt on the thought of Lizzie and Harriet upstairs by themselves. Soon, his daughter would be gone and he wouldn't be there. Then, who would comfort his sweet Harriet? His hands tightened around the book. He certainly wouldn't. No, he could not even bear to think of the woman at this point.
He closed the book a bit too violently, but that didn't seem to faze Cecily in the slightest. In fact, the young girl was playing with a chess piece- a knight, to be exact- and making the small white horse gallop circles around her father's chair as she added the appropriate neighing and whinnying. He gave a slight, sad smile and watched her as she lifted the white queen and mounted it on the knight's head. Now, she moved both in tandem, adding a voice for the queen in a high-pitched "queen" voice. As she finished yet another circle and moved around before Charles, he bent down and scooped her up, sitting her in his lap.
She protested, but that only gave him cause to chuckle softy and kiss the top of her head. "You know those are not really for playing like that, little one," he teased, another laugh causing him to smile. Cecily pouted up at him, as if angered by his laughing.
"It's more fun playing with them on the floor than on the table," she countered, pointing at her father's ornate chess board. Charles nodded, as if he completely and utterly understood her point, though it just managed to amuse him further.
"Yes, I am quite aware of that," he said, playing along with her. "Perhaps they are better play things than chess pieces." Gingerly, he pried the queen from her small hand and turned it over in his hand.
"She looks like Mother," the young girl remarked out of the blue. Charles tensed, wishing she hadn't brought up Harriet again.
"Yes...I guess she does lo-" he began to say, but cut himself off as the doors to his study opened and Pierrepont hurried in. "What the hell do you think you are doing in here?!" The old man breathed in and out quickly, struggling to catch his breath. Charles, though he had asked, already knew the news.
"Your Highness...your daughter...she's...she's dead..." he puffed out. The news, surprisingly, did not seem to strike much of a nerve at all. Charles simply stood up with Cecily in his arms and walked forward to hand the girl to his adviser, who looked up at the monarch in bewilderment.
"Watch my daughter..." Charles said weakly, his voice stuck in a monotone as if showing too much emotion or feeling would make his nightmares true. Harold could only nod as his king left the room and followed the cries that he knew came from his wife. No...no, it couldn't really be happening...
It had all felt so unreal when he first heard the news, he had believed them, but she was still alive and so it was easier to cope with the news. But now, now his daughter was truly dead and gone from this world. Oh, what would he do now? There would be a funeral, he'd have to watch them bury his sunshine, his little girl, his first born, six feet under. Waves of nausea hit him as he walked down the hallway and Charles was forced to catch himself on the wall to keep himself steady. What seemed like years later, he found himself in the doorway of his dead daughter's room, pale, faint, and feeling simply exhausted.
Harriet's cries made him want to walk over to her, to comfort her, but even when faced with the death of his daughter, he was as stubborn as an ox. In a daze, he walked slowly to the side of the bed and let himself fall to his knees, shaking his head slowly.
"S-so, it is true," he croaked, fighting back tears that threatened to pour from his eyes. "Our precious child is dead..." And then the tears fell, spilling from his eyes and falling down his cheeks as Charles buried his face in his hands, too ashamed of the weakness he was showing.
"G-God, n-no...oh God, n-no."
Having realized that there was no benefit being around others, the monarch had simply retired to his study with Cecily, knowing no one would come in there unless he told them to. Charles clutched a book in his hands, trying to read past the first page but finding himself unable to as his mind dwelt on the thought of Lizzie and Harriet upstairs by themselves. Soon, his daughter would be gone and he wouldn't be there. Then, who would comfort his sweet Harriet? His hands tightened around the book. He certainly wouldn't. No, he could not even bear to think of the woman at this point.
He closed the book a bit too violently, but that didn't seem to faze Cecily in the slightest. In fact, the young girl was playing with a chess piece- a knight, to be exact- and making the small white horse gallop circles around her father's chair as she added the appropriate neighing and whinnying. He gave a slight, sad smile and watched her as she lifted the white queen and mounted it on the knight's head. Now, she moved both in tandem, adding a voice for the queen in a high-pitched "queen" voice. As she finished yet another circle and moved around before Charles, he bent down and scooped her up, sitting her in his lap.
She protested, but that only gave him cause to chuckle softy and kiss the top of her head. "You know those are not really for playing like that, little one," he teased, another laugh causing him to smile. Cecily pouted up at him, as if angered by his laughing.
"It's more fun playing with them on the floor than on the table," she countered, pointing at her father's ornate chess board. Charles nodded, as if he completely and utterly understood her point, though it just managed to amuse him further.
"Yes, I am quite aware of that," he said, playing along with her. "Perhaps they are better play things than chess pieces." Gingerly, he pried the queen from her small hand and turned it over in his hand.
"She looks like Mother," the young girl remarked out of the blue. Charles tensed, wishing she hadn't brought up Harriet again.
"Yes...I guess she does lo-" he began to say, but cut himself off as the doors to his study opened and Pierrepont hurried in. "What the hell do you think you are doing in here?!" The old man breathed in and out quickly, struggling to catch his breath. Charles, though he had asked, already knew the news.
"Your Highness...your daughter...she's...she's dead..." he puffed out. The news, surprisingly, did not seem to strike much of a nerve at all. Charles simply stood up with Cecily in his arms and walked forward to hand the girl to his adviser, who looked up at the monarch in bewilderment.
"Watch my daughter..." Charles said weakly, his voice stuck in a monotone as if showing too much emotion or feeling would make his nightmares true. Harold could only nod as his king left the room and followed the cries that he knew came from his wife. No...no, it couldn't really be happening...
It had all felt so unreal when he first heard the news, he had believed them, but she was still alive and so it was easier to cope with the news. But now, now his daughter was truly dead and gone from this world. Oh, what would he do now? There would be a funeral, he'd have to watch them bury his sunshine, his little girl, his first born, six feet under. Waves of nausea hit him as he walked down the hallway and Charles was forced to catch himself on the wall to keep himself steady. What seemed like years later, he found himself in the doorway of his dead daughter's room, pale, faint, and feeling simply exhausted.
Harriet's cries made him want to walk over to her, to comfort her, but even when faced with the death of his daughter, he was as stubborn as an ox. In a daze, he walked slowly to the side of the bed and let himself fall to his knees, shaking his head slowly.
"S-so, it is true," he croaked, fighting back tears that threatened to pour from his eyes. "Our precious child is dead..." And then the tears fell, spilling from his eyes and falling down his cheeks as Charles buried his face in his hands, too ashamed of the weakness he was showing.
"G-God, n-no...oh God, n-no."