It was dark around him, in his memories, it was hazy, it was not clear where he was and why he was there.
He was in his body, yes, he felt his hands, he felt his touch but in a certain sense he felt transparent within himself.
Henry was used to being in this state since this wasn't the first time this had happened.
It often happened, almost every night since the declaration of war, he dreamed of being vividly in his dreams and memories.
What was it that brought him there? His fears, his anxieties, the fear of death, of the loss of his loved ones, of his wife, his son, he didn't know, not anymore.
Henry was unable to distinguish fact from sham.
He walked slowly but with firm steps between the darkness and the fog, he could smell no smell, it was normal, he was dreaming, but what he felt good was the loud sound of the soles of his boots trampling the invisible floor, echoing, alone and in the silence.
He heard voices, many, indefinable, whispering, gossiping around him as he walked, invisible presences.
In a second, Henry began to feel uncomfortable.
Those voices, those hateful, repetitive voices, those had hammered his eardrums throughout his teenage and thus shaped his brain to neutralise criticism.
They were the voices of the commoners, of the attendants, of his childhood teachers, of all the people who in one way or another knew the story of the prince, the death of his mother, his origins.
Throughout his adolescence he had indirectly had to suffer the critical looks of people, fingers pointed and the words that pricked from their mouths on his skin.
Why did they have to make so much of a question of nationality? Why was there no space left in England for the French after the war, without them being targeted and pointed?
Some thought it a scandal that the king along with his wife had not decided to kill his own son, others had always looked at him with compassionate gaze, which bothered him most of all.
Perhaps it was also the different treatment his father had given his sister all the hostility and fullness of herself.
Because while Henry was "the disinherited prince", Isabelle had always been "the perfect little girl" and "the joy of the nation".
He had come to not stand his half-sister no more, not after what she had done to him, what he had suffered in those years because of her.
Henry would take his revenge, he was sure of it, he would regain his power and lands very soon as the king's legitimate son, and soon he would put an end to that shouting, forever.
The fog in the darkness had begun to clear up and disappear as the man walked, the voices were silent.
The darkness had begun to change into a more enlightened, determined scene, in a room, his own, the one where he had grown up, in Warwick, England, at his father's court.
He perceived it was night, even there, in his dream, it was clear it was, as the only lights he could observe in the room were the red ones of the candles attached to the night lamps.
He heard a child crying and by hearing it he was able to perceive in the room, in the cold night of his memory, even the warmth of his little body and his posture, frightened on the white and soft mattress.
The prince observed the little himself curled up under the covers, heard his sobs, observed his golden blond hair that already fell to just above his shoulders.
He could see his back, yes, he was unable to see his face, but he knew the little himself, he had lived in his body at that age, now lost between eight and ten years.
Henry knew he shouldn't cry, princes don't cry, or at least they don't when someone is there to see them.
He felt bad for himself in the past, if only he knew what would still happen in his life, seriously he would not have fought over to leave his soul attached to his body.
He was left alone as his father had ordered, he had to be alone, cry alone, suffer alone without anyone seeing or supporting him.
The young prince had just lost his mother, recently then, and in that precise time, despite his young age, he had given up everything, thus falling into a vortex of depression.
He continued his lessons at the king's command, as if nothing had happened, he was equally forced to participate in parties and banquets.
He couldn't cry, not in front of everyone, because this had been planted in his mind from an early age, he was a royal and royalty don't have to feel emotions.
Henry wanted to console himself in some way, but he couldn't in any way interact with the self of the past, he was without a well-determined body, he was like a ghost, an impassive spectator of his sad past.
He thought he had left everything behind him, had forgotten, but somehow his anxieties and fears remained lying in his heart.
Was the fear of being alone a trauma related to his childhood?
The prince heard the sound of the door open, slam into the inner wall.
And if he hadn't really been his father at the time, it couldn't have been anyone else.
If his mother had still been alive at that moment, she would certainly have rushed to console her son, but his father did not, for his father his children cared because they bore his blood and because as Hannover they bore his surname.
The face of his father in fact had no expression, no compassion or comfort.
The king really resembled him so much, father and son shared the same golden color of hair and the same pale grey color of eyes.
It was almost as if genetics had no effect on them and he hated it.
-What is happening here?- the man asked sternly, staying at a fair distance from the bed where his son was lying crying.
He did not want to get close or console him, he was only there to aggravate the situation.
-Stop crying now! Henry, recover!- his father scolded him and for the hard tone of his voice the boy turned around looking into his eyes.
His father had never had a soft spot for children, he had never known how to behave with them and he had never even had, through his experience, a way of trying to be a present father present for them.
The king looked into Henry's eyes, the same color as his, he did nothing, he had done nothing in that time apart from declaring and fighting wars and condemning his own wife to death.
Why did he have to become good to his son now?
-What happens?- the sovereign asked a second time to his son, expecting this time for an answer other than simple sobs.
Young Henry sat down, wiped the tears from his eyes, his cheeks and his face flushed with tears.
-You killed my mother...- replied the boy, talking with resentment -I hate you father! I hate you with all my heart- protested the little prince, passing from a weak and prey attitude to a fighter's attitude.
No one had taught the young Henry that manners and his father would never have imagined that one of his children could respond to a sovereign in such a disrespectful manner.
Obedience to parents was explained from childhood to royal children, so much so that some of them eventually came to fear the people who had given them life.
Henry on the other hand was not like that, he was strong and if it had been necessary to release all his anger he would have been ready to repeat those hateful phrases another hundred times.
All of a sudden the young prince felt a sudden burning in his cheek, a strong, burning redness.
That pain, according to his father, would have served to teach and establish respect and fear of him in his son, but it did not improve anything, nor in his behaviour, much less in respect for him.
That slap had only increased the hatred for him, even more.
The royals usually couldn't hit each other, but the two were alone and the boy was too young and inexperienced to react to that slap.
-You will learn to show some respect! You must, if you do not want the same fate as your mother in the future...-.
Was this a threat? Henry wouldn't accept it, no longer.
-...it is fortunate for you to be my son, if you had not been you would probably no longer have your head on your neck-.
He woke up, opened his eyes.
The prince had raised his head so fast it almost caused him to dizzy temporarily.
Where was he? No longer in the dream, no longer in his memories, he was in his study and it was the dead of night, he could see it from the window, he could feel it from the cold which invaded the terrace doors which that evening had remained wide open.
It was so dark around him that if it weren't for the night lamp and the still burning candle, he wouldn't have seen anything.
Henry carried a blanket over his shoulders, his wife was with him, she did not sit but she was watching him in his sleep and it was almost sure she herself had put the blanket over his shoulders.
Even if the man had fallen asleep on the desk, Kara continued to keep her vigil, sitting on a chair, she looked at him with her big eyes.
Her body was wrapped in a light and precious nightgown, and she too carried a blanket on her shoulders to warm her during those spring months.
At that time the belly of the woman in which their second child was growing had swollen a little.
Kara's hair partially covered her belly, but not enough for her pregnancy to be noticed.
Henry smiled, he could see her through the light, and she was his wife, the woman he had married.
-You fell asleep Henry, I brought you a blanket, I thought you were cold...-.
She was so caring, Kara was with him as the mother figure that had been stolen from him in the past.
The prince had taken a few glances at the map of England that was lying on his heavy wooden desk, thinking about the lands that had been stolen from him made him restless and anxious.
He couldn't wait, no longer, he wouldn't be at peace until he started his campaign and took back his lands.
-I have to leave Kara, I can not wait any longer...- the prince got up from the comfortable padded chair, he could not wait any longer and not even look into the sad eyes of his beloved.
They were frightened eyes, full of fear, looking at him with pain, he couldn't stand it, not in that situation.
-You wanted to wait for our child to be born, please don't go, not now... - Kara hugged his arm, took it hard -I beg you Henry, give up the war, I don't mind becoming a queen, I don't need to be important, because I am already with you every day...-.
The man felt the woman's brown hair caressing his arm, they were long, soft, and smelled of flowers.
She did not care about power, but Henry wanted to be king at all costs, those lands belonged to him by right.
-I have to go...- he tried to convince the woman.
-And what will become of Philip? You don't want him to be left without a father at this age, you know what it's like to lose a parent-.
Henry gritted his teeth, how dare she bring up his mother?
-Please, Kara, now let me go...- the man pushed his arm away forcefully from the woman's grip.
-I will sail at dawn with my troops, as planned, you will be escorted together with our son to the Stanley fortress, in Man-.
-How?- repeated the frightened woman, what was that plan? Why did they have to leave France? They were doing so good there.
Why did they have to join the Stanleys? How come in Man?
-Lady Mary Morley has made herself available to host you there during the war, I do it for you, to keep you safe...-.
The man was about to leave the room, leave his wife without knowing if he would ever see her again.
Duty was his first of all.
-Henry...- Kara sighed, wiping a few tears from her red cheeks -... don't die, okay? I will wait for you, for your return, even if it cost me the rest of my life!-.