In paper rings, in picture frames, in dirty dreams
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James’ cheek stings, hot and aching. He licks his lower lip, catching a drop of blood before it could drip down his chin.
“What were you thinking?” His father says, towering over him, standing when he’d ordered James to sit. Crass, basic intimidation.
It’s working.
“Father,” James starts, his voice cracking in the middle of the word.
“Your Majesty is appropriate here, I believe,” his father says, and James’ stomach drops even further.
“Your Majesty,” he starts again. “I thought it was a…” He tries to come up with a phrase that would satisfy his father without lying. His father can always tell when he’s lying. He doesn’t want to have to hide more than just his split lip. “A dalliance,” he finally croaks out.
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There's a reason why King James III makes that face before he turns back to his grandson. It's not disappointment or lack of understanding. On the contrary, he knows exactly how Henry feels, maybe a bit too much.
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