And it was a fact: he was dying. The great Henry VIII was dying. No one dared to mention it in public, although it was obvious for the past several years until he announced it himself. He gently crouched on his chair, the velvet covers barely supporting his weight. One by one, he organized everything: his mind, his childhood memories, and dreaming about the future of England in the hands of his golden boy, Edward, Prince of Wales. And one by one, he traced and stacked up the memories and thoughts into one long timeline of somewhat of a flamboyant history book. Soon, these memories would be recorded as history, and when the current generation dies out, he will have no memory, but one great legacy, whether he be great or a bit infamous. And there are his daughters. He has never thought deeply about them, but recently, after their mother's sudden visits, the girls appear in his dreaded mind often. As well as it feels like a curse, he is filled with a strange sense of guilt and remorse, something that hasn't come to him in a while. As he wishes he could have loved them more in his lifetime, there is a part of him denying such a fact, and for once, he blames his infidel alter-ego for the consequences. He taps his sovereign ring, notifying his body that he is rather deeply pondering, a constant wavelength to keep his body still. He turns his head again to the right, staring at a blank silhouette of two boys (at least that's what he think it isã…¡ he has been seeing lots of things,) one taller and bigger, holding the younger child's hand while the younger one tinkers with the former's cuffs. Henry turns around, rather unsettling and curious, and rather than calling the guards to take the boys out, he stares at them in the eyes. It's an unsettling picture: his son, Edward, Prince of Wales, and his grandson, the new Duke of Somerset, a fairly Protestant prince and a rather a devout Catholic prince (although the former is nine and the latter just six.) Henry's mind is puzzled for a moment, but then again it makes sense; it's just uncle and nephew. He quickly puts on a tired smile and welcomes the two boys.
"I heard that your Majesty was gravely ill." his son, his golden boy muttered rather quietly.
"I am, my son," he said rather sullen, silently daydreaming with an incomprehensible expression.
"I bid you well, your Majesty." The younger boy copied the elder's tone, but he was yet so young to understand the weight of such a conversation (never like one, rather a formal Rendez-vous between father and son.) Henry smiles at this boy, his only grandson, and who smiles back after receiving a signal from his nine-year-old uncle to resume the small nod and a boyish grin.
"You too, your grace." Henry's grand, husky voice is strained rather than usual, but he uses his strength for his two favorite boys.
"It's Philip, Sire!" the Duke of Somerset rather peacefully mutters until he seizes himself after recognizing the strange face of his uncle. The king breaks into a burst of loud laughter that not only brings the young Duke to laugh, but also the rather serious Prince of Wales to cry out in such a childish manner.
He rubs Edward's curly flaming Tudor hair, then proceeds to do the same on Philip's, his locks more of a shade of blonde. But look closely, Henry can see the bits of Tudor red that he inherited from his mother. He turns around rather unexpectedly and jabs the mirror off his desk and displays it in his hand that the boys and himself are reflected, all of their eyes a shade of greyish blue, another great Tudor appearance. They almost looked identical; just three versions of one man varied by age. Just a difference, Edward and Philip had those boyish rosy cheeks Henry himself once had, and one of Philip's front teeth gone from view, ejecting a dark hole through the gap. Edward had his mouth closed, but Henry could see a little grin coming, and when Henry finally smiled, his wrinkles clearer than ever, Edward broke into a smile, his refined white teeth seeping through his pink lips. Philip began bouncing around quietly, and although Henry didn't usually welcome childish manners, he, for once in many years, enjoyed the company of children and boyish grins. And then for once, he gazed at the mirror again, itself angled to reflect the landscape outside. The sun sunk below the horizon and the moon began making its appearance into the world. Soon the stars would follow, he thought. Soon the stars, then the owls, then himself