𝐸𝑑𝑔𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝐷𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑟𝑒 || 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑊𝐻𝐼𝑇𝐸 𝑄𝑈𝐸𝐸𝑁

𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝐶𝑋𝐼𝐼𝐼

~Half of my Soul~

Francis hissed as his body entered the steaming water that filled the wooden tub. After many weeks plastered in mud and blood, his bath was a blessing but also a curse as the hot liquid flooded into the deep cuts that marred his skin. He flinched, clenching his jaw.

Without any nourishment since Bosworth, the wounds he had suffered during the battle had stubbornly refused to heal, in fact, some bled even now as he stretched his aching limbs, splitting the skin.

It was the same for Richard too and his wounds were far greater than that of his friend's, truly Francis did not know how neither of them had been taken by a festering sickness yet. God had seen fit to spare them it seemed and now England had it's true King once more, only time would tell weather they got to keep him.

Cupping his hands, Francis splashed the hot water he gathered over his face, rubbing away at the dirt until he could only feel his skin and the rough hair of his freshly grown beard again. He ran his fingers through the curled strands and almost chuckled to himself, he had never sought to grow a beard but now he had rather become accustomed to it. Perhaps he should keep it, he wondered.

Hearing the creak of the door behind him, he relaxed back into his bath and closed his eyes, waiting for the page boy (who he was sure had entered) to pour fresh water into the tub. The water never came.

What did was the gentle hands of a woman, soft and tender as they rested upon his shoulders, a cloth clasped in one, before making their way down his chest. Francis' eyes flew open and he caught the woman's wrists, he would know those hands anywhere.

"Anna...."
He could almost feel her satisfied smirk.
"Hello, my love" her voice was as warm as he remembered, honey sweet with love. Brushing a chaste kiss to his neck, Anais stood and wandered around the bath to where Francis could see her. With just one glance he knew what was to come.

They had been lovers since 1478, ever since Lady Lovell had agreed that they could both take lovers. The death of the Duke of Clarence shook many across the land and had made the unhappy pair realise how short life truly was; that they had better spend it in sin and be joyful rather than continue on with their desolate union.

And so, after six years of lingering kisses and modest touchings, Anais had finally gone to Francis' bed, never once leaving since! As a result they now knew one another as well as they knew themselves, their thoughts, their feelings, their actions and, true to what his instinct told him, Anais raised her hands to the front of her nightgown.

"Have you missed me?" She asked, tugging at the lone string and letting the thin linen slide from her lithe figure. Francis felt his tired body stir as he looked upon her, no other woman could ever ignite the same passion within him as Anais.