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Edmund doesn’t know exactly what he expects when he goes to the Duke of Cornwall alone in the dead of night. Whatever it is, it is not what he gets.
Cornwall looks over the letter quickly, a crease forming between his brows as he takes in the incriminating words. A harsh expression flashes across his face, and Edmund cannot quite read it, but when the duke turns his cold eyes back upon him, he suddenly feels that he is the one being read. Cornwall is a bit shrewder than he bargained for.
“And I had thought your brother was the villain,” he says, and although his tone is light, Edmund feels his face heat up. If not a threat, at the very least a warning, a show that he has not been so deceived as the others. “I suppose we were all mistaken.”
Edmund starts to say something, to lament, once again, his anguish at having to put his loyalty to the kingdom above his loyalty to his father. It sounds, he thinks, brilliantly sincere, until Cornwall cuts him off with a finger against his lips.
His breath catches. Cornwall’s broad, solid frame looms over him, too close, and although his look is not cruel, Edmund knows it as one that will not be denied.
“You know,” he says softly, “that you’ll be Earl of Gloucester either way.”
Whether it’s the title or the fear of being caught out or just the sheer proximity making his heart race like this, Edmund cannot say.
“I can love you better than he did.” Cornwall places a hand on the small of Edmund's back. “Come with me. My lady will want to see you.”
He’s not entirely certain if he’s being led off to be fucked or to be executed. In any case, he makes no effort to resist.
The duke leads him to the most formal quarters in the castle, a room that Edmund has passed thousands of times but never been allowed inside. Not that he hasn’t snuck in a fair few times, of course, but it doesn’t negate the thrill of being invited. Regan is on the bed when they enter, clothed in nothing but a robe of delicate red fabric with a plunging neckline. She barely looks surprised to see them both.
“He’s done very well,” Cornwall says as she approaches, in a low and approving voice that makes Edmund’s hairs stand on end.
“Has he?” Another touch now; Regan’s hand placed boldly on his chest. “Let me see.”
She unfolds the letter with her free hand, reads it with the other still firmly in place, as if to claim him. He watches as her eyes light up.
“The things we’ll do—”
“Of course,” Cornwall cuts her off smoothly. “But not now.”
“Not now,” Regan echoes.
The smile she flashes Edmund is so unabashedly desirous, desirous of him, that a shiver runs all the way down his body. This…well. This he can definitely work with.
Edmund is still not fully confident that he isn’t going to die tonight, at least not when Regan insists on lashing him to the bedframe so tightly that he suspects the marks won’t fade for several days. Still, he lets her. He lets husband and wife both take their turns with him until he is left sore and exhausted and thoroughly satisfied.
Later, as the storm outside begins at last to clear, they lay together with their limbs entangled, sprawled out on the fine bed that is plenty big enough to accommodate the three of them.
“You really have done wonderfully,” Cornwall murmurs as he lazily cards his hands through Edmund’s hair. It’s enough to make him shiver a little, even near dozing off as he is. “I knew you would, but still. I’m rather proud.”
And lying there, warm and drowsy and still lost in post-coital bliss, Edmund’s guard is almost down enough to let the words in.
Almost. Even now, he shakes himself, maintains distance, reminds himself of all that he still stands to lose. He does not let himself fall asleep.
Still, he thinks, he won’t forget this night for a good long time.
-
It’s that night he thinks of as he strides out the gates of Albany’s palace. He had not planned to see Cornwall again so soon, but it is, probably, for the best. Better to let Goneril deal with her husband for the moment, keep him complacent until it is the right time.
Things will be different between them now. That’s not to say that he will never fuck Cornwall again; if Cornwall still wants him, he will be hard-pressed to say no. For political reasons, of course.
Still, it will be different. Edmund is no longer his to claim.
Goneril’s necklace sits comfortingly against his skin. He can still taste her, still almost feel the way she pinned him against the wall of her husband’s palace and kissed him like her life depended on it and called him hers.
He is dizzy with the memory of it. The sun shines warm on his skin and the smile on his face is not for anyone’s benefit but his own.
“My lord!”
Edmund turns to see the messenger panting to catch up with him and stops to let him approach.
“Letters for you, my lord,” the man says breathlessly, holding out two sealed envelopes to him.
Letters? Edmund frowns; he is not expecting any. Perhaps they are just greetings from other lesser lords of the region to the new Earl of Gloucester.
“From whom?” he asks.
“The—the Duchess of Cornwall, but…” The messenger’s face has drained of colour, and Edmund knows instantly that something is not right.
“I have to tell the Duke,” the man says, and practically shoves the papers at him before turning to run back to the palace. As if this is a message he’d rather not watch Edmund receive.
One letter is longer and in Regan’s hand, while the other is quite brief and in a script he does not recognize. He checks over his shoulder to ensure privacy as he opens the unfamiliar one, expecting – what? He doesn’t know. He’s never been one to shy away from surprises.
The sentences he reads are short, almost clinical. The information is easier to read than to process. The Duke of Cornwall is dead. The Duke of Cornwall was killed by his servant. The Duke of Cornwall was killed by his servant while ripping out the eyes of the traitor, the former Earl of Gloucester.
He becomes aware that he is no longer reading the words when he realizes the letter is crumpled into a ball in his hand.
It makes no sense to him. He cannot fit it into the picture of reality in his head. It’s not even that it should not be true, it cannot be true, not unless all the world has gone well and truly insane.
He is thinking of that night. He is thinking of the morning after, of Cornwall’s last squeeze of his hand as he bid him farewell. He was so sure he would never see his father again. So sure that Cornwall would be waiting for him when he returned. He is thinking of his father bleeding from hollow, empty eye sockets. He is thinking of his arm bleeding, his father ignoring it, but Cornwall being the one to notice, to touch him gently on the shoulder and praise his bravery and make sure he was alright and, and, and, and—
Edmund barely manages to stumble off the main path before he falls to his knees and vomits violently into a nearby bush. The tears that flow from his eyes are just a physical reaction to the effort of it. They must be.
He cannot say how long he stays there. The sun still shines on him, resolute and uncaring, making him feel overly hot. He only opens Regan’s letter because he is sure that nothing in it can make him feel sicker than he already does.
Regan’s letter makes sense. It makes so much sense that Edmund feels the urge to tear it to pieces and bury it in the ground and pretend he never saw it in the first place. Regan needs a husband now. Edmund, ideally, needs a wife that he can marry without resorting to treason and murder. It is all so painfully sensible.
He gets to his feet when he feels confident that his legs can hold him, but wavers a second, unsure which direction to choose.
He does not want to go back. He does not want to walk the halls of his childhood home knowing that his father is still out there, haunting the fields around it like a bloody, blind ghost. He does not want to see Regan again, not if it has to be like this.
What he wants is to run back to the palace and find himself once again in Goneril’s arms. But no. Her husband is with her now, and probably dozens of guards, and in any case, she is the one who told him to leave. No certainty she would even want him back now. No certainty that the dream of the past few days will last.
He has a marriage offer from a princess. He’d be a fool not to do what he’s always done – jump at the opportunity before it has a chance to slip away.
He stares down at the letter once more. It probably would not be obvious to someone who hadn’t spent hours upon hours analyzing other people’s handwriting how much Regan’s hand must have been shaking.
-
She is not shaking by the time he gets to her. She meets him with firmly set shoulders and fire in her eyes. When they kiss, she clutches him like a drowning woman trying to use his body to claw her way back to the surface.
“My lady,” he breathes against her lips, “it’s good to see you.”
And it is, truly. Kissing her really does mask a measure of the pain.
“I can’t—” Edmund mutters. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Shut up.” Regan’s voice cracks, but she manages to get control of herself. “Shut up,” she says again, more firmly. “Don’t talk about him.”
There are so many things he wishes he could tell her. Things like I miss him and you miss him too and you both ripped my father’s fucking eyes out of his head and I don’t love you and you don’t love me and but we’re both going to do this, aren’t we, because what other choice do we have?
He tells her none of this, of course, and only kisses her harder.
Later, as they lie silently, almost stiffly curled against each other, he cannot help but think back to that previous night. The bed feels oddly empty with just the two of them in it. He wonders if Regan would cry if he weren’t with her. Maybe that is exactly why he’s here.
“You have to marry me,” she tells him eventually, when the silence has grown too heavy for the both of them.
“Of course, my lady,” Edmund says, because of course, yes, of course he has to, of course to do otherwise is utterly unthinkable. At least she is turned away from him, so he doesn’t have to fake a smile.
He has no idea if it’s a promise he intends to keep. His intent would not change his answer in any case. Even if he planned to kill her a minute from now, it would not be any easier to tell her no.
“It’s…convenient.” The word sounds like a curse in her mouth.
He kisses her neck so he doesn’t have to say anything, and wonders how many nights they would have to spend in this bed before they stopped feeling the empty place between them.