Work Text:
The study had always been William's quietest refuge. Wooden shelves lined the walls, crammed with rows of books whose spines had long lost their shine. The faint scent of old paper mixed with the sharper smell of fresh ink from a small bottle on the corner of his desk. It was an atmosphere that always soothed his restless mind. On the large wooden desk, scratched and ink-stained, pages of notes lay scattered among chalk, rulers, and pens still glistening with droplets of ink. His eyes lingered on a sheet covered in symbols and lines he'd rewritten countless times. The oil lamp above the desk cast a warm circle of light, standing against the creeping chill of the night seeping in from the window.
The tip of his pen scratched out another set of numbers and symbols across the page. He'd written and crossed out the same differential equation over and over, never satisfied with the clarity it offered. The lamp's glow wrapped the desk in warmth, but beyond that, the room was swallowed by shadows, the air colder and heavier the longer the night stretched.
He was preparing lessons for his students. That simple routine usually gave him peace, even the faint illusion that he was just an ordinary teacher setting up for tomorrow's class.
"If I split the function here.." he murmured under his breath, scribbling a half-line before stopping to think through the right phrasing.
All that filled his mind was one goal; making the complex simple, turning something dense and unapproachable into something his students could grasp and even enjoy. To him, mathematics was the most honest language in existence, and that was the language he wanted to pass down to England's next generation and something untouched by lies.
For a moment, he let himself wish he could enjoy this work longer. Just being a teacher, writing on the blackboard and listening to his student's laughter then walking home with an easy heart. But the thought flickered and died almost instantly, leaving only silence behind. His pen froze above the page.
Ah… what am I thinking? William cursed inwardly. He reminded himself of the responsibility he could never set down, the burden that had chained him long ago.
He'd always known he couldn't cling to that peaceful life for long. In daylight, he could smile warmly, greet his students, almost feel like a normal man. But at night, he became the puppeteer—sketching out strategies, writing down the names of nobles who'd vanish from the world. Those two faces clashed against each other until he felt himself losing his footing as a human being.
He never thought about stopping. Too many people had placed their hopes on him. They all believed what he was doing would lead England to something better. They all shared in the unforgivable sin.
But William knew the truth. He was the root of it all. He was the one moving the chess pieces, the one dragging those he loved into the same mire of blood and guilt.
And still, what weighed him down most was the fact that he'd swallowed his fear and disgust so many times to kill countless nobles. He had to smile politely, act calm and composed, until the right moment came and another life slipped away beneath his fingers. Sometimes, when it was over, his body would tremble as he stared at his bloodstained hands. He'd ask himself how long he could keep doing this. Were these sacrifices truly worth it or was he just lying to himself?
William shut his eyes for a moment and drew in a deep breath. The ink on his fingers couldn't mask the memory of blood clinging to him.
His thoughts were slipping too far. How hypocritical, claiming to fight evil while shifting the weight of sin onto the shoulders of those he loved most.
All the suffering circled back to him, heavier than ever. He looked at the page before him, covered in scribbled equations, but the numbers no longer appeared as beautiful symbols.
The dark pulled at him again, threatening to drag him under. He knew if he didn't push it aside soon, it would swallow him whole. He meant to gather his notes, put them in order, and stand up to steady himself. But before he could move, a gentle hand touched his shoulder.
"Will?"
William turned and found Albert standing behind him. How long had he been there? How deep had William sunk into his thoughts that he hadn't heard the door open and noticed footsteps drawing near?
"What are you doing here, brother?"
Albert didn't answer right away. His gaze rested quietly on William, calm in that way only an older brother's could be like he knew William's wounds better than William did himself.
"I wanted to talk about something important," Albert said softly. "But it looks like something's weighing on you. Can you tell me?"
The question cut deeper than William expected. That look so full of care he'd never asked for but always needed and left him scrambling for an answer. He wanted to lie, to say something simple that would hide the storm inside him.
"I... "
But the words refused to come. His voice faltered, and Albert understood without needing an explanation.
"Will…" Albert's voice was gentle. "Please Rest."
The tenderness in his voice, the quiet understanding, pressed harder against William's chest than the burden he'd been carrying all night. The defenses he'd so carefully built crumbled beneath that steady gaze. Albert never demanded anything of him and always gave him space to breathe.
"I'm sorry, I…"
William felt like he was exposing the weakest part of himself, the part he'd hidden from everyone even from himself. That side of him filled with doubt, fear, fragility. Showing it to Albert felt like failure. How could the mastermind, the unshakable puppeteer, look so small before his brother?
"You're tired," Albert said gently. "It'd be better if you rested. Want me to make you some chamomile tea?"
But Albert didn't see weakness at all. If anything, his face radiated the kind of genuine worry that made William feel as though even the smallest crack in him was something Albert wanted to shoulder alongside him. The offer was simple, and William felt his heart stir.
Slowly, he nodded, letting himself accept the care given so freely.
"Alright. Thank you, brother."