As a boy, Ferdinand had dodged the realities that were to face his sister and his own mother; the reality of being a woman that’d come possible with the calamities of miscarriages, birthing still children or terror of perhaps becoming infertile. And though with years, he had learned and listened to the stories of womanhood — he had not prepared himself for the apparent eventuality of Seraphina’s own terror and trauma. And when she said it, through hushed tones and wet eyes, Ferdinand felt his heart drop into the acid bottom of his belly. So wretched, he held his older sister with a tighter grip — and kissed her temples repeatedly. For he loved her, and would share in her pain, if she allowed him.
“Mia sorella, mia carissima — I understand, I would never wish you to prolong your suffering, believe me. But I would admit, that I’d like to help, to aid you in your sadness… I would have sat with you for days, months, centuries! For as long as it would take, Seraphina,” Ferdinand pressed, his eyes wide and twinged with a wet glaze that’d hint towards the soft soul his sister knew only too well.
With their hands together, Ferdinand wished to press further — but he could not, not when she so badly wanted to pass the terror onto something other than their family. He knew that her time of motherhood would come, or, so he would pray that evening, and every evening — for her sake, as well as their family’s. Instead of waiting and biding his precious time, Ferdinand instead exhaled and loosened his posture — to fall before his sister as her little brother. His ambition was mostly molded by his father and his dying wishes — but this was met with Ferdinand’s dear need to brighten the new age of an entire Italy. To work towards this, he would need an alliance — a wife. And so he had been scouring, and had fallen deeply as he always had done. For his heart thumped louder than any others — remaining open for all to take advantage of, if he hadn’t grown careful in the recent years.
Squeezing her hands, Ferdinand smiled and looked at her with his undivided attention. “Do you think I’d take a woman into my arms and keep such ambition from them, sorella?” He asked, a laugh tickling from the corner of his mouth before the young King shook his head adamantly. “I set my eyes upon Beatrice Plantagenet, the daughter of King Edward of England. Everything about her begs me forward, coaxing me as if I am little more than Paris beneath Aphrodite’s spell… I fear all hope is lost if I do not have her, I am a sucker for love and all it will do for me,” Ferdinand cooed, taking his hands away from Seraphina, instead landing them upon her shoulders.
“Would I have your blessing? To put England alongside Naples?”
“and i thank you for that, but i mustn’t distract you from your duties,” seraphina interjected, chin dropping in sisterly authority. ferdinand’s devotion to her was rivaled by no one, not even her own husband. while neither of them visited during her self-imposed exile, only one of them was clearly eager sometimes it surprised her, the lengths that he proclaimed he would go to — i would have sat with you for days, months, centuries! — all for her comfort. all for her happiness. indubitably, his future spouse would received the same devotion, if not more. and by his answer, it was beatrice plantagenet who was to receive his love and his devotion.
in truth, his reply took her by surprise. no, it was not his choice that astounded her, albeit she had believed him to be so devoted to his plans to unify the italian peninsula that he would choose a lady from an italian state to strengthen his cause. what might a princess from an isle an entire continent away offer politically to a young, optimistic, and ambitious king? would her father’s army traipse through france simply to put pressure on the northern italian states if ferdinand wished? would they come without hesitation, without question? had seraphina been queen — a hypothetical situation that she didn’t often visit in her mind to avoid dampening her reality — and given freedom to choose her spouse, she might’ve put duty over heart. ( yet here she was, in a marriage built solely on duty, lacking in passion and children — her reality was already dampened as could be. )
no, it was not his choice that astounded her. rather, it was the incandescent passion with which he spoke of her. he was enchanted by his bride; few men could say that. if he had told her of his intentions, of his feelings about the english princess a few years — nay, perhaps even months or weeks — she would have warned him against such strong feelings. she would have told him to choose with his mind and not his heart. but she squashed the caution lodged in her throat ( perhaps there was even a tinge of jealousy ) and instead only a brilliant chuckle left her lips.
“il mio cavolo,” she began, “you are king. you needn’t my approval nor my blessing. but if you would like it, you needn’t even ask. it is yours, forever.” his hands on her shoulders felt like a weight on her small frame, multiplying the feeling of her heavy heart, filled with worry for his future. but passion in his dilated pupils was undeniable, and helped to quell her concern. “is the betrothal official? does mother know?”
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