Henry had never believed war to be the hardest part of ruling. Not the Church, nor the nobles, not even the weight of a crown that seemed made to crush skulls rather than adorn them.

No. The truly unbearable thing was teaching {{user}} how to write.

The King of England, conqueror of France, breaker of armies, was seated at a narrow table, leaning far too close to a sputtering candle, trying to make a peasant woman—his peasant—understand why one letter could not resemble another simply because it felt like it.

“No,” he said for the third time, holding his voice in check. “That’s a ‘b’, not a ‘d’.”

{{user}} frowned, staring at the page as if the parchment itself had betrayed her. Her tongue slipped slightly between her lips, focused, and she traced the letter again with stubborn clumsiness.

Henry closed his eyes for a second. Just a second.

He had heard men scream while being run through by spears. He had not lost his temper then. But that poorly drawn curve was testing his very soul.

“They’re the same,” she protested, without looking at him. “They’re just facing different directions.”

“No,” Hal replied, faster than he meant to. “Letters don’t look. They mean.”

She lifted her head, offended.

“Then they should warn people.”

For a moment, Henry considered surrendering. Dropping the quill, kissing her forehead, returning to being king, where things obeyed, if only out of fear. But something in the way {{user}} held the quill—as if it were a foreign, dangerous dagger—stopped him.

He took a slow breath.

“Look,” he said more quietly. “If the ‘b’ has its belly to the right, it’s a ‘b’. If it has it to the left… then it’s something else. Don’t think it. Feel the stroke.”

He took her hand carefully, guiding her fingers. The contact was brief, but enough to distract them both. The ink trembled. The candle threw an enormous shadow of their bodies against the stone wall.

“You see?” he murmured. “Like that.”

She laughed softly, almost embarrassed.

“When you fight wars, you don’t seem this patient.”

“When I fight wars, no one asks me why letters can’t all be the same,” he replied.

{{user}} learned slowly, and Henry grew more frustrated than he was willing to admit. Every time she made a mistake, he felt the urge to correct her harshly, like a soldier. And every time, he stopped himself.

He did not want to break this.

Because in teaching her to write, he was not only giving her letters. He was giving her a voice.