Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.

This work is dedicated to Izzy and Blue and the rest of the amazing discord. May we actually see one of these stories end.

"The sadness will last forever."

— Vincent Van Gogh

The sun sets over the plains and lights the fields on fire. There's not a tree for miles, and the heat of high summer makes the late afternoon air sticky, even without the aid of the sun. The carriage rattles over the unpaved road. After seven years in the capital, Baron Uchiha is finally going home.

Not that he wants to go home, but that's neither here nor there.

He's going home.

He is a striking man with dark eyes, pale skin, full lips, and long dark hair pulled back by a leather band. Despite this, he's never been entirely popular in Court. Perhaps it is because he never smiles in public.

The Court does care about appearances, and he makes sure that his is as unfriendly as possible. He doesn't like people.

Not that he cares overly much about his popularity or lack thereof. It is better not to be haggled over by the ladies like a piece of particularly enticing meat. The old vultures want his inheritance, but the younger ones know better than to speak to him. He'd made sure of that by scowling as hard as he could possibly stand at all times.

He is the eldest son of the Duke of Warwick and set to inherit his titles upon the old man's death. It would be a lucky woman who finally does marry into Warwick. At least, that's the popular opinion of prospective mothers-in-law.

But this is far from his mind.

At the moment, he dozes fitfully as his carriage continues its journey forward along the uneven road.

His head slams against the wall. It's a damned wooden box. What else will it be? My coffin? He knock on the side of the carriage with his cane. "Would you keep it steady, Setsuna? I'm trying to sleep in here."

This trip home to Warwick will be an unhappy one. The Duke of Warwick is on his deathbed, and now, he's calling his eldest surviving son home.

Madara isn't sure he likes the idea. His father will want him to marry. He'd rather not. But the old man will insist, and he will have to obey.

He is the inheritor of Warwick, twenty-four years old, and entirely childless. Not, of course, that a bastard would do in this situation — bastards are not supposed to inherit — but His Grace Tajima Uchiha will insist, and Her Grace Harumi Uchiha will do her best to see the thing done.

Given the speed with which his mother works, it's entirely likely that he'll be married before the year is out, and it's all his father's fault for calling him back and claiming to be on his deathbed.

The lucky lady will soon learn to regret conceding to his mother's wiles.

There's a reason he spends most of his days in London. He and his father...do not get along.

"Sorry, Milord." Setsuna calls back. "We're going through a rough patch of road." It's been a rough patch of road for the past six miles. Warwick isn't a popular destination despite being the seat of a Dukedom.

And the rough roads aren't something that Setsuna can fix. It's a problem due to Madara's own negligence for the most part. His father has been deeply immersed in the whims of the fortune tellers in recent years, and barely paid attention to the world outside Warwick proper.

He can't complain about roads or his father's negligence of the them when he hasn't been back in seven years. There are heavier mountains to carry in the future.

Madara scowls and wave a hand at the coachman's back. "Yes, I understand." There's a letter burning through the breast pocket of his waistcoat that he doesn't want to touch much less read.

He'd rather not think too much of Hashirama at the moment. The man had written of love and friendship carefully of course, but still, it's best to remember that they have no ground to stand on. For years now, they've been more than friends, but soon now, with the death of the Duke of Warwick, that's likely to end. And if it doesn't end with His Grace's death, it'll end when Her Grace decides that he needs to marry for the good of Warwick and arranges for a pretty doll to decorate even his townhouse in London.

No, then there'd be a pair too many eyes in his life to sustain their relationship.

Not that his love has ever been sustainable. They meet on pain of death. Sodomy. What an awful word.

The thought blackens his mood still further, so he puts it away.

"Setsuna!" He calls. "How much longer?" The carriage jolts over a particularly offensive hole, and he nearly hits his head on the wall as he pitches forward.

He rights himself though, because the insult is not to be born.

He is no longer a boy, and there is no reason for him to be sprawled on the floor of a slow moving carriage.

"Sorry, milord." Setsuna sighs. "It'll be another half hour since we can't go so fast. It's getting real rough out here."

As if to prove a point, the carriage jolts over another uneven patch. Baron Uchiha gives up on sleeping. At this rate, I'll be black and blue before I even step foot over the threshold of Warwick.

I should have just taken a horse.

The carriage clatters over the cobbled courtyard in Warwick, and he clenches his teeth against the clattering in his head and gathers his trunk from under his seat and throws his double bags over his shoulders. They are light, largely because there's not much he owns in all the world that he'd like to bring to Warwick.

It's mostly just clothes. He doesn't trust his father's tailors not to decide that he needs to be dressed in ridiculous fashions complete with ornate lace or a wine-red waistcoat.

The hideous monstrosity that he's last worn to see his father was bad enough.

"My son!" Her Grace, the Duchess of Warwick, hurries forward, her arms spread wide. "You must come up immediately. His Grace has been asking after you all day."

So the old man isn't nearly as sick as he'd like to pretend. I should have known. He pushes the thought away.

He pauses for a moment in the cooling twilight in his mother's arms. "I will certainly go up to see him, Your Grace." His mother stiffens. He should not have called her 'Your Grace.' She is his mother, not a title, despite how much he doesn't feel it at the moment.

"Setsuna! Take his bags up to his rooms." His mother gestures for the coachman to come forward.

Madara acquiesces, surrendering his luggage. It is unfortunately time to go up to see His Grace, the Duke of Warwick.

"Where is Izuna?" Seeing his brother makes him feel guilty most days, because it is hard to look at the mass of burn scars and the black band over Izuna's eyes, but it's worse to ignore his existence. He has not seen Izuna for two years, ever since he'd sent Izuna home from London after the accident.

"Oh, he's up in the north tower, Milord." Hikaku falls in step beside him as he sweeps up the stone steps. "He's been there all morning. You know how he is."

Izuna had studied stars once, in the observatory, had spent his life turned towards the dark night sky. How cruel it is that now all he sees is darkness even during the day. The darkness for him will always be as black as pitch without a single star.

It is all gone now, all those dreams, and the guilt is a flame lit against his flesh.

"No." Madara comments out of the corner of his mouth as his cane taps against the stonework of Warwick Castle. "You forget I have not seen my brother for two years. I do not know 'how he is' as you put it."

Hikaku chuckles and lapses into an uneasy silence. Perhaps he's taking his nerves out on steward.

Perhaps it isn't fair, but Madara can't find the energy to care. "I will see my brother in his tower after I see His Grace."

It's likely that he won't have energy to do much of anything after he sees the old man, but God, he has to see Izuna again sometime.

Two years, and not even a letter. It's not as if Izuna can read anymore. The excuse still burns anyway. He ought to have written. His mother could have read his words to Izuna. He hadn't the courage to let anyone else see those words he'd wanted to say to his little brother.

"Of course, milord." Hikaku bows and pushes open the door of the master bedroom.

The scent of death hits him in waves. It smells like rose water and piss, sickeningly sweet and cloying. The window is dark, as the sun's gone down, and now the room's lit dimly by a triad of candles by the fortune teller's table.

His father's room certainly smells of death and decay and rotten things. What a convincing act in the play of their lives. Duke Tajima would hardly die. He does not believe it.

Madara does not retch when he steps forward. "Your Grace." He murmurs, as he moves toward the seat by the old man's bedside.

The sickness might be worse than he'd suspected. But then, the old man could still be acting.

His father's eyes look as alive as ever though, despite his body decaying all around that sharp mind in silken sheets. "So you're finally back, boy." A withered hand gestures him closer.

The fortune teller sits on the other side of the room, his tarot cards spread across his desk. The man turns jaundiced eyes towards Madara as he finally arrives at his father's bedside.

"The Dragon approaches." The commoner named Zetsu murmurs. "But without the Storm he will not succeed."

Oh for the love of God. "Shut—"

"Quiet, boy." Tajima Uchiha gestures for the fortune teller to come forward. "The Dragon is my eldest boy?" There he goes again, believing the lies, believing the commoner dressed like a fool.

Zetsu shuffles forward, his head bowed. "That's what the cards say, your grace."

Madara doesn't trust this slimy commoner further than he can throw him. What sort of man would wear black and white clothes, patchworked like a fool's costume and claim to see the future in a deck of cards? And who the hell would give people titles like 'the Dragon?'

"What's the Storm? A trial?" Duke Uchiha breaks into coughs, and Madara has no idea how to react.

His mother had written to say that his father is dying, but he's never been able to square it with his worldview. Duke Uchiha had seen him off to school in London standing tall and true, a man of fifty still capable of swinging a mace and hammer with the words to never trust another man further than he can throw them.

Seven years later, he's been reduced to this doddering wreck, hanging onto the words of a fortune teller.

Dimly, Madara wonders where everything went wrong. Was it his own decision to remain in London? Was it Izuna's accident? Was it Inabi's death?

He doesn't know.

"No, Your Grace. It is likely that the Storm is a person." Zetsu fiddles with the cards in his hands, and one slips free. He dives down to retrieve it and does not meet the Duke's eyes. "But whether he is a friend or a foe, whether he is a trial that the Dragon has to overcome or a blessing in disguise is very unclear with the lay of the—"

"Oh, shut up." Duke Uchiha waves a hand at him. "Take your cards and get out."

Zetsu bows and scrapes, cards fluttering down all about him that he picks up with trembling hands, and flees out the door without a backward glance.

"I don't know why I keep him." The old man murmurs as he turns his attention back to Madara.

Believe me, I don't know either. Madara thinks, quietly to himself, because he's sure his father can read the disapproval on his face.

"Straighten up, boy!" The dying man barks.

Madara snaps to attention. "Yes, sir?"

"Your wardrobe is beastly." His Grace sneers. "What are you dressed for? A funeral? I'm not dead yet."

"It's the latest fashion in London, sir." It most certainly is not, but as it's unlikely his father's been out of bed for months, he wouldn't know the difference.

"Stop celebrating my impending death, boy. I've things to say to you."

Madara flinches. He had not been in any measure of the word, celebrating his own father's death, but he has no desire to argue. Not tonight. Protesting would lead to words, and words would lead to screams and on occasion, blows.

He's too tired of everything for all that tonight. Tomorrow perhaps. Tomorrow.

The Duke coughs, and blood sprays across his handkerchief. "Zetsu tells me that you have a great destiny before you, son."

It's been years since Tajima Uchiha called him son. The word sends a chill through him. What does he want now to call me that? Or is it just an old man's nostalgia for days past?

"I don't trust Zetsu further than from here to the door." He doesn't mean to say it. It just...slips out.

"That's not your call." The Duke frowns at him. "You'll need a wife, and I want to see you married before I die."

"It's short notice, sir." It isn't. He's known all along that he needs to get married, had known it for years now, but if he ignores the problem, it'll go away.

"You've years to find yourself your own bride." The Duke pushes himself up higher on his pillows, breathing hard. "You've been in London all these years, surely there's been a woman who's caught your eye?"

"She's married." False on all accounts, but his father does not know about Hashirama, and Madara would like to keep it that way. There's no lady, and Hashirama is certainly unmarried.

"Really." The old man murmurs sardonically. "You think I haven't heard the rumors, boy? What have you been doing with the Marquess of Scarsdale?" Hashirama—

"Absolutely nothing, Father." Lying is as much as a part of him as ever. "You know that."

"I know you're a liar, son." The old man's eyes are sharp and bright. "You forget I'm your father. You fiddle with your hands when you lie."

"I am not lying." His protest falls on ears that already know his lie.

They descend into a silence, though it still crackles with tension. Here it comes, the shouting, the anger breaking out, the words that leave him shriveled inside, the shame the guilt, all of it.

"You'll need to forget all about it." The Duke decides after a moment of thought. "You'll be married off soon enough, so no one will be able to say different. I'm sure you've left no evidence of it lying about for others to pin on you. Put that love away, son. You've a long life ahead of you."

Madara blinks, flabbergasted. "You're not going to—" Tell anyone?

"You think I'll turn you into the King's Law?" His father's shoulders shake from the force of his bitter laughter. "What sort of dog do you think I am? You're my son. I'd hide more crimes than love for you with every power I have."

It's more largesse than he'd expected. Still, as he expected, he has to get married for all to be forgiven.

"Have you found someone already?" It's not like him to simply...accept his fate, but he is so blindsided by the events of this night, that he has no idea how to react.

"Not as of yet." His father turns away. "I'm tired. We can talk more tomorrow. Go find Izuna, you've been thinking of him all this time that you've been here." He waves a hand toward the door. "My last saving grace, at least my sons will not fight over my seat after I'm buried."

"Of course." Madara murmurs and rises. "I will see you in the morning, Your Grace." He had not been thinking of Izuna, but it is better that his father thinks so.

Is this his eventual fate as well? If he does not die on the battlefield, would he also end up with that bright-eyed madness, a belief in fortune teller's cards, and his flesh melting into his bones while worrying over the fate of his sons?

"Madara." It is his mother. "Come with me." She pulls him down to the hall, where dinner is laid out. "You'll eat before you go anywhere."

Harumi Uchiha folds her hands in her lap and watches him with dark eyes as he sits down. "You should have eaten much earlier, but I'm sure His Grace kept you for his reasons."

He's not the least bit hungry, but he forces a spoonful of potatoes down his throat and smiles at his mother. "It's good to be home."

She hides a smile with one of her bell sleeves. "Don't lie, Madara. You hate it here." She watches as he cleans his plate. "You'll not be leaving Warwick until I find you a bride to take back to London."

"Don't tell me that you believe the fool's mutterings about the Dragon and the Storm, Mother." It is easy to settle back into the grooves of this routine. "Because that's the ramblings of a fraud."

"No, I don't." His mother studies him, her eyes roaming over his face. "But if it persuades His Grace to pressure you to marry, then I'll pretend to believe it. Warwick cannot be heirless, and we have waited long enough."

"I will not like whomever you find for me." His mother will look for a doll to grace his arm. Likely the girl wouldn't have a lick of sense, but she'll come with wide hips and an ample bosom. The thought makes his stomach queasy.

He doesn't want to marry. Doesn't want to, but if he pushes it he might enrage his father enough to actually set the King's Law on his head. Call him a coward, but he has no desire to die for love, not when it would leave Izuna to the mercy of the vultures and the first woman who gets close enough to take advantage of him. His little brother has always been softer, more willing to compromise, kinder than him.

There are plenty of people who would trample on that.

"You do not have to like your wife." She presses her lips into a thin line. "You will simply have to endure the mother of your children. That is all." She takes his hand and looks him straight in the eye. "Warwick cannot be heirless, and men die all the time. You need a son." For the woman who bore five sons and now lives with two, the statement is all too true. Men die all the time, is it, Mother?

Harumi Uchiha had been born Tajima Uchiha's first cousin. Her loyalty to both Warwick and her husband is absolute. She'll have no sympathy for him.

"Give me two months, Mother." Two months is the longest he can ask. "There are still the trade talks to finalize with the Scots, and afterwards if I do not find anyone, you can arrange my wedding with anyone you'd like, and I will not protest."

She frowns, thinking it over. "Very well. If you find a suitable candidate and persuade that lady to marry you in the span of two months, I will concede to merely organizing your wedding party." She pins him with a heavy glare. "But she must be a suitable candidate, and I must approve."

Two months. He's won two months of breathing space, and it feels like a hollow victory. Where will he find a bride while confined in Warwick in two months? By what metric will he select a woman to spend the rest of his days with?

How unfortunate that I do not also have a convenient first cousin to marry. His father's younger brother, Lord Fugaku has three sons, Shisui, Itachi, and Sasuke, all much younger. No convenient first cousins to choose from for him.

"I will go up to see Izuna now, mother." He kisses her on the cheek as he passes. "Do not worry. Father will live to see my wedding."

It has to have taken a toll on her, all these months with his father, Izuna, the servants, the doctors, and the sleazy fortune teller as her only company. Taking care of both his father and Izuna while fending off the vultures from the door must not have been easy. It is sad that he's used up so much of his goodwill already tonight.

He has only been home for a day, but already it feels like the walls of the castle are leaning in, crushing his mood down into his boots.

He makes sure to step loudly, letting his boots ring out over the stone steps as he climbs up to the top of the tower. His cane taps the ground next to him. He does not need a cane, but it does also doubles as a blunt weapon and hides his rapier, so he carries it with him at all times.

Izuna has been up here all day, according to Hikaku, and that worries him. If he has been up here, has he even eaten?

He does not want to startle his little brother. "Izuna?" He is the only little brother that Madara has left and even then, only one accident away from being buried. His thoughts are morbid, but seeing his father dying earlier has shaken him.

"They told me you were back." Izuna's sitting on the window seat, his head leaning against the stonework, an arm thrown over his knee. "But I didn't believe them."

Madara comes to sit across from him and sets his cane over his knees. The black band over Izuna's eyes can't hide the edges of the burn scars. They wind over his cheekbones, as though the flesh is still melting.

Madara averts his eyes. "Why didn't you believe them?" It is useless to ask who Izuna means by they. He likely means one of the servants, and it is less important anyway.

"You hate it here." Izuna raises his pipe to his lips and inhales slowly, his face tilted toward the ceiling. "And you don't want to see me."

"You know that's not true." Madara takes his brother's free hand, but still doesn't look at him. "You know I'd do anything for you." Two years. Their separation might as well have been two minutes.

Izuna still reads him as well as ever.

"Oh, I know." Izuna murmurs absently. "I know you would do anything, brother, but that doesn't mean that you want to see me. The two are different things." He exhales a cloud of smoke. "Not that I'm unhappy that you're home." The corner of his mouth tilts down. "It's been so boring without you, Madara."

Madara sighs. "Father wants me to get married, and Mother is aiding him this time."

Izuna shrugs. "You knew it was coming." He squeezes Madara's hand. "You'll make it through somehow." You always have, before.

"Ah." Madara leans back against the stone, and feels its rough hewn surface through his hair. "I have two months to find someone." This tower had been their fortress once, when they were young.

Now that they are both young men, it seems to still be a haven of sorts. Perhaps it will be so still when they are old. Or perhaps he will sit here alone when he is old, with aching joints and a madness brewing in his veins.

"That's not so much time at all." Izuna takes another drag of his pipe. "I assume Mother will find someone if you don't find a Baroness yourself?" For whomever it is, it will be a courtesy title anyway. She would not hold it without being married to him, much like how Mother would not be a Duchess were she not married to a Duke.

"Ah." Madara shrugs uselessly. Izuna cannot see, and he doesn't have to shrug. He does so anyway. "Father's dying." He had to come home and see for himself to believe it. Even now, he doesn't quite believe it.

The Duke of Warwick is dying in his bed instead of on his feet.

"I think he's given up." Izuna's hand twitches. "He's been sick for a long time now, but it's been worse in the last few months, after you wrote that you were coming home."

Something in Madara stretches angrily. So he is guilting me into this then.

He doesn't want to get married after all. Not at all.

It's just another one of Duke Tajima's tricks. He's tired of the thought.

"I should have known." He mutters, while staring out at the courtyards down below. "He would never admit to anyone that he's dying." Much less write letters begging me to come home for it.

"I don't believe that." Izuna sits up so that their faces are less than a foot apart. "Father is dying, but he's determined to see you married well before he finally leaves Warwick to you. It might be better if you do so that he can die in peace."

"I wouldn't turn you out, married or not." The words slip from his tongue. "And I wouldn't do that to Mother either, so I don't understand why you would be concerned with it."

"You wouldn't." Izuna concedes. "But our cousins won't have the same compunctions, and you know they'll discredit me should something untoward happen to you."

Madara turns the thought around in his mind. Perhaps they wouldn't do it out of spite, perhaps they would try to be kind in the beginning, but it is hard to be kind to men who can take titles from you even if they don't. "Why don't we have a first cousin that I can marry again?" It would be more convenient than his plight now.

"Because we don't." Izuna stands and feels around for his shoes. "Will you walk me down?"

"And what will you have done if I really wasn't home?" Madara offers him an arm, and they walk down together. It is clear that the subject of duty and marriage is off the table now. Izuna is just Izuna once more. "You didn't believe I was home, remember?"

"Wait for a servant to remember me." Izuna shrugs and lets his feet find the way. "Or walk down by myself, because I'm well acquainted with the number of steps there are in this tower?"

"Oh?" Madara murmurs. He does sound like the Izuna I remember. He is the same as ever. Nevertheless, it is still hard to look directly at his face.

"There are a hundred and thirty-seven steps." Izuna faces forward, unseeing and suddenly frail. "And my room is thirty medium steps down the hallway after, on the left wall."

That he measures where he is in a space by steps instead of knowing, well, Madara's always been good at feeling guilt.

"I see." And he's always been the best at saying nothing.

"Have a good night, brother." Izuna pushes open the door and heads in, but he pauses with his hand on the doorframe, careful not to turn his full face towards Madara's. Even now, he knows that his brother doesn't want to look at his loss. "I'm glad you're home." A smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and then the door closes.

Madara turns and traces his steps back to his childhood bedroom. Things are not where he left them, but his bags are there. He strikes a match and lights the candle on the desk.

The letter, Hashirama's words, weighs heavily in his breast pocket. He sighs and pulls it out. The red wax seal gleams in the low light. It looks like Hashirama was in a hurry, pressing his signet ring into the wax haphazardly.

He picks up a letter opener and breaks the seal. It smells like orange. He sighs once more. Hashirama, why are you so dramatic? He swears that the man lives on drama. Does your paper have to smell like scented water?

The two double sheets he pulls out of the envelope are a heavy cream, tanned and softened, folded neatly if not particularly precisely, and creased more by virtue of being in his breast pocket and tossed about on the trip up to Warwick.

Something about this letter is off.

Hashirama might be absent-minded, but this isn't just absence. There's a haste to the trappings of this letter that its flamboyance cannot hide.

Something heavy sinks to the bottom of his gut.

He unfolds the two sheets and sets them on the table. Do I want to read this? He folds his hands together, but they tremble all the same. He presses them together, nails digging into his skin through his black leather gloves, and curses the weakness in his heart.

It is only a letter written and posted with undue haste. It cannot kill him, but still he puts it off.

He picks it up again.

Dearest Mada,

I must confess I feel guilty about writing to you like this when you have to go home with such haste. I know you must not feel well right now. You've most likely sat down after speaking to His Grace, and oh God. If I think too much about how much you're suffering, I shall go mad for certain.

Your father is feeling poorly, and I must write to you and — I should just tell you this straight out, you've never liked beating around the bushes or fancy words…

There is an ink splatter here, as if Hashirama had paused too long, gripped the quill too tightly and forgotten to blot the page. Madara knows what he is about to say, forgives him of it even, but still, the knife twists deeper.

He does not want to continue reading.

He continues anyway.

You've known about my engagement to Mito for a long time now, though you've never met her. She is not unkind, and she has been my friend since childhood. My father is eager to see us married.

It's gotten to the point where if I do not agree, I will hurt her future prospects. I don't have the heart to hurt her by breaking the engagement between us at such a point in our lives. I will not demean you or her by asking you to remain a paramour, but I am so bold to ask if you would remain my friend. I do not want to lose the respect between us…

Another ink splatter, larger this time, and it is smudged to the edge of the page as if Hashirama had tried to brush away tears. What has been doomed from the very beginning is meant to end, but still it is painful nonetheless.

Didn't I agree to my father's demands to get married? How is this any different?

He continues reading.

I am sorry, Mada. So sorry. I lo— One and a half words written and smudged away.

Hashirama

The daft man had meant to write 'I love you.' Madara is infinitely thankful that Hashirama did not complete it and had the good sense to smudge it out. Seeing that would have been too much for words. The other sheet is an invitation to a wedding he will not attend. A drop of moisture lands on the card.

He angrily wipes the tears away. If he didn't write to you about endings, you would have had to write to him. Be thankful that he's done you the favor.

He puts the corner of the letter into the candle and watches it catch flame and flicker out into ashes across the floor.

He pulls a piece of parchment out of the desk drawer, and drafts his own letter. He'd send it by pidgeon back to London in the morning.

Hashirama,

I forgive you.

Madara.

The act of doing so nearly shatters his quill, but he keeps the message away from the pooling ink. It is best not to let Hashirama think that it hurts him. The other man might keep himself up at night and worry too much.

And Madara does forgive him. Their relationship had begun with the understanding that they would have to go their separate ways. It is not as if Hashirama should ruin the girl for a crime that could get him beheaded. It is not as if Madara himself wants to be reduced to the status of a lord's illicit side lover.

It hurts all the same. Hurts his head and hurts his heart, but he has no one but his own self to blame. No one had forced him to love; all the dictates of society said that to do so would be folly.

Jealousy for the mysterious Mito still wars with his rational mind.

What he would he give to be in her place. What would he do to be so — lucky.

It does not good to continue thinking of it.

He plods tiredly towards his bed.

Things will look different in the morning. They have to.

A.N. And so it begins. The attack of the AUs. This one's been sitting in my google drive for a while now, but I've been recently back into writing for it, so have at it. I have about 6 chapters of this written? War of the Roses, here we come. (This is a very loose historical adaptation, I'll say this right now. Historical accuracy is only a thing when I like it, I'm afraid.)

And if anyone wants to come wack me for not updating my pre-existing things and opening too many WIPs, well, I wouldn't blame you.

~Tavina