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The first threads of dawn slipped quietly into the royal bedchamber, turning the air pale gold and stirring the shadows into retreat. It was a gentle light—soft enough not to wake a queen unless she wished to be woken. And this morning, Victoria did not wish it.
Arthur felt her warmth before he opened his eyes. Her head rested just over his heart, rising and falling with steady, trusting rhythm. For a few moments he lay still, letting the fragile serenity of morning settle over him. The world outside that velvet-draped room was a battlefield of politics, expectation, and history—but inside these walls, for this fleeting hour, there was only the quiet breath of a woman who had chosen him despite all the dangers of doing so.
When he finally looked down, he found her sleeping expression unguarded, softened in a way he rarely saw while she wore her crown. Her lashes still shimmered faintly with traces of last night's emotion. And there, on her lips—a memory in the shape of a smile.
He brushed a kiss across her forehead. "Good morning, Victoria."
She stirred, her breath catching slightly. Her eyes fluttered open, blue and disoriented at first—until recognition swept over her and brought with it a blaze of color to her cheeks.
"Arthur," she whispered, hiding half her face in the pillow. "Do not look at me like that…"
"Like what?" he teased, leaning close. "Like I admire you?"
"Like you remember *everything*," she murmured, mortified.
"Oh, I do. Vividly."
She smacked a pillow against his shoulder. It only made him laugh, pulling her gently back against him. Their playful scuffle ended with her pinned half beneath him, breathless, hair spilling everywhere.
"You are impossible," she said, though a smile tugged at her mouth despite her efforts to suppress it.
"And yet," he murmured, "you keep me."
She blushed again—because it was true.
He rolled onto his back. She curled beside him. Moments passed quietly, the comfortable silence of lovers who no longer needed to fill every space with words.
Then reality intruded.
"Arthur," she began cautiously, tracing the edge of his collarbone, "do you truly believe your association will take root? Even with the Lords circling me like hawks?"
He exhaled slowly. "It can work. It *will* work. But it needs a pillar—something ancient, respected, irrefutable."
Victoria frowned, searching his eyes for the answer she feared. "The Duke of Wellington."
He nodded.
Her worry sharpened. "He does not like you. And I fear he likes me even less. After the coronation I— I may have behaved poorly."
"You were seventeen and terrified," Arthur replied gently. "He has forgotten more battles than you have lived years. He will understand."
"Will he?" she whispered. "Or will he see only a foolish girl playing queen?"
Arthur sat up slightly, taking her hand. "Victoria. If he expected a fool, he would not have remained by your side this long. He serves you because he believes the crown still means something."
A softer note entered his voice. "And today, I intend to prove that you are a queen worth serving."
She swallowed, touched by a tenderness she hadn't expected. "And what do *you* intend to prove?"
"That the Empire's future," he said, brushing his thumb along her knuckles, "needs its past."
---
Apsley House loomed like a guardian of another era—regal, unyielding, steeped in victories and ghosts. Arthur felt its weight as soon as he stepped inside. The floors gleamed, polished with military precision. The air itself seemed to stand at attention.
He was led to the Duke's private study.
There, the old warrior stood with his back turned, polishing his Waterloo saber with the same reverence priests reserved for relics.
"You keep it sharp," Arthur observed.
The Duke didn't turn. "One should never let a blade grow dull. Not even in peace."
"Wise," Arthur said. "I'll remember that."
He waited. Silent respect. A battlefield etiquette.
Only after a long moment did the Duke turn, grey eyes narrowing. "Why are you here, Your Highness?"
"To learn," Arthur answered simply.
A flicker of irritation crossed Wellington's face. "Learn? From me? Or about me? There is a difference."
"I know," Arthur said. "I came for both."
That earned the first hint of curiosity.
Arthur stepped forward, not timidly, but with deliberate calm, the kind of composure that could not be faked. "There are tactics of Waterloo that no historian understands. Decisions too bold to be explained by luck. And I want to understand them from the man who made them."
Wellington's expression hardened. "And why should I indulge you?"
"Because," Arthur replied, "you deserve to be understood."
Silence.
Then—slowly—the iron in the Duke's spine eased. "Ask."
Arthur did.
Not the questions every naive politician asked—about Napoleon's talent or the spectacle of victory. No, Arthur went for the bones of the battle: the reverse-slope deployments, the timing of the cavalry charges, the moment he chose not to retreat even when logic screamed he should.
Wellington's brows rose higher with each question.
When Arthur spoke of Hougoumont—of the psychological precision with which Wellington manipulated Napoleon's pride—the Duke froze.
No record mentioned such an interpretation.
"How did you come to that conclusion?" Wellington demanded quietly.
Arthur held his gaze. "Because it was brilliant. And brilliant men often hide the parts of themselves they find too revealing."
The Duke stared at him long enough that the air grew heavy between them.
Then—
"You understand more than you should," he said, almost grudgingly. "More than most."
They moved to the great map table.
For hours, the Duke spoke—truly spoke—with a fervor that stripped decades from his voice. Each detail emerged sharper, richer, deeper than any book could capture. Arthur listened, absorbing every word, every silence between the words.
At last, when the sun dipped low and the lamps were lit, Arthur rose.
"Your Grace," he said, voice steady, "Her Majesty and I are forming a Royal Promotion Association. To preserve the knowledge and achievements that forged this Empire. To teach future generations what cannot be forgotten."
Wellington's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "And you want me involved."
"We want you," Arthur said, "as its Honorary Director. Not for power. For legacy."
The Duke's breath stilled.
For a heartbeat, he looked not like the Iron Duke of legend—but like a man who had carried a nation on his shoulders and wondered if the world still remembered the weight.
Then he laughed—deep, resonant, genuine.
"Arthur," he said, gripping the prince's shoulder, "you play this game better than half the politicians in London."
"Is that a yes?"
"It is," the Duke said firmly. "And gladly."
Together, they stepped into the corridor, where the evening light spilled in warm bronze across the marble. Past and future walked side by side—one with the scars of old battles, the other with the fire of new ambitions.
It felt, for a moment, like the shifting of an age.
And somewhere across London, in a palace bathed in fading sunlight, Victoria waited—hopeful, anxious, unaware that the first great piece of her future had just fallen perfectly into place.
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