The early months of 1843 left London cloaked in a pale, lingering cold. Fog drifted across the Thames like a slow, watchful spirit, while Buckingham Palace glowed with the warm joy of a newborn child.
Queen Victoria had given birth once again—gracefully, almost effortlessly—thanks to the precise, scientific prenatal regimen enforced by her husband, Arthur Lionheart, the Empire's most formidable strategist. Their third child, a tiny princess with rose-petal cheeks, was named Alice Emily Mary Lionheart thrid princess of englanf.
Arthur held the newborn with a tenderness that surprised even himself.
At his sides clung Princess Vicky, three years old, and little Prince Edward, barely one, wobbling and gripping his sister's hand as they tried to peer at the crying bundle.
"Papa," Vicky asked, frowning with deep seriousness, "why does she cry so much?"
Arthur smiled. "Because she thinks your lovely dress is unfairly grand compared to her blanket."
The children giggled. For a fleeting moment he felt at peace, as though the heavy machinery of empire had quietly stilled around him.
But beneath that sweetness lay something colder.
Victoria had changed.
Since Alice's birth, she was no longer the bright, spirited woman who clung to him with laughter and mischievous affection.
She was restless.
Uneasy.
Jealous in ways that wounded the heart.
If he lingered too long in his study, she sulked.
If he spent an evening with council members, she stared at her reflection with wide, uncertain eyes, touching her impossibly slender waist and whispering doubts about her beauty.
She imagined herself forgotten.
And Arthur—terribly—had not noticed soon enough.
Her strict diet, designed by him, had kept her appearance radiant, youthful, admired by London's aristocratic matrons. Yet all the beauty in the world could not soothe a heart tormented by invisible storms.
Hormonal chaos.
Fear.
Loneliness.
The crushing role of queen and mother at twenty-three.
She was suffering from something Victorian physicians had no word for, but which Arthur recognised instantly:
Post-partum depression.
He cursed himself for being blind.
One evening, returning late from a council debating the early stages of a transcontinental canal project, Arthur entered their chambers—and found Victoria standing stiffly, arms folded, eyes bright with accusation.
"Arthur Lionheart," she snapped, "I wondered if you meant to sleep in your office tonight."
"My love, I—"
"Do not 'my love' me! You care more for maps and machines than for your own wife!"
Her voice trembled, half fury, half heartbreak.
Arthur did not defend himself.
He crossed the space between them in three slow steps.
And—before the startled ladies-in-waiting could gasp—he swept the Queen of the United Kingdom into his arms.
"Arthur! Put me— put me down this instant!"
She struck his shoulder with small, furious fists.
"Tyrant! Barbarian!"
He ignored her protests, carried her straight into the inner chambers, and closed the door with resolute finality.
At last, alone, her breath stilled.
He did not kiss her.
He did not touch her.
He simply cupped her face gently—so gently she felt the burn of tears before she knew she was crying.
"Victoria," he whispered, voice rough with exhaustion and love, "look at me."
She tried to look away.
He wouldn't let her.
"You think I do not see you. You think the world matters more to me than you do."
He shook his head slowly, painfully.
"My darling girl… you have no idea how wrong you are."
Her lips quivered. "Then why… why do I feel so forgotten?"
"Because I failed you."
His forehead pressed softly to hers—no seduction, no calculation, only truth.
"While I chase empires and draft the future of the world, I forgot the one person who makes any of it worth the struggle."
She sniffed, blinking up at him, suddenly young and fragile again.
"You have borne three children in four years," he continued, voice barely above a breath. "You have given this nation heirs, hope, continuity. And what did I give you? Sleepless nights. Worry. Doubt."
Her tears fell freely now.
He wiped them with his thumbs.
"My precious Victoria," he whispered, "you are not forgotten. You are not diminished. You are not merely a queen nor simply the mother of my children."
He paused, swallowing emotion he rarely allowed to surface.
"You are the heart of everything I fight for. Without you, all the power in this world means nothing."
She let out a tiny, broken laugh. "You always say the perfect thing when I am at my worst."
"No," he whispered, "I say the truth. And I am ashamed it took your tears to make me speak it."
Victoria leaned into him at last—not in passion, but in surrender, relief, and the deep, aching need to be held.
He wrapped his arms around her, strong and sure, anchoring her trembling body against his chest.
"I am here," he murmured into her hair. "And I will not leave you to face this darkness alone. From tonight onward, you walk with me—not behind me."
Her fingers curled into his shirt.
"And you," she whispered shakily, "are forbidden to forget me ever again."
"Never," he breathed. "Not for a single heartbeat."
For the first time in weeks, the cold fog inside her chest began to lift.