4. Portrait of a Prince in Ruin
PORTRAIT OF A PRINCE IN RUIN
ERIC
“ W e’re not murdering our father.”
The statement slips from Henrik’s lips with the urgency of someone warning the people of Pompeii that Mount Vesuvius is about to eat their lives in one breath of liquid fire. He says it like he means it, like he doesn’t know how simple it would be to just get it done.
I lean back in my father’s office armchair, one leg crossed over the other, slouching low. The air in here is too thick, as if I’m inhaling his stale personality. Across from me is Henrik, watching me with a keen eye as though waiting for the first crack to show.
Kairos is pacing, nearly wearing a dent in the fucking floorboards. Long blonde hair shields his face from view, but I don’t need to look to know that he’s frowning. He only ever has that serious expression when he’s worried.
To kill the man we call ‘father’ can’t even be called murder; it would be a correction, of sorts.
We can make things even easier by stripping him of the paternal title, for it clearly makes my brothers believe it offers him absolution.
But he’s neither monarch nor father, rather sin in the shape of both.
A hollow husk masquerading as a man of importance.
Years I’ve watched him build a council of criminals, launder money through charities and gild his friends in the money of our citizens.
Remove the parasite from this family, and perhaps the host will heal.
Instead, Henrik chooses to name it murder when the only word that fits is ‘solution’.
There’s no need to kneel before a man merely because he sired you.
It would be a greater crime to keep him breathing, keep him feeding on the lifeblood of both this family and kingdom.
“Not once,” I finally say to Henrik’s concerned frown and to Kai’s raised brow, “did I utter the word ‘murder’; you applied it out of fear. I only asked that we evaluate our moral argument against removing the obvious problem from power.”
“I have a moral argument against spending life in prison, thanks,” mutters Kai, but Henrik pays him no mind.
“He’s still our father , Eric.”
“Will you provide me with a non-sentimental rebuttal, please?” I riposte, prompting Henrik’s jaw to tighten. “If the only reason you’re willing to keep him on the throne is because you’d be considered a bad son otherwise, then the entire administration behind his rule has already fucking failed.”
Kai runs a hand over his face and laughs to himself. “So you’re actually suggesting murder, holy shit.”
“And what the fuck is wrong with murder, huh?” I offer him the stage, allowing him to lay out his argument if he’s willing.
He shares a quick look with Henrik before saying, “You want me to answer that?”
Instincts suggest I shut my mouth because debate would be futile in this situation, especially with their lack of knowledge on the full extent of the king’s depravity.
Their concept of morality is borrowed from priests who thought the universe spoke to them.
There’s a sermon in Henrik’s chiding, and Kai’s stare stinks of old parchment.
Murder is a sin because a voice in the dark declared it so.
They’re thinking of laws spoken by men in the desert centuries ago, and I’m thinking of Friedrich Nietzsche and his claim that God is dead for many of us.
The idea of Him emerged in a time of great suffering as a sort of light at the end of the tunnel—but in a time of secularisation, philosophy has shown that divine rules are no longer required when we’ve killed belief with the need to understand the world.
And if those rules are indeed dead, then so is the morality that forbids murder, thus turning it into choice.
It can be bad, yes, but it can also be good when it burns away rot.
The virtue lies in knowing where to find the poison (a Sisyphean task all on its own), but strike true, and murder becomes moral.
I don’t say this, of course; they wouldn’t be able to stomach it.
Kai snorts. “Well, if you’re gonna murder him, it needs to be done in the next five minutes. Y’know, before he comes to rip you a new one.”
Ah. Right.
I exhale through my nose, leaning forward to pour myself a glass of whisky.
Almost forgot about my exile. When I broke that asshole’s nose in Milan, I was hoping for three things.
Just three simple fucking things. First, the satisfaction of hearing the bone snap beneath my fist. Second, a thank you from my brother for defending his name.
And third, a father upset enough that he’d lock me in my corner of the palace, saving me from going to the next five galas lined up.
I got none of those.
What I got was exile. But wait— ‘exile’ is too ugly a word for the royal family of Marzod. Too raw. We don’t use words like that. I got reassigned. Strategically relocated. Given space. Or whatever the fuck my mum’s assistant typed up for the press.
“I don’t get it,” Kai mutters eventually, wiping at his jaw. “Why not send you to Dunmont? Norstowe? Or any place that doesn’t fucking hate us?”
Henrik catches my eye and smirks, like he knows I’ve been successfully swayed from the topic of patricide. “It’s symbolic,” he answers, dragging out each word. “Mend old wounds. Rebuild the bridge between Sheffolk and the Crown whilst simultaneously punishing the problem child. It’s a win, really.”
Kai stops pacing to glare at Henrik. “There’s a history book in front of your fat head.” My gaze drops to the ancient tome taking up half of the coffee table. “Sheffolk hasn’t let a royal past its gates in over five hundred years.”
I raise my glass of whisky, swirling it. “And yet here I fucking come.”
The door opens before Kai can answer, and in steps King Reginald Atherbourne.
I don’t look, already able to visualise his stance.
Shoulders squared, a scowl on his lips like he has to try really hard to not be angry with me.
And dressed in a black suit that clings to his muscular form.
He doesn’t acknowledge any of us, just walks past and positions himself behind his desk—watching, waiting.
Suppose that quiet should read as intimidation, but to me it looks like confusion.
His gaze hovers on the small space between me and Kai before searching our arms for ink in a way that indicates he has no idea who’s who.
Too bad we’re both wearing shirts. Never could tell us apart, the bastard.
Maybe if he ever bothered to look closely, he’d be able to do it.
But there he is, trying to figure out which son punched the diplomat.
Hint: it’s the one who doesn’t stand and bow his head. I barely look at him. “If I apologise enough, can I just get off with a flogging in private? I’ll even show my ass to the camera if they’re that desperate to know I’ve been disciplined.”
Henrik visibly winces, knowing that our father is about to lay into me like a PR disaster. He wordlessly tries to tell me to shut it. To hold the line and keep the damage small.
Our father, on the other hand, doesn’t rise to the bait. He never does. “You leave for Sheffolk on Saturday.”
In six fucking days.
Henrik shifts in his seat, and Kai’s entire body goes tense. I chuckle to myself, taking a sip of the whisky before saying, “So that’s it then? One brawl and you’re throwing me to the wolves and calling it diplomacy? Charming.”
Still, he doesn’t react. “Let’s not pretend you didn’t throw yourself, Eryxon.
In Milan. In New York. In every goddamned city you find yourself in.
” I slowly set my glass down, barely biting my tongue.
“I never asked for much from you, just an heir who doesn’t bleed on the flag. And you can’t even do that.”
I fight the urge to smile at him. The monologue is old by now, something I’ve been hearing since the age of fifteen.
And I always let him finish, the only obedience I still bother with.
It’s almost funny if you step back far enough.
One punch, after nearly an hour of listening to some foolish son of a diplomat who can be bought with wine ranting about my brother—and it’s the greatest scandal this family’s ever had to face.
He’s calling me an embarrassment. Me , the son he once paraded in front of delegates and heads of state.
My lips twitch, and I want to say something.
It’s not even his stare that subdues me, nor my brothers’ expressions of desperation.
No. It’s the way the light catches on his wedding band as he drums his fingers.
Say less, mean more , I remind myself and keep my mouth zipped.
Kai, bless his soul, intervenes, gesturing towards the book. “Father, Sheffolk might be dangerous.”
“And that’s exactly why he’s going.” That shuts him up. “You’ll live amongst them. Break bread with them. Learn how they see us. What you’ll do, Prince Eric, is make yourself small. God alone knows you need it.”
He flags over the man that arrived by the door. The aide steps forward and places a thick, leather-bound folder before me, inches away from my glass and the history book.
“The hell is this?” I snap.
“Your education,” he answers smoothly, linking his fingers beneath his chin. His voice is almost bored. “Information on the duchy of Sheffolk. Names, histories, territories. All there is to know about the family you’re being dropped into.”
“You’re giving me homework? The fuck am I, twelve?”
Henrik looks at me as though asking, ‘Why the fuck can’t you keep your mouth shut?’
There’s more he wants to ask; I know he can feel it.
The tension. Kai is glaring, thinking I’m being overly dramatic again.
Not a word comes from either of them, and I see their silent plea to not make it worse.
Let it pass, you bastard. They hold themselves like obedient little sons, expecting me to do the same.
But if they knew what I did, neither would be able to look our father in the eye again.