Chapter Text
It’s pathetic, Philip thinks, as he adds yet another envelope to the drawer of his side table. He isn’t sure why he’s adding to the ever-growing collection when all he has been tasked to do is ensure his brother’s profane acts don’t cost the Crown yet another disgrace.
A small voice, oddly resembling his father’s, in his mind keeps telling him that something isn’t right, that he should intervene with Gran’s orders, but he knows she doesn’t mean any harm. Whatever is being done, it’s for the family, for the Crown, and for the betterment of the country.
A soft-hearted, naive, and frail Prince is no good to the country, no fit to be a leader as a royal. He has served his own time in the military, and he knows Henry will be conditioned too, becoming stronger, sharper, and perhaps more practical regarding his peculiar ways.
The letters start within a week of his departure after the email leak, and God has it been a plight to get rid of. That American boy has been causing ruckus at their doorsteps and had to be escorted out thrice by the king’s guards.
It’s such a shame that Henry’s actions have not only tarnished the royal image, but they’ve also dragged the unwelcome, unruly guest to the palace.
It had been Henry’s equerry who had finally managed to get the thick-skulled mule out and away from their country, good riddance.
The letters are always addressed to Alex, with quite obscene designations, calling the biracial boy love, dear, sweetheart, and many more nicknames that Philip can’t even fathom to read. He never looks past the top of the envelope to know what’s inside.
He has refused to read the emails, and he refuses to read the letter. Only God knows what conspires in such proclivity.
This has been going on for the past 5 months, and it’s getting old. If Henry wanted, he would have called him directly. There’s no need to write down physical evidence of his deviant thoughts.
The chain breaks, though, on the day of their father’s death anniversary. Exactly 5 months, 13 days after Henry’s departure. The letter comes this time, addressing him.
“Dear Pip”
It says on the top, the nickname long forgotten among the days spent as royalties instead of brothers. He rechecks to see if it’s a faux mail, a distraction tactic. But it doesn’t seem like it. The perfectly folded letter and the envelope, the crisp writing all match the previously sent ones. It’s indeed his little brother writing to him.
Dear Pip,
I’ve been meaning to ask you if you miss the days when the Crown was a distant reality out of our little happy bubble, perhaps my little happy bubble. I recall being told again and again, since our father’s death, I know I’ve always been the black sheep. The weak, catastrophic disgrace of a prince. I always believed that none of the royal advisors knew me enough to draw such conclusions. I foolishly believed you knew me enough, and hence, your opinion would be of utmost priority.
The past 6 months, I wrote letters to my beloved boyfriend in the hope that Gran would at least bestow me a glint of mercy, a single chance to provide him the closure he’d need to move on from our fantasy. That’s what our reality feels like now, a distant fantasy that may have never existed. I’m not sure.
I’m writing this letter with the hope that it finds you well, instead of being destined to the common fate of all my other messages, the ones I’m assuming have been discarded as garbage. If my calculations are not off the chart, this letter will find you on the anniversary of the damned date that marks the downfall of all our lives.
Forgive me for my thoughts are in a bit of shambles now, I don’t remember why I even started writing this letter. I remember when you were serving, Bea and I would write back to you whenever you wrote a letter to our parents. I think that it was one of the last conversations we had as siblings. I’m writing to you now for the last time Pip, with one last favour that I know I don’t deserve anymore. Still, for the sake of… I don’t know what is even worth being at stake now.
Take care of Bea, she’ll act out, might clash with Gran, even curse at you, but she misses you just as much as she misses our parents. I know it’s unfair for me to make yet another promise to you like our dad and I’m sorry. It doesn’t make sense yet, I know you might think I’ve gone lunatic, but when the news reaches you, just know that none of this is to be blamed on anyone. And when Alex calls, tell him I deeply regret the way our history turned out. You don’t have to deal with him or anything, just tell him I kept his smile as a soothing memory in my last few days. Tell him I love him beyond my capacity and that it has been an honor to be loved by him.
- Henry Fox
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It doesn’t make sense; none of the words register to him. All the bells and red blaring alarms ring inside his head as he reads and rereads the letter that is meant to be the last conversation with his brother.
What is the meaning behind it being the last conversation? Philip refuses to acknowledge the apparent implications. Something has gone wrong during the time his little brother has been sent away. Something terribly wrong.
His first thought is to reach out to his Gran, the obvious option, as she always knows the right thing to do, yet he remembers all the nights she has spent reprimanding him for trying to call Henry’s base. She always said he needed to detach and to learn things the hard way.
She told him this was the push Henry needed to finally get his act right, and Philip foolishly believed her every single word. He calls the base commander, an old acquaintance, forgetting the pleasantries.
“I need to talk to Prince Henry. This is an emergency.”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness, but we have the orders to ensure that the prince stays undisturbed as he serves his time in the military; all forms of communication are prohibited.”
Philip didn’t know this.
“I don’t care about the orders, I need to speak to my brother.”
“Your Highness, these were the orders from the Crown-”
“And I am the next King. Bloody get me to Henry, NOW.”
The phone goes silent for a while, and then a feeble voice follows. It sounds nothing like the Prince that Henry has been trained his whole life to be. It sounds forced, wheezing out of his chest, as if each breath is harder than the previous one.
“Hey Philip.”
“Henry”
“Hmmm”
“Are you alright?”
“I.. don’t know.”
“Are you in pain?”
“It’s a lesson, Philip.”
“Tell me what happened Hen, I’ll make it alright. Talk to me.”
“I’m dying Pip, you can’t help it anymore… It’s okay… I’m sorry, I’m not strong.”
The call cuts off after that. In all the years he has known Henry, Philip knows this isn’t an exaggeration or a tantrum, it isn’t an act. The voice has been void of any emotions, yet so, so tired. As if Henry has accepted his end.
It's infuriating not to know what has transpired in the military base, but if the orders the Crown has been involved in, Philip knows he has to move alone and fast.
He works the whole night, pulling on all the strings, getting in touch with all of his contacts in the military, and by the end, the story seems like something straight out of horror movies.
Every week, since the day he had been in the base, Henry had been forced to work with the Support unit, even though none of the royals had ever been assigned such work. Every weekend, the “Special training” is imparted, where he is forced to train with the superior commanders regarding his philosophies and perspective.
That’s a lot of bullshit and philip knows, it never was supposed to be military camp. It was a glorified conversion therapy for Henry, except these people were no saints, and the orders had been clear. Either they send back a perfect prince, or no prince at all.
His informer also tells him that Henry had written the last letter on Monday, after yet another gruelling sessions. It’s Saturday now. If he does the right math, Philip can assume Henry had not expected to make it through another session. He might have reached his limits.
Philip makes up his mind, he’s getting his brother back. Whatever the hell The Queen has planned, it all stops now. He will always be devoted to the country, but not at the cost of his brother’s life. Not like this.
The next week passed in a blur, Philip passed an immediate order to stop Henry’s session, yet getting him back is not easier. He gets in an argument with his Garn, threatens to get the American government involved, and the press, he makes all the fake threats he can, and the Queen complies.
The day Henry returns, it’s not the palace he steps inside but the hospital. He has been lucid, dissociating, and the doctors sedate him to conduct a full body checkup.
Philip is ashamed, appalled, and highly terrified as the doctors list everything that’s wrong with his little brother. Internal bleedings, several fractures in different stages of healing on their own, severely bruised muscles, dehydration, and the worst of it all, a broken rib that has already healed wrong and is not steadily poking the lungs. It seems as if a few more days would have led to a punctured thoracic cavity, and slowly, excruciatingly killing the prince.
He must have known, Philip thinks. He must have been in unbearable pain, yet held on; it must have been impossible to go on, yet Henry did; he must have known he couldn’t survive anymore. The letter had been written in desperation. Or maybe in delirium from the pain.
The results, even though completely demoralizing, are not irrevocable. It might take long, it might seem impossible, but they can still save him, save his little brother, and that’s all that matters.
Tomorrow, he’ll inform the family, and even Alex, and everyone that Henry might need in his recovery. Tomorrow, he’ll wage another war against the Queen and face the fanatics, but tonight, he sleeps in the waiting room with the knowledge that he didn’t completely fail as a brother.
His brother is alive.