Page 108 of Duty and Desire

He frowned. “I’d meant to ask you about that. Your father seemed to be the kind of king who wouldn’t travel with his heir because it was against protocol. You know, in case something happened to both of them.” He grimaced. “Which of course it did. So how come they both went skiing?”

I sighed. “Because both of them loved the sport. And perhaps he thought he was immortal, that it would never happen.” I turned the key, pushed the door open, and we went into the study.

The blinds he’d had installed had been lowered, and I raised them, spilling light into the small room. There wasn’t much in it: a bookcase, an antique desk with a worn leather chair behind it, and a dark brown leather couch beneath the window. On the desks were neat piles of papers, folders, envelopes…

I sniffed, and my heart stuttered. “This rooms smells of him.”

What surprised me was how the scent comforted me.

Gio stroked the chair. “This looks as though it got a lot of use.”

I smiled. “It probably belonged to my grandfather, or perhaps even further back than him.”

“If you won’t leave it as his study, what will you do with it?”

I gazed at the wood-paneled walls. “To be honest? I have no idea.” I trailed my finger along the edge of the desk. “He was always a man who preferred neatness over chaos.” I picked up the nearest pile. “I should go through these, I suppose. There may be important documents in here.” I sat in the chair and leafed through, recognizing my father’s slanting penmanship in a heartbeat. I smiled. “I don’t think he possessed a laptop, although my brother did. Father proclaimed himself a Luddite when it came to technology.”

Gio sat on the couch. “I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile when you mention him.”

Which spoke volumes.

I divided the papers into two piles—ones to be kept, and those to be destroyed.

When I saw my name, my heart thudded.

“Gio…” I glanced across at him. “This is a letter, addressed to me.” I peered at the top of the page. “He wrote it May seventeenth, the day they left for Switzerland.” I swallowed. “The day before he died.”

Gio’s breathing caught. “What does it say? Can you tell me?”

My voice shook as I read.

Nikolaus, my son,

I believe it was a tradition for wartime pilots in days of old to write a letter to their loved ones before leaving on a mission, in case they should never return. I am not a superstitious man, but this morning I was seized by the desire to commit my feelings to paper. I have never done such a thing, or even contemplated it, but I could not drive the idea from my mind.

So if you are reading this, then perhaps it was indeed a premonition, and I am no more. Knowing you as I do, you might not care to read my words. After all, you have not replied to any of my letters sent these past three years. But if you do so now, know this—I have thought of you more than you believe.

You were always strong-willed, always determined to follow your own path. I have never known whether that was a curse or a gift, but I suppose a father should take some pride in raising a son who will not be bent, even by a king. I did not say that to you when you left.

I should have.

I will not pretend to understand the choices you have made, nor will I say that I approve of them. I have spent too many years believing a man must live a certain way. Standards do not bend easily when they have held up a crown for so long. And yet, in the quiet hours, I have wondered if I was wrong to be so unyielding.

A king’s duty is to his country first, his family second—at least, that is what I told myself. But I have found, as the years pass, that duty is a cold thing to hold when there is no one left to share it. Your absence has been keenly felt, though pride forbade me from ever saying so.

I am no fool. I know I drove you away. Perhaps you think I wanted you gone. That is not true. Not entirely. What I wanted was for you tobe the son I had imagined. And when you were not, I did not know how to love the son you are.

That failure is mine. It may even be the reason why you find it difficult to grieve for me. I hope that in your heart there is still a flicker of the love you once felt for your father, but I see now that on too many occasions, I acted as your king, not your parent.

Support your brother who follows me. And if—God forbid—he too is taken from this world before his time, then the crown will be yours.

You too will know its weight. I do not envy you that burden. It will demand everything of you. But if you are still the man I raised, you will bear it, and you will not break. And though you may not believe it, there is pride in my heart for you. Not because you are like me—you never were—but because you refused to be anything other than yourself.

I should destroy this letter on my return.

But perhaps I will not. I may keep it for the day you return to our land. And if you then find any value in these words, then perhaps there is still a bridge between us.

If not, then this letter will remain what it is—too little, too late. I leave it to you to decide.

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