#damnedtobe

"Another bloody Tuesday, another bloody woman," Harry muttered, adjusting his silk cravat in the ornate mirror. His valet, Arthur, a stoic man who had seen it all, merely cleared his throat. "Indeed, Your Royal Highness. Lady Amelia was quite... spirited."

Harry snorted, a lecherous grin spreading across his face. "Spirited? She nearly bit my damn ear off. But a good bit of fun, nonetheless." He ran a hand through his perpetually disheveled hair, a stark contrast to the perfectly coiffed wigs favored by many at court. He was Prince Henry, but everyone, even his father, called him Harry. And Harry liked his life. He liked the endless parade of women, the late-night revelries, the freedom to indulge every whim. He was the spare, after all, his older brother, Edward, destined for the throne. Harry was free to be Harry.

The morning air, usually crisp and invigorating, felt heavy today. He could hear the faint sounds of courtly life stirring outside his chambers – the clatter of carriages, the distant chatter of servants, the hurried footsteps of minor nobles. All a blur to Harry, whose days revolved around pleasure and avoiding responsibility.

He was about to dismiss Arthur and find his morning brandy when a knock, sharp and insistent, echoed through the room. Arthur opened the door to reveal Lord Pembroke, his father's chief advisor, his face grim. Harry's playful mood immediately soured. Pembroke never brought good news.

"Your Royal Highness," Pembroke began, his voice unusually strained. "I regret to inform you that His Majesty has taken ill. Gravely ill."

Harry's breath hitched. His father? Ill? The old man was a bull, strong and unyielding. "What do you mean, 'gravely ill'?"

Pembroke's eyes met his, filled with a mixture of pity and something akin to dread. "The royal physicians fear... the worst. His Majesty is not expected to recover."

The words hit Harry like a physical blow. His father. Gone? But that meant…

"And Prince Edward?" Harry asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Where is my brother?"

A long, agonizing silence filled the room. Pembroke swallowed hard. "His Royal Highness, Prince Edward, succumbed to a fever last week, Your Royal Highness. The news was withheld from you at His Majesty's request, given his own failing health."

Harry felt the blood drain from his face. Edward? Dead? The world tilted on its axis. No, this couldn't be happening. Edward was the king-to-be. Harry was… Harry.

"So that means…" Harry started, his voice hollow.

Pembroke nodded slowly. "It means, Your Royal Highness, that upon His Majesty's passing, you will be King. King Henry."

The reality of it slammed into Harry. King. No more drunken escapades. No more illicit affairs. No more freedom. His stomach churned. This was a nightmare. A bloody, rotten nightmare.

"And there's more, Your Royal Highness," Pembroke continued, seemingly oblivious to Harry's spiraling despair. "Before his illness took hold, His Majesty made arrangements for your marriage. A matter of stability for the crown, he insisted."

Harry felt a cold dread creep up his spine. An arranged marriage? To some simpering duchess, no doubt, who would lecture him on propriety and bore him to tears. "Who is it?" he demanded, his voice thick with loathing.

Pembroke hesitated, a flicker of unease in his eyes. "Her name is Miss Ida Elmore, Your Royal Highness."

The name meant nothing to Harry. "A noblewoman? From which house?"

Pembroke cleared his throat again, this time with a visible effort. "Miss Elmore... is not of the nobility, Your Royal Highness. She is a commoner. His Majesty believed her simplicity and grounded nature would serve as a 'humbling influence,' in his words."

Harry stared at Pembroke, then burst into a harsh, mirthless laugh. A commoner? His father, that conniving old bastard, was truly having the last laugh. He was going to be king, yes, but he was also going to be shackled to a commoner, a woman chosen specifically to humble him.

"A commoner?" Harry snarled, the vulgarity bubbling to the surface. "You're fucking kidding me! This is a joke, right? Some sick, twisted joke?"

Pembroke remained impassive. "No joke, Your Royal Highness. Your father's final decree."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. His life, once a playground of endless indulgence, was now a gilded cage. A bloody throne, a dead brother, a dying father, and a commoner bride. This was a goddamn nightmare, and he was trapped in it.

His gaze fell on Arthur, who stood silently by the door, his face as unreadable as ever. "Arthur," Harry said, the word a rasp in his throat. "Fetch me the strongest brandy you have. And a large glass."

Arthur merely bowed and exited the room. Harry collapsed into a velvet armchair, his mind racing. King. The word echoed in his ears, a mocking refrain. He, Harry, who had never taken anything seriously in his life, was to be king. 

The very idea was ludicrous. He imagined himself presiding over court, attempting to decipher diplomatic intricacies, or worse, listening to endless petitions from disgruntled commoners. He would be a disaster. The kingdom would crumble within a year.

And Ida Elmore. A commoner. The humiliation of it burned his cheeks. His father, in his dying act, had managed to deliver one final, devastating blow. It wasn’t enough that Harry would be forced into a life of duty and responsibility, he would also be tied to a woman whose very existence was a public declaration of his father’s disdain for his choices. A humbling influence. The gall of the old man! He could almost hear his father's booming laugh, a cruel echo from beyond the grave.

The door creaked open, and Arthur returned with a silver tray bearing a crystal decanter and a goblet. Harry snatched the goblet and poured a generous amount of the amber liquid. The fiery burn as it went down did little to quell the turmoil in his gut, but it offered a momentary distraction.

"Pembroke," Harry said, his voice flat. "Tell me everything. How long has Edward been… gone?"

Pembroke shifted uncomfortably. "Almost two weeks, Your Royal Highness. It was a virulent fever. The royal physicians were helpless."

Two weeks. Two weeks and no one had told him. His own brother, dead, and he had been living his usual dissolute life, oblivious. A fresh wave of self-loathing washed over him. He had been so wrapped up in his own petty pleasures, so convinced that his position as the spare exempted him from the realities of life and death, that he hadn't even noticed the absence of his elder brother. Edward. 

He pictured his brother’s serious face, his quiet dedication, his unwavering sense of duty. Edward had been everything Harry was not. And now Edward was gone, and Harry was left to pick up the pieces of a crown he never wanted.

"And the marriage?" Harry pressed, the brandy beginning to dull the sharp edges of his despair. "When is this… charade to take place?"

"As soon as is decorous, Your Royal Highness," Pembroke replied. "Given the circumstances of His Majesty’s health, a swift union is deemed essential for stability."

"Decorous?" Harry scoffed. "My father is on his deathbed, my brother is barely cold in his grave, and you speak of decorum? This is a monstrous farce!"

Pembroke remained stoic, his eyes unwavering. "These are His Majesty’s wishes, Your Royal Highness. They are absolute."

Harry took another long swig of brandy, the warmth spreading through him. He leaned his head back against the velvet, staring at the ornate ceiling. He felt like a pawn in a game he hadn’t even known was being played, a game in which he had just lost everything.

He imagined Ida Elmore. He pictured her as dull, plain, probably pious to a fault. Someone who would tut at his drinking, frown at his late nights, and sigh dramatically over his many improprieties. 

The thought made him want to smash something. He, Prince Henry, was to be a prisoner in his own kingdom, chained to a woman who would remind him of his father's disappointment at every turn.

"Is there… is there any way out of this, Pembroke?" Harry asked, a desperate flicker of hope in his voice. "A loophole? A forgotten law? Anything?"

Pembroke shook his head slowly. "I am afraid not, Your Royal Highness. His Majesty’s decree was meticulously drafted and witnessed. It is legally binding."

The last vestige of hope died within Harry. He was trapped. Utterly, irrevocably trapped. The thought of a life without freedom, without the endless pursuit of pleasure, was a suffocating weight. He would be King Henry. A king he did not want to be, ruling a kingdom he felt utterly unprepared for, married to a woman he would undoubtedly despise.

A bitter laugh escaped him. "So, I am to be King Henry, the reluctant monarch, shackled to a commoner wife, all thanks to my father’s final, vengeful act."

Pembroke cleared his throat again, a gesture Harry was beginning to associate with uncomfortable truths. "His Majesty, in his final lucid moments, expressed a profound hope, Your Royal Highness. He believed that this union, and the responsibilities of the crown, would finally… make a man of you."

Harry slammed his goblet down on the nearby table, the crystal ringing loudly. "Make a man of me? He’s trying to break me! He always has been! He saw my life as a series of failures, and now he’s ensured my future will be a perpetual penance!"

"With all due respect, Your Royal Highness," Pembroke said, his voice surprisingly firm, "your father loved you. He believed in your potential, even if you did not. He saw the fire in you, the passion. He merely wished to channel it toward a greater purpose."

"Greater purpose?" Harry snarled. "My purpose was to enjoy life! To live free! To be Harry, not some gilded statue trapped on a throne!"

He stood abruptly, pacing the room, his long strides carrying him from one end to the other. He felt a surge of restless energy, a desperate need to escape, to run, to disappear into the anonymity of the world. But there was nowhere to go. The walls of his chambers, once a sanctuary, now felt like the confines of a prison.

"What about… what about the arrangements for the funeral?" Harry asked, forcing himself to focus on something, anything, other than his own looming fate.

"Preparations are underway for a private ceremony, Your Royal Highness, given the circumstances of Prince Edward’s passing and His Majesty’s immediate decline," Pembroke explained. "A public mourning period will be observed after the coronation."

Coronation. The word hung in the air, heavy with the weight of responsibility. Harry shuddered. He, Harry, the carefree rogue, was to be adorned with a crown and scepter, symbols of power and authority he had never craved.

"And Miss Elmore?" Harry asked, forcing the name out. "Where is she now? Is she aware of… all of this?"

"Miss Elmore arrived at the palace last night, Your Royal Highness," Pembroke replied. "She has been apprised of the situation and is being prepared for her new role."

Harry’s jaw tightened. Prepared for her new role. The phrase conjured images of a frightened mouse being primped for a lion’s den. He felt a fleeting, almost imperceptible flicker of something akin to pity for the woman. 

She, too, was a victim of his father’s machinations. A commoner, thrust into the unforgiving glare of court life, expected to marry a man who openly loathed the very idea of her. It was a cruel fate for both of them.

He downed the rest of the brandy, the alcohol burning a familiar path down his throat. He would need more than brandy to get through this. He would need a miracle. Or perhaps, he thought with a cynical smirk, just a very large supply of the strongest spirits the royal cellars could provide.

"Leave me, Pembroke," Harry finally said, his voice rough. "I need to… contemplate this new reality."

Pembroke bowed stiffly and exited the room, leaving Harry alone with Arthur, who stood silently, observing his master with an unblinking gaze.

"Arthur," Harry said, collapsing back into the armchair. "Tell me, honestly. Am I completely screwed?"

Arthur, for the first time in Harry’s memory, offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Your Royal Highness, you are merely… embarking on a new adventure."

Harry snorted. "Some adventure. More like a life sentence." He closed his eyes, picturing the endless procession of duties, the stifling formality, the crushing weight of a crown he never desired. This was not the life he had chosen. This was the life that had chosen him, and he was completely, utterly unprepared for it. 

The sun, now fully risen, cast long shadows across his chambers, illuminating the gilded cage that was now his reality. The game had changed, and Harry, the eternal player, found himself on the losing side, with no escape in sight.

The weight of his new reality pressed down on Harry, each breath a struggle against the invisible shackles that now bound him. King. The word still felt alien on his tongue, a costume he was forced to wear, ill-fitting and suffocating. 

The thought of Ida Elmore, his commoner bride, twisted his gut into knots. He needed an escape, a momentary reprieve from the impending doom of his coronation and his forced marriage. And he knew exactly what kind of escape he needed.

His eyes fell on a half-empty bottle of brandy on the side table, but even that offered little solace now. Alcohol could dull the edges, but it couldn't erase the suffocating feeling of being trapped. 

No, what Harry needed was a different kind of oblivion, a carnal distraction that could, for a few blissful hours, make him forget he was Prince Henry, soon to be King Henry, shackled to a life he despised.

He rose from the armchair, his movements agitated. Arthur, ever the silent shadow, watched him with an unreadable expression. Harry paused by the window, staring out at the manicured gardens, the perfect facade of a world he was about to inherit. He felt a sudden, desperate urge to throw open the window and scream.

"Arthur," Harry said, his voice low and tight. "I need… a distraction."

Arthur’s gaze remained steady. "Of what nature, Your Royal Highness?"

Harry turned, a cynical smile playing on his lips. "The kind that makes me forget my name, my title, and the monstrous farce I'm about to endure." He met Arthur's eyes, a silent plea passing between them. "I need a woman, Arthur. A willing, discreet woman. Someone who understands that this is purely… transactional."

Arthur cleared his throat, a faint flicker of something akin to sympathy in his eyes. "At once, Your Royal Highness. I shall make the necessary arrangements."

Harry watched him go, a sliver of relief cutting through his despair. At least for tonight, he could pretend. He could pretend he was still Harry, the carefree rogue, untroubled by crowns or commoners. He poured himself another brandy, but this time, the burn felt less futile.

***

Hours later, the palace was a hive of hushed activity, preparing for the inevitable announcement of the King's passing. But in a secluded wing of Harry's chambers, a different kind of preparation was underway. Arthur had returned with a woman, cloaked and veiled, her presence as discreet as a whisper. He introduced her simply as 'Eliza.'

She was tall, with a graceful bearing, and when she removed her veil, Harry saw a face that was strikingly beautiful, with intelligent, knowing eyes that held a hint of sadness. She wasn't one of the simpering court ladies he usually entertained, there was a quiet strength about her that intrigued him despite his immediate need.

"Your Royal Highness," she murmured, her voice soft and melodious. "It is an honor."

Harry waved a dismissive hand. "Spare me the pleasantries, Eliza. Let's not pretend this is anything other than what it is." He watched her carefully, searching for any sign of offense, but her expression remained serene.

"As you wish, Your Royal Highness," she replied, her gaze unwavering. "I am here to serve."

Her fingers, nimble and skilled, unfastened his cravat, then the buttons of his waistcoat, working with a practiced efficiency that spoke of long experience. Her body, a sinuous canvas of curves, moved with a fluid grace, brushing against his just enough to ignite a spark, yet without any hint of overt invitation. 

As his clothing fell away, revealing the hard lines of his torso, her gaze swept over him, appraising but not judgmental, a silent acknowledgment of the powerful physique beneath. 

She led him to the bed, her touch light on his arm, a gentle guidance that belied the building tension between them, and then, with a quiet confidence that both surprised and aroused him, she began to explore. It was a methodical unveiling, a deliberate journey over his form.

Her lips traced the taut line of his jaw, down his throat, lingering on the pulse point at his neck, where she felt the rapid beat of his desire mirroring her own. Her breath, warm and soft, ghosted over his skin as she descended further, her tongue tracing the hollow of his collarbone, tasting the subtle saltiness of his skin. Her hands, soft yet firm, kneaded the tension from his shoulders, her fingers working deep into the muscle, before sliding down his chest, outlining the defined pectorals. 

She found the hard nubs of his nipples, circling them with her fingertips until they peaked, sending shivers through him, a testament to her precise touch. Her touch moved lower, over his taut abdomen, awakening nerves he hadn't realized were dormant, a slow building of sensation. 

She cupped him gently, her thumb stroking the sensitive head of his cock, which sprang to full rigidity under her touch, a clear signal of his aroused state. She moved with an instinctive understanding of his desires, her rhythm aligning with his own unspoken needs, each touch a carefully orchestrated move designed to bring him to the precipice of pleasure, a master of her craft.

He found himself surprised by her quiet confidence, her ability to hold his gaze without flinching, even when he was at his most demanding. There was a depth to her that he hadn't expected, a fleeting moment when he almost forgot the desperate reason for her presence.

He gasped, a low moan escaping his lips as her touch intensified. Her nails, short and neat, lightly raked over his inner thighs, sending a fresh jolt of pleasure through him that reverberated deep in his core. A delicious shiver traced its way up his spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

She leaned in, her warm breath caressing his ear, and whispered, "Relax, Your Royal Highness. Let me take you where you need to go." The words, softly spoken yet laced with a knowing confidence, seemed to melt away the last vestiges of his royal composure. 

He felt himself yielding, his body responding with an urgency that surprised him, given his usual detached and calculated approach to such encounters.

Her skilled hands continued their exploration, a symphony of delicate presses and tantalizing strokes. She found every sensitive point, every hidden nerve ending, coaxing him further into the burgeoning tide of pleasure. 

Each movement was deliberate, a master sculptor shaping raw clay, molding him into a state of exquisite vulnerability. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound he hadn't known he possessed. The air in the chamber grew thick with unspoken desires, charged with the electric current of their current intimacy.

She lowered her head, her soft, silken hair brushing against his erection as she began to suck him gently. Her lips and tongue created a delicious suction, a rhythm of pure indulgence that made his vision swim, blurring the ornate details of his bedchamber into a hazy, sensual dream. 

He arched his back, a guttural sound torn from his throat, a primal cry of surrender. His hands instinctively reached for her hair, his fingers tangling in the silken strands, gripping them as if clinging to his last tether to reality. She continued her masterful assault on his senses, her movements becoming more urgent, mirroring the frantic pounding of his heart.

He was lost, utterly and completely lost in the moment. The weight of the crown, the impending marriage to a woman he barely knew, the political machinations of the court, all faded into a distant, irrelevant hum, like the drone of a forgotten fly. There was only Eliza, her breath on his skin, the delicate pressure of her lips, the exquisite torment and unparalleled pleasure of her touch. 

He felt himself teetering on the edge of an unknown abyss, an intoxicating descent into pure, euphoric pleasure, and he knew, with a certainty that transcended all logic, that he wanted to fall. He wanted to fall with her, into her, until there was nothing left but the raw, burning intensity of their shared passion.

He bucked against her, a raw, primal instinct driving his hips to rise and meet her mouth, a silent, desperate demand for more of the exquisite torment she inflicted. Her grip on him tightened, fingers digging into the muscle of his thighs, and she drew him deeper, her throat a warm, wet sheath that pulsed around him with every breath she took. 

The intensity was unbearable, a delicious agony that stretched his control to its absolute breaking point, each nerve ending singing with a pleasure so acute it verged on pain. His body trembled, a fine tremor that ran through him from head to toe, every muscle taut and strained with suppressed sensation, held in a precarious balance on the edge of oblivion.

He felt the insistent pull, the building pressure behind his eyes, a molten current coursing through his veins, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure gathering force within him, a tsunami poised to crash. He was close, agonizingly close, to the precipice of his release, his mind a hazy fog of need and sensation. 

He could feel the first tremors of his climax, a hot, liquid warmth spreading through his core, radiating outwards, setting his skin alight. Her movements grew more urgent, a frantic, almost desperate rhythm that matched his own escalating desire, pulling him further into the vortex.

He wanted to scream, to roar his pleasure to the heavens, to unleash the primal sound building in his chest, but all that escaped was a ragged gasp, a half-formed plea torn from his lungs as he finally surrendered. 

He exploded into her mouth, a torrent of hot, pulsing release, his body arching, his fingers digging into her hair, holding her fast as he poured himself into her, emptying himself of all the tension and despair that had plagued him for so long. 

The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of swirling colors and fragmented sensations, then slowly, mercifully, faded to black, leaving him spent, utterly sated, and adrift in the aftermath of pure, unadulterated sensation. A profound, almost spiritual calm settled over him, the echoes of his climax still reverberating through his body.

***

As the night wore on, and the brandy bottle grew lighter, Harry found himself talking, something he rarely did with his temporary companions. He spoke of his brother, Edward, the quiet, dutiful heir. He spoke of his father, the tyrannical old man who had always seen him as a disappointment. And he spoke of Ida Elmore, the commoner bride, the symbol of his father's final, cruel joke.

Eliza listened, her presence a silent, comforting anchor. She didn't offer platitudes or empty reassurances. She simply listened, her eyes reflecting a profound understanding that Harry found unsettling.

"And now," Harry slurred, running a hand through his disheveled hair, "I am to be King. King Henry. God help us all." He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. "And married to a commoner, no less. A 'humbling influence,' my father called her. As if I need to be humbled."

Eliza reached out, her fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. "Perhaps," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "it is not about humbling, Your Royal Highness. Perhaps it is about finding something real, something grounded, amidst all this… pretense."

Harry snorted. "Pretense is all I know, Eliza. And it's all this court knows. A commoner will be swallowed whole."

"Or she will be the anchor," Eliza countered softly, her gaze piercing his. "The one thing that keeps you from floating away entirely."

Harry pulled away, a sudden chill running through him. Her words, so unexpected, had struck an uncomfortable chord. He didn't want an anchor. He wanted to float away, to escape this suffocating reality.

"Enough," he said, his voice sharper than he intended. "The night is over. You have served your purpose."

Eliza withdrew, her expression unreadable once more. She dressed quickly, her movements graceful and silent. As she veiled herself, Harry felt a strange pang of regret, a fleeting desire to ask her to stay, to continue the conversation that had unexpectedly veered into uncomfortable truths. But he squashed the feeling. He didn't need truth; he needed oblivion.

"Arthur will see you out," Harry said, turning his back to her, unwilling to meet her knowing gaze again.

"May you find the peace you seek, Your Royal Highness," Eliza said, her voice soft but clear.

Harry heard the door close behind her, leaving him alone in the quiet chambers. The effects of the brandy were beginning to wear off, and the crushing weight of his reality descended once more. The physical release had been temporary, the fleeting oblivion already fading. Eliza's words, however, lingered in his mind, unwelcome and unsettling.

He stumbled to his bed, the silken sheets feeling cold beneath him. He was Prince Henry, soon to be King Henry, and he had just sought solace in the arms of a stranger. 

Yet, instead of finding peace, he felt a deeper emptiness, a chilling premonition that this desperate need for distraction would be a constant companion in the gilded cage that was now his life. 

He closed his eyes, picturing the serious face of his dead brother, the stern visage of his dying father, and the unknown face of the commoner woman who was destined to be his queen. 

The nightmare, he realized, had only just begun. And no amount of brandy, no amount of fleeting pleasure, would be enough to wake him from it.

He lay there for a long time, the silence of the room amplifying the tumultuous thoughts in his head. The early morning light, usually a gentle harbinger of a new day, now felt harsh and unforgiving, stripping away the last illusions of his freedom. He was no longer Harry, the carefree rogue, but Henry, the unwilling king, a puppet of fate and a prisoner of circumstance.

He finally pushed himself out of bed, the silk sheets tangling around his legs like chains. He needed to prepare, to face the day and the grim realities it held. 

Arthur, ever punctual, would be arriving soon with his morning ablutions, and Harry dreaded the silent judgment he knew would be in his valet’s eyes. Arthur had always been a man of quiet observation, and Harry knew he saw through all the pretense.

A knock echoed at the door, confirming his suspicions. "Enter," Harry called, his voice rough.

Arthur entered, a silver basin and fresh towels in hand, his face impassive. He laid out a clean shirt, a meticulously pressed waistcoat, and a new cravat on the valet stand. "Good morning, Your Royal Highness," he said, his voice as neutral as ever.

Harry merely grunted in response, splashing cold water on his face. The chill did little to clear his head. He looked at his reflection in the mirror – a haunted man staring back, lines of dissipation etched around his eyes, a shadow of the carefree youth he had once been.

"Lord Pembroke will be arriving shortly to discuss the funeral arrangements and the immediate plans for the coronation, Your Royal Highness," Arthur informed him, his tone brisk and efficient.

Harry winced. "Of course. More pleasant news, I’m sure." He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, then sighed, letting Arthur take over, allowing the familiar ritual of dressing to be a momentary distraction from the storm brewing within him.

As Arthur deftly fastened his cravat, Harry’s mind drifted to Edward. His brother. A pang of guilt, sharp and unwelcome, pierced him. He hadn’t truly mourned Edward. Not yet. He had been too consumed by his own impending doom, too caught up in the grotesque absurdity of his new reality. 

Edward, the good son, the diligent heir, taken by a fever while Harry was living in blissful ignorance, indulging in every vice. The irony was a bitter taste in his mouth.

He wondered if Edward had known, in his final moments, that Harry would be forced to take his place. Had he, even then, felt a flicker of pity for his dissolute younger brother? Or perhaps, Harry thought with a cynical twist of his lips, Edward had simply accepted his fate, as he always had, with quiet dignity.

A sudden, sharp memory surfaced. Edward, patiently teaching him to ride, his firm hand on Harry’s, guiding the reins. Edward, defending him to their father after one of Harry’s many youthful transgressions. Edward, the anchor, the steady presence, now gone. The thought brought a fresh wave of grief, raw and unbidden, threatening to overwhelm him.

Just then, another knock sounded, and Pembroke’s grim face appeared in the doorway. "Your Royal Highness," he said, bowing low. "A moment of your time, if you please."

Harry waved a hand dismissively. "Come in, Pembroke. Let’s get this over with." He settled into a chair, trying to project an air of bored indifference, though his heart hammered against his ribs.

Pembroke approached, carrying a roll of parchment tied with a velvet ribbon. "His Majesty’s final wishes, Your Royal Highness. Regarding the succession and… the union."

Harry’s jaw tightened. "The union. Yes, the infamous Miss Elmore."

Pembroke cleared his throat. "Indeed. Her arrival at the palace has been… discreet. She is currently residing in the East Wing, under the care of Lady Agatha, your late mother’s former lady-in-waiting."

Lady Agatha. Harry remembered her as a stern, unsmiling woman, obsessed with propriety. A perfect choice to groom a commoner into a queen. He almost pitied Miss Elmore. Almost.

"So, what are the specifics of this ‘union’?" Harry asked, forcing a casual tone. "When is this farce to commence?"

"His Majesty decreed a period of two weeks following his passing for the marriage to take place, Your Royal Highness," Pembroke explained, unrolling the parchment. "A swift transition is paramount for the stability of the realm. The coronation will follow immediately thereafter."

Two weeks. Harry felt a cold knot form in his stomach. Two weeks until he was bound, irrevocably, to a woman he didn’t know, and to a crown he didn’t want. 

"And the lady herself? What do we know of her? Beyond her ‘simplicity and grounded nature,’ as my father so poetically put it."

Pembroke hesitated, his gaze briefly flickering towards Arthur, who stood silently by the door. "Miss Elmore… she is the daughter of a prominent merchant family from the western territories, Your Royal Highness. A respectable family, albeit not of noble birth. She is known for her… quiet demeanor and her charitable works within her community."

Quiet demeanor. Charitable works. Harry stifled a laugh. Sounds absolutely thrilling. He pictured her as a meek, mouse-like creature, easily intimidated by the opulence and intrigue of court. He could already imagine the whispers, the sneers, the thinly veiled insults from the ladies of the court, eager to tear down the commoner queen.

"And she is… amenable to this arrangement?" Harry asked, a flicker of morbid curiosity.

"She has expressed her understanding of the gravity of the situation and her willingness to fulfill her duty to the Crown, Your Royal Highness," Pembroke replied, his voice carefully devoid of emotion.

Duty. That word again. Harry hated it. His entire life had been defined by a joyful avoidance of duty. And now, duty was a cage, closing in on him.

"Very well," Harry said, waving a hand. "Proceed with the arrangements. The sooner this charade is over, the sooner I can… embrace my new reality." The words tasted like ash on his tongue.

Pembroke bowed. "As you wish, Your Royal Highness. I shall inform Lady Agatha to begin the necessary preparations for Miss Elmore’s presentation." 

He paused at the door. "And, Your Royal Highness, a delegation from the Northern Alliance has arrived. They request an audience to offer their condolences and reaffirm their loyalty."

Harry groaned inwardly. Diplomatic duties already. "Send them to the grand hall. I’ll meet with them after… after I’ve had a moment to collect myself."

As Pembroke exited, the room fell silent again, save for the soft rustle of Arthur tidying Harry’s discarded nightclothes. Harry walked to the window, staring out at the gardens, now bathed in the full light of day. The sun was high, the sky a brilliant, indifferent blue. It was a beautiful day, a day that mocked his inner turmoil.

He, Prince Henry, was no longer free. He was King Henry, and the gilded cage had just slammed shut. The image of Eliza, her knowing eyes, her quiet strength, flickered in his mind. 

"Perhaps it is about finding something real, something grounded…" 

Her words echoed, a discordant note in the symphony of his despair. He scoffed. Real? Grounded? He was about to marry a woman chosen for her ability to humble him, to remind him of his failures. There was nothing real about this. It was a punishment, a perpetual penance for a life lived too freely.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble. He needed a shave, a fresh start. He needed to look the part of a king, even if he didn’t feel it. He was a prisoner, yes, but he would be a king in chains, not a pauper. He would wear the crown, endure the ceremonies, and play the part. But he would never, not for a moment, forget what he had lost. And he would never forgive his father for this final, devastating blow.