Page 1 of Always Eros

Prologue

London, England 1722

“The illness is ravaging his highness. I must advise you to say your goodbyes soon.”

Though the doctor is near the door in my large room, I can still hear him, along with my mother’s soft sobs and my father demanding something else be done. It’s useless, and we all know it, but I suppose it’s important to maintain some level of hope, no matter how futile.

“Prince Henry’s condition is dire,” the doctor says, his tone somber. “I assure you, your highness, if there was anything more I could do, I would.”

“I will not lose another child to this disease,” my father says. “Henry has already lost so much.”

I’d laugh if my lungs allowed it, but just breathing is enough exertion. Delirium is setting in from the high fever, my body now too weak to hold itself up. My mother has to spoon feed me like a child, rather than the thirty-year-old man that I am. I’ve lost my wife and the child she carried. I’ve lost everything.

“Forgive my indiscretion, your highness,” the doctor says, his voice low but still loud enough for me to hear. “But I have heard of someone whose practices are, shall we say… unusual. It is likely beneath his highness, but perhaps there is help there. The common class has benefited.”

“What is this you speak of?” my father asks. “Black magic? Voodoo? For a prince?”

I turn in my bed, groaning in pain, in an attempt to watch the interaction. The doctor whispers now, and my mother clutches her chest, while my father’s face turns dead serious.

“Bring him to me,” my father demands. “Whatever his price, but you must be discreet.”

“Of course, your highness. I will go now. Time is of the essence.”

Moments later, my mother returns to my bedside with a servant. I know the process now. They will wash every inch of me in cool water to temper the fever, but it won’t work. It will only provide a few minutes of relief before the heat takes hold again.

After they leave, I turn my head toward the window. My beloved gardens are barely within my view, but simply knowing they are there lifts my mood. I desperately wish to see them again, smell the blossoming flowers, sit on my favorite bench, and write my poetry. It is that desire that keeps me clinging to life.

I rarely bother to think past that or my will to live will slip away. What will my life be like now if I do recover? A weakened version of myself, the pity of England? A shallow breath rattles painfully through my chest, the urge to cough strong, but I fight it back. I cannot stand the pain it causes.

I am a prince with no wife. No heir. Certainly, another wife could be found, but no one could replace Elisabetta. Not just her beauty, but her warmth and kindness, her joy for life. Yet she was struck down as easily as a thief. There is no justice in this sickness. No discernment. No, we are all equal in its wrath—prince and pauper alike.

My eyes grow heavy as another wave of fever ravages me. Desperately, I try to conjure a picture of Elisabetta’s face, but the effort is too great. Perhaps it would be better to just die. What do I have other than a garden and responsibilities I do not want? As a cousin to the throne, it will never be mine, but being part of the royal family requires a decorum I find stifling.

If I died, I could be with Elisabetta again, if what the priests say is true and there is a heaven. But even if there is, what cruel god would take a beautiful young woman carrying a child away from all she loved? I hate any god who would take her from us. I hate the god who sits back and allows this scourge to ravage all of England. I will not worship and give thanks to a god like this. Perhaps my death will lead to nothing. Right now, that sounds just fine.

With that, my mind made up, I finally surrender to it. Clinging to my gardens is no longer enough. I simply stop fighting. Whatever is on the other side of this life, I will greet it with open arms.

My breaths grow shallow, my throat too dry to swallow. I close my eyes, hearing Elisabetta’s joyful laugh, seeing the way my mother smiled so proudly on my wedding day, the hope in my father’s eyes for grandchildren. All lost.

“I… tried…” I whisper. “Can’t… hold… on.”

The life in me slowly drains away. I want to call out for my parents, but I don’t have the strength. I hope they know I loved them.

* * *

Henry.

The sound of my name pulls me from the darkness surrounding me.

Henry. Drink.

Cool metal presses against my lips as a tangy, slightly metallic liquid coats my tongue.

“That’s it. Swallow it. You’ll feel better.”

The voice is male and accented. I’ve not heard it before. That I’m sure of.

“A little more,” the man says, pouring more of the strange-tasting liquid down my throat.