Warning: This chapter contains some brief scenes of violence and references to child abuse. Please read at your own discretion.
The servants came to the Prince's chambers at six o'clock in the morning to prepare him for his wedding ceremony. They dressed him in a white suit with golden threads on the lapels and sleeves, and black buckled shoes that had been polished until he could see his face in them. Despite their best efforts, no amount of concealment powder could hide the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't slept a wink last night—not that anyone bothered to question why. Adam doubted that any man could get a good night's sleep before their wedding day, regardless of whether the bride was someone they wished to marry or not.
After what seemed like ages, Henriette, wearing her finest dress, entered the room and whisked away the servants to share some private words with her son before the ceremony. Her face glowed with motherly pride as she straightened his cravat and searched his outfit for loose threads and stray pieces of lint.
"Chin up, Adam," she said as she moved a tea set from his bedside table to the dresser behind him. "I know this isn't the... easiest choice, but a marriage isn't the end of the world. Think of it as a new beginning. Amandine will be a good wife. She'll give your life a new purpose. As long as you have her, you'll never be alone."
Adam stared wide-eyed at his mother's reflection in the vanity mirror. It was as though the wool had been lifted from his eyes, and he was seeing her—truly seeing her for the first time.
"You're not my mother," he blurted out.
Henriette turned around. "What was that, love?"
"I said, you're not my mother," he repeated, firmer this time. "My real mother died of consumption thirteen years ago. You're just a shadow of her. You're a wish granted to me by an Enchantress because I refused to accept her death. But… I've moved on from my loss now. I don't need you anymore."
A crack appeared on Henriette's left cheek, glowing with a strange yellow light. The sight startled Adam, and he turned around to gape at her in shock.
The Queen winced and placed a hand over the blemish as though it had physically wounded her. When she opened her eyes again, her expression was one of hurt and betrayal. "How could you say such a thing? You don't need me anymore? But I am your mother! If you cast me away, who else will be there to look after you?"
"I did have someone once," Adam replied. "She raised me for nearly thirteen years. She sang me lullabies every night. She showed me what it was to love and be loved in return. Not a day goes by when I don't think about her and those precious moments we shared." He looked back at the false Henriette. "But she isn't you. You're a dream I've clung to for far too long. And now, I have to wake up before it completely destroys me."
More light appeared on the Queen's body, spreading to her arms, torso and lower limbs. She held up her glowing hands, eyes growing wide with fear. "No, Adam, wait!" she cried, extending an arm to him. But before she could muster a full scream, the lacerations engulfed her, and she disintegrated into a burst of golden dust.
Adam stood up, utterly stunned as he watched the remains of his mother-imposter evaporate into the room. The Enchantress had warned him that he would lose his mother again one day. But he hadn't realized that verbally accepting her death was the key to undoing her magic.
It wasn't until the dust had settled that he noticed he was shaking.
"Goodbye, Mère," he said before he hurried to the doors and slipped into the corridor.
It took him ages to get to the library, no thanks to his high-heeled shoes, which served as a perfect slipping hazard on the polished floors. He knew the Enchantress had bewitched his subjects into believing that his real mother was still alive. But now that her double was gone, would their memories of the real Queen return? Or, if the memory spell was permanent, would they all believe that the false Queen had been murdered, and label Adam as the prime suspect?
He had no time to question it, and no time to dwell on the implications of what he'd done. All he knew was that he had to get to the book and fast.
He heard doors opening behind him, followed by startled voices and exclamations. The noise sent him into a panic, so he hastened his speed, not stopping until he reached the library. Once inside, he slammed the doors behind him and breathed a deep sigh of relief.
The trouble was, someone was already there. No sooner had Adam locked the doors when he caught sight of Amandine standing behind the table beside the fireplace. She stared at him in wild-eyed bewilderment.
"Amandine!" he exclaimed, equally surprised as she looked. "I thought you would be in the chapel by now."
"So did I," she replied quietly.
She was wearing her wedding dress; a white robe à la française with golden vines embroidered into the petticoat, likely designed to match the accents on the Prince's own wedding suit. Her mahogany-coloured hair was pinned up into a sophisticated bun, though she wore no veil, making Adam wonder if she had discarded it, or run off before her servants had finished attaching it to her. If it was the latter scenario, Adam knew he was in trouble. Not only would the servants be looking for him, but they'd be looking for her as well.
"I want to apologize for that appalling display I made at the ball last night," he said in a half-hearted attempt at lightening the mood. "It was entirely improper and—"
"You love her. Don't you?" Her hazel eyes surveyed him knowingly.
It took several seconds before Adam responded, so taken aback by the directness of her words. "How did you know?"
She slid around the table, giving him a good glimpse of the Enchantress's book tucked under her arm.
"Adam, I know I may have a... reputation for being soft-spoken and demure, but I'm not a simpleton. I saw the way you looked at that artisan's daughter back in the village. You had this… lively, animated look on your face and you were smiling. I'd never seen you look at me that way before. Or anyone." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "At first, I didn't understand it, but last night, when I saw you together again at the ball, it all made perfect sense."
She looked down at the book. "Is the prince in this storybook you? Did you really make a deal with an enchantress to create a false version of your dead mother?"
"Yes… and no," Adam confirmed nervously. "I did make a deal with an enchantress to bring back my mother. But that was a different version of me. This reality… it isn't mine. In fact, I'm not supposed to be here at all."
Amandine pursed her lips, willing him to elaborate. Feeling he had little choice, Adam hesitantly revealed the story about the world he'd come from, one where he'd refused the Enchantress's offer and she'd turned him into a beast as punishment. In a last-ditch attempt to become human again, he'd used the book to travel back in time to stop the curse from happening. A decision that had brought him here.
If Amandine thought that Adam was pulling her leg, she didn't show it. Maybe she had already suspended her disbelief in his story after reading the Enchantress's book. Or maybe his peculiar actions in the past week had convinced her that he was telling the truth.
"I thought that by changing my past, I could make a better future for myself," Adam concluded. "And it was better here, to a point. But then I began to see so many things that were wrong with my life, and I realized… this wasn't what I wanted at all."
"So then… you never wanted to marry me?" asked Amandine. Her voice was sad, but not heartbreakingly so.
"Amandine." Adam crossed the room and placed his hands on her shoulders. He vaguely noted that this was one of the most intimate gestures they'd shared since they'd started courting a week ago. "You are truly one of the most amazing women I've ever met. But we're just too different. You like going to the opera and studying paintings. I like books and translating languages. I know society says that love isn't a prerequisite for marriage, but I can't believe in that for one second. All I know is that if I marry you today, I'll be living a lie for the rest of my life. And worst of all, I'll be dragging you along with me.
"There is someone out there who's right for you. Someone who will inspire you, move you, make you happy and change your world for the better. Whoever that someone is, he will be the luckiest man in all of France. But that man isn't me. And that's why I can't let this marriage continue, knowing it will ruin my—both our chances of finding people who truly love us. Do you understand?"
"I… understand." Amandine nodded reluctantly. "But I'm also confused. If that's truly how you felt about me, then why didn't you say so in the first place?"
"Because I didn't think anyone would believe me," Adam confessed. "And I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings by telling them the truth. Especially my mother—or rather, the thing I pretended was my mother. She'd been waiting so long to see me get married… I suppose that deep down, I was afraid of disappointing her. I should have been more honest with everyone, especially you. Can you ever forgive me?"
A loud knocking on the doors interrupted the Prince and Princess from their conversation. It seemed that the servants had finally discovered Adam's hiding place.
"Blast!" Adam cursed as he turned back to his fiancée. "Amandine, I need to find Belle. She's leaving Villeneuve today, and if I don't act now, I'll lose her forever. That book is the only way I can get to her."
Amandine lowered her eyes. "What do you need me to do?"
"Distract my servants. When they come in, tell them that you never saw me. Convince them that I was never here."
She bit her lip, nodded compliantly and passed him the book.
As Amandine headed to the library doors to distract the servants, Adam flipped to the book's map and set it on the nearest table. He paused before putting his hand on the page, lost in thought.
He knew the book could easily transport him to Villeneuve if he asked it to. But then? It wasn't like he could magically earn Belle's trust again, not after the poor choice of words he'd used with her at the ball last night. And revealing his real reasons for wanting her to stay at the castle would only frighten her more.
What he needed was a clean slate. A chance to win Belle's favour without the social pressures and bad decisions he'd made in this timeline. But how? All he knew was that the book could take him back to events he had a strong emotional connection to, as long as they were events that had occurred in this timeline. Meaning, that if he wanted another chance to be with Belle, he'd have to change another part of his past. Something that had happened before the Enchantress's arrival and would guarantee he'd still be human and still have access to her.
It was a tall order to fill; not to mention the risks involved. But if it meant seeing Belle again, it was worth it. Keeping this thought in mind, Adam closed his eyes and searched his past for a suitable memory. Despite having twenty years of experiences to explore, he found himself focusing on one particular conversation from yesterday's rehearsal.
"He had the makings of a fine prodigy. He may have even rivalled the likes of Mozart himself, had he applied himself."
"You exaggerate, Mère. I was… an adequate player at best."
It was all coming back to him now. He saw himself playing a piece by Handel on the harpsichord, the sheet music growing blurrier and blurrier with every mistake he made. He saw his father's angry face leering down at him as he knocked over his prized chessboard, the pieces scattering in all directions across the floor...
A clicking noise, followed by the sound of a key turning in a lock startled him back into the present. The servants would be here any second, and he only had one memory to work with. It was far from a happy memory, but it was better than nothing.
He placed his hand on the book and let its magic pull him into that realm of flickering suns and stars once again.
When he was back on solid ground, the Prince found himself standing outside the entrance to the bedchambers he used to dwell in before he'd inherited the West Wing. A quick glance out a nearby window told him that it was almost sundown. The sky was orange-tinged, and there were long shadows of shrubs and trees scattered across the grounds.
"I just don't know what we're going to do with you, boy," said an angry voice coming from inside his room. A voice Adam knew all but too well, even after seven years. "Your performance this afternoon was pathetic. The Comte and Comtesse de Maillard thought you were ill, you played so poorly! Do you have any idea how humiliating it is, to know that my own son is incapable of playing a simple movement from one of the greatest composers of the century?"
"I'm sorry, Père." That was the voice of Adam at age twelve. Even hearing his prepubescent self was a surreal experience for the present-day Prince. He hadn't really sounded that high-pitched back then, had he? "I practiced the Allegro with Maestro Cadenza all week, I swear! But seeing all those people watching me, it made me nervous."
"That's no excuse," his father chided. "A true prince always knows how to keep up appearances, no matter the circumstances. He always maintains an air of constraint and discipline around his subjects. That means showing no fear, no emotions!"
"No emotions?" the young Prince repeated, sniffling. "Then to be a prince is to not be human?"
"Silence!" barked the King. This was followed by a sharp slapping noise, and a grunt of pain coming from the young Prince. His father must have struck him in the back of his head or on the cheek… Adam couldn't remember now.
But he did remember this conversation, despite it happening half a lifetime ago. It had occurred a few weeks after his mother's funeral when the soil on her grave was still fresh, and her loss was still sharp in the young Prince's mind. His father had invited some of his favourite nobles to the castle for an afternoon soirée, forcing Adam to be their entertainment. It was a day that was destined to end in utter disaster.
"Look at you, crying like some miserable, suckling babe," his father continued disgustedly. "You're twelve years old for Christ's sake! Monsieur Dupré tells me you haven't been paying attention to your etiquette lessons lately either. What good is spending all that money learning court mannerisms and social protocol if you can't even stand up straight? Are you even listening to me? Look at me when I'm talking to you, Thomas."
The young Prince muttered something that Adam couldn't hear. The King must have missed it too, for he asked, "What did you say to me?"
"I said, my name is Adam, not Thomas," the young Prince repeated. "I never wanted your stupid name."
BANG! That was the sound of his father knocking over the chess table. And that clinking noise was the sound of thirty-two chess pieces rolling across the floor.
And now came the worst part of all. Adam didn't have to be in the room to see it; his father's ugly face bearing down on him, full of hatred and rage. He'd seen his father angry many times before, but never like this.
"How dare you!" the King growled.
"I-I'm sorry!" the young Prince stuttered back.
"No son of mine will ever use that language with me!"
"I didn't mean it! I'm sorry!"
"It's all your damn mother's fault, making you all soft and undisciplined. Well, it's about time I show you what happens when you don't respect your superiors!"
Adam's heart beat wildly in his chest. He knew exactly what would happen next. He'd try to make a run for the doors, but it was no use. His father would block the exit, being so much bigger and stronger than him. In no time at all, he'd grab him aggressively by the shoulder and pin him against the wall, his arm outstretched as his open hand came flying towards him…
It was one thing for the Prince to experience what had happened in that room twelve years ago. And another for him to hear it: flesh hitting against flesh followed by agonizing, blood-curdling screams. It was an inhuman sound, one that rattled him to the core and left him paralyzed with fear. This was where it all began: the sharp insults, the letdowns, the senseless abuse; everything that shaped him into that… loathsome form the Enchantress had condemned him to for all eternity.
But this time, he didn't have to be the helpless child at his father's mercy. He was a grown man with the power to stop what was happening in that room. Armed with this knowledge, he clenched his teeth and forced himself towards the doors. He didn't know what his action plan was exactly… only that he had to do something. His hand hovered over the doorknob, blood pounding loudly in his ears…
"No, Lumière! Wait!" Cogsworth shouted.
Adam recoiled with a start. He hadn't realized that the servants could hear his younger self's cries, too. Nor did he know what the consequences would be if they saw him standing out here; an unfamiliar aristocrat, dressed far too formally to be attending a small dinner party. Instinct told him that it would be unwise to find out.
There were footsteps coming around the corner. Adam frantically searched the remaining length of the corridor for a quick getaway. A tapestry of his family coat of arms hung to his right-hand side. It wasn't big enough to conceal all of him, but it was the best he could do. He hid behind it, mere moments before the footsteps loudened and stopped in front of his bedchambers.
"Lumière, stop!" Cogsworth shouted again. He was grunting and panting heavily as though he and the maître d' were in the middle of a scuffle. "Don't go in there!"
"But Cogsworth," Lumière retorted, "he's hurting Master Adam!"
"And you're about to lose your job," the majordomo said sharply. "It's not our place to interfere with the Master's disciplinary methods, no matter how much we disagree with them."
"Do you not hear what he's doing to him? If we don't act now, the boy could end up incapacitated or grow ill, just like his mother!"
"I'm sure it won't come to that," Cogsworth disagreed, though his tone of voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty. "Come. Let's go to the kitchens and see how Chef Cuisinier is making out with tonight's dinner. The King will be down to eat with his guests soon. You know he doesn't like to be kept waiting."
"If you say so, mon ami," Lumière hesitated.
It wasn't until the servants' footfalls had died away that Adam released the breath he'd been holding. He suddenly remembered something he'd overheard Mrs. Potts saying in his old timeline: "When the Master lost his mother and his cruel father took that sweet, innocent lad and twisted him up to be just like him, we did nothing."
Yes, the Beast had been awake when Mrs. Potts had shared his "tragic backstory" with Belle in the West Wing. Normally he would have been furious that she'd disclosed such sensitive information without his permission, but instead, he'd felt relief. At least he didn't have to worry about revealing the sob story to the girl himself anymore. And given that Belle had already seen his torn family portrait, she'd probably jumped to her own conclusions as to why he'd damaged it anyway. Mrs. Potts had got one small detail wrong however, and that was her expressing her guilt over doing nothing to stop his father's abuse. For what power did a group of servants have against their own master; a man who could fire them all at a moment's notice or execute them for challenging his authority? This wasn't the servants' fault at all. Adam could never blame them for choosing silence over his own well-being.
Less than a minute after Lumière and Cogsworth's departure, the doors to the bedchambers opened. The Prince peered out from the tapestry to see his father, donned in his classic black wig and suit, walk in the opposite direction of his hiding place. A turmoil of emotions washed over Adam as he watched him; fear and anger being the strongest of all. He didn't know what he wanted to do more: beat the living daylights out of him or strangle him. Still, he waited until the King had disappeared behind the corner before slipping out from behind the tapestry and returning to the bedchamber doors.
Inside the room, young Prince Adam was crying. He would continue to do so until he'd fallen asleep. Adam wished he could say something to himself before then, but what? It wasn't like he could offer him some Mrs. Potts-worthy words of wisdom to cushion him from the years of pain he'd face at his father's hands. And a visit from his future self was more likely to frighten his younger self than comfort him. No, if the Prince wanted to end the abuse, he'd have to attack it at its source. He was going to face the man he hated and feared most of all: his father.
Adam was glad that the King used to follow such a rigid schedule in life because it made it easy for him to determine the best places to catch him alone, and at what times. His dinner with the nobles would take anywhere from an hour to an hour and a half. After that, he would retreat to his study for the evening to answer some letters from his correspondents. It was in that room where Adam had the best chance of confronting him.
A secret passage near his old bedchambers allowed Adam to bypass a large section of the castle without being seen. Even when he had to sneak through the main corridors again, he was surprised to find the place deserted, with no guards or servants in sight. Perhaps everyone was too busy tending to his father's dinner party downstairs. Or perhaps they happened to be cleaning up another part of the castle at the same time he was sneaking to the study. Whatever the reasons, Adam was grateful for the added convenience it provided him.
At last, he reached the doors to his father's bureau. He twisted the doorknobs earnestly, only to find that the room was locked. Damn. What am I supposed to do now? But then he remembered that he had the magic book with him and kicked himself for being so daft. He put his hand on the map, conjured a mental image of the office, and seconds later, found himself standing on the other side of the doors.
Like everything he'd possessed in life, King Louis-Thomas's study was a place he'd taken great pride in maintaining and showing off to visitors at any opportunity. Tall vertical shelves covered the walls, filled with costly knickknacks, small marble busts of deceased ancestors and books by famous French philosophers and historians. To the left was a fireplace, which was already lit in anticipation of the King's arrival. On the mantelpiece was a small clock, and on the wall above it was a portrait of Adam's grandfather, Alexandre-Benoît, who regarded his grandson with a judgmental scowl. As a young child, Adam remembered asking his father why their ancestors never smiled in their portraits, to which his father's response was that no one would take them seriously if they did, and to stop wasting his time with silly questions. No silly questions—that was the key to maintaining a peaceful relationship with his father back then.
The right side of the office was decorated with a Persian carpet that the King had purchased from a foreign merchant before Adam was born. On this carpet sat an armchair with a gold-painted frame and a writing desk covered with papers. Since he still had some time to kill before his father arrived, Adam decided to take a closer look at the contents on the desk. Most of it was uninteresting: letters from distant kingdoms and invoices from places the King had done business with, but one item did stand out from the lot. It was a small portrait of his mother. I've seen this portrait before, Adam thought as he pulled it from the pile.
It was an engagement portrait, one that Adam's maternal grandparents had sent to his father shortly after his betrothal, so he could see what his future spouse looked like. Henriette was in the prime of her life then, her cheeks rosy and her golden hair curled into luscious ringlets that stopped just short of her collarbones. Adam remembered looking at this portrait with his mother once and telling her how beautiful she'd looked, to which her response was to laugh and say that beauty didn't pay if it meant sitting in the same uncomfortable position for hours on end. He didn't understand her words at the time, but now, after spending half of his life being forcefully groomed in the same manner, he did.
Why did my father keep it? he wondered. Since his mother's death, he'd always acted as though she'd never existed. This portrait seemed to suggest otherwise.
As Adam set the painting back on the desk, his foot struck against something hard sitting on the floor. He looked down to see a half-finished bottle of whisky rocking in the space between the desk and the wall. There was another bottle next to it. Three, four, five, six... Adam counted at least a dozen liquor bottles in various states of emptiness behind his father's desk. He creased his brows in disbelief. He'd always thought of his father's study as a place both prestigious and clean, the image of a king who had all his affairs in order. Little did he know that his father had been putting on a show for him all this time. This was not the room of a proud king, but a broken man.
The search for cracks in Louis-Thomas's perfect life continued. Adam combed through the drawers of his writing desk next. The first drawer contained nothing but some spare parchment and writing utensils, but the second drawer contained a dagger. Père always liked to keep a weapon close by in case of an attack, he recalled. Too bad the tables are turning on him now. He carefully picked up the blade and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
The next item of interest was a letter. But this one was different from the others on the desk because it had Adam's name in it. He picked it up curiously and read:
To His Most Excellent Majesty, King Louis-Thomas Antoine de Bauffremont,
May it please Your Majesty,
To permit your brother-in-law, His Grace, Jean-Christophe Étienne de Breil de Pontbriand, Duke of Pré-sur-bois, to speak on the subject of your son, Prince Thomas-Alexandre Adam. With utmost respect for your mourning period for my beloved sister, I wish to remind you again of the offer I extended to you at her funeral regarding Thomas-Alexandre's future guardianship. Rest assured that my intent was not to question your capabilities as his father, but to offer you an alternative means of raising the boy, should you find the process too overwhelming on top of your many royal commitments.
I am confident that Thomas-Alexandre will be well taken care of, should you choose to send him to live with me and my family in Pré-sur-bois. My son and daughter, Vincent and Léa, are very fond of his company, having greatly enjoyed visiting him at the Château de la Rose in the summers when they were children. They see him a brother-figure and would be more than happy to welcome him into our household pending your decision.
As you are aware, my estate is less than a day's journey from Paris, which is home to the Sorbonne, one of the oldest and most prestigious universities in France. My son Vincent will be attending the school next semester and would be happy to have a companion join him in his studies. Should Thomas-Alexandre decide to pursue the life of a scholar at the university, he will learn not only the same curriculum he would have learned from his tutors but receive a more rounded education in all areas of the humanities. He will be more than prepared to run the kingdom once he becomes of age, a notion that I'm certain you will find most agreeable.
I implore you to respond to my letter at your earliest convenience. However, if it is still your intent to raise Thomas-Alexandre on your own, then no further action is required, and I will cease any and all further communications on the subject.
I wish His Majesty long life and happiness,
His Grace, Jean-Christophe Étienne de Breil de Pontbriand, Duke of Pré-sur-bois
It took some time for Adam to register that the letter he held in his hand was real. He'd never known that his uncle had written letters to his father after his mother's death. Or rather, he'd never known because his father had never told him.
Christophe was Henriette's older brother and Adam's uncle by blood. Like his late sister, he had a warm and gentle disposition that the Prince felt was sorely lacking in his own father. He used to visit the castle every summer with his family; Adam had vague recollections of playing games with his cousins in the grounds when they were small children. That was back when his mother was still in good health and his days were filled with sunshine and laughter. But then Henriette passed away, Adam's days in the sun faded into darkness, and his uncle's family stopped visiting him. He'd always assumed they'd wanted nothing to do with him after his mother's death. But was it possible that his father had wanted him to think that way this entire time?
The sound of a key turning in the door startled Adam from his thoughts. He hastily stuffed the letter back into the drawer, shut it and pressed himself against the wall beside the door frame. Moments later, the door opened and in walked the oblivious King. Adam's body filled with adrenaline as he drew the dagger from his jacket, waiting until the door had shut before speaking.
"Against the wall. If you make so much as a cry for help, I'll slit your throat."
King Louis-Thomas turned around with his start. His blue eyes bulged in their sockets as he saw the intruder standing by the door with a dagger in hand. Not so tough when you're up against someone your own size now, are you? Adam thought with a satisfied smirk.
Dumbstruck, the King held up his hands and pressed himself against the wall. The Prince followed him across the room with the blade pointed at his neck.
"Wh-who are you?" the King stammered. "What do you want?" He briefly took in the stranger's lavish outfit and his eyes grew even bigger. If Adam was a ruffian who planned on holding him hostage or stealing his valuables, he certainly didn't look like the part.
"Let's just say that I'm a messenger," Adam growled. "And I've come here tonight bearing grave tidings from the future. Your son is in danger. With every passing day, he grows closer and closer to eternal damnation. And it's all your doing." His voice began to shake. "What kind of sick person harms his own flesh and blood? You'll only hurt and frighten him, and to what end? By the time he comes of age, you'll have turned a perfectly sweet and innocent boy into a vile, irredeemable monster. He'll become a prisoner of his own castle, all because of you."
"What do you know of my son?" Louis-Thomas said, furrowing his brows skeptically. "Thomas-Alexandre is weak. He's overly sentimental, unmanly, impulsive and an embarrassment to his family's name. I can't have him wearing his heart on his sleeve when he inherits the throne. He needs to learn self-control, or he will never be a good ruler."
"He can be a far better ruler if he knows love!" Adam argued, choking back angry tears. "Since his mother passed away, the only things he knows are your curt remarks and the back of your hand. All that will teach him is to be cold and unfeeling. So cold that by the time he inherits the throne, he'll have no compassion for anyone—not for the ones who care about him, and not for the ones who need him the most. And do you know what the worst part is?" He inched the dagger closer to his father. "All those years of your bloody 'tutelage' will mean nothing because by the time your son sees the error of his ways, it will be too late for repentance. He will commit a crime so heinous, that by the time he can pick up the pieces, no one will even remember his name. He will die alone, anonymous and invisible to the world. And once he realizes this truth, your name will be the first he curses."
Louis-Thomas's mouth dropped open in horror. But whether it was for his son's bleak future, or for inadvertently bringing about the death of his own lineage, Adam didn't know or care.
"What must I do?" he asked him quietly.
"You have two options," Adam replied. "Number one: treat your son the way a loving father should, not as a cold tyrant. You're all he has now. Comfort him when he grieves for his mother, don't condemn him. Or if you don't have the heart to do that, then why not send him to people who will? Let him stay with your brother-in-law for a few years. He can go to school in Paris and get an even better education than he'll get from Monsieur Dupré. Then, once he turns eighteen, he can move back here, and you can teach him all he needs to know to take over the throne. Think of what your wife would want."
The King was silent. His attention had shifted to Adam's eyes. His mouth dropped open again in realization. "Thomas?"
The Prince glowered. "My name is Adam, you filth!" he shouted. Then, he punched his father in the face. Louis-Thomas let out a grunt of pain and crumpled to the ground, clutching at his nose in agony. When he pulled his hands away, he was shocked to find them stained with blood. Serves him right, the Prince thought. Hopefully his blood permanently stains the carpet, so he won't forget what happened here.
"And believe me, if you ruin my life again, I have my ways of returning," he continued. "I'll come back and kill you in your sleep. Meditate on that the next time you're in this room, drinking away your sorrows, Père."
He chucked the dagger into the floor so that it was mere inches away from slicing into the side of his father's head. The King barely flinched at the attack. He seemed to have forgotten how to move; he was so shocked.
"Seigneur Tout-Puissant Jésus-Christ," he muttered, eyes wide and unbelieving. "What have I done? What have I done?"
His repetitive muttering made Adam feel a little uncomfortable, so he exited the room, taking the magic book along with him.
So maybe I acted a bit harshly, he admitted to himself as he stood in the hallway and turned to the page of the map, but it's nothing he doesn't deserve. One punch to the face was nothing compared to the hell his father had put him through for six long years. And if it meant that he'd saved his twelve-year-old self from years of abuse, then it was worth it. For without his father's cruel influence, Adam was certain that he would live a better life, one where he could be a decent man and pursue a proper relationship with Belle…
Hoping for all these things and more, he placed his hand on the map, closed his eyes and thought of the present.