Chapter 1 #3
Gustav slumped slightly in his chair now that the performance was over, the careful posture finally relaxing. The handkerchief appeared in his hand again, and Harald caught the flash of red against white fabric.
"The people will be so pleased," Queen Margreta continued, moving between the chairs like a queen surveying her conquered territory.
"Such a wonderful example of royal dedication to duty.
Crown Prince Karl Fredrick's naval service, Princess Sigrid's charity work and Prince Harald's embrace of military tradition—it shows such proper understanding of what Sweden needs. "
Christian stirred from his position across the room. "A flawless announcement, Your Majesty. The academy will be honored to receive such a distinguished cadet."
"Won't they?" Queen Margreta's smile was razor-sharp as she looked at Harald. "I'm sure Harald is just as pleased as we are. After all, this is what he's always wanted, isn't it, darling?"
Harald found his voice, though it felt like speaking through broken glass. "Of course, Mama."
"Wonderful." She moved to Gustav's chair, her hand settling on his shoulder with proprietary care. "Now then, His Majesty should rest. All this excitement has been quite taxing."
Gustav struggled to his feet, leaning more heavily on Queen Margreta's arm than he would have liked. For just a moment, Harald caught his father's eye in the mirror across the room. Gustav's expression was unreadable, but there was something there— was it regret? Apology? Warning?
Then he was gone, led away by Queen Margreta, leaving Harald alone with Christian and the lingering scent of camera powder and electrical equipment.
"Well," Christian said, settling back in his chair with obvious satisfaction, "that was thoroughly satisfying. You looked appropriately grateful, cousin. Very becoming."
Harald stared at the radio equipment being packed away by efficient servants, each cable and microphone carrying away another piece of his demolished future.
Somewhere across Sweden, people were already discussing the announcement.
By tomorrow, it would be in every newspaper.
By next week, it would be recorded in the official royal chronicles.
Oxford was dead. The dean and the faculty would read about Prince Harald's military academy enrollment in The Times and understand that their promising young student had been claimed by duty.
The signed copy of The Hobbit would gather dust in Prince Harald's private study, a trophy of his mother's victory over romantic notions and theoretical nonsense.
Harald's bedroom felt smaller than usual in the lamplight, the inlaid surface of his writing desk cluttered with crumpled papers and false starts.
He'd been trying to write the letter to Oxford for two hours, but every attempt came out sounding either stodgy and overly formal or overly personal and sad.
Dear Professor Tolkien, he'd written, then crossed out.
Dear Dean, he'd tried next, then crumpled that paper too.
How did one gracefully decline an opportunity that you'd dreamed about for a lifetime?
How did one explain to one's heroes that duty had once again trumped dreams without sounding like a coward?
The door opened without a knock.
"Still up, cousin?" Christian's voice was warm with false concern as he stepped into the room still dressed in his casual evening clothes. "I thought I saw light under your door."
Harald's hand moved instinctively to cover his letter, but Christian was already crossing the room with that easy confidence that seemed to fill every space he entered.
"Writing letters?" Christian settled into the chair across from Harald's desk without invitation. "How industrious of you. Though I suppose you have a few bridges to burn, don't you?"
"It's nothing important," Harald said quietly.
"Oh, I doubt that." Christian leaned forward, his eyes bright with curiosity. "Let me guess—Oxford? Explaining why Prince Harald Edvard Vasa has decided that military service is more suited to his temperament?"
Harald felt heat rise in his cheeks. "It's personal correspondence."
"Of course it is." Christian's smile was all understanding. "And such a difficult letter to write, I imagine. How does one explain that one's family has... different priorities? That you've belatedly discovered that perhaps some dreams are more appropriate than others?"
Harald stared at the paper in front of him, the words blurring slightly. "I just need to decline politely."
"Decline politely?" Christian repeated, as if tasting the words. "You're not declining a dinner invitation. You're explaining why a Swedish prince has chosen practical service over... what did your mother call it? Theoretical nonsense?"
The casual cruelty of it made Harald's chest tight. "The dean and the Professor were legitimately interested in my ideas. They thought that my particular background could contribute to scholarship and literary analysis."
"I'm sure they did." Christian's voice was silk over steel. "A professor who writes fairy tales about dragons, interested in a prince's essay on — what was it? Brotherly affection? How very specialized of him."
Harald's hands clenched involuntarily. "It's not like that."