Chapter 2 #2
He moved to the wardrobe, opening it to reveal Harald's uniforms hanging neatly, hangers spaced evenly apart.
"Daily uniform must be spotless, brass polished, boots shined to mirror finish.
Parade dress for Sundays and formal occasions.
Field uniform for outdoor training. Winter kit will be issued in October. "
Harald nodded, feeling increasingly like he was being prepared for prison rather than education.
His brother's face peeked around the door. "Nice room," Freddie commented. "When I was here I had to share."
"Lights out at 2200 hours," Christian continued his discussion, seeming to enjoy Harald's discomfort. "First bugle at 0530. Any questions, cousin?"
A thousand, but none Harald dared ask with Christian watching him like a hawk and his brother looming over him. "No. Thank you for the tour."
Christian checked his watch. "I should report to the Commandant before dinner. Freddie, will you be joining us in the officers' mess?"
"Not tonight," Freddie said, speaking up for the first time in what felt like hours. "I need a word with my brother before I return to Stockholm."
Something flashed in Christian's eyes—annoyance, perhaps—but his smile remained fixed. "Of course. I'll leave you to it, then." He bowed to Freddie, nodded to Harald, and departed with measured steps that echoed down the corridor.
As soon as the door closed, Harald's shoulders slumped. Freddie crossed to the window, looking out at the rain-lashed courtyard.
"He's enjoying this a little too much," Freddie said quietly.
"Oh, you think so?" Harald said, sarcastically as he sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. "I knew it would be strict, but this is..."
"Riddarhuset." Freddie turned back to him with a rueful smile. "It's designed to break you down and rebuild you. That's the point."
"And Christian gets to oversee the breaking." Harald ran a hand through his damp hair, no longer caring about appearances now that it was just the two of them. "Why did Father insist on this place? Why not the naval academy, or university, or—"
"Because every royal prince and man of the Vasa family for six generations has attended Riddarhuset," Freddie said, the familiar refrain sounding hollow even to him. He sighed, coming to sit beside Harald on the narrow bed. "Look, I know it seems impossible now, but you'll find your way. I did."
"You're different," Harald said before he could stop himself. "You're... you."
Freddie's laugh held no humor. "And you're you. Which means you'll approach this differently, but you'll manage." He paused, his expression growing serious. "You have to, Hal," the old family nickname came out soft on his brother's lips.
"Because of Father?" Harald asked, remembering the conversation from the night before.
Freddie nodded slowly. "His health... the doctors are concerned. If something happens—"
"Don't," Harald interrupted, the same plea he'd made the night before. "Please don't."
"I'm trying to protect you," Freddie said, echoing his words from their previous conversation. "I know it's not fair. None of it's fair. But you have to understand—"
"I understand," Harald said flatly. "I always understand."
They sat in silence for a moment, the rain beating against the window like a military drumbeat. Finally, Freddie stood.
"Write to me," he said, "if you need to. It can be hard, but you'll get through it."
Harald nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Freddie paused at the door, looking back at his younger brother—still sitting on the edge of the bed, still looking too young for the uniform he wore.
"Hal," he said, quietly. "Just… It's worth it," he said suddenly.
"Being careful. Keep things inside. Sometimes...
sometimes being quiet means you get to keep the things that matter. "
After Freddie left, Harald remained on the bed, listening to the rain and the distant sound of a bugle calling cadets to dinner. Outside his window, Riddarhuset loomed dark and implacable, its towers disappearing into the gathering dusk.
He thought of all the rules and regulations Christian had outlined, the endless ways he could fail to measure up.
He thought of his father's declining health and what that might mean for his future.
He thought of four years stretching ahead of him in this place where every minute was scheduled, every action scrutinized.
But mostly, he thought of Freddie's parting words. Being quiet means you get to keep the things that matter.
The problem was, Harald wasn't sure what mattered to him anymore—or if anything even did.
August 22, 1939
The next morning, the Academy's courtyard echoed with shouted commands and the sound of boots on cobblestones in the thin morning light.
Harald stood at attention, trying not to fidget as Christian circled him, each step measured and precise.
His cousin's new authority sat on his shoulders like his Cadet Lieutenant epaulettes, gleaming and heavy.
"Oh dear, cousin." Christian's voice carried just far enough to draw attention from nearby cadets. "Where are your company patches?"
Hal's stomach dropped. The royal tailor had assured him everything was in order, had spent weeks seeing to even the smallest detail "I—".
"You can't possibly attend evening formation without them.
" Christian's concern would have seemed genuine to anyone who didn't know him.
"That would be a serious violation of the dress code.
" His smile sharpened. "And as senior cadet, I would hate to have to cite my own cousin on his first full day. "
"Surely there's—" Hal asked, a bit lost.
"The laundry." Christian's eyes gleamed. "Missus Eliasberg, the school laundress, handles all uniform matters. Though I'm sure His Highness can find his own way below stairs?"
The last part was clearly a challenge. Harald straightened his spine. "Of course."
"Excellent." Christian checked his watch. "Evening formation is at eighteen hundred hours. I trust you'll have this sorted by then?"
It wasn't really a question. Harald nodded once, sharp and controlled the way he'd been taught. A prince never shows uncertainty in public. He turned and immediately made his way back to his room to fetch his jackets, and find his way downstairs.
The stairs to the laundry led down into warmth and steam, to the smell of soap and starch. The rhythmic thud of pressing machines echoed off stone walls, and voices murmured in what might have been Yiddish.
Harald hesitated in the doorway. A woman in a practical dress was directing operations like a general commanding troops, while a figure in rolled shirtsleeves managed one of the massive pressing machines with casual competence.
"—need those officers' uniforms done by—" The woman broke off, noticing him. "Your Highness! Come in, come in. You'll let all the heat out."
She didn't curtsey. Didn't even pause in her work. Just gestured him forward with the same authority she'd been using to direct her staff.
"Sarah Eliasberg." She gave him a quick, assessing look. "And you'll be needing company patches, I expect. That tailor at the palace never does remember about those."
"I..." Harald cleared his throat. "Yes. For all my jackets."
"Of course, of course. Yasha!" She took the pile of jackets from his arms, and called over her shoulder without looking. "Fetch His Highness a chair. And some tea from the samovar."
The figure at the pressing machine straightened at Sarah's call, and something in Harald's chest shifted—a subtle realignment, as if the world had been tilted ever so slightly on its axis and now was coming back to true. Harald couldn't quite explain why his next breath came slower, deeper.
The young man's shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows as he worked, his movements holding a quiet confidence.
Dark curls clung damply to his temples, slightly frizzing in the steam, and Harald found himself staring at the way sweat beaded at the edges of his eyes.
His hands—Harald found himself oddly fascinated by those hands, the sure way they handled the pressing machine's controls, the careful competence in every gesture.
When the young man turned fully toward them, Harald felt his breath catch.
Strong, dark brows arced over his eyes like the wings of a bird, framing the most brilliant blue Harald had ever seen—clear and sharp, fringed with thick lashes that seemed almost unfair on someone who already commanded attention so effortlessly.
His nose tilted up slightly at the end, as if inviting mischief, and his lips were almost too full for the pointed line of his chin.
"Your Highness." His bow was messy, somehow genuine rather than ceremonial. "Jakob Eliasberg." His voice carried warmth and a hint of accent that made Harald want to lean closer, though he couldn't have said why. "Except Mama, who is old fashioned, still calls me Yasha."
Harald knew he should respond with something appropriate. Instead, he found himself struggling to remember any of the thousand formal phrases he'd been taught, struck by the strange certainty that something important was happening, even if he didn't quite understand what.
"Come on." He said, and his eyes held that same almost-smile Harald had glimpsed upstairs. "I believe we can do better than a chair." He disappeared behind a rack of uniforms and returned with what looked like an actual armchair, worn but clean.
"That's from the faculty lounge," Harald said before he could stop himself.
"Is it?" Jakob's expression was a study in innocence. "How interesting. Tea?"
Sarah was already examining one of Harald's jackets, her movements quick. "You'll need six patches, I assume? One for each jacket?"
"I..." Harald glanced at the door, remembering Christian's threat. "Yes, but there isn't much time—"
"There's always time for things to be done properly." She threaded a needle without looking, her tone brooking no argument. "Sit. Drink your tea. These things cannot be rushed."