Chapter 7 #4
Their eyes met across the dim room. For a moment, Jakob saw a flicker of the little sister he remembered—uncertain, seeking approval. Then her expression hardened, and she hurried past him toward the stairs.
"Rachel," he called softly.
She paused, one hand on the banister.
"Whatever he's promised you," Jakob said, "whatever he's made you believe—Christian Vasa will always choose himself first. Remember that."
Rachel didn't turn around. "You don't know him like I do," she said, her voice small but defiant.
"No," Jakob agreed. "But I know men like him. And when the time comes to choose between what's right and what's easy—they always choose easy."
Rachel hesitated, and for a moment Jakob thought she might say more. Then she continued up the stairs, her footsteps fading into silence.
The candles burned lower, casting long shadows across the empty room, and Jakob wondered if this was how Harald felt sometimes—watching his family pulled in different directions by forces beyond his control, trying desperately to hold them all together.
September 16, 1939
Jakob hesitated at the library doors, the weight of his mathematics texts heavy in his arms. It was a Saturday and the school was quiet, most of the cadets having scattered to enjoy the last of the fall sunshine.
He'd been avoiding this room since... since that night.
But with Rachel in and out of the house at all hours and tensions climbing between her and their mother, he needed quiet and calm and to lose himself in the logic of mathematics for a few hours.
He pushed open the door and froze. Harald sat alone at the table, hunched over a stack of papers.
He looked awful - skin pale, dark circles stamped under his eyes like bruises.
His golden hair, usually so perfectly styled, stuck up in wild directions as if he'd been running his hands through it for hours.
Something in Jakob's chest twisted painfully at the sight.
When Harald looked up, there was a flash of something in those tired eyes - relief? longing? - that made Jakob's breath catch. But it was gone so quickly he must have imagined it. Princes didn't pine after farm boys, no matter how many kisses they'd shared in haylofts.
Jakob's feet moved before his brain could stop them.
"You look like hell, Your Highness."
"Jakob." Harald's voice was rough, like he hadn't used it in days. "I... yes, I suppose I do." He straightened slightly, trying to smooth down his wayward hair. The gesture was so unconsciously princely that Jakob had to bite back a smile.
"I didn't mean to disturb you," Jakob said, already stepping back. "I just needed somewhere quiet to work."
"Stay." The word came out too quick, too desperate. Harald flushed, then added more carefully, "Please. I'd welcome the company."
Don't, Jakob told himself firmly. Don't get pulled back in. But Harald looked so tired, so alone, and Jakob's resolve crumbled like week-old bread.
He settled into the chair across from Harald, their knees almost brushing beneath the table. "Have you slept at all since..." Since I left you in that hayloft? "...since you were called home?"
"Not much." Harald's fingers drummed against the papers before him - diplomatic cables, Jakob realized, not schoolwork. "There's been... a lot happening."
"The war?"
Harald's eyes snapped to his, bright despite the exhaustion. "You've been following the news?"
"Some of us can't afford the luxury of ignorance." The words came out harsher than intended, and Jakob softened them with a slight smile. "Besides, my family has experience with how quickly things can change."
Something in Harald's expression cracked. He leaned forward, voice dropping to barely a whisper. "Everyone here acts like nothing's wrong. Like Germany isn't—" He cut himself off, running a hand through his already chaotic hair. "I can't talk about it. But I... I'm glad you understand."
Don't touch him, Jakob warned himself as Harald swayed slightly in his chair. Don't.
His hand reached out anyway, fingers brushing Harald's wrist. "When did you last eat?"
Harald blinked at him owlishly. "I... had breakfast?"
"Was that a question or an answer?" Jakob was already reaching for his own satchel, pulling out the apple and thick slice of bread his mother always packed him for afternoon studies. "Here."
"Oh, I couldn't—"
"You could and you will." Jakob pushed the food across the table. "Eat. Before you fall face-first into your diplomatic cables."
Harald's lips twitched. "Is this how you talk to all royalty, or am I special?"
"You're something, alright." Jakob tried to ignore how his heart jumped when Harald's fingers brushed his as he took the bread. "Now eat. My mama would never forgive me if I let a prince starve to death in the library."
Harald took a careful bite, then another, larger one. Some color started coming back into his face. "Your mother is formidable," he admitted
"She'd have words with whoever is supposed to be looking after you at the palace." Jakob watched as Harald devoured the rest of the bread, then started on the apple.
"I can look after myself," Harald protested, but it was undermined by the way he was practically cradling the apple, like he couldn't remember the last time someone had given him something.
"Clearly." Jakob's voice was dry. "That's why you look like you haven't slept in days and forgot meals exist."
Harald finished the apple in silence, turning the core over in his hands rather than meeting Jakob's eyes. "Thank you," he said finally. "I... things at the palace have been..." He trailed off, shoulders tight with tension.
"That bad?"