Page 59 of Defying the Crown
I fold the measuring tape between my fingers as Harald stands motionless before the mirror. The numbers shrink with each visit. Another centimetre gone from his waist. Two from his chest. The sharp angles of his collarbones push against skin that once filled his suits properly.
"We'll need to take these in again, Your Highness." I keep my voice neutral, professional. The tailor scribbles notes, casting concerned glances my way.
Harald doesn't respond. He stares at his reflection without seeing it, the way he does everything these days. When the tailor leaves, I help him out of the jacket that hangs from his shoulders like a child playing dress-up.
"Perhaps we should order a new set instead of these constant alterations." I suggest, folding the offending garment.
He shrugs. The gesture lacks the energy to be dismissive.
Later, in my office, I place an order for three new suits. Size 46 instead of 52. Shirts with smaller collars. Trousers that won't pool around his thighs. Each click of the mouse feels like an admission of my failure to help him. I've been useless in the face of his heartbreak.
The order confirmation arrives in my inbox alongside another calendar alert: the Climate Council wishes to reschedule their meeting with the Crown Prince. The third postponement this week. I open the shared royal calendar and my stomach tightens at the sea of red. Crossed-out engagements. Rescheduled appearances. Cancelled charity visits.
I add the Climate Council to the growing list of disappointments and make a note to craft another polite excuse. "His Royal Highness regrets that he is indisposed at present..." The same words in different arrangements, a diplomatic way of saying he lacks the strength to leave his rooms.
The phone rings. It's the Danish Medical Association. Their gala dinner is next week, and they're hoping to confirm the Crown Prince's attendance. I glance at yesterday's untouched dinner tray outside Harald's chamber door.
"I'mafraid His Royal Highness's schedule is currently being reassessed," I hear myself say, adding another red mark to the calendar. "I'll contact you when we have more certainty regarding his availability."
Another cancellation. Another day Harald retreats further into himself. Another moment I stand by, arranging his shrinking clothes and diminishing life, wondering if there's anything I could have done differently.
I watch him from the doorway as he fumbles with his belt, thin fingers struggling with the leather strap. The sound of it sliding through the loops echoes in the cavernous dressing room. One notch. Two. Three. Each click of the prong finding a new hole pierces my heart. That belt—I'd had it custom-made in Florence last year as a birthday gift. Now he's run out of pre-punched holes and uses the rough one he made himself with a letter opener.
"Harald," I say, my voice barely carrying across the room. "Your breakfast—"
"I'm not hungry." He doesn't look up, just continues dressing with the methodical emptiness that's become his daily ritual.
My eyes trace the hollow of his cheeks, the shadows beneath his eyes that never seem to fade. I remember the Harald from before—the one whose laughter would fill a room, whose eyes sparkled with mischief during tedious state functions, who would steal pastries from the kitchen and share them with me while we reviewed his schedule.
This skeletal figure before me is a stranger wearing his face. I can barely reconcile him with the vibrant prince I've served for years. His collarbones jut beneath his crisp shirt, and the royal garments that once fitted perfectly now hang loose on his frame. It's as if some hollow doppelgänger has replaced my Harald, stealing away not just his flesh but the light that once animated his features. Each morning I find myself searching his eyes for some flicker of the man I've devoted my life to.
When he turns to reach for his watch, I notice how his shirt collar gaps around his neck, how his trousers bunch awkwardly despite the overtightened belt. The royal tailors have taken in his clothes three times in as many weeks, and still they hang from him like borrowed garments.
A wave of tenderness crashes over me, washing away any lingering jealousy. Whatever romantic feelings I've harboured for years seem trivial now, mere footnotes in the margins of a story that was never meant to be mine. My heart aches with a strange mixture of longing and resignation as I watch him waste away. I'd gladly watch him love Daniel forever if it meant seeing him healthy again, seeing him care about something—anything. I would trade every secret daydream, every accidental brush of our hands over state documents, every private smile he's ever given me, if only to see colour return to his hollow cheeks and purpose light those eyes that once commanded a room simply by glancing into it. Harald's happiness has always meant more to me than my own impossible wishes—this is the bargain I made with myself long ago when I chose to stay by his side.
"You need to eat something," I try again.
He glances up, and for a brief moment, I catch a glimpse of the old Harald—vulnerable, present—before the shutters come down again.
"I said I'm not hungry, Erik." His voice is soft but firm, that familiar stubbornness threading through each word. It's the same tone he's used since we were young men, when he would refuse royal banquets after particularly harsh criticism from his father. I recognize the gentle dismissal for what it is—another small wall erected between himself and anyone who might care enough to worry.
The click of his belt being fastened to that makeshift hole haunts me. It sounds like failure—my failure to protect him, to help him heal, to bring him back from wherever he's retreated.
Ella
I can't stop pacing the hallway outside Harald's room. My hands won't stop shaking as I watch the medical team enter—Ingrid leading them, her usual composure shattering the moment she sees my brother.
"Oh, my dear boy," Ingrid whispers, and my heart breaks at the tears welling in her eyes. My brother lies there, barely conscious, drowning in blankets that can't hide how skeletal he's become. The hospital gown they've put on him makes him look smaller, more fragile than I've ever seen him.
Iwant to scream, to fight, to do something—anything—but I know this is necessary. I've tried everything else. Watching the paramedics carefully transfer Harald onto the stretcher feels like I've failed him, even though I know deep down this is the only way forward.
Ingrid touches Harald's hand, her fingers gentle against his protruding bones. "We'll take care of him," she promises me, but her voice wavers. In all the years we've known her, I've never seen Ingrid cry. The sight of those tears rolling down her weathered cheeks tells me more than any medical report could about how serious this has become.
"I'm coming with him," I announce, my tone leaving no room for argument. Nobody tries to stop me as I fall into step beside the stretcher. Harald's eyes flutter open briefly, finding mine in a moment of clarity.
"Ells?" His voice is barely a whisper.
"I'm here, Harry. I'm right here." I grab his hand, so thin and cold, as they wheel him toward the waiting ambulance. The same hospital as before—the place that helped him once, that needs to help him again. "I'm not going anywhere."
