The grand dining hall felt less like a breakfast nook and more like a battlefield.
Eris—no, Rommel—stood at the entrance, surveying the scene like a general preparing for war. Before him stretched a long, gleaming mahogany table, groaning under the weight of silver trays, dainty porcelain teacups, and an absurd number of pastries. Enough to feed the whole Afrika Korps twice—with leftovers.
At the head of the table sat a man with a beard so well-trimmed it could have been drafted into service. The Duke. Allegedly his "father."
Next to him, the duchess sipped tea with all the grace of someone who definitely had secrets.
So, these were the enemy commanders. Rommel's fingers twitched instinctively, reaching for a pistol that, for the second time that morning, was not there. Curse this frail, unfamiliar body.
"Eris, darling," the duchess said, her voice warm and treacherously sweet. "You're up early today." Darling? Rommel's eye twitched.
The last person who called him that was his wife—and even she only dared do it when nobody else was around. This wasn't affection. This was psychological warfare.
He gave a stiff nod, burying his instincts under a practiced layer of stoicism. "Ja—I mean, yes. One must be disciplined in all things."
The Duke's brow lifted, "Disciplined? Since when do you care about discipline?"
A trap, Rommel noted internally. He kept his expression neutral. "A… sudden inspiration."
The duchess exchanged a glance with her husband. A glance that screamed, "Did she just say that?" Rommel caught it. He caught everything. Coordination, subtle signaling. They were very well trained.
"Sit with us, dear," the duchess said, gesturing to a seat with suspicious softness.
Rommel approached like a soldier defusing a mine. The chair looked plush, inviting… suspiciously so. The cutlery gleamed too much. Too much polish? Possibly poison. Definitely a message. Still, he sat.
Elsa—the maid/most probably also an agent —pulled the chair out for him. He grunted softly as he struggled with the mechanics of this unfamiliar frame. Sitting down as a little girl was apparently harder than storming El Alamein.
Then came the food. Piles of fluffy scones, glistening fruits, and flakey, buttery things that smelled like peace treaties and surrender. Rommel eyed the tray suspiciously.
As a German Field Marshal, he was no stranger to etiquette—he could eat with forks like a civilized man. Or girl. Whatever. But… something felt off.
Every bite he took felt too good. Like someone else inside was really enjoying this.
"Gottverdammt," he thought, chewing angrily. "It's laced with something. Some sort of mood-enhancer or psychological suppressant. Diabolical. How could I be so naive to eat with the enemy without precaution."
Yet nothing happened. Except that weird feeling of… contentment. He hated it. He sighed. Enough games. He couldn't endure this anymore.
He put down the knife and fork with military precision, pushed the plate away like it had insulted his honor, and looked directly at his 'parents.'
"Is anything wrong, dear?" the duchess asked, her teacup halfway to her lips. Her voice dripped with concern. The Duke even looked up from his toast.
Rommel narrowed his eyes. He won't let the Tommies get what they want. He is the master of his own fate, not the tommies.
"Enough with this charade," he said. "Just tell me what you really want. I know you're all SOE agents trying to break my mind."
The dining hall went dead silent. The duchess slowly set her teacup down, moving like someone trying not to startle a sleeping lion.
"Eris… dear?!" she said, carefully but clearly surprised. Her calmness was a testament of the shock she received.
"Don't play dumb," Rommel said, sitting up straighter. "The over-politeness, the comfort, the scones, it's all psychological warfare. Classic disorientation tactics. I won't fall for it."
The Duke blinked. "...Syk... what?!" He was clearly shocked as well.
Rommel leaned in. "Let's skip to the part where you ask for the plans. Or do you want to use this body to infiltrate the German High Command? Just so you know—my loyalty is ironclad."
The duchess's hand trembled. "Eris… has someone scared you?"
"No one scared me," Rommel snapped. "But you pretending to be my parents is concerning. I know you're British agents. Tell me—is this your tiny little island?"
The Duke let out a long, exasperated sigh. "My sweet girl… we are your parents. You're Eris von Rheinfeld. You've lived here your whole life. This is your home."
Rommel stared at him. For a moment, just a flicker, uncertainty crept in. "No," he said. But slower now. "I… I'm Erwin Rommel. Field Marshal. A veteran of the great war. I fought at France, Rumania and even Tobruk. I battled Montgomery in El Alamein. I am—"
The duchess stood slowly, hands out in a motherly gesture of peace. "You're our daughter," she said gently. "You love roses, embroidery, and stories about dragons. You once cried because a squirrel looked at you funny."
"What nonsense are you talking about, Eris?!" the Duke blurted, nearly rising from his chair. "Where did our sweet little girl go?! Are you reading those strange fantasy books again?!"
Rommel raised a hand to silence them, eyes narrowed into slits. "No. I know who I am. I—" Then he froze. The doubt was back. And worse—lingering. His voice dropped to a mutter.
"Scheiße. That's it. You're trying to get me to crack, confess. Clever. Very clever…" He slammed his tiny fist on the table.
"But don't worry. You Inselaffen won't ever win. The German Reich will reign supreme"