Page 84 of The Broken Dawn

Sigrid squeezed his hand. "That sounds like a king worth becoming."

Hal looked down at his brother one last time, feeling the full weight of what he was accepting. The crown had always felt like a cage, but maybe it didn't have to be. Maybe it could be a fortress.

"I hate it," he admitted quietly. "But becoming the kind of king who can keep him safe means first becoming the kind of man who can bear being apart from him."

The chapel fell silent except for the soft whisper of candle flames. Hal stood with his sister beside their brother's coffin, feeling the weight of responsibility—invisible but undeniable—settling more firmly upon his shoulders. But alongside that weight was something else now. Not resignation, but resolve. Not fear, but purpose.

He would send Jakob away. He would learn to be Crown Prince, then King. He would become someone worthy of the power he'd inherit. And when he was strong enough, when he'd built something unshakeable...

He would bring Jakob home. And this time, nothing would separate them again.

November 26, 1939

"A moment, Harald." Gustav's voice stopped Hal as the ministers filed out. "In my study, if you would."

Hal couldn't remember the last time he'd been in his father's private rooms. The study smelled of pipe tobacco and leather, with undertones of the bergamot tea Gustav preferred. Stacks of papers covered every surface, each pile weighted down with different objects – a brass compass here, a carved wooden horse there.

Gustav settled heavily into his armchair, gesturing for Hal to take the other. "You've handled all of this — your mother, the funeral, the demands of the council on you — well," he said, reaching for something on his desk. "Better than I expected."

The praise felt foreign, uncomfortable. Hal shifted in his seat. "I don't think that's what Mother would say."

"Your mother means well," Gustav said, though his tone suggested even he didn't quite believe it. “But she will never understand what I do, and what you are about to have to do.”

His father pressed his hand to Hal’s.

“You are about to be inducted into one of the most exclusive fraternities in the history of humanity, my son. The brotherhood of crowned heads. There are so few of us left, and fewer still who actually wield any power in their countries. Freddie would have been one of us, but now it will be you instead.”

Hal felt his heart sink knowing that he was a sad, pitiful replacement for his resplendent older brother. His father must have read that in his face.

“No, my son,” Gustav said, sadly. “I don’t mean that you are less than Karl Fredrick would have been. You’re very different children, and will be very different kinds of Kings, but who am I to say which one would have been better? Especially in the uncertain times we find ourselves in.”

“I don’t feel ready.” Hal admitted.

“You aren’t ready. But you will be ready when the time comes. You will have no other choice.”

“Mother…” Hal said, but stopped, unsure himself even how he would finish that sentence.

“Your mother has her ideas about what it means to be King. Remember that she is not one. You are the King. Therefore whatever you do - whether it’s right or wrong - is what is Kingly and proper. You have to be your own check on your desires, your impulses. No one else will do that for you.” His father said.

Jakob will. Hal thought, nearly bowled under by another wave of desperate longing. That’s why I need him so badly and why I can’t go forward without him.

“Sigrid will need to marry.” His father said. “As will you. And your mother has strong feelings about that as well. She’s already trying to re-route the women she’d hoped to direct toward Karl Fredrick to you.”

Hal must have made a face. Gustav laughed. “My little Halle. Still thinking that girls are a bit icky, is that it? Well, you’ll grow out of it… or you won’t, I suppose. Uncle Eugene never did, and he left you that lovely townhouse, didn’t he? It’s no matter. As long as the succession is secured, both you and Sigrid should marry for love. Ignore your mother’s attempts to treat you like a line of pure-bred horses; find someone who can stand beside you all of your days.”

I found him, Hal wished he could say. He wished he could tell his father all about Jakob, about their connection and his brilliance and smile and heart.

Gustav's eyes grew distant, seeing past the study walls to memories of his own early days as king. "When the Great War began, everyone thought it would be over by Christmas. But I knew better. I'd watched the arms race, seen how the alliances were stacking up. Sweden had to be strong enough that neither side could afford to make us an enemy." He coughed, a wet, rattling sound. "Neutrality isn't passive, you understand. It requires constant strength. Vigilance."

His fingers tightened on the chair arm. "And now it's happening again. But this time..." He trailed off, studying Hal's face.

Gustav leaned forward, his voice growing stronger despite his illness. "But remember this, Hal. At the end of the day, after you've heard all the advice, all the arguments, all the threats and promises... the final decision rests with you alone. There will be moments when everyone – your advisors, the parliament, even your mother – will tell you one thing, but your conscience will tell you another." His golden eyes held Hal's gaze. "In those moments, you must have the courage to stand firm. Because if you're wrong, all of Sweden will suffer. And the weight of that decision falls on your shoulders alone. But if you're right..." He smiled faintly. "If you're right, you've done what a king must do: protect his people, even from themselves."

A harsh, wet cough interrupted Gustav's words. The sound tore through his father's chest like fabric ripping, each ragged breath worse than the last. Hal jumped up from his chair, hurrying to the crystal pitcher on the mahogany sideboard. His hands shook as he poured, spilling drops of water onto the polished wood.

Behind him, Gustav's coughing grew more violent. The sound echoed off the study's wood-paneled walls, each wracking spasm seeming to drain more life from the king's powerful frame. Hal rushed back with the water, steadying his father's trembling hand as he lifted the glass to his lips. The coughing continued, forcing Gustav to take small sips between gasps.

Finally, the fit subsided. Gustav slumped back in his chair, his face grey with exhaustion. As he dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief, Hal noticed something that made his blood run cold – his father's usually pink lips had taken on a bluish tinge. The same alarming color marked his fingernails where they gripped the glass. Not enough air.