Page 85 of The Broken Dawn

His father's words about kingship still rang in his ears, mixing with his mother's commands and Freddie's old teasing about his serious nature. Everyone had their own vision of what a king should be – strong like Gustav, commanding like Margreta, charismatic like Freddie. But none of them seemed to fit Hal like his own skin did. Perhaps that was what his father had been trying to tell him – that he would have to find his own way to wear the crown.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the study windows, catching the dust motes stirred up by their conversation. Hal watched his father's labored breathing, each rise and fall of his chest a reminder that time was running out. The crown would pass to him, along with all its impossible choices and lonely decisions. But for now, he was still just Hal, watching his father struggle for breath and wishing desperately that he could somehow make it better.

Chapter 15

November 30, 1939

The morning of Crown Prince Karl Fredrick's funeral dawned with a bitter chill that had nothing to do with the late autumn air. Hal stood before his mirror, a stranger in his own reflection. The dress uniform with it's white mourning tie felt too tight across his shoulders, the weight of medals and orders pressing against his chest making the already weighty jacket heavier.

"Your Royal Highness," the valet murmured, adjusting the blue sash of the Order of the Seraphim across his chest. "The procession will begin in twenty minutes."

Hal nodded, unable to speak. The palace had been transformed into a monument to grief. For the last week, Karl Fredrick had lain in state in the palace chapel while a steady stream of mourners filed past. Hal had stood formal vigil twice, each hour an eternity of stillness while he stared at his brother's peaceful face, searching for answers that wouldn't come. Answers that he'd found every night as he sat alone or with Sigrid, in the darkness of the church.

A soft knock at the door announced Sigrid's arrival. She entered, dressed in black from head to toe, a small veil over her hair and her face pale but composed.

"It's time," she said simply.

Together they walked through the corridors of the Palace, servants and courtiers bowing as they passed. Outside, the autumn sun struggled through clouds, casting weak light over the thousands gathered in the palace courtyard.

The gun carriage waited, Freddie's coffin draped with the blue and yellow flag of Sweden. Six white horses stood in formation, their breath visible in the cold air. The King and Queen were already positioned, his father looking frail in his grief, his mother's face a mask of controlled sorrow.

The drums began their solemn beat, and the procession moved forward.

The streets of Stockholm were lined ten deep with silent mourners. Women wept openly; men removed their hats and bowed their heads as the cortege passed. Children held small Swedish flags, the blue and yellow fluttering like wounded butterflies in the breeze.

"They loved him," Sigrid whispered beside him.

Hal nodded, his throat tight. Freddie had been everything a crown prince should be—handsome, charming, athletic, confident. The perfect heir. The perfect son.

And now there's only me.

Hal focused on the rhythm of the march, on placing one foot precisely in front of the other. The distance to Riddarholmskyrkan had never seemed so vast.

There was silence as they approached the ancient church where generations of Swedish kings rested in eternal slumber; the noise from the crown seemed to quiet. The Archbishop waited at the entrance, flanked by clergy in somber vestments.

The vaulted ceilings soared overhead, draped in heavy black cloth that absorbed the dim light of flickering candles. Six officers from Freddie's Naval regiment stepped forward to carry the coffin, draped in the Swedish Flag. Hal watched as they lifted his brother with practiced precision, their faces set in stone. Inside, the church was filled with the scent of incense and lilies, the pews packed with dignitaries from across Europe.

Hal followed the coffin down the aisle, aware of every eye upon him. No longer just Prince Harald, the scholarly younger brother. Now Crown Prince Harald, heir to the throne of Sweden.

The service was a blur of ancient hymns and solemn prayers. The Archbishop's homily washed over him, praising Freddie's dedication to duty, his exemplary character, his promising future cut short. But where was the brother who had taught Hal to sail, who had smuggled chocolate to him during tedious state dinners, who had laughed until he cried when they'd put frogs in their father's boots? Where was the real Freddie in all these formal platitudes? Hal barely heard the words, his eyes fixed on the coffin before the altar.

I don't want this, he thought desperately. I don't want your crown, your duties, your destiny. I want you back, laughing and alive.

The hymns rose and fell, ancient and beautiful, but they felt empty to Hal—just another performance in a life that would now be nothing but performance. Standing when told to stand, kneeling when told to kneel, speaking the words written for him by others. Was this all that remained of his life? Of his future?

As the final blessing was pronounced, Hal felt a wave of suffocation wash over him. The church suddenly seemed too small, too crowded, too filled with expectations he could never fulfill. He needed air. He needed space. He needed one moment alone with his brother before duty claimed them both forever.

When the service concluded and the royal procession began to form for the return to the palace, Hal leaned close to his father.

"I'd like to stay," he whispered. "Just for a little while."

The King's tired eyes studied his face. After a moment, he nodded once.

"Your security will remain," he said softly. "Join us when you're ready."

Hal watched as they filed out—his parents, Sigrid, the foreign dignitaries, the government ministers. The massive doors closed behind them with a sound like distant thunder, leaving Hal alone with his brother's coffin and the weight of centuries pressing down from the vaulted ceiling above.

The heavy doors closed with a hollow thud, leaving Hal alone in the vast church. Well, not entirely alone—his security detail remained, but they retreated to the shadows near the walls, giving him the illusion of privacy. The silence pressed against his ears after the solemn music and formal prayers.