Page 86 of The Broken Dawn

Hal approached the coffin slowly, his footsteps echoing in the empty space. The polished wood gleamed in the light filtering through stained glass, the Swedish flag draped precisely over it. He rested his fingertips lightly on the edge, the wood smooth and cool beneath his touch.

"Hello, Freddie," he whispered, his voice barely audible even to himself. The words felt foolish, but necessary. "I don't know if you can hear me, but there are things I need to say."

He glanced around, making sure the guards were keeping their distance, then leaned closer to the coffin.

"I'm angry with you," he admitted, his voice breaking. "For leaving me with this. For dying when you were supposed to be the king, not me." His fingers curled against the wood. "You were always the perfect one. The one who knew what to do, what to say. And now..."

A tear slipped down his cheek, landing on the flag with a tiny, dark stain. "I don't know how to do this without you. I don't know how to be what they need me to be."

The silence swallowed his words. No response came from the coffin, no sign that Freddie heard or understood. Just the hollow emptiness of death.

"I miss you," Hal continued, softer now. "I miss the way things were before Christian came, when you still had time for me. I understand better now, I think." His throat tightened. "But I still needed my brother."

The silence of the church pressed against him, making his next words feel impossibly loud in his own ears. "Remember when we were children, and Father took us sailing? You knew every rope, every sail. I just wanted to watch the birds." A sad smile crossed his lips. "You were always meant for this—to lead, to rule. I was just... the spare. The one who could disappear into books and dreams because you had everything else handled."

He straightened, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "I'm sorry. That's selfish of me. You would have been a wonderful king, and I would have been happy to serve as your brother. Your advisor, if you'd wanted me." A bitter laugh escaped him. "I had it all planned out, you know. How I'd finish at Riddarhuset, join the Artillery Regiment. Find a way to be with..." He couldn't say Jakob's name aloud, not here. "To be happy, in my own way, while you wore the crown."

His hand moved to touch the Order of the Seraphim on his chest, the heavy weight of it pulling at his jacket. "And now it's all changed. Now I have to be you, and I don't know if I can. I don't know if I can give up everything that makes me... me."

The stained glass cast patches of colored light across the coffin — red and blue and gold. Hal traced one with his fingertip. "I'm sorry, Freddie. I'm sorry that I can't be you. God knows Mother wishes I could." His voice cracked. "You would have been magnificent—strong, decisive, everything a king should be. I'm just... me. Quieter. More cautious. The boy who preferred poetry to politics."

The silence stretched between them, broken only by his uneven breathing. Hal closed his eyes, trying to imagine what Freddie would say if he could answer. Would he understand? Or would he tell Hal to do his duty, regardless of the cost?

"The best I can do," he whispered, "is to do it my way, even knowing that it's probably going to be worse— that I'll be weaker, do things differently than the way you would have done it." He swallowed hard. "I'll never have your confidence or your charm. I'll never command a room the way you did just by walking into it. But perhaps... perhaps Sweden doesn't need that right now. I hope I can be what our future nation needs."

His fingers curled against the polished wood. "I'll try," he finally whispered. "I'll try to make you proud. Not by being you, but by being as good as I can be. I'll listen when others would speak. I'll think when others would act rashly. And I won't—" his voice caught, determination threading through the grief, "—I won't give up love. Not even for the crown."

He pressed his palm flat against the coffin, a final touch. "Goodbye, Freddie. I hope wherever you are, you're free."

Hal turned away, his legs unsteady as he made his way back to the front pew. He sank down onto the hard wood, suddenly exhausted. The vast church surrounded him, centuries of royal history pressing down from the vaulted ceiling. He was alone in a way he'd never been before—not just without Freddie, but without any clear path forward.

The distant sound of drums pulled him from his thoughts. The doors at the back of the church opened, admitting a solemn procession. Officers in dress uniform carried Freddie's coat of arms, the bright heraldry stark against their dark uniforms. Behind them came members of the Order of the Seraphim—foreign royalty, diplomats, distinguished military leaders—returning for the Toll ceremony.

Hal remained seated, unable to summon the energy to stand again. To his surprise, no one seemed to expect it of him. Instead, as the knights took their places, several approached him with quiet gestures of acknowledgment.

King Haakon of Norway was the first, pausing beside Hal's pew. He said nothing, simply rested his hand on Hal's shoulder and squeezed gently. The pressure was firm, grounding, from one who understood the weight of an unexpected crown. Their eyes met briefly, and Hal saw something in the older man's gaze—not pity, but recognition. Then Haakon moved on, taking his place with the other knights.

The Duke of York approached next, his solemn nod conveying both condolence and welcome. Queen Marie of Romania, her striking features softened with compassion, briefly touched his hand as she passed. Each gesture was small, almost imperceptible, yet each carried the same message: You are one of us now. You are not alone.

The bell began to toll, a deep, resonant sound that filled the church. It would continue for a full hour, marking Freddie's passing with solemn precision. The officers mounted Freddie's coat of arms on the wall, adding it to the hundreds already displayed throughout the church. Hal's eyes traced the elegant script beneath the shield: Tronen Är Pliktens Gåva—The Throne Is Duty's Gift. Freddie's chosen motto, so perfectly suited to his character.

The throne is duty's gift. Hal turned the words over in his mind as the bell continued its steady rhythm. Freddie had always seen the crown as a sacred responsibility, a chance to serve through leadership. He had embraced duty without question, had shaped himself to fit the role he was born to.

Hal's own motto—Non Ducor, Servo, I Do Not Lead, I Serve—suddenly felt both inadequate and strangely fitting. It had been chosen for him at birth, a reflection of the expectation that he would live his life in Freddie's shadow, serving the crown rather than wearing it. Now the words carried a different weight. Perhaps there was a way to lead through service, to be a king who listened more than he commanded.

His gaze drifted upward, taking in the colorful heraldry that covered the walls and ceiling. Each shield represented a Knight of the Seraphim—kings and queens, princes and presidents, generals and statesmen. Some had ruled for decades, others for mere months. Some had led their nations through wars, others through times of peace and prosperity. Each had worn the same blue sash that now crossed Hal's chest, had borne the same responsibility that now rested on his shoulders.

The bell continued its steady toll, the sound vibrating through the stone floor beneath his feet. Hal found himself counting the minutes, dividing the hour into the years of Freddie's life. Twenty-six years lived. So many more unlived. So much potential cut short.

He found his eyes drawn to particular coats of arms—Queen Christina's, with its distinctive design; Gustav III's, the theater-loving king; his own grandfather's, still bright compared to the older, faded shields.

They had all been different. Different men and women, with different strengths and weaknesses, different visions for their nations. Yet each had found a way to bear the crown, to shape it to their own nature rather than being shaped by it.

His fingers moved to touch the Order of the Seraphim on his chest. The heavy silver star, the blue sash—symbols of a brotherhood that stretched back centuries and across borders. A fraternity his father had spoken of, one that understood the unique burden of rulership.

The bell tolled on, relentless in its rhythm. Freddie had lived so briefly, yet had already earned his place among these ancient symbols of power and duty.

What will my coat of arms look like, hanging here someday? Hal wondered. What motto will they inscribe beneath it? Will I remain true to my words—Non Ducor, Servo—or will power change me as it changes so many?