Chapter 15
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.
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."