Chapter 15 #2
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 ?r Pliktens G?va—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?
The question no longer filled him with only dread.
As he looked around at the diverse heraldry, at the knights of different nations and eras, he began to see possibilities rather than just constraints.
Each of these rulers had faced their own challenges, had made their own choices about how to wear their crowns.
The crown adapts to the king, not the king to the crown.
The thought came to him with sudden clarity as the bell continued its solemn toll. He could feel the weight of centuries in this place, but also their wisdom, their collective example. He didn't have to be Freddie. He didn't have to rule as his brother would have, or as his mother wished him to.
He could be his own kind of king. One who found room for both duty and love. One who drew strength from what others might see as weakness.
The Archbishop spoke the final blessing, his voice echoing in the ancient church. "I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live. And whoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die."
"Amen," came the whispered response.
As they turned to leave, Hal cast one final glance back at his brother's coffin.
Outside, the autumn sun had broken through the clouds, casting long shadows across the church square. The crowds remained, silent and respectful, as the royal family emerged.
Hal squared his shoulders and took his place beside his father for the return journey to the palace. The drums began again, a steady, solemn beat.
One step at a time. One day at a time.
The crown prince was dead. Long live the crown prince.
Hal felt something shift within him—grief transforming into resolve. Freddie was gone, and nothing could change that. But Hal remained, and what he did with the life and position he'd inherited was his choice.
I may not be the prince they expected, he thought, glancing at the crowds lining the route. But I will find a way to be the prince they need.
The thought brought no comfort, but it did bring clarity. And for now, that would have to be enough.
November 31, 1939
Hal didn't wait for the palace servants to pack his belongings.
He wasn't going far, or for long. One overnight stay, one last night to say goodbye to his life at Riddarhuset.
He was perfectly capable of packing for that: clean underwear, pajamas that he had no intention of wearing, his shaving kit with it's vial of oil, a toothbrush.
Hal picked up the knight from the Chess set that sat on it's table near the fire, running his thumb over the smooth wooden curves. The memory of Freddie's voice was so clear it made his chest ache.
"Sentimental as always." His mother's voice cut through the silence.
Queen Margreta stood in the doorway, immaculate in mourning black that somehow managed to look regal rather than somber. No red eyes or tear tracks for her—grief was for the weak.
"I didn't hear you knock," Hal said, carefully setting down the chess piece.
She entered as if she owned the room. "I see you're determined to return to Riddarhuset."
"It's not foolishness to honor commitments, Mother." Hal continued packing, refusing to give her the satisfaction of his full attention.
Queen Margreta moved to touch Freddie's belongings with possessive fingers. "Honor. Such a quaint concept. Will you bring back jousting and longboats next? Your brother was much more forward thinking, but I suppose that's what comes of not spending his childhood buried in a book."
"Don't." Hal looked up, something hardening in his eyes. "Stop trying to use Freddie to manipulate me."
"Manipulate?" Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Harald. I'm trying to protect you. From yourself, primarily." She picked up a book from his desk—Byron, he noticed—examining it with distaste. "Did your young friend Eliasberg tell you about our conversation?"
"Of course he did." Hal's fingers tightened around the shirt he was folding. "He told me everything."
His mother laughed softly, the sound like ice cracking. "Oh, I doubt that. Men like him never tell the whole truth. It's not in their nature."
"Men like him?"
"Opportunists." She set down the book with deliberate care. "Did he tell you how eagerly he agreed to go to Moscow? How quickly he calculated the advantages?"
Despite himself, Hal felt a flicker of uncertainty. "He wouldn't—"
"Everyone has a price, Harald," she cut him off. "His was simply lower than most." Moving closer, her voice dropped to a confidential murmur. "But it doesn't matter now. I'm sure we can find other ways to ensure that that poor boy is no longer a threat to the country or the monarchy."
"He's not a threat to Sweden." Hal's voice was steady despite the fury pounding in his veins.