Chapter Text
You are five when you learn that other people's lives are not like yours.
It is a very hot day in July and you are walking with your parents and your brother at the front of a parade. You don't really understand what the parade is for and everyone was too busy to explain it to you so you gave up on asking questions. A couple of hours ago while everyone was standing around waiting for things to start you did ask if you could have an ice cream. It was very hot and your suit was very itchy and uncomfortable and you felt as though an ice cream would be a reasonable compensation for these discomforts, but your mother frowned and said, "No Wilhelm, you'll just make a mess," and that was that.
You almost started to cry but your mother knelt down in front of you and looked sternly into your eyes.
"Now, Wille, you must remember that this is a very important occasion and everyone will be watching us. You need to be a good boy and smile for the cameras and make us all proud."
As she spoke her eyes flickered to your older brother Erik, who was standing very straight and having a serious conversation with your father. You were sure he wasn't asking for ice cream or complaining about his scratchy suit. Erik never complained about anything.
You will never be as good as Erik.
So you pushed down the tears and nodded and your mother smiled approvingly and you felt glad that you seemed to have done something right.
And now here you are. The street is lined with crowds of people cheering and waving little flags and you are walking very slowly down the middle, holding your mother's hand and smiling. The sun is beating down ferociously and sweat is dripping down your face and the back of your neck, which makes it very hard not to think about the fact that you are ice-creamless, but you are trying very hard.
The walking and the smiling and the not crying are taking up most of your concentration, so you aren't paying much attention to the crowds of people at the sides of the street, except to be very aware of the hundreds and hundreds of eyes watching you. You want to just stare at your feet as you put one in front of another, to make sure you don't trip, but last time you did that your mother told you that you looked sulky, so you make sure to look up as often as possible.
Suddenly, your attention is caught by one particular spectator. You glance up and meet the eyes of a little girl, about your age, standing right at the front of the crowd. In one hand she is holding a flag, which she is waving cheerfully. With the other hand, she is tightly gripping an ice cream. She grins when she sees you looking at her. Not a calm, polished smile, but a face-splitting, ear-to-ear grin, the kind your mother would never allow if anyone was watching you, because it makes your face ugly and undignified.
But no one is watching her, you realise. No one except you. There is ice cream smeared across her face and dripping down onto her dress and she is wearing long, brightly coloured socks that don't match and nobody cares.
You are struck with one of those epiphanies that happens to young children when you suddenly realise that there are many, many people in the world and they all have their own thoughts and feelings and desires. All of those people watching you have their own lives, lives where no one is watching them. Lives without constantly posing for photographs, or fearing that the whole world will judge a single misstep.
Of course, you're only five, and you don't have the words to articulate this realisation. All you know is that the girl with the ice cream looks very happy and you want to cry, but you aren't even allowed to do that.
Your mother must sense something of your inner turmoil, because she sits you down when you get home for a very important conversation. She tells you that the royal family is essential to Sweden, and you must always take your responsibility as a representative for your country very seriously.
"People will always be watching us, Wille," she says gravely, "Your actions reflect the whole country. One day your brother will be the king, and it is your duty to support him and not let the family down."
She talks for a long time. You don't understand all the words she uses, words like tradition and privilege and reputation, but you can feel the weight of them as they drop like anchors from her lips. They settle heavy on your chest and you have to focus very hard on breathing. You know she won't be happy if you tell her this, though, so you just nod until she dismisses you.
"Remember, we're very lucky," she says just before you leave, "It's a great honour, to be able to serve our country this way."
You don't feel lucky that night, as you curl up in bed and finally allow yourself to cry. You think you're probably too old to believe in wishes and magic, but just in case fairy godmothers really do exist you wish with every fibre of your tiny body that when you wake up you will have become the girl with the mismatched socks. You think you would be completely happy if you could live her life instead of your own.
You fall asleep and dream of ice cream, but when you wake up you are still yourself and you definitely don't believe in magic anymore.