Chapter Text
Stockholm, Sweden — January 2014
---
The marble was cold beneath Wilhelm's bare feet.
He knew he shouldn't be out here—not without shoes, not without his jacket, not without permission—but the balcony called to him in the early morning light, when the palace was still quiet and the city below hadn't quite woken up yet. This was his favorite time of day, when he could pretend he was the only person in the world, when the weight of being His Royal Highness Prince Wilhelm of Sweden felt a little bit lighter.
The guards were switching posts below. He could see them moving in their precise formations, their boots clicking against the cobblestones in perfect rhythm. Wilhelm wondered if they ever got tired of standing so still, of being so perfect all the time. He wondered if they ever wanted to just run.
He hummed under his breath, a folk tune that Erik had taught him last summer at the estate. Something about a girl and a river and a promise that couldn't be kept. Erik said their mormor used to sing it when he was little, before Wilhelm was born. Wilhelm liked the melody, even if he didn't quite understand all the words yet.
"Your Highness."
The voice made him jump, his toes curling against the cold stone.
"Your Highness, please." His tutor, Fru Lindström, stood in the doorway to his study, her mouth pressed into a thin line of disapproval. "You're supposed to be memorizing your geography lesson. And where are your shoes?"
Wilhelm glanced down at his feet, then back up at her. "I forgot them."
"You forgot them," she repeated, in that tone adults used when they didn't believe you but were too polite to say so. "Come inside. You'll catch your death out here."
He wanted to tell her that he wouldn't, that the cold felt good against his skin, that he liked watching the city wake up. But Wilhelm had learned a long time ago that wanting things didn't matter much when you were a prince. So he followed her back inside, the warmth of the study hitting him like a wall, making his cheeks flush and his toes tingle as feeling returned to them.
The palace felt too large for one small boy.
It always had.
---
Breakfast was served in the smaller dining room—the one that was only large enough for twenty people instead of fifty—and Wilhelm slid into his usual seat, still barefoot, his geography textbook tucked under his arm because Fru Lindström had insisted he bring it.
"Capitals," she'd said sternly. "All of them. I'll be testing you after breakfast."
Erik swept in a few minutes later, already dressed in his crisp uniform jacket even though it was barely eight in the morning. His hair was perfectly styled, his posture perfect, everything about him screaming Crown Prince in a way that Wilhelm both admired and found slightly exhausting.
"Lillebror," Erik said, grinning as he dropped into the seat across from Wilhelm. "Skipping lessons again?"
"I wasn't skipping," Wilhelm protested, even though they both knew he kind of was. "I was just—"
"Freezing your toes off on the balcony?" Erik's grin widened. "Yeah, Fru Lindström told me. She's very concerned about your feet."
Wilhelm kicked him under the table. Erik laughed.
"Boys."
They both straightened immediately as their mother entered, perfectly composed in a cream-colored suit, her hair swept back in an elegant chignon. Queen Kristina moved through the world like she was made of something more refined than regular people—porcelain, maybe, or glass. Beautiful and untouchable and always, always perfect.
She settled into her seat at the head of the table, already reading through a stack of papers that her assistant had left for her. Wilhelm watched as she signed something without looking up, her pen moving in smooth, practiced strokes.
"God morgon, Mamma," he said quietly.
"God morgon, älskling." She glanced up, smiled briefly, then returned to her papers. "Erik, you're joining me in that meeting with the Prime Minister at ten. Don't forget."
"I won't."
"And Wilhelm—" she looked at him properly this time, her gaze sweeping over him in that assessing way she had, "—shoes, please. We've discussed this."
His cheeks burned. "Yes, Mamma."
Breakfast arrived in stages: fresh bread, butter, jam, cheese, cold cuts, soft-boiled eggs. Wilhelm picked at his food, building a small sandwich and then deconstructing it, rearranging the pieces on his plate. Erik ate efficiently, the way he did everything, already mentally preparing for his day of meetings and appearances and being the perfect heir.
"There's a state visit coming up," Kristina said after a few minutes, still reading her papers. "To London. A charity gala for children's hospitals."
Wilhelm's head snapped up. "London?"
"Yes. In April." She signed another document. "The British Royal Family will be hosting. It's an important event—lots of press, lots of donors. We'll need to make a good impression."
"Will we see our cousins?" Wilhelm asked, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. He loved the cousins—especially Henry, even though Henry was older and probably thought Wilhelm was annoying. But Henry had actually listened to him last time, really listened, when Wilhelm had talked about the characters from his favorite book. And Henry had shown him his favorite reading spot in the palace library, this window seat tucked away where no one could find you, and they'd sat there together in comfortable silence for almost an hour while everyone else was at the reception. Wilhelm had never met anyone else who understood that sometimes you didn't want to talk, you just wanted to exist quietly next to someone.
Kristina's expression softened slightly. "Yes, I imagine so. Queen Mary mentioned that Henry and Philip would be attending."
"Do you think Prince Henry likes dogs?" Wilhelm asked, leaning forward. "I mean, I know he has dogs, but do you think he likes them? Like, really likes them? Because last time he let me sit with his beagle for a really long time and he didn't make me talk or anything, he just—"
"Wilhelm," Kristina interrupted gently. "One thing at a time."
"But—"
"We'll discuss the dog later." She set down her papers, giving him her full attention for the first time that morning. "This trip is important, älskling. You'll need to be on your best behavior. No running off, no—" she glanced at his bare feet, "—forgetting your shoes. Can you do that for me?"
Wilhelm nodded quickly. "Yes, Mamma. I promise."
"Good boy." She smiled, and for a moment she looked less like a queen and more like a mother. Then her assistant appeared in the doorway, and the moment passed. "I have to go. Erik, don't be late. Wilhelm, listen to Fru Lindström."
She kissed them both on the forehead—a practiced gesture, affectionate but efficient—and then she was gone, her heels clicking against the marble floors as she disappeared down the corridor.
Erik reached across the table and stole a piece of Wilhelm's cheese. "You'll see him soon, lillebror."
"Promise?"
"Promise." Erik's smile was warm, genuine, the kind that made Wilhelm feel like maybe everything would be okay. "Now finish your breakfast. You've got capitals to memorize."
Wilhelm groaned.
---
The study was small and stuffy, with tall windows that looked out over the palace gardens and a clock on the wall that ticked so loudly Wilhelm was convinced it was doing it on purpose just to annoy him.
Fru Lindström sat across from him, her hands folded primly on the desk, watching as he recited the Swedish monarchs in chronological order. He'd gotten through Gustav Vasa and was working his way through the various Karls and Gustavs when his attention drifted to the window, where snow was starting to fall in soft, lazy flakes.
"Wilhelm."
He snapped back to attention. "Sorry. Um. Karl IX, then—"
"Gustav II Adolf," she prompted.
"Right. Gustav II Adolf, then Kristina—"
"Queen Kristina," she corrected. "Show respect."
"Queen Kristina," he repeated dutifully, even though he was named after a different Kristina and it felt weird to talk about dead relatives like they were strangers. "Then Karl X Gustav, then—"
The clock ticked. His collar itched. He shifted in his seat, trying to scratch at it without being obvious, but Fru Lindström noticed everything.
"Sit still, please."
"Sorry."
"Now. Foreign capitals. Starting with the Nordic countries."
Wilhelm sighed and started listing them off—Oslo, Copenhagen, Helsinki, Reykjavik—but his mind kept wandering. He thought about London, about seeing Henry again, about whether they'd have time to explore or if it would be all formal dinners and handshakes and standing still while photographers took pictures. He thought about the dog he wanted, a golden retriever maybe, or a Labrador, something big and friendly that would sleep at the foot of his bed and follow him around the palace.
He thought about the summer estate, where the rules were a little bit looser and he could run through the fields without someone telling him to slow down, to be careful, to remember who he was.
"Wilhelm, are you listening?"
"Yes, Fru Lindström."
"Then what did I just ask you?"
He had no idea. "Um. The capital of... France?"
She sighed, long and weary, like he was personally responsible for all the disappointments in her life. "We've moved on to Asia. I asked you for the capital of Japan."
"Tokyo," he said quickly. "Sorry. Tokyo."
"Perhaps if you spent less time daydreaming and more time focusing—"
"I am focusing," he protested, even though they both knew it was a lie.
She gave him a look that said she wasn't buying it, then stood and walked to the bookshelf, pulling down a thick atlas. "Let's try a different approach. I want you to find and label every European capital on this map. You have thirty minutes."
Wilhelm stared at the map, at all the tiny countries and borders and cities, and felt his chest tighten slightly. Thirty minutes felt like forever. The clock ticked. His collar itched. The snow outside looked soft and inviting and so much better than being stuck in here.
He picked up his pencil and started labeling. Paris. Berlin. Rome. His handwriting was messy, the letters cramped and uneven, but Fru Lindström didn't comment. She just sat back down and opened her own book, occasionally glancing up to make sure he was still working.
On the corner of the desk, there was a photograph in a silver frame. Wilhelm and Erik at the summer estate, both of them grinning at the camera, their arms around each other. Erik's hair was messy, windswept, and Wilhelm's shirt was untucked and grass-stained. They looked happy.
Wilhelm glanced at it, then back at his map. Madrid. Lisbon. Athens.
He looked happier there.
---
Erik found him after lunch, when Fru Lindström had finally released him from the study with a stern reminder to review his work before tomorrow's lesson.
"Come on," Erik said, already pulling on his coat. "We're going outside."
"Outside?" Wilhelm perked up immediately. "Really?"
"Really. But you have to wear shoes this time."
Wilhelm scrambled to find his boots, nearly tripping over himself in his rush to get them on. Erik laughed, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder, and then they were out the door, down the corridor, through the side entrance that the staff used when they didn't want to be seen.
The courtyard was covered in fresh snow, untouched and perfect, and Wilhelm felt something loosen in his chest at the sight of it. This was better. This was so much better than being stuck inside.
"Race you to the fountain," Erik said, and then he was off, his long legs carrying him across the courtyard in easy strides.
Wilhelm chased after him, laughing, his breath coming out in white puffs in the cold air. He didn't catch Erik—he never did—but it didn't matter. What mattered was the running, the freedom, the way the world felt bigger out here.
They reached the fountain at the same time, both of them breathing hard, and Erik immediately bent down and scooped up a handful of snow.
"Don't you dare," Wilhelm warned, but it was too late. The snowball hit him square in the chest, exploding in a shower of white powder.
"Oh, you're dead," Wilhelm said, grinning, and launched his own snowball in retaliation.
They chased each other around the courtyard, throwing snow and laughing and forgetting, for just a moment, that they were princes. Wilhelm's cheeks burned from the cold, his fingers were numb inside his gloves, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this happy.
"Your Highnesses."
They both froze. One of the guards stood at the edge of the courtyard, his expression carefully neutral. "Forgive the interruption, but there are people watching from the gates."
Wilhelm glanced toward the palace gates, where he could just make out the shapes of people with cameras, their lenses pointed in their direction. His stomach sank.
"Right," Erik said quietly. He brushed the snow off his jacket, his posture straightening, the Crown Prince sliding back into place like a mask. "Thank you."
The guard nodded and retreated, leaving them alone in the courtyard. But the moment was broken. Wilhelm could feel it, the weight of being watched settling back onto his shoulders.
"Sometimes I think we forget we belong to people," Erik said after a moment, his voice soft.
Wilhelm looked up at him, confused. "Don't we belong to Mamma?"
Erik hesitated, his gaze still fixed on the gates. "Sometimes," he said finally. "But mostly we belong to them. To Sweden. To everyone who's watching."
Wilhelm didn't understand, not really, but he nodded anyway because Erik looked sad and he didn't know what else to do.
They walked back inside in silence, the snow melting off their boots and leaving wet tracks on the marble floors.
---
The palace at night was a different place.
The corridors were dimmer, lit by soft lamps instead of the harsh daylight that streamed through the windows during the day. The sounds were different too—no footsteps, no voices, just the distant echo of someone closing a door, the faint hum of the heating system, the soft notes of a piano drifting through the halls.
Wilhelm sat at the piano in the music room, his fingers moving over the keys in a simple melody. He wasn't very good yet—his teacher kept telling him to practice more, to focus on his technique—but he liked the way the notes sounded in the quiet, the way they filled up the empty spaces.
He was halfway through a piece when he heard footsteps behind him.
"That's lovely, älskling."
He turned to find his mother standing in the doorway, still dressed in her evening gown from whatever event she'd attended that night. She looked tired, he thought, even though her makeup was still perfect and her hair was still in place.
"I didn't know you were home," Wilhelm said, his hands stilling on the keys.
"I just got back." She crossed the room and sat beside him on the piano bench, her perfume—something floral and expensive—washing over him. "Play something for me?"
He started the melody again, self-conscious now that she was listening. His fingers stumbled over a few notes, but she didn't comment. She just sat there, her hands folded in her lap, watching him play.
When he finished, she kissed him on the forehead. "Beautiful. You're getting so good."
"Really?"
"Really." She smiled, but it looked practiced, like something she'd learned how to do rather than something that came naturally. "Now, it's late. You should be in bed."
"Okay." He stood, but she caught his hand before he could leave.
"Wilhelm. About the London trip."
He looked at her, waiting.
"Your cousin Henry is older now," she said carefully. "Sixteen, I think. You'll want to make a good impression. Be polite, be respectful, don't—" she paused, choosing her words, "—don't be too much. Can you do that?"
Wilhelm nodded, even though he wasn't entirely sure what "too much" meant. "Yes, Mamma."
"Good boy." She released his hand. "Sleep well, älskling."
She left, her heels clicking softly against the floor, and Wilhelm stood there for a moment, alone in the music room, before making his way back to his own chambers.
His room was large and cold, despite the heating. The bed was too big for one small boy, the ceiling too high, the windows too tall. Wilhelm changed into his pajamas and climbed under the covers, but he didn't feel tired.
He got up and walked to the window, pressing his forehead against the cold glass. The city stretched out below him, a sea of lights twinkling in the darkness. Somewhere out there, people were living normal lives—going to normal schools, having normal families, not worrying about making good impressions or belonging to an entire country.
"Goodnight," Wilhelm whispered to the lights, to the city, to all the people he would never meet.
He reached for the small toy soldier he kept on his nightstand—a gift from Erik, years ago—and carried it to the balcony door. The marble was cold beneath his bare feet again, but he didn't care. He placed the soldier on the railing, facing out toward the city, a silent guardian watching over the night.
Then he went back inside, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers up to his chin.
The palace was quiet.
Wilhelm closed his eyes and tried not to feel so alone.