Page 3 of Defying the Crown
Suffice it to say that this didn’t go anywhere good, and I became a little too familiar with a sharp knife. After that I spent 6 weeks being looked after by doctors in white lab coats, before being deemed healthy enough to return to the real world.
And that leads us back to here, with me posting on this site. Now you know my story!
Chapter 2
Harald
I sit silently, observing the conversation between my father and Prime Minister Carl Hansen. The man's voice is grating as he drones on about economic turbulence and recessions, his nervous energy palpable. I can see the sheen of sweat on his brow, the way his fingers fidget with the papers in front of him. It's a stark contrast to my father's stern, unmoving figure.
“Your Majesty, as you can see from these projections, the country is set to go into a recession if we do not act decisively to address this economic turbulence in the markets,” Hansen says, adjusting his round-framed glasses as he looks toward my father, King Magnus.
I glance up at my father, his weathered face a mask of indifference. Even with his stoic demeanor, I can tell he's as disinterested in this conversation as I am. These meetings with the Prime Minister are little more than a formality, a routine that seems pointless given our role as figureheads in this constitutional monarchy. Yet, here we are, listening to Hansen prattle on about issues he should be handling himself.
“Carl, you know as well as I do that I cannot provide you guidance on how to resolve this matter,” my father says, his voice laced with a hint of exasperation.
“Your Majesty, I understand your position, yet I felt I should still speak with you about this,” Hansen replies, his gaze flicking nervously between my father and me.
Hansen is a short man, his suit straining against his frame, the thinning hair on his head doing little to conceal the sweat beading on his scalp. He was elected as the best of the worst options, and it shows. He's indecisive, his mannerisms reflecting his uncertainty. It's a stark contrast to my father's resolute demeanor, his clear stances, and sparing words.
“I have every expectation that you and your government will handle this crisis with ease. You have my utmost confidence,” my father says, signaling the end of the discussion. “Now if you don’t mind, my son and I need to depart. We have a prior engagement at a charitable event and it wouldn’t be polite to be late.”
As we stand, Hansen quickly shakes my father's hand, then turns to me. I rush to my feet, extending my hand. His handshake is as weak as his leadership, his palm damp with nervous perspiration. I can't help but grimace, pulling my hand away as quickly as politely possible.
"I strongly suspect that man will not be Prime Minister for much longer," my father says, turning toward me as we walk through the marble-lined halls of Amalienborg Palace, his footsteps echoing authoritatively with each step.
"He does seem to be lacking, not that there is anything we can do about it," I agree, carefully measuring my words. Part of being modern royalty is having the lesson beaten into you that you cannot interfere with politics or have an opinion, but at the same time it's not hard to see the man is not suited for the role. Hansen's nervous energy and constant need for guidance make that painfully obvious.
"Hmm, no we cannot. Regardless, we have other matters to attend to where we can affect change. Have you prepared your speech for tonight's fundraiser?" His stern gaze fixes on me, searching for any sign of weakness or unpreparedness.
I nod, keeping my face carefully neutral. It's often better to say the bare minimum around my father, or it gives him ammunition to use against you later. I've learned this lesson the hard way over the years.
"Good, see to it that you impress them. You're my heir, and you need to make a suitable impression on them." My father is all business as usual, and doesn't mince his words. His tone carries that familiar undercurrent ofdisappointment that I've grown accustomed to.
Having given his orders, he walks away leaving me alone momentarily, his perfectly polished shoes clicking against the floor. That's quite typical for him, it's always all about the family business and personal relationships come second. My father has always treated myself and my sister like we were his employees, more than his children. Nordic men are also not known to be the most emotional at the best of times, stoic and all that. At least, that's what he told me growing up every time I showed my emotions in public and received a scolding for it. The memory of those harsh reprimands still makes me wince.
The family business really is just showing up to charitable fundraisers, saying a few nice words, then sitting there while random strangers fawn over you. My father has done it all his life, and now I am expected to do the same, another link in the chain of royal obligation.
"Are you alright, your Royal Highness?" my private secretary, Erik, asks briefly looking up from his desk as I enter my residence area of the palace. His concerned expression tells me he's noticed my troubled mood.
"I'm fine, thank you. How much time do we have before this horrible event tonight?"
"By horrible event, I assume you are referring to the fundraiser to save the Black-Browed Albatross?" Erik's pen taps against his notebook as he speaks.
"Yes, that one. What other event could I possibly be referring to?"
"Well I can never be quite sure, your flair for the dramatic makes it difficult to anticipate what you've signed up for today," Erik replied, his usual tone snarky as ever. "The event is in an hour. We should probably get you ready for it; wouldn't want the Prince to be late as the guest of honor. What ever would your father think?"
Erik has been my private secretary for as long as I can remember, even growing up as a child he was a fixture in the palace as his father served my father and we were childhood friends. He was officially assigned to me when I was sixteen years old and began making public appearances, and since then he has been the only person I can rely on and turn to for guidance. He knows me better than anyone, and he knows all the skeletons in my closet as well. Sometimes I wonder if he knows me better than I know myself.
Erik quickly provides the formal attire I'll be wearing for the evening - aperfectly tailored black suit with all the appropriate medals and ribbons - and excuses himself while I get changed. Once I've made myself presentable, and Erik has checked me over and made his necessary corrections to my appearance with practiced efficiency, I emerge and head out from the palace into my private vehicle with my driver, Sven, waiting.
"Your Royal Highness, always a pleasure. How are we doing today?" Sven asks, jovial as always, his familiar smile visible in the rear-view mirror.
"I'm being carted off to yet another event where I have to pretend to be happy and interested in a cause for which I know nothing about. There I'll have to deal with the random well-wishers who want to be seen with the Crown Prince, who will promptly turn around after greeting me and gossip about me. So great, just peachy you could say." I sink into the leather seat, already exhausted.
"So it's just another Friday then?" Sven says, cackling from the driver's seat, his laughter filling the car's interior.
I sigh to myself, rubbing my temples to relieve the headache I can feel building behind my eyes. I can already tell it's going to be a long night, filled with fake smiles and even faker conversations.
