Young Royals: What...now?

Ruminations.

Wilhelm

Wilhelm didn't answer Simon at all on Saturday, as he let the discoveries from his last meeting with Dr. Nilsson sink in. He'd never really thought about any of it that way.

As he lie on his bed, spread out in his underwear and socks, a realization hit him.

I am being played. By my own family. 

He was being asked to sacrifice his life, to rule a nation that was a parliamentary democracy and had been for ages. The people didn't need him as their ceremonial leader. They had a prime minister for goodness sakes! There were professional diplomats who would do a much better job at state meetings than he, or his mother for that matter, ever could. 

He wanted his blood to boil, his fist to make a dent in his dorm room wall, but he just didn't have that kind of anger, really. Mostly, he just felt a sense of...loss. And sadness. He'd always assumed the sacrifices were worth it, you know? Because the country relied on his family and its legacy in some way. And maybe in some ways it did. The Crown had always been able to unite the people when politics got in the way, he supposed. 

But, lately, the left had stopped buying into the value of the monarchy and had been criticizing the cost of supporting it. Before, he had considered that just silly blather by people who didn't understand the importance of the Crown. But now...maybe they had a point. Why not abolish the monarchy and lower the tax rate a few points? It was already one of the highest in the world. No doubt it would help some families make ends meet a bit more easily.

But was he really 'being played'? It seemed like his parents really believed it, like they bought in wholeheartedly to the notion of the ceremonial monarch madness. For them, it wasn't a game to con the nation out of cash and live the high life. His mom really worked. She always had. 

He remembered her coming back from parliament late at night, taking off her shoes and pantyhose, and just passing out in the armchair in their living room. Sometime she even slept there, never making it to his parents' room for the night. She was often so exhausted that she skipped dinner just to have more time to sleep, knowing she would be back on the grind the next morning. 

Yes, they went to parties. A lot of them. But it was never anything to look forward to. Most of the time they had to go to help gain attention for a new hospital wing that was opening up or a high-poverty school whose students had earned outstanding test scores. The media would cover any event that the Queen confirmed her attendance to. That was her job. To bring the press. Make them see.

One time, when he was about 6 years old, his parents were getting dressed to go to another function, for a cancer charity or something, and he took his mom's hand and tried to pull her back to the couch. He pleaded, "Can't you just skip one? I want to play Hungry Hungry Hippos. You promised you'd play."

He remembered the look on her face, sour but also resigned. "Muffin, this is my job. My work. What is your job?"

"Go to school and learn from my peers and teachers," he had repeated mechanically, just as he had been taught to answer when he was four. 

"And my job is to make sure other people learn from the present. This is how I do that."

He had had no idea what that meant, but the sternness on her visage let him know that it was not the time to be asking any follow-up questions. In the end, she had gotten dressed in a sparkly, forest green gown -- he would never forget how it glistened in the light of the lamp by the couch-- and she walked out, just as she said she would. 

Maybe he understood it a little better now. She lifted up events and issues that were happening now, gave them importance, so that other people would learn about them and maybe get more involved in them themselves. 

He turned over on his bed and closed his eyes. Maybe that was the job? 

Still, ever since he had been able to read the news, it seemed like their most important job was being willing victims of the endless gossip parade. It was like the media had nothing better to do than to cover Erik's first day in university or his dad's knee surgery. 

Or Wilhelm's fight. 

Or his romantic partner.

The more he thought about it, the more pathetic it sounded. Work to lift others up just slightly and work for a unity that would never exist, but mostly just have yourself and your family under a microscope? People nit-picked the brand of watch his dad had, for Christ's sakes. It was ridiculous.

The questions that Dr. Nilsson had planted loomed in his mind. Was it worth it? Was this truly the only path for him? Did Sweden really need him? Him? Or the Royal Family in general?

These questions danced in his head as he fell in and out of a light slumber, his body finally catching up with the exhaustion that he'd be suffering in his mind.