the guard {h.s.}

5- only the beginning of the adventure

Guilt rages in Harry's stomach upon the completion of their crossing of the rush of water. The roiling feeling that has inhabited his gut is foreign to him. Foreign in this context, foreign for someone unrelated. Not without sympathy or empathy for someone facing their fears, Harry is shocked by the depth of his emotions pertaining to one Princess Gwen.

Before tonight, Harry knew he had sworn duty to the young princess. He would enacted on it. He would have done what is right. But, it would have been going through the motions. Something about seeing the look of terror on Gwen's face—the way that she refused to meet his gaze, her finger shook when outstretched, the little whimpers parting her lips—awoke something in him. No longer was this just an obligation, but something chosen. At any point, he could have left the princess behind. This he knows. Especially considering the odds were against the princess's survival. He would have made a clean break. Sometimes, this is all he wishes for. So why didn't he?

Perhaps it has something to do with the guilt building in his stomach. The urge to take her in his arms again, reassuring her in the same way he had in the alcove, his finger swiping her cheek. Harry had never been the type to notice the softness of someone's skin, but he was shocked to find that he noticed it on her. He was shocked to notice the small peculiarities of Princess Gwen. On top of that shock was horror. Unadulterated horror at the premise of showing any genuine emotion towards any form of royalty other than detached contempt.

Harry had no time for this. Crossing the water bought them time, but not an infinity. He knew it would be a matter of moments until they figured how to circumvent the path. Until they forced the horses through the stream. Harry had suspicions about the men behind them. Suspected they were ruthless, the kind of men who would stop at nothing. Because of this, he knew he could stop at nothing to protect the princess.

Accordingly, it's rather fortunate, Harry would consider, that he knows these woods so well. That even with the blurring path washing out in the rain that he knows the way back to his mother's cottage. The cottage on the cliffs, overlooking the sea, so deep in the woods that no one would dare find it unless they knew it was there. This had been the only plot of land that Harry's mother could afford. Not because it was legal—it wasn't—but because the plot of land was so hidden, no one knew it was there.

"Just a little bit longer, my lady," Harry calls now, looking over his shoulder as he speaks the words.

Ever since emerging from the water, Gwen had been silent. At the midway point her dress had risen to above her hips despite how aggressively she fought to keep it down. Silent tears welled in her eyes and she refused to let the guard know that he broken her. Never had she been in water fully dressed, the anti-gravitational effect of the water on her outfit had sparked utter horror in her and she refused to give him the ammunition that she believed he was looking for.

Yet hearing the words from his lips now sparked that fire in her. Since leaving the castle it had dulled to an ember, the great raging fire that had once been Guinevere Eyres of Everfall had been almost entirely extinguished until hearing those words.

For a reason beyond Gwen, she couldn't explain why she took such offense to the empty promise in the words Just a little bit longer, but she did. She hated the knowledge that he felt the need to appease her. To lighten her load without her permission. The automatic assumption that a simple princess could, in no way, manage the full burden of an endless walk. Though, as much it angered Gwen, she needed the quiet reassurances. After all, she'd been receiving them her whole life.

"I'm capable of walking," she finally mutters indignantly, stomping aggressively on the ground, not having noticed the root sticking up in the pile of mud. Only barely does she manage to muffle the sound of her whimper of pain. She can only imagine the state of her feet. The feet typically marred only by slight blisters from the excessive dancing now coated in mud and blood.