the guard {h.s.}

2- i could have danced all night

True to form, Gwen is the last person to leave the ball.

Even when the arches of her feet and the backs of her calves begin to burn from the continued twirling in her heels, she still dared not depart a moment before all the fun had been had. Instead, she merely requested that one of her guards procure her a pair of flat shoes for her to spin herself silly in. The prospect of leaving while there was still dancing on the floor has been something Gwen has fought since the moment she found her voice. From the moment she first learned how to dance, Gwen danced like it would be the last chance she ever got; like she would never be able to dance again. Somewhere along the line, it then became a customary sign of respect. No one in Everfall dared to outlast Gwen on the floor.

Leaving a ball too soon is sinful, in Gwen's opinion. Neither religious nor quite superstitious in the way that many of her people are, Gwen's "superstitions"—should they even be called that—circle around her necessity to be the last person on the dance floor. Any moment spent dancing is a moment in which Gwen's mind, body, and soul connect into one moment of clairvoyance. So, leaving too early is a sin. It is a disservice to her mind and body. Gwen must be the last person on the dance floor and nothing else is acceptable. Last to the orchestra as they pack up their instruments, only then will Gwen prepare to depart.

Gwen has always loved this moment in which the ballroom seems like a town of willowy, whispering ghosts. She swears that she can hear the echoes of the sung performances. Even in this loneliness, Gwen still finds the music. She hears the trace of the playful chatter and gossip that she'd indulged in all night, the banter she'd had with her partners. In this area, she stays for as long as she is allowed. She allows her feet to continue to carry her across the room, moving with a lightness that she is known for; a lightness that she alone has mastered.

By nature, her guards are patient with her.

What she doesn't know is that this is not truly by nature. She knows nothing of their bets. There is a currency between the men on her guard. Any time in which there is a ball, the night shift is gambled upon. Reliant on the outcome of a cards—a guard is never caught without a deck of cards—the losers are those that are stuck waiting on the princess' fancy to dull, waiting for her to succumb to the inevitable exhaustion. Sometimes, not even exhaustion can stop her. Once, she fell asleep in the middle of the dance floor, her toes still poised and ready for their next twirl. The captain of her guard that night had to carry her through the unending halls of the palace to return her to her room. When she woke the next morning, she paid no mind to how she got there. Instead, she only asked when she would be able to do it again.

So, Gwen doesn't know that her guards don't view her night shift as an honor. Instead, she thinks them to be good-natured, patient, and kind. Or maybe she even thinks that they, too, enjoy the thrill that comes with the end of any ball.

The guards don't hate her. They know that she could be much worse. They heard rumors about the King's behavior as a child. They heard the whispers of the ways of his younger sister after him. They heard about the spiteful fires that had been set, about the tantrums that had been thrown, about the bridges that had been burned. Rationally, they know that Gwen has a kind temperament. If her flaws are that she makes no effort to learn their names and that she likes to dance into the wee hours of the morning, they are aware of the fact that things could be much, much worse.

In reality, the guards have learned from Gwen. They've come to find the benefits of these late nights that soon become early mornings. They've grown to appreciate the walk from the ballroom to Gwen's chambers in the early hours of the morning. It is a special time in the castle; a special time in the world. Everyone in the world seems to be sleeping. Everyone, but them. None of the typical bustle in the castle exists as servants and guards run through hallways, preparing the ways for diplomats, dukes, and other highly esteemed guests. Silence is the currency when royal decrees and messages aren't being exchanged through the hallways. Everything that is and exists seems to be in that hallway at the moment. There's a thrill to that sense of containment, one that Gwen can never adequately explain.