the guard {h.s.}

4- dog days are over

"I hardly even know you, why would I leave the castle with you? The one place I was instructed to stay?" There is a weight to the words that Gwen is speaking. For the majority of her life, she has been singularly instructed to stay in the castle. Leaving was never something that Gwen could do freely. Naïve in a sense, Gwen never saw the castle as a prison, but as a home. As a place that was safe, warm, and comfortable. Nothing else was ever needed for her.

Yet, still, for everything going through her head in this moment, both Gwen and the guard are very shocked by the air of superiority that Gwen is still effortlessly able to maintain. Still thoroughly a royal, Gwen possesses the ability to look down at a person doing her a favor, an ability that she uses now, to look down her nose at the guard who stands significantly taller than her.

Naturally, the guard does not take it personally. He's been in the employ of the royal family for years and he doubts if one of them would be able to identify him in a line up. Squaring his shoulders only slightly, he fixes his gaze directly past the princess's shoulder, staring directly into the wall right behind her. "My name is Harry Styles—"

"Rank?" She sniffs, eyeing him warily.

"Private." He answers, his teeth gritting.

Smugly, the princess sizes him up. "Merely a private? How long have you been in service?"

"Six years."

"Six years," the princess echos.

Never in Harry's life had he ever been made to feel inferior for his role within the royal guard, as merely having a position in the royal guard was perceived as powerful enough. Especially, he privately considers, utilizing this alone to aid in the squaring of his shoulders and the setting of his jaw in the face of the impertinent princess, someone of his prior standing. He'd grown up the bastard child of a man not worth naming, with a mother who took up sewing gigs to pay for the bare necessities, living in a crumbling house right next to the sea. More often than not, when his mother hadn't been able to provide, Harry would take the walk down the cliffs and position himself right at the sea, pulling in whatever food he could manage. It was a meager existence, but it was one that he was proud of. Prouder still to be out of the house now, providing for his family in whatever ways he can manage.

"My lady," Harry grits out, settling on attempting to be the picture of perfect patience with the woman who will someday be his queen, the daughter of the royal family that he is sworn by oath and blood to protect. Gwen, the little devil, looks up at him. There's judgment in her expression and there's a coldness there. As much of a defense mechanism as it is, Harry abhors it. He would much rather that she just admit to her uncertainty, whatever that may be. "The castle is compromised. It is my duty to protect you. Let me." Each word is gritting and grated coming out of his mouth, but he gets the message across.

He watches curiously as the expression changes on Gwen's face. The shift is subtle. Subtle enough that he wouldn't have noticed it had he not been mere inches from her face. He notices the way that her pale skin pales further, a sort of discomfort taking root in her expression. Having been on the guard for six years, Harry knows certain things about the regular movements of the royal family. With his brain moving a mile a minute, he is able to recognize the discomfort that Gwen must be feeling at the notion of leaving her home. In the past six years, Harry can count between his two hands the number of times that Gwen has left the castle.

Exhaling, Harry runs a hand through his hair. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more understanding. The sound of it warms Gwen through to her core, reminding her of the direness of their situation. Direness, she softly reminds herself, always takes precedent over stubbornness. "I won't let anything happen to you, my lady, but we must leave now. I fear we don't have much time to waste."