the guard {h.s.}

13- flowers in your hair

Gwen feels neither better nor worse when she wakes up the next morning. Physically, she supposes she feels worse. Her back aches from lack of a mattress and her throat still feels like it is clogged with the thick smoke she was breathing in last night. Harry had taken her to the river bend, and she can't remember whether she had forced herself on hands and knees and gulped down every last drop of water that she could tolerate, or whether she had instead just submerged herself, desperate for separation from the world above and below.

Exhaling, Gwen sits upright. She moves tentatively, treating her body delicately. As she moves, she stretches herself out. She gives herself grace in a way she never has before. Until now, she had never needed it; until now, she had never felt so utterly lost.

Once fully upright, she is able to take in the surroundings around her. The river gurgles peacefully beside her, moving at a slow, easy state. This morning she is thankful for it: last night, she wouldn't have had the energy to fight against any sort of current. She would have let it carry her away without a word. This would, of course, had been particularly bad. After all, there had been some small part of her that had noticed when her guard had turned his back on her.

This morning, the guard is awake. He's always awake before her. Come to think of it, Gwen's never really seen him sleep. Here and there, she's watched him rest his eyes, but he'd always been so preoccupied with his position to her—either carrying out his patrols or otherwise plotting a route out for them—that sleep had always ranked low on his priorities. Only now is Gwen able to see the toll it has taken on him. Even with his back to her, she can see the way his shoulders slouch with dejection. The events of last night could hardly be considered anyone's fault—neither of them had lit the match—yet it was obvious that Harry was assuming the brunt of the blame.

Quietly, she studies him now.

She can't quite make out exactly what he is doing, but she can see that he is in movement. Dejected as his position may suggest he is, there is still a concentration about him. A very quiet poise that makes it obvious that he is concentrating. Just barely she can watch as his hands fumble with something. For a few moments, it's soothing. The redundancy of the movements, the peacefulness of the moment. Only by shifting slightly in her position to get more comfortable does she ruin it.

With a trained ear, Harry turns around to study her. She blinks once, twice. There is an innocence in her eye, a timidness that Gwen had never let anyone see before. Harry responds to it intrinsically. Before either really knows what is happening, Harry's thrusting something at her. Despite the force, the object in his hand is being held gently, with care. "For you, my lady."

Only then does Gwen look to the object in his hand.

A crown of daisies.

"It's not much," he admits, his spare hand scratching at the back of his neck in some sort of embarrassment. Even the tips of his cheeks are tinged pink. "It's nothing like your tiaras and crowns at the castle. But," he trails off, shaking his head once, "but it's what I can offer you."

Gwen's hand trembles a bit as she reaches outward to take the offering from him. Perhaps seeing this, or perhaps guided by something entirely different, Harry swats away her hand. Instead, he delicately reaches out to place the crown made of daisies delicately atop her hair. In this moment, Gwen looks the least royal that she has in her entire life. Soot smears across her face. Exhaustion clings to her eyes. Her normally black, shiny hair is tangled and unruly. Yet, in this moment, with the homemade crown atop her head, Gwen feels the most royal she ever has before.

Instinctively, her had reaches for her necklace, worrying the chain back and forth. "Thank you," she mumbles, her voice breaking with the emotion of the moment. The thought that this may be the kindest thing that anyone has ever done for her. Harry hears it in her voice, and it breaks his heart in turn. How is it possible that she had lived such a life entirely opposite to the one he believed?