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Edwin doesn’t often walk the palace grounds. His duties as prince take up most of his time now that he’s nearly of age, preparing to take over some of his father’s royal responsibilities. He’s always preferred remaining inside the palace, anyway—he can and often does spend hours in the palace library, lost in books.
Today, however, he and Father are touring the guard barracks for an inspection. It's one of the duties Edwin will have to perform himself when it comes time. Father’s Royal Protector, Lord Mould, remains one half-step behind him, an intimidating presence. Lord Mould also commands the Royal Guard in addition to his duties protecting the king, and the soldiers are clearly on their best behavior under his quelling look.
“Have you given any thought to choosing your own Royal Protector, Edwin?” Father asks absently, nodding silently in approval at this round of inspections. The soldiers relax, ever-so-slightly.
“I haven’t,” Edwin answers, a familiar dread taking up residence in his stomach. While the thought of wearing the crown is daunting enough, even worse is to know that he might face danger because of it, requiring the presence of a bodyguard at all times. No more privacy, always under the watchful eye of a brute who’d rather use his sword than his words.
“Well then, perhaps you’d do well to pay close attention during this inspection,” Father says meaningfully, and Edwin straightens his posture and tries to look like he knows how to conduct a barracks inspection. He’s unsure if he’s convincing.
“Captain Wellington,” Lord Mould barks suddenly, and one of the guards at the end of the hall snaps to attention. “Bring out Simon, would you?” Captain Wellington leaves to fetch whoever this Simon fellow is. “Your Majesty,” Lord Mould says, now speaking to Father, “if I might suggest a candidate for the Prince’s approval? My son, Simon, has been working hard in the Guard ever since he joined last year.”
“Ah, making his father proud?” Father says, pleased, and yet it’s also a pointed dig at Edwin. Not a week passes without Edwin managing to disappoint in some way or the other. “Very well. Simon, is it?” he greets, as the boy himself appears. He’s nervous, fidgety, his awkward smile showing off crooked teeth.
“Your Majesty.” Simon bows low, hand in a fist over his heart. Edwin can see sweat beading on the back of his neck. “Your Highness,” he continues, now bowing to Edwin.
“Lord Mould tells me you have been training diligently. As it happens, Prince Edwin has not yet chosen his Royal Protector. Perhaps you might take him on a tour of the grounds and demonstrate your skill?” Father suggests.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Simon agrees, and holds out his elbow to escort Edwin. With no small amount of trepidation, Edwin rests his hand lightly on Simon’s elbow and allows himself to be led outside to the training grounds, where teams of guards are busy whacking each other with blunted blades and knocking each other into the dirt. It’s a chaotic, unpleasant affair. He has no idea why they all seem to enjoy it so much.
Thankfully, the clamor means Edwin has an excuse not to engage Simon in conversation. Simon leads him to a shaded spot, mindful of his pale complexion, and briefly leaves him to grab another young guard as his partner.
Edwin clasps his hands behind his back and watches as they spar in front of him, a ring of other guards soon gathering around the fight, shouting advice and criticism in equal measure. Edwin tries to keep his face neutral, showing neither approval nor disapproval. Simon is a skilled fighter, it’s true, using his natural speed to his advantage rather than relying on brute strength. He wins two of three bouts, his opponent congratulating him with a clash of their shields together.
“I hope that was enlightening, Your Highness,” Simon says, kneeling before Edwin. Edwin taps him on the shoulder to allow him to rise.
“I suppose it was,” Edwin says. He still feels sick at the thought of spending the rest of his days watched over by Simon, but there are worse options, Edwin supposes. He's at least competent. “Shall we return to the barracks?”
Simon leads him back to the barracks, and they’re almost there when the sound of a commotion catches Edwin’s attention. It’s not the sounds of a fair fight that had filled the air of the training grounds. This is the sound of one desperate voice begging, overlaid with jeers and the impact of limbs with flesh.
Edwin hurries around the corner, forgetting the king and Lord Mould for the moment. Behind the barracks there’s a group of boys, soldiers, wrestling with each other. Or rather, there are three boys pinning down one, clearly in the middle of assaulting him, and as Edwin watches, a fourth comes over and starts pulling them off.
“Oi, leave off! Get off him!” the boy shouts, bullying his way in between them and their victim. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Come on, Charles, you know why!” one of the boys answers, fists clenched, looking like he wants to jump back into the fight. The presence of this other boy, though, this Charles, seems to be enough to prevent it. For now.
“You can’t beat on him just because he’s—” Charles yells, and promptly stops, looking at something behind Edwin. Edwin turns to see Father and Lord Mould approaching. All of the boys turn and pale, dropping to their knees in front of the king.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Mould yells, spying the scene and, as Edwin watches, coming to the wrong conclusion. “Rowland! I warned you, boy,” he says. “I give you the utmost of apologies, Your Majesty, for this kind of behavior. It is simply unacceptable for the lads to be fighting among each other. I can assure you that this one”—he grabs Charles’ upper arm roughly and pulls him, stumbling, to his feet—“will face consequences as deserved.”
“That isn’t what happened,” Edwin says, stepping forward. “Lord Mould, you have the wrong—”
“Edwin,” Father scolds. “Let Lord Mould handle his men. You have little experience in such matters yet.”
“But he’s got it wrong!” Edwin shouts, and though an ember of fear burns in his stomach at talking back to his father, the king, especially so publicly, he knows he must stand up for what is right. “This boy, Charles, he was simply protecting the other. It was these three who were the attackers,” Edwin explains gesturing to them. They’re of noble blood, Edwin knows, and are well used to treating those of common blood however they choose with little consequence.
Not if Edwin can do anything about it—and clearly the same is true of Charles, though he himself is of common blood.
“Is this the truth?” the king asks sternly, looking first at Charles.
Charles swallows and tries to get his feet under him. “It is, sir,” he manages, and Lord Mould shakes him a little. “I mean, Your Majesty.”
The king is silent for a long moment, considering. “Very well. As you were not the initial instigator, you will be spared the lash. However, we cannot have such infighting among our men. You will be dismissed from service—”
“Wait, Father,” Edwin interrupts. “You mustn’t dismiss him. I’ve made my choice regarding my Royal Protector.”
“You cannot mean—”
“I do. I wish to name Charles Rowland as my Royal Protector,” Edwin declares, in as princely a voice he has. “He has shown not only adept skill at deescalating conflicts, but also admirable bravery. I can think of no other qualities I would value so highly in a Royal Protector.”
Edwin can visibly see Father wrestling with his desire to argue. However, he cannot argue with the Prince’s entirely reasonable request laid out so logically, and technically, it is completely Edwin’s choice who his Royal Protector is. The king can offer suggestions, but cannot mandate that Edwin choose anyone in particular.
“If this is your desire, then so be it,” Father says wearily, in that tone of voice Edwin knows means he’s disappointed him again.
“It is,” Edwin says firmly. “Lord Mould, if you would be so kind as to unhand him.”
Lord Mould releases Charles, who stumbles a bit and then sinks to his knee in front of Edwin, head bowed. “I’m honored, Your Highness,” he says, voice faint. It’s a fair reaction—only minutes ago he risked being thrown out of the Royal Guard entirely.
“You may rise,” Edwin says, touching his shoulder. “Father, may I have the rest of the afternoon to introduce Lord Rowland to his new duties?”
“You may, though your mother and I expect you at supper,” Father warns. Edwin bows, and watches as he and Lord Mould take their leave to finish their inspection.
The other three boys slink off with their metaphorical tails between their legs, despite Edwin not dismissing them—though Edwin doesn’t care to punish such an infraction. It leaves him alone with Charles, who’s watching Edwin like he’s sizing up an opponent.
It suddenly occurs to Edwin that he hadn’t even asked if Charles wanted to be his Royal Protector. “I apologize,” Edwin begins.
“What are you apologizing for?” Charles asks, confused. “That was bloody brills—sorry, Your Highness.” He blushes.
“You can dispense with the formalities, I really don’t mind,” Edwin says. “But I didn’t even ask if you wanted to be my Royal Protector—I fear I’ve taken over your career without your approval. By elevating you to a Lord, I may have made you a target of your peers.”
“Are you kidding? Everyone wants to be Royal Protector, that’s like, half the reason why anyone takes this job,” Charles says fervently. “You don’t even know the favor you’ve done me—not to mention I’d be out on my arse right now if you hadn’t,” he says wryly. “Er, sorry for cursing.”
Edwin laughs. Charles’ consistent forgetting of decorum is rather refreshing. “Don’t be. I chose you because I liked you—it takes honor, a truth of the spirit, to stand up against injustice. Honestly, I couldn’t give a damn how you speak to me, as long as you’re being honest.”
“Right, then.” Charles gives Edwin a tentative smile, the first expression Edwin’s seen on him besides anger and fear. It’s brilliant. “You strike me as a proper okay bloke.”
“I do try,” Edwin says, pleased. He knows how the royal family comes off to most people outside of the court, and it’s not a reputation he wants for himself at all. “Shall we go? I fear I may burn in the sun if we were to stay outside any longer,” Edwin confesses.
“Lead the way,” Charles gestures, falling into step beside him. “’S my job to follow you around now, innit?”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Edwin says, smiling. Somehow, the dread that haunted him before of a Royal Protector trailing him has vanished, knowing it will be Charles following him around.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me.” Charles grins, knocking his shoulder into Edwin’s. Edwin grins back, knowing this will be the start of something unexpectedly wonderful.