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You know, Wangnan does not need a personal guard. The entire thing feels deeply unnecessary - it has since his father first proposed it. With time, the unease has only grown stronger.
Wangnan has a shadow, now. A shadow that clicks with each step, a gentle shift making armor clang and leather creak. Wangnan is so painfully aware that someone is there. It’s infuriating.
The worst part is that he is never given a break. It’s either his new shadow or the standard palace guards, hovering over his back. It’s ridiculous. He is a prince . He has had training, he knows how to wield a blade - and even if he’s never participated in a real battle, is that even relevant?
He knows what he’s doing. He does not need a minder.
In his frustration, he has reacted with the utmost maturity and… has snuck into the market. He was expecting his shadow to fight him on this, but he doesn’t say a word, only joining Wangnan in scaling the wall with eerie efficiency and a grim frown.
Wangnan isn’t disappointed, per se, but he did kind of want to inconvenience his shadow to the point where irritation was visible.
Maybe Wangnan isn’t so mature after all.
Not that it matters, because now Wangnan is in the marketplace, and he knows this area. He knows the booths lining the corners and the musicians that play only on the sunniest days of the month.
He knows the market much better than his shadow. So, he slips away and feels no small measure of success. Without his usual adornments and clothed in nothing but simple dress, Wangnan is able to blend into the crowd with very little attention.
Well, some people still look at him, but he’s pretty sure it’s just because he’s terribly gorgeous, even in ordinary garments.
If his shadow were here, that would be a problem, but the man appears to have vanished. Wangnan risks a glance behind himself and sees nothing but a bustling square. No glint of armor, no looming presence, no nothing.
He grins, turns on his heels, and begins to trapeze through the square with his trademark smile. Several of the onlookers recognize him - they wave or smile or cheer and he waves and smiles and cheers in return, feeling lighter than he has in days.
God. What he would give to be an unvarnished man.
If his older brother were here, listening to his thoughts, he would surely scoff.
“ Wangnan,” Karaka’s voice rings in his head, cool and scornful, “ you can’t be serious. You have your life already. Don’t be greedy.”
Funny, coming from the crown prince that had up and vanished no more than a year ago, but Karaka has always loved to be contrarian.
Wangnan quietly seethes, but pushes the memories from his mind. The market has always been his place. Karaka never joined him, his various uncles never have any interest, and god forbid his father ever leave the castles core.
So, it’s always Wangnan. Presumably his shadow, too, but said man has yet to reappear to perhaps he’s finally agreed with Wangnan that this arrangement is stupid.
He doesn’t count on it.
He does, however, continue to shop. A couple fruits, a little trinket, some hand-knit ornaments that will hang nicely on the mantle in his room. He spends ten minutes alone observing the flowers, barely remember he is not meant to be rich here before setting a bouquet of tulips, lilies, and orchids back onto the table.
It would look nice in the receiving room, to be sure, but he’s pushed the limits of his admittedly small budget. He departs from the marketplace with a lighter heart - a weight lifted from his shoulders and a quiet pleasure in his chest. He loves the market.
Then, his skin crawls, and all the hair on his neck raises at once.
He does not stop walking, because that would be stupid, but he does slow his pace. He peeks at nearby windows like he’s noticed something - keeping the racket of the market within hearing range.
He needs to get back there. Back to people. To security.
He nearly begins to tell himself that the prickling feeling is only his designated shadow coming back, but he knows that isn’t true. His new protection has an oppressive presence, that much is true, but it is contained. The suggestion of a threat.
This is only a threat.
He fishes in his pocket and pauses like he’s forgotten something, then he turns around, intending to return to the crowd.
He can’t. There is a figure standing there, dagger glinting.
Karaka once told him that no one draws a weapon unless they intend to use it - and should he see the gleam of a blade, he should prepare to fight for his life.
The figure begins to approach rapidly, and Wangnan’s panic overtakes him. His mouth is dry and he can’t think past the fact that he’s fucking stupid.
He has never dueled someone with a dagger before. With Ser Akraptor, he wields a shortsword. Sometimes a cutlass, if Ser Akraptor is willing to indulge him.
He has neither, right now. He has nothing. He doesn’t wear his sword to the market - its too ornate - and besides, he’s gotten used to having —
Oh, where is he? Shit, where is he?
Wangnan has turned and started to run. His feet hit the cobblestone beneath him heavily and he pays no mind to the basket he’s dropped - the one filled with his purchases of the day, god, he should’ve known he spent too much.
He turns sharply around a corner, glanced around, then charges around the next one. He leads a zigzag through the city, ignoring the way his chest begins to burn with exertion. Perhaps he can’t fight, but he is athletic. He can run.
He doesn’t slow down. He takes the next turn harsh and nearly spills across the floor, tumbling and scraping his hands against dirt and stone. He doesn’t even know if he’s still being followed, but he can’t risk it. All he has to do is outrun them. He’s always had good stamina.
He keeps running.
His chest is heaving.
Adrenaline is pumping, he wishes he had his favorite blade, and he wonders for the briefest moment what kind of life Karaka is leading. Nothing like this one, surely. Maybe he’s settled down somewhere, unlikely as that is.
If Wangnan died here, would he laugh? Wangnan fucking hopes not, he always thought they had a better relationship than that.
Wangnan’s next turn has him smashing face first into a wall.
Pain splits through his head and he can’t bite down his anguished scream, hands lifting to clasp his nose - pinching hard at the feeling of gushing blood.
Not broken, definitely sore, and he would have a nasty bruise later.
He stumbles back into the center of the street, world spinning, and his aforementioned adrenaline swiftly begins to leave him.
In its place, exhaustion seeps in.
His legs feel numb and his sight won’t stop reeling. His eyes are barely squinted open - the light burning - and the midday sun burns on his neck so harshly that the sweat soaking his skin boils.
Then theres the sound of approaching footsteps, and Wangnan can do nothing as the figure comes careening into view. They look undaunted - like the run didn’t tire them at all - and Wangnan feels dread settle so strongly in his stomach he swears he’ll be sick from it.
Theres nothing for it. The figure is approaching quicker than Wangnan can find his stability, and he’s left awkwardly shuffling away as blood dribbles down his hands and nausea turns in his gut.
Wangnan has only ever feared for his life once before. He didn’t think it was possible to forget what it was like - but apparently he did forget, because it was nothing like this.
With the last of his nerve, Wangnan plants his feet and enters a defensive stance. He knows minimal hand-to-hand - he can only pray it will be enough.
He grits his teeth.
The figure is only an arms-reach away from him when they lift their hand, drawing up their dagger with a malicious smile.
Wangnan is shoved to the ground and there is the distinctive clatter of steel hitting steel.
It takes him longer than he’d like to blink the fog from his eyes, but once he does, he is left panting and slack-jawed in the dust.
His shadow is a fearsome fighter. He should have assumed as much, but he didn’t think that… well, he didn’t think his shadow would fight with such finesse it was beautiful.
His shadow wields a very simple shortsword. He does not have it drawn. It remains in its sheath and he swings it like a shield. The dagger of the foe glances off it harmlessly and his shadow is driving the stranger back with unshackled ferocity.
It is like a dance. The steady step of his assigned guard, the way he turns swiftly and without hesitation - the way he tugs his sheathed sword up to deflect a blow and drags it down just as quick to jab into the meat of his opponents body.
It is nonfatal, and Wangnan almost thinks thats worse. He is beating the stranger down, pummel after pummel, thrust after thrust. He is relentless, and the foe is flagging. His shadow does not falter.
Then, his shadow aims a definitive kick at the strangers knee. It buckles with a devastating SNAP! and the stranger falls to the ground with a scream.
His weapon is dropped. He is unarmed, vulnerable, and Wangnan isn’t sure if he should close his eyes to avoid the inevitable execution or watch as punishment.
He keeps his eyes open.
A moment passes, his shadow’s grip tightens on the sheath of his blade, and Wangnan waits.
Then, his guard’s hand raises and he smashes the hilt of his sword into the temple of the stranger with such vehemence that they crumple upon impact.
It is not a killing blow.
Wangnan is strangely relieved, nearly swept away by the rush of it.
His guard clips his sheath back onto its place on his hip before turning sharply. Only now does Wangnan notice that he’s holding the basket - the one Wangnan dropped - and it appears to still be full.
Wangnan’s body hurts and he feels horrible.
There was one thing keeping Wangnan from that strangers blade, one person, and that person was his shadow. His guard. The man Wangnan has been unfairly dismissive of for months now.
Wangnan tries to swallow his bile, but the taste of blood in his mouth is so repulsive he has to spit instead. His guard reaches his side and crouches down. With his free hand he grabs Wangnan by the elbow, tugging him to his feet. Then, silently, he pushes the handle of the basket into Wangnan’s bloody hands.
Wangnan feels horrible .
His guard hasn’t let go yet, keeping Wangnan steady with a firm hand. There is another moment of silence before his guard shifts and there is another item pushed into his hands - a handkerchief.
Wangnan looks at it. It is very simple, unadorned - if not for the cursive ‘M’ sewn into one corner.
Wangnan feels even worse, but presses the handkerchief to his nose nonetheless.
Without saying a word, his guard directs them back down the street. He holds tight onto Wangnan’s arm, pace undeterred by Wangnan’s occasional stumbles.
The closer they get to the palace, the guiltier Wangnan feels.
He clears his throat and his guard tenses, head tilting. Listening.
“Viole,” he tries out the name at last. He’s known it all along, but it hasn’t felt right to say. He doesn’t need a personal guard, and he certainly doesn’t need a personal guard he’s familiar with but - now, now it just feels immature to avoid.
Viole hums at the sound of his name.
God, Wangnan is foolish, isn’t he?
“Thank you.” He says this with such extreme appreciation that it startles him.
There was one thing between him and a nasty blade. One thing. One, one, one person.
Viole only hums again, noncommittal.
Wangnan leans into him a little heavier and Viole adjusts, holding him steady.
“I am sorry, also.” He tries, knowing he’d say it a hundred times.
“Forgiven, your highness.” Viole finally says, his voice astonishingly soft for such a formidable spirit.
Together, they walk back to the castle. Wangnan stays upright only due to Viole’s careful hold and - well, the entire time Wangnan can only think of one thing.
Viole’s sheathed blade.