I hope this doesn't come across as OOC. I own nothing.
Guilford had enlisted directly out of school. It had seemed like the thing to do; he'd had little interest in going on to university or entering the civilian workforce. That was what he'd gone to the military academy for, after all. For education, and preparation for the workforce he planned to enter. Anything else would be redundant.
He had originally planned to apply to join the air force. However, not long after Guilford joined the army, Knightmare Frames started going into mass production for the first time. Those in charge of creating a fighting force out of the infant Knightmares, christened Glasgows, began circulating recruitment offers among the army.
Even if you could pass the exams and be considered physically and mentally fit to become a devicer, the risks of piloting these early Knightmares were enormous. Though the Glasgows were theoretically fit for mass production, Research and Development was still working out the kinks, "kinks" that could potentially prove deadly to the devicer, in and outside of combat. One of the first times Guilford piloted a Knightmare there was a systems malfunction, the end result involving him being laid up in the hospital for a week and the Glasgow needing God's own amount of repairs.
Of course, if the risks were enormous, so too were the potential rewards—there had to be some sort of compensation for something so dangerous. Better pay, better hours, elevated rank, and, for those who wanted it, whole new worlds of opportunity opened up, if you just the courage to reach out and claim it for your own. He jumped at the chance. He was hardly the only one.
-0-0-0-
"There she is again."
The younger Knightmare pilots have a tendency to hang out in the hangar bays during their breaks. Today is much like any other day spent between campaigns; they're out of one storm and waiting for the next, both relieved for the downtime and wondering just when they're going to pilot their Knightmares in a venture other than a training exercise again.
Today, it's Guilford, Derek, Sarah and Alan. There are others, many other young Knightmare pilots who like to linger about the hangar bays during their breaks, but their breaks are at different times, or they're off somewhere else, so the group is smaller than it would be normally.
"Guilford, are you listening? Come on, you don't need to read the manual again; you already know it all."
Nobody here calls him by his given name, at his own request, as it happens. He doesn't particularly care for his given name—Gilbert may have been his mother's maiden name but that doesn't mean the current bearer has to like it. And no one's ever finding out what his middle initials stand for either. The only person who's ever actually asked was Lloyd Asplund, a visiting scientist who came one day to inspect the Knightmare Frames and their devicers. Guilford had sarcastically—Lloyd was technically a superior officer but his demeanor sort of lent the impression that it would be alright—told him that they stood for "general practitioner." Guilford can't tell if Lloyd believed him or not.
"Sarah, tell him," Derek presses.
She frowns. "Stop it."
"I'm listening," Guilford says finally, tearing his gaze away from the newly-enhanced Glasgow's manual. Following Derek's gaze, he looks over Sarah's fair-haired head and immediately understands what Derek's talking about. The princess is walking by the hangar, the same sunlight that filters through the open door catching in her hair, deep in discussion with General Darlton.
It has been the tradition of the Holy Empire of Britannia, since its inception, that the Chief General of the Imperial Army be a member of the royal family. It doesn't seem to matter if they're young and relatively inexperienced, but fortunately, in Cornelia's case, this doesn't seem to make much of a difference. Twenty-one-year-old Second Princess Cornelia li Britannia, though she's been with them for less than a year, has already left an indelible impression upon the men and women who serve under her. She's very beautiful, all sharp, well-moulded lines and long legs and thick hair (and so, so hard, her eyes gleaming like chips of ice in the sun), but that's hardly the first thing anyone notices about her, and pales in comparison with what she's done.
What the princess seems intent on doing is ripping the army apart from the inside out and remaking it in an image she considers more fitting, her vision erasing all notions of mercy and restraint from her mind. The first thing she did upon assuming control of the armies was to perform a systematic purge of the generals serving directly under her as her advisors—Darlton was one of the few she actually kept. Cornelia sent the rejected generals packing and brought in officers whom she felt would actually be of some assistance to her, and not simply "people who distort the truth to make it seem more favorable to themselves and speak to me as though I'm an imbecile incapable of understanding these things," as she could be heard to bitterly say one day.
In battle, she is brutal and unforgiving, fighting as though she was born for it and as though it was all she was ever meant to do. In Knightmare combat, she makes the Glasgow, which for all its advantages over conventional combat is at times a somewhat cumbersome vehicle, seem like it's made of air for its speed and agility. If she could be said to have a weak spot, it would be that once Cornelia's attention is fully absorbed in combat she no longer pays much attention to what's going on behind her. The princess has never been seriously injured in combat but has had several near misses thanks to her inability to pay attention to what's happening behind her. Darlton hasn't bothered to hide his agitation.
For all that she is young and inexperienced, for all that she is distant, and for all that Cornelia is positively vicious on the battlefield (or perhaps because of it, at least in part), the Second Princess has managed to earn the respect of her troops. It certainly helps that on all but the simplest of assignments she leads her troops into battle personally. And maybe there's a certain mystique about being led by a daughter of the Empire. Maybe…
Suddenly, she looks their way, and all four of them duck their heads, not wanting to be caught staring. Guilford can feel the sunlight from one of the high, small skylights burn on the back of his neck.
When Cornelia and Darlton have passed out of sight, the four of them raise their heads again, content that they can talk in peace without risking offending their boss. For a long moment they all sit in silence, not sure what they were going to say, their train of thought lost.
Then, Alan raises his voice.
"She spoke to me once. It was terrifying. But in a good way."
Guilford smiles slightly and goes back to reading the Glasgow's new manual. The princess had spoken to him once too. He'd not thought it terrifying at all.
The grainy voice comes curt and brisk over the radio. "Can your Glasgow still run?"
A moment.
"Affirmative."
"Good. Go help Darlton; I'll take care of this point. That's an order."
"Yes, your Highness."
-0-0-0-
Perhaps he is a little nervous when he gets called to Cornelia's office a few days later. Trying and mostly managing not to let it show on his face, Guilford can't help but wonder why exactly he's been called up to see her. Darlton's aide, the one who had given him the news, wouldn't say why he'd been called. The princess isn't one to mingle with, well, anyone. She keeps to herself, confides in no one, forms relationships with no one.
He knocks and says nothing, does nothing, when there is at first no response. If he's honest with himself, Guilford is relieved for the wait. He's never exactly had what anyone could call "bad nerves", but this is a special case; maybe he could be forgiven for being afflicted with a case of "nerves."
What's going on?
That moment he has to steel his nerves is all too short. When it's gone she's saying "Come in" through an inch of cold metal in that distant voice she's been heard to use when caught up in something else, and he steps inside.
Cornelia is poring over some species of paperwork that she pushes aside abruptly when the door opens. After a short bow and a muttered "Your Highness", the first thing Guilford notices is that her desk is a mess. Not a towering, life-threatening, "can't see the person sitting behind it for all the papers" mess, but a midway-to-Hell case of cluttered. There are several personnel files open on her desk, his included.
For another long moment, there is naught but silence. Cornelia's mouth is clamped shut as though she doesn't want to talk, her hands clasped together atop an empty patch of desk and her sharp purple eyes bore into him as though trying to pick his brains. And, for all Guilford knows, she may very well be trying. For himself, Guilford keeps his mouth shut. He really doesn't know what to say.
Finally…
"Well sit down," Cornelia says, nodding to the chair in front of her desk.
"I suppose you're wondering why you were called here," she remarks, closing the personnel files as she does so and tucking them out of sight, using a tone of voice only slightly less hard than the tone she reserves for enemies of the Empire. The princess seems determined to maintain that stern, steady gaze. "I doubt you were given any advance warning."
Guilford nods, trying to keep up an air of polite detachment—no telling how she might react to anything else. And frankly, making it clear that he's near-consumed by curiosity would just be embarrassing.
"That's to be expected." She tilts her head to one side, the hardness fading slightly from her face to be replaced by something Guilford can't quite place. "Are you familiar with the position of Knight of Honor?" she asks suddenly, eyes narrowing.
He frowns, wondering where exactly she's going with this. "Yes, your Highness. A Knight of Honor serves as a bodyguard to a member of the royal family. If I may ask, why—"
"Your new assignment," Cornelia explains simply, all matter-of-fact and crisp.
Oh, so that's why she had him come here.
Wait, what?
After a few moments of stunned silence, the princess asks, with a slight tinge of what might have been amusement in her voice, "Have you nothing to say?"
Jogged out of his silence, Guilford nods vigorously. "Yes, your Highness. Thank you; I'm honored." There's just one question he can't quite stand to leave unasked. "But may I ask, why—"
Guilford is becoming fast convinced that Cornelia is in the habit of cutting people off every time she's confronted with a question. "Yes, yes, I suppose you do have a right to be curious." She waves her hand dismissively, a disinterested flick of her fingers that doesn't even extend all the way down her wrist. "After all, soldiers appointed to the position of Knight of Honor are usually ten, fifteen, even twenty years older than yourself."
Once again, he has to wonder exactly where she's going with this. It almost sounds like reassurance, though Guilford fails to see why he would need reassurance. He's hardly going to back down on account of the threat of some senior officer mocking his youth. It's decided. Guilford then decides that this doesn't sound like reassurance after all; it sounds a bit more like she's challenging him to say no.
But it's what she says next that really gets his attention.
Eyes gazing straight forward, gaze sharp and mouth set, she says, slowly and deliberately, "Don't worry about that."
Guilford looks at her, eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. Cornelia goes on as though she hasn't noticed. "Follow my orders. Watch my back. Make sure I'm not about to be penned in on all sides." Her gaze hardens perceptibly. "And do not patronize me. If you do so, I will personally kill you. Can you do that?"
So perhaps the princess is just a bit more sensitive to criticism concerning her inexperience than she normally lets on. Guilford digests that blunt, ominous voice, decides that it would be prudent to assume that she's not joking, and winces. Still—absolutely not deterred. "Yes, your Highness."
Cornelia nods, and smiles suddenly, a not-quite-rare, thin smile. Even if it's barely there and vanishes almost as soon as it shows, it's startling how completely the landscape of her face changes in that one instant. It's something akin to seeing the ghost of another person superimposed over her skin. "Then there shouldn't be a problem. Very well. The knighting ceremony is in a week; I'll send more information when I get it. Do not be late. You're dismissed."
As he leaves, Guilford starts to feel as though he's been hit over the head with a blunt, heavy object. Not the pain, but the shock and the faint unreality of what just happened. No build-up, no forewarning. Just the event itself, clean out of the blue.
It's not all that bad a feeling, though.
-0-0-0-
As it starts to sink in though, the gravity of the situation, of his new life, dawns on him.
The knighting ceremony was solemn and quiet. Guilford could feel eyes burning on his back, but ignored the sensation that accompanied it, however stinging. It didn't matter, and he didn't even know if this was the result of ill will.
Decked out in full ceremonial dress, a strange aura of power hovered about grave-faced Cornelia. The harsh overhead light made the buttons on her coat gleam and her impassive eyes (revealing nothing) glinted. She took the sword in one hand as though it was made of air, and as the cool steel lighted on his shoulders in turn, he thought that she must have been possessed of more strength than her slim form suggested, to handle the heavy blade so easily.
Back in his quarters, after all has been done and there is only darkness and the sputtering, unenthusiastic glow of a far-off street lamp pouring through the window, that's when it hits him.
He has pledged his life to protect a woman he barely knows. The Second Princess is all but a stranger to him—what Guilford knows about her comes to him from word of mouth (generally not reliable), and the rare moment of snatched observation (Hardly any more reliable). And what he does know is enough to convince him that acting as a bodyguard to Cornelia will be an utter nightmare. In all the battles in which she partakes, Cornelia insists on leading the troops into battle personally. That in itself isn't so bad, but thanks to her supreme—though admittedly well-earned—confidence in her abilities, she has a tendency to charge headlong into the fray, and, as all have noticed, without paying a great deal of mind to what's going on behind her.
I suppose I should consider myself lucky that she's an excellent pilot, he muses, grimacing and starting to undo the fastenings on his coat. At least she can more than hold her own in most combat situations.
It'll be fine, he attempts to reassure himself, rubbing his forehead in the attempt to banish an ever-growing headache. The princess is not going to be killed in combat. I won't let that happen—I can't let that happen, nowadays .Come to think of it, she probably wouldn't let it happen either. The common consensus about the army is that if the princess was struck down with a mortal injury, she'd walk away from it and all of its ill effects through sheer force of will.
Still, he gets the feeling that he'll need to get plenty of rest tonight, and all the nights after this one.
-0-0-0-
The unit under Cornelia's direct command is often sent to the front lines, both to secure new colonies for the Empire and to quell unrest and rebellions in already-established Areas. Insurgents may not recognize the face of one of Britannia's generals; they will, however, easily recognize the face of a daughter of the royal family, especially one who is fast building a fearsome reputation for herself as the "Witch of Britannia." If Cornelia herself is present, then any rebel will know that the forces sent to crush them come with the blessings of the Emperor himself.
In Area Five, rebels, after storming a Britannian military installation, have gotten their hands on military vehicles, grenade launchers, tanks, and so on. The base was in a remote area of the settlement and the inhabitants of the Area so technologically inferior that apparently it wasn't felt necessary to equip the base with the latest in technology—a good thing, as it happens. That means there weren't any Knightmares to steal (though Guilford doubts that the rebels, inexperienced as they are, would have been any good at piloting). That also means that they don't have any of the most advanced in Britannian tanks—the most modern of them are designed to be resistant to friendly fire, but the assault rifles equipped for use by Knightmare pilots, meant to obliterate everything in their paths, can easily punch a hole in the skin of any pre-Knightmare tanks.
What the insurgents lack in up-to-date technology, they more than make up with numbers. "No one said ants didn't move in swarms," General Darlton can be heard to say over the radio, only to have Cornelia counter with "Cut the chatter." She sounds more light-hearted here than Guilford thinks he has ever heard her, but at the same time, her lighter voice is thick with a savage glee that only seems to grow with each enemy she cuts down.
For himself, Guilford would have liked it better if the rebels hadn't managed to steal so many armored vehicles. Jeeps go down with barely any effort, pre-Knightmare tanks with hardly any more, and his Glasgow is far more maneuverable than either. But there's always the possibility, however small, of their being overwhelmed by sheer numbers, or another possibility, that the rebels of Area Five have on their side a tech expert capable of modifying their stolen technology. He likes a challenge. He doesn't like surprises.
From a nearby hill, one of the rebels tries to fire a grenade launcher, but the grenade itself is a dug. It lands harmlessly in the grass. Guilford responds in kind with a shrapnel bomb. The woman's shrieks of pain must be ghastly, but he can't hear. He's more aware of the battle still raging all about him, and of the sweat dripping down the back of his neck (Would it kill them to give the Glasgows air conditioning?).
Cornelia's at the heart of it. She's cutting through her foes like they're made of butter and not flesh and steel. But far from shrinking away from her, the rebels of Area Five all converge on her like moths drawn to a flame. The truth in their hearts is that if they kill her, Britannia's forces will surely be routed. If they kill her, they shall prevail.
Like Hell.
Mindful of the need to crush the rebels here and now, Cornelia sent out word before the battle to give no quarter. This she accomplishes now, swift and merciless, to the point that those who aren't intent on destroying her are doing everything they can to get away from her. And so intent is she on slaughtering all those among the enemy that catch her eyes that she's left her back exposed, again.
Barely even thinking, Guilford cuts down a jeep and its inhabitants, the latter of whom were aiming a grenade launcher at the princess's unguarded back. The likelihood of the grenade (if it detonated properly) leaving so much as a dent on Cornelia's Glasgow would have been small indeed, but still…
"I could have handled that." Cornelia's voice crackles over the radio sourly.
You said 'Watch my back.' And in all honesty, that action hadn't even been borne out solely by his duty as her bodyguard; it's second nature amongst Knightmare pilots to look out for one another, almost to the point of unwritten law. Figuring that that wouldn't be the thing to say to her, especially not when she's holding an assault rifle, Guilford opts for a more diplomatic response. "I wouldn't want to be considered remiss in my duties."
"Hm. Well keep on with it, and try to stay out from under my feet." It's impossible to tell whether that answer pacified her or not, but the princess seems content to let the matter drop.
The battle soon turns into a rout, with the insurgents fleeing in all directions. They are shot down as they scramble over the hills and the rocks. In less than an hour, nearly all the rebels at this site are dead.
After the fighting is done, the Knightmare pilots come down out of their Glasgows to survey the carnage with their own eyes. The air is thick with smoke and the acrid tang of blood; all told, however, it's much more comfortable outside of the Glasgows (the air temperature being a balmy sixty degrees) than it is inside them. The air quality's much improved.
The princess emerges from her Glasgow, muttering something under her breath and tugging at her collar. She doesn't look any better than the rest of them, sweaty, stiff and tired, but she radiates triumph. As Cornelia's climbing down out of her Glasgow, Guilford offers out a hand for her to take. The terrain here is extremely uneven, strewn with rocks, shrapnel and discarded weaponry. It's just common courtesy.
Cornelia seems to have little use for common courtesy. She shoots him a withering, "Really?" sort of look, and hops to the ground lightly, straightening her collar as she does so. The bright gleam in her eyes as she sees the extent of the destruction is both strikingly beautiful and utterly inhuman.
-0-0-0-
The next few weeks go on much the same. The unit moves on to the rest of Area Five, working to destroy the remaining pockets of resistance among the Numbers. With each progressing bout, it seems to grow easier to rout them—their will to resist fades each time they are defeated. It's turning into a relatively easy campaign, more a tour of the countryside interjected with occasional moments of violence than anything else.
Cornelia is at her happiest after the success of a skirmish, battle, fray, whatever. Her smiles are as icy as the wind in January, but you're more likely to see one than if she's been lingering in the time between campaigns for weeks on end. She's still quite impatient to get moving to the next target, but all in all she is a significantly less forbidding personage than usual.
Still distant, though, even to Darlton who, out of all her advisers, Cornelia seems to be closest to. The princess still seeks camaraderie with no one. A child of the empire is not to seek close friendship with those who are beneath her (Which would be just about everyone). It's improper to behave otherwise; the only way such a friendship could be would be by the complete flouting of protocol. However, when off duty, Cornelia barely even speaks to anyone. The very act of entering into a conversation that doesn't have something to do with official military business seems to be awkward for her.
Guilford spends those weeks in observation, acclimating to his new role. It's not been all that difficult a transition; he just does what he always does, but now coupled with the aim to protect a single person. But following after a woman who seems to him as distant as the moon in the night sky, he can't help but feel just a bit out of his depth. Part of him is relieved that Cornelia doesn't attempt to encourage familiarity; that makes this all a lot easier. At the same time, that cool, unaffected face she wears makes it nearly impossible to tell what she's thinking at any given time.
She looks nearly the same content as she does enraged—and I suspect that as far as "rage" goes, I haven't seen anything yet. Come to think of it, the angriest Guilford's seen Cornelia was when they came upon another Britannian military base raided by the Numbers, but this time with all of the soldiers stationed there having been killed. Once more she had given the order to give no quarter, but this time with a fury and a vengeance that bled over into having all of the captured Numbers summarily executed after the battle was done, instead of having them imprisoned as she had done before.
Distant she remains.
Then, one day, a visitor arrives.
He was told that the visitor was a princess of the Empire, one of Cornelia's myriad sisters; he wasn't told which one, and hadn't thought to ask at the time. So he is more than a little surprised to see that the princess who has arrived at Area Five turns out to be a nine or ten-year-old girl with hair a different but equally improbable shade of pink as her sister's, wearing a plain white dress.
Cornelia is one of the few among the emperor's children who can claim to have a full sibling. Said full sibling is currently out of school for the summer, and wanted to visit her. Euphemia li Britannia, Third Princess of Britannia is the opposite of her sister in almost every way. Guilford never actually speaks to her while she's in Area Five, but he wouldn't have to have spoken to her to know that—one of those differences is that the young Princess Euphemia wears her heart on her sleeve, plainly visible for all to see.
She's a sweet girl, honest, open and guileless. Anyone can see that—Cornelia certainly seems to see it. From what Guilford's managed to gather, she dotes on the girl. Cornelia is barely recognizable as the distant, reserved commander her troops have come to expect when she's around her sister. The ice melts from her lips and she rains down warm smiles on Euphemia's head. Every bit of awkwardness she has with talking about mundane things seems to evaporate; he can't exactly hear what they're saying, but somehow Guilford highly doubts that the princess is talking to her sister about military protocol or the quelling of the rebellions in Area Five. She must know that that's not something you talk about with a nine or ten-year-old girl.
She smiles. She talks easily. All pretense at reserve is forgotten. She even laughs once or twice, at something Euphemia has whispered in her ear with a seriousness that doesn't sit well on her round, unformed features. When she smiles at her sister, Cornelia's whole face is transformed; where her cool, impassive look had served to make her appear older than her years, with this smile she looks younger. She looks less like something carved out of ice and more a flesh-and-blood human being.
Of course, Euphemia has to return to the homeland eventually. Guilford can't quite restrain a twinge of sympathy when he sees a momentary look of regret ghost over Cornelia's face at her sister's departure. Whatever her enemies or her detractors may say, she's human. Very much human.
He doesn't see her as quite so distant as he did before.
-0-0-0-
"'I hardly ever see you anymore. When are you coming home?'" she mutters, as if reciting the words of another.
Guilford looks at Cornelia, confused. "Your Highness?"
The hour is sometime between midnight and two in the morning. Cornelia is filling out paperwork from behind her still rather unkempt desk, Guilford standing watch by the door. Frankly, he hadn't thought she was any longer even aware of his presence there. At the same time, though, she didn't seem to be talking to him.
A look of chagrined embarrassment passes over Cornelia's face. She waves a hand in the air. "Sorry. It was nothing. Just something Euphemia said to me."
"Ah."
Silence looms over the scene for what seems like eternity. If being so obviously fond of her younger sister made Cornelia seem human, the fact that she actually does something so mundane as talk to herself makes her seem even more human. Wait a minute… Isn't talking to yourself supposed to be something supremely odd? …Oh well. A lot of people talk to themselves. Why not her?
Not looking up from her forms, Cornelia again mutters to herself, "I suppose I should write her a letter." The scratching of a pen fills the air. Then, suddenly she asks, "What do you think?"
This time, there's no chance that she's talking to anyone but him. Well, this is a relatively simple question; it merits a simple answer. "I suppose so."
"Hmm. I should tell her I miss her," Cornelia decides aloud.
"Tell her we all miss her," he replies, accidentally slipping into the old familiarity he had with his fellow Knightmare pilots, and not noticing, perhaps because of the late (or early) hour and the fog of tiredness clouding his brain.
Suddenly, Cornelia smiles at him, a smile not unlike that which she would show for Euphemia. Guilford blinks, not entirely sure at first that that's what he's seeing. "Oh, really?" There comes a small sound from her mouth that might be a laugh. "She should like that." Cornelia glances over at a clock and grimaces. "You're dismissed for the night," she says quietly. "Come back tomorrow morning."
He bows, and leaves, not entirely sure why, all of a sudden, she seemed warmer towards him than she had been before.
-0-0-0-
And he's not at all sure why, the next time he holds out a hand for Cornelia to take when she's climbing down from her Glasgow, instead of pointedly ignoring him, she takes it.
But maybe he doesn't have to know.