10. The Princess's return

When Christopher Birchwood heard about the return of the Lost Princess, he couldn't believe it at first. He questioned no less than five of his relatives and even attempted a journey into the centre of town before he realised that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. She'd returned. She was alive.

He burst into tears. He fell to his knees – not particularly unremarkable, as he was not in the best of health – and buried his head in his hands. A few people gave him some funny looks, but Birchwood stayed where he was. Only when his housekeeper came to get him did he make any response.

"Come on, Commander," she said, taking his arm and helping him to his feet. "Time to go home."

He didn't remind her not to call him "Commander", as he often had to; he hadn't been a commander of anything for the last eighteen years, and he didn't want to be reminded of the years before that. But what did those years matter now? She was back. She was alive.

That was what he kept muttering as she led him back down the street; "she's alive". The housekeeper didn't say anything. She'd always suspected old Birchwood was going mad, and this incident only confirmed it. She'd have a word with his nephew about that, make no mistake.

"But what are we supposed to do with him, Mary?"

"He's your uncle, Stanley. It's not my place to say."

Birchwood staggered out of his armchair and made his way towards the stairs. They wouldn't notice he was gone. They hadn't even cared enough to close the door. Birchwood had ceased to become a person to his relatives; only a burden.

Slowly, because he'd long lost the ability to move any faster, he crept up the stairs. Behind him, he heard his nephew and housekeeper continuing their discussion in the dining room. He wasn't interested in it at all. They had talks like this at least once a month, talks about what they were going to do with "that poor old man", and they never amounted to anything. Birchwood was still here, in the house he'd owned since he inherited it at thirty-one, and that was just fine with him.

He ducked under the doorway to his room. He was a tall man, with a pointed face and a wispy beard drifting from his chin. His clothes hung off him. He never bothered to find any that would fit – that would involve going out, which he rarely did now his health was so poor. His memory wasn't what it used to be, and he wasn't as strong as he once was. If Birchwood attempted to go out, he knew he'd only do damage to himself and to anyone else he came across. He didn't want that. He'd done enough damage in his life.

Perhaps he was exaggerating. He hadn't been a bad soldier, had he? He'd certainly been good enough to become Commander of the Royal Guard. He'd been a different man, then; smarter, faster, stronger...

But his health was deteriorating even then. That's why it had happened in the first place. He should've retired before the Princess was born. He should've handed his job to some younger, more capable man.

He dug through his closet and dragged out his old uniform. Would it still fit him? Perhaps. Was he fit to wear it? Of course not. Why else had he buried it away?

"It's different," he said to himself. "She's alive."

But eighteen years of guilt are hard to erase in one day. As he stared at the uniform he used to be so proud of, he found he could remember it vividly. Odd, really; he'd forgotten birthdays, anniversaries and visits, but he could still remember the one thing he'd dearly like to forget.

He'd been sixty-two back then, and trying to hide his poor health. No one had noticed it, not even the King, and he was determined to keep it that way. Birchwood needed his job; it was all he had. Yet, even as he went about his duties, he knew something was wrong with him. He couldn't keep up with his men anymore, so he limited himself to a proud stride. His arms began to ache, so he avoided writing as much as possible. He began to forget things. Important things.

He'd been present when the Princess was born, and he'd sworn there and then not to let anything happen to that little girl. No matter what happened, no matter how ill he got, he'd always be there to protect the Royal Family. He'd spent more time with them than his own relatives, and he was fairly confident he would die for them.

Then he forgot to post guards outside the Princess's window.

He wished he could say he'd thought it was unnecessary, that no person could possibly get inside that way. It would've been a justifiable excuse; after all, who could've expected that woman to get in? The truth of the matter, however, was that he'd simply forgotten, just like he'd forgotten to have breakfast that day. It had slipped through the cracks in his memory, so he'd gone to his quarters and slept. The first he'd known about it was when they'd banged on his door, waking him up in the middle of the night to tell him the princess had been stolen.

He remembered the audience with the King and Queen. He'd spent most of it staring at his boots, unable to look the distraught couple in the eye. For their part, they'd been remarkably calm about it. They understood that his memory wasn't perfect, and of course the little girl should've been perfectly safe in that room. No one could've known this was going to happen. But Birchwood knew they were just being considerate. That's the kind of people they were; always kind, always thinking about the feelings of others. That's why they were so popular in the first place. However, in Birchwood's eyes, that only made his mistake even worse. He'd ruined the lives of two good people just because he wanted to hang on to his job a little bit longer.

He'd retired soon afterwards. No one made any objections; no one even said goodbye to him. Birchwood couldn't blame them for that. He'd retreated to his home, buried his uniform in the closet and waited for his health to fade away altogether. It was not a pleasant life – certainly not in comparison to that of the other retired officers he'd met in the past – but Birchwood didn't deserve a pleasant life after what he'd done.

But she's alive now. Alive, and home. Those lanterns of theirs; they worked at last.

That was what they were saying, but was it true? There'd been impersonators in the past, and so many people believed she was dead. He was one of those people. After all, what kind of person would steal a baby like that? What kind of person could even get into a room so high up?

But she's back with her family now. Everything's right once again.

He felt the tears run down his face again. He was happy, but not for himself. It was far too late in his life for him to really redeem himself. No, his happiness was for the King and Queen he'd loved like his own family. They'd got their daughter back. They were no longer paying the price for his mistake.

A/N: I know this one's probably only connected to the guards in the loosest sense, but I wanted to explore it. I always wondered how Gothel managed to get into the castle. Who was in charge of security? How did he feel about being responsible for such a situation? I just kept wondering and, eventually, it led to this.

Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.