When Yves had decided to stay at the palace instead of escaping when that assassin attacked him, he was prepared for political intrigue, the high wire balancing act between probing for the truth and staying just a hair behind outright treason. As well as the occasional attempts on his life, of course. 

He was not, however, prepared to sit through endless hours of lessons. 

Yves had forgotten how tedious they could be, after so long away from the place. There was never time for such things afterwards, not when he was busy learning how to fend for himself. How many years had it been since he had last attended them? Over a decade, at least. 

The trying part isn’t having to go through lessons while hiding the fact that he has long forgotten the foundations. As difficult as it is to pretend he still remembered exactly which king signed into effect what law, it’s nothing a few extra hours of studying won’t remedy. No, what is more irritating is—

“While the Cold Famine lasted for only a decade, the effects were no less devastating. The population dropped drastically, and the ripple effects can still be felt even now, with the gap between generations. It is only due to King Heinrich’s efforts in distributing food from the imperial vault that more did not perish. He has led several reforms since, ah, ascending to the throne, which include—”

—constantly hearing about the king’s achievements.

No wonder he was always squirming to escape his lessons back when he was a child the first time around. If he was going to fall asleep at the horrifically boring ordeal, he might as well take a nap in more comfortable places. Such as his mother’s bedroom, hidden under her blankets as she blandly lied about his obvious whereabouts to enquiring tutors.

Not that his antics were always successful. Rarely would his mother allow him to skip out, only conceding whenever she was particularly ill and he consequently more prone to latching on to her. 

As much worry as he had back then, Yves couldn’t help but look back on those times fondly. They truly did only have each other back, didn’t they?

“And so, despite the many challenges faced by His Majesty, none of it detracts from the fact that this would make him one of the most successful rulers in terms of leading our kingdom to brighter futures.”

Dear god, how long does Yves have to listen to the tutor drone on and on about the great accomplishments the current king has made? Even learning about the recent five year period where there was an inexplicable egg shortage would be better than this. Hearing the endless praise of a man who has done absolutely nothing for him, who has never been in his life even before things went to hell is infuriating. Yves drums his fingers on his thighs. 

Should he kill him as well, after he has dragged out the truth from him? The kingdom would undoubtedly fall into chaos just as it did back then, but he finds he still doesn’t care much. Why should he hold any concern for the people who still whisper of his mother as if she were a dirty secret, as if she had somehow bewitched the poor and innocent king? Perhaps he should go after them as well. 

Ahh, so many people to bring down, so little time.

A sudden roar of voices breaks him out of his reveries, and both he and the tutor turn towards the sound. Was that coming from… the training grounds? If he focused, he could make out angry shouts and the clang of steel. While the sounds of the knights going through their drills were not out of the ordinary, this seems a little more hostile.

At his questioning glance, one of the maids standing by flinches minutely, before answering. “The recruitment for your personal guard is currently taking place in the main training ground. I…I can ask them to keep it down?”

That was today? Huh, it was much sooner than expected. It had only been a few weeks since his conversation with the queen.

When later asked about how he wanted to go about selecting his guard, Yves had hesitated. What was he looking for in a guard? 

Strength— the absolute, overwhelming kind— enough to strike fear at the very mention of it. Loyalty, so that said strength can never be used against him. The ability to stand at his side and look him in the eye.

He wanted…he wanted…!

Yves closed his eyes.

An impossibly childish, useless desire.

And so he’d made a dismissive gesture. Told them to fight each other and he’d pick the strongest of the lot. It made no difference who would be chosen. None of them would ever be good enough. He just hadn’t actually thought they’d take him quite that literally. 

He wonders what idiotic bloke will he be stuck with, how long he'll be saddled with them until he manages to drive them off. Will they be loud? Trail his footsteps like a second shadow, always at a consistent distance?

Yves pauses.

Ah, it'll be a complete stranger this time around, won't it? How disconcerting.

“...Your Highness?”

Yves takes a deep breath. Tamps down the mild sting in his chest. It’s fine. This is what he wanted, after all. When he had decided to remain at the palace instead of striking off on his own, he'd known that the future as he knew it would change. Different environment, different people surrounding him. Gone would be his allies, so far removed from his original haunts as he is. 

There'd be no one to worry about but himself. Good. Its the least he could do for his most inexplicably loyal tool, to grant them the chance for a better life. No more would he have to be puzzled over their strange behavior. The less distractions, the better. 

He's had enough mysteries on his plate.

“No, it's nothing.” It doesn't matter who it'll be, not when it's more a formality than anything else. Even if he is the eldest prince, supporting him instead of the actual heir to the crown is political suicide for the most part. 

He has no maternal family to back him up, no noble background to strengthen his position, besides the blood from his damned father. To support him is to go against the crown prince, who has everything he doesn't. Family, pedigree, and most importantly, he was chosen by the heavens himself. 

Would be chosen, Yves reminds himself. As far as he is aware, the bastard hadn’t quite awakened his abilities just yet. He isn’t sure when it happened, as he had far more pressing matters to contend with during that time back then. When it does happen this time around—and it will, this Yves is certain of— any meagre support he does have will vanish in the face of it.

No, there is a good chance they’d be one of the queen’s people. There is no way she wouldn’t try to sneak her pick in, bribe some of the others to throw the match so her choice could advance. If they were the one chosen, would they be a simpering fool meant to get him to lower his guard, so they can report his every move? Whatever, it’ll be fine. It’s not like he truly expects to be free from her watch. 

The entire recruitment was only meant to spite her anyways. He would never give his trust over to anyone regardless of who was chosen.

Even if the person assigned to him miraculously had no connections to some noble family wanting to keep an eye on him, they’d still have no use to him besides being another body to use as a meatshield. A scapegoat, in case things go wrong. So, what is the difference between a complete stranger assigned as his bodyguard and another potential assassin?

The answer is nothing. Nothing at all. 

Another wave of shouting.

Oh, for the love of—

Yves stands abruptly, giving a disdainful look at the people flinching around him. Weaklings, the lot of them. 

“Your Highness, your lessons—”

“Can be finished later, after I see what the commotion is about.” It’s not because he cannot stand to hear another word of praise for the king. Not at all. It’s good to take a break sometimes, especially when it’s already difficult to concentrate. 

With that, Yves brushes past the indignant tutor, down the halls where the sounds grow louder and louder. What is going on? While the knight’s training can get a little rowdy, it has never garnered an audience. A little recruitment shouldn’t stir this much furor. When he steps into the sunlight, squinting at the large crowd surrounding the sparring ring, he is…supremely unimpressed. Where is the knight commander? 

Yves looks around, before he finds the towering man wearing a short half cape over a shoulder, the vibrant red fabric lined with wolf’s fur signifying his high rank. There he is. 

“Your Highness.” He dips down in a shallow bow, just barely enough to be respectful. Yves narrows his eyes at the sight. He might have been weaker back then, but he was still a prince. Surely that would be enough to warrant some sort of respect. That will need to be fixed, soon enough. 

“What is the ruckus?”

His eyes flicker over the heads of everyone else, towards the center of the ring, where Yves still cannot see from this position. Not for the first time, Yves laments his smaller stature. His growth spurt cannot come soon enough. 

The knight commander slides his gaze back towards the ring. Whatever it is he’s seeing must be displeasing, judging from the tight brows and slight frown. “There seems to be an unauthorized participant.”

“And? Are you all so incapable of resolving that yourself?” Lord, he truly is surrounded by incompetent fools. Standing around so uselessly, unable to do anything without someone else giving them orders. Could no one think for themselves here? He wouldn’t have to deal with this if she were— If this were his first life. Back then, he had far more competent people. Just one was enough to deal with whatever issue cropped up. 

He shifts uneasily, an odd expression on his face. “We’re trying, but— Well, there is a bit of a complication. Nothing worth your concern, of course. I apologize for the disturbance, it will be resolved shortly.”

Yves frowns. “I’ll be the judge of that.” 

Ignoring the commander’s protests, Yves brushes past him, the crowd parting before him the moment they’ve taken notice. The chatter grows louder as he nears. What are they all flocking around? Surely the small audition isn’t that exciting. What kind of complication could there be in throwing out a messy competitor?

It couldn’t be that hard to toss out some intruder. 

When he manages to catch glimpse of the people sparring against each other, the sight almost comical the way one is dwarfed by the other’s bulk, he freezes. The world slows, and he cannot breath.

Dark hair shorn shorter than he’s ever seen, and though he cannot see their eyes from this distance, he knows deep inside that they’d be a shade of the softest pink. Their movements are rougher, not as smooth as it was back then. Even still, there is still a hint of the same brutal strength that underlies each swing of their training sword.

Yves can’t explain it, this inexplicable certainty of his. Perhaps it’s due to how he’d been thinking about the possibility of a new guard. The sense of revulsion at the idea, as if he could never accept anyone at his side. 

(Anyone else.)

Or maybe, it’s due to the vicious blows that drive opponents back one casual and merciless strike at a time. Those familiar movements that had always caught his eye for the briefest of moments whenever they got themselves into some conflict or another. Either way, one thing still holds true:

He’d recognize her in any life.

Do you believe in fate?