#Napoleon in his time

[wilsonmybeloved]

i miss you nailgun

[the-fiddlesticks-affair]

such a Which Could Mean Nothing ass clip

[ciderbird]

I haven’t drawn in ages but here have some younger Napoleon with that fuckass bob

the third one was actually inspired by the incident with Ludwig von Cobenzl, the Austrian diplomat who negotiated a peace treaty with Napoleon after the Italian campaign and the latter broke his expensive vase about it like “damn. how fragile. I wonder what would happen if I do that with the rest of your army?”

and Alexander is there too I guess

[sergeantcowboy]

Hello the three other people in this fandom, here's more papers, please guys for you. I hate Dimitri <3

[napoleondidthat]

“Ah! Finally my HotPocket is ready!”

[coeurdeluciole]

ummm FrozenPlatform (kinda you'll only get the joke if you've seen me on twit) post here too cuz why not : ]

Guts and Blackpowder AU art that you won't understand unless ur from my twit.

twit: @ CoeurDeLuciole

[skitskatdacat63]

If Fernando's gonna insist on having such short hair, could he at least style it like he did in 2012?

[watermelonstick]

the man from uncle without context

[kririawhahha]

traditional art doodle dump things idk what they're called just take them💔

Ok that's all BYE

[werewolves-are-real]

Time Travel Temeraire snippet

At first, Laurence assumes he's dead.

It's a natural conclusion. He remembers dying, after all.

He and Tenzing were at a function hosted by Wellesley. They were mostly there to support the dragons. Temeraire had long abandoned them to quarrel with Perscitia in the courtyard, with half a dozen ferals watching like it were a jousting match. Wellesley had laid out his grounds to allow room for dragons and men to mingle, but a good portion of the guests retreated inside to avoid the raised voices of the dragons.

Laurence wonders how Temeraire felt about that, later. About not seeing.

He was stabbed. He barely remembers it – just a quick pulse of pain in his chest, looking down. Red blooming over his coat.

Then he was on the floor. People screamed. Tenzing appeared, grappling with a tall and finely-dressed man; he used a dinner-knife to punch a hole in the stranger's throat, in a fantastic spray of blood, and dropped the body at once to kneel by Laurence's side.

He remembers Wellesley barking orders – bandages, water, a hot knife. Have to cauterize it, he'd shouted. Keep pressure -

But Tenzing never spoke. Just pressed down on Laurence's chest, over the wound, without particular panic. Laurence still remembers the grim resignation on his face; Tenzing knew what was coming. Laurence was glad to have him there when he died.

Then Laurence woke up.

The world sways in a familiar way, a rhythmic motion that Laurence registers on a soul-deep level. He's on a ship. But why? Where is Tenzing, Temeraire? Why would they put him on a ship?

“I think the fever's breaking,” says a voice. A naval doctor, disheveled and salt-stained, with long scars down his bared arms. “Oh, and awake too!”

“Well thank Christ,” says another man. One Laurence recognizes.

It's Captain Gerry Stuart – but he looks different, younger than the last time Laurence saw him, with smooth skin and dark curly hair.

Gerry died two years ago.

“Well, Lieutenant! You gave us a scare – how are you feeling?” Gerry asks.

“It's Admiral,” Laurence corrects rather than all the other things he does not dare ask. He hates the title foisted upon him; but it's at least more comprehensible than Lieutenant, and he clings to that rather than demand where did you come from.

Stuart throws back his head to cackle, though the concern doesn't leave his face. “Still perhaps a bit feverish, I think!”

“That might be the laudanum,” says the doctor, also amused. “Why don't you sleep a bit more, Lieutenant?”

“But where is Temeraire? Or Tenzing?”

“I can only assume you had some very vivid dreams,” Stuart chuckles. “You were babbling and babbling for Temeraire – isn't that a ship?”

“Perhaps the flagship of his fleet,” suggests the doctor, and Stuart laughs again. “Get some rest, Mr. Laurence. Holler if you need me.”

They both exit the sick-berth. Laurence stares blankly at the door.

What?

Laurence pats his chest. No wound. He looks down, startled by the pale thinness of his fingers, his youth-soft skin.

Well; not soft. Callouses cover his hands. But even these patterns are different – hard skin in places where he would hold a sword, or pulls ropes. His hands should be more wrinkled, yes; but these callouses faded years ago.

“Where am I?” he asks when the doctor returns. “And what is the year?”

“The year? 1793. You don't remember?”

1793. Laurence was 19 in 1793. A lieutenant for two years, on the Shorewise.

The doctor narrows his eyes. “What's my name, lad?”

Laurence swallows. His stomach churns; for the life of him he can't remember.

The doctor rushes off to retrieve the captain.

_____________________________

Laurence is diagnosed with brain fever, and partial amnesia. Gerry is horribly guilty about laughing, earlier; Laurence could not care less. He is given strict orders to stay on bed-rest for another week, in hope his strength will recover – and his mind.

Laurence doesn't think he'll have any issues working – he's forgotten many of the people around him, true, but he may never forget the way to run a ship. He's far more concerned with learning what happened.

From all appearances, it is indeed 1793. France is undergoing riots, and declared war against Britain in February. Temeraire has not hatched. Napoleon is probably a corporal or general himself, at this point. If he exists at all. God knows, perhaps Laurence is only mad.

But he doesn't feel mad. His memories are too vivid to be mere fever-dreams. A man cannot dream up twenty years of life!

But neither can a man go back to his youth, and live it all again.

I have a dragon, he thinks of saying. There is no war, because I captured Napoleon – an unknown man who makes himself emperor.

Mad. It sounds mad even to Laurence himself. But to imagine that Temeraire was a fever-ridden dream... Tenzing and Granby and China, all of it...

Laurence doesn't share his turmoil with anyone – not even with Gerry, who checks on him fretfully. After a week the doctor declares him well enough, physically. He's paired always with another lieutenant for the first few days on duty, and his shipmates watch him carefully for signs of permanent debilitation; but aside from a moment or two of hesitance, Laurence competently resumes his duties. The oversight lessens.

Laurence thinks about writing letters.

He thinks about writing to Tharkay's late father, who ought to still be alive, inquiring after his son. He thinks of writing to Prince Mianning, asking about the health of Lung Tien Qian. He thinks of writing to young Midshipman Granby, his unwed brother, his dead father...

Not all of them would reply. But he could ask questions. Could verify the truth of things. Unless this, instead, is the delusion.

Is he in 1793, imagining the future? Is he in the future, imagining the past? Or maybe he is already dead, and this is the reality of hell. He came here burning with fever, and now he burns with fear. Surely that is it's own form of torture.

Laurence is ironically given the task of tutoring the midshipman and lieutenant-hopefuls more than any other duty as the weeks pass; his crewmates still look askance, and the more eager of the midshipman become protective. Laurence remains perfectly capable of command; it is only that he can't help but be absent-minded, sometimes, staring at all the crewmen that pass him like they are nothing but moving paintings. Images of a world that no longer matters.

One evening the midshipmen drag him away to a meal with the other officers. It's a noisy crowd; Laurence would find the friendly bustle comforting in another life.

One of the senior officers, Lieutenant Moore, waves him down as Laurence enters. Evidently they used to be friends, given his notably concerned behavior of late. Laurence can't remember the man, and has a sneaking suspicion he died too soon to make a lasting impression.Moore jostles him when Laurence sits at the long table. “Will! Did you get any letters with the last batch?”

A patrolling gunboat brought a satchel of letters just this morning. “I did not,” Laurence says. He's grateful for the fact. He'd found a few pieces of correspondence in his quarters that he dutifully sent on; he cannot imagine writing a letter now, in this confused state.

“Then you've had no news! Robespierre has gone mad. Madder than before, I suppose.”

“Robespierre?” asks Laurence blankly.

Lieutenant Moore double-takes, as does everyone else around them. “Good lord, Will, please tell me you remember Robespierre?”

Right... Robespierre's reign was brief, but this is when he led France. Some of the things the papers published...

Well, at least Laurence has a well-worn excuse for his ignorance. He plays up his malady: “Yes. I think I recall he was... French?”

Groans of horror mixed with amusement echo around the table. “...Well you aren't wrong,” says Moore, looking pained. “He has styled himself the 'President' of their Assembly, which is some stupid way of being king; the French are all mad about removing and adding words right now. I don't know how they expect anyone to hold a conversation.”

“We should... probably educate Mr. Laurence about the war at some point,” some midshipman mutters. Laurence doesn't recall his name.

Moore sighs again. “Anyway. Robespierre is a tyrant, of course. But he's elected someone else to rule France! Barely more than a boy, too.”

Laurence frowns; he doesn't remember what Moore's talking about. “Why would he do that? Did they capture one of the Bourbons?” Declaring himself regent of a child-prince would at least make sense.

“Well, at least you remember them. No; it is some nobody, a young soldier. Not even French! I cannot fathom it.”

It feels like Laurence has been dunked in ice.

For a moment he can't respond. “What was his name? The soldier.”

“Napoleon Bonaparte. He has been chosen as head of their new heresy, the 'Cult of the Supreme Being,' they're calling it; and now de facto head of the government, too. Must be a priest? I don't know, nothing the French are doing makes sense. I expect his little group will be as short-lived as everything else about these riots.”

But Laurence doesn't think so. “...Excuse me; I'm feeling a bit poorly,” he says, rising on wavering legs.

“Yes, you look it! Go on, we'll tell you about the war later...”

Laurence flees.

[arlesposting]

epic napoleon art i have labeled as a napling. yay! ok bye

redraw of this except i FORGOT THE EARS...but I'm not fixing it fuck that. more soon perhaps if you ask nicely enough though...

[thekenobee]

So I started watching ‘Sharpe’

[very-uncorrect]

How I see Sockathan in my head:

Sock - fell first

Jonathan - fell harder

[inolienkiki]

I’ve never seen this one god-tier Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians joke mentioned by anyone, so I might as well explain it myself. For some reason, nobody seems to notice it, but for me it hit easily as hard or harder than the Gak thing from the last book.

So, ever since I learned about the Smedrys being named after prisons, I was waiting for a cousin named Elba. Not only would it make sense as a name and as a prison, I thought it’d be kinda cute and fit the style. Unfortunately, this never quite happened… but the fact that I had my eye on it let me catch EXACTLY why.

For those of you who aren’t familiar, Elba was the island on which Napoleon was imprisoned after his defeat. It’s a fairly well known prison, I think— at least, more well known than ADX or Kazan (right? Tell me I’m not missing important prison facts?) The issue here, which should stand out to any Attentive Readers- as Alcatraz might say- is that France doesn’t exist.

It’s never really addressed specifically, or explained in detail, but it’s sort of a recurring gag in the books. The entire concept and history of France, including the Napoleonic Wars, is a lie invented by Librarians. I should specify that this is canon, not just a joke, and not something Alcatraz made up in the one book where he pretends to be stupid. The world map at the beginning of the books is mostly focused on the Free Kingdoms, but if you take a quick look at the Hushlands silhouettes it’s pretty clear that France is missing.

So, no France, no Napoleon, no Elba. When I first noticed this, I was impressed by the level of detail that went into the continuity of even this dumb joke. And then…

(Ok, now that I’ve revealed this post as completely incomprehensible, spoilers below the cut.)

I went into book 5 with this understanding: no France, no Napoleon, no Elba. But fortunately— maybe even as intended, though I have no idea whether any of this is common knowledge— I had missed the point. Elba is the name of the island, not the prison, which has its own name.

So I was reading the Highbrary infiltration, processing Alcatraz’s complex feelings about cousin Dif, and then— I can’t remember where— someone finally addressed Dif by his full name. D’If Smedry. And immediately, dozens of alarm bells went off in my head. France doesn’t exist! Napoleon doesn’t exist! His prison on the island of Elba— the Chateau D’If— isn’t real! WHO IS THIS GUY??

An incredible experience indeed.

[mermaidsirennikita]

Gaelen Foley's Princess (which if it doesn't fuck up in the end is gonna be a favorite lol) update:

no details except of course Darius Santiago cries when deflowering this maniac of a girl

[napoleondidthat]

The men weren’t sure about this new little strange man, a general Bonaparte.

But they knew they’d follow his fine ass anywhere.