#but why is he wearing a hussar uniform

[apurpledust]

i'm watching an episode of this old BBC tv series of Napoleon and omfg there's this scene of Junot (and his only scene it seems like) holding a bottle of wine and has him saying lines like :

"Turkey... Big fat BEAUTIFUL girls!"

"Good, I like trouble. Same as you." and proceeds to drink the bottle of wine lol

Napoleon: "Trouble could be my chance" 😏 HAAHHA I'M DYING😭😭

[infernal-general]

Beginning of The End

Ink blackness crawled up her arms throughout centuries, lapping at her neck, clawing towards her heart from her shoulder. She knew the most she had was around a decade, death's caress started growing stronger on her cheek, more reluctant to let go whenever she looked back at her life to see what she'd achieved. A permanent place in her country's history. By now burning her name into Hell's as well, even after she's gone, everyone will be double checking her remains to make sure she is indeed dead.

The reformed Military District was proof of her ability to bring prosperity too, not just suffering and destruction. If only she put aside her burning hatred for this Ring sooner- no use dwelling on that now. She couldn't allow more regrets; she carried so much already, a miracle she hasn't collapsed under their tremendous weight. She couldn't allow herself to. Especially upon standing in front of the memorial wall, all men and women she'd lost twice. Metallic claws occasionally traced a name, fingers trembled slightly upon passing particularly heavy losses. He was only a child. At least she could give something truly special to the remaining warriors, a part of them, the other half of their soul in form of hellhorses.

Their horses by some demonic miracle reincarnated in the Wrath Ring and never stopped searching for their soulmate. In smaller groups she let them on vacations, well earned ones and soon everyone found their second half; with their companion having the same eye color as theirs in their human life. Horses were needed for agriculture and free time; she wasn't entirely lying when explaining the sudden number and why her legion started to look more and more like the hussar cavalary it was.

Rozália was still alive with fire burning stronger than it ever did. Still had a few good wars within her and her army. Especially if her theories line up. If not, well, back to the old fashioned dueling till daybreak. Nothing she and the others haven't endured and survived.

Midnight was too close to comfort, the whole Ring in its usual last minutes of panic; ushered into safehouses and into the Military District. Instead of armor, she chose her old decorated hussar uniform, allowing Marcell to braid her hair like she used to wear it. Golden embroidery flashed against the pine green dolman and pelise thrown over her left shoulder, burned against the crimson pants. Upon a quick glance in the mirror, she almost saw herself in her human glory, instead of the draconic monster.

Ten minutes. Anyone was a fool, if they thought she raised a safe haven from nothing and allowed protecting it take all priority. The ground trembled, then split, four chambers of Hellfire erupting from the cracks, forming a dome around her district, with a fifth pillar strengthening the center from within, where it should've been the weakest. Nothing other than her and her soldiers could pass through the barrier, which was a continuous flow of pent up infernal energy concentrated to the right spots.

The usual glances. Looks at photographs of their beloveds. A brotherly hug. The last check of weapons. The familiar electric burn slowly slithering up her spine. Then the skies split open for the 175th time since Rozália Véghváry became the Infernal General.

The vanguard always took the hardest hit with the first wave, preferring to not give away her marksmen's location so early. Harpies eager for the yearly cleanse dived headfirst towards the wall of shields in hope of shedding the first blood; Vitéz's spear buried within her guts and he yanked his weapon back after a rotating twist.

“Alakzatot tarts!” (Hold the formation!) came her first command of the day, she handpicked the strongest ones, soldiers she trusted would bend but not break with the first wave. She was always right in the middle as always, her pure strength was needed.

A meat grinder, the name carried the truth about the situation, a merciless clash of force, test of tenacity they always passed with tightly set jaws and clawed feet firmly planted into the ground.

Soundless arrows drew sharp lines of fire to prevent Exorcists attacking from behind, their ability to fly perhaps the most difficult to overcome, adapt to and counter. Outnumbered? That was the norm for a Hungarian. Shields dented from blows, most riddled with holy spears and arrows; they never yielded. Until the chain broke with Farkas collapsing.

“Sára, Márta, János; kíséret! Vigyétek kórházba, szóljatok, ha kell vér!” (Sára, Márta, János; escort him! Bring him to the hospital, and tell me if he needs blood!) Rozália snapped quickly upon noticing the arrow buried in his abdomen.

Fire shot from her palm, arranging themselves in the form of seeds on the sky. The wordless command was followed by creaking of metal, two set of doors pulled open and throwing chained sinners into the carnage. There were many sins, acts committed by humanity that the Phoenix army simply couldn't overlook, and they served a perfect distraction for a tactical retreat.

The vanguard dispersed from the tight knit formation to arrive at their own posts, Rozália stayed, both to survey and to lure when the sinners were culled. She met more than a hundred pairs of eyes' gleeful gleam with equal ferocity. With a small quirk of her lips she beckoned them to follow and she took off. Her path was guided by sharp smears of red on walls, ground; easy to mistake for blood, especially in a chase. She slipped, slid past civilian blockades effortlessly, muscles trained for this day working in beyond perfect tandem, making her as fast and slippery as a snake. She felt a spear grazing her shoulder even after a sharp turn, the holy wound burned with familiarity.

An unnoticeable tunnel entrance at the bottom of a large house, she was fast enough to slid right in after the corner. A quiet exhale as the flock passed by, her ascent to Árpád and Pista hiding within the building quick and quiet enough to startle both men.

“Elegem van ezekből a repkedő keselyűkből.” (I've had enough with these flying vultures.) Pista whispered after a few rounds of swearing

“Akkor hozzuk le őket a földre.” (Then let's bring them to the ground.) Rozália agreed after checking their position: indeed on her trail, picking off sinners from the worst kind, and attracted to the dome of Hellfire protecting a whole sector.

“30 másodperc.” (30 seconds) Árpád warned as he set the device and the trio fled from the spot.

A set of chain explosions shook the Ring, buildings collapsed, flames flared around the dome and the streets strangely devoid of soldiers. The fire's rage also spewed large, heated shards of angelic steel from every direction, impaling wings, burrowing into armor from the force. The blow violently forced angels to abandon the sky as their domain, not like they were less dangerous on ground level. However as the blasts died down, glittering dust was left behind; blessed shards small enough to breathe in, big enough to skewer anyone from the inside after inhaling. Árpád was a genius engineer and Pista excelled in anything back then involving gunpowder. Pair them together to achieve utmost effective creative cruelty.

Those streets weren't safe for nor exorcist or hellfire soldier, the battle continued on other parts of the town, for now the largest part trapped and slowly dying in the trap she had set up, which Árpád named as The Viper's Kiss. Choking to death on their own blood, each desperate gasp for air only worsening their state, sealing their fate. Their replacement will come soon, it was only temporary relief. They fell into rhythm like was second nature, at this point it probably was. Liberating the Embassy with a barrage of arrows, a daring death drop with a spiked whip from Anna, flourish yet precise cuts and stabs as ground support.

The sound of an unplanned explosion coming from deep in the city immediately caught her attention, her heart turning ice as the same feeling skirted her when she entered that fateful valley in the mountains of Vértes.

“Beomlott az egyik alagút, Ferenc, Mariska és Vitéz biztosan ott van!” (One of the tunnels collapsed, Ferenc, Mariska and Vitéz are surely there!) The answer came approximately ten minutes after.

“Küldj oda egy kisebb csoportot, szedjék ki őket onnan.” (Send a smaller group, get them out of there.) Rozália called to Marcell

“Tábornok, nincs...”(General, we don't...) grief flashed in her second command's eyes for a second as he prepared to finish the sentence “nincs elég emberünk.” (we don't have enough men.) Her heart twisted upon hearing the undertones of defeat in his voice.

“Akkor kivonsz mindenkit a Kannibál Kolóniából. Azok a degenerált gecik megérdemlik, ami jön.” (Then you withdraw everyone from the Cannibal Colony. Those degenerate scum deserve what's coming.) She snapped immediately, as if she will lose three of the best- or anyone over a cannibal.

“És a roham?” (And the charge?) he asked, they couldn't miss that crucial time.

A clock of fire formed on the sky, sword as single hour hand moving one hour.

“Eltolva.” (Delayed.) With that she also turned to head into the direction, despite the wind of dread blowing stronger, sure Marcell will signal for the backup as soon as the clock dissolves.

Rozália met the small unit on her way, already engaged in a fiery fight. Something was terribly amiss. The Exorcists seemed to guard the main explosion site. She still possessed the ability to walk among shadows like she belonged to them. Sheathing her weapons to prevent their glow from giving her position away, she crept closer and closer. Three Exorcists and a Hunter were staring intently at the three soldiers bracketing a few imps and a hellhound protectively.

“Do you recognize these three?” one angel asked the Hunter

“Can't say if I do, Your Divinity. There were plenty in my army.”

She knew that voice. Never wanted to hear it again. Thought she wouldn't. Her only complaint was it wasn't her who buried the blade inside him.

“But rest assured, the traitor will surely make an appearance. She was always a little sensitive, no matter the teachings.” the angel turned to reply after a quick look around, a curved hussar sword of hellfire passed clean through her chest from behind. Kicking her off from the blade, she drew the blessed one as well, a few moments of fencing the remaining two both laid dead at clawed, draconic feet.

“ITT VAGYOK, APÁM.” (I AM HERE, FATHER.) Rozália screamed at the Hunter with utmost rage and venom. The hostages of the situation used the commotion to escape, Ferenc threw a concerned look back, his sword half drawn, but decided against intervening.

“Csak azt sajnáltam, hogy nem én voltam, aki megölte.” (I only felt sorrow for that I wasn't the one whom had killed you.) She snarled, only to be greeted with silence and confusion passing over the otherwise unreadable face once his helmet was dropped.

“So you forgot your mother language.” she drew the conclusion with disgust

“In the Lord's kingdom, it wasn't needed.” she mirrored his step forward with a step back, both swords at the ready

“Where you also should belong. Should've known the whore of your mother probably made a deal with a demon to conceive.” Attila Véghváry scoffed “What a wasted potential.”

A hellfire infused dagger was thrown by reflex, barely missing his face, she recalled it immediately, only to have it embedded in stone from a well aimed strike of a sword.

“What wasted potential you dare to accuse me of? I was better even in my teens than you could ever be.” she spat, no matter her achievements reaching historic heights, this man was never proud of her.

“To carry out the Lord's will-”

“Fuck ‘The Lord’. ” Rozália cut him off, adding “And you too.”

“The bloody fuck you were thinking where your precious God was when our nation was slaughtered?! Children died in those wars! Children took up arms because their family was butchered! What was He doing; sleeping?! Just when the Ottomans came? And the Russians at least two fucking times! Last time they also heavily overstayed their nonexistent welcome.” her skin crawled from being in this...this man's presence

“All I know, now He is watching you. And me for having such a disobedient failure.” Attila crossed himself and Rozália felt crimson bleeding into her sclera

“I don't understand you. You didn't want to be married off, fine by me! But you also refused to fight for holy purposes after a while. Going as far as assassinating the Pope!”

“I WASN'T YOUR BROODMARE NOR YOUR WEAPON. I WAS YOUR DAUGHTER !!” her voice thunderous yet soaked with pain, fire encircling her fingertips, a tremendous effort to keep them at bay. Just a little longer.

“And by being that, you had no use.”

By now they slowly advanced, danced into the depths of Pride, Attila tirelessly answering her desperate questions, furious accusations with patience he never possessed. And she highly doubted he learned the virtue, more like played a game till he was in a good enough position to reveal his cards. But then, so was she. And she was about to go all in.

“The only thing more abysmal than your parenting, was your nonexistent skill in battle.” Rozália stood straight from the previous defensive position, swords sheathed and tone sharper than any dagger possible.

“How fucking dare you, you demon-”

“Ah, there you are. But where was I? Yes, you blind, arrogant idiot- Satan would probably like you though. Full offense in every way possible.” she smirked at the man whom she once called, thought of as father cursing now in Latin

“You know, Latine loqui possum, dickhead.” by now she was chuckling with malice dripping from her voice, thick like black tar about to catch on fire

“You got killed in a war because of your ego. Then I took over and wrote my name in history forever. The 14th Martyr of Arad. The General of the Lost Army. Now I have been battling with Heaven's best -except for you-, for 175 years and by now less than two thousand soldiers. You let yourself be led into an obvious trap for your overinflated ego over nothing, got yourself and half of back then your army massacred. What a bright military career.”

“Killing you will grant me knighthood in the Glided Kingdom forever unavailable for you.” his cards open, yet only a sardonic laugh escaped her at the revelation

“So you thought you slither down here after 175 years, at the dusk of my life to attempt that? Pathetic. You truly think you can kill me ? You are nothing. You are no one, just a forgotten stain on my family name.” Rozália didn't attempt to dodge the javelin, burrowed just above her heart; oh the irony. The very place where the Habsburg Count's killing blow laid.

“Well. That couldn't even fully puncture through muscle.” head canted to the side during the observation as she pulled the weapon from her body, liquid hellfire blood steadily dripping from her chest.

Now or never.

Her hand shot up, fire etched a sharp, burning V into the sky. The answer came in form of five canon shots; bursts of hellfire torched the ground, the angelic Starfall canon converted into an inferno spewing monstrosity. The canons that destabilized her fire last year so badly she needed retreat. Now the power was singing within her to the tune she wanted. None of the beyond deadly blasts touched either of them, only left deep gauges in their wake.

“Remember, you died because you strayed from the path chasing what you thought easy prey. History loves repeating itself.” Attila lost his remaining composure at her thinly veiled suggestion, sword in hand charged towards Rozália. His foot touched the concealed circle carved into the ground. He was flung back by unseen force, the circle, symbols and a name all glowing with spreading angelic light, the pentagram shape just burned into the ground lit up with hellfire. The sigil was complete.

All in.

A beam from Heaven rained down like a blade, she was propelled into the air by a vortex of hellfire bursting through the sigil- no. The broken seal. And Rozália was at their junction, above the Ring, bathed in divine and demonic forces at the same time. The briefest flash of fear was replaced by blinding agony, as if her head wanted to split open. She couldn't even scream, only let it wash over her every fiber, the pendant floating in her vision was shaking wildly, like it wanted to explode into tiny pieces. A vertical cut slashed across her chest and abdomen with excruciating pain, then a horizontal below her navel; one more horizontal lash on her chest joined the previously inverted cross. The cursed metal cracked, shrieked, while all she could do is watch.

Faces of the fallen flashed before her, Mária, Adél, Jácint, Jancsi; all 1757 of them. Her hair undone from her braids, by now an unified flare of Hellfire. Just as many pillars have spawned throughout Pride where they had died, their expression steely, no matter how she tried to reach out, to hold them, tell them they are remembered and missed so badly. Her horns turned blinding silver, radiating holy energy. A sharp neigh rang through the Ring, the ground shook as the pure hellfire mare materialized from the seal, galloping up to her in the vortex. Vihar had came, registered in Rozália's torn mind. Garnet serpent eyes shifted into pure emerald flames. Fire rippled underneath the whole Ring, rushing towards her while Heaven kept filling her with something.

“Kislányom...” (My little girl...)

The previously motionless Entity's head snapped down at Attila's utterance, her scream terrifyingly, painfully human; and it was echoed by more than a thousand war cries. She mounted Vihar within a second, charging towards the Hunter whose armor has long melted to his skin from the heat; decapitated her father with one curved strike of unrestrained fury and long overdue vengeance.

She rode to the Military District with the pure fire Fallen following her on horseback, leaving even her own soldiers beyond speechless, emotional and the most eager to finish a war once for all since 1848.

“ FŐNIX HUSZÁRSEREG! ROHAMRA!!! ”

(Phoenix Hussar Army! Charge!!!)

It started as a distant rumble, the previously celebrating Exorcists looking at the other in confusion, those pesky soldiers finally fled from the battleground this year, what now?

Then it grew louder than any roar a canon could produce, buildings collapsed, the ground trembled and all that could've been seen were hussars on hellhorses, led by War herself. And Hell was coming with her. A tidal wave of Hellfire reached house heights, flattening everything in her warpath. Her horse was quick and agile, more than capable of dodging any projectiles, while her rider mercilessly cut down everyone she could reach. Precise shots, both from guns and bows found their aerial target, the rest finished either under the hooves or ended by curved swords. Whenever a holy weapon reached a Fallen, they slowed their horses slightly to be enveloped by the burgundy tide and rode out healed.

For the first time, Heaven was truly retreating with no other option available, if not the cursed fire protecting the General of the explosive charge, then it was her twisting, turning in the saddle, once catching the spear aimed for her head, whipping it around and throwing it clean through the Exorcist it belonged to. War cries mingled with the thunder of the horses, with the roar of flames until Rozália brought them to a sharp halt, Vihar standing on her hind legs, pelise fluttering in the movement, sword raised with her eyes spitting emerald flames.

Hellfire encircled the remaining angels, flames viciously curling in the air, the army slowly spreading out. Vihar walked proudly on the set border, her infernal rider soundlessly watching from her back, the unholy trinity of Hell-Human-Heaven; the Horseman gazing at the forced standstill with concealed victory. Every time someone attempted to break from the circle, a lash of Hellfire immediately incinerated the angel with a growl, and the circle tightened. She could slaughter them all with ease, and the any possible reinforcements. Yet for some reason she was restraining the burning urge. As minutes, hours passed, they slowly realized: because she wants witnesses to spread exactly what is she. To possibly put an end to Exterminations with a taste, display of her potential and the fact that the simple yearly culling if not stopped, will have apocalyptic consequences. What else could the Horseman be other than War itself?

The grand clock struck midnight again, the portal to Heaven open and perhaps Exorcists never left Hell in such hurry. Something within Rozália was gnawing restlessly, urging her to go after them. She had the power for it. Why stop after being chained for so long? Who would, who could stop her and her army? Vihar started to become agitated as well, itching to run again and perhaps never stop. Her sanity shattering headache returned, hellfire hair billowed, holy harpoon horns glowed wildly, emerald flame eyes blazing and the pendant was being pulled apart completely, pieces vaguely resembling the original shape were trashing in the air.

Then it snapped together, the last thing Rozália remembered were her family's alarmed cries -they were safe and alive, it wasn't in vain- before darkness violently overtook her vision.

[httyd-art-requests]

Hi! I love your most recent dragon post of Hussar. Do you wanna talk a little more about how you came to envision them? Like, why you chose the colors you did and stuff?

Omg yes of course! (Pretend I didn't forget to check the inbox and answered this when it first came in. Okay thank you)

Hussar is my Fury-sona, and suffers from chronic The-only-color-I-like-is-brown Syndrome, where I forget that every other color exists whenever I'm coming up with a new design. They use he/they pronouns (unless I forget about it) and they're also my pfp from my 150 followers Thank You Post <3

They're somewhat based on bearded vultures, but it's mostly only visible on his facial markings and eye color. Specifically the white skull marking combined with the dark tear tracks, I love using it in creature designs.

His neckpiece is a combination of golden braided cords we use to decorate hussar* uniforms, and a hungarian flag rosette we wear on special occasions (like March 15th, which is a national rememberance day).

*They're named after hussars ("huszár") which used to be our cavalry back in Ye Olden Days.

I'm not a huge patriot, but I like sneaking in little easter eggs and references to my home country here and there hehe

(Also they're doing a scrungy cat face in literally every drawing that exists of them. They're silly like that)

[night-unfurls-its-splendour]

When the Longing Returns (Phantom of the Opera, 2004 Fanfiction) || Erik x Christine

Ch. 2 Author's Notes

Read the Fic here on tumblr or on AO3

◇ Erik strove not to remember the surge of jealous rage that had overtaken him as he had watched the Chagny boy put his dolman around Christine and hold her as she rested her head against his shoulder.

Military fashion is not my area of expertise, but a dolman is the outer jacket part of the uniform that Raoul wears draped over his shoulder for the masquerade.

I can also tell you that it's a Hussar uniform.

Why is Raoul wearing a Hussar uniform when he's not apparently tied to the military in any meaningful way? No clue. Couldn't tell you, you'd have to ask Maria Bjørnsen.

Even more baffling is the fact that Raoul's uniform in the musical is based off of the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars. That's right, Raoul is wearing a British inspired Hussar uniform.

My best guess is this is a reference to the Raoul of the 1925 Lon Chaney film (played by Norman Kerry), who is the "Debonair lieutenant and Beau Brummel of the Second Chasseurs",

OR to Anatole Garron, one of the Raoul-type characters in the 1943 Claude Rains film (played by Nelson Eddy), who is also an opera singer, and who plays (I think) a Napoleonic Hussar of the 1st Regiment in the main opera set-piece of that film.

My best guess for an in-universe reason for Raoul to be wearing this uniform? Well, it is a costume ball, so ~shrugs~ it's just a costume?

Now at this point I'm sure the burning question on everyone's tongue is 'What is a Hussar or a Chasseur and what is the difference? '

Well, Hussars (Hussards in French) and Chasseurs (or, more properly Chasseurs á Cheval) were both light cavalry. The difference is that Chasseurs á Cheval were also expected to act as infantry if the situation called for it. Both Hussards and Chasseurs á Cheval had dolmans as part of their uniforms.

What I find quite funny about all of this though is the fact that in the book, Raoul is actually a sailor lad.

◇ "I will tell you all, Christine," his even tone trembling a little. "I only ask that you.... that you try to be gentle in your judgement of me."

Leroux Reference: Erik's History

Erik's whole backstory in this chapter is heavily adherent to Erik's life-story in the book as told in the Epilogue and the Persian's narrative.

Erik's birthplace of Rouen, his father's profession as a mason, his running away from home at "an early age"; his traveling to India, being discovered in Russia, being given immense power by the Shah, committing political assassinations, the "Little Sultana's" gladiatorial matches, the torture chamber, and of course the Daroga saving Erik's life from an order of execution following the completion of the trick box palace, are all detailed in the book, though of course I made some embellishments and alterations to fit Erik's characterization in the movie.

◇ "... and my mother [...] gave me a mask so that she would not have to..."

Leroux Reference: Chapter 13, "Apollo's Lyre"

"Why did you want to see me? Oh, Mad Christine, who wanted to see me! When my own father never saw me, and my mother gave me my first mask so that she would not have to!"

◇ "There was always a week in early August when she... was worse than usual... and I came to assume that these bouts must mark when I was born."

I don't put any stock in astrology in real life, but it is useful for choosing character birthdays.

Christine's generally agreed to be a Libra and that's about as bang on as you can get (though I could also see her as a February Pisces, if the Christine in question has the freaky energy of, say, Meredith Braun).

But Erik a character has about five signs that would suit him with equal perfection. He has the pride and flair for drama of a Leo, the aloof, ruthlessness of a Capricorn, the vicious sensuality of a Scorpio, the enigmatic, dark emotionality of a Cancer, and the violent passion of an Aries. How do you pick just one? I decided on Leo for Gerik specifically. Why? I can't say.

And if anyone is curious, Meg is a Sagittarius and Raoul is a Virgo.

◇ Her tears, warm and sweet, dripped onto his skin and trickled under his mask.

She, Christine, the true angel—who had sought after his kisses, when his own mother had never even tolerated them—she was weeping for his sake.

Her blessed tears mingled with his under his mask, and they flowed down to his lips.

Leroux Reference: Chapter 26, "The End of the Ghost's Love Story":

"And I fell at her feet, crying... and I kissed her feet... her little feet, crying [...] and she cried also... the angel cried!

[...]

"I felt her tears dropping onto my forehead--my forehead! They were warm, they were sweet! They flowed under my mask. Her tears! They mingled with my own tears in my eyes and they flowed into my mouth.... Ah! Her tears, on me!"

◇ Masonry, carpentry, joinery, metalwork; whatever I set my hands to seemed to come naturally, and so skilfully.

Carpentry and joinery, while both aspects of the woodworking trade, are separate skills. In this time period especially, carpentry referred to cutting and rough-work (including building construction), while joinery refers to assembly and fine-work.

◇ "I was brought down from Ninji-Novgorod, in Russia..."

Nowadays transliterated as "Nizhny Novgorod"; the sixth largest city in Russia, located on the Volga River in Western Russia. It is an important transport hub, as well as an economic and cultural centre, to this day.

◇ "as an entertainment for the Shah's favourite who was 'withering away' of boredom"

Leroux Reference: The "Little Sultana"

It was thus that his reputation reached the palace at Mazenderan, where the little Sultana was bored to death.

The "Little Sultana" is a vague but brutal female figure that is mentioned by both Erik and the Persian. In Leroux's epilogue she is called "The Shah's Favourite", almost certainly meaning a favourite wife or mistress. According to the Persian, she took delight in watching Erik kill prisoners in gladiatorial matches, and even persuaded him to teach her how to wield the Punjab lasso herself, using it to indiscriminately murder her own ladies in waiting, and occasionally even those of visiting friends.

M. Grant Kellermeyer speculates the "Little Sultana" to whom Leroux alludes to be based on Jeyran Khanom, the seventh wife of Nasser al din Shah, whom he first took as a mistress in around 1850 following a chance encounter during which he apparently fell in love with her on sight. One story of their meeting even asserts that she was one of his mother's servants.

Jeyran was a formidable figure, and enjoyed many masculine pursuits including hunting and shooting, and not even the Khanom (the Dowager) was able to dissuade Nasser from conferring her the title of Forough ol-Saltaneh, or from naming her son the crown prince (though this decision was stuck in political hell for years because of Jeyran's lack of influential bloodlines). She was the Shah's favourite wife until her early death in 1860 at the age of 29.

It's my feeling, however, that, though likely inspired by Jeyran (and also by her successor as the Shah's favourite, the even more formidable Anis al Dalweh, pictured below)

the "Little Sultana" is an entirely fictional character created by Leroux as a device to instil a deep sense of unease and horror in the reader; a monstrous young woman with bloodthirsty proclivities that stoked Erik's own growing disregard for human life at a time when he was particularly susceptible: best not to associate her too strongly with any real historical figure.

I was particularly eager to explore on this character, having recently read (and despised) Susan Kay's novel Phantom, in which this character is presented, not as the Shah's wife or mistress, but (rather incomprehensibly) as his mother.

◇ "By the time I had finished, the Shah had given me a nickname: 'Derb Mekhefa Met'eseb' which, roughly translated, means 'Trapdoor Lover'."

Leroux Reference: "Trap-Door Lover"

We have it from the Persian in Leroux's novel that this was a nickname of Erik's during the "Rosy hours of Mazenderan".

I have long wondered exactly what that would actually be in Persian. I determined that I wanted Erik to actually say it in the language, rather than just the translation, but reverse translating it has proven difficult. With no knowledge of Farsi as a language myself, I resorted to online language converters and translators, and this seems to be the best I can come up with. I believe it more accurately translates as "Hidden Door Fanatic", but I'm sure there are probably huge contextual problems with this attempt at translation. If anyone reading this speaks or has an understanding of Persian language, or knows someone who does who can give me a better translation, please let me know, I want this to be as authentic as possible.

◇'There, now! you are quite the Don Juan I would say. Any woman that ever saw you would be yours forever.

Leroux Reference: Chapter 13, "Apollo's Lyre"

This particularly cruel blow on Erik's self-esteem from the Shah was directly inspired by one of Erik's own comments during the aftermath of his Unmasking by Christine in the book (one of the most genuinely terrifying moments of the novel):

"He burst into a harsh, rumbling, powerful laughter, repeating the words: 'oh you women are so curious!' And then he said, 'Well, are you satisfied? I am a handsome fellow, eh? When a woman sees me, as you have, she becomes mine! She loves me forever! I am a kind of Don Juan in that way, you know!'"

This is the kind of line that sticks with you. This sarcastic comment is a horrible glimpse into just how deep Erik's self-loathing goes.

It occurred to me that, in my story, this may have been something the Shah might have sarcastically said to him that stuck with Erik, and inspired Erik's Don Juan comparison (and the work into which, as Leroux's Christine says, Erik "poured all of his bitter misery"). The betrayal of a tenuous, but much craved-for paternal figure would be deeply scarring to a young Erik, so it's little wonder he would try to turn the Shah's comment back on itself, to reclaim it.

◇"Daroga helped me to escape—I suppose in return for my once having saved his life—but on one condition. 'No more murders.'"

[...]

"I had never believed in making or keeping oaths and agreed to this one without much real intention of putting any stock in it."

Leroux Reference: Chapter 22, "Interesting and Instructive Vicissitudes of a Persian in the Cellars of the Paris Opera":

"Erik, you promised me: no more murders!"

"Have I really committed murders?" He asked, taking on his most amiable expression.

"Ah, you wretch!" I exclaimed. "Have you forgotten the Rosy Hours of Mazenderan?"

"Yes," he sighed. "I prefer to forget them, though I did make the little Sultana laugh."

[...]

"Erik... Erik swear to me..."

"What for?" he interrupted. "You know I never keep my oaths. Oaths are made for catching fools!"

◇ "I had returned to find the Opera Populaire under new management and it was not long before I observed that the new directors, Debienne and Poligny were far less competent than those who had advanced real talent and taste. Not unlike our present management,” he added under his breath. “In addition to that, I soon discovered that Poligny had, for some time, been defrauding Debienne in their private business ventures, among other... shall we say 'indiscretions'. I was fortunate to also discover that he was quite superstitious."

Book Characters!

Debienne and Poligny are the out-going managers of the Opera in the novel; their counterpart in the play would be M. Lefevre.

The lengthy timeline gave me some room to work. I figured Lefevre wouldn't have lasted a full thirteen years under the Opera Ghost's thumb, so I thought it wouldn't hurt to introduce these two as his predecessors.

Exactly what Erik was blackmailing Poligny over (because this detail is true to the book), is never explicitly stated, but it is implied to regard numerous proclivities, both moral and financial:

" 'Poligny was superstitious and Erik knew it. Erik also knew much about the public and private affairs of the opera.'

"When Poligny heard a mysterious voice whispering to him about the use he had made of both his time and his partner's confidence, he did not question it."

◇ "I worked by fits and starts, composing for weeks at a time during which I hardly ate or slept and lived only on my music."

Leroux Reference: Chapter 13, "Apollo's Lyre"

"I sometimes compose for fifteen days and nights together, during which I neither eat nor drink, and live only on music..."

Depeche Mode References, for those looking for them…

◇ “Did he have any choice but to go down on his knees and pray that she would have the strength to forgive all the things that he'd done?”

From "One Caress" off of Songs of Faith and Devotion:

"Well I'm down on my knees again

And I pray to the only one

Who has the strength to bear the pain

To forgive all the things that I've done"

◇ “A moment of silence as Erik gathered his thoughts, steeling himself against the heavy sense of trepidation that threatened, like a disease, to take hold of his tongue.

Doing his level best to shake it away, he said…”

From “Shake the Disease” off of Black Celebration (Deluxe Edition):

"Here is a plea, from my heart to you

Nobody knows me as well as you do

You know how hard it is for me

To shake the disease

That takes hold of my tongue

In situations like these"

[ricardian-werewolf]

5. Sometimes we walk hand in hand by the sea.

Ao3 link

Summary;

The Winter Fête comes, and with it, Alina is forced to see where her loyalties lie, and what will become of her when push comes to shove. Nikolai is forced to wrestle with his feelings, and Genya plots and plans in the background.

Chapter below the cut.

Alina approached the idea of the Winter Fête with a sense of palpable anxiety.

No matter that she could summon fully after her explosion on the lake, but what filled her with fear now was what the Darkling planned to do with her. She’d kissed him one night on the lake sometime after - her memories from the time before her powers breaking through were fragmented - but this silence from him scared her. Not even Genya’s gossip sessions in her office could bring Alina out from her state of imposed anxious isolation. She’d shunned her studies and classes, locking herself in her room for days. It’d taken Nikolai’s offer of tea with him and Baghra in the old woman’s hut to coax Alina from her hole.

Now, she sat on her window seat in her room and watched the indentured inferni serfs light the lamps that stretched down to the gates. Soon, the carriage-way would be filled with horses and wagons containing Ravkan nobles, their servants and indententured Grisha sold out to wealthy families. Alina winced. Wasn’t that her purpose in Nikolai’s household? He’d given her a generous salary to use freely, food, clothes, and housing, but at the end of the day she served him.

In a way, she served the Darkling too. It seemed that no matter where she turned, there was always a man who held her puppets' strings in his fingers. Brushing her hands against the velvet of her bedrobe, Alina tilted her head back and glanced up at the atrium light. Stars glittered dimly in the distance, pushed to the far reaches of the sky from the gas-lamps that trickled in through the Fold’s crossings. Around her bed, gas fixtures had been exchanged for a flameless lamp set that Nikolai called Anbaric light.

“There you are!” Genya crowed, pushing the double doors of Alina’s bedchamber open. Alina’s head twisted to regard the ginger-haired Tailor and gave a soft smile, though pain clouded it easily enough. “Ready for the night?”

“No.” Alina breathed. “My Kefta still isn’t here yet…”

“Luckily, I have it!” Genya held out the box, wrapped with an emerald green ribbon. “It seems there was a bit of a fumble with regards to which kefta you were supposed to wear. I wouldn’t be half shocked if Nikolai and the Darkling were out having fisticuffs in the Palace courtyard.”

“Over what I’m supposed to wear?” Alina blinked. She knew, instinctively, why. Nikolai held command over her, yet the Darkling was her commanding officer. She had a feeling Nikolai had much better taste than the Darkling, though her feelings towards him complicated all of this. However could one woman fall in love with two men at once?!

Except… She didn’t really love the Darkling. Part of him scared her senseless. His wantings for her to have Morozova’s stag’s antlers frightened her. Was it out of goodness or a desire to control her? And why make the antlers a collar? Why not a crown? Or a fragment of the larger antler? Or a bone of the bloody creature?

“Lost in thought?”

Alina jumped in her seat at the sound of Nikolai’s voice and looked up, smiling at the sight of him in the doorway. He wore something that surprised her - an emerald green hussar uniform with the pelisse swung easily over his left shoulder. The miles and miles of braid and buttons had to have been his work.

“I didn’t know you served in a hussar regiment.” She quirked a brow.

“I was in the 22nd for a good few years, yes, but I did develop a love for the hussars. Spent a few months with a Russian regiment…” He trailed off and fiddled with one of the buttons. His court sword rested at his waist, the gold hilt and guard embossed with a fox running under a crescent moon. Emeralds studded the sword’s hiltpoint.

“You look dashing.” Genya breathed. “And so will you-” bopping Alina’s nose, Genya lifted the box-lid of Alina’s kefta. In the depths, under a layer of soft green tissue paper, was an emerald green and gold kefta. The twin to Nikolai’s hussar uniform, the gold embroidery was done all the way down the front and side panels to resemble a sun-burst. The strands twirled their way down the bodice and stretched around to the back, which draped down into a long, long train. That train pooled behind Alina in a single sweep of emerald velvet and satin blend, brightened with a fabrikator’s touch.

“H-how?”

“Consider it a gift.” Nikolai poked Alina towards the wooden screen for her to change. Genya helped her with the kefta, buttoning it up the front and fluffing out the train and belt. The gold center-pin of a sunne in splendour glittered in the lamp-light. “Hair…” Genya murmured as Alina was poked over to her dressing table. “Nikolasha, ideas?”

“None.” Nikolai replied from where he’d perched himself on Alina’s sofa and sat sipping tea while watching Genya comb, brush and whack Alina’s hair into form. Alina’s hair was long and thick enough to be braided into an elaborate chignon and pinned up with several gold-hairpins edged with seed pearls.

“Whatever did the Darkling send?” Alina asked, turning to look at Nikolai as he lifted the lid on the second box and pulled out a black and gold Kefta emblazoned with more gold embroidery and dangling from the collar, his symbol.

“Ugh, put it back.” Genya shuddered. Alina got up and went over, touching the water-like silk and satin blend with a gentle finger. “He kissed me, at the lake, a few nights back.” She confessed, looking up to see two sets of eyes locked on her. “Must be why he sent this…” She flinched.

“Did you ask for that kiss?” Genya whispered

“No.” Alina’s gaze locked on Nikolai, who nodded firmly and sipped more of his tea. “That settles it.” He glanced at Genya, who sighed and wrung her hands. Something was shared between them, something Alina would never experience.

“It felt nice, but wrong. Like he was trying to take something from me.” Alina ran her fingers over her rouged lips and blinked in confusion. “I’ve never been kissed before, so…”

“It’s not supposed to feel like that.” Genya supplied. “I mean…” She looked at Nikolai again and he nodded. “She’s right. Here’s my advice for tonight. Give him a berth of about..” He tilted his head up to look at Genya through his lashes.

“30 feet,”

“And go from there. If he continues to pursue, alert a servant. We’ve all had our fair share of ugly pursuers.” Genya murmured, rubbing at the back of her neck with her hand. Alina blinked, confused. Then, it fell into place.

“The King’s raped you. That’s why he’s sick.” She got to her feet and glanced at Nikolai, who looked not at Genya, but the empty space where the royal portrait would’ve been. His eyes hardened, full of hate and rage. “What’d you do?”

“I did it.” Nikolai replied. “Dominik and I. We’re not blind, Alina. He’s been lusting after Genya since we were all about ten or eleven. She was just too young. But once she turned 16, all bets were off.” He winced. “My mother let it happen.” the glass in his hand cracked. His thumb effortlessly healed the fissures.

“We should get going, or we’ll be late. They’re lighting the lamps.” Genya looked out from the bay windows to the garden path, and moved back to the other two. “I’ll need to go see what the Queen needs. I trust you two can get downstairs without too much error?”

Alina nodded, poking Nikolai in the ribs. He snorted, and offered his arm. Alina took it, and let Genya pin the kefta’s matching fur cloak at her neck. Then, they were off. Genya broke off from the group at a servants' passage and Alina and Nikolai turned to go down the winding stairs of the Great Palace. As they moved, unevenly matched for height, Alina opened her mouth, remembering the Apparat’s words to her in the infirmary.

“When I was sick, after Zoya gave me that concussion…” She began, watching Nikolai’s face. “The Apparat came to my room. I don’t know why. He’s been following me. Saying how I’m destined for greatness or some other such thing.” She shivered. The coldness of that memory seeped into her bones and she gripped the marble bannister for balance.

“He’s worse than the Darkling.” Nikolai murmured in her ear, watching the little knots of gathered foreign diginitaries, Grisha and Ravkan noble families below them. “He and I have… an old history.” He hinged, then moved to change the topic suddenly.

“Chin up. You’re glowering, sunshine.”

“I’m nervous.” She bit back. “And a bit… afraid. What if the performance doesn’t go well?” She almost tilted forwards too far and risked falling down the stairs in a jagged, broken heap. Nikolai pulled her back by her arm and held her close to him. “No such chance. Besides, if you do faint or blow up something, that’s nothing. I did worse at your age.”

“Like what?” She breathed. His easy charm always seemed to calm her, and she found herself needing it now more than ever. Looking up into his hazel eyes, she wondered what being inside his mind was like. This chaotic, charming prince who was her liege lord, friend… and crush.

Oh Saints. If I confess that, I’ll be the laughing stock from here to Kiribirsk!

“I once, at fourteen, switched out the salt and sugar service for tea after the dinner for the fete and sent the Fjerdan delegation into cardiac arrest. I did it partly because I’d gotten so badly… shunned by Vasily for any potential partners.” He winced and looked behind them to see if they were being followed.

“Oh.” Alina looked down. “Well if its any consolation, I’d be happy to dance with you tonight.”

“Really? Sunshine, you flatter me.” Nikolai’s grin, so open and warm, sent a jolt through her.In a way, they were two sides of the same coin. Once they finally reached the ballroom, Nikolai escorted her through several smaller salons stuffed with visitors who oohed and aahed over the sight of the Sun summoner so healthy and clad in emerald green and gold. Normally, she’d been in Etheralki blue, but concessions had to be made.

“Why emerald green?”

“Old royal colors.” Nikolai explained as he effortlessly plucked two crystal glasses of champagne off a passing tray and handed Alina one. “Not my favorite, but I suspect this is your first time?” He murmured, indicating the glass in her hands.

Alina sniffed the glass and then sipped it hesitantly. Her puckered face, expecting something dry like kvas, softened at the sweetness. “It’s good. Really good.” She took another sip. “Imported from the champagne region of France. Very expensive.” Nikolai informed her as they worked the room. He introduced her to generals and members of the Tsar’s cabinet, representatives of the two houses of the Duma, foreign ministers, and civil service workers prestigious enough to come to such an event. Alina could see through the crowd on the raised dias, the Tsaritsa and Tsar presiding over all.

“Vasily?”

“Drunk somewhere with a whole harem of courtesans.” Nikolai replied automatically. “I clocked him leaving as we were coming in.” They wove their way through a crowd of fawning debutants, who coyly tried for Nikolai’s hand.

“No, ladies, apologies, my hands are occupied tonight.” He waved his dance card in the air and made vaguely compassionate sounds at the womens respective cries of agony. Alina privately thought they were all going to rip his clothes off and shame him for not opening offers of marriage.

“Are you… courting?” Alina asked as soon as they were drifting through the ranks of officers of the First and Second Armies. This was much more Alina’s prefered clique. She could mingle easily with generals and officers who’d actually fought their battles instead of preaching from on high.

Nikolai snorted into his champagne.

“Not a chance, Miss Starkov. Not a chance.”

“Really?” Alina blinked in surprise. “But…”

“Nope.” He shook his head, something coming over his expression that made Alina shut her mouth. She knew that she was set to present her powers to the court… but when? She looked up at Nikolai as he talked with General Pensky, discussing the new repeating rifle Fjerda was improving in low tones. She hovered nearby for a few moments, then pushed through the crowd and began to circle the room alone. Across the hall, she could see Nadia and Adrik speaking about something in low tones, their sapphire blue keftas winking in the candle-light overhead.

Alina’s eyes rose to regard the ceiling above, painted in a fresco of the Firebird, wings spread wide over the expanse as it flew over the steeples of the old Os Alta. The Old city had been burned to the ground by Fjerdan forces in their invasion in 1453, with the fall of Constantinople and end of the Byzantine Empire. Vauban had rebuilt and reinforced the old city’s walls before his death in 1707, the last job he’d undertaken in his lifetime. The odd, star-shaped pattern of the old city was not lost on the Russian dignitaries of Peter the Great who visited after the Tsar’s ascendancy in 1721. Catherine had been a great patron of the Ravkan court before the treaty of Os Kervo that split Ravka from a russian protecterate to an independent nation state.

Now, the great bear was at the gates again, with the Fjerdan dire-wolf and Shu Han phoenix eating away at Ravka’s borders. But it’d always been like this. Sandwiched between two great powers, Ravka was losing the war it had fought over centuries. Alina’s gaze lowered and she spotted Genya crossing the ballroom floor to speak with a fellow servant. With whatever being secured, she crossed to the dias and took her place at the Tsarina’s shoulder, winking at Alina as the crowd parted around her.

“Ah, Miss Starkov.” The velvety tones of the Darkling’s voice reached her ear before Alina even had time to register it. She jerked her eyes up to look him straight in the face and blinked in wide-eyed fear. The expression on his face was one of pure shock and anger.

“I see you’ve chosen to wear… the royal colors tonight.” He growled in her ear as he grabbed her left arm in his hand. His fingers encircled her elbow, digging tight into the flesh. “I thought I gave Miss Safin specific orders to burn this wretched piece of cloth.”

“And was your black kefta not the same?” Alina breathed. She didn’t want to be pulled away to some dark corner and beaten into submission. Whatever feelings of affection Alina had for him evaporated. Something within him frightened her senseless, and she twisted in his grasp. She was supposed to keep 30 feet away from him tonight, and yet, she’d let him pounce like some predatory animal.

“What’re you here for?” She asked, looking him in the eye and raising her voice to do so. Her features furrowed into a mask of calm acceptance, though every cell in her body was itching to blind him and kick him out from under her. Somewhere, she desperately hoped that Nikolai was watching everything.

“To escort you to the stage for your little performance.” He jerked her forwards, unsteadying her. Aina would’ve fallen flat had her boot not hit Nikolai’s. She smashed straight into his left side and he grabbed her, effortlessly scooping her up and placing her back on her feet without a murmur of protest.

“Kirigan.” Nikolai smirked.

“Moi Tsarevich.”

“I see you’ve rather upset Miss Starkov. Mind unhanding her?” His voice dropped, turning colder than Alina had ever heard it. The Darkling flinched visibly and the vice grip on Alina’s arm fell. Turning to thank him, she didn’t get the chance for the Darkling had Feydor and Ivan escort her to the stage. As she passed through the crowd, Alina saw Nikolai’s hazel eyes well with pain, adoration and something like love.

Then, she was swallowed up by the glittering gowns and colored keftas, and he melted back into the emerald and olive grove of the First Army. Alina wanted to reach for him, to pull him back. Most of all, she wanted to confess her innermost thoughts and feelings about her fox-prince. But, she couldn’t.

As the light spilled from her hands and filled the ballroom with golden light, all Alina thought of was the Darkling’s dark glare upon her. Never again would she fall into his good graces. Never would she in good conscience be safe with him. But some part of her, foolish and frightened as it was, wanted him. She wanted to be as powerful as he was, to rule alongside him. But logic had to win out in this case, certainly?

She raised her hands regardless, letting her light fill the room and decking their visitors in golden warmth. Let them feel the sunlight for once, let them realize that it was in this single moment that her holiness was something to be cherished. But the Darkling would use it for power. Certainly he wanted to destroy the Fold, but she was little more than the piece that would unlock a world beyond Kiribirisk. She was his queen, his Sol Koroleva. She would have no future if she would not bend the knee - to survive meant submission.

So, she did. With some scraping and bowing, Alina found herself being dragged from the ballroom in a cloak of shadows. She tried desperately not to think of what the Darkling intended for her as his lips found hers in his darkened office. His hands on her kefta’s folds, proclaiming the emerald silk as a sin… all of that heat made her forget just how much she hated him.

Get up. Wake up, Alina

But she couldn’t. His kisses were like opium, dragging her under into a whirlpool of deceit and danger. If she forgot herself, she’d be lost forever. Too soon for his liking, Alina was pulling back, putting her hand up to deflect his affections.

“No.” She whimpered. “Please, no.”

“You shift so suddenly, Milaya.” The Darkling growled, reaching up to touch her cheek. “Are your affections perhaps… misplaced?”

“N-no!” She stammered, feeling the sharp bite of the wooden armoire she’d been so easily shoved into by his greedy hands. Outside, raucous song and laughter pierced the air and someone bumping into the door made Alina stir for hope of an interruption. Yet, the Darkling’s arm to steady the door dashed her desires into shards.

A swift knock at the inner door to the Darkling’s western sitting room stirred him from his hungry langour and he snapped:

“Who is it?”

“Ivan, *Moi Soveryeni. The trackers have arrived with news of Morozova’s Herd. I showed them to the library.”

“Bring them here. At once.”

“Yes,” Ivan murmured from behind the blackened oak wood, and Alina twisted in the Darkling’s grasp as his footsteps receded.

Within minutes, Ivan had returned with a team of trackers… and Mal.

Alina, who’d not seen her childhood friend in half a year, stilled dead at the sight of him. She, her kefta and skirts hiked up to her knees, being pinned against an armoire in rooms so certainly the Black Generals, made Mal’s face whiten, then flush with color.

“Alina.” He snapped, coming to her as the Darkling was quickly distracted by an incoming telegram. “What in the Saints name-”

“I didn’t ask for this!” She hissed, her voice filled with panic and fear. She looked up at him in hopes that he’d be on her side, but suddenly, the cold look on his face frightened her. His face was a mask of pure fury, and he looked down at her gloved hands in disgust and pity.

“Shameful, spreading your legs. Have you no honor?” He leered. “And I saw you in that throne room with all your pretty little lights. You’re a freak.”

“F-freak.” She stammered, rage filling her. “I am this blasted country’s savior, you ass.” She growled. Her anger of months of no letters and the hunger of being held back by a need to protect him exploded out in a verbal diatribe that went deep and hard.

Mal barely blinked. He shifted easily from foot to foot as she snarled and snapped her teeth, looking strangely bored. Then, when she’d finished and leaned against the Darkling’s desk with her eyes popped wide, he struck back. The Darkling had vacated his rooms in search of Feydor and a proper map of Northern Ravka, so only Alina heard Mal’s cruel, pointed and poisoned words.

“I know you don’t really feel that way, Alina. You’ve just been isolated for too long. Stuck up in this palace. You don’t know what you’re saying, what you’re feeling. Evidently this grisha magic’s gotten into your head. It made you think and see things that aren’t really happening.” He scoffed.

“Besides, how could anyone really love you? You’re just some weak stick from Kermazin who got lucky one day. You’re probably half mad with hysteria. You of all girls know how easy it is to get one's humors unbalanced.” He added, turning on his heel. Alina’s eyes swam with tears and she vainly threw a hand over her mouth to suppress her broken sobs.

“N-no, I am not mad!” She cried, lurching after him on her unsteady feet. “I’m not! Please, Mal, I’m sorry!”

“Besides, what do you matter to me anyways? You seem to have settled in nicely in this grand palace and forgotten all about us in the First Army. Typical, bratty Alina, always doing what’s best for her and no one else.” He sniffed, his hand on the door. As he watched her limp towards him, Mal laughed cruelly.

“Still trailing after me like some wet, damp, floundering puppy. Enjoy the rest of your Saint Nikolai feast day, Sobachka.” He winked, then slammed the door shut. The strength of his movement extinguished the lamps and Alina fell to her knees in tears. She pressed her forehead to her sweating palms and wept openly. Her pain made her curl in on herself as the rage and sadness of so many months in splendid isolation crept over her like some dark fog.

Raising her head, Alina glared up at the skylight to the moon overhead, and opened her palm. A faint glimmer of light pulsed there, and she closed her fist around it. Tucking her hand to her chest, she leaned forwards and laid her head against the cold obsidian and marble checkered floor. The coldness of the stone leached the warmth from her skin, and Alina briefly wondered if she could die here of a broken heart.

Yet, a movement got her up. She was barely able to register what was happening, but suddenly strong arms wrapped around her. Alina found herself being dragged through a hidden bookshelf doorway in the Darkling’s library. Down a steep set of spiral staircases she was carried, her booted feet hitting the step at each turn. Whoever was carrying her groaned from the pain.

“W-where are you taking me?” She asked.

“Away.” The voice replied, and Alina realized that Baghra was carrying her.

“Baghra?” Alina breathed, craning her head.

“Put your head down, or your jugular’ll get cut open when we get down to the basement. There’s stalgamites down here, girl.” With a swift wrench of her hand, Baghra had yanked Alina’s gloves off and dumped her like a sack of potatoes onto the floor. Looking up at her, Alina breathed in wide-eyed amazement. She’d seen Baghra looking younger the day her power had finally manifested, but this… this was different.

Inky black curls poured down the woman’s back and her face was youthful, perhaps a few years Alina’s senior. She adjusted her mourning sarafan and paisley shawl, then leaned forwards in her black leather button-boots.

“Get up and do cease looking so gormless. Now, what can you tell me, girl?”

“A-about what?” Alina looked confused, glancing around her. A flickering candle lent them only a little light, and she had to squint to see. Baghra’s expression remained hardened and her lips thinned into a line. Suddenly, the stick that the old woman had so recently used as a crutch came down upon Alina’s leg with a hard thwack

“Ow!”

“The stag, Girl! I don’t care if the Darkling tried to rid your head of conscious thought, but you must’ve learned something!”

Alina blinked, remembering the words before Mal’s outburst. She blinked rapidly, trying to recall it, then the memories came unbidden and she lurched forwards. Gripping her kefta’s skirts in her hand, Alina shuddered and shook her head.

“H-he found the herd. The trackers he sent… did.” She breathed, then noted Baghra’s whitened face. “I-is that bad? I thought that the stag was a good thing-”

“No, you foolish girl, it is not! If the Darkling gains power over the stag and places it on your neck, he controls your power. What is given freely is also taken freely. Like calls to like and all of that old nonsense.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and paced back and forth.

“Nikolai! Genya!” She called out suddenly. Alina’s eyes widened as Nikolai emerged first, brushing shadows from his coat like they were lint dust. At his shoulder, Genya emerged secondly, dressed in a peasant’s sarafan and brightly colored shawl. Both of them were dressed in peasant clothes and looked entirely joyous about it.

“We don’t have much time. I need you out of these clothes. Put on the sarafan and hide your hair. The moment you’re ready, I’ll explain.” Baghra shoved Alina behind a worn wooden changing screen, and the sun summoner quickly tore off her kefta and pulled on the weathered peasant dress and matching shoes. Her hair was left untouched, though she did pull a headscarf over it.

As soon as she was done, Alina poked her head out and blinked owlishly at Baghra.

“Yes?”

“Right. Your main job is to get to West Ravka, and from there, safety.” Baghra explained, casting a pointed glance at Nikolai, who nodded and offered her a courtly bow and grin. “Oh, do stop it, Sobachka.” She smacked his arm fondly, though a grim smile did cross her face.

“W-what about the Stag?” Alina asked. “Shouldn’t we intercept the hunting part-”

“Not a chance.” Baghra snapped, looking now to Genya. “Your job is to get to safety as quickly as you can. The travelling troupes are leaving before the midnight bell. There’s a caravan of Kerch who’ve come to replay the Komedie Brute. Their carriage is large enough to hide three peasant adults.” She pulled out three small coin bags and passed them each to their respective owners, then handed off three different items.

For Nikolai, she gave him a collapsible long-glass, which he slipped into a pants pocket. Genya received several vials of plant matter, which she tied to her own belt alongside her coin purse. Alina received a new pair of gloves, except not fitted with mirrors. Hers were fingerless, and stitched with gold thread in the shapes of little sunbeams.

“Fabrikator made. They’ll help dull your light when you cast.” Baghra explained gruffly. She made a vague shooing motion, a soft smile finally cracking her face. “Travel well, you three. May the saints watch over your wretched souls.” She paused, then looked to Nikolai.

“Nikolasha?” She asked as Genya helped Alina button her coat. Nikolai turned from examining his new long-glass and stared Baghra in the eye. “Keep an eye out for hawks in the trees, and shadows in your path.” She kissed his cheek, and to his ears alone, added: “I love you, Moi Lyubov. I will always be your mother whenever you need me.”

Her face hardened again and she nodded curtly at Alina. “Travel safely, Sun Summoner. May good fortune find you in the West.” She murmured, the traditional parting greeting for travelers. Alina smiled, bowed her head.

“And may peace find you in the eastern rays of the morning sun.” She repeated, giving the old woman a little wave of farewell. Genya kissed both of Baghra’s cheeks and received a whispered exchange of adoration. Then, something else:

“I’ll ensure that he never comes to touch you again. You are safe now, Moya Milaya.”

Genya sniffled, and gently kissed Baghra’s cheek affectionately. Then, with a wave of her hand, Alina led them off into the darkness of the caverns below the palace. Before them lay West Ravka, and behind lay only pain, fear and the threat of loss of everything dear.

It was with heavy hearts and light feet that the three misfits and bastards fled to the sanctuary they so deserved - Os Kervo, and beyond that, the whole world.

End of chapter 5.

[skitskatdacat63]

In true tradition, here are my thoughts on my drawings, because it was in fact: 7 AM

Okay so Fernando I is, as stated, super ostentatious. Why? Because it fits him but also because it's based on the real life guy. In all the paintings I could find of Philip V, in most of them he is wearing at least some kind of armor, and if not, is dressed pretty dramatically imo. And I will not be drawing a full set of armor, but it felt a bit weird to leave it our entirely so. Also historically I do think it's so interesting he was portrayed this way, since he was described as someone who was "only interested in outward decorum and brave only in battle."(again: how fernando coded hahaha)

See! Super dramatic! Also I made this meme that is only comprehensible to me

Seriously, why is he pointing in half of his paintings???? I couldn't find a concrete answer so I will give my personal analysis 😤 I like to think that it's symbolism for how he's always moving forward, like "here's will I go will go next!" ....or the artists just couldn't figure out what to do with his hands, I feel the struggle.

Oh also important to note!! His heels!! I am obsessed with this fashion detail from the time:

Nandopoleon is super important to me, it's why @sweatyflytrap and I became friends in the first place 🥺🥺🥺 so it felt very surreal to draw him because I've been thinking about him for a while. I want to make an actual web weave with quotes lined up with Fernando's career, or stuff comparing their personalities. Or draw him recreating one of the iconic paintings(probably the one with Napeoleon crowning himself emperor, I think it's fitting.) But to draw him in that classic pose, im very happy :)

And as I said already, Hussars are very fun to draw because it is such a general AU. The joy of it is more about figuring out how to incorporate the details of the real life racesuits to the uniform. If I didn't only primarily love to draw Fernando and Seb, i would be like "request a driver for the Hussar AU!" But I don't know how well that would go 😭

Anyways end of post. I think the reason why I've been feeling a lot more creatively driven and passionate is because it's a lot easier to draw so much when you know other people will be interested/want to discuss it with you! I used to have a friend that I would talk a lot about my OCs with, and guess what, back then I drew a lot more of them than I do now. It's not that I need outside validation to draw, I draw plenty for myself, but more that it makes me feel more happy about it, because I know that I'll get to talk about it with other people and see other people's thoughts, rather than just me being the sole participant. As you guys know, I like to talk. A lot. So it's very nice for it not all to be in my head(I am crazy) 😭😭 So thank you to everyone for your continued interest <3 you sustain me 🥺🥺

[apieters]

CHARGE!

In This Scene

As they got into their teenage years, André Caron and Chris Carnovo drifted apart a bit. Chris continued to be involved in privateering but was also involved in theatre in his young adulthood, specifically opera and ballet. André, meanwhile, pursued a career in the cavalry.

André joined a regiment of Prince Henri “the Charming’s” household, the Black Hussars. The regiment was named after its black uniforms and black horses, and for its dark reputation of hunting dangerous criminals and outlaws. André quickly rose through the ranks and became its captain. At one point, the regiment had a young stallion that refused to be tamed. André decided to take him for a ride to wear him out, but the horse bolted, careening down the street and causing a general ruckus. Soon, however, André realized what was going on—the horse had spotted an apple cart and wanted treats. André managed to get the horse under control and took it back to the garrison, sternly warning him never to do that again. However, the next morning the horse found André with a bag of apples, and from then on the horse refused to be ridden by anyone but André.

The horse was named Shadow, and he would remain André’s loyal steed until the young man’s disappearance just before the Reign of Terror, when a new captain claimed the horse for himself: the infamous Tristan L’Hermite, the Black Knight.

Behind the Scenes

This was another picture that sat around for months before I decided what to do with it—long enough that I forgot how I managed to draw the horse, Shadow! I’ve really wanted to learn how to draw horses for a while, and so I decided to draw André on his horse, who plays a key role in Swashbucklers of the Magic Kingdom.

I’m pretty sure that I initially traced a painting I found on Pinterest of a Napoleonic cavalryman, taking it down to its foundational shapes. Then, I used that initial construction-shape tracing as my drawing reference for Shadow. So I actually did manage to draw a horse all by myself!

But why do horses have so many joints…?

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Penman47 asked: Please explain why Prince Harry was stripped of his service medals by the queen. I have always heard that Harry served with distinction so what happened? Any idea how members of the armed forces felt about this action?

No, not quite true. There is a confusion between medals and titles.

Harry has not been stripped of his service medals - those earned in actual military service. But he was stripped of his honorific titles which was part of the deal/price (delete as appropriate) when he decided to step down as a working royal and make a new life with his wife, Meghan Markle, and pursue other life goals. Honorific titles are totally at the pleasure of HM Queen Elizabeth II - she can giveth and she can taketh away, so to speak.

Let’s unpack this a bit more.

Prince Harry spent ten years in the British Army. After passing out of the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, he was first commissioned as a Cornet (second lieutenant) with the  (Blues and Royals regiment (Household Cavalry) and later in the Army Air Corps as an Apache combat co-pilot, where he rose to the rank of Captain. He served in Afghanistan on two tours on the frontline and shared the same risks as everyone on the frontline. As a consequence he was awarded the Operational Service Medal for Afghanistan in 2008, as all soldiers who served did. In 2002, Prince Harry was also given the Queen's Golden Jubilee Medal which was awarded to active personnel in the British Armed Forces and Emergency Personnel who had completed 5 years of qualifying service. In 2012 he was awarded the Queen Elizabeth II Diamond Jubilee Medal. This was a was a commemorative medal created in 2012 to mark the 60th anniversary of Queen Elizabeth II's accession in 1952. I think about 450,000 medals were awarded only to members of HM Armed Forces (regular and reserves) who had served longer than five years.

In 2015, Prince Harry was made Knight Commander of the Royal Victorian Order (KCVO). The Royal Victorian Order is a dynastic order of knighthood established in 1896 by Queen Victoria. It recognises distinguished personal service to the reigning British monarch. It was awarded at the discretion of the Queen. She clearly thought Harry merited such an award for his years of royal service. In other words, he earned it as a royal.

In February 2022 Prince Harry was awarded the Queen's Platinum Jubilee Medal which is a commemorative medal created to mark the 70th anniversary of Queen Elizabeth II's accession in 1952. It was awarded to people across many walks of life and professions. Within the Armed forces, it was given to personnel who had completed 5 years of service by 2022. It was also given to members of the Royal Household with at least one year of service.

Prince Harry was also given other foreign awards such as the Order of Isabella the Catholic by Spain in 2017.

So one way or another Prince Harry earned his medals, in or out of uniform. In other words, as a civilian, he has every right to wear his earned medals and show justifiable pride in them - as any veteran might.

Titles are another thing entirely. Members of the Royal Family all have honorific titles that have links to the armed forces in one way or another. These honorific titles are given to working royals are done solely at the pleasure of HM Queen Elizabeth II. In other words, a royal doesn’t need to have done military service to be honoured in such a way.

Take one of my favourite royals, Anne, Princess Royal. She has received promotions to the rank of General in the Army and to Air Chief Marshal in the RAF and then later rank of Admiral in the Royal Navy. This follows the long-standing convention of military promotions for working members of the Royal Family. She also holds honorific titles in various regiments such as colonel of the Blues and Royals (Royal Horse Guards and 1st Dragoons) and colonel-in-chief of the King’s Royal Hussars, Royal Army Veterinary Corps, Royal Corps of Signals, the Royal Logistical Corps etc etc. She also acts as honorary patron of many military themed associations such as the Special Forces Club. You get the idea. The point is soldiers or veterans are rightly proud of having Anne as their colonel-in-chief or as their patron even though she hasn’t served. She is a tireless and dedicated servant and is an accomplished woman in her own right.

So before his dramatic exit from royal life he held three various honorific titles from around 2006 to February 2022. These were: Captain General of the Royal Marines, Honorary Air Commandant of RAF Honington, and Commodore-in-Chief, Small Ships and Diving, Royal Naval Command. By all accounts he was incredibly proud to serve in this capacity and he took it seriously, as one should do.

When he ceased to be a working royal and thus withdraw from royal public life, it was right and correct that he should return those honorific military titles back to the Crown. He is not entitled to wear the military uniform because he left the armed services after his two tours in Afghanistan. He could wear the uniform whilst he held the honorific titles as a working royal but that would come to and end when he stepped back from being a royal of course. As a civilian and as a non-royal he is of course - and should - wear his earned medals with pride.

People are getting worked up for nothing about Prince Harry and confusing medals and uniforms with royal protocols. As things stand only working members of the royal family who hold military rank are allowed to wear military uniforms. This explains why Prince Andrew - lest not forget before his sordid fall from grace was also a combat veteran who served as a Royal Navy pilot in the Falklands War - is also wearing a morning suit rather than a military uniform at his mother’s funeral. Like Prince Harry, he is wearing a morning suit and wearing his earned medals.

As to what army veterans think about this, I can’t speak for everyone of course. I can only say from the few conversations I have had with ex-comrades that I served with or other currently serving in the armed forces. All of them will agree what I’ve said here, which is what’s with all the fuss? Harry should wear his medals with pride as a veteran but shouldn’t wear the uniform because he’s a civilian, and not working royal.

When you add Meghan Markle and the whole media driven drama around their new lives in the US into the mix, then I’m afraid the opinions are quite divisive. That’s my polite way of saying they think it’s a shit show and many pity Prince Harry for being such a cuck.

I have a more charitable opinion however.

I have every fondness for Prince Harry. I can’t bring myself to say a bad word about him because, deep down I think he has a good heart. Sure, we all can make bad life choices - who hasn’t? - but fundamentally our character remains the same.

Moreover, unlike previous and present royals - with the exception of his grandfather, Prince Philip, who did active naval service during the Second World War and his uncle Prince Andrew, who as a naval officer flew Sea King helicopters during the Falklands War - he didn’t play the ceremonial toy soldier. After Eton he worked his arse off to get through Sandhurst and got commissioned with the Blues and Royals regiment. Trust me, as someone who has gone through Sandhurst, you do not get a free pass. You take your future role as an officer deadly seriously for serving men’s lives are in your hands. Upon the outbreak of war in Iraq, he was alleged to have said around 2006, “There's no way I'm going to put myself through Sandhurst and then sit on my arse back home while my boys are out fighting for their country.”

So he fought so hard to go out and fight for Queen and Country as a royal. The military chiefs relented at first and then later got cold feet and pulled him out. But he did see active service with the British forces in Afghanistan with two tours. By all accounts he acquitted himself very well as a Forward Air Controller in Helmand Province and later as a co-pilot and gunner on Apache helicopters. I served in the Army Air Corps after his tour and by all accounts he was seen as a good egg. He was widely respected and accepted by rank and file because he was down to earth and never asked for special treatment.  He wasn’t a typical ‘Rupert’ - a squaddie’s nickname given to British army officers who typically came from privileged aristocratic backgrounds but were also ‘nice but dim witted’.

On top of his service, he went out of his way to establish the Invictus games which was for wounded, injured and sick servicemen and women, both serving and veterans in 2014. People often overlook how invaluable these games are for veterans. Of course that’s where he met Meghan Markle and well, the rest is history, or a Netflix drama in the works.

At the end of the day, I wish people would cut some slack to Prince Harry himself. The poor man is here to mourn his beloved grandmother and yet has the misfortune to do so in the glare of millions. Many are watching every move to tease out any clue to fuel further scandals and bust ups. Frankly I find it all quite tawdry and disrespectful to the late Queen whose memory we’re supposed to be honouring.

Thanks for your question.

[erzherzog-von-edelstein]

Marital Negotiations

Summary: For the fifth day of @historical-hetalia-week . After his marriage, Austria talks candidly with his wife about their roles in the empire. This is not AusHun in a romantic sense; their marriage is political.

Characters: Austria and Hungary

Time Period and Prompt: 1867, Music

Word Count: 1.6K

Austria sat with a sigh and flipped open the cover over the keys. He ran his hand softly over the well-worn black and white keys. They felt friendly and familiar, and like exactly what he needed when the world felt so uncertain. It felt like he was in the midst of an upheaval and he needed to touch something that felt familiar.

There was so much on his mind, and he just needed a moment with something he knew well. He placed his hands in the familiar position and allowed himself to think of what suited his emotions. He didn’t need sheet music. He would play directly from the heart, and it would allow him to hear what he was feeling.

 It was no mystery what he was feeling. It was bubbling up in his chest so badly that he could not contain it. He had left a court function for the comfort of his own piano because he could no longer repress the emotions. 

They needed to escape, and if not in music, then it would come out in words and actions. He felt certain that he could make his escape from the formalities of court life because the emperor had already done so. Franz Joseph had said that he had work to attend to and had left for his study. Austria saw no reason why he should stay for the entertainment of the nobility. He found it increasingly difficult to care about anyone’s opinion except the emperor’s.

He pressed down the first key and the music flowed instinctually from there. It was Mozart, something familiar from another time. A time when he had been certain of his place in the world, and when his power had seemed less uncertain.

 Yet, it was not Mozart at his more successful and vibrant. This was the requiem that he had written at the end of his life, full of a kind of ethereal melancholy. It seemed fitting to Austria. The sounds of a once great composer facing uncertainty and the possibility of ruin were soothing to him. 

He couldn’t help but see the mirror of his own situation in the wake of his loss to Prussia. As an empire he was at his most precarious, and it seemed that even the measures he had taken to shore up the foundations would put returning to his old glory out of reach. 

As his hands moved, he thought even more acutely about the way forward and the pragmatic marriage that he had already accepted. It would not make him happy, but that was hardly the goal. It was for the good of the empire, and it was all that he could have done. He continued to play, pouring all of the anxieties in his heart into the music. It was cathartic to let loose his emotions, which he had masked for weeks underneath layers of courtly formality. 

He only broke out of his thoughts when he heard a voice say, “So, this is where you went.” 

The voice was unwelcome, as was the person it belonged to. Austria’s hands stopped on the keys and the music died in the air. Only then did he look up at Hungary, who was standing in the doorway. She had a glass of wine in her hand, so she had clearly come directly from the frivolities to find him. 

He did not respond, but he did meet her gaze so that it was clear that he had heard her. He was glad that she was wearing gloves over her ring, so that he did not have to be reminded of who he was married to. The dress she was wearing was a surprise since it had been her tradition in recent years to wear a Hussar’s uniform to spite him. He could not guess at why she had made the change.

Hungary spoke as she settled herself into one of the spare seats avaliable for when he gave performances, “Why did you leave? Shall I guess?” 

He made an irritated noise in his throat at the question. She was his wife, and he supposed that he owed her an answer, but it was far too complicated. He simply said, “Guess if you must.” 

She took a drink of the wine before saying, “I do not think that you want to me seen sitting next to me. It is repulsive to you that you may have to appear to be my husband where others will see it.” 

He let out a long sigh. It was not so simple, and he was struggling to put it into words. He did not resent her entirely; he resented what the marriage meant about his own weakness. But he would also be lying if he said that he did not resent the match since she had been a particular thorn in his side since the revolutions. 

He said evasively, “You already know that this was for the good of the empire.” She looked utterly unconvinced as she retorted, “You would have rather had Bohemia until Sisi insisted otherwise.” 

He hated how correct she was, and that he had no counter. He had agreed because Franz Joseph loved his wife and the Empress loved Hungary. It had all been a process of compromise. 

He sighed again and immediately saw her roll her eyes at him. He imagined it was because he was acting every inch the melodramatic aristocrat. But he felt entitled to his melancholy, and the frustrations that came with it.

He turned on the piano bench so that he was facing her. She met his glare unflinchingly. He said, “Do you know what moment in my life made me feel the weakest I have ever felt? It was in 1487 when you took Vienna from me. You humiliated me then and it convinced me that I could never appear that weak again.” 

He remembered it clearly and had been revisiting that memory more often since the wedding. Then she had been more than petty and incalcitrant; she had been younger and ambitious and so quick to smugly proclaim her conquests. It was hard to think that he was married to the person who had once ripped his own capital from him.

She shook her head with a look of incredulity. She replied, with a look bordering on disgust, “So you decided then that you had to subjugate me to show your own strength? Should I remind you that twenty years ago you retook Budapest and built a fortress on the highest point to remind me that I would never have my autonomy?” 

There was something supremely comforting to him in the argument. It was the familiar way that they had interacted for so long, and it made so much more sense to him than trying to negotiate a marriage. 

Before he could volley back, she stopped herself and said, “Is this what we are going to do, Roderich? Are we going to keep measuring our grievances against each other until one of us gets to be the winner?” 

He couldn’t help but feel disappointed that she was refusing to take the bait that he was offering. He said, dismissively, “Well, I think that we can both see who won. Whenever you get tired of pretending here, you will go back to Budapest and have all the autonomy that you desire.” 

He was not certain why she was even pretending that they should act like spouses when she had the ability to do exactly what she had always wanted. Hungary leaned forward and said, “I know that you think this is to keep me from rebelling, but have you considered that you aren’t alone now?” 

Austria was taken aback. He asked, being genuine in his curiosity for the first time in the conversation, “What do you mean?” 

She heard the shift in his tone, and he saw the way that the slightest smile appeared on her face. It made him feel the strangest kind of warmth at the thought that she did not want to undermine him. He had spent so many years treating her as an unreliable subordinate that it felt strange to break from those thoughts. 

She answered him. “You have been mistaken about me for a very long time. You have always acted like my goal was to tear you down. All I have ever wanted was to be treated like an equal. Now that I have just as much stake in the empire, I will do everything in my power to support and protect it. You know I am the strongest part of the empire, and together we will be even stronger.” 

Austria had not thought about it in those terms and realized that he may have been underestimating their alliance. He knew that he was showing the dawning realization on his face, and that she must see it. She continued, “You do not have to sit on the throne alone anymore.” 

Austria smiled and said, “Well, perhaps we can make peace with each other, and the empire will be better for it.” 

He felt a strange weight lift off of his shoulders as he said it. The burden of worrying about Hungary’s intentions had been weighing him down far more than he had realized. If he could count on her to work towards the same goal, then the empire may not be in the dire situation that he had anticipated. 

She smiled and said, “I wore this dress to show you that I can compromise. I know you prefer the dress to a uniform, so I wore one. I am willing to work with you, no matter our past disagreements.” 

Austria hadn’t even considered that the dress was supposed to be sending a message to him, one that he had clearly missed. He replied, “Erszi, I may have underestimated you.” She said immediately, “Haven’t you always?”

 He chuckled and realized how long it had been since he had let himself laugh at a joke. It was more pleasant than any interaction they had in the last ten years.

She set aside the empty wine glass before standing and extending a hand to him. She said as she did so, “All that I am asking is that you make an effort.” 

He took her hand and stood up. He simply responded, “Let’s go back.”

[kaxenart]

I have such a love/hate relationship with character sheets and diagrams. But I need to avoid proportions and details from going too funky.

Parzival needs a new character sheet. Also I need to make decisions on horse sizes. Brutus is the tallest horse of the main characters' horses.

...I have no idea why I drew 4 Lejeune outfits when only ADC to Berthier is the only one that matters to Handsome Hussars.

....also Lejeune describes the Art Corps outfit in more detail than anything he wears after the 1812 campaign.

Lejeune, probably: Every uniform after is downhill from my masterpiece. What's the point.

[snowfall-fanfictions]

Ice, Fire, and Shadow

FFN link

Ao3 link

A dragon, a soldier and an assassin. When Elsa's missing and Arendelle has no one else to turn to, teaming those three up seems to be the answer - if only they didn't try to kill each other. Crossover with CallenAmakuni, @snowdragon4, and @snowfall-in-summer.

“I’m not paid enough for this.”

A long sigh heaved from deep within Garret’s chest while he ran a hand through his crimson hair. He had been standing in front of the door for little more than half an hour – the ants he felt walking all over his legs were starting up a colony, apparently. He brought his gaze down to his shifting feet.

“Could have put out a couple chairs, at least,” he said, his annoyance growing with every minute he spent fidgeting on his spot, waiting for a colonel that might very well have left home.

The latter had asked for him, yet he still didn’t know where, when and for what. Garret had resorted to waiting in front of his office and had considered knocking once or twice.

“Better not to try my luck.”

The colonel had always been considerate, but Garret’s teammates always told him stories of subordinates getting in disproportionate trouble for the tiniest mistakes. When hierarchy was involved, safe wasn’t only the better choice. It was the only choice. He finally clasped his hands behind his back and dejectedly decided to wait some more – he had already gone that far.

Standing alone with his mind, his thoughts inevitably went back to the fiasco.

“God-freaking-dammit.”

The instructions were simple: he wasn’t supposed to use the asset outside direct orders. It had more or less been a tacit accord of his strike team’s commander with the higher staff and he knew that. Then why did he have to disobey that command the only time it was explicitly specified? Why did he use it the only time when it was not only unnecessary but also detrimental to the mission? Why was he so stupid?

He angrily clapped his boot on the cold wood beneath him in a tentative attempt to evacuate some of his frustration – he couldn’t let his superior see that he was angry at himself. And of course, that same superior had chosen that exact moment to open his office’s door.

“Got something under your foot, soldier?” the colonel asked with a lifted eyebrow. His proud bushy mustache was one privilege among the plethora of perks his rank inferred. Among those perks was the ability to reprimand his men. “Want some rocks to step on?”

Garret immediately stood upright and saluted sharply. “No, sir. Squished a bug, sir.” Bluff seemed to be his strategy.

The colonel kept his eyebrow up. “Do I want to ask you to lift your boot, soldier?”

The strategy was quickly proving ineffective.

“N-No, sir.”

The colonel breathed a sigh that made his entire body sink down. “Come in, son,” he said, stepping aside to leave Garret enough space to go into his small office. The room was well-lit, perfectly organized and without any embellishment. A fitting setting for the man. The colonel sat at his desk and clasped his hands together over it. Garret stayed on his feet – he hadn’t been invited to sit.

“Do you know why I called you in?” the older man said once he finished examining him.

“I have an idea about it, sir.”

“All right, then. That saves you some uncomfortable small talk. You know you fucked up.”

“I do, sir.”

“And you know how sensitive it is that your…abilities…remain a secret.”

“Yes, sir.”

The colonel dropped his arms to rest on the table. His gaze visibly hardened. “Then you’ll understand our decision to send you away for a little while.”

Garret’s felt his heart fall. “Send- Send me away, sir?”

The colonel somberly nodded. “Exactly. For at least four months.”

“Two months? What am I gonna do for four bloody months?” Garret blurted out without thinking, forgetting the protocol in the process.

The sanction was instantaneous. “Watch your tongue, soldier, or I’ll make it a whole year.”

Garret immediately got his bearings back, realising how out of line he was. “Sir, yes, sir.”

“Officially, you’re going to investigate a creature sighting in foreign territory,” the colonel explained once his glare softened a bit. “Unofficially, I don’t give a cow’s tit what you do. You’re to leave the country tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? B-But I have to say farewell to…”

“It’s an order, son. Order from him,” the colonel finished with an insistent glance. “I wouldn’t discuss anything further. The boat’s waiting. Report at London Port first thing in the morning. See you in two months. Dismissed.”

The words were final, ringing in Garret’s ears like the blunt impact of the hammer that had just fallen.

“Un-Understood, sir.”

As he turned around to leave, he heard the colonel’s normal voice, the one that sounded warm and welcoming, the one he would usually never use when wearing his uniform. “Sorry, soldier. Wish we could have handled this any differently.”

“Yeah. I know,” Garret answered before closing the door behind him.

 —:0:—

The morning’s atmosphere was chilly, humid and heavy. The port was starting to wake up even though the sun was still nowhere to be seen, its light replaced instead by the faint glow of smelly oil lamps. Bringing his coat closer to his body, Garret adjusted his small satchel over his shoulder. He sighed when he noticed the dense fog escaping out of the sailors’ mouths, lifting up to blend into the vapor of the buzzing docks’ heavy machinery. He’d have to look like he was feeling the cold.

“All right, fellas?” he greeted when he reached the hull of the vessel he had been assigned to.

Nobody answered him, but a young one disappeared into the deck and came back accompanied by a man with a hat that seemed to be the captain. “Cheers, mate. You the special cargo?” that same man called.

Garret rolled his eyes. Of course, they would call him that. “That’d be me, yeah.”

“Come on-board,” he said as he threw a rope ladder his way. “We got instructions to get you out of here.”

Garret climbed in, quickly getting used to the slight swaying of the ship. He could tell she was military in design, civilian in aspect. “So where are we taking her?” were his first words.

The captain removed his hat and started wiping the dust off its edges. “You are not takin’ anythin’ anywhere. You just sit tight. We are droppin’ you off where the brass told us to drop you off.”

Garret’s shoulders slightly slumped down. The trip was going to be fun. “And where would that be?” he asked.

The captain put on his hat again, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “A small place up North. They said it’s called Arendelle.”

—:0:—

Eryn downed another tankard of ale. This was at least his third one today. He always found himself back in Karnisvarne after each successful kill. This time it was some medium ranking general in the Southern Isles army. He couldn’t be bothered to remember the details, he normally stopped caring about that after he was paid. And he was handsomely rewarded for the kill, even securing a bonus for shifting the blame onto some fresh private. It may not have been the most honorable thing, but money is indeed money.

He was still in his travelling attire; his brown travelling cloak draped over his shoulders like a fancy cape, covering his plain looking shirt. His boots were still caked with dirt from the quick escape he had to make when he put a bullet between the general’s eyes. Eryn’s raven black hair was windswept from when he and Magni bolted out of the camp to the nearest port. Now in the calm of the tavern, Eryn looked like a disheveled mess compared to everyone else

Eryn sat at the bar, carefully studying the other patrons. There were only a few other people in the tavern along with him. Everyone else was busy toiling out in the fields for meager pay, or up in the city for some festival. Eryn could care less about what happened in Arendelle proper, since they seemed not to care about anyone but themselves. He nursed another tankard in his hands while he listened to some of the conversations happening.

“There’s a nip in the air. Not good for crops…”

“Lyin’ whore. Kid obviously ain’t mine.”

“Bullshit! Snowmen can’t talk…”

“Ya hear about the queen bringing in one of them ‘Dragon Knights?’”

Eryn perked up at that last conversation. Dragons? You have my attention. Two men were seated a few seats away from him at the bar, hunched over with their own tankards. Eryn leaned in closer to listen in on their conversation.

“Hell’s a dragon knight?” One of the men asked.

“Agh. Warriors from buttfuck ‘who cares’,” his friend replied. “One of ‘em’s here for the festival.”

“What’re they doing here?”

“Probably for the queen, but who cares? Freaks of nature the lot of them. The whore’s magic could easily make her a target for the likes of them…”

Eryn contemplated this information for a moment. If the Dragon Knights were renowned warriors, what would people think of a man who could kill a Dragon Knight? That’s when a spark of inspiration hit him like-

A Dragon Knight?! Are you out of your mind, Odrikson?! a familiar voice rang in his head.

Eryn pulled his dagger out of its sheath. It was an ancient looking blade, with an ebony grip and a rough looking edge. Etched into it were a series of runes which currently glowed bright red.

C’mon! An opportunity like this comes once in a lifetime! he mentally retorted.

That’s what at least three of your predecessors said before they all met their ends. Dragon Knights are not meant to be taken lightly, Odrikson, they-

How hard can it be?

THEY ARE DRAGONS, BOY!

Bah, that’s probably just some propaganda to scare folks into respecting them. Like ‘Winged Hussars.’ And since when have you been an expert in ancient knighthood orders?

Since when have you been an idiot? I assure you, that title is not simply honorary. If you try to fight a Dragon Knight, you will die!

You said that for at least three different jobs we took.

Yes, and if it weren’t for me, you would be dead! Besides, didn't we just get done with a kill not a few hours ago? 

Well, Adrenaline is still pumping. I guess. 

Odrikson….

Bah, quit blabbering. We’re off to Arendelle proper.

Eryn sheathed the dagger and got up from the bar. He fished around in his pocket for a few gold coins and made his way out of the tavern. This was a perfect opportunity! If he killed this “Dragon Knight,” the whole damned world would know who Eryn Odrikson was. It would be impossible to go anywhere and find someone not talking about how a master assassin killed such a prestigious warrior. Eryn wasn’t quite sure what a dragon knight looked like, but he was certain he would know as soon as he saw one.

Entering the stables, Eryn saddled up Magni, his horse, and readied up. With the shout of “Magni! Beveg seg!” the black stallion darted out of the stables onto the north road.

That Dragon Knight is mine, Eryn thought to himself as Karnisvarne disappeared behind him.

 —:0:—

The Great Thaw Festival Observance, or GTFO as Princess Anna put it, was to be a new tradition in Arendelle after the events that took place one year ago today.  After what seemed like hours of pleading, Queen Elsa finally relented to her sister’s wishes to host the festivities.  The contrast in the sisters' personalities had never been more evident than when the festival was decided on.  Elsa saw it as the day she lost control and the kingdom found out about her secrets, Anna saw it as the day they became sisters again and the gates to their kingdom had been opened. 

Either way she looked at it, Elsa couldn’t help but feel a little excited about the upcoming events. Even her advisors were looking forward to it, and they were never happy about anything.

Looking over the fjord filled to the brim with ships, Elsa took a few deep breaths of the ocean air, allowing its calming and salty breeze to settle her nerves.  

I can do this. This is for Anna. Anna and I, but still mostly Anna. As much as she wanted to enjoy the gates being open, she still wouldn’t be what most people would call a “people person”.  She left that to her sister. 

“There you are!” Speaking of which. Elsa felt the arms of her sister wrap around her shoulders.  “Are you excited about the festival?”

Elsa’s eyes drifted from the harbor to the town square where her people were setting up banners, food, tables with goods ready to be sold, and an all around merry atmosphere.  

A smile ghosted her lips. “As excited as I’ll ever be.”  

Anna gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Oh don’t be like that. This is gonna be a blast and you know it.”  

Elsa barked a laugh. “You're just saying that because you're excited for yet another party.”

“Well, the gates are open and we’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”  

Elsa reached up and grabbed her sister's arm tenderly. “I know, and little by little we're making up for it.”

“Then let’s go!” Grabbing her by the arm, she tugged, pulling her sister through the castle at top speed and Elsa’s arm from its socket. Before her brain could register what was happening, she found herself in the castle courtyard still being towed behind her sister.  

Suddenly Anna stopped. “OH! Before we go too far I have to show you what me and Gerda made.”  

“Gerda and I,” Elsa corrected. 

“No.” Anna pointed to herself in an exaggerated fashion.  “ME! And Gerda.”

Elsa’s expression was as blank as stone and with a deadpan expression she responded. “That joke never gets old.” Anna disappeared back into the castle and with impressive speed, returned only a few moments later.  

“We had a bunch of this made up and are being hung around the city.” It was an exquisite banner made from gold, green and purple fabrics with stitchings of the letters GTFO.  “What do you think?”

Elsa tilted her head. As much as she loved the banner and her sister’s creative talents, something about it seemed off. Unable to think of it she gave her sister a large wide smile. “It’s beautiful.”  

Squealing excitedly, Anna all but sprinted into the town, Elsa making sure to keep her arms behind her back so that Anna didn’t pull them off.  

Sure enough the banners were being hung throughout Arendelle, and no matter how many of them she saw, Elsa couldn’t remember what it was that was off about them.  

“Good work guys!” she heard Anna say. Kristoff, Sven and Olaf were helping hang the banners over a few of the consignment tents. While Anna gave the boys a hand -and by giving a hand meant barked orders about how they were doing it wrong- Elsa meandered through the town.  She nodded and smiled to the various merchants, townsfolk, children, and those visiting from other countries.  

After exchanging a few words with someone there from France, out of the corner of her eye she spotted an old friend wandering through the square. She almost didn’t recognize him dressed in a dark green suit, a high collared shirt with a tie, grey trousers and nice black leather shoes.  Even his dark brown hair was combed to the side. Had it not been for the glowing teal necklace he wore, she wouldn’t have known it was Drake Daniels, Dragon Knight. 

She excused herself from the French dignitary, and made her way to the dragon warrior.  

He held his arms behind his back as he aimlessly meandered, clear that he was either lost or wasting time pretending to be interested in what was going on around him. Luckily for him Elsa was closing in, giving him a reprieve from his feigned interests.  

He bowed at the waist with his hand over his heart. “Her Majesty honors me with her presence.”

She chuckled at his sarcastic, teasing tone, and with a curtsy responded. “You should be so honored.” He laughed as he stood up straight, his fingers casually tugging at his collar. “Um, what are you wearing?” Elsa asked.

He looked at himself like he had done something wrong. “A suit? Am I not supposed to wear one?”

She shook her head quickly. “No, no, no.  It’s just I’ve never seen you so, dressed up?”

He released a breath of relief. “Well. This is a festival. I don’t see the need to be geared up in all my hunting gear. Although,” he lifted his suit a bit to show a belt littered with a variety of pouches, “I never leave the house unprepared.”  

“Ha. So much for no hunting gear.”

“Hey! I said ALL my hunting gear. This is only some of it.”

“Some of what?”  Seeing that Elsa was chatting with someone, Anna had removed herself from her supervising duties to see what her sister was up to. Her mouth dropped with surprise and she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Drake! It’s so good to see you.”

He returned a gentle friendly hug. “You too, princess.”

“When did you get here?” she asked when they stepped away from each other.

“Well, actually I arrived a few days ago, but I kept myself out of the way so as to not interrupt anything you ladies were doing. And yes, I flew, no boats for me please.”  

“Well neat! Now that you're here, you can help us hang these.” Drake looked at the banner she had flashed to him and his smile changed to a twisted, uncomfortable grimace. “What?  What is it?”  

“Um, heh, you do know what GTFO means right?” 

Anna shook her head. “The Great Thaw Festival Observance?” Drake sucked in a breath through his teeth, before leaning forward to whisper into her ear.  Anna’s expression changed from confused to downright horrified. “Oh god! KRISTOFF, TAKE THE BANNERS DOWN!!”  She sprinted to stop him, leaving Elsa to watch her with her brows lowered.  

“What was that?”

Drake couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’ll tell you as we help her take those things down.”  

Just as he took his first step, he stopped when he felt a tickle in the back of his neck. He was a monster hunter, who knew never to ignore those hairs. He threw a quick glance at his surroundings, his ears and nose twitching.

This is still a bad idea, Odrikson.

The voice was faint, ghostly, almost ethereal but with a rasp and menacing tone.

Hush, I’m concentrating.

This one was less otherworldly, more grounded but no less hostile. Drake furrowed his brows. “Your Majesty, I’m going to have to check on something real quick.”

Elsa simply shrugged in response. “As you wish,” she answered. “But first, tell me what those lette-” She turned around, noticing the surprising absence of the Dragon Knight. “Huh. Where did he go?”

 —:0:—

Drake crossed the main square, the outer city’s rim, then the first glades, and as fast as he moved he was no less on edge. He walked deep into the woods, the two voices following him with impressive stealth. He had to control his pace so as to not go too fast and lose them, or two slowly and alert them.

Where do you think he’s going?

Did mortals get dumber over the millennia or am I just cursed with you?

You know what they say. You can't land a shot you don't take.

I'm sure they say lots of things. You know what they also say? Listen to the Lord of Shadows before doing something reckless.

What intrigued Drake most was the clear absence of footsteps. If it weren’t for the voices exchanging quips every now and then, he wouldn’t have detected them. He stopped in the middle of a clear and open meadow far enough away from the kingdom and turned around.

“Is there something you want from me?” he called loudly.

He’s talking to himself, now. Pff, what a nutjob.

I’m not going to dignify that remark with an answer.

A vein popped on Drake’s forehead at the jab. “You two might as well show yourselves.”

Wait. Two?

“Yeah. Two. The demon and the guy who’s stupid enough to follow me.”

What a surprise.

He can hear me?

“Yes, I can, “ Drake huffed in annoyance. “Now, we gonna do this or what?”

A shadow slithered on the barks, jumping from tree to tree. It approached rapidly, stopping a few feet away from Drake before briskly lifting off the ground, transforming into a black leathered young man holding a dagger in his right hand in a reversed grip. “Your head,” he hissed.

With that, he leaped with incredible speed, aiming at Drake’s neck. The latter barely had time to register that he had moved before he leaned away and felt a vicious snarl below his right ear and his suit ripping out from over his shoulder. He jumped away with a swift step, holding the location where the blade had apparently scratched his skin.

“Okay, first off, this is my only suit that you just tore. So, thanks for that. And what’s this about wanting to kill me?”

The young man slowly walked to the side while twirling his ebony blade between his fingers. “No hard feelings, boy. This is business. When your head rolls to my feet, your reputation will only add to the reverence of my name.”

Drake waited a moment before his head lowered in a “seriously” stare. “I'm sorry, I’m a little slow here. So you’re attacking me... to become famous?”

See?! Even HE knows how stupid your plan is. 

Shut up! I’m in the middle of the pre-fight banter.

Drake didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, who are you?”

Eryn slightly puffed his chest out.  “Eryn Odrikson! Master assassin and your executioner.”

Drake blinked a few times. “Okay maybe you should kill me, cuz I’ve never heard of you.” He removed his hand from the wound on his shoulder, noting the small specks of blood.  “Although this is concerning.” He narrowed his eyes at the dagger in Eryn’s hand. He had never seen anything like it before, nor the writing on the metal, but if it was talking it couldn’t be good. 

Drake examined his attacker.  “Well, I’ll cut you a deal. Leave now and I won’t kick your ass back to wherever you came from.” 

Eryn sneered. “Yeah, how ‘bout—“

—yes! 

“—no.”

Drake heaved a sigh. Looking over his shoulder at the kingdom, he knew he really didn’t have time to deal with this, so he might as well end it quickly. “Alright then. There’s no honor in this, but just so you know, you were warned.”

With that, Drake bent forward. The necklace he wore glowed and he let it engulf him in it’s pure blue. He felt his wings grow, his fangs bare and his throat burn. He let out a deafening roar, lifting his now thick and long head to the heavens.  

And he’s a dragon now.

I guess this DRAGON Knight is full of surprises.

Why didn’t you tell me he could actually turn into one?!?

The assassin plunged to the side to avoid a spray of ungodly blue-hot fire that left only carbonised grass in its wake.

I know this might sound obvious, but do not let the fire touch you.

Gee, thanks for the advice!

Eryn darted forward at his top speed, avoiding another fiery breath and closing the distance with the dragon’s belly.

Is it...glowing?

Now is not the time, Odrikson!

He prepared a strike, cocking his arm back and twisting his feet to accumulate enough force behind the hit. However, Drake interrupted his attempt in an instant and Eryn had to dodge the heavy and scaly tail that stomped the location he had been in a fraction of a second before. He continued dashing back, closely avoiding a rapid claw aiming at his legs and parrying a hit of that same tail that sent sparks in the air and him flying away. He glided a bit on the slippery soil when he landed, bringing himself low and at the ready should another attack come his way. 

I don’t care what it takes, we’re doing it. We’re bringing it down.

It’s a dragon, you moron. You think YOU can take it down?

"Oh, you're gonna burn," the dragon boomed in his enhanced voice before he opened his mouth and sparkles started flying dangerously around it.

Before they could both unleash their wrath, they instinctively brought a claw and a dagger to their sides to deflect arrows that had been aiming at their heads. The two projectiles softly landed in the middle of the space between them. Examining them with curious eyes, they both noticed the pale reflection they were emitting. They were made of crystal ice.

The dragon and the assassin whirled their heads to their left, where a strange man wearing a large maroon coat and a simple traveler’s garb stood with his right arm outstretched. Among the light mist that was surrounding him, his crimson hair stuck out from afar. 

A frozen spear appeared in his hand almost instantaneously. He gave it a quick twirl and planted it in the ground below him with a resonating thud. 

“Hello there,” Garret simply greeted with a smile. “And here I thought the colonel was making a monkey out of me. Mind if I join in?” 

A/N: CallenAmakuni: Hello and first of all thanks for reading! This has been a blast to write - I had lots of fun - and I hope you enjoyed it. We each wrote a part of this chapter and the blend is IMO very harmonious, so I’m very proud of it and us!

Now, a few precisions for those of you who are already familiar with Patience and Time. The Garret you see here is not the same one as the one in PaT. This is an AU - from an AU, yeah, but still - where he is younger and never went to Arendelle before. Everything that happens here will have no repercussions on PaT. See this as a rather self-indulgent Avengers-style crossover where we have fun with our characters. 

And if you haven’t already, please go check Snowfall’s Beware The Frozen Heart (both on AO3 and FFN) and Bearhow’s Hungry Moon (on FFN only for now), I assure you it’ll be worth your while!

We’re really excited to bring you what’s coming next. Thanks again, and see you next time!

A/N: Snowfall_In_Summer: I agree, this was incredibly fun to write!

Likewise, for those familiar with “Beware the Frozen Heart,” This is a non canon story to that fic. The Eryn here isn’t the same Eryn that’s in BtFH. If Garret and Drake interest you, check out CallenAmakuni’s Patience and Time and Bearhow’s Hungry Moon series (Like CallenAmakuni said, Hungry Moon is on FFN only for now. Link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13314313/1/Hungry-Moon)

Hope you enjoyed this little experiment!

A/N: Bearhow

Bearhow here! 

I’d like to echo what my partners in crime have already said m.  This was a blast and it's only going to get more amazing as the story goes on. Also this is a different continuity from “Hungry Moon” and “the Snow queen's champion”, but Drake does know our favorite Arendellians.  

Enjoy the show! 

[hellospunkiebrewster]

This response to an ask of mine merits its own post. You’re absolutely right, @jovialyouthmusic. Beau Brummell was a character in the most ridiculous meaning of the word. He was notorious, outrageous, decadent, and most importantly, at one time, an extremely good friend of the Prince Regent, George IV. Beau Brummell is quintessentially who the word “dandy” was developed for.

George Bryan “Beau” Brummell. Does his outfit look a little similiar to one of our Desire and Decorum leading men?

Unlike many people in the prince’s inner circle, Beau Brummell did not grow up as part of the privileged and aristocratic. The Brummell family was middle class. His father was an enterprising man and hoped for one day to elevate his son to the status of a gentleman. George (Beau) raised with this understanding that he would one day attempt to break into the ton. He went to Eton, a male public (boarding) school famous for producing prime ministers, acclaimed authors, scientists, and even many actors. Sons of the royal family often went to Eton as well. Some attendees that you might know include Prince William and Harry, Percy Bysshe Shelley, George Orwell, Bear Grylls, Eddie Redmayne, Hugh Laurie, and Tom Hiddleston.

Even at the young age of an Eton student, Beau was already leaving his mark on fashion. He modernised the cravat (white stock), which had been the mark of an Eton boy, and added an equally fabulous golden buckle to it. When he moved on to Oxford, Beau could not be pleased with the uniforms there either. He started fashions there and boys and men began to stop being complacent in wearing dingy and cheap items that fit poorly.

Brummell served in the Tenth Royal Hussars, a regiment that reported to the Prince of Wales himself, as a commissioned officer. He quickly elevated his rank to lieutenant and discovered that his quite considerable inheritance from his father was not sufficient to maintain himself as an officer in this particular regiment. You see, officers had to clothe, feed, and house themselves. They were even responsible for the care and procurement of their mounts. Being an officer was not cheap and this is why often men of noble households and rich families were officers, especially younger sons. Their fathers would provide them the means for maintaining and working their way through the ranks of the military in order to give them something that might attract a wife and give them a legacy to pass down to their children, as they would not inherit family lands and titles.

The Tenth Royal Hussars were especially notorious for their elaborate uniforms and myriad of variations to it, on top of their decadent banquets and entertainment, but that’s the Prince of Wales for you. However, as a junior and somewhat struggling officer, Brummell fascinated the Prince. Even when he left the regiment when it was stationed in Manchester, his reasoning being Manchester was not fancy enough for him, his friendship with George IV continued.

He took a house in London and became the arbiter of fashion for men of the time. He favored clean and flawless lines and fits over ornate and bold patterns and cuts. His signature look hinged on dark coats, full length trousers, and most importantly an immaculately white linen shirt and elaborate and flawlessly knotted cravat. He favored simplicity, stating that if someone turned to gape at you on the street it was not because you were well dressed, but rather because you were a hot mess.

Beau chatting up a duchess at Almack’s, 1816.

For a while he managed to avoid gambling and nighttime entertainment, but he refused to compromise on his standards for dressing. He is quoted that maintaining a man in proper clothing should cost upwards of £800 (approximately £52,000 or $67,000). For reference on how insane of a sum that was, a craftsman would make about £52 a year, with many making much much less.

He took five hours to dress each morning and would only polish his boots with champagne. He would put together outfits that would display a harmony of shape and an pleasing color contrast. Men of superior rank to him would seek out his honest opinion on their dress and he was allowed to give it unfettered. He was fastidiously clean for the time, and perhaps we have him to thank for manscaping. He would spend hours upon hours on his morning routine, brushing his teeth, shaving, and bathing daily. This had a huge influence on the ton at the time and gentleman began to follow many of his same practices. People would absolutely watch him going about his morning routine and take notes for themselves. Even George IV loved to watch Beau Brummell prepare himself for the day.

The original entourage.

Brummell was not a man of incredible means himself and eventually the habits of his fancy friends influenced and caught up to him. He would gamble as if he were the Prince himself and his savings and income began to dwindle rapidly. However, because of his influence in society, Beau was able to maintain his standing due to the insane influence held by his friends and lived off of credit. In 1813 at a party at the famous “dandy” club Watier’s, Beau was snubbed and not greeted by his once good friend the Prince Regent and took offense. Beau shaded Prinny to his fucking face and asked to be introduced to George IV by a mutual friend by asking, “Alvanley, who’s your fat friend?” Like damn. This rift between the two had begun to open a couple years earlier when the Prince became the Regent in 1811, and George IV was forced to abandon a lot of his old friends as their political leanings did not align with the party in power at the time.

Beau Brummell was able to continue exerting his influence over London society for a while, even with the loss of royal favor, which was unique. He flourished without a patron, and continued to be friends with many of his high standing and very rich friends. He couldn’t keep up the charade for long though and in 1816 his debts caught up to him and he lived out his life in France as an exile in order to keep himself from having to pay his debts. He attempted to keep up his lifestyle there, but rapidly ran out of money and soon his French creditors came knocking. He was forced into debtors’ prison and eventually into an asylum where he died penniless and insane from syphilis.

[underthewingsofthblackeagle]

Chapter 6: Days of Bliss, Part 26

(”Schwert” by ponzi)

A Royal Visit - Part 6: Brothers in (different) arms - Consolidation

         "Why did you do that?"          "What?" von Seydlitz asked, turning to Fraser.          "You took all the blame on you. You could have told him that I provoked you."          His counterpart breathed deeply in and out. Von Seydlitz look was marked by pain and resignation: 

         "You still don't understand it, right? He will blame me. Tomorrow morning I will have to report to the King. I'll tell him that I trust you and that I think you are the right man. And then I have to tell him that you have rejected his offer! He hoped that you would take on this task. He already talked about you before we left Potsdam. I had to offer you this position in his name. You refuse. So who's to blame? Me, the messenger delivering the bad news! Who on earth would refuse such an offer, unless the messenger messes it up?! That's why I was willing to take all the blame right away. Why should I involve you in that? He will beat it around my head for the rest of our trip and during the fall maneuver over and over again, that I've failed." 

         Then he turned to go:          "Good night Mr. Fraser."

         "Mr. von Seydlitz, please, I'm sorry ..."          "Oh please, Mr. Fraser," von Seydlitz told him without turning around. "Do not add to your insults the affront of pity!" 

         "That has nothing to do with pity. I regret that I insulted you and put you in such a situation. I ... I was angry. You …. really have what is called 'coup d'œil'. I hate to admit it, but your words hit me. What you said … about the ghosts of my English enemies. You have hit the mark with your words. And you are right. It must finally come to an end." 

         The Major looked down and was silent for a moment, then he said: 

         "Please forgive me … Believe me, it was not my intention to rip your wounds up. And I'm not concerned about being right. Prussia has two and a half million citizens. France has 25 Million citizens. Ten times as much! I do not want to mention Austria and Russia. I wanted to win you at any cost. You are able; you ... have all the skills for this task. We! Need! You! Fraser! … Prussia! Needs you! Should I watch these Englishmen still paralyzing you?! Stealing you away from this most important work? Important for the country we live in and important for you, your wife and your future?" 

         "Then please stay and ... let's talk."          "Good, let's talk," replied von Seydlitz. Then he put his tricorne back on the table and began to open the buttons of his uniform coat.          "What are you doing?"

         But the addressed did not answer. After von Seydlitz had taken off his coat, he folded it, took off his sword and put it on the coat with his tricorne. He carried the package to the door and after opening it he called one of the guard standing soldiers. 

         "Soldier! Bring this to my room!"          "Yes, Ma ..."          "Silence!"          "Yes!"            

(”Uniform” by  pontzi)

         Then he closed the door and when he turned to Fraser he said:

         "In the presence of the King, I have to wear my uniform. But that's not necessary in your presence and ... maybe that will help. I can't change my rank, but you can go to the King and suggest a faster promotion." 

         Both men smiled as they sat down again. But they did so with the awareness that the happy part of their conversation had long ago passed. After a few moments of silence it was von Seydlitz who started the new conversation:          "What do you want to talk about?"          The Major spoke calmly and his voice conveyed a feeling of warmth and understanding. 

         "I'm sorry, if … I gave the impression that I would compare you … or the army of Prussia with the English, but soldiers ..."          "The King has told me what the English have done to you. 260 lashes, my goodness!"          For a moment both looked thoughtfully down at the table.          "And I'm afraid it was not the only thing they did to you," the Major whispered.          "No."          Only one word from Fraser. But von Seydlitz could imagine the abyss behind it. 

         "I assure you, Mr. Fraser, in case that you would decide to take on this task, only three soldiers will be involved: me, of course, the messenger picking up the reports, and the King who is the commander of the army. You will not be my subordinate and will have freedom to handle the task as you wish ... I ... I would like to have you as a counselor. Are there any wishes that you have? Can I do anything else for you?" 

         "No, thank you, but if we work together, we should get to know each other better."          "Gladly," replied von Seydlitz, and took a cube out of one of the pockets of his trousers.

         "Here, the smaller number starts."          Fraser diced and got a four. 

         Von Seydlitz grabbed the cube and diced - a one.          "Well, it looks like you've won the first battle, so let me give you a brief overview of my life. If you want to know anything else, just ask." 

         Fraser filled the glasses again. Von Seydlitz took a sip and started to talk. He reported on his birth and childhood in Kalkar on the Lower Rhine [1], spoke at length of his father, his love for horses and how he had taught him to ride. He rushed over his father's early death and the following difficulties in short, factual sentences. But Fraser was aware of how drastic this event must have been for the then seven-year-old boy, for he had lost his mother at the age of eight. His life and schooling in Bad Freienwalde at the river Oder [2] the Major grazed only briefly. But Fraser got the impression that his counterpart had great joy in learning all he could. It seemed to him that this hunger had lasted to the day. Then the Major told of his appointment as page to the court of the Margrave Friedrich Wilhelm von Brandenburg-Schwedt [3]. Von Seydlitz did not have to mention what this step meant for a 13-year-old boy. Fraser himself had experienced something like this. But he was some years older when he moved to his uncle Dougal to be trained under his care. In front of Fraser's inner eye pictures of Leoch, his uncle Dougal and Colum MacKenzie, the Laird of Leoch arose. Then he heard von Seydlitz say: 

         "I got a good education there and the Margrave inspired me in some ways, but after my father's death, my family had limited financial resources, and my mother not only had to work for me, but for my two sisters and brothers. There were other pages at the court of the Margrave, children from other noble families who were financially better off than us, who let me feel their contempt often enough I found refuge in the stable with the horses. Intelligent, strong animals and yet at the same time they can be warmhearted and absolute loyal. They do not judge you." 

         "No," Fraser confirmed, "sometimes you have to tame them, but if you treat them well, they'll serve you well. But keep going." 

         "The Margrave of Brandenburg-Schwedt is a nephew of our King, and so I first met his Majesty at the court in Schwedt. In 1740, when I was 17, the King called me as Cornet [4] into the Cuirassier regiment [5] in Belgard [6]. It was the former Cuirassier regiment of my father, which made me very happy … an proud. But my joy was short lived, because the Colonel under whom I had to serve was very hateful and opposed to me. He was very much harassing me.  Two years later, I was fighting for the first time in the war against the Austrians. I was taken prisoner, but the King exchanged me for an Austrian Captain. Someone had informed him, that I had tried to hold a post with only a few men and that we did everything to avoid surrender. The King then asked me if I wanted to become a Lieutenant in a Cuirassier regiment. But that would have meant that I had to wait until such a post would become vacant. As an alternative, the King offered me to take over a hussar regiment immediately - as a Cavalry Captain [7]. I choose the last and in 1743, the King made me Captain of the 4th Hussars. With the 4th Hussars, I was stationed in the city of Trebnitz [8]. There I train my squadron with methods I had developed by myself. I served through the Second Silesian War, and at Hohenfriedberg [9] I was lucky to capture the Saxon General von Schlichting [10] personally. That's when the King made me a Major. And now I am in Trebnitz, train parts of our cavalry and plan its further enlargement." 

         Von Seydlitz reached for his glass and took a long drink from it.          "Any questions, Mr. Fraser?"          "Why do you do all of this? Are you simply an adventurer, or is there some other reason? You enjoyed a good education, why do not you become a merchant or a trustee or ... settle down somewhere and … start a family?" 

         "There are two reasons why I am ready to go to war, Mr. Fraser. To me, Prussia means freedom. What do you think the great powers would like to do, if they take over this country? What do you think this country would look like? Vienna with her Jesuits would force us all back under the Catholic knout! No freedom of belief and conscience! Either become Catholic again or be driven out! … The King of France would exploit our country until it has bled out - just so that he can indulge his lust! More colorful uniforms, splendid buildings, and one mistress after another! And what do you think will happen if our country becomes a prey to the Tsar? Then we will again become a people of serfs who can be harassed and killed without a jota of legal protection! We will become a backward country of peasants!  Our goods carried off to St. Petersburg to feed the fat Russian nobility! No, Mr. Fraser! No! No and no again!" 

         Von Seydlitz reached for his glass and took a long sip.          "And the second reason?" 

         The Major took a deep breath.          "You know, Mr. Fraser, our King is not an infallible man. But if you had once seen him on the battlefield as I have seen him, you would not hesitate to risk your life for this man and the land he governs."

(Uniforms of the Gardes du Corps, the elite of the Prussian cavalry, from 1740 to the traditional regiment 1926. Postcard by Carl Henckel (1862-1929) By Carl Henckel, † 1929 (Uploader: user:Sendker) (alte Postkarte) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)

         Once again he sipped his wine, then said briskly: 

         "Now it's your turn, Captain."          Fraser began his childhood and youth in the Highlands. He mentioned the deaths of his mother and brother and did not fail to notice that compassion and understanding were visible on the von Seydlitz's face. He then reported about the years in Leoch under his uncle Dougal. He interlaced some anecdotes, but also showed that this time not only joyful. Before continuing he filled the wine glasses again and made use of the bowl of biscuits. Then he spoke of his journey to France, describing his seasickness in all its colors, which made both men laughing. His time at the University of Paris he mentioned only briefly. But he expressed his unease about life in such a big city. Even his struggles with the British, his detention and what followed, he only grazed. For one thing, he was reluctant to remember these events, and for another, he was sure that von Seydlitz had already been well informed about 'his English file' during this time. 

         "Yes, and then came the uprising. I did everything in my power to prevent it. I knew we would not win, we had too few men, too few weapons ... But the crazy Charles Stuart ... well, we lost, Scotland lost, I lost, and many of my friends lost their lives."          He ignored the phase in which he had hidden.          "The British captured me and imprisoned me there, and then I got the last sixty lashes - on the orders of a Major."          Again, Fraser pronounced the man's rank as if he had to spit out something disgusting. 

         "Some time later there was a chance to escape ... and I used it."          "How did it happen that you fled to Prussia?"          "Well, while I was studying in France, I read the 'Antimachiavell', which, as you know, was written by the King. I also met some Germans in Paris, and even learned the language there. I knew that Prussia receives persecuted people and I knew that this country guarantees freedoms that no other country on this continent grants it citizens." 

         "That's right, but ... you could have gone to America, right?" 

         "Walk, yes, if that were possible!" Fraser laughed. "But you know that you can only reach America by ship and I've told you how fast I'm getting seasick! I'd be tortured for at least 33 days takes? No way, never! I could reach the land of freedom in less time. I sailed from Scotland to France and came to Brandenburg via the Netherlands and Hamburg. Actually, I wanted to go to Berlin because I thought that I would most likely find work there." 

         "And what did just then take you to Balfenberg?"          "I can not really answer that question. Somehow I just did not come to Berlin and just before all my reserves were exhausted, I wandered around here, sleeping under a tree. And while sleeping there, one of our stable boys found me. He thought I was a tramp or thief, so he dragged me over the fields and through the forest to the estate and there was Mr. von Trebitsch standing in the court. He was looking for employees; I was looking for work ... "          "Quite a match!"          Fraser smiled.          "Any other questions, Mr. von Seydlitz?"          "You were a Captain in the Scottish army ..."          "Army! A bunch of farmers, some soldiers and mercenaries!" Captain! You can not compare that with ... "          "I've said it once before: I respect every people and every man who stands up against his oppressors and fights for his freedom, even ... when there is no victory in the end. And for me, the rank of a soldier does not depend on the power of an army, but from his award, Captain Fraser." 

         The men looked at each other and both knew that something was happening that they could not 'make': mutual trust.          Fraser was the first to speak:          "Very well, I will accept the King's offer."          Von Seydlitz stared at him in astonishment.          "I beg you, you do not have to accept work to save me from the king's wrath. He will beat it around my head during our trip and during the fall maneuver, but when I return to spring maneuver, he will not mention it anymore." 

         "I don't do that because of you. You mentioned the 'Scottish Army.' You must know there were two situations in this war against the English that I always remember. When we were in Prestonpans we had a meeting with the commanders. I was aware of how helpful a cavalry would be to us, both to explore the terrain and the enemy positions, to support our," he coughed, "infantry, but all I heard was, 'Let speak not defeat or cavalry we do not have.' After we duped the English at Prestonpans, I said to my friends, 'If we only had a cavalry, huh, we could have pursued the enemy, captured General Cope, perhaps put an end to the rebellion this very morning.' And I believe until today that I was right. So when we faced the English in Culloden, in another meeting of the commanders, I pointed out that our lines would be smashed to pieces before our troops could even engage the enemy. I was passed over. We lost - the war, our men and finally our country. If we only had a cavalry ... No, Mr. von Seydlitz, I will not do that for you. If the country that gave me protection, freedom, and a decent life is threatened, and if a cavalry can ward off this threat, then I will do my part. I am very tired of the war, but I am neither ungrateful nor irresponsible."

Notes: [1] https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalkar#Geburtsort_eines_preu%C3%9Fischen_Kriegshelden (German only); von Seydlitz’ birthplace.   [2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bad_Freienwalde [3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frederick_William,_Margrave_of_Brandenburg-Schwedt [4] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cornet_(rank) [5] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuirassier [6] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bia%C5%82ogard [7] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rittmeister [8] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trzebnica [9] For a superficial overview see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Hohenfriedberg  [10] Several pages on the Internet claim that the captured general was Samuel von Schlichting, but this is wrong. Samuel von Schlichting was a Prussian general lieutenant (https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_von_Schlichting). The captured general was Georg Sigismund of Schlichting (1677-1743 or 1749), a Saxon Generalmajor and commander of the fortress Sonnenstein in Saxony. 

[art-of-manliness]

How to Wear a Cardigan Sweater With Style

Think of the cardigan sweater and you may think of a kindly grandfather sitting by the fire, smoking a pipe. Or a college professor. Or, very likely, Mr. Rogers. Maybe these associations don’t leave you excited about this garment. Maybe they make the cardigan seem more bland and old fashioned than fresh and modern. But look at those examples again. From one perspective they may seem a little “uncool,” but they also embody maturity and a secure, friendly, unflappable authority — steadiness over faddishness. Why wouldn’t you want to project that kind of air — at any age? This kind of confidence lends the cardigan a certain style in and of itself. Even Mr. Rogers had a bit of swag to his look (really). After all, what’s cooler than showing you’re completely comfortable with yourself, and what you’re about? Further, while cardigans may have an old school feel, it’s perfectly possible to wear them in a way that’s sharp and up-to-date. Conveying both style and stability need not be a contradiction. Today we’ll offer a full reexamination of the cardigan: delving into its history, why it should be embraced by the modern man, and how to wear this handsome, underrated garment with real style. The History of the Cardigan James Thomas Brudenell, the 7th Earl of Cardigan, in his signature sweater coat. Tracing as it does to a notorious military officer and a bloody battle, the origin of the cardigan sweater certainly belies its more milquetoast reputation. In the mid-19th century, members of the British military had taken to wearing thick knitted sweater coats (which had been worn by fishermen for a couple centuries prior), and no one wore them with more regularity and panache than James Thomas Brudenell, the 7th Earl of Cardigan. Brudenell — who had a reputation for being vain, brash, and haughty and had been removed from a post for misconduct and prosecuted for dueling with a fellow officer — commanded the 11th Hussars. Holding high standards for their parade and dress, he outfitted his men with brilliant, stylish uniforms, while he himself adopted a soft, fur-trimmed sweater coat as his signature look. During the Crimean War, Brudenell served as commander of the Light Calvary Brigade and was ordered to lead his men into a valley surrounded by twenty Russian battalions armed with heavy artillery. The resulting bloodbath, and the heroism shown by the ill-fated cavalrymen who galloped into cannon fire, inspired Tennyson to write his famous poem, “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” It also brought Brudenell, who emerged from the battle unscathed, much acclaim. Though his personal conduct during the charge was later questioned, Brudenell’s sweater — which became known as the cardigan — enjoyed a less checkered renown, and became a popular garment in high society. The cardigan emerged across the pond in the form of letterman sweaters worn by American high school and college students, which were emblazoned on the left breast with cloth letters (typically the school’s first initial) that signified the achievement of certain standards in athletics and other activities. Stripes on the sweater’s sleeve indicated further awards. The cardigan’s association with college sports gave it an athletic association that made it popular with professional athletes off the field, like boxing champion Gene Tunney, and its comfortable, flexible nature lent it to recreational pastimes like fishing and golfing. The tradition of the letterman cardigan began at Harvard in the late 19th century, and particularly took off during the Roaring 20s, when the sweater became a prominent example of preppy collegiate style. In the 30s, the cardigan also became go-to outerwear for the golf course. Bing Crosby was among the mid-century celebrities to wear the cardigan golfing, while Sinatra brought some ring-a-ding style and swinger credibility to the sweater. In the 1950s, the cardigan had a resurgence, both in the form of letterman sweaters, and as golfing attire. Crooners like Frank Sinatra, Perry Como, and Bing Crosby frequently rocked the sweater both while hanging out and hitting the links (Como made them his trademark look on his weekly television show). Though the cardigan became popular day-to-day wear among celebrities as well as creative, “avant-garde” types on the West Coast, it was too casual for the typical mid-century man to wear to the office, and was rather what one put on after work to relax (hence, why Mr. Rodgers would come home, take off his jacket, and put on his sweater). It was casual, comfortable, but smart-looking leisure wear. In Icons of Men’s Style, Josh Sims argues that “the cardigan’s association with the old generation was perhaps most vividly demonstrated when David Bowie and Bing Crosby teamed up for a Christmas television performance of ‘Little Drummer Boy’ in 1977.” Bing wore what had been his go-to get-up for years: trousers and a soft cardigan. Bowie was decked out in a sharp jacket and jeans. The moment was symbolic of the decade’s trend towards solidifying the cardigan as a “grandpa” sweater. It was in the 1970s, when the old swingers started aging, and Mr. Rogers came on the air, that the cardigan began to earn its more conservative, “square” reputation that lessened the garment’s popularity. The sweater then had a bit of a revival in the 90s, being sported with slacker style by Kurt Cobain and “the Dude” in The Big Lebowski. Today the cardigan is one of those pieces of clothing that slightly waxes and wanes in popularity, but has largely settled into the category of “style staple” — never not “in,” never not appropriate, as long as you wear it well. What Is a Cardigan? In a modern times, a cardigan is a knitted, open-front sweater that is put on through your arms, rather than pulled over your head. It can be worn open or closed (with the exception of those without any fasteners), and is fastened with buttons (most traditional), toggles, or a zipper (least traditional). The fasteners do not typically rise all the way up the sweater, but stop at the chest, creating a kind of v-neck effect. Cardigans are made with wool (most traditional), cotton, or wool/cotton/synthetic blends, can be thin and fitted or thick and loose, and come in a variety of colors, textures, and styles. Why Wear a Cardigan? The cardigan is a wonderfully versatile garment that boasts the benefits of both form and function. The cardigan is a 3-season piece of clothing. In the early fall and spring, it functions as cozy outerwear on cool days. The thicker varieties can even take the place of a coat entirely. But unlike a jacket with its stiffer fabric, the cardigan’s soft knit still allows for great flexibility (hence, why it was a favorite of golfers and other sportsmen). When the temperatures really drop in the late fall and winter, the cardigan then becomes a handsome, insulating layer that can be worn over long-sleeved shirts and under sports coats and jackets. The sweater’s button-up front makes for easy on and off: put it on for chilly mornings and nights and take it off in the heat of the day; put it on and take it off as the temp fluctuates in your office. Plus, it’s always nice to have a removable layer you can offer if your gal gets chilly on a date. Finally, swapping a cardigan sweater in for a sweatshirt is an incredibly easy way to level up your style, all while staying just as comfortable. With one simple change, the look instantly goes from more juvenile and sloppy to more mature and put-together. Tips for Wearing a Cardigan With Style Get a good fit. With a soft knit, the fit of a cardigan is more forgiving than other garments with stiffer fabric and sharper lines. But you still want it to fit you well. First, you don’t want a cardigan to be too big, loose, and baggy. When buttoned up, it should sit close enough to the body that the v-neck doesn’t gape open when you lean over. The sleeves can be longer than what you’d want on a more tailored garment — they’re often rolled up or pushed back on your forearms — but you don’t want them to completely swallow your hands. The sweater should cover the belt/waistband of your pants but not extend much past the tops of your back pockets. A long cardigan that hangs down over your butt looks feminine, like something your lady friend would have paired with leggings and Ugg boots a few years back. You also don’t want the cardigan to be too tight. The fabric shouldn’t pull around the buttons when closed or cling to your bulges. Cardigans (and sweaters generally) work better for those with athletic, average, and skinny physiques, than those with greater girth. Cardigans are harder for bigger guys to pull off because they can accentuate the midsection. The tendency of knitted garments to cling rather than drape makes sweaters in general less of a good choice for those with extra girth, who will find a sport coat more flattering. (You can find more style tips for big guys here.) Sweaters can be a boon to skinny guys though, who can add weight to their thin frames by layering in general, and who will look especially filled out by choosing a cardigan with a thick, chunky knit. Pick a knit thickness based on your needs. A thinner, lighter knit will be appropriate for all-day, indoor wear, and works under other layers like a sport coat. A thicker knit cannot fit under other layers, and can only function as outerwear. It will keep you warm when outdoors, but will get hot when you’re inside. A medium-weight knit can work well for both inside and out, at least on more temperate days. As a general rule: thicker, cotton, patterned = more casual; thinner, wool, solid color = less casual. Thin wool cardigans can fit under suit jackets and even when worn without a jacket, generally look dressier and more traditional. Thicker cardigans act as outwear and tend to be more casual. This is especially true of thick, cotton cardigans, some of which can approach a sweatshirt-like look and feel. There are exceptions to this rule, of course: there are classy thick wool cardigans that can be substituted for a sports coat, and thin, casual cotton cardigans that should only be paired with jeans. A good example of the subtly holiday-themed cardigans I’m fond of. Wear ’em all November and December through. You don’t have to look at people so suavely when you do, but you could. When it comes to color, cardigans with a pattern (either all over or on the chest and shoulders) look more casual, and sometimes the designs make them especially apropos for wearing around the holiday season, which you should; I’m of the opinion that every man should own at least one (non-ugly) Christmastime cardigan. Solid, classic color cardigans — black, navy, brown, and grey — will look more conservative and formal. While it’s less traditional, Mr. Rogers rocked the zip-cardigan well by keeping it partly unzipped to maintain the v-neck effect. Mr. Rogers is often used as an example of what you don’t want to look like, but honestly, neighbor, I think the whole get-up had a bit of nerdy swag and worked for him. Go with buttons, generally. Cardigans can be closed with buttons, toggles, or a zipper. Buttons generally make for the most classic, handsome look. Toggles can be okay, but create protrusions that make your overall look less sharp. Zippers are the least traditional and most casual option, and some don’t even consider zippered sweaters to be true cardigans, trending as they do towards sweatshirt territory. For another thing, they create less of the v-neck effect, that allows you to show off the shirt/tie you’re wearing underneath. You can mitigate that though, by leaving the sweater partly unzipped, and zippered cardigans still make a decent choice for dressing down and pairing with jeans. Cardigans are also made with a tie-close, but these generally have too much of a bathrobe feel to look good. Unless your name is Starsky, your best buddy’s a guy named Hutch, and you drive a Ford Gran Torino. Stick with smaller, simpler, classic buttons. Bigger, decorated buttons read as more feminine. Leather, horn, and wood buttons offer a nice, traditional look, but are hard to find (most cardigans sport plastic buttons these days). A tailor can swap out the plastic buttons of a sweater for a more classic kind, should you desire. Follow the “Always, Sometimes, Never rule” with your cardigan buttons. The same rule which applies to 3-button suit jackets also applies to cardigans: always button the middle button, sometimes the top button (along with the middle), and never the bottom (you want to allow the bottom of the sweater to flare out over your waist). Unlike the suit jacket, however, where you can just button the middle button, this will result in too much pulling in a knit garment and make your belly look bigger. The middle button should typically be buttoned along with the button below and above it (cardigans almost always have more buttons than suit jackets). Of course, you can wear your cardigan open too. McQueen wore cardigans on-screen and off, and when he did, he always rocked the shawl collar. Try the shawl collar. A shawl collar adds just a bit of extra weight and warmth to the sweater, and also makes for a rugged, handsome look. Wear a cardigan that’s darker than your shirt and lighter than your jacket. Ordering your layers from lightest to darkest will make for a flattering look. Wash your cardigan from time to time to keep it fresh. One downside of knit sweaters is that they tend to absorb odors. You don’t want to wash your sweaters too much, as this will create wear and pilling. But give your sweater a sniff on occasion to see if it’s gotten ripe. If it has, you’ll need to hand wash it and lay it to dry (if it’s wool), or take it to the dry cleaners. Dressing the Cardigan Up and Down Like any great versatile garment, the cardigan can easily be dressed up and down, going from everyday casual wear to a semi-formal occasion. Here are a few tips and visuals on how to ascend and descend this sartorial ladder. Casual One of the best things about the cardigan is that it’s really hard to mess up. It can literally be thrown on with any shirt in your wardrobe — tee, henley, button-down, polo — and stand a very good chance of looking good. You needn’t overthink what to wear under a cardigan. Throw on a white crewneck tee and jeans, along with leather boots, chukkas, or canvas sneakers, and you’re rolling. Even a light-color henley can work, though is harder to pull off. You can swap the tee for a button-down and still maintain a casual look by choosing a chambray or flannel shirt, and/or wearing a patterned and/or shawl-neck sweater. Smart Casual/Business Casual You know those events and locations where you’re supposed to dress in “smart casual” or “business casual” and you wonder what the heck that means? Well one thing it definitely means is the cardigan. Once you dress it up a bit more from your everyday wear, it’s a great choice for nicer get-togethers and parties, dates, and casual workplaces. To take the cardigan up a notch, simply swap lighter denim for darker jeans or khakis and up the formality of your shoes (e.g., wingtips, derbies, or dress loafers). A shirt in something like chambray can still work, but consider swapping the more laid-back button-downs of your casual wardrobe for crisper shirts. You can’t go wrong with a white Oxford, but checkers or plaid also work well under cardigans (the former look especially smart under those with shawl collars). This is a get-up that works great for a casual workplace or a date. Add a tie (knitted ones pair well with a sweater) to your get-up and you look even sharper and more professional. A darker blue cardigan with a solid, light blue or blue-checked button-down makes for a great combination, as does a brown cardigan paired with blue denim or khakis. But you certainly don’t have to limit yourself to these combos! Layering a sport coat or blazer on top of your cardigan heightens the formality of your get-up a degree more. Such a look is perfect for cold days; you can remove the jacket at the office or event and still look sharp. A thick, traditional cardigan can also be worn as a substitute for a sports jacket (bottom right). More Formal and Dressy A thinner, fitted wool cardigan can be worn under any suit jacket and swapped for the vest or waistcoat of a 3-piece suit. The knit cardigan softens the suit up a little, while adding a bit of visual interest and a layer of warmth. Try a black suit with a maroon or dark blue cardigan, or a navy suit with a gray or maroon cardigan. Keep the look sharp enough, and you can wear such an ensemble to a semi-formal event (keeping in mind that lighter suits are appropriate for daytime, darker for night). You don’t have to necessarily wear a cardigan with a full suit to up your outfit’s formality from the smart casual category; just trading denim and khakis for dress trousers will take things up a notch. But cardigans can look quite dashing under a suit jacket, and have you looking sharp for an even more formal occasion. Well, there you go: how to elevate (and embrace) this so-called grandpa sweater and wear a cardigan with style. It’s such a good feeling to know how, isn’t it neighbor? The post How to Wear a Cardigan Sweater With Style appeared first on The Art of Manliness. http://dlvr.it/PsLRYV

[shatteredskies042]

The Last Incarnation, Part I

It was never hard to find her, what with all the bonds tying them together. Michael found Allyson in a spot of the Institute he had not explored yet, and while that could be said about much of the complex, this seemed special. The room was a small gallery, arms and armor from dozens of time periods and places displayed. From the opening into the small gallery, he watched the blonde move about slowly, inspecting each piece. Many of these belonged in a museum: a Roman shield and sword, a wooden shield emblazoned with the sigil of a white wolf, the wings of a Polish Hussar. A full suit of plate and chain in a corner, daggers and swords, muskets and a lever action rifle. Each a memento of a different time, of something to her. The angel touched the final piece: a weathered Colt 1911, and a far off look entered her eyes. The midnight wakeups were always rough. But the shrill phone in his kitchen would seemingly ring every time he laid his head down to rest. “Morris,” the awakened sleeper answered gruffly. “Daniel, it’s happened again,” a disembodied voice on the other end of the telephone line announced. “Corner of Hilltop and Mercer.” “I can be there in fifteen minutes,” Detective Daniel Morris replied, putting the receiver down and headed for the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his unshaven face and looked in the mirror. A lot of people wondered why he was still a bachelor, why no good girl had come along and roped him into marriage. He certainly had the looks to attract, and the job and past. Everyone seemed intent on playing matchmaker with him, but while Daniel humored them occasionally, he just could not find the right partner for him. Shaking his head and going to dress, his fingers brushed over the pins and medals from his Army days: a relic of a time only nine years ago but felt like a lifetime apart. Sometimes he felt he’d traded the battlefields of Europe for the ones of Los Angeles, but it was his job to make the latter safer. Donning his suit, Daniel secured the shoulder holster he sheathed his Colt 1911 in. The sidearm had seen him through the dark nights of Normandy, the bitter cold of Bastogne, and now saw to his safety on the streets of L.A. Even though he was burdened by long hours, midnight wakeups, and the burden that came with investigating the violent end of human life: detectives were given a couple of perks. No need to wear the uniform or drive a department vehicle, he could wear a suit and drive his own car. The one true pleasure of his life: His cherry red Chevy Corvette. The convertible took him out of his sleepy community, and into one where shots had rang out just minutes before. Arriving at the scene, Morris flashed his badge at the officer standing by the rope cordoning off the scene, and was let in. The first stench that hit him was that of gunpowder, lots of it. He made his way to where his contemporaries were standing, and the smell of death entered his nose. “Morris,” one greeted. “Havermayer, what have we got here?” he replied, surveying the scene in the darkness. A flashlight held by the detective illuminated three bodies, fresh kills, facedown in a ditch off the side of the road. Each victim’s back was riddled with gunfire and blood, a tale of a massacre obvious here. “We’re trying to pull ID from them, but no dice,” Havermayer told Morris, “what’s your thoughts?” Daniel crouched, then moved a few feet to where a small pile of brass casings lay. Carefully inspecting the spent casings, Daniel looked up at the corpses. “Forty-five caliber. Our killer probably used a Thompson machine gun.” “The Tommy Gun?” Havermayer asked, looking at the more junior member of the detective corps. “This ain’t Chicago, Morris.” “You asked me for my thoughts, Havermayer,” Daniel responded. “Lots of forty-five casings, reckon we’ll pull quite a few out of these fellows when the coroner gets his hands on them,” he mused, looking at the victims. Not from a pistol, you don’t need that many rounds to kill a man. This,” he shook his head. “This was somebody sending a message.” “Who, Morris? The godforsaken Mafia?” Havermayer crowed. “Possibly,” Daniel agreed, “that’s what the taxpayers pay us for, right?” “Jesus Christ, Morris, do you know what you're insinuating?” “The fact that the Mafia may be showing up on the streets of our fair city?” he asked, with only a hint of sarcasm. “Morris, if this Mafia angle is true, I have to take this to the Chief, and then to the Mayor. We can’t have this city turn into Chicago.” “It won’t,” Daniel swore quietly. “But we can’t make any accusations until we have-” “Uh, excuse me, Detectives?” a voice queried, eliciting a half turn from Daniel. The voice belonged to a patrol officer, who was helping load the bodies for a trip to the morgue. “I, uh, think I recognize onna these guys.” The detective furrowed his brow, “well?” “This guy’s name is Paul Ragati, something Italian with an R. His buddies call him Zip. Hangs out in Dino’s Bar and Pool Lounge on Nineteenth Street,” the younger, rookie officer explained. “Do you know if they’re open, officer?” Daniel asked. The officer snorted, “at this ungodly hour? Probably,” he informed the detective before returning to his grisly task. “Morris?” Havermayer asked as the younger detective went for his car. “I don’t care what you tell the Lieutenant or the Chief,” Daniel shot back as he climbed into his convertible. He pulled away from the scene of the shooting and traveled downtown. Luckily, traffic was light for the hour, and he arrived at the pool hall. Striding inside, he found it mostly deserted: only one crack of pool balls from a woman behind a cue and a heavyset bartender shining glasses and wiping the counter down. “Awful late, isn’t it?” the man behind the bar said thickly. “Awful late it is,” Morris agreed. “What’s on tap?” “Beers of the cheapest variety, soda, we got Coca-Cola.” “I’ll take a Coke, if you will,” Daniel asked politely. The bartender filled a glass quickly and set it down before the detective, before nimbly catching the coins he flicked back in payment. “Say, what could you tell me about one of your patrons here?” “You a cop or something?” the bartender asked, as another crack of pool ball on pool ball hit behind him. “Or something,” Morris preferred. “Zip. Paul Ragati.” The bartender shrugged, and looked over the detective’s shoulder. After a moment, he disappeared into the back, and the seat next to the man became occupied. Glancing over, it was the woman shooting pool when he first walked in: wearing a white dress to compliment pale skin with legs that seemed to stretch for miles. She looked like a Hollywood starlet, someone who didn’t belong in a place like this. Golden hair freely flowed down her shoulders as mischievous brown eyes watched every move Daniel made. “I don’t suppose you could answer my question,” Morris mused, taking a long pull of his drink. “I suppose I could. What happened to Pauly?” Daniel would pull no punches: “Machine gunned in a ditch across town,” he said simply. The reaction of the woman next to him told a strange tale: most dames would be off put by the bluntness of the tragic news. This one didn’t even blink. “You know anybody who’d do that?” “I may,” the blonde replied. “We can help each other out, Detective Morris,” she stated in a voice that angels envied. “And you know my name-” “You should really keep this more secure on your belt,” she held up his badge, and offered it back. “Let’s take a drive, shall we? I need fresh air,” and, as if by another miracle, the keys to his Corvette appeared in her hands. Daniel finished his drink, and stood. “If I don’t know your name, I’m not letting you drive my car.” Blood red lips curved into a smile as she brushed past him. “My name is Allyson.”

[underthewingsofthblackeagle]

Chapter 6: Days of Bliss, Part 17

Sunday morning (1)

(”Tür” / “Beschlag” by fsHH)  

         The quiet breakfast at Sunday morning, which Frieda Kamann had prepared for the men, was harshly disturbed at half past seven by a very loud knock on the door of the manor. Fraser looked astonished at von Trebitsch, who looked back in amazement and shrugged. 

         "I do not expect anyone and certainly not at this time!"          In the meantime the unknown, unexpected perturbator hammered with unimpeded force on the door knocker.          Fraser rose and shouted:          "All right! We hear you!" 

         Then he opened the door with a jerk. A soldier stood before him and saluted.          "Good morning! Cornet Thomas von Stübig! I am commissioned by His Majesty and have a letter for His High Well-born!"

         "Good morning," Fraser replied. The soldier standing before him was about twenty-five years old, about six feet high, slender and carried an energetically upward-directed blond mustache. In the first moment the temptation to laugh aloud was great for Fraser. But then he noticed that the man was wearing a uniform, which identified him as a member of the Regiment of the Gardes du Corps, a Cuirassier Regiment in the Guard Cavalry, of whom he knew it was stationed in Charlottenburg. 

         "Where is your horse?"          The soldier pointed down the stone steps. There stood a wonderful brown stallion, whose reins were tied to the parapet. Fraser whistled loudly and only a moment later the door of the horse stable opened and Max Budde came out.          "Good morning Max! Bring this officer's horse to the stable and take very good care of it."          "Good morning gentlemen! As you order Bailiff Fraser!" 

         Normally, they did not have such a formal tone, but the stable boy thought it appropriate for the stranger was a soldier.          Fraser just nodded. Then he turned to the Cuirassier and said:          "Follow me! I will take you to the Baron."          Paul von Trebitsch had stood up when Fraser and Cornet entered the hall. 

         Fraser also thought it appropriate to maintain the formal tone:

         "Your High Well-born: Cornet Thomas von Stübig with a letter from His Majesty for you."          The Cuirassier immediately sprang to attention and saluted.          "Stand comfortably Cornet."          "Yes, sir, Lieutenant-Colonel!"          Fraser looked at von Trebitsch in surprise, but the Baron did not react. 

         "You have a letter for me?"          "Yes, sir, Lieutenant-Colonel!"          The Cuirassier opened the bag attached to his belt and took out a document roll, which he handed over to von Trebitsch. The Baron briefly looked at the roll, which was closed at both ends with the royal seal. Then he asked:          "What is your order Cornet?" 

         "I should hand over this letter to you and return to Potsdam with the answer as soon as possible."          "Have you been riding all night?"          "No, sir, Lieutenant-Colonel! I have been resting at an inn and I rode on at dawn."            "Have you already had breakfast?"          "No, sir, Lieutenant-Colonel!" 

         "All right. My housekeeper will prepare a breakfast for you and show you a room where you can rest. I have an appointment this morning, which I cannot fail. I'm back at noon, then I'll take care of the answer. You will of course also have a meal and we will provide for your journey back to Potsdam."          "Yes, sir, Lieutenant-Colonel! Thank you, sir, Lieutenant-Colonel!"

         "Bailiff Fraser. Take the man to the kitchen and inform Madame Kamann, then come back."

(”Schloss Charlottenburg / Berlin” by Schreib-Engel)

         A few minutes later, Fraser and von Trebitsch were sitting at the table again, finishing their breakfast, while the wooden document roll from Potsdam lay unopened next to the Baron's plate.          "Lieutenant-Colonel?" Fraser asks.          "Yes, in the infantry. I told you I fought in the last two wars, and you know where my sword hangs."          "Sure, but how did he know your rank, which was unknown to me?" 

         "I am sure the King has informed him. The Cornet should make a good impression here. Why else would he send a Cuirassier from a regiment of the Gardes du Corps, if he could have sent a Hussar? They are faster but not so prestigious. No, James, the young guy who is sitting in our kitchen right now is a sign of royal appreciation. Were you aware that in the ranking list of the Prussian troops the Gardes du Corps takes the second place immediately behind the First Guard Regiment? At every reception of the King the officers of the Gardes du Corps are led before the throne immediately after the officers of the First Guard Regiment and thus means before all the nobles and ambassadors. It seems that the King wants something of us. That's good. That's always good." 

         "A language without words ..." Fraser mused softly.          Paul von Trebitsch grinned. Then he put the last piece of bread in his mouth and rinsed it down with a large sip of tea.          "Let's go into my office and look at it," he said to Fraser, who had also finished his breakfast. 

         Quickly, but carefully, von Trebitsch removed the royal seal at one end of the document roll. Then he unscrewed the closure and let the letter slide out of the roll into his right hand. In his life, he had opened numerous of such royal document reels, and yet it was a special feeling every time again. Fraser stood at one of the windows, his arms crossed behind his back. The Baron reached for his pipe, which he had just lit before, and sucked on it as he read the letter. Fraser turned slowly.          "And?"          "His Majesty wishes to visit us."          "Oh."          "He's coming on Thursday morning and will depart on Friday after lunch." 

         "This week, we've just finished the last tasks of the harvest!"          The surprise and the discomfort in Fraser's voice were unmistakable.          "Yes, this week. Ah we can do it! And he wants to talk to you."          "To me?" 

         Now Fraser's voice sounded even more surprised.          He reached for the letter, which von Trebitsch handed to him, and began to read.          "He wants to talk to us about the results of our work, and he will bring a Major with him who wants to get to know me?!"          "Major von Seydlitz, a very courageous man, in a certain sense a war hero."          "You know him?"          "Yes, we fought together in the Second Silesian War at Hohenfriedberg." 

         "What sort of a man is he?"          "He comes from one of the oldest noble families in Silesia. For centuries, their men have served various ruling houses, especially as soldiers. His father, Daniel Florian von Seydlitz, was Major of the Cavalry in the 10th company of the Cuirassier Regiment Markgraf Friedrich Wilhelm von Brandenburg-Schwedt, stationed on the Lower Rhine. Friedrich Wilhelm von Seydlitz is a Free Lord and Baron like me, but his family does not have much land or wealth. Unlike me, he has a very successful military career. He is a remarkable person: A man who likes wine and tobacco, but can be disciplined when it matters. He is a man who can be very spontaneous; he surprises even those who know him again and again. On the other hand his thinking and acting shows a great measure of system and order. He is also a man who can be very self-willed, but who can put his own interests easily behind if a common aim should be archived. It can truly be said, that he is a man who is constantly working and fighting for the cause of Prussia. He had a decisive share in the victory at the Battle of Hohenfriedberg, where we fought together. He succeeded to capture the Saxon General Georg Sigismund von Schlichting personally. It is not surprising that the King promoted him to the rank of a Major by his merits at the young age of only twenty-one. By the way, he had skipped the rank of a lieutenant completely." 

(Battle of Hohenfriedeberg, Attack of Prussian Infantry, June 4th, 1745 - shown "Potsdam Giants" Grenadier Guards Batallion. History Painting by Carl Röchling [1855 - 1920] via Wikimedia Commons).

         "So he's an experienced mature officer?"          "Hmhm. He must be about 28 years old now."          "Then he's my age?!"

          This seems to be a day of countless surprises for the boy, von Trebitsch thought.          "Haven’t you fought in wars?" 

         "Mmphm. And why should I get to know him?"          "After the peace of Dresden in December 1745, he was sent to Trebitz in Silesia, and as far as I know, he devotes himself to the training of Cavalry units. He is in command of Hussars, but he himself is Cuirassier. And the King has sent us this letter by a Cuirassier. Horses, James. I think it will be all about horses." 

         "Yes, this is obvious." 

         "Oh! It's just before nine, I have to leave. I'm back for lunch. What are you going to do today?"          "I thought I'd make a ride."          "Good. See you at lunch."          Paul von Trebitsch took his black leather wrapper. Then the men went through the hall into the court. There, Max Budde waited with the saddled horse for the Baron. He mounted his horse, nodded once again and then rode away. When he had crossed the gate, Fraser asked:          "Is everything prepared?" 

         Max Budde nodded.          "Well, get my horse, I'll be right back."          Fraser hurried to his room, took his jacket from the hook and put it on while on his way back to court. There Max waited with his saddled horse.          "As we have discussed, I am riding out, and I am back at noon for lunch. Not one word to any one about my previously saddled horse."          "You can trust me, Bailiff Fraser." 

         Fraser, already on horseback, turned to Max again:          "Thanks Max and see you later."          Then he too rode out of the gate.          Fraser knew in which direction von Trebitsch would ride, and it was not long before he saw the Baron riding in some distance before him. He slowed down the speed, for he did not want to be noticed. 

         Paul von Trebitsch thoughts were still fully absorbed in the message of that royal letter, which was now enclosed in his desk. 

         "Horses. It will be about horses. But that does not seem to be everything. What does it mean that Friedrich brings the Major here?" 

         Fraser kept a distance that was far enough to see the Baron, but prevented von Trebitsch from hearing his horse. He had planned this venture for several days now and did not want to risk its success. For a long time, he wondered what sort of "appointments" von Trebitsch had on those Sunday mornings when he was not hindered by harvest or winter. Last Friday night he had decided to follow the Baron, should he ride away this Sunday morning. When the Baron ordered his horse to be saddled for 9 am, Fraser had not only given this order to Max Budde, but also ordered the stable boy to saddle his own horse for this time. However, Max should not bring it into the court, but wait for the Baron to ride away. While Fraser was now following the Baron towards Marschen, Max was already sitting in the kitchen with Mrs. Kamann and enjoyed the extra sandwich the Bailiff had promised him. 

(”Brücke Schloss Seinhoefel / Brandeburg” by PeterDargatz)

       He had followed the Baron for about forty minutes, when Fraser noticed that von Trebitsch took a road that led to the westward part of the city. He knew the area because he had been there a few times with Wilhelm Jakobi. From Jakobi he also knew that this was one of the older quarters of the city. The road led over a bridge which crossed a brook and split shortly thereafter. The road straight ahead led directly into the city. The side road to the left, on the other hand, led to a small forested hill, from which one had a good overview of this quarter of the city. Fraser saw how von Trebitsch rode directly into the city. His feeling told him, however, that it was better not to follow the Baron directly. So he directed his horse to the road that led up to the hill. He arrived at a point from which he could overlook the quarter, but where at the same time he was well hidden from the glances of others by trees and bushes. Looking downwards, he saw von Trebitsch directing his horse to a larger building maybe two hundred yards away from the brook. The building reminded him of something. But of what? It had the form of the local church buildings. But that couldn't be. The characteristic church tower was missing and a cross was nowhere to be seen.   

         The Baron directed his horse to the left side of the building, and Fraser noticed that there were water troughs with rings to fasten the reins to it. The Baron tied his horse beside several other horses. Then Fraser saw that even more people arrived and as Trebitsch greeted them with a warm welcome. It did not take long, and all these people, including the Baron, had disappeared behind the large dark oak door on the front of the building. Now from the centre of the city there sounded the bells of different church towers. 

         "Ten o'clock," Fraser thought. 

         Shortly thereafter, the large door was opened again, and a tall, slender man stepped out, looked around, and then went back inside. 

         "Look at this," he said softly, gently tapping his horse's neck. "What is Franz Sturmfels doing here?" 

         Fraser considered what he should do next. He was too curious to ride back to the estate now. He simply had to learn more. But riding with his horse to this mysterious building was not a solution either. The Baron would recognize his horse, and if there was a danger that he would be discovered, it would be easier for him to hide without a horse. He looked over the grounds again and then decided to choose the path along the brook, as it was lined with trees and small shrubs. He led his horse among some bushes and tied it to a tree. Then he set out. He hurried along the brook with quick steps. When he arrived near the house, he crossed the place where the horses were standing, and then, with a few steps, climbed the stairs to the entrance. Two square windows, which were inserted into the upper part of the door, allowed him a look inside. He saw a small hall which led directly to another large door. On the left side of the hall, a wooden staircase was leading to the first floor. The hall was empty; he could not see a single person. When he pushed the door button, he did not expect it to give way. But to his surprise, the door opened quietly and without resistance. Without a further thought, he slid inside and closed the door carefully behind him. Instinctively, he strode toward the staircase on the left. When suddenly the sound of many voices rose, he took the moment and hurried it up.