We do not own 'Frozen' or any of its characters.
"Frozen Again: 'But the Greatest of These is Love"
Act V
Chapter 7
"En Garde"
Somewhere betweenCorona'sDancing Forestand the Southern Isles ofOdense,Denmark…
After Flynn, and Job, had silently flown on nothing but trust of his gut instinct behind the youngest member of their 'Three Musketeers' trio for several aerial miles in the dark of night fall, Eugene pipes up when Hans leads the party down to land.
"I don't mean to pry, Kid. But do those of us here in the peanut gallery get any vital clues as to the five W's yet?" Never one to keep his own counsel for long, Eugene whispers loudly over the clatter of the three men and their three horses traversing through the brush of some foreign land beyond the sea.
"Who is it were looking for? What are they after? Where did they go? When will we catch up? And why the hell am I whispering?" Flynn Rider's loudly whispering voice poses the pointed questions to his younger brother. Hans, once alighted from his white mare, Snaedis, had been silently making his way through the wooded coppice they had landed in as if he owned the place.
"Shh, Storbror." Hans' gentle, lyrical voice chides his older sibling for causing a disturbance to the otherwise silent thicket where the trio had landed. This sheltered, tree covered area was just behind the wharf of a nearby ship's dock where they had been staking out some very suspicious characters for the last several kilometers of travel upstream.
"Hey, don't you shush me! I'm the older brother here, Handsome! Oof! Watch out, fuzzball!"
Careless and a bit aggravated, Eugene had accidentally stepped on the tail of a rummaging-through-a-pile-of-leaves Eurasian red squirrel. The cute scatter-hoarder with a mouthful of nuts had subsequently spirited up a close by tree. In its hurry, the clumsy squirrel had knocked down a thankfully empty bird's nest right onto Eugene's unlucky head. Soon, noisy birds were encircling around his crow's nest, all squawking in disdain at their habitat's upset and the criminal behind it.
"Fine, fine. Shh!" Rolling his eyes as he plucks sticks and dried weeds among bird feathers from his coiffed sepia brown hairdo, Flynn says in frustration at this totally avoidable situation by chastening the angry twittering birds flying around his dizzy head. "For some reason, animals just don't like me." The roguish thief sighs when that tender-tailed furry red squirrel vindictively tosses a cracked open nutshell to bounce hard off Flynn Rider's unsuspecting head.
"Oww." The thief rubs his noggin with a sour-puss grimace up at the perniciously chortling tree-bound rodentia and its fiendishly feathered friends.
Job stifles a chuckle. But his big smile full of bright white teeth against the dark of night disturbs Eugene's delicate insomniatic sensibilities.
"You think I'm a joke, Pal? Well, I don't find this situation very funn—Hey!" Especially combative with a grumbling, unfed tummy and lack of sufficient sleep, Eugene's flippant tongue is halted when Hans' slender hand slaps over his big brother's loud mouth to instantly quiet him. Eugene's vexed eyes widen to peer over the hedge of tall bushes as he follows Hans' gaze.
There he glimpses to where Big Nose's awkward body form was being shoved and prodded by several large men in dark hooded capes onto a sea vessel the villains were transferring him into.
"Could it be you?" Speaking more to himself in awed retrospect than anyone in hearing range, Hans falls to his knees in the darkness to crawl between the brush to get a better vantage point. He squints through the dusky night to catch sight of a curious figure moving surreptitiously in the falling night shadows, orchestrating this all from the mouth of the ship he was standing in. When the head man departs back into the ship's ebony interior, Hans mechanically rises to his feet as the steam clipper roars its engines to life.
"Right! I guess that's our cue. Good job getting us here, Kid! Let's get Big Nose out of there before that ship takes off! Job, you take the two big bruisers on the left, and I'll take down the ugly cretins on the right. Sideburns, we'll block the gangplank and stall them until you alert the Port Master Authority over there in that boathouse to arrest the kidnappers. With the element of surprise on our side, this should be a piece of cake." Eugene's quick, imaginative mind already formulates a winning game plan for their success.
"Piece of cake. Unless dose guys be armed. Which dey be, T'ief." With his deep bass Job makes the deliberate statement in his unruffled, no-nonsense terms. He points a dark finger at the obvious long barrel rifles bulging at each caped captor's side after Eugene finishes communicating his daring rescue of the mislaid pub thug.
"Do you have to go and rain on my parade, Big Guy? Okay, they're loaded to the teeth. New plan required. Suggestions, Vice Admiral? Any ingenious tactics to get us in-like-Flynn this time, Sideburns? Get it? 'In-like-' oh, neverrmind." At his pun's ill reception, Eugene looks down and is flabbergasted yet again by his kid brother. Or lack thereof.
For Hans appeared to have gone MIA.
"Oh, hell! You have got to be kidding me! Weren't you the one trying to teach me about the merciful bounty of teamwork, Lillebror?!" Flynn whines in a discordant whisper with a dropped jaw to watch Hans' missing slender form slink like a sly fox through the night shadows along the ledge at the dock, until the Danish Prince audaciously slips in between the quartet of guards and the lowered hatch door.
Giving a startled Big Nose a conspiring nod from where he was hanging like a bat beneath the gangplank, the agile, daring Dane silently flips his long athletic legs up top. Hans disappears into the docked ship's open hatch right behind the four large, armed guards corralling the pub thug into the waiting sailing vessel into slips into the shadows, without a single one of them the wiser.
And without missing a beat, its ominous hatch door closes behind them all tightly before those watching had a chance to say 'boo!'
"Come on, Job! We're in for it now! That crazy kid's gonna need some back up from his compadres in this reckless new escapade of his! Whether or not he wants us to tag along. All for one?" Eugene repeats the bolstering literary line that Hans had used on them before as he sticks out his peachy tan hand to Job's dark brown one.
"…And one for all." Finishing the phrase as both the loner men get into the team spirit for their little 'brother', Job exchanges a familiar handshake and a nod with Eugene as the stubbly Prussian quickly finishes untying the trio of horses from the tree line. Then the two men, in one unspoken accord, swiftly give their horses a running start backwards to fly straight up, unseen. High into the stratosphere they ride on the Snow Queen's flying mares, Flurru and Nysnaer, with Snaedis obediently following close behind, to save their gung-ho D'Artagnan from getting himself killed.
The Southern Isles, after sunset…
"KRISTOFF BJORGMAN!" Prince Anna of Arendelle had just about her fill of being pushed and pulled and held back from where she had been nearly smothered atop Sven by her loving hubby.
"Ergh! WHY did we run away?!" As red in the face as a blushing, stuffed lobster, angry Anna tumbles off her reindeer's back the moment Sven landed in the safety of the tall tree thicket of the Danish forest on the outskirts of the Southern Isle of Funen.
"Anna. Those weird guys were shooting arrows at us!" Kristoff tries to sanely justify his order of retreat to his snippy back sled-bench driver wife as she shakes her fists at him, fully on her guard in the dusky falling darkness.
"So?! We came to find if Hans is in there! Not tuck tail and run like a bunch of scared rabbits!" Gutsy Anna cries out in frustration, throwing her hands about her frazzled head as she flicks her double braids huffily out of her much animated, livid face.
"Come on! What did you want me to do?! We were under attack by those jerky brothers of Hans! I wasn't about to let you and Rapunzel be in harm's way." As they argue like an old married couple, levelheaded Kristoff was busy rubbing down Sven and then Svala after the reindeers' harrowing escape at arrow and rifle point. "Just calm down, Anna." His mellow voice adds on to settle down the girl hovering over him with her hands on her incensed hips.
"Okay. Okay, I'm calm. I'm calm." The feisty Princess physically must make an effort to take a deep breath and compose her high-strung ruffled senses, but Kristoff's smooth voice helped her down most of the way.
That, and punching the wad of blankets and pillows tightly wrapped on the back of Sven's cargo pack that they had traded with the sisters at the charity school earlier.
"You think those two were some of Hans' twelve brothers? I always imagined they would all be – you know– as gorgeous as Hans. Wow, what a major letdown." Changing mode from angry to curious in a whistle of the wind, Anna makes a puckered lipped face at the vision memory of those undesirable, ugly pair of nasty twin young men as compared to the winsome, fair of face Hans Westergaard.
"Yeah, they must've been his brothers, with all that threatening talk of their father, the King, getting even with us. Not to mention all those bad vibes going around that would play into Hans' story of the Southern Isles kingdom not being the most hospitable of places to live in." The blond mountain man reasons with all the verbal evidence they had just witnessed from the childish pair of grown men. Way more mature than those guys a decade older than he, Kristoff goes about pouring water for Svala in a dish that Olaf was helpfully holding up for the female doe to reach as the responsible man brushes the reindeer down simultaneously.
"But what a kingdom! They had a real live moat and a drawbridge, like in storybooks! So cool! Did you see that pretty design of the gardens on the front lawn? And…and, all those fancy bushes cut into shapes of birdies and swirly ice cream cone thingys? Hans' family must be very artistic. I would love to meet them all and make new friends, and go on a tour of the whole castle estate together. Sigh. Wouldn't that be nice?" The silly, sighing snowman spazzes out in dreamy wonderment of the decoratively scenic wonderland that was Hans' birthplace, the kingdom of Egeskov.
"Artistic, eh? More like sadistic." Smirking to himself, Kristoff murmurs under his breath at the spoiled rich folk who, for all their money and wealth and power, couldn't buy some good manners. "Watch what you're doing, Olaf." Kristoff admonishes the impressed snowperson for his absurdities as Olaf absentmindedly spills some of their precious canteen water supply on the ground in his hazy, starry-eyed daydream. Fortunately, Pascal was there with his steady, multicolored clawed hands to straighten the lopsided bowl as not to spill the entire batch.
"So, how are we going to get into that fortress castle now, to even see if Hans is there? They know what we look like and won't be all that eager to let us even get close again! Ohhh!" An overdramatic palm over her whining eyes, Anna was pulling her hair out by now. She rather ungracefully plops to sprawl across the thicket glen's grass, tugging her braids every which way in her flustered state of confusion.
Kristoff merely smirks at Anna's adorable flare for the dramatics as he gently lifts forgotten Rapunzel down to the ground from her seat upon Svala for the al fresco picnic supper he employed eager Olaf and helpful Pascal to aid him in setting out for their little party.
"Maybe…" Cousin Rapunzel daintily kneels on the blanket Olaf had just methodically spread out with her neon green chameleon's assistance. The snowman had only lost his arms once or twice in a tug-of-war with the surprisingly strong lizard who knew all about long-tail leverage.
Not paying much attention to her dangled word, the pair of hungry, humming sidekicks busily help Kristoff in passing out the packed lunch that the nuns at the Fattigskole school had provided for their trip.
The Prussian Princess bites her lip as she gazes down at Anna's forlorn form writhing on the ground beside her.
"… Maybe I know how to get in." The words, all come out at once in a rush as the brown haired young maiden speaks quietly. Rapunzel steels herself to explain her ideas on how to set her intrepid notion into motion.
Nonchalant, Pascal offers his girl a cucumber sandwich half with a hopeful look in his big buggy eyes, but the bilious young mother-to-be passes yet again his attempt to get her to eat properly.
"You do!?" On the other hand, energetic, always ravenous Anna never turned down a meal as she energetically bobbed up from her prone, laid out position on the thicket ground at dizzying speed to grab hold of the rejected cucumber sandwich that Pascal politely was now holding up to Kristoff instead.
MUNCH! MUNCH! MUNCH!
The feisty Princess loudly crunches the crisp vegetable. Anna sinks her pearly white teeth into both the yummy sandwich and whatever intriguing proposal Rapunzel had for her excitable appetite.
"Ye-es…" The more indecisive Rapunzel answers timidly, fighting back her ill feeling of evening sickness to be a useful member of the search and rescue mission.
Anna immediately sits up and leans her elbows on her knees, propping up her cute chin. Her shining eyes blink up expectantly like a child waiting for a piece of candy, directly in front of her now self-conscious cousin.
"We'll have to go back to the convent so I can ask Mother Superior to beg audience of the King for me. As the visiting Royal Princess of Corona, they can't deny me safe and equitable entrance and pleasant treatment to a fellow member of royal society, less risk bad relations with my country." Rapunzel explains quietly.
"Once there, I can inquire diplomatically about Prince Hans and discover what they know of his whereabouts as discreetly as I can." The more tactful Princess explains proper protocol for visiting royalty to Anna, Kristoff and Olaf. "I believe those dreadful brothers on the roof didn't see my face, so no one will suspect and it should go just swimmingly." All three of her Norwegian friends stare back at her optimism with a mixture of excited, dubious, and enlightened looks on their faces.
"You're brilliant, 'Punzy! I love you!" Anna goes from dejected to elated in .05 seconds flat as she leans over to hug her so fast, she literally bowls over Rapunzel with a great big, tight glomp. Anna trips on a crumpled wrinkle in the blanket until she falls all over the pregnant young woman and knocks them both down flat to the ground.
"Anna! Sheesh! Don't suffocate your cousin!" Kristoff was laughing at his energized wife's haphazard antics that left her poor coughing cousin gasping for the air clumsy Anna just knocked out of her.
"Oops. Sorry." Anna says sheepishly as her strong Ice Harvester lifts the orangey caramel girl's lithe little body up from the picnic blanket where she had tripped on top of her poor, pregnant cousin.
"You okay, Rapunzel?" Knowing his Anna was sturdy as a thick stemmed summer sunflower where she was dangling woozily loose in his arms, Kristoff inquires of the more delicate pastel flower. Rapunzel nods as Olaf and Sven were already propping the Corona Princess up, no worse for wear.
As Kristoff goes to make sure - Eugene's absence left the blond mountainman answerable for his pregnant wife's care - a speechless Rapunzel waves him off with a weak smile. The already sick in the stomach girl would rather just lay there for a few moments more, collecting her thoughts.
After all their time together, Kristoff knew exactly that feeling of utter breathlessness that his overwhelmingly active, boisterous gal often left him in with her reckless behavior all too well.
"We'll go meet with the Sisters, as you suggest, in the morning, Rapunzel. You get some sleep now, so you'll be ready to face the day tomorrow." Kristoff says in his placid, gentle voice with a disarming smile at the young woman. He kindly leads Rapunzel with Olaf to the covered wagon he had rented in Odense and had laid out a sleeping bag in the back of the vehicle for her to stretch out.
With Sven and Svala on either side of the wooded clearing by the fire he started to scare off any wandering predators, and Pascal as an eagle-eyed look out, Kristoff was not worried while his responsible eyes scan the tranquil area perimeter.
Like second nature, the Snow Prince easily hefts a dazed Anna around to carry her to where he had already set up a sleeping bag on a soft bed of grass for them to share for the restful night.
"This is cozy, after a rough day." Princess Anna coos as she winds down from her uptight edginess to stretch out on the soft grassy knoll. She then nestles deep into Kristoff's comfortable arms, after he removed his shirt, to settle down in the sleeping bag beside her.
Kristoff maneuvers the snuggling girl around his body that she fit in so well to, until Anna was pressed close against his warm embrace. The loving girl instantly starts nuzzling against his bare chest under the romantic moonlight that was just beginning to peek through the dusk of early evening.
"We're good together, aren't we, Kristly?' Lulled to a slumbering calm at last, Anna murmurs, realizing and reveling in the fact that even after all the tense argumentative moments just minutes ago, both parties here loved one another so much they'd forgiven and forgotten any harsh words already.
The second-guessing quarrel was forgotten. But the man, lying closed-eyed in the tranquility of nature with his little woman wrapped securely in his arms, might still recall some other sentiments dredged up in the heated conversation…
"So… you still think Hans is 'gorgeous ', eh?" Kristoff says out of nowhere in the quiet still of the evening, where only the birds and owls and insects chirping in unison were keeping time with the warm breezes of the wind peacefully blowing over them.
"Huh?" Anna was already half asleep under the cool calm of serene nature, mesmerized by the tender entrancing heartbeat she had been listening to belonging one of its most magnificent favored sons.
Sensing her quiet guy's desire to converse, and his amusing unease on the subject, Anna opens her blue-green eyes to gaze up at her hunky hubby.
"Well, you've got to admit, in all honesty, that Hans is a major improvement to those two homely brothers of his, Kristly." A smile playing on her mischievous lips, Anna says to Kristoff with bright laughing eyes and a truthful guileless smile up at him.
"Hmph." Kristoff simply shrugs, feigning off his hurt feelings. It was not his style to criticize another man's looks—no matter how hideous they may have been—but he's hit a little too close to home for Anna to be complementing her former fiancé so excessively unambiguous and candid, especially in the secure intimacy of his arms.
"But I know a guy who's a lot better looking than even Prince Hans Westergaard." Anna says, tilting her head a bit coquettishly with fluttering eyelids at his newfound jealous cuteness.
"Oh, yeah? Anyone I know?" The young virile man smirks down at his little wife with the returned flirt as he possessively squeezes her buoyant, practically weightless body in his musclebound arms deeper into this chest's clinch hold.
"Yep. I'll introduce you to him, tonight. And he's way beyond simply gorgeous. He's beautiful. Let me show you the ways..." Needing this release, as well as his constant loving strength to get her through her anxieties, Anna flirtatiously teases her man. She pets away his green-eyed envy with enthusiastic fingertips that trace Kristoff's every abundant muscular line as she melts into the chocolate of his brown eyes.
The feisty Princess runs her fingers through each strand of his feathered mane of golden hair as she caresses his powerful pecs with her nuzzling nose that she was leaning her cheek against his rugged and rippling bare chest adoringly.
And in answer to her previous request, Kristoff delivers to Anna a massively well-received kiss. The Wind Whisperer then goes the distance to intone some breathtaking music in his young lover's ear. His unruly golden locks cascade across his ruggedly good-looking face as their glimmering eyes, for one another alone, meet in the falling dusk of night to share a sweet smile.
That special attention to detail made Kristoff Bjorgman even more gorgeousto Anna Bernadotte than anyone she had ever seen before, or ever would see again.
And all thoughts of other men, handsome or otherwise, were long forgotten in the beauty of his pure velvety embrace…
On a moonless night onKiel Bay…
Moving like a panther through the quickly falling dusk, Hans Westergaard carefully skulks through the steam clipper ship's pitch dark corridors. He was well-versed enough with most seabound vessels to be familiar with the English designed clipper's layout schematics.
But Hans was especially well acquainted with this particular swift-moving ocean vehicle.
For he had seen it before.
And though his main interest was to search for clues as to where Eugene's friend Big Nose was currently being held hostage on board, the clever Danish Prince's curiosity was piqued by the little eccentricities of this life that God set as punishment, or perhaps trials of contrition, before His sinners.
'Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you share Christ's sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when His glory is revealed.' 1 Peter 4:12-13
After approximately an hour spent staking out the ship and avoiding the four or five muscled blackguards roaming the ship as they fulfilled their onboard duties in stoic silence, intelligent Hans studiously considers all of the evidential clues he had gleaned thus far. First, from Big Nose's new bride Hilde, and then through what information he had gathered upon boarding this disembarked ship.
A group of mysterious men dressed in black capes with symbols of a gold crown and anchor wrapped with a snake had taken Big Nose. They had been interested in Hilde's wedding ring, but were not common robber thieves enough to purloin it for its gold monetary value. Their leader, who had words with Big Nose that his young wife could not overhear, possessed a single gloved left hand with some kind of strange deformed nub at its ulnar side.
And this extreme steam clipper ship, with its concave hollow water line and tined out afterbody that consisted of a bow lengthened for speed, was a square rigged vessel so familiar to Hans, it was the icing on the cake.
Especially after the Southern Isles Prince had read the name of this swift steam clipper on his upper hull, confirming his suspicions.
The 'Sjette Doight'('Sixth Finger')was a mixture of Danish and French languages…
Could it be you?
Shaking his confused head with all the extrapolated data he had collected affronting his mind that only wished to reject the conclusions screaming at him, sly-like-a-fox Prince Hans had covertly entered yet another vacant compartment cabin. The cabin veiled in darkness beneath the forecastle deck was the final one in his investigative search for the kidnapped newlywed and the reason why he had been abducted.
But not ten seconds after he had clandestinely snuck into this rear quarterdeck room between bulkheads and started rifling through its shelving drawers for clues, the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly hackle with a cold, clammy feeling.
As quietly surreptitious as possible, Hans removes an object and abruptly closes the drawer in one fluid motion. He then jerks his startled head around when he hears a ruckus down the connective corridor.
And it was drawing closer.
"I swear on my sainted Mother's grave that I don't have it, Mister! And that goes for Aged P, too! Tell your boss that we've never even seen the thing you're talking about! It's nothing to do with us, fellas! You have to let me go! I'm innocent, I tell ya! Innocent!" Big Nose's unmistakable Brooklyn-like accent suddenly rings across the hall up from the Sjette Doight's midsection hold that his captors were dragging him up from for a meeting with their master.
This is undoubtedly your handiwork, Master. Well in keeping with your callousness to fellow man and malice to the world at large. But I have only one question: why this poor man, who would be insignificant in your cruel eyes? What has he done to deserve your wrath?
The chaos brings the reflective Hans' razor-sharp mind back to the immediate reality as he quickly glances around this spartanly furnished captain's cabin that seemed to be their destination, as the footsteps move in closer.
I need to conceal myself!
His mind races as his agile body desperately scrambles around the pitch dark captain's compartment for some semblance of coverage to disguise himself from being detected when they arrived. Although, the underlying evidence of who this crime's head perpetrator was exactly was about to turn Hans' growing suspicion into cold reality in a flashback of spiteful unforgiving fate's design…
SHKKK…
There's someone else in this room, isn't there?
But before a frozen-in-place, covert Hans had the opportunity to process the caught-in-the-act intuition spurred on by the recognizable sound of a sword slowly being unsheathed, a terrible raspy voice whispers venom in his shocked ear from somewhere close behind…
"You were the last one I expected to see here, you worthless, cursed wretch of a devil boy. What is that they say? Vengeance is a dish best served…COLD!" In the dim dusky light reflected in the cabin porthole's glassy mirror he was facing, a horrified Hans was sure he glimpsed a shadowy spectre from his past momentarily before –
C-CLUNKK!
And the entire world phases out of time as strikingly gorgeous Prince Hans is struck by a back blow to his handsome red head by the large brass bell guard hilt of an epée sword.
Hans sinks to his knees as this furtive sneak assault from behind is punctuated by a rhythmic clapping, intermingled with a spate of inhuman cackles…
The Ladegården Stables.Egeskov Castle, 1839…
…Twelve summers ago…
The sound of harsh laughter was a disturbing greeting to a young lad of thirteen who had tentatively walked into the Ladegården stable house's vast area that had been converted to a spacious gymnasium.
Even before his firstborn son Kaleb had been born, King Herbert of the Southern Isles had already started building this sprawling estate"s ornamental equestrian building for the many sons of the royal kingdom of Denmark to enjoy and train.
It was this King's world-dominating determination to have many, many sons to expand his kingdom and eventually spread the proud name of the Westergaard Danes across Europe in the globe beyond.
Under their strict father's ironfisted thumb, training a small army of boys to be draconian conquerors at an early age was his intention entirely. The desire to strive to be the best and finest and most belligerent to make them overpower others had been driven into each one of the boys' minds since their birth.
From haughty and arrogant crown Prince Kaleb, to callous indifferent Anders. Then, calculating intellectual Lars; as well as snobby narcissist Ivers. Next, aloof, money miser Mattias; to cold-blooded casanova Didrik. Down the line, there's ambitious deceiver Jurgen; outspoken hothead Peiter; reticent, manipulator Berte; menacing brute Franz; and finally the mischievous, nasty twin imps Rune and Ruddi.
Poor Queen Louise's nonstop string of expected pregnancies had become a yearly event for her ambitious King with the express object of bearing him proud sons. The gentle spirited woman had graced her controlling, autocratic husband with a virtual plethora of the male heirs he demanded.
An even dozen of fine, strong, strapping boys were born to vitalize the kingdom of Denmark as an unstoppable influx of ascendancy to the crown.
Unstoppable, that is, before the thirteenth last unlucky little lad was one too many for the repressed, browbeaten Scotswoman to survive.
The older nine young men all had a strong resemblance to their fine-looking father. In stature, facial features, height and strong build, the Danish King's genes were obviously dominant with his sepia brown hair, broad, straight shoulders on a robust build and chisel-cut, attractive male features.
And then there was Hans.
Since the day he was born, Prince Hans Westergaard had been small, thin of frame, and woefully effeminate. He didn't fit in at all with the studly vigorous, rawly robust and manly masculine mold of his father and his other twelve brothers conformed squarely into.
This smallest child of the house of Egeskov, some eight years younger than the closest aged twin terrors, was reminded since his birth that he killed their dear mother with the unforgivable crime of being born.
"Why do we have to bother training with the Squirrel, Master Rügen? He's just a skinny little twit after being mollycoddled by those saintly nuns and ladies of the Fattigskole all those years." The spoiled rotten ninth in line, twenty-three-year-old Prince named Berte had complained when Hans first stepped into their private gymnasium, looking lost and self-conscious for being the only one wearing a prim vest jacket and frilly tie on the athlete's court.
"Why is he even back here?" Tall, beefy, second in line Anders, age thirty-two, had commented under his snide breath as he had just swatted a tennis ball viciously at his eighth in line younger brother Jurgen, knocking the twenty-five-year-old cursing boy down with an illegal maneuver.
"Just look at him. He still looks as fragile as a pansy flower." Twenty-six going on sixteen, sixth in line Didrik imagined he was a ladies man, and flattered himself with his flaunted sculpted abs he was showing off in his constant hobby of weightlifting.
Despite thirteen-year-old Hans having a sudden growth spurt in this last year, his twelve older brothers, who had gathered for their father's important sixtieth birthday celebration, were all taller—especially the gauche twins—who may not have been blessed with the comely countenance and athletic physique of their progenitor, but they certainly had his streak of cruelty.
"I'd rather not look at the strange awkward child. Just the sight of his awful red hair makes me feel rather ill." Forth in line, snobbish at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, Ivers looks down his venerated Roman nose at this unwanted younger brother with vain pride.
"I wouldn't say that red hair is 'awful' in front of Father, if I were you, Ivers. Remember, Mother had red hair just as vibrant." By no means a sentimentalist, and never intending to stand up for his kid brother, third-in-line, thirty-one-year-old logical Lars was one of the few brothers who actually remembered what their mother had been like before the years of bearing countless sons had worn her down. Merely overlooking the various sports happening around gymnasium with disinterest, the intellectual brother pushed up his glasses with the observation.
That's when the eldest son of this royal house, thirty-three-year-old Crown Prince Kaleb chimed in. "That's right. There was a time when he loved Mother's red hair. So I would keep my mouth shut, Ivers, on that little witticism, or Father might cut you out of his will." No love lost for Hans, the eldest child at the other end of spectrum, still felt a sense of duty to his long dead mother.
"Deservedly so." Fifth in line, twenty-seven-year-old Mattias' greedy eyes lit up with rigsdalar signs as the opportunity for one less competitor in this inheritance game they played for the King's monetary affections reared its envious head.
"Then we get more for the rest of us if he's edged out, right?!" The crude loudmouth of the bunch, twenty-five years of age Peiter, as eigth in line of succession, was mainly relying on royal status and his father's generous allowance where he was in the middle of the totem pole, and was unashamed to announce their petty and clawing, healthy brotherly rivalry.
"Yep! Uh, I think…" The not so brainy, but certainly the biggest and brawniest of the bunch, twenty-two-year-old, tenth in line Franz concurred with his older brothers' devious plot, just as the hulky lummox always did.
"Let's edge Ivers and the Squirrel out of our rightful inheritance!" Hidden behind large-bodied, athletic Franz, twenty-one-year-old red pock-faced Rune called out loud and purposefully enough for Hans to unmistakably hear their harsh and cruel proclamation.
"You said it, Rune! Especially that girly Squirrelly! Let's pretend he's invisible from now on, and maybe he'll go away." His shockingly yellow haired, too awkwardly lanky twin added with vigor to his twin's wicked scheming views from where the pair had been playing ping-pong together.
Poor Hans, standing quite alone and feeling out of place and unwelcome in his fencing breeches, felt so very left out as all twelve of his other brothers talked over, around and about him as if he didn't have the right to even exist here.
He shivered inwardly as they all gave him the evil eye when each had ignored his every attempt to join in with any of their friendly games. As a whole, they were spiteful, diffident or just downright plain mean to this littlest brother they had not seen for over ten years, whom they all disdained in varying degrees for stealing their mother and disrupting by never fitting into, their clawing up the ladder world.
And it was all about to hit the fans.
CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!
The cutting, staccato sound that called every one of the young men to attention at their Master's insistent call distinctly echoed throughout the high Ladegården roof gymnasium.
"As you all well know, today is your father, the King's, 60th birthday. To commemorate this most important occasion, I have arranged for a competition in our favorite field of fencing for you boys to display your augmented talents before your patriarch." Said in his clipped precise way of speaking, he flipped back the black cape with the crowned golden anchor wrapped in a serpentine cord, symbol of the Danish naval forces Søværnet embroidered upon it.
Their fencing master Count Humperdinck Rügen took several steps towards the group of twelve Royal Princes standing before him, with only straggler Hans excluded from his projected gaze.
"To celebrate the day, I have decided that you three boys, whom I have painstakingly trained over the years with my expertise in the fine French art of fencing technique and skill, have become masters enough in your own rights to even train amateurs yourselves. So, in duel competition today, you will display your skills before your father in actual combat with young Prince Hans."
Hans had frozen stock still, as every one of the brothers turned to look at him and the fear stricken look that crossed his panicked face in shock of the sudden startling announcement.
"Your father had asked, upon the child's arrival last week from the charity school he had been lodged in, that I look into his athletic physical ability and progress. So as not to disgrace this proud royal house before our Naval brethren when he is sent to the Royal Søværnets Officersskole Academy this upcoming semester. And so, consequently, with this contest, we will all see how the good sisters of the convent had trained our slender little lad in the fine art of the epée." The full bearded man with the dark brown wavy hair strokes at his beard's gray streaks with an amused, pleased-with-himself smile down at a terrified Hans.
The princes of the Southern Isles had had the same fencing instructor/sports trainer/ royal steward managing their kingdom's affairs for as long as any of them could remember. The middle-aged retainer sycophant/vassel toady had been King Herbert's faithful man of every season who had all the important credentials of a royal count from a neighboring kingdom where he had some distant relation ties the Danish King.
But for all his supercilious airs and well-trained graces, Count Rügen of Wurttenberg lacked even a touch of human kindness or polite civility. The dark-eyed, disdainful sadist actually seemed to enjoy watching other people's misery, ideating his own methods of mental torture to control this law of misbehaving, wicked young men to his cruel, yet manipulative subjugation. And that is how he had played the boys, one against the other, for decades, shaping them into the harsh, unsympathetic men they were today.
Just like their father had wanted.
"Now, be a good example of my training and show your father proud of your technique and proficiency, my young soldiers." Rügen stated for all to hear when stately King Herbert himself entered the boy's gymnasium of his Ladegården stables to watch this arranged 'friendly' duel competition between his children in the honored sport of Royal tradition and seats himself upon a waiting royal throne.
"Be sure to give the wretch a proper thrashing before your father's audience. And prove my excellence in training my boys how to be men, versus an inadequate group of rejected royal women, disguised as Sisters of the church who raised that slight and malnourished devil boy. Do not fail me, Franz, Berte, Jurgen. You are my finest students. I rely on you to demonstrate this worthless creature for who he is." Whispering in their ears so the King could not hear his pitiless remarks, the pedantic pedagogue even slid his own special manchette six-fingered hand guard glove, created of interwoven metal threads in the brocade cloth especially for the polydactyl deformed count.
Nonetheless, the six fingered glove fit onto the darkest black-brown short cropped haired Prince Franz's left hand to provide proper protection and symbolized Rügen's endorsement for his prized student, who was first to represent Count Rügen's dignity as a praiseworthy fencing master.
Prince Franz was the tallest and strongest and most broad shouldered of all the brothers Westergaard. He, more than any of his brothers, had proven, time and time again, to be the most complete athlete of the group, which was quite a feat to be said.
Practically all the male clan of Westergaard, as holding with their forceful patriarch's bold footsteps, had their passions in one form of sport or another. And Master Rügen was named by Denmark's King as overseer to nurture all of his son's violent tendencies soon after their birth.
Between hunting wild game here in Egeskov, or traveling to foreign lands for big-game hunting in Asia and Africa, in archery and firearms, swimming, fencing, wrestling, horse racing and every other boyish activity known to man, the Princes of Denmark were renowned throughout Europe for their boldness.
And the Ladegården stables of Egeskov were well known as a nonstop athletic meet where the young men assiduously trained.
With their distant relation jack-of-all-trades as coach, teacher and mentor under their aloof father's detached instruction, these maturing Danes had been trained to live up to the name of the conquerors their ancestors demanded.
"Do you understand the rules, competitors?" Rügen states more than asks, the brutal man secretly glad that the no-holds-barred epée regulations of fencing had been chosen for this cocky, so prim and proper little Prince who didn't belong here at all.
And then maybe he would quickly learn the hard lessons of life outside of his pampered and cosseted convent mission school life.
"Yes, Master Rügen." Franz had smirked at the set rules of battle that he cavalierly was certain he would dominate as he sneered down at young teenager Hans from his six foot three height.
"Yes, Master Rügen." Hans repeated, his tenor voice, just coming into its own, cracking to a higher pitch soprano that makes the entire group of young men watching burst into ridiculing laughter.
That is, until their stoic father, the King, gave them all a foreboding look for utter silence in his presence.
"Then let this dueling competition commence, young men. As an added incentive, I offer the victor to claim my prized, specially honed double-edged Scottish basket-hilted broadsword in celebration of our honored King's glorious day." With a flourish in a stroked beard, Count Rügen bowed his head to the nation's ruler in his wheedling, obsequious penchant to his high-brow King.
"And coin toss and decided we will use the epée blade's rules of engagement, I declare the entire body as fair target aim." Master Rügen gave Hans, behind him a leering smirk then turning to award the King and the other princes in audience a well-bred smile in the next second. The fencing instructor then nods to his trio of young representatives, all armed with rapiers, with a shrewd look in his evil eye.
"Are you ready to be defeated, Squirrel? Because I'm not planning on going easy on you, just because you are a green-horn kid." The tough and hardened tenth-in-line Prince Franz flexed his ample muscles rippled beneath his rolled-up sleeve. He scoffed at the thirteen-year-old boy, who was just coming into his puberty's less than impressive abs and pecs in tight shirt chest torso display.
The young teen self-consciously knew he looked rather gangly in his fencing breeches and this form-fitting shirt. Hans wished he still was wearing his frilly fuchsia tie and proper white shirt and vest that he had been told to remove. The svelte and conscientious, elegant young man had groomed his looks to be pleasing for a certain young lady someday, and he prided himself on his well-designed and perfectly fitted waist jacket that sweet Sister Angelica and Sister Bernice back in the convent had painstakingly dressed the boy, just coming into his teens out of his adolescence for his return home to the castle after living with them for ten years.
Well, not exactly a return home, per say. Just a limited summer stop over, really, before the still unwelcome child would be shipped off to the Royal Søværnets Officersskole naval Academy to go into officer training, as every proper royal boy must.
But his demanding high-handed single parent had been convinced by his second son Lars' dispassionate argument to finally allow the youngest boy to visit his birth place. If only to arbitrate his progress before Hans was shipped off to the Academy for another six to eight years like so much untested flotsam and perhaps embarrass them all with his inadequacy of ignorance should they not intercede.
So, with the other ten of the rest of his older brothers, and a few of Kaleb, Lars and Anders' small boy children as audience, glaring down at him from their allocated seats in the bleachers of the huge indoor stadium of this converted wing of the massive stable complex, Hans was not intimidated.
More than a few of the loudmouth rascals were laughing and chortling at his pointedly more slight and effeminate build and paler complexion compared to bulky Franz's healthy tanned ruddy one, as they heckled Hans from his long legged graceful beginning stance.
However, Prince Hans, confident in his ability with any sword placed in his hand, didn't mind one bit.
But the moment his intimidating imperious father's eyes caught their attention, all of the young men's twitterings came to a grinding halt under King Herbert's tyrannical gaze. When it had finally alighted on his youngest son, whom the standoffish sixty-year-old monarch had given a forbidding remote stare, thirteen-year-old Hans felt his resolve begin to falter.
No. This is my one chance to prove myself to him that I am not a throwaway. I can belong to an important place like this, too.
Young Hans had bolstered up his failing confidence to look past twelve pairs of unwelcoming, unfriendly and unapproachable eyes and the King's grimace back at him with cool trepidation.
Hans closed his dreamy verdant green eyes to envision yet again, as he did in all his misbegotten youth, a pair of hopeful azure blue beautiful ice crystals. The shimmering eyes of the sweet angel young girl, whom he only met in his dreams beyond his illustrations, were always there to encourage him when he was feeling down.
And made him strive to be more than himself, and capture her heart someday.
"No. I am prepared to be victorious." Hans had surprised Franz and Master Rügen both with his quietly defiant and calm statement. The younger boy looked directly up into his big brother's doubting eyes with the crystal clear orbs of brash youth.
"And I am not planning on going easy on you, either, Storbror." Hans used the familiar term for a little brother to address his elder, supposedly with affection, for the first time.
Perhaps it was meant to throw the other off kilter a little. Or perhaps it was because the sisters of the convent had taught the lonely boy, starting at four-and-a-half-years-old when he was placed under their care, to show respect for others. And kindness in adversity, for it will come back to you.
"En garde!" Of course, none of the sisters, even young Sister Francis, who once had a dear brother she had practiced fencing with of her own, was adventurous enough to try to teach this little royal Prince some rudimentary techniques concerning the art of fencing.
Eager Hans had caught onto this sport of Kings right away by reading up on self training on the subject, until the twenty-nine-year-old nun couldn't keep up with the ingenious and clever, merely five-year-old boy, who was already deadly accurate with a weapon blade.
And now, with a sharpened rapier in hand, the slim teenager had a tight hold of his focused edge's razor-sharp cross-sections blade to make his first 'Attaque au Fer'. The bold expulsion of his opponent's foil cutting edge was impressive as the opening move.
CLANG! CLICK! CLASH! CLATTER!
King Herbert's eyes slit as he watched this discarded youngest boy's graceful execution of fencing skills in epée conversation with his elder brother, twelve years his senior. From appels to lunging, to coupé deception and deflected derobement, young Hans had shocked the others with his flowing mastery of the parry and feint, plus his clever croisé redoublement and evasive in quartatatechnique with his forte and foible that had all of his audience's jaws dropped.
This one's deceptively clever as a fox…Hmmm…
"Argh!" His ire up, Franz, who was, by far, the best rough-and-tumble athlete in sheer force fencer among the Westergaard brood, was shocked to have to fight so hard with this wishy-washy, girly-looking little youngest brother who had a flair for the gliding footwork, much akin to dancing, that set apart fencing as more of a theatrical art than any other sport. By the time lean and wiry Prince Hans was done with his revolving balestra of speed and tempo patinandos, Franz was too dizzy to continue any further riposte nor parry, and Hans easily landed the set match point.
"Ah, it appears you've surprisingly accomplished a great deal of book learning in the convent, young man, that Franz here was not expecting. Let this be a lesson to you all, that even the smallest of mice still have a bite that can give you distension." Instructor Rügen raises his scratchy voice in teaching mode to his group of stunned young men with the condescending remark directed at Hans.
"But let me assure you, my years of experience will not make the same mistake to underestimate a desperate foe, no matter how small and insignificant they pretend to be." After the othe two brothers made attempts to take on Hans – and failed – Master Rügen felt he must step in, if just to save face and be rid of the foul creature. But even he finds the redheaded child formidable in combat with his intelligent planning and fast footwork.
How could this…this…boyish upstart, not yet through his puberty stage, show up his brothers who are already at the expert level of fencing, trained personally by me? Who does he think he is, showing me up in front of the King!?
His cold blood boiling, the Count pauses to stroke his graying dark beard with interest before he puts up his sword to point towards Hans.
"En garde!" The pejorative older man cries out with his first engagement salvo of sword glides and parries. The slender teen, who was still heavily breathing in his recovery from just taking down the three of his brethren who had all, in shocked turns, been eliminated from the tournament Hans was the reigning champ so far.
Staying out of harm's way from Master Rügen's vicious forward thrusts and insistence of forced attacks, the youngest Danish Prince established with gallant aplume his right-of-way. The natural at swordplay counter-parried his offensive action in response to Count Rügen's riposte phrase after phrase. The physical combat continued quite intensely for a long period of time that made quite an exciting match-off for the audience of the King and his family.
"When I defeat you – and mark my words – I will defeat you, young Prince-my victory prize will be to send that brainless pony of yours to the knackers for mucilage!" An expert in the art of manipulative mental cruelty. Rügen suddenly stop-thrusts with all his strength, in hopes that he had set the boy's sensitive emotions off with his nasty threat to Hans' childhood friend.
RUS-SH! CLAA-ANG!
With eyes widened at this cruel menace to his beloved Sitron, Hans was viciously sent flailing backwards, losing his momentum of battle and his balance, just as the plotting older man planned.
"GRRR!" As the staggered back boy on his knees doggedly refuses to let go of his epée, Hans tries to shake himself enough to rise to his feet.
Seeing red for being so shamed before the King with this young upstart, the angry fencing instructor who had ruthlessly bore down with his signature forward thrust that had clenched every tough battle with swordplay he ever encountered before. Master Rügen inflicts, with his special German longsword, a perfect 'Zornhau' –'Wrathful Strike' – that was about to deliver a diagonal right to left blow that would certainly take his opponent down – if not entirely behead the kneeling young Prince Hans in the process first…
Not but a single one of his family, nor anyone on earth for that matter, probably would care…
CLANGGG!
But his quick mind and even quicker reacting time to danger had, at last minute, raised his sword to ward off this vicious lunged aggressor with a perfectly executed three-prong troupement of his epee hilt in defense. With an artful croisé that slides along his opponent's blade into a stealthy coupé. Hans' thin bladed rapier skillfully grazed, glissaded then derobe avoided Rügen's fierce strike.
But as his defensive blade is held over Hans' vulnerable neck in such an angled position against Hans' self-protective supination, Rügen's vindictive foil slides down Hans' sword with such venom and force, he overplays his hand. Literally.
Rügen's oddly jutting out extra post-axial digit attached to his big hand's ulnal side is sliced and shaven off so cleanly that no one had time to scream.
"RRRR-GGGHHH! My finger! You worthless, cursed, red devil boy!" Count Rügen's agonized screech was so bloodcurdling it could be heard echoing off the stable's high rafters. The middle-aged man curses Hans as his self-caused, sliced open bloody wrists spilled its red liquid relentlessly all over the Ladegården stable gymnasium floor. And the hacksaw stub of a deformed digit that had always been connected to the man of blood's hand since he was born with a congenital physical anomaly, splutters far across the floor.
As Rügen grips his wounded hand and arm with the blood that would not cease running all over his remaining fingers, his proud German fencing sword clatters to the ground Hans' feet.
"I – I – I'm sorry! " The teenaged boy stammers his apology as the bearded fencing instructor flies off the handle, swearing in cursing foul expletives ceaselessly as the fearful others rush around to staunch the blood spilling from his wound with first aid medical bandages to cover up his auxiliary pinkie finger that was now reduced to no more than a bloody nibbon nub on his now almost normal hand.
"Leave it to the Squirrel to chop off old Rügen's propitious sixth finger. Way to go, you unlucky number thirteen sap." Didrik had said rather callously, coming up from behind to watch Kaleb, Lars, and Anders scurry around to help the badly injured instructor. The three eldest boys were attempting to staunch his wound until the medics arrived to take the bleeding profusely man out of the gym towards the Castle.
"You and your curse have struck our kingdom again." Argumentative Mattias and Peiter, who rarely agreed on anything, concluded in condescending unison at the aghast young lad.
As for Hans, his face was pale where he was standing, dumbfounded, with his guilty sword helplessly in hand to fall at his culpable side.
"Hans! No son of mine ever apologizes for being the winner of a fierce competition. You are victorious in the skirmish, boy. Now stand up like a man and savor your victory." Just then, not at all concerned for his underling employee with over a quarter century of loyal service, with his own callous, cold personality, King Herbert, stands and purposefully strides over to award an astounded Hans with Count Rügen's specially made, cherished broadsword, as was the custom between warriors in this kingdom..
"But, his finger…" Feeling guilty as sin, Hans' quavering voice was actually trembling from the shock of dismembering another human being's precious body part, vital or not. The redhead boy was shaking before his father with wide scared eyes that were reluctant, if not repulsed to claim his opponent's price sword, winning the match by these ruthless means, however unintended.
"Collateral damage is never something to be ashamed of in war, boy. Quit acting disgraceful and soft as an undignified female. Whether it was your skill or luck that has won you this day, won it you have done. You have gloriously crushed and devastated your enemy. Hold your head up high, son. It is cold, calculating strategy to do whatever it takes, by any means that makes a great nation of conquerors. It is a good lesson to learn. Rügen will survive. Or not, blood-letting and the sword will decide his just fate in defeat." Handsome, heartless King Herbert haughtily readjusts the bejeweled crown on his regal head as he looks from the fallen loser of today's battle over to his curious, perplexed son with what could be called a degree of satisfaction in his eyes.
But the authoritative King's severe instinct as he declared Hans the victor of the fencing tournament, anticipated that even the tender boy would benefit from strict Navy training.
A surprised Hans looked up to his father with a small glimmer of hope in his innocent eyes when he had been called 'son' by his father for the very first time in his entire outcast life as this family's pariah. The teenager, though shaken inside by the recent debacle, wondered if he had done something good to please his stringent dictator of a father, at last.
On the wings of anticipation of a child needing love and approval, Hans Westergaard had hoped that he had impressed his lone parent enough to be worthy of being loved and finally belonging somewhere, as he had yearned for his entire existence.
"It is good we are shipping you off to our proud naval Academy to learn how to be a rough man of war, and not a supple weakling of peace. I am certain there you will cast down the soft and effeminate kindness those fool nuns taught you. Now, just on the cusp of manhood, you may receive some true lessons in real life. It is obvious you desperately require the drilled rigors of being seaworthy in my Søværnet to ever be counted as a valuable member of our conquering society." The Danish Royal monarch was not at all smiling as he curtly said what should be congratulatory parental input and sagacious fatherly advice for his child's bright future that he seemed to have little interest in, beyond propagating another soldier for his kingdom.
But just the sight of his youngest mealy-mouthed offspring looking up at him expectantly with voluminous, vulnerable eyes, seemed more like his mother Queen Louise with her vibrant red hair Herbert once passionately loved, than any other of their children, brought back terrible memories of the wife being stolen from him far too early at the cost of this concluding son's birth.
"Although, I doubt you will ever grow up from the disappointment you are." And with those final dismissive words that coldly spoke of the man's utter dispassion as he shook his head negatively, King Herbert had departed the gym, leaving Hans' fragile psyche to crash down to bitter reality again about his large red ears.
"So there! Fence with that, Twinkle Toes!" Ridiculing Rune's nasally voice was the first to taunt his little brother with a pair of clamped, capturing arms suddenly snagged around Hans' slumped shoulders.
"You think Father is upset with you, Squirrel? I can't quite put my finger on it! Ha ha ha!" His partner in crime, rude Ruddi snickers as the awkwardly tall boy produces from behind his guffawing back Count Rügen's extra pinkie finger in all its coagulated crimson blood and coiled tissue glory. He waves the dismembered digit so close to Hans' face, the boy has to cross his eyes to see the gory appendage centimeters right beneath his pointy nose.
"Ohh. I feel ill. Excuse me." Ever the polite gentleman, even when he had to hold his hand over his about to be expectorating mouth, thirteen-year-old Hans ferociously struggles out of Rune's laughing grasp. As the remaining boys, Jurgen, Berte, Ivers, Mattias, Peiter, Didrik and Franz join the twins' cackle at Hans' tender-hearted soft weakness, Hans and his queasy stomach cut through them to rebelliously have raced from this gymnasium end of the expansive stable to seek out his one and only true friend in the opposing end of the wing.
In a bevy of withheld tears, as he tosses the prized sword to the hay covered stall floor, Hans buries his face in Sitron's warm muzzle and pale golden fur coat as his whinnying, loving horse cuddles his boy's hidden tears into his warm neck's sanctuary.
A despondent, unloved Hans threw himself on Sitron's back as the sympathetic horse who was the only one always there for him, carried his best friend to a distant hill beyond Egeskov's pristinely glorious, yet detached and treacherous cold mazes of his poor boy's broken heart…
Rigsdalar -Denmark's currency equal to approximately $23.50 US dollars at the time
Snaedis - Snow Goddess in Icelandic
Nysnaer – Ice Beauty in Icelandic
Flurru - Snow Flurry in Icelandic
Royal Søværnets Officersskole – Royal Danish Naval Academy
Greetings, Frozen Friends! ^_^
Here's a glossary of the fencing terms used in this chapter's thrilling flashback skirmish, if you'd like to have further insight as to our talented and gorgeous :) Prince Hans and his endless abilities! ^-^
Hope you enjoyed this ride down memory's lane with our poor mistreated red-headed boy! Please review your thoughts of the Westergaard clan we're beginning to explore the machinations of, as we delve into discovering what made Hans into the on/off ruthless man he became.
And speaking of ruthless characters…did you all envision what the Southern Isles' gym coach/ instructor, Count Humperdinck Rügen looked like? As I was writing this cruel, stern fencing instructor's persona, I kept seeing the villainous lackey of Prince Humperdinck's, that bearded dark mustached, 'the Six-fingered man' Count Rügen from: (Da da da DA! Drumroll, please.)
One of my favorite movies of all time, 'The Princess Bride'! I have adored that adventure tale of daring-do and heroes and legends all my life! And I bet a lot of you love it too! I thought it might be a informative to describe him so you could see who I had in mind, as a cool reference point. What a meanie to our poor teenager Hansy! Served the count right that Hans unintentionally cleaved off his extra ulnar finger :0.
But that rotten Rügen's still hanging around in the present day, it seems…(I love placing in a good villain for our dashing hero to contend with! And this one's a blast from Westergaard's past!)
Thanks for reading! Ooh! We've passed the 100,000 word mark for this 'Frozen Again: But the Greatest of These is Love…" sequel story with this 11,000 word installment! Wow! But my Frozen juices are still rolling in imagination for now, so the writing creativity part of Helsa & Kristanna & Eupunzel & Agdun's story needs me first! Sorry SM, Yugi-oh, Gundam! I'll get back there sometime! *_* August Birthday for sure! I promise!
God bless you!
HarukaKou
Fencing glossary: (That our 13-year-old Hans executed with superb skill, beyond his age. ^_^)
Appels -Stamping the front foot to the ground, to produce a sound to distract or startle the opponent. An appel is also sometimes called a 'half-Advance'. This action may also be used to halt a bout, often by stamping the trailing foot insistently.
Attaque au Fer -A fencing attack on the opponent's blade, e.g. beat, expulsion, or pressure.
Balestra - A footwork preparation, consisting of a jump forwards. It is most often, but not always, immediately followed by a lunge. It is faster than a step forward, which helps change the flow of combat. 'Balestra' is the French term for sudden leap.
Coulé-Also graze, glisé,or glissade. An attack or feint that slides along the opponent's blade. In performing a sliding action along the opponent's blade, it is generally the goal to establish leverage by moving forte against foible, or forte to rhythm and timing of moves.
Coupé-Another indirect attack or deception that passes around the opponent's tip. Following a feint, the blade is pulled up and over the opponent's parrying blade. In foil, this requires use of the fingers and wrist only, since moving the blade backwards at any time during this move invalidates the established right-of-way. Done in proper time, and with proper distance, with the point never being moved backwards, the cut-over retains right-of-way during its entire execution.
Croisé-An action in which one fencer forces the opponent's blade into the high or low line on the same side, by taking it with the guard and forte of his own blade.
Conversation - The back-and-forth play of the blades in a fencing bout, composed of phrases (phrases d'armes) punctuated by gaps of no blade action.
Counter-Parry - A parry that moves in a circle to end up in the same position in which it started. A counter-parry usually traps an attack coming in a different line, but in the same high/low line.
Derobement - An avoidance of an attempt to take the blade. A derobement is a reaction to the opponent's attempt to entrap, beat, press or take the blade, in a circular, lateral, vertical or diagonal motion.
Épée - A fencing weapon with triangular cross-section blade and a large bell guard; a light dueling sword of similar design, popular in the mid-19th century
En garde - French for "on guard"; spoken at outset to warn the participants to take a defensive position.
Foible -The top third of the blade. This section of the blade is weaker in terms of leverage, and is used for beats, presses, and other motions where speed is needed and leverage is not crucial.
Forte – The bottom third of the blade, so named for the strength in leverage that it provides. Fencers should always perform parries with the forte and never hit opponents with it.
Patinando- There are two types of patinandos, speed and tempo. They are advance lunges but with different tempos. The speed patinando is a fast step and a lunge, while the tempo patinando is a slow step (to get a slow response from one's opponent) and a fast lunge.
Right-of-Way - The rules for awarding the point in the event of a double touch in foil or sabre. The concept involves being the first to establish a valid threat to an opponent's target area. Extending is the usual means to establish this threat. Breaking the extended arm during an attack means relinquishing right-of-way. An opponent can take right-of-way by parrying the opponent's blade.
Riposte - An attack made immediately after a parry of the opponent's attack. A riposte is an attack with right-of-way following a valid parry. A simple (or direct) riposte goes straight from the parry position to the target. A riposte may attack in any line and is considered its equivalent in a conversation.
Supination - The position of the hand when the palm is facing up.
Target Area - The area delimited for valid hits with a fencing weapon. Épée uses the entire body for target. Sabre uses all the body area above the waist, except the hands and the back of the head.
Zornhau - Technique used in German Longsword (Kunst Des Fechtens), a diagonal blow from right to left, literal translation is " Wrathful Strike".