Dip Your Feather Wisely

by ChibiStarr

A collections of prompt-based drabbles, mostly centered around Prussia and his most famous ruler, Frederick the Great. Brief glimpses into the lives the two shared together, following their triumphs and defeats, loves and losses, wars and peacetime. One man changed Prussia's history forever and left his mark on history for all time, and on his kingdom, in more ways than one.

21. Hell pt 1

This is, without a doubt, the longest prompt I have ever done. This is not even the full thing and it's longer than most of the chapters in this entire story. I wanted to post the entire thing in one go (and guess what the whole thing IS in fact longer than any of the chapters already written and it is all one prompt) but it's been dragging on for so long that I honestly couldn't help myself. I started writing this about four days before Christmas, thinking I had enough time to finish the whole thing. Then when Christmas came and went I wanted to post it on New Year's but guess what I still wasn't done. So I finally have gotten tired of putting this off and have instead just cut the prompt into different parts instead for your enjoyment and torture, I hope you lovelies will enjoy this brain child and idea that I have wanted to write for the longest time.

Don't let me fool you into thinking this story goes well. It won't.

Oh and you NEED a map for this story, I guarantee you. Once you figure out which battle this is Google a map for it right away because this stuff will get confusing quickly I promise you.

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Hell

It was going to be a very hot day. The sun was hardly even rising and already the army was dragging their feet, beaten down by the merciless heat that drove into their backs without a single minute of respite. The night before had been still and had offered little cold, swarms of mosquitoes had buzzed all night, greedily feasting on the heated blood offered to them. Marching was already difficult enough on the narrow, sandy roads, but the waves of heat rolling in the air brought the exhausted men to a crawl. Their heavy cannons could hardly move through the terrain and the sharp turns in the roads would often bring them to a complete stop altogether, forcing the teams pulling them to be unhitched and the limbers to be turned by force, slowing their progress even further.

Well if the Russians had no idea they were coming, they certainly did now. Gilbert patted Wink's neck soothingly as the Friesian panted under him, trying his hardest not to pant with her. The uniform that he so prided himself on had betrayed him, collecting the sun's rays and trapping them inside the layers of his clothes until he felt like a living furnace. Already he was sweating and not even that offered him relief, for nature was not feeling generous to anyone today. Not a single breath of wind stirred the leaves and the sky was spotless, no clouds would drift overhead to shield them from the heat. The nation looked over to Kunersdorf—whatever he could see through the trees anyway—knowing the small village was packed with Russian and Austrian soldiers and sighed to himself, offering up a small prayer to whatever higher powers listening today. Please don't let this be another Zorndorf, he begged, a shiver that he wished came from a cold wind wracking his body for a moment. Already they had the same heat and the Russians as their enemy like before, but this time he hoped that it would not be the bloodbath that had occurred last year. For all of his love of war and fighting, even Prussia had more than his fill of slaughter that day.

He shook his head to gather his thoughts and dabbed his sweaty forehead with his sleeve, reaching for his canteen as he did so. The water inside had turned lukewarm long ago but it still felt amazing going down his parched throat; he resisted the urge to gulp the rest of it down, knowing that it would only provide a brief respite and waste the precious liquid doing so. He swished his canteen a little. There was enough left inside for two good swallows and that would have to last him the rest of the day, and the battle had not even started yet. Gilbert sighed again and noticed a similar motion out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see Frederick drinking from his own flask, but from the angle he was holding it at and the slight frown the pinched at his brow he must have been finishing off the very last dregs of it. Instantly he was nudging Wink closer and unbuckling his canteen from his hip before any of the king's aids could reach for their own. "Here," he said softly, pressing it into Fritz's hands. "There's a bit still left in mine."

Inquisitive eyes turned to him, glancing at his bare hip for a brief moment. "And what about you?" Frederick replied, concern and gratitude clearly battling themselves in his expression.

Gilbert gave him a reassuring smile. "I'm just fine, I've already had my fill," he said as casually as he could, as if the contents inside were no more useful than the dirt beneath their horses' hooves. "You're far more important anyway, so drink up."

Frederick looked as if he wanted to argue, but he uncharacteristically relented, showing how exhausted he had already become. Gilbert felt no small amount of satisfaction as he watched his king drink, knowing it was small victories were the ones that counted with him. As usual, however, Fate was cruel with her humor and just at that moment a hussar appeared, riding up to them and saying he had an important message for the king.

"Your Majesty," he said through his panting, "the Russian lines have turned around to face us while we were marching. What used to be the rear is now the front line, and they have placed their wings on the Judenberg and Muhlberg."

It was like a thunderbolt from the clear blue sky. Gilbert's heart leaped in shock while Frederick choked and sputtered profusely, causing his nation to give him a solid slap on the back. "Was?" he demanded as soon as his throat was clear, the harsh German slipping out of his mouth so unexpectedly that everyone around him stared in astonishment. "That can't be right," he said to no one in particular, going back into French, "those lines were facing north just hours ago!"

"I swear on my life that I have seen it, Your Majesty," the hussar replied fervently. "You can see them clearly from the Kleiner-Spitzberg."

"Damn!" Frederick snarled, shaking his head and glancing at what little of the village they could see as if he could discern his enemies' positions from his current location.

Prussia swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry again. His king's plan had the army marching all the way around the Russian and Austrian army to come at them from their rear, using the forest as their cover, while General Fink harassed them from the north with a much smaller body of soldiers to make it look like the Prussians were going to attack them head on. It was a mirror of what they had done during Leuthen and had worked spectacularly, but such a bold move only worked once and General Saltikov was much cleverer than Prince Charles. "They were expecting us," he murmured to Fritz. "That's why they built all those barricades and earthworks facing north, Saltikov knew we would try to swing around to his rear so he fooled us into thinking that his front lines were north."

Frederick merely nodded, already having reached that conclusion himself. "We can't attack them like that now," he said. "There has to be a change in plans." He waved at an officer—Major Linden—and a senior forester that they had picked up from the local area to come closer to him. The former had occasionally hunted in the Kunersdorf area before the war and had been questioned by the King already for any details about the lay of the land, but nothing he could give was very helpful. The latter was equally useless, so overwhelmed to find himself talking to the King that he had been reduced to a pale, babbling mess. "Take us to where we can get a view," Frederick ordered.

Urged on by the King's tone, their guides started forward along with the hussar who turned and led them back the way he came. Travelling with the vanguard meant there were less people to slow them down as they rode up the heights of one of the numerous hills surrounding the area, pushing their mounts hard to keep up with the King's speed. As they came to the crest of the hill Gilbert felt his stomach flip again as he finally surveyed the land with an unobstructed view. Kunersdorf lay beneath them, surrounded by its hills that the area was so well-known for. Facing them was the Grosse-Spitzberg, rising out of the ground directly in front of the village and bristling with the Russian battery and their center line, also facing them. The lines had indeed turned around. Gilbert shook his head and looked off to the left, where the ground leveled out for a few hundred feet before abruptly rising again to form a much steeper hill called the Judenberg, which also was swarmed with the left wing of the Russian army and what also looked like the Austrian cavalry as well. The nation almost groaned out loud when he noticed that a large string of ponds also dotted the area, both in Kunersdorf and stretching from their enemy's lines at right angles all the way to the forest. They had not noticed them yesterday when they surveyed the area, and now Frederick's plan definitely could not work since the amount of ground they had to work with had just shrunk. Cavalry would be impossible; the ground among those ponds was probably wet and swampy and would be hard to cross on foot, let alone horseback. That only left—

The Russian right. He whipped his head around to observe it, stationed on another hill that was equally as tall as the Judenberg, known as the Muhlberg. He could see Fritz doing the same, his spyglass never missing a single detail as it swept over the lines and hills, taking in everything and feeding the King's hungry mind. For a long minute Frederick was silent, although Gilbert could practically feel the waves of displeasure rolling off of him, as he merely turned in his saddle to sweep his spyglass over every inch of the land.

Finally he lowered it, snapping it shut. "Well then," Frederick said, sardonic and acidic, "we seem to have a bit of a problem on our hands." He turned to his aides, his eyes sharp. "Ride to the Generals and tell them to stop the march, we need to change our position. Go to the left first and have them reposition east of those ponds, then—"

Gilbert listened to the flurry of orders, trying to keep his smile down. It was one of the many things he loved about his ruler, the speed which he reacted to things. Frederick thought fast, decided fast, wrote and spoke fast, and traveled fast. And in times of war and battle that quality shone through like no other. Already that magnificently quick mind of his had seen the problem and analyzed it and was changing according to it, discarding his old plan in an instant and building up a new one. The left wing would anchor east of the ponds and wait there with the cavalry, he heard Frederick order, then the center columns was ordered to deploy in the woods southeast of Kunersdorf and also wait. The right wing was to be turned around and rejoin General Fink for his attack, which would now become a true assault rather than the distraction it was originally supposed to provide. Colonel Moller's heavy artillery was ordered to take positions on the Walkberg, Kleiner-Spitzberg, and Klosterberg hills and aim for the Muhlberg.

The last detail got the nation's full attention. As the aides were sent flying away with Frederick's order of "The quicker you get there the better for us!" ringing through the air, he rode up to Fritz's side. "Storming the Muhlberg?" he asked, knowing it had to have been the only reason they were aiming so much cannon to the right.

"Of course," Frederick said with a wave to the enemy lines. "The center is far too fortified to attack, we'll be shot to pieces before we even get in range, and the left has those blasted ponds in front of them along with their cavalry. The weak point has to be the right and that is where we shall fight them." He turned his back to the village and urged his horse on, sending it into a canter with the rest of his guard following him.

The forest was filled with confusion as they rode through it, the new orders disrupting the perfect discipline of the Prussian army as they were forced to turn and regroup themselves under their shouting officers. The men had already been fatigued and hot and fed up with the roads, and now this?! Gilbert felt their grumbling like ants crawling across his skin and Fritz, far from stupid, rode down the lines as he passed, shouting out encouragements to the soldiers and even bantering with those that dared to shout a reply back to him. Along the way he stopped only briefly to talk with the commanding officers of the regiments, detailing his new orders as quickly as possible and gathering his scattered aides as they rushed back to him. However when they came across cannons stuck in the sand and their teams forcefully shoving them free with their bodies, the pace having come to a near stop as they fought with the land to dislodge their guns, it was different. The scowl was evident in Frederick's voice as he berated some of the officers, saying that they needed these guns in position as soon as possible and that the battle depended on it! The threat of royal wrath had the men pushing themselves even harder, their shouting and grunts of labor and occasional cheer as some uncooperative wheels finally moved filling the woods after the king had passed by.

Frederick led them back north, along the roads they had crossed only hours ago and to the Walkberg, with some of their artillery struggling to catch up to him. He ordered for engineers to be sent to the hills where their cannons would rest and to begin building their batteries. It was on the Walkberg that he would rest and observe, watching everything going on with a critical eye that burned with impatience as he rode back and forth along the hill until he actually dismounted and scribbled an order for one of the aides to ride off with. However instead of mounting again he stared at Kunersdorf, watching the columns of smoke rise from the blackened buildings behind the walls. The Russians had set the village on fire last night while they marched, were they doing it again?

Prussia didn't like how he towered over his king while he was still on his own mount and slid off as well, approaching Frederick silently. "Is something troubling you?" he asked, noticing how Fritz was idly turning the green diamond ring on his finger again.

For a moment Frederick was silent and he merely shook his head in response, but the sigh that rose from his chest told a different story altogether. "Call it a hunch, if you will," he said softly. "A bad feeling. I just ordered Scipio to be saddled and brought here."

"I would be more concerned if you continued to ride Cerberus for the whole battle," Gilbert replied, glancing at the chestnut charger as he spoke. The horse raised his ears at him, hearing his name. Gilbert knew how fond his king was of his favorite horses and would often ride his replacements into battle rather than face the possibility of one of his mains being shot and killed under him. The fact that he had saddled Cerberus at all earlier had raised eyebrows. "What kind of 'bad feeling' are you talking about, anyway?" he asked, frowning at the choice of words Frederick had used.

An elegant shrug was his response. "I have no idea," Frederick said, reaching into his inner coat pocket and withdrawing a little gold box from it. There was a second where Gilbert's heart nearly froze in fear, thinking it was the box of pills, but he relaxed when he recognized one of the snuffboxes from the extravagant jewels that decorated it. "I simply had a sudden feeling of trepidation as I looked at the field from here, and I figured that I might as well listen to it and ride Scipio just in case I get shot at." His fingers tapped the lid of the snuffbox a little, knocking all of the powder down before he opened it. "After all whenever I usually feel fine about a situation everything goes horribly, Hochkirch taught me that lesson, so I would be foolish to ignore my instincts warning me here." He took his snuff as he spoke, brushing away the little bit that fell onto his coat although it had been so stained by now that the gesture was pointless. "And what about you? Do you feel the same?"

Gilbert frowned harder, eyes roaming over the hills again. After Frederick's words the batteries positioned on them looked far more menacing, looming over the Prussians with all the calm deadliness of a great eagle ready to swoop down and strike. If it had only been Austrians they were against he would not have felt nearly as uneasy as he did now, Specs was a big prissy aristocrat and Gilbert could kick his face in any day, but Russia was an entirely different being. Ivan was cold, ruthless, and utterly savage as was shown by how his Cossacks burned down almost all of the nearby mills and inns and pillaged the entire countryside. He was a fighter, just like Gilbert, and Gilbert understood him for it far better than he understood Austria. "Well I didn't until you mentioned it," he said so softly that only Frederick could hear him. He would never admit such nervousness to anyone but Fritz, pride and the knowledge that if he showed anything but the utmost confidence the men would grow uneasy keeping his mouth shut. "I might just send for one of my other horses as well."

The question was clear in Frederick's expression. "Isn't Wink your best mount? Would it not be better to ride her here?" He shook his head a little, a reassuring smile coming across his face as easily as a mask. "Do not let the doubts of a cynic like me bring you down, it is my own personal feelings." He tucked his snuffbox back into his coat, right over his breast, patting it back into place with a chuckle.

"An even greater reason not to ride her. She is my best horse and I would rather not see her get shot, and since we're against the Russians today that chance is much higher. You remember what happened at Zorndorf." Gilbert beckoned to one of his aides and ordered him to saddle one of his other mounts while Fritz watched him, silent and grave.

"So you will fight with Russia again?" Frederick asked, far too casually. The edge in his voice was subtle, but still present. Almost unconsciously his hand drifted to his sword, memories of the bloody battle and the nations' mutilated bodies after they nearly hacked each other to pieces flashing in his mind's eye.

"It's unavoidable," Gilbert said with a shrug to match Frederick's earlier one. "I told you earlier that Ivan seeks people out to fight them. We nations don't have to fight each other face to face in battle but Russia hunts you down and deliberately engages in it, he's like a wolf. And I'll be damned if I run or shrink from his challenge." His jaw clenched and he glared at the ridge of hills as if he could discern Ivan's figure from the men among them. He could sense the other nation, along with Austria, and he knew they could sense him as well but none of them would be able to pinpoint their exact locations.

Fritz sighed at his words. "I just ask that you try to be more careful this time. I still can hardly believe that I found you in such a state after the battle and wouldn't believe it at all if I had not seen you with my own eyes." He stood straighter after his words, seeing his aide coming back and leading a white horse after him, the bright red and silver trimmed saddle of the king giving it a splash of color. Taking the reins from the aide and letting the man lead Cerberus away, he vaulted into the saddle, his spyglass already coming back out. "Where are Moller's cannons now?" he asked as he examined the Russians again.

"They'll be coming soon," Gilbert assured him, sensing their location and also hearing the first notes of creaking wheels drifting through the trees. "The first line should be here by about eight, no later."

Frederick nodded and rode among the builders that had been sent, inspecting their work with a critical eye and ushering them on. Soon after Gilbert was able to keep up with him trading in Wink for another one of his Friesians named Donner and kept at Fritz's side, listening to his encouragement that was both hurrying and praising at the same time. "Silently, though!" Frederick often added to his orders. "The Russians have not noticed us yet, let's keep it that way!"

Of course the enemy had to have noticed that something was amiss, there was no way the Prussians were hidden while standing on the hill, but Saltikov did not yet know of Frederick's changed plan so he was still expecting the Prussians to try and attack him. Their appearance on the Walkberg was suspicious but no cause for alarm yet. An hour passed before the entirety of the first line of artillery was in place and the second line was still far behind them, displeasing the monarch more as the time was stretched out even more and he could do nothing about it.

The sun continued its ascent and the day was only going to get hotter, the rays peeking over the tops of the trees that were now useless for protection against them. Everyone was suffering from the heat that now seared them like the eye of an angry god, some of the engineers nearly collapsing from the strain of working under the blaze as they rushed to finish their building. This time around Gilbert was really panting and tilting his hat to keep most of the sun's rays from his delicate face, the combined heat from his clothes and his black horse covering him until he felt like he was inside an oven. Frederick was affected as well even though he did he best not to show it, only dabbing his face with a handkerchief and drinking from time to time. A kind peasant from the village had come up to them earlier and offered the king a water jug which they had filled with pure, cold water from the village fountain and had been rewarded a thaler for it. However, Fritz kept him around as he refilled his flask, interrogating the man about the movements of the Russians and the Austrians and pressing him for details about the lands. The peasant was not able to reply with much and could only detail the destruction the Russians had caused, setting Kunersdorf on fire and almost all the inns in the area for miles to come.

"No better than animals, the lot of them," Frederick muttered as the peasant made his way back to wherever he came from, using the forest as cover. "They would probably turn on each other the moment their command breaks down." His gloves creaked as he curled his hands into fists, gripping the reins so tightly that Gilbert was afraid he was about to wheel off and go galloping somewhere.

"Yeah," the nation said, wincing a little, "out of all the other armies they are the most destructive. I know where they are all the time because they destroy everything they come across."

A piercing stare went right through him and Gilbert almost squirmed in his saddle, knowing immediately that he had let something slip. "Did you feel the village burning last night?" Frederick asked. "Is that why you were not able to sleep? You were favoring your side the entire time we were marching."

Goddammit why did Fritz have to notice everything? Annoyance made him scowl and he forced himself to not let it show too much. "Yes, I did. It still hurts quite a lot, there is a blister there now and it's very irritating in this heat." Understatement of the year right there. The heat of the day was making the burn almost intolerable and he had to fight down a yelp every time he turned his body around and made his clothes scratch against his skin.

Severity gave way to worry and Fritz opened his mouth to say something, but before he could get the words out a cry of warning came from some of the soldiers and they both looked to see a small band of Cossacks riding along the terrain between them and the Russians. After being ignored for so long it finally looked as if the Russians were taking an interest in their activity. "Pay them no mind," Frederick said to the soldiers. "They can't know who we are or what exactly we're doing here, or else they would have sent a lot more men than a simple reconnaissance team."

It was much easier said than done, though. Again Gilbert felt the dark mutterings of the men around them and he was inclined to agree with them this time. Everyone knew about the infamous atrocities committed by the Cossacks in particular and here was a group of them within range and on the open ground! The Prussians could have easily shot them all with little fuss and Gilbert sorely wanted to do so, knowing the only reason that they were not was because Frederick did not want to attract any more attention to their position than was necessary. But the Cossacks kept coming nearer to them, some of their laughter drifted up to the gunners as they almost seemed to make it a game, venturing closer and closer to see how far they could test the Prussians' patience. The closer they got the quicker they would realize that batteries were being dug and report back to their general, although they were not that close yet.

Hearing their raucous laughter was the final straw for one of the gunners, it seemed, and one of the cannons blasted out a round of grape shot at the offending Russians, catching them completely by surprise. The noise was so unexpected after such a long period of enforced silence that Gilbert nearly jumped out of his seat; he was glad that he was not the only one to do so. Frederick whirled around instantly, eyes blazing, and another cannon down the line fired, no doubt encouraged by their comrades. The horses of the Cossacks were squealing and the party quickly turned and fled, two more blasts of grape shot following them as they retreated back to the safety of Kunersdorf.

The gunners' victory was short lived, their cheering being cut to a halt as Frederick came galloping up, eyes afire and glaring at the perpetrators. "Silence, will you!" he shouted, his voice cracking like a whip. His tone had some of the soldiers shrinking back in fear and deliberately avoiding his eye as they went back to their work, trying very hard to pretend that it was what they had been doing the whole time.

Gilbert hid his chuckle behind his hand, knowing that it would only further Frederick's anger if he heard it. He didn't care if it had pissed Frederick off, that had been hilarious and awesome and he imagined Ivan's face when he would see his Cossacks coming back from their mission bloodied and injured. It was almost enough to make him forget his pain, almost. Just then the second line of artillery finally emerged from the woods, sparing the soldiers from more of the king's temper as he rode to them instead, orders flying again. Reports that the other guns were in position and that Fink was ready and awaiting orders trickled in, all of them eager for Frederick's signal. The battalions that would capture the Muhlberg milled at the edge of the forest, hiding gratefully under the shade of the trees as the sun came closer and closer to being directly overhead, driving away almost all hope of relief.

It had taken forever for all of the guns to finally be in their proper places, the heat and terrible roads having eaten up so much of their precious time. Gilbert checked his watch after glancing at the batteries one last time, finally aligned and ready to rain down fire and iron on the Russians' heads. It was eleven-thirty, nearly noon. Half of their daylight had already been lost but there was nothing they could do about that now, not a single thing. He sighed and lifted his hand to his hat, letting Gilbird flutter down and perch on his fingers, the bird having been nested up there the whole day. "It's time for you to go, Gilbird," he told the chick, who peeped at him questioningly. "Come find me after the battle is over, you know what to do." With another cheep Gilbird took off, a tiny ball of fluff that soared higher and higher until he was not even a speck against the sky anymore, far out of sight and the danger that was about to come. Prussia smiled and looked to Fritz, who gave a single nod and raised his hand, signaling to the artillery.

The battle began with a magnificent cacophony of thunder as the cannons let loose, all of them aiming for the Muhlberg. He heard the whistle of artillery shells and the confusion that soon spread across the hill, but then the Russian cannons answered with their own volley right away, as if they had been waiting for the Prussians to fire first all along. The ground shook under them as the cannons kept up their assault, their horses snorting nervously from the noise that came at them from every direction, ceaselessly pounding their ears from behind only to be answered seconds later from the front. Soon it became apparent that the guns on the Kleiner-Spitzberg and Klosterberg were having no effect, their shots falling out of range of the Russian lines, but the King's own batteries on the Walkberg were quite the opposite, bombarding the Muhlberg incessantly and with what looked to be great success, since the batteries on the Muhlberg had a lot more trouble hitting them than they did to their enemy. Smoke poured across the field, obscuring large swaths of their view and blowing the choking fumes into their face that were near suffocating in the heat.

Cannonballs struck short of them, throwing great clods of dirt in the air and the occasional bit of shrapnel would whistle by, and throughout it all Frederick sat calmly and gazed at the Muhlberg. He might as well have been a statue with how much he moved, only occasionally turning and giving out an order before his sight rested back on their target. The noise was incredible, Gilbert had not heard anything like it throughout the entire war, not even when they sieged Prague. It felt like the air was trembling and contorting like a wild beast in its death throes and if there had been a single cloud in the sky he might have believed the heavens themselves were about to split open and crash down upon their heads. All of the Prussian cannon boomed ceaselessly and as fast as their gunners could load them, playing a duet with the Russians who owned even more guns and fired their own volleys back untiringly. If the day had been hot before it was nothing compared to now, the heat of the guns and the thick smoke both creating more heat and trapping it among them like an enormous blanket, wrapping them in a veil of sweltering warmth. Sweating now only made the heat spread faster, it felt as if the moisture that was seeping from his skin was simply boiling and cooking him alive. Gods what he would have given for an order to charge, to move somewhere to get only a little relief, however short it would be.

An hour dragged by, the cannonade still keeping up its work and eventually the noise and tremors became mere background sensations to the work going on. Gilbert could see the Russian lines faltering on the Muhlberg, the assault ripping through them while they had no means of adequately defending themselves thanks to their poorly constructed batteries. He chuckled to himself, grinning widely as he imagined the pain Ivan must have been in now and how he could do nothing to stop it. He saw Frederick move at last, lifting his spyglass once more as if the smoke was not even there. Then his King smiled and Gilbert nearly burst out laughing, knowing that look immediately. "I think we've loosened them up sufficiently," he said with a smirk that could have matched his nation's. He wrote an order to an aide. "Now we strike while the iron is hot. Ride to Major General Schenkendorf and order his battalions to storm the Muhlberg, capture their guns and drive the Russians from the hill." He turned to Prussia after the aide galloped away, his gaze knowing. "No doubt you want to charge in with them, but I insist that you stay here for now. Schenkendorf is a capable officer and I have faith in him."

Gilbert chuckled, his blood up even though it was still on fire. "I do too, Schenkendorf is a good man and I know he'll do great. You know how we countries get, though." To say that a bloodlust came down on them would have been inaccurate, although Gilbert had no other way of explaining it. There was a sort of craze that swept through soldiers in the midst of battle, all fueled by adrenaline and energy and the more primal instincts that slept quietly in men, and Prussia felt it with all of them. When the whole army charged it was like something destroyed his rationality and he wanted to leap right in the fray with them and kill everything that stood in his way. Sometimes he would charge off without meaning to, so caught up in the feeling that he had no idea of what was doing until he was in the middle of the enemy battalions and cutting them down.

It was something Frederick knew all too well, having witnessed it many times. "I do," he replied, "but we still have our own soldiers to lead once Schenkendorf captures the guns."

There was the sound of the march soon after he said that and they watched as the first of Schenkendorf's eight grenadier battalions marched forward across the open ground, protected from the Russian guns by the land, which dipped into a wide hollow at the base of the hill that shielded them from view. Also being under bombardment from the Prussians still they could not rally to defend themselves and the grenadiers crossed the land with little trouble until they began to climb up the hill and expose themselves. In the open at last, having to climb over splintered barricades, the Prussians were a perfect target and the Russians finally fired upon them, both with cannon and musket and tore through their lines. Gilbert flinched as he felt the first casualties of the battle, sharp needle pricks of pain that attacked his shoulder that vanished as soon as they came. He watched them anxiously, his instincts shouting for him to go and help them, to protect his people at all costs, but he stayed rooted to the spot. Speed would be their only savior and the Prussian army was famous for best the fastest and most mobile in all of Europe. Schenkendorf's lines raced up the Muhlberg in perfect order despite the Russians firing on them until they formed up and unleashed their own deadly volley of muskets in return, dropping many of the Russians and giving them a moment's respite. Then they charged forward again, the first line crashing upon the Russians like a tidal wave and surging over the guns, their bayonets flashing in the light and forcing the enemy back with their superior skill of the weapon. The second line came soon after and it was only ten minutes later that the Muhlberg was swarming with blue uniforms, cheers reaching their ears as the Prussians took the enemy's guns as their reward.

"Well done, Schenkendorf!" Frederick said in delight. "Oh, if only I had the cavalry here right now instead of the left wing! Seydlitz would annihilate the rest of them easily." He shook his head a little. "It is no matter. Send word of our victory to Berlin." That caused Gilbert to raise an eyebrow—such a premature announcement did not fit the cautious nature of Frederick at all. If Fritz noticed the look he ignored it and rode off, leaving the Walkberg at last with orders to the move the cannons up to Muhlberg, and made his way to the battalions of the right wing that he would lead personally up the hill. Fink was supposed to move simultaneously with him and their sections of the right wing would smash the disorganized Russians against them like a hammer striking the anvil and send the enemy into full flight, all the while the left wing would finally launch their attack and rain further chaos into the enemy. That was Frederick's plan anyway.

It had gone well so far, but Gilbert could feel something was amiss with his men. The left was not in position yet and the reports that came to the furious Frederick all detailed how boggy the ground was once the wing was clear of the forest and ponds, filled with scraggly bush and wet mud and streams that could not simply be marched through in perfect order. Lines were constantly breaking apart and reforming, causing more delays. Fink was facing the same problem, forcing his way through brush with only pitiful single file bridges to help him cross the bogs, no doubt perfectly functional in the everyday lives of peasants but horrible for transporting an army of men within a short amount of time. He tried to explain all of this to Fritz, sensing all of the delays the terrain caused, and while Fritz listened he was impatient and hurrying to put more men on the Muhlberg. They were in a precarious position up there, reports coming back that the captured Russian guns were built of a much different caliber than the Prussian artillery men knew how to use, leaving only a handful of light cannons with a scant hundreds shots to them in use.

"Then use them!" was Frederick's reply. "Fire their own guns at them until we can push ours up there, don't let the Russians get their second wind!" He led his troops up the Muhlberg with Gilbert at his side, his previous calmness on the Walkberg gone and replaced by the energetic and fiery commander he was known for.

They planted themselves on the Muhlberg and observed the scene before them, the Russians being put into flight almost all the way to Kunersdorf, disorganized units trying to rally back together only to be shot by their own cannons. The ground between Kunerdorf and the Muhlberg sloped very gradually and was nearly flat in most places, an artillery man couldn't have wished for a more perfect terrain to send out cannon and the Prussians did so with great enthusiasm until they had gone through the rest of the ammunition that they had, leaving them bare on the hill. Moller's guns were still struggling to move forward and without them or the rest of Fink's reinforcements there was not much they could do to stop the Russians from reorganizing. The maelstrom gradually grew more and more calm, to the rising irritation of the king, as the Russians retreated behind their center lines and formed up again, Saltikov no doubt mustering his men to take up new positions.

An irritated sigh was the only sound Fritz made when he put the spyglass to his eye again. "The Russians are forming their lines in the Kuhgrund," he said, pointing to a narrow strip of land that lay between the village and the surrounding wetlands. Gilbert knew that the land formed a shallow "valley," where their enemy could safely hide from the Prussian volleys while their officers regained their lost control. "This wretched land is slowing us down too much! We need our guns and Fink's battalions here now before the Russians can fully group, it will be hell trying to blast them out of the hole they're digging themselves into."

"We can't move them any faster than we are now," Gilbert replied, knowing that above all else Frederick hated lethargy in a battle. "It is the land itself that fights us and we are powerless against that." He itched all over, excitement from his soldiers rising in him like a tide that took away the pain of his injuries like a soothing balm. His eyes scanned the forming Russian lines, looking for a certain arctic nation among them, knowing he would instantly recognize Ivan if he saw him. There was nothing that he could see, but he could sense Russia prowling around the lines, going back and forth as his presence would be an invaluable help to calming his men, a trait that all countries possessed.

"Land fighting us or not, the fact remains that we need those extra troops up here!" Frederick said taking out his snuffbox again as he waited, the jewels glittering brightly in the sun.

"One day some sharpshooter is going to see all of that sparkle and take the idea into his head to his head to try and shoot you. You make yourself an excellent target with all of that sissy stuff decorating it." Gilbert frowned at the box as if it offended him and scanned the area quickly, as if his words alone were enough to jinx them.

Fritz merely laughed as he took the snuff. "Let them try," he said, snapping the lid shut and slipping it inside his coat once more, tucking it into a breast pocket in his waist coat. "Here, I'll even put this right over my heart and foil whatever dastardly attempts are made." He put his hand over it, the gesture so overly reassuring that it bordered on mocking.

The humor was lost on Gilbert and the glare he threw his monarch showed it, anger fueled by hurt lashing out and catching Fritz by surprise. Fritz arched an eyebrow at him, his teasing demeanor vanishing under the fire in Gilbert's eyes. "Do not scoff at my concerns for you," Gilbert said in a low voice that he fought to keep calm. "It is my duty to keep you safe and I will do so at the cost of my own life, but flaunting yourself as a target is something I might not be able to protect you from. I cannot see a bullet flying through the air in the midst of a battle or protect you from accidents; it was only dumb luck that I saved you from that cannonball at Zorndorf. When you parade yourself around like that and make yourself a target you make it that much harder for me to protect you."

Frederick softened at his words, eyes glittering dangerously, while his smirk transformed into a smile that made them brighter than the sky. "Forgive me," he said just as quietly, but the words had no fire in them. "I would never make fun of your protectiveness over me, never in my life. I love it, actually, but I just wish that you would worry a bit less. It makes you paranoid and drives you to near madness. I've seen you practically tearing your hair out over small matters that have little consequences." For a moment it looked as if he was about to reach out and clasp Gilbert's hand, everyone around them be damned, but he restrained himself and instead offered another smile.

It was contagious. Gilbert felt his own worries being soothed immediately as he listened to his lover's gentle voice and saw the sincerity in his eyes, the cold mask slipping just for Gilbert alone. He smiled back, anger retreating. "Worrying about you is my job," he said, "after all it is my duty to keep you safe."

"I have the army to do that, along with my personal guard," Frederick said, indicating to the men around them as he spoke.

"All of them humans. All weak and fragile compared to the nations," Prussia told him, shaking his head. "Humans are awesome and all but sadly there are some things that they simply cannot do."

Firing cut through their conversation along with a sudden wave of pain that made Gilbert jerk around to look at the Russian lines, where he saw men falling to the ground and the plumes of smoke rising from muskets. With roars and battle cries the Prussians returned the fire, although without adequate manpower to support them they had to draw back. Frederick frowned and turned his horse around, peering down the Muhlberg to glance at Moller's cannons that were finally starting to crest the hill. "We'll do the exact same thing as before," Frederick said with a nod. "The ground here is excellent for artillery so we will fire upon their lines and then send in the infantry."

Gilbert shook his head. "You make it sound much easier than it will really be. Saltikov chose his position very well. He confined himself with Kunersdorf on his right and the wetlands to his left. We can only fight him at the Kuhgrund which is far too narrow for any maneuvers or cavalry. He'll bottle us in."

"He has bottled himself in as well," Frederick said coolly, glancing at the land again. "It will be difficult, yes, but I don't plan to fight him just there." He paused, one of his thinking silences. "I'll try to win some elbow room by driving the left-hand and center battalions through the village itself, while I lead the charge on the Kuhgrund. Fink's battalions are straggling out of the woods in individual groups but we can still use them to attack one side of the lines while I attack the other." He smirked as he said that and turned to check on the progress of Moller's guns that were finally setting themselves up on the Muhlberg and taking their aim once more.

A crawling sensation wound its way around Gilbert's back, so quickly that it caused him to shudder and look out towards the field. He couldn't see much over the village and the hills but something was happening, that sensation wasn't there for no reason. He peered out at Kunersdorf, frowning in concentration as he tried to discern what was going on down there. Nothing caught his eyes, though, and instead he focused on the tingles slowly crawling up his back, trying to pinpoint the activity that way. Roderich came to his mind as he did and the Austrian's distinct "feel" invaded his senses all the way to his fingertips. Loudon was finally moving.

The fire of cannons started up again, aiming for the Russians and spraying them with case shot even as more men rushed to reinforce them. For the most part the Russians hid inside the shallow valley that the Kuhgrund created while the shells crashed into them, using the lay of the land to defend themselves from the assault. Back on the Muhlberg they had been exposed and open but in their new lines they had protection that provided a bit more relief from the hail of iron, but it still pounded them nevertheless. Frederick, while being known for his patience on many occasions, had no such virtues on the battlefield and he paced like an animal in a cage, glancing at Fink's approaching units until he finally had enough and leaped back onto his horse with a swirl of his coattails. "We're going to attack them," he said shortly, gesturing for Gilbert to follow him as he rode to the lines of infantry that were awaiting their King's order. They cheered when Frederick drew his sword and held it above his head, giving the order to march and starting forward with them.

Of course the Russians opened fire on them as they drew closer and the Prussians sent their own fire forward, but their march was unstoppable and plowed forward like the great indomitable machine that the Prussian army was. Screams filled the air and smoke made it nearly impossible to see as the columns became tighter, the men so packed together that it was difficult to even move. Too many men in such a confined area and the fighting was quickly becoming a repeat of what happened at Zorndorf, such close quarters often had the men reaching for their bayonets rather than just shooting. Gilbert groaned to himself as the deaths of his people truly started to pile up now that they were properly fighting the Russians, feeling the wounds start to scratch open along his sides. That was how they always started, as scratches.

His King was a whirlwind of energy that seemed to be everywhere at once, always right in the thickest heat of the battle shouting and ordering, his mere presence doing more for the soldiers than his words ever could. Bullets whistled by him and he paid them no heed, riding through them as carelessly as if they were as harmless as rain with Gilbert right behind him. The Russians were fighting furiously, the brief lull in time they had given allowed them to reform as Frederick feared and they were dug into their lines hard like stones while the waves of the Prussians pounded at them like the tides of an ocean, unceasing and relentless. Gilbert laughed at them, relishing in his chance to finally fight as he charged forward with one of the battalions, drawing his sword and swinging it with a deadly force that sliced through men's bodies with ease, their blood gushing into the air. He would wait for them to fire first before swooping down upon them and killing them; they stood no chance against the mad country, his sword simply cleaved through their guns if their tried to block his blows before it cleaved through them as well.

But there was a small portion of his sanity that was always mindful of where Frederick was. He never left his side for long and when he noticed Fritz going off somewhere else he would turn immediately and follow him, constantly watching for any signs of danger. Fire was all around them, the heat of the day becoming debilitating in the midst of the battle and blood and smoke, it was not just a separate sensation anymore, it seemed to have become so ingrained in his being that it was impossible to tell how hot he was truly feeling since the only thing he could feel now was pain and the slightest dizziness. The smoke sometimes obscured his vision and he would have to rush forward to catch sight of Fritz again while fighting Donner, who just wanted to rush right back into the battle.

It was during one of these moments of blindness that he was looking for Fritz, swiveling his head around as he rode though a patch of smoke that was just starting to clear. A magnificent flash of fire sprang up in front of him, Russian muskets all being discharged and immediately afterward came the unmistakable scream of a horse in agony. Rising like some specter from a nightmare he saw a white horse rearing through the smoke, bright red blood splashed along its flank and its rider being thrown clear from its back to disappear once more in the smoke. "Fritz!" he screamed, terror crashing through him as he lost sight of his king. He plowed his horse through the ground that had separated them and stopped abruptly just short of where he had seen Fritz fall, causing Donner to squeal at him for the rough yank to his reins. "Fritz!" he yelled again, his voice being carried away by the gunfire and screaming all around them. Where was Frederick? Was he hurt? Oh gods did Scipio fall on him or trample him in his pain and now he was lying injured on the ground somewhere? The horse was nowhere to be seen and the smoke so thick that Donner's hooves vanished into it. Gilbert slid out of the saddle, the idea of riding blindly into the smog and possibly stepping on his king with his own horse making him wary. "Friedrich!" he finally screamed in desperation, his fear nearly making him choke on the words.

"Here!" came the reply at last, a figure rising to its feet slowly. Gilbert was at his side in an instant, pulling him to his feet as he put his hat back on his head. "I'm fine," Fritz reassured him, "I just got thrown off." He frowned as Gilbert pushed him away and inspected him as quickly as he could while being in the middle of a battle. "I mean it, I wouldn't lie to you."

"I'm just making sure," Gilbert said and pulled Fritz by the wrist, quickly guiding them through the smoke and bullets back to where Donner stood. He was just about to tell Fritz to get on when their aides and guards caught up to them, one of them already leading a spare horse for the king. Since Frederick rode into the fray of things so often they had decided it would be prudent to keep a spare horse nearby just in case such accidents happened.

Frederick grasped the reins and easily vaulted onto the saddle with Gilbert watching him for any signs of dizziness or pain. The king seemed unscathed, just like he had told his nation, and Gilbert let out a small prayer of thanks to whichever deity that decided to spare him. Treating the whole affair as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience Fritz went right back to what he had been doing, Gilbert tailing him like a shadow. The fighting was getting fiercer, more Russians piling up, replacing a man as quickly as he fell, but the Prussians were relentless and pressed onward. Gilbert could see the Russians weren't gaining any ground, and if they could not then they would eventually give up under the assault. Frederick knew that too, and he was sending orders for Fink's men to attack the Kuhgrund as soon as they got through the wetlands to the left, knowing that there were now enough of them to form a sizable force against the enemy.

Pressed on by two sides now instead of one—Fink's men and artillery trudging uphill through the mud and rickety bridges and fighting like demons every step of the way—the Russians began to cave in. Sensing their weakness Fritz threw more men at them and the soldiers went willingly, knowing the lines were close to breaking. They began to win more ground, foot by precious foot through iron and blood, until at long last the Russian line broke under them a second time and the Russians fled once more. Screams of victory rose across the Prussians as they pursued, chasing them out of the Kuhgrund and nearly to Kunserdorf itself.

Prussia watched the spectacle with a grin, a laugh erupting from him at the sight. Not once, but twice the Russians pushed back from their own positions! The battle had not been won by a long shot as they still had the Austrian cavalry and the rest of the Russians to deal with, but the fact that it had been done at all amazed him. Especially with the terrain and heat fighting them so much, they had lost as much men to heatstroke as they had to the Russian guns, or so it seemed. He paused to check his watch once more. Three in the afternoon. The men had been marching since before dawn and had been fighting for nearly four hours now, he could feel their exhaustion dragging him down as if his bones were made of stone and shook his head a little at the feeling. He turned to Fritz, who was now at this point surrounded by some of his officers, Generals Fink, Schenkendorf, and Lindstedt among them, even Colonel Moller had been called, along with aides from many of the others.

"We should stop now, Your Majesty, while we still have the advantage," Fink was saying. His uniform was spattered with mud and damp from the wetlands that he and his men had doggedly forced their way through but he stood as straight as ever. "The men are tired and to push them further would exhaust their strength completely." Around him there were nods but no one dared speak out loud.

Frederick's eyes narrowed a little and Gilbert felt his spine stiffen. He knew that look also and it sent his stomach spiraling downwards. "We are not done, though," Fritz replied, his voice as calm as if he was informing them that it would rain tomorrow. "We have simply driven the Russians away from their positions, not beaten them."

For the first time that day Gilbert felt a chill along his skin and if it had been from anything other than pure horror then he would have welcomed it. He swallowed and contemplated speaking even though an argument would ensue if he did, but someone beat him to it.

"That in of itself is a magnificent feat, owing to the brilliance of His Majesty and the courageous actions of our troops, who fight like lions even in these circumstances," Schenkendorf said, his eyes flicking to Gilbert for the briefest of moments and fully acknowledging where those traits came from. "But even the strongest men have their limits. The day has dragged on long enough and no one has been able to command something as simple as a drink of water. If we push the troops farther they will surely fall. We have won so far and all we must do now is wait and the allies will have to retreat by nightfall." More nods came and in that moment Gilbert could have kissed him; the nation knew that he would have never been able to word his concerns as eloquently as that.

The king was unmoved. A brief second had passed where it looked as if Schenkendorf's words had some sort of effect but it was gone as quickly as it came. "And what do the other generals think?" he asked, sweeping his gaze over them all before landing on Gilbert.

Seydlitz, who had actually ridden all the way from the left wing to speak with the king rather than send an aide, nodded firmly. "I agree with Major General Schenkendorf," he said. "The troops are tired and thirsty and have done enough for the day. To seek out more laurels after this victory we've already obtained would be foolish and mad." Where Schenkendorf's words had been refined as silk, Seydlitz's were wool that struck as bluntly as clubs. Gilbert winced as he heard them. He was well aware that Seydlitz could have as gilded of a tongue as any of the men in the meeting, paired with his natural charm that always made him irresistible, but the General had always been able to enjoy a certain liberty of being openly frank with Frederick and was one of the handful that did, another being Gilbert himself.

Hot-tempered as Seydlitz was, he sometimes failed to notice when such language that had previously been tolerated would not be put up with now. Frederick gave the cavalry officer a frosty look that stopped the younger man in his tracks, alarm quickly flashing through his eyes as he realized his mistake and the effects it had. He opened his mouth, whether to apologize or to try and mend the damage Gilbert never found out, for Frederick turned away from his general and the words died on the man's lips. "And you, Colonel Moller?" he asked in a tone that could have put a skin of ice over water.

The colonel suppressed a flinch and voiced his affirmative while Seydlitz threw Gilbert a look over the king's head, the plea for help written clearly on his face. Gilbert nodded to him, trying to be as discreet as he could, and saw a wan smile appear in return. He did not have the heart to crush Seydlitz's hopes. He supported the general's opinion wholeheartedly but he knew better than any of them how outrageously stubborn Fritz could be once he made up his mind about something. They all had faith in him, they had seen how his words alone seemed to reach Frederick while all other arguments failed. A cold truth settled in Prussia's gut, though; Frederick loathed things that were half-done, especially a battle. It had to be a certain victory or defeat in his eyes, he would have it no other way.

When Frederick finally got to him, the searching stare piercing through his head as if Fritz could read all of his thoughts like a book, he squared his shoulders and tried not to look as defeated as he felt. "General Beilschmidt?" Fritz said quietly, his melodic voice filled with a weight that only now showed itself.

Of course everyone present knew who he really was. All the higher officers that spent a large amount of time around Fritz did and they looked to him with something akin to reverence as they waited for words. He was Prussia, his words had a different influence than theirs, he was intimately connected to the people and land and his knowledge of what his men could do surpassed theirs. "The good Generals Seydlitz, Fink, and Schenkendorf, among many others are right. I fear that if we press on now then we will lose the advantage that we fought so hard to gain." The wounds on his side flared as he said that, reminding him of the sacrifices made, and he ignored the pain. "If your horse was lathering then would you still whip it and force it to run until it dropped dead? Of course not. Why, then, would you want to do it to men who in much of the same condition?" Normally Gilbert would have sided with his leader, it was rare for him not to, however the wellbeing of his people was one of the few things that outweighed his love for Fritz. It was a situation that Fritz never won.

Frederick's expression turned inward, an unseen veil drawing itself over his features. "I see," was all he said, tapping the head of his cane to his lips as he turned away from them all, deep in thought.

The only response he could give to the confused looks thrown his way was a shrug. Something must have been showing on his face, though, because he saw the alarm in Seydlitz's face amplify until the man had turned pale. He can't, Seydlitz mouthed to him, gesturing to Fritz. Gilbert shook his head again, the stone feeling heavier with each passing second. Fritz always made his decisions quickly, thinking them over could hardly mean anything good.

The silence felt much longer than it really was, so when Frederick finally turned back around Gilbert sighed in relief. It stopped when Fritz looked straight at him. "How is the left wing's condition?" he asked.

Oh no. Oh no. His stomach crashed somewhere in the vicinity of his boots while the cold seeped deeper into his body. "Other than being heat exhausted, fine," Gilbert replied, his mouth working on its own and forming the words while his brain was still stupefied by the question. Fritz was out of his mind, he was going to do it why why—

"They have hardly yet been in the fire!" Fritz said and turned to Seydlitz. "Ride back to your cavalry Lieutenant General Seydlitz and await my orders there. The left wing, horse and foot, shall come around from the swamps they are in now and storm the Grosser-Spitzberg like we did the Muhlberg."

He really had lost his mind! Prussia blinked for a few moments and listened to Fritz giving the orders, his voice sounding distant as if it was coming from far away. Some of the others glanced at him again as if waiting for something, but when he showed no signs of acknowledging them they had to ride off to follow the commands given to them. Gilbert might have been able to work miracles with Frederick that the generals could not but at the end of the day Fritz was still his king and his word was law. He could not hold his tongue forever and by the time the last aide had ridden off his numb shock had lifted to be replaced with a slowly growing anger. "I thought we agreed that the Grosser-Spitzberg was too heavily defended to be taken," he said acidly.

Fritz turned to face him, surprised at Gilbert's tone. "Not while we have the Kuhgrund," he said with a shake of his head. "And if we are to advance any further we need to take out the guns on the Grosser-Spitzberg or else they will bombard our lines as we leave the Kuhgrund. But attacking the hill from both sides at once will cause it to crumble."

"We shouldn't be advancing at all!" Gilbert snapped. Ignoring Fritz's widened eyes he continued. "You ask the men for too much! Yes they would follow you to hell and back but you cannot run them into the ground like this. They are men, not animals or machines for you to push until they break!" He realized that his voice had been rising and he stopped himself before he could start shouting and let the whole countryside hearhim.

He ignored the glare that Fritz was giving him, the confusion caused by his words wearing off to be replaced by a rage that turned his leader's eyes into chips of sharpened ice. "These soldiers have done everything I could possibly ask of them and even more." The words were like daggers, spoken with that cold and scathing tone that Frederick had perfected and readily used as a weapon in the past. "You underestimate what they are capable of."

The complete faith that Fritz had in his soldiers would have been very touching and if they had not been in a battle then Gilbert was certain his heart would have melted from hearing them, but now they served only to fan the flames of his anger. "I underestimate them?!" he repeated, almost whispering. "I am them! I know better than anyone in the world what they are capable of and what they will do! Are you listening to a single word I say you damned—" Like Seydlitz before him he realized where his words were taking him and quickly reigned in his tongue before it could go any further. Judging by Fritz's face, though, he had already said more than enough.

"Go on," Frederick said quietly, razor-edged words spoken in a too-calm voice that he had heard only once before. "Finish it. What am I?"

Confronted with his leader's frigid challenge, Gilbert felt the flames inside of him sputtering and dying out as they hit the wall of cold that Fritz had thrown up in front of him. Whatever words he was going to say vanished and he could not have remembered them if he tried. He gaped for a moment at Frederick, floundering under the glare that was grinding all of his protests to dust under its boots while Fritz looked on, waiting defiantly for the words that would never come. He was saved by the return of one of the aides who stepped in to announce that the left wing was moving and almost in position. Frederick turned from him then, leaving Gilbert a splintered mess that was both screaming that this whole plan was a bad idea and wailing about how he couldn't do anything to stop it.

A cough jerked him out of his self-destructive thoughts and he was alarmed to see that the sound had come from Fritz. The king took his face out of the crook of his arm and cleared his throat, reaching for his flask as he did so. "It's so damned hot here," he said out loud, still pointedly not looking at Gilbert even though his voice had lost much of its coldness. "The dust sticks in the throat and makes it hard to breathe without choking." He drank from it, going through his fifth flask of the day before he set it down with a hollow thunk.

There would be more to come, the day was not done with them yet and heat still seeped into every pore of the land with little signs of stopping. And Fritz was only a human, a fragile human that could not take the strain that nations could and often did. Before he knew what he was doing Gilbert was unbuckling his canteen for the second time that day, the action pure instinct on his part. He tossed the half-full container at Fritz without even looking at him and heard Fritz fumbling as he tried to catch it. "Keep it, the last bit of the peasant's water is in there," he said, surprised at how impassive his voice sounded to his own ears. "You need it more than I do."

The stare prickled his neck but he refused to turn around and meet Fritz's gaze. "But—"

"No buts," he interrupted, "trust me Fritz, you'll be glad I gave that to you when the assault begins." Silence met his words but the stare remained and he could hear Fritz uncapping the canteen, another victory for him. The tension between them was thick, though, smothering them just like the torrid air. But he would not apologize. Not when he was right. Sometimes Fritz needed to be told that he was being stupid and arrogant, screw whatever hissy fit he decided to throw afterwards, he needed people around him that weren't afraid to tell him such things. Before there had been Winterfeldt and Schwerin and Keith, but they were all dead now. Seydlitz could get away with it provided that the king was in a good mood and Zieten could if he were around all the time, which left only Gilbert to tell Frederick the things he did not wish to hear.

Knowing Fritz and his obstinacy, combined with the occasional arrogance, he would not apologize either. Especially not when he believed himself to be right, too.

The left wing soon moved into position and Frederick was off to go to a better position to see them from, Gilbert right behind him as usual. They hardly spoke a few words to each other outside of exchanging information and opinions on the enemy, all of it formal and clipped. Gilbert gritted his teeth, annoyance flaring in him. The cohesion had gone from the two of them; usually he and Fritz were able to operate like two halves of a whole on the field, one to plan and one to fight, Frederick's genius and fire combined with Prussia's infinite military knowledge and his connection with the soldiers creating a perfect duo that ruled the battlefield. Now instead of fitting together seamlessly they chafed at each other, distance ruling their interactions.

From their new position they could see the Grosser-Spitzberg, swarmed with her guns and green uniforms like disturbed ants. Across from them were the Prussians in wait, ready for the signal that would send them rushing forward into the jaws of the batteries and guns, into what had to be a certain death to Gilbert. He knew the hill could be taken, no position was indefeasible, but at least they could try to destroy the defenses with cannons first! The infantry moved forward then, intending to storm the hill the same way Schenkendorf's grenadiers had with the Muhlberg, but they were met with a hail of case shot that tore through their ranks mercilessly. Gilbert had to bite down on his lip to stop himself from crying out at the sudden wave of pain that came over him, more intense than anything he had felt so far during the battle. The scratches in his sides slowly ripped open, becoming more like lacerations, and he felt the blood seeping out of them to soak into his shirt. The men tried, bless them they tried so hard to climb the hill the same way their comrades had earlier and earn the glory of capturing a hill, too. It was too much for them, however, there were more guns here than the Muhlberg and fresh troops and to his dismay Gilbert saw their lines faltering, pushed back by the storm of iron that decimated their men and dropped them like flies.

Frederick's disappointment was palpable as he watched the Prussian attack falter for the first time that day. He did not say anything at first and gazed at the troops as if hoping they would pick themselves up and suddenly storm the lines as if they had become invulnerable to the fire. When no such miracle occurred he beckoned to an aide. "Send a message to Lieutenant General Seydlitz, order him to lead a cavalry attack on the hill." The aide quickly galloped off, racing across the edge of the woods and occasionally through the bullets around him.

"And just how in the world do you expect Seydlitz to take those cannons with a charge on horseback?" Gilbert demanded, unable to keep his silence any longer. What the hell was Frederick even thinking? The horses would be slaughtered under the cannonfire!

"Seydlitz is brilliant, he saved us at Zorndorf, he can make something happen here," Frederick said as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

His hands clenched around the reins and Gilbert thought he was about to suffer an aneurysm. What sort of answer was that? Yes Seydlitz was brilliant and the best cavalry officer in the entire army but the man couldn't just pull miracles out of his ass! Thankfully Seydlitz knew his own limits and the aide was soon running back with a refusal, Seydlitz informing Frederick that the land was not suitable for cavalry and too wet.

Frederick sent him back furiously, ordering the younger general once again. "He goes too far," he said as he watched the aide make his way back down the hill. "All because I let him have his way with Zorndorf!" He turned his horse abruptly and started heading back to the Kuhgrund. "Come, Gilbert, we shall make our attack the same time Seydlitz does."

Prussia shook his head a little and just followed Fritz, clenching his teeth as every movement from Donner jarred his sides and sent lances of pain throughout his entire chest. Mentally he reached out for the other soldiers, those not yet in the battle and unhurt and drew strength from them, reducing the pain to a dull throb that never quite went away but at least it stopped hurting so much. Down in the Kuhgrund again Frederick rallied his men, who cheered his name even as they forced themselves to their feet through their weariness and stood behind him. He was their Fritz, the one who had led the through so many victories, and he would lead them through this one as well. Frederick seated himself at their head again, Schenkendorf somewhere nearby, and ordered them to march forward to attack the Russians once more. They had to climb down into the Kuhgrund itself, the dip in the ground hiding everything from their view, before climbing up to the other side.

Where they were immediately ripped apart by the Russian cannons and muskets that had been waiting for them, the muzzles pointing at the edge of the Kuhgrund and firing the moment anyone dared poke their head out too far. Gilbert screamed along with his men as he felt it, pain exploding across his stomach as scores of Prussians tumbled backwards from the edge, bleeding and lifeless and falling upon their own comrades. The world lurched from the pain that shook his senses and he was certain that he was about to fall out of the saddle but when his vision cleared he was amazed to find himself still mounted, gripping the pommel of his saddle so hard his fingers were cramping. Fritz was watching him, concern written clearly on his face as he watched Gilbert try to sit back up and pretend that nothing had happened.

The line began to falter, the guns destroying the famed Prussian order with their devastation as some of the men stepped back, trying to retreat back behind the valley where the shot could not reach them, while dead bodies still fell backward and tangled among those who were still trying to climb up. In an instant Frederick was among them, rallying and animating them with his voice, giving new orders everywhere he turned and sometimes even laying his cane across the soldiers' backs to get them to move forward. If invading the Kuhgrund had been hard enough it was nothing compared to the fight now, lines and lines of soldiers forcing their way up only to be cut down like so many grains of wheat before the scythe and their comrades behind them pushed on! Bullets and cannons and grape shot were everywhere, he could hear it whistling all around them and the screams as some of them found a victim. More than once Gilbert nearly tackled Frederick to the ground as he got too close to the ledge and he was fired upon, but he always managed to somehow escape unharmed. The same could not be said for Gilbert, each death opened his wounds more and more and he felt his clothes sticking to his skin as the blood oozed from them. He could see his waistcoat was starting to grow red splotches and soon his coat and breeches would as well, no longer hiding his suffering from the world.

Harder they pushed and harder they fell. The might of the Prussian army, often likened to a living machine, was no match for its real metal counterpart. As their discipline vanished confusion took hold and many of them tried to turn and run, only to be pushed back by their courageous allies and causing the flow of the battle to be even more chaotic as the men tried to go two different ways. Frederick ran among them, keeping his control by only a thin rein as he appeared in the thick of everything, his voice triumphing over the thunderous cannons and screams of the dying. Not even he could keep everything together, though, and some of the men tried to run anyway.

Gilbert was trying his own way to rally them, knowing the presence of a nation among his men had a deep effect that not even they were aware about caused them to fight even harder. He felt sick as he did, knowing that encouraging them would only make them try to climb that deadly lip and ultimately meet their death there. The pain was returning, brought back to life by the renewed injuries in his sides. The left wing was failing, too.

"We need to climb, my children, do not desert me now!" Frederick was yelling to the troops, speaking in German as he pointed to the edge of the Kuhgrund. "We must storm them and win!"

Prussia panted, hot blood dripping into his clothes from the death everywhere and the pain rapidly destroying his self-control. "I warned you that this would happen!" he yelled at his king, holding his hand to his stomach as he rode after him.

Frederick turned back to him, worried eyes instantly going to the blood that was spreading across his clothes. "We have fought against the odds before—" he began.

Gilbert never let him get that far. "When we knew that we could push ourselves and that the men would be fine with it! Goddammit you fool why can't you listen to what anyone ever tells you?!" he roared those words as another spasm of pain wracked through him and loosened his jaw, allowing him say things that he would have never dared say with half of a rational mind. "This always happens; you think you know better than everyone else around you, more than the generals that command their troops and know their limits, more than me and I am your army! I feel what happens to the men, they are me and I am them and when I warn you of what will happen you go on with your plans anyway and act as if everything afterwards comes as such a big fucking surprise!" He ignored the utterly bewildered look that Frederick was giving him and plowed straight on, uncaring of common sense or whatever wrath his words would incur, he just needed to say them finally. "This is not even the first time this has happened, either! Remember Hochkirch? Everyone warned you about the Austrians and you refused to listen and Keith died because of your stupid arrogance!"

Too far. He knew the moment those words left his lips that he had gone too far but his did not care, to see Fritz finally comprehend what he was saying and actually listen to him was a glorious sight to see. Moments later he regretted it, those words had been arrows aimed directly at Frederick's heart and he knew they would hurt him deeply. Fritz still had not forgiven himself for the death of one of his closest friends and the raw hurt that flashed in his eyes at Gilbert's words sent a knife of pain into the immortal man's soul. It lasted only a second, though, and vanished under the wave of fury that transformed Frederick's face as his suffering was burned away. Gilbert had never seen his King look so terrifying.

For once Frederick seemed to have no words, just a battle of emotions that played out over his face, anger and hurt and sadness all fighting for dominance until anger was the clear victor. As he opened his mouth a scream of terror went up among the lines, causing them both to look and see what the problem was. The men were falling over each other and pointing at something sailing through the sky towards the Prussian lines, far too big to be a cannonball and awkwardly shaped, twisting in the air as it flew. Gilbert only managed to catch impressions of what the object was, his mind refusing to comprehend it in its entirety. The long barrel and spinning wheels, the awkward frame that made its turning even more convoluted as it sailed right for them.

Frederick's horse screamed and dashed away, but Gilbert had been too slow in reaching for his reins and he managed to only get Donner partially turned before he realized it would be pointless and instead tried to jump out of the saddle. He made it only halfway before the artillery cannon crashed into him and his mount, slamming into them and sending them both flying as if struck by the hand of a god. Gilbert's vision flashed a bright, painful red and somewhere he heard Donner screaming in agony before his own pain ripped through his body, along his back and legs and chest, and turned his world gray for a while.

He couldn't have passed out for more than a few seconds, for he came awake very suddenly as pieces of the destroyed cannon rolled by him, crushing more soldiers in its wake. All at once his body screamed at him and his knew his bones were broken, they tingled and itched as his body's enhanced healing started to take effect right away and he reached out to his healthy soldiers to help the process speed up. He forced himself to his feet, stumbling as the world had to right itself, and saw his horse stretched in front of him, dead from taking brunt force of the cannon. He looked around wildly for Fritz and sighed in relief when he saw his ruler unharmed, but staring at him in worry that soon changed to horror when he looked back over the line.

Gilbert followed his line of sight and gasped when he saw the green of Russian uniforms mingling with the Prussian blue along the ridge of the Kuhgrund. The enemy infantry had charged them during their shock and was now trying to win back the land they had been driven from, bayonet and sword clashing together in a furious melee. But among them was a figure he recognized instantly, towering over the other men with his sheer size and height, his pale features as distinctive as Gilbert's own. He was also recognizable by the fact that he was carrying another cannon over his shoulder as if it weighed no more than a feather.

Russia caught his eyes immediately, he was too far away for Gilbert to see his expression but he moved so fast the Gilbert barely had time to register that the other cannon was flying for him as well before he dove out of the way and let it crash behind him. The cries of his people as the cannon smashed into them enraged Gilbert and for once he allowed himself to revel in their pain and let it fuel his anger for the northern nation standing above him. Who was no longer standing where he had been a second ago.

Shock froze him in place and then instinct kicked in. He was unsheathing his sword and ducking out of the way of a blur that he had only barely noticed rushing for him. Russia's blade sliced the air where his head had been and did not give him the chance to counter, swinging back down so he had to raise his own sword to block it. Their blades met with a clash of steel and neither of them moved, pausing for the barest second to size each other up. Ivan was of course bloodied from all of the fighting going on, his green field marshal uniform spattered with it and one side of his face drenched, causing his violet eyes to leap out even more at him. He was not smiling, not even with his eyes, and that fact made Gilbert's heart freeze. He almost had to remind it to start beating again.

The hand that held Ivan's sword was trembling—in fact his whole body was shaking slightly. He had just enough time to notice that before Ivan pushed his whole weight against him, nearly boring him to the ground with his immense strength, but Gilbert snarled and held on, pushing back against him. Ivan had always been the strongest of all the countries, but Gilbert with his amazing and disciplined army could easily rival him in strength now. He pushed hard against Ivan, throwing him back a step and ducking under his arms to ram his shoulder into the Russian's stomach. There was a loud cough and a wheeze even though it felt like he just smashed himself into a stone wall and he felt Ivan bending over a little. Using his close quarters advantage knowing that Ivan's sword could not reach him, his hand flew to the small of his back where a knife sheath rested under his coat. The knife was huge, curved and practically a small sword, and like all of his knives it was extremely sharp. He quickly plunged the dagger into Ivan's side and pushed as hard as he could. The blade easily ripped upwards until a hand closed around his throat in a vice grip. Suddenly he was lifted off his feet like a doll and held in the air while Ivan's fingers tried to crush his neck. He choked and lashed out with a foot, intending to catch Ivan in the face with it but the nation's other hand grabbed it as well.

He had little time to think before he was being thrown through the air the same way Ivan had thrown the cannons and he slammed against the sloped ground of the hill, stars flashing in his eyes from the impact. Blinking away the pain Gilbert leaped back to his feet, holding his sword in front of him as he watched Ivan rip the dagger out of his side, unmindful of the blood that poured from the gash. Ivan didn't seem to notice anything at all, his face still holding that terrifying blankness to it even as the wound gushed freely. "Hello again, Prussiyah," Russia said, his voice as dark and cold as a moonless winter night.

"Hey there fuckface," Prussia replied, grinning and trying not to flinch from the pain of his wounds. "How about you go the fuck away before my men skewer you alive?" He chuckled, seeing how surrounded Russia was in the Kuhgrund, rather than on top of it like his men were. He could see Fritz riding up to them, surrounded by his guard and looking none too happy that the enemy nation was in their lines.

Russia laughed a little, the sound unlike anything Gilbert had ever heard him make. It was unpleasant and reminded him of sharpness, of something with claws and teeth that loved to tear weaker animals apart for the fun of it. "I'm sorry, but mine were here first," Ivan replied with a smile at last. It wasn't like any of his other smiles at all, which were honey-sweet and deceptively innocent, this smile looked to have been carved on his face with a knife. He started walking towards Gilbert and was halted by the rows of bayonets and swords that pointed at him. Ivan chuckled and shook his head, his eyes pitying. "We're going to have to run you out of here, dear Gilbert, along with all of your Prussians."

The simple tone that he spoke made some of the Prussians shift uneasily, looking amongst each other. Fritz narrowed his eyes and signaled to his guards as if to take the Russian into custody. Gilbert smirked at him, trying to show more confidence than he felt. "And how will you do that when you trapped yourself down here with us?" he asked, waving his hand dramatically around him, his sword still pointed at Ivan's heart.

Ivan's smile grew wider. A strange light entered his eyes, something cold and sadistic that grinned at what was to come. "Oh, I just came for you," he said, stepping forward again, ignoring the bayonets, his posture rigid and face something alien and inhumane. "I'm going to break you. I will break all of your bones as if they were glass and I shall paint this field with your blood and your Prussians' blood." His head tilted imperceptibly to view Fritz out of the corner of his eye. "And with your King's blood."

Rage poured into Gilbert's veins, burning away his self-control in white-hot streams that made him see red red red, pulsing in time with his pounding heart. It felt like every cell in his body was on fire, erupting in a volcanic ferocity that narrowed his whole field of vision down to Ivan and that damned smiled of his. NO! How dare you, how dare you— He leaped at Ivan with a screech, his sword flashing in his hand as he tried to bring it down upon that stupid grinning face with all his strength. He found himself parried and lashed out again and again, attacking the larger nation with a series of quick, aggressive blows that put Ivan on the defensive until he sidestepped one of Gilbert's swings unleashed his own attack.

The two nations whirled through the Prussians, scattering them as the men had to scramble to get out of the way of the flying steel. It was unlike anything the men had ever seen before, nothing remotely related to duels of the day that were a gentleman's affair, it was raw and unhinged, the clash of steel on steel echoing throughout the Kuhgrund as the fighters tried to hack each other to pieces. Suddenly the blows were struck, Prussia stabbing Ivan through the gut even as Russia's sword opened up a wound on his chest and shoulder that caused a magnificent spray of blood to shoot into the air. Cries came from all around and Ivan yanked the sword out of his body, moving faster than Gilbert could react and slamming his body into the smaller nation's.

Gilbert felt his feet leave the ground before he was hitting it again, hard, and bouncing along it until it felt like his brain was rattling around in his skull. Dazed from the attack, he didn't notice Russia's approach until a large hand closed over his collar and yanked him up. He twisted and fought but the grip did not relent and he felt himself being dragged over the ground, practically carried while he heard the Prussians screaming his name and Ivan threw him yet again, tossing him over the lip of the Kuhgrund and into a group of men who were bowled over as he crashed into them. Russians. He scrambled to his feet, looking wildly about him and seeing nothing but green and red uniforms as Ivan climbed out after him, chuckling.

"Whose lines are we behind now, Gilbert?" Ivan asked pleasantly, twirling his scarf around one of his hands. His eyes swept over his soldiers, who all stiffened under the scrutiny. "No one touches the Field Marshal," he ordered in Russian, starting forward. "He is mine."

---

A/N: YOU GUYS BETTER STRAP YOURSELVES IN BECAUSE BOY WE ARE GOING FOR ONE HELL OF A RIDE.

I feel ridiculously proud at the fact that this is the only prompt that I actually had to make a specific music playlist for while I was writing it. No story has ever, ever done that to me.

I have wanted to write this battle for. ev. er. And since I have been sitting on this idea and building upon it for maybe even a year now you can see what happens when I do. I've had two books and four internet tabs opened for research on this and I'm trying to be as accurate as possible when describing what happens here so the details are as accurate as I can make them, even down to the time the battle began (which was in fact 11:30 am exactly) and the second assault that started at 3 pm. Also I would like to mention that when Frederick STARTED his march to carry out his original strategy, the army began marching at about 2 am, so everyone has been awake for quite some time.

Interestingly enough, historians speculate that if Frederick actually had stopped his assault and waited after he won the Muhlberg then the battle could have very easily been a Prussian victory since his enemies would have been forced to retreat when darkness fell and leave him as the owner of the field. But alas, Frederick has always been known as being a very aggressive military commander (not to mention he had a very annoying habit of not listening to what others told him, even when they were right, and having it come back and bite him in the ass later) and that cost him dearly.

The only part of this that is pretty much not true is the peasant coming up and giving Fritz some water, that actually happened the day before the battle when the king was scouting out the area but it was so danged sweet to read that I had to fit it in. I also probably didn't mention General Lindstedt as much as I should since technically it was him and Schenkendorf who commanded the lines that stormed the Muhlberg but I couldn't really do it without making the story sound clunky, and Schenkendorf plays a bigger role later. But I'm being accurate with the whole heat thing, I know I keep mentioning but all the sources I have like to mention that the day was extremely hot, hotter than was usual for that time of year and that played a crucial role in the battle since the soldiers were exhausted more quickly and many of them just dropped out of heatstroke.

Also cookies for anyone who gets the very tiny Avatar reference I made in here :D Until the next part lovelies!