NOTE: Act III, everyone! Also, updates may take longer to come out.
May 17, 1919
Sergeant Ionas 'Jaune Arc' Arkos surveyed the squadron under his direct command. He may be a year shy of his twentieth but he commanded enough respect to earn the total submission and loyalty of the eight men standing in front of him. It was a quick inspection. Mostly ceremonial than routine but it was enough to reinforce their esprit de corps in the wake of all their troubles here in Northern Russia.
The past seasons had been difficult. Incapacitating winter, numbing disease, lack of supply... Plummeting morale, mutiny after mutiny after mutiny that led to the slow piecemeal withdrawal of Allied forces from the country altogether...
He was grateful that their platoon in particular held steadfast despite the turn of the tide. It took a lot of effort to do their job when a large fraction of their comrades were either being courtmartialed for insubordination or evacuated from Russia. In hindsight, they were lucky they were not attached to the White Army regiments—reports of disgruntled Russians murdering their Western advisers were widespread.
Shortly after being dismissed from the parade grounds by Lieutenant Thibald Vastel, Jaune was back in the wide bivouac he helped his men set up, half of whom were sharing cigarettes and drinking honeyed milk from dented tin cups, luxuries that were fast dwindling with the way this whole expedition was turning out.
At least Hillard was finally out of his hair. Transferred elsewhere by the new expedition commander General Edmund Ironside back in late November, shortly after the armistice. Last he heard, the man was in the British Raj halfway across the world.
"Orléans me manque," remarked Private Yver, the youngest in their group.
Corporal Bazouille grunted in agreement. "Cholet me manque."
"Et toi, Sergent?" asked Private Gaspard.
Jaune emptied his drink before answering offhandedly, "Mes amis en Amérique me manquent."
He smiled at the round of chuckles and soft hoots. The blonde sergeant had long since gotten used to the jokes Baz, Avi, and Gosse made at his expense, finding the levity refreshing. Though he did vigorously discourage attempts to put down on paper that stupid 'Snow White and the Yellow Huntsman' fairy tale his men were making up.
Sergeant Arkos smirked at a humorous anecdote recounted by Private Sabenoux. From his peripheries, Jaune could trace a ghost of a smile on Vastel's face as he looked their way, the veteran of the Hundred Days Offensive sharing some lighthearted banter with Causson and the other lieutenants. The mood was uplifting and Jaune savored every minute of it.
Because in ten minutes, it would be back to the same depressing monotony of their duty: defending their swiftly shrinking gains against a better equipped, more determined, and numerically superior Red Army.
Weiss walked down the corridor of their North Dakota estate to the wide parlor with a foil and her Cossack cavalry saber, a gift from the exiled Grand Duke Nikolay Nikolaevich for saving the imperial family. Upon entry, she politely greeted their guest: some gentleman claiming to be a distant Romanov relative.
It was tiresome entertaining exiled nobles babbling about their previous aristocratic lives while lamenting the current affairs. The former heiress simply nodded her head with practiced smiles while constantly assuring their guests that she was not affiliated in anyway with the dethroned Kaiser or his circle...or any member of House Hohenzollern for that fact, no matter how German her name sounded. It earned her some favor with the German migrant population however.
Germany itself had fallen to the fires of revolution, damned to pay humiliating indemnities to the victorious Western Allies. Austria-Hungary was effectively balkanized while the Ottomans fractured before the ever-hungry Greeks. All the while Russia still bled.
"Terrible, terrible state of affairs in the world today," prattled Duke Romanov Something of Somewhere. "That is not to mention that damnable flu that has put down so many soldiers before they had even a chance to fire their guns. And we have another powder keg waiting to go off in China..."
Weiss tuned him out, instead coming up with some way to ease her way out of this agonizing exercise in patience she had walked into. She looked around, glancing to Anya who shared her subtly irritation. Young Alexei was struggling not to display his displeasure, sitting close to an inconspicuously disinterested Tsaritsa Alexandra.
It was clear half the family would rather be elsewhere right now doing something else. Like tending to the garden terraces surrounding the mansion or building a toolshed in the back by the woods. Or fencing lessons for the Romanov siblings.
As Mister Trupp served them tea and biscuits, Weiss took the opportunity to mutter an excuse. Anya clearly wanted to echo the same, visibly itching run up to her room and grab her foil so they could train, but being related—dubiously—in some way to their visitor ensured she would have to sit through the rest of it.
"Family first," the white-haired girl teased quietly.
"Just go," the grand duchess mumbled through her teeth.
Weiss smiled at the nobleman whom she heard ask the tsar about her strangely-colored hair as she passed by. She emerged patio providing a pristine view of the landscape that stretched below. It was perfectly serene, reminiscent of the ornate forecourts where she and Winter would escape to and drink tea together.
She walked down the steps to the gazebo in the middle of the gardens and sat on a bench; today's fencing sessions would have to be postpone until after the guest left. Which was probably late in the afternoon or well after dinner.
In the meantime, she let her mind wander freely. It had been quite the adventure, as Anya loved to put it. Her fingers brushed over the jewelry she always wore on her person: the gold rings that bore a finely polished ruby and an oval onyx, the silver bracelet encapsulating a shimmering diamond, and a gold necklace chain with a pendant that housed immaculate sapphire.
With the breeze blowing freely through her hair, she set the foil aside and planted the sheathed blade onto the concrete like a cane and muttered a soft prayer to the Romanov's Christian God for Jaune's safety in a crumbling expedition and the well-being of Ruby, Yang, and Blake in a world far, far away.
"Sergent Arkos."
French military practice dictated Jaune stand up and salute his superior but knowing Vastel and how far they were from base, he was too lazy to so match as bat an eye to the lieutenant striding up to where he was. Besides, Russian nights proved to be cold no matter the season and he was comfortable enough as it is sitting on this crate. "Lieutenant."
"Thank God for the moon. It has made this a serene landscape without the sun to beautify it. I have friends who would have loved to paint this."
Jaune huffed in agreement, wrapping his arms together with his rifle tugged ever closer to his chest. Before him lay an empty spring wilderness, a swathe of empty territory they were to defend. Somewhere out there, in the dark, some Bolshevik was probably sizing him up through the scope of his gun. "They'd probably leave out the dead bodies, huh."
Vastel sniggered. "Not unless they adhered to what these new 'art' movements have been blabbering about."
The blonde sergeant grunted. The rest of his squad were already asleep in their cots, sheltered in their dug-out. He heard rustling and Vastel was already leaning against the standing half of a tree with a lantern placed against his boot, a freshly-lit cigarette flickering in his mouth.
"Smoke?"
Jaune declined. Weiss would hate that. She hated most vices.
Vastel shrugged then puffed out a cloud before casually inquiring, "What do you think of the Far East?"
He had no idea what to think. All he knew was that it was sort of like Mistral in a way. That and the Allies also occupied the town of Vladivostok with the help of the Japanese. Or something along those lines—they had sporadic access to newspapers and word of mouth often exaggerated the reports of war correspondents. "That...it's in the far east. No sarcasm meant, sir."
The lieutenant grunted. "Well said." Another drag on his stick. "Give me your hand, please."
Now, Jaune moved to gawk at his superior. "Sir?"
"Give me your hand."
It took him a moment before he relented and offered an open hand.
Vastel took one long drag on his cigarette then grabbed his wrist and speared the lit end into his palm. Of course, the blonde sergeant snarled and pulled back, clutching his hand and seeing his Aura glow faintly over his skin as it sealed up the burn.
"Ç'est quoi ce bordel!?" Jaune nearly screamed.
The officer shrugged and answered, "Désolé. I wanted to see in person how your, em, abilities work. I am very much in awe."
Jaune glared daggers at him while hissing, "Why!? You just wanted to see!?"
Vastel unapologetically replied, "We have rarely been sent out to fight, as you may have noticed. Most of the work goes to the Americans and the British. Us Français? We stay behind and help carry the bullets." He pulled out and lit another cigarette. "I know General Ironside sees you as too valuable to lose but he cannot send you home as well. Not yet, at least."
"What?" Did Ironside have full authority to send him home this whole time? And he refused? And what the hell did he mean 'not yet'? What else was he being kept around for anyway? If he were a lesser man, he would have joined the mutiny and snuck aboard one of the supply ships leaving for Britain. What point was there in fighting the Bolsheviks now after they had reversed their gains?
As far as he can tell from the reports filtering through the grapevine, their expedition was going sideways. They never linked up with Admiral Kolchak. General Denikin's offensive into the Bolshevik capital was petering out. Baron Wrangel was off elsewhere, probably going in the other direction. Not to mention public support from the rest of the world had long since waned.
Probably their best success was rescuing Weiss and the Romanovs. The Czechoslovak Legion probably made it to safety on the other side of the country. The stockpiles though...
"I have heard much about you," the lieutenant continued, "I thought you were either a product of our own propaganda or some really unlucky fool who survived more times than he should have. Then I was sent here, I read the reports, I heard with my own ears from credible sources...I had to see for myself."
"We skirmished with scouts and raiders hitting our supply lines," Jaune seethed, "I suffered flesh wounds. You were there! How did you not see!?"
"I was busy keeping you all alive. Besides, I was not thoroughly convinced. So I do apologize for having to resort to this measure to know for sure."
Sergeant Arkos clenched his fists, resisting the urge to sock this bastard where he stood. "Well, I hope you're happy. I'm going to sleep."
Vastel called out to him in the dark as he trudged back to his men. "What do you think of the Far East, Jaune?"
"I think I'd shoot myself before I get redeployed there!" he snapped back only to hear laughter and the sound of the officer's boots crunching in the dirt. Who cares about the Far East? The British, Americans, and the Japanese have it all under control. He was just waiting for the end of his service so he can finally be relieved of duty. And be free to migrate to America where Weiss was.
Speaking of which, he pulled out his satchel and reread through some of their older letters in the flickering light of his oil lamp. North Dakota sounded like a nice place to settle. Vast tracts of land, colorful people. Kind of like Vale in a way.
"Far East my ass..."
Weiss took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the hilt of her saber. While a different form in contrast to Myrtenaster, it was more than enough to serve as a conduit for her Semblance. She raised the blade forward and the glyph shimmering on the floor expanded.
Several deep breaths later, something began to coalesce. Flakes of ice crested out of nothingness to merge into a rising figure. Greaves to gauntlets, breastplate to pauldrons to helmet. And a massive cleaver of a sword crystalizing into existence in the being's arms.
She released her breath, able to relax her shoulders. Finally. Definitive progress in the mastery of her Semblance. And, though exhaustive, it took less effort than the last. Winter would have been proud.
Her Arma Gigas, towering over her twice over, bowed its head in clear reverence to its master.
The former heiress beamed from ear to ear as the late night wind blew through the shattered window of her private quarters. She swept her bare feet against the shards of glass spread over the carpet, brushing them aside before she strode to the window sill to greet the cold evening air. "Great. Did not mean to do that."
"We can have that fixed," intoned Tsar Nicholas the Second.
Weiss nearly jumped. Awkwardly, her Arma Gigas turned on its heel to the source of the sound but remained at attention, never acting against the intrusion to her privacy. "How long have you been standing there!?"
Tsar Nicholas, Tsaritsa Alexandra, the Romanov siblings, and the imperial retinue all gawked from the doorway, some heads bobbed slightly to get a good look.
"We heard noise coming from your room. We feared that something might have happened," Anya finally echoed. "So we hurried and...saw this."
The white-haired girl stammered. This was not meant for prying eyes—she knew she should have done this outside! Her body went rigid while she tried to come up with some explanation. In place of disgust or fear, however, was intense curiosity. Up until Alexandra Feodorovna, though.
"If you are going to practice your art, you should at least tell us before hand so we could prepare for it," chastised the deeply religious tsaritsa. "I told you to practice safely, remember?"
Weiss gathered herself, a faint curve at the end of her lips, and bowed, muttering, "My apologies."
"So...we have a knight bodyguard now?" prodded Aleksei.
"No. He's only temporary." To emphasize her point, the Arma Gigas dissipated, leaving behind the indentations of its boots in the wood. Much to how a great burden was lifted from her shoulders, Weiss slumped in relief. "Ugh, that took so much out of me..."
Anastasia and Maria took her by the arms and helped her sit. "Even you should know that too much training is harmful," scolded the latter.
"You should rest now, Isha," added Tsar Nicholas before her clapped his hands. "Alright, that is enough for tonight. Back to bed. I trust that we all keep this completely discreet." He turned to Weiss. "And I believe you will only utilize your...creation...only when absolutely necessary. We will discuss this further in the morning."
"Of course. I do need to practice though."
"Not now," Tatiana argued. "Not tonight. You should sleep."
"Please do not damage the gardens when you do," added Olga. "It is not easy to cultivate flowers here."
"Noted. Again, I apologize." Weiss looked to her broken window and the curtains flowing in the North American wind. "Mind if I sleep in the guest quarters? Until this has been repaired?"
"I will prepare the beddings," said Mister Trupp.
Anya smirked. "I will help. Just don't do your necromantic magic in your sleep."
"It's not necromancy!" shrieked Weiss over the Romanov siblings' laughter. From the end of the corridor, before she disappeared behind her door, Alexandra Fedorovna craned her head to throw her one last glare. "Anya, don't say those things!"
"Your Semblance can create knights." The youngest grand duchess beamed. "You might make a good spy. Agent Isha! Speeding through the fields on her glyphs and hunting criminals and warmongers with her army of ice soldiers."
Weiss groaned while she gathered her blanket and offered it to Mister Trupp.
"Oh! It would be the perfect story," chirped Aleksei who was holding onto something. "Agent Isha's fiancé trapped in a war—"
"Lyoshka, be quiet and help me make my bed!"
Wait. Was that her box in his hands?
"I told you to stop reading my letters!" Weiss hollered, snatching it back and stomping off with her sheathed cavalry saber to one of the spare guest rooms as Aleksei and Anastasia trailed after her with the rest of her things, tittering and quipping how said room could be renovated to accommodate Sergeant Arkos when he decides to move in with them after his military service.
ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 13, 2018
LAST EDITED: October 10, 2018
INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 6, 2018
NOTE: Thank you so much for the reception! I'm really glad you guys are enjoying the story so far. And for the longest time, I've debated whether or not to included translations but now that you mention it, I'm putting in the ones that would fly over most people's heads. (Foreign language people, feel free to correct me.) I also admit the pacing has been slow but it'll ramp up hopefully later on.
So far, we've come out of one war only to jump into another. A lot of things happened in the world in 1919. ;)
Translations:
Orléans me manque. = I miss Orleans.
Cholet me manque. = I miss Cholet.
Et toi, Sergent?= And you, sergeant? (What about you, sergeant?)
Mes amis en Amérique me manquent. = I miss my friends in America.
Ç'est quoi ce bordel!? = What is this mess!? (What the fuck!?)
Désolé. = Sorry.
Français = French/Frenchmen