May 10th, 1809

Kesselburg, the Southern Isles

It was like a dream.

As Remy leaned against the wall, he saw the Officer kick the door open as the first few men pushed into the palace. Like a helpless witness to a dream he watched his body get pushed in by the men behind him as the storming party pushed into the Castle.

There was furious screaming in both French and Danish as his fellow soldiers pointed muskets and bayonets in an attempt to cow the gathered audience, yelling commands in their native tongue. The hand-picked officers did their best to command the nobles in Danish to not resist, but their orders went unheeded over the din of panicked screams in Danish and yelled shouts in French.

Remy barely heard the shout of his Caporal, who stood merely feet from him. "Merde, where did all these people come from?" Caporal Jean Fournier was his squad leader and no-nonsense veteran of previous battles going back years. Seeing him troubled worried Remy tremendously.

Intelligence had failed the storming party immensely. While the officers and NCOs knew the layout of the castle, guard numbers, and VIPs that needed to be captured, no-one had bothered to check the schedule to see if the chosen assault day was also a day of occasion. And thus, no-one knew it was the Crown Princess' Birthday ball.

In the confusion of the crowd, the Royal Family was forced to "safety" by the handful of Marines that stood near them, as flustered French soldiers fired a few shots at them.

It wasn't against orders, as the soldiers had been ordered to capture or kill the Royal Family at all costs, but it was the wrong move. The gathered nobility had descended into panic, with the crowd either running away from the French, dropping to the ground, or trying to push through the French to the main exit.

A number of Marines had arrived from an upper wing, joining the ones already in the ballroom. The Marines who had stood guard in the ballroom were purely ceremonial, armed only with sabers. They were posted to escort drunk nobility to their rooms, not to repel a French assault. The reinforcements, however were armed with muskets, which they recklessly fired at the French.

The crowd attempting to escape aided their enemy in unwitting treason, as the lead balls hit almost entirely civilians attempting to escape, as Remy saw an elderly noblewoman arc her back as she was slammed with a musket ball, screaming as she fell and died.

Finding themselves in a bad place and disciplined enough to not retreat, the French soldiers dealt with the still large crowd pushing against them the only way they knew how- force. Having been raised during the revolution, they had little love for the nobility. The young men mercilessly began to viciously beat back and subdue the crowd with steel plated musket-butts, slamming into sternums and face alike. Remy was sickened as he even saw a few of his comrades "accidently" stick the nobility with their bayonets, causing horrific screams.

It wasn't long before they pushed through the crowd and faced the Marine guards. Remy was shocked by the abrupt end of the crowd, pausing a moment when he finally broke into the open. The moment was fleeting however, as he found himself face to face with an Islander Marine. An officer, the larger man thought nothing as he attempted to bring the sword down on the French conscript the way he had brought his sword down on rioters in the past.

Remy gritted his teeth as he lifted his bayoneted musket in a blocking position, parrying the blow as he twisted and jabbed. As his bayonet sank into the Marine's chest, Remy screamed as he pushed down, bringing the officer to the surface of the marble floor, as reasoning kicked in again. He looked down in horror as the enemy soldier, nay, a man lay impaled on his bayonet, gasping as he died. Remy felt the final, violent shocks through his musket before he lay still, forever.

Remy stood in horror, as he stared down at the lifeless corpse, before Fournier grabbed him by the shoulder.

"He's dead mon ami. But there plenty more sticking to be done. Go!"

And with that the soldier pushed forward in a daze, into yet more deadly combat.

…

The royal family was rushed through the hallways, the King with his saber drawn and leading the way as a few marines formed a barrier around his wife and daughter. The path they took toward the designated evacuation point would have resulted in a flawless evacuation, if not for the French that were seemingly coming out of the woodwork. Seemingly every corner brought another group of blue and white uniformed men screaming in French and a discharge of muskets. Most of the time they missed, but it wasn't long before Melody noticed that there was noticeably fewer men in the protection detail.

However they reached the door way that led down to the hidden boat room and encountered the rally point that had been established there. A number of marines and castle staff had gathered, calmly awaiting the Royal Family so they could evacuate as well. As such Melody was surprised to find Frederick there as well, face sooty from having discharged a musket multiple times. Still wearing the white uniform (though now dirtied) of the army as opposed to the blue of the Marines, he certainly looked more rugged with an artillery carbine slung and a pistol tucked into a belt, with a marine's kit strapped on.

All of this was undone by the boyish grin he grew upon seeing that Melody was safe and unharmed. "Melody!" He shouted as the two teens embraced.

"Frederick, you're alive!" Melody sobbed into his shoulder, clutching him tightly. But before they could continue the day's earlier conversation, reality knocked. An officer stood on a bench, demanding attention.

"The King and his family are here! Prepare to move out!"

…

Ariel was worried about the reappearance of Frederick, for a variety of reasons. All of them having to do with his presence selling false hope. If he were to be killed in front of her, it would devastate Melody. If he were to be left behind, it would break her heart. Hell, even if he survived, and then did what he did earlier today, she would be crushed. No it was better if he was a foggy memory, an object forgotten about in the rush to get out the door.

She was slightly horrified about that last thought. Did she really compare a human being to a mere object? She felt bad, but she considered it necessary. She had a daughter to worry about. Not only that, she was keeping an eye on all the castle staff, as well as their families trying to get out. Innocents caught in the middle of the war, just trying to live their lives. And most important to her was the young child that grew in her stomach, for whom any sacrifice was acceptable. No, she had little pity for the ex-suitor of her daughter.

But now was not the time to think of that. She knew the path well, and as thus smiled when she saw the familiar statue, knowing the staircase down to the boat room was merely down the stairs. She thus didn't think as she turned the corner, smiling.

Her heart froze when she saw French marines gathered at the indoor dock mere yards away. However, they were busy securing their boat and had not posted a sentry yet. As thus, her mind instantly switched, her lips about to move to inform the group about the alternate passage to another boathouse. The soldiers could secure the boats here and the civilians could fit on the secondary craft.

But she never got the chance.

It wasn't Frederick's fault, not really. He had drawn his pistol when he had too turned the corner, but his sharp mind had too reasoned that discretion was the better option. Besides, he wouldn't fire the first shot without orders. However an unknown Marine panicked and raised his musket, discharging it.

Swearing violently, Frederick too raised his pistol and shot, his reflexes being that the ball was down range within a second of the first.

As such with all that adrenaline fogging her mind, Ariel turned her head and determined that Frederick was the man who shot first. So to her, he was to blame for what happened next.

The French marines shouted and abandoned their task, grabbing their muskets and discharging a volley towards them. Ariel saw them raise the muskets, and it seem as though time slowed down as she stared at the Frenchmen. As thus she didn't see Frederick grab her daughter, forming a human shield. Nor did she see how doing so prevented a musket round from hitting her daughter. She didn't even hear her husband scream for her to get down.

She did hear the discharge, however. And she saw an Islander marine twist as a musket ball caught him in the shoulder and exited his back, still speeding forward.

Impacting her directly in the stomach. Her womb.

She reached down and touched the bullet wound, raising the bloody hand to her face. Reality and pain sinking in, Ariel collapsed from shock, the last things her eyes saw was her husband sprinting towards her.

…

Eric felt his soul shatter when he saw the wound. It wasn't real. God couldn't be that cruel, could he? He couldn't kill an unborn child, his unborn child. As thus he simply denied what his eyes revealed to him. All that mattered was getting his wife and child, no, children to safety.

However, the primary boathouse was in enemy hands now. And the secondary one was accessible only by a false well down the hall. He had built a secondary entrance on the outside that could have been climbed down to, but now that they had been discovered, it was too late for that.

As he solemnly led the party to the small room his existing fears had been reconfirmed. The well had been built as an escape route for children. And while it was spacious enough to allow a fairly thin adult woman to escape, there was no way he'd fit…

He sighed, gathering courage to face his end with courage. Holding back tears, he turned to that Frederick boy, the one his daughter seemed so fond of. Seeing he was only slightly wounded, he felt that he was the ideal candidate for the mission.

"Frederick, I have a mission for you. You are small enough, so you can go where I cannot. I need you to lead my wife, my daughter, and anyone else who can fit to safety. I need you to keep them safe."

"But what about you, your Majesty?"

"I'm too large to fit. I have to stay behind."

Frederick quietly bowed his head, speechless at the thought that his noble King was going to stay behind and cover his family's escape. A true warrior king. He nodded and began to turn towards the small well leading down to the boat room. Before he could, Eric grabbed his arm.

"One last thing boy. I saw what you did for my daughter. If she does choose you, continue to be worthy of both her and the Kingdom. If you can do this you have my blessing." He padded his shoulder and left the room, taking one look at both his daughter and wife. He desperately wanted to hold them one last time, but there was no time for a long goodbye. He considered his sacrifice as his final embrace to his family.

As such he entered the hall in front of the well room, where a handful of Marines had stood fast, ready to meet the oncoming Frenchmen that were certain to come through the opposite door any moment now. A surviving officer saluted, before reporting.

"Your Majesty, I report 5 men remain unwounded, with 4 lightly wounded, and 7 seriously wounded but capable of bearing arms. Your orders, sire?"

"We know what Napoleon does to prisoners. He doesn't need any more cannon fodder. So we won't be giving him any."

"As you wish, your majesty."

…

Remy and a group of other soldiers crossed themselves as the priest blessed them. It was an odd moment of international unity as the priest wasn't French, but a Danish Catholic Priest who had been in the castle when the attack began. As such the priest had been busy delivering last rites to both French and Southern Isle soldiers when Remy's group received their orders: join the attack on the last holdout position. Enemy or not the priest had a duty to help the faithful, especially those who likely to die.

A number of Southern Island marines and their King had dug themselves in an outlying tower, a last stand worthy of the history books and poems. But that meant little to Remy or his fellow soldiers. As the foot soldiers in a massive army that was on quest to dominate Europe and guarantee France's security, the books didn't list his or his fellow's names in the books or poems when they died. All they could hope for was to survive the war and return to their loved ones. If not, well, that's what the priest was for. As they mouthed amen after the impromptu mass, they replaced their shako and moved to the hallway.

It was a grim approach, as the way to the hold out was littered with both the dead and wounded, this place as good as any for them. A good number where civilian castle staff, some too far forward to be safely recovered. So they laid sprawled out where they had died, caught in the cross fire between a group of Marines coming up from the boat house and the main assault force. Some of the enemy soldiers were there too, not enough room in the final holdout for them, so they tried to hold out here as well. They fell easily enough, though not quickly enough that a few survivors took the dead's muskets before retreating.

Remy remembered thinking that he was to fight Viking giants this morning, but as his company moved through the halls he got a good look at the "Vikings." Most were no older than he, with some not even needing to shave. Still more boys than men, they lay slumped against the marble floor and walls of decadence, dying for a King that likely didn't know their names. Still if the rumor was true, at least this King was decent enough to fight with his men to the last rather than sacrificing them to save himself.

As they approached the forward French positions, Remy could hear the echoing of gunfire as the battle raged on, as the ground occasionally shook from the naval guns offshore. The Danish gladly supplied troops and ships in return for Southern Isle territory, with the hope of being given dominion of the whole country if they served Emperor Napoleon and provided continued military support. As such a few Danish ships sat off shore firing salvos into the castle as well as into a nearby fortress. Survivors of the Battle of Copenhagen, the crews of those ships relished for payback against the hated English. For today though, they'd settle for John Bull's allies.

Remy and his squad leaned against the wall, as an officer looked at a timepiece. The ships offshore where to shell the section of castle for 15 minutes at a time, before ceasing fire for 15 minutes. If they were given the signal, they would stop their barrage completely as the section had been secured. The 15 minutes were almost complete. Remy inhaled deeply, as his heart raced and legs shook from fear. The enemy was just through that door, and he had no wish to die in the last minutes of a very short war.

…

Eric no longer thought of his family. Not his wife's wound, or his daughter's prospects of happiness. He was in a fight, and when in a fight, it's hard to think of anything else. He moved throughout the little bastion, checking on his soldiers. The civilians had thankfully been evacuated, at least the ones that could. The ones who were too big to fit had either taken arms, or provided aid to the wounded. The battering of the offshore ships was fairly inaccurate, but still made everyone hunker down when they did land close.

As such Eric had moved back to the main line of defense when the last barrage landed, causing him to hunker down and wait out the violent shaking, before standing up. He knew what came after the barrage stopped. His men knew too, as they cocked their hammers on their muskets and waited.

On cue, a brave yell was heard from the enemy side of the gauntlet as French soldiers poured down the battered hallway, led by an officer waving a saber. Eric's sword already drawn, he lifted the saber and was about to give the order to fire when he heard a whizzing sound.

Cannon fire.

Eric cursed the French's cold hearted tactic as cannonballs slammed into the hallway, causing a maelstrom of splinters, stone, and shattered glass. Screaming erupted up and down the hallway as both French and Islander soldiers were killed and wounded by the blast. Eric himself felt a sharp pain and then wetness on his face and shoulder, minor but noticeable wounds compared to some of his men. He felt his face, feeling blood dripping down his cheek. For a moment he worried about his ability to grow a beard, before realizing his already sealed fate. He cursed his choice to wait so long to grow a beard, but then again a beard was a minor price to pay for his wife's happiness…

He peered into the smoke and dust as it settled, wondering why the French would try something so cruel and heartless to their own troops. Unknown to him was the knowledge that the French had not intended to shell their own troops. A Danish frigate rushed to fire one last salvo and fired their last barrage 30 seconds too late. Either way it was a catastrophe.

A chunk of ceiling came down and blocked the hallway, ensuring that the French would have to clear rubble under fire to send more troops down the corridor. Even worse was that soldiers were trapped on the other side. All but one laid about the marble floor, wounded from their own naval guns. The one who still stood was slightly wounded as well.

A private, the man stood slightly hunched with bayoneted musket in hand in a defensive stance. Eric looked the man up and down, making an assessment. He was of average height with dark hair and light stubble, which combined with a pronounced overbite and jutting ears made him look like a rat. He had the build of a farm boy, a fairly poor one at that. This one had not eaten enough meat growing up to be incredibly strong. Even without his lack of physical strength, his posture and body language was that of a cornered rat. No desire to fight, only to make the cat go away to survive.

This was their chance. If they attacked now, they could overwhelm the French and overtake the soldiers clearing the rubble. From there, an assault on the primary boat room could lead to a successful breakout. He shouted the command to his men to attack.

Eric had made a mistake, however. He had forgotten a piece of wisdom his parents had once taught him.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, more dangerous to a cat than a cornered rat.

…

September 1st, 1840

Kurzheim, the Southern Isles

Kristina was washing her torture implements, while singing softly to herself when Lady Johanna entered the room. The singing abruptly stopped as the maid bowed to the Lady.

"My Lady, my apologies. I had just finished and had no opportunity to tidy up."

The noblewoman raised a hand in dismissal of the offence. "Worry not, Kristina. I believe in getting my hands dirty. If it were not for the Mother-in-law, I would have supervised the… questioning."

"I rather you didn't, Johanna. This is no activity for a Lady."

"I'll be the judge of that. So what did you learn?"

"Well, unfortunately our visitor went and died on us. Very odd. Wasn't bleeding, I know how to cut them to avoid that." She gestured to the various incisions on the man's body, none of which had struck a vein or artery. "I'd say poison, but who knows? However, he did seem quite insistent on telling us he worked for Arendelle."

Johanna raised an eyebrow, as the manner of tone used by Johanna seemed to indicate that a "but" was coming.

"Did he work for Arendelle?"

"No, he did not." Johanna began to pour boiling water over another tool. "He waited a good minute into the torture, before 'confessing' of working for Arendelle. However, I have a sense for the sort of things. The man was not broken yet."

"Go on."

"You see, when you torture a man, you don't start with the big questions. You start with simple unrelated questions. Obvious lies, and obvious truths." She paused, settling the kettle of water back onto a burner before wiping the tool off with cloth. "You do this as to get a baseline for when he's lying or not. Then you get into the little things he doesn't want you to know. His name. His hometown. And you keep going until he breaks."

She set the tool down on the tray, it being the last tool needing cleaning. As such she began to pour water to flush out the bloody floor, she finished her point.

"Point is, this fellow goes from not giving up a surname to letting me know he works for Queen Elsa? No, I don't buy it. Besides, he also couldn't give me details about things an Arendelle spy would know."

"So who do you think he works for?"

"Sadly, the truth is I do not know. This guy was professional enough to keep me from knowing much in our time together. All I can tell you with any certainly is his name is Otto, and whoever hired him wanted us to go after Arendelle and not them."

"Any possible ideas?"

"Well, I know you are suspicious of them, but this guy was not working for Corona."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, he was from Corona. And nobody is stupid enough to hire a fellow countryman that is only able to speak in their native accent. Rapunzel may not be a spymaster, but she has some on her payroll. They wouldn't be so careless."

"So Rapunzel is still in the dark about my intentions?"

"I would safely assume so. As for our friend's employer, I would guess that he's from the Southern Isles. Perhaps your husband has a nosey brother with less than noble intentions. Possibly Weselton, though I see no reason why they would act against us."

"I see." Johanna said curtly as she pondered the ramifications. She knew it wasn't her new father-in-law's man, as she knew who that was already. And espionage did not suit the elder brothers of the Westergard dynasty. Sure there was plenty of rivalry and bickering among the boys, but that was done face to face. While there seemed to be a fistfight every major family gathering, he King never tolerated cloak and dagger intrigue within the family. When his older brother Stefan was discovered to be spying on his family and attempting to blackmail one of his triplet brothers, he found himself disowned. This lasted for years, having only recently been given a Barony after prison and exile. Just another reason Johanna found it wise to ally herself with the King with Hans.

"Well, in any case, this one isn't going to be bothering us anymore. It's already a new day." She pointed to the clock that was kept in the chamber, with the short hand almost on the one. "You have a busy day tomorrow, my Lady. You need sleep to stay healthy, you know."

With that Johanna nodded, before turning and leaving the room as Kristina began to take down the corpse. Johanna didn't know what the maid did with the corpse. All she knew is that by morning the room would be spotless and the corpse was nowhere to be found. And as far as she was concerned, the less she knew, the better.

…

Hours later Hans awoke in a fairly indignant mood, which was hardly improved with eating breakfast with his Grandmother. More snide remarks, more putdowns, and the usual treatment his grandmother gave him. The same verbal abuse he had endured for years silently.

But today was different. Perhaps it was his wife's presence. Or maybe he had finally just snapped. But either way the end result was the same.

It was after a review of the manor's guard detail when it happened. It was a routine inspection for a unit of the garrison's army, with a few microscopic details being noticed by Hans and the inspectors, though Hans knew better than to point such things out directly. It was better to address the officer of the Guard and make general observations, as to avoid singling men out to being harshly reprimanded. A scuff on a buckle or slightly imperfect gig line was not worth the resentment from the men.

Ariel too had not stated anything within earshot, but was sure to begin to criticize the troops as soon as they were alone in the manor's main hall. It wasn't just about the men in question though.

"Once again, the army simply doesn't measure up." She said with a shake of the head. "If they were marines, they would have had a quarter of the infractions."

It was a loaded statement. When King Frederick was crowned King, the young army officer was sure to champion his long suffering and unrecognized branch of service. It was an unpopular move, as the not only had the Marines been the long the dominant branch, but the Army was regarded as second tier force used only as cannon fodder. But His father couldn't be dissuaded on the matter. Within a month it was white uniformed soldiers guarding the Palace, not the familiar blue jacketed Marines. There was plenty of controversy and teething issues, but in the long run it helped cement Frederick's popularity. The army was the people's branch of service, as compared to the Marine's tendency to recruit from the middle to upper class, with an officer corps almost entirely consisting of noblemen. The army was still hardly prefect, Kurzheim bearing testimony to that. But by far the Army was now an honorable and competent fighting force.

As such, another subtle but unmistakable jab at his father's policies as well as him. Hans had been the only child of Frederick to serve with the Marines, determined to make his own way rather than be put on the fast track of guaranteed promotions that'd have certainly awaited him in the Army. Eager to put down the young man and embarrass the King, the Marines senior brass was sure to constantly make the young officer's life miserable. It wasn't long before his career ended at the pitiful rank of naval Lieutenant, before his father quietly transferred him to the Reserve Army as a liaison officer. While still a naval officer, it ensured that Hans would answer to the King's men and that his career actually stood a chance.

Well, until Hans went and pulled his stunt in Arendelle. Good thing he was a Lord now, as his Military Career was beyond ended. However, Ariel's remark could also be seen as a jab at him and his inability to make it in the "elite" Marines. Which everybody, including his fellow Marine and Naval officers knew was due to political bullshit, not Hans' lack of ability.

Having had both his father and himself insulted in one jab caused the normally passive Hans to do something he had never done since he was a child: talk back.

"Yes, because the Marines did a fine job defending the palace in '09…"

Ariel was momentarily stunned by actually being challenged, but immediately changed her tone to counter the young man's surprising backbone.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me grandmother. I'm sure the French were mightily impressed by the prefect uniforms of the men they slew or captured."

Johanna back away from the soon to explode powder keg, but still watching intently as she wanted to see how this went down. The Queen Dowager's tone and expression grew angry and irrational, as Hans kept a calm and thoughtful expression. Johanna chuckled at the thought.

Say what you will about cold blooded bastards, they make great debaters…

"I will not hear criticism from you on an event that you were not even alive to witness!"

"Well, normally I would concur. Except as you pointed out, I'm my father's son. As such I merely share his opinion on the matter."

"Your father was barely there! He merely swooped in and played hero, regardless of the cost! Eric was the real hero of the day!"

Sure, my father was barely there. I'm sure the bullet wound in his back shoulder says otherwise…

"Yes, the man who ordered his men to fight to death in a petty attempt to deny Napoleon a few troops and in the process got a large number of civilians killed, was the real hero of the day!"

The Queen Dowager was furious at this point, all the while Hans remained incredibly calm for one in an argument. Johanna had to refrain from smiling at the display, as this was an incredible display of rational thinking verses charged emotion. Kristina had joined the Lady, as had a number of castle staff had begun to spectate the event. Kristina smirked at the knowledge that this was her doing, the same way an instigator enjoys seeing to men come to blows over a comment they had dropped.

"How dare you speak ill of Eric! He was-"

"A good but flawed man? A man who's commitment to conscious led to his inability to face political reality and doomed his country to invasion? If we was so damned perfect, why-"

At that moment the Queen Dowager attempted to slap Hans, only for Hans to grab her wrist. Squeezing tightly Hans stared his grandmother in the eye, finally showing any anger.

"Let go of my wrist, boy!"

"No."

"You listen-"Before she could even start however, Hans cut her off with a slow, but clearly angry response.

"No, you listen. I don't care what you think of me or my father. And I honestly don't care what you say of me, either. But you will never lay a hand on me or mine again. Not me, not my wife, nor any children I bear. Am I understood?"

Her deep glare and silence gave Hans the confirmation he needed. Knowing her, she would have declared her intent to continue whatever she damn well pleased had she not been intimidated. And she was too damn proud to answer to Hans. As such Hans threw down the offending arm, before turning and leaving. As he left, he made a demand without as much as bothering to turn and face her.

"I'd get some rest grandmother, you'll be leaving Kurzheim tomorrow."

Being ordered to leave almost a week earlier than intended did not sit well with the Queen Dowager. She was not a woman who was used to being told no, let alone ordered.

"I am the Queen Dowager! And who are YOU to command me?!" She screamed at her grandson, fists balled and eyes glowing with rage.

Hans turned about, spreading his arms wide as he proclaimed with an odd mixture of sarcasm and pride with a grin.

"I'm Lord Hans, of Kurzheim! And this is my Island!" He turned about again as he exited the main hall, leaving the Queen Dowager to her devices. He had work to do.

To prove the young Lord's words true, two guards and two maid approached the Queen Dowager, politely insisting they escort her to her room to help pack her bags. The former Queen bit her tongue and accepted defeat, as she wondered how Hans had built up the Loyalty of his staff and soldiers in such a short time. She knew one thing for sure though.

This wasn't over. Not yet.

…

Bit of notes.

Well, at least his one didn't take 3 months, am I right? This is the second chapter of a three-parter, so next chapter will be the last of the flashbacks regarding 1809 and Queen Ariel. While I enjoy writing the Napoleonic flashbacks, it will be nice to get back to Hans' scheming and diabolical plans to rebuild his dream of being King.

As for this chapter, this might be the darkest thing I have ever written. However I felt it was necessary to establish the sheer hatred Ariel has for Hans' father and brothers. After all, it'd take an ungodly traumatic event to turn her into someone so cruel to her own flesh and blood. Ariel might not know it, but she might share more of her Aunt Ursula's personality than she'd like to admit. How far she will go, has yet to be seen.

Here's hoping Chapter 9 gets here quicker than this one. Keep reading, and keep reviewing.

-Dragunov