"Paris at me feet

Paris in the Dust

And here's me breaking bread

With the upper crust!"

- Les Miserables

…

…

The city of Londinium, capital of the Holy Republic of Albion, was awash with grief.

There was no way to hide it. Remnants of the Dragon Knights had managed to escape to Albion, and the prisoners whom had been captured by Tristain had sent a deluge of letters, far too many for any government censors to handle. Through those avenues, every citizen in the country had heard of the terrible news.

Over the course of a week, Albion had lost over a hundred ships, consisting of over half of its navy. When one factored in the number of dead and captured sailors needed to man that many ships along with the almost total destruction of the Albion invasion force, the country had lost over sixty thousand men in about a week. As many knew that they would never be able to bury their loved ones who had fallen in a land so far away, funeral pyres were lit in their memory. The sickly smell of incense hung over the capital like low cloud, creating a further air of gloom as everyone knew why the smell existed.

In the Howland Palace, Cromwell poured himself another glass of red wine. It had been his third today, and it was not even midday. Either way, he needed it, especially right before the meeting he was about to attend.

On the surface, things were still not that bad. Albion's Air Fleet even with the massive losses still outclassed and slightly outnumbered Tristain's. Furthermore and more importantly, Tristain had won such an impressive victory that it had shocked the other nations of Helgekinia. Even now, he had received reports from his spies within the Tristanian palace that the Germanian emperor continued to discuss how he could not go to war without the approval of the Imperial Diet, but it was a ruse which fooled no one. Germania was doing whatever it could to avoid entering this war, especially since the marriage between the Emperor and the beautiful Henrietta had been indefinitely postponed because of it.

But even with that good news, Albion was in absolutely severe trouble. The Albion ground forces had lost almost half of all of their men, and quite a few of the soldiers would be needed to quell the violent dissenters whom would erupt after such a catastrophic. Cromwell could realistically field no more than twenty thousand ground troops to defend his country. He could implement drastic measures to increase the amount of the soldiers, but even without considering the political risk, that would likely give no more than another ten thousand soldiers. And the remaining men were not as skilled as the ones who had died in La Rochelle. The result of these problems was that another invasion of Tristain by his country within the near future was utterly out of the question. If he was to actually win this war, it would have to be by waging a war of attrition while begin extremely cautious with the remaining ships.

And that wasn't even the worst of it. The lightning bolt which had destroyed the Lexington was chance, it had to be. It had also killed Bowood, without a doubt his most able commander, and the people were panicking over the mysterious way it had been destroyed. But what truly concerned Cromwell were the reports of a great ball of light which had been how Tristain had managed to destroy so many Albion ships at once. Lightning could be explained by a whim of nature. That ball of light that had actually destroyed the entire Albion fleet at La Rochelle couldn't. It had to be magic, but what kind?

He would figure it out later. As Cromwell glanced at a clock in his office, he observed that he would have to leave now for the meeting. He stood up from the chair, staggering slightly before righting himself. Perhaps he had had a little too much to drink after all.

Just as he had put on his coat, the door opened. Sheffield, his indispensable private secretary was standing in the threshold.

"Sir, I know you're busy, but there's something you should know. It appears that the Viscount Wardes will survive after all."

Well that was good, thought Cromwell. It had been a pity that the traitor captain hadn't participated in the battle of La Rochelle. Then again, given how badly his forces had been destroyed, it probably was for the best that he wasn't there. He needed to conserve all the men he had left.

The leader of Albion finished putting on his coat and spoke to his subordinate.

"I'll pay him a visit later. But right now I've got to chat with old Joseph. I need to make sure that the efforts between Albion and Gallia stay coordinated if I, I mean Albion, want to win this war."

And without a further word, he left for his carriage.

…

As the crowds thronged in the street, the Tristain Army marched through their capital of Tristania. It had been five days since the great victory and miracle. The Army had been occupied with mop up operations and organizing the huge amount of prisoners which had been taken from the war. As a result, they had arrived in the capital only late last light, but today were marching out in the cheery mid-day sun to celebrate their triumph.

The parade was led by the Princess who rode atop one of the royal unicorns. The people cheered enthusiastically upon seeing their beloved ruler, she who had been proclaimed a saint. Were not the lightning strikes and the great ball of lightning proof that Brimir had bestowed his favor upon her and her country? She had protected the country, repelled the invasion, and the people were ecstatic to see their savior in her radiant beauty.

So they cheered. It was the "role" of the people to be grateful and offer their thanks to their ruler for the protection she had given to them. And it was the "role" of the princess to protect the country and then to accept the thanks which the people gave to her gracefully and happily.

Or rather, to accept the thanks while appearing happy and graceful.

Henrietta couldn't understand it, even as she gave a perfect smile and perfectly waved at the crowds. Why was no one else mourning her, condemning her? Yes, she had won a great victory, but at what cost? There were homeless and hungry people in La Rochelle, and she had left Agnes there to deal with the rebuilding efforts. She had in fact not planned for a celebration while she had been marching to her capital, but rather for a memorial for the fallen. But when she arrived in the cities, she had been greeted nonstop by celebrating crowds. They were people who had never seen war, yet exulted in a victory which they played no part of and ignored the dead whom had secured the safety of the nation. She didn't know what to think about it, and thus had been forced to play the "role" of protector, and not of a mourner.

And so she tried not to think. Execute the role of the Princess, wave to the crowds, that was what she was supposed to do. She moved forward, acting like a doll, without the feelings or emotions which she should have had on this glorious day. And so the procession reached a street corner, the last before she would move up the steps of the royal palace.

It happened in an instant. A woman stepped forward, and Henrietta saw her draw out a pistol.

"For my brothers you burned, you witch!" She cried, and the pistol fired.

Henrietta ducked instinctively, even as she chided herself for such a useless gesture. But the woman, burdened by her grief, had been unable to properly aim and the sun was in her eyes. The shot whizzed past Henrietta's ear. Even before Henrietta's bodyguards could ride up and apprehend the murderer, the nearby crowd immediately laid their hands on her.

"Your Majesty! Are you all right?"

Henrietta shook off the guard who had inquired about her safety and rode towards the woman. The crowd was assaulting her, attacking whatever part of their body they could with their fists or nearby stones.

"Stop! Stop!"

But even the command of someone whom the crowd had just been venerating proved useless in dispelling them. The bodyguards rode up, and with their pikes roughly pushed the crowd aside. But it was too late. The assassin had been trampled and torn to pieces in those few moments by the mob. Blood flowed down the street and onto the hooves of Henrietta's unicorn.

Having dispersed the crowd and ascertained the state of her assailant, the parade continued, though her bodyguards this time completely covered her from future attacks. There were still yells of approval here and there, but the celebratory mood had changed. Even those who had no way of knowing just what exactly had occurred no longer cheered quite as enthusiastically. Perhaps, Henrietta thought, it was better this way.

Several hours later, she sighed as she sat in her throne room. De Poitiers was in front of her, clutching a sheaf of papers. While Henrietta had summoned the general to give her a report about the care of the prisoners, it turned out that he had something else. His face was red and bulbous with rage, and after perfunctorily informing his lord that the prisoners were being well-treated and well-fed, he had given one of the papers he was holding to Henrietta. She stared at it for a moment before lowering it and speaking to De Poitiers

"It's a pamphlet. My friend's familiar and I are at the top of it. What's the matter?"

"WHAT'S THE MATTER?"

De Poitiers stopped abruptly upon realizing that he had just yelled at his master, and hastily coughed for a bit while Henrietta waited. Straightening himself out, he continued.

"Please, your Majesty, look at it. This pamphlet was distributed all over the commoner quarters. It talks about everything you and that captain did to secure the victory. I mean, look at it!"

Raising her eyebrows, Henrietta examined the pamphlet once more. The top consisted of a portrait of both Napoleon and herself, both looking out at the reader. The bottom consisted of a few pictures of the La Rochelle campaign, some of her, some of Napoleon, some of them together. Below that was a vivid description of the battle, with the sentences describing what those two had done.

Having noticed that she was done reading, De Poitiers spoke up.

"This paper is slander! It talks of nothing I did, it doesn't mention the stupid things he did like his failure to cover his precious guns! It completely besmirches my reputation on this battlefield!"

"You said it was distributed throughout the commoner quarters?"

"Yes!"

"How?"

De Poitiers paused at this line of questioning. What did it have to do with the problem he had?

"That captain apparently has some friends who are printers and artists, and they printed it out. But my reputation-"

"Why does your reputation among the commoners matter?"

The question hit the general hard, Henrietta could see. He stumbled about for a bit, looking for a reason as towards why a nobleman would be so concerned with the perspective of those classes who could not perform magic and whom they had always looked down on.

"Well… I mean, it's a matter of pride…"

Henrietta cut him off.

"De Poitiers. You have been a good and faithful officer who has served this country for many years. I don't care what anyone else thinks of you, you will always remain the commander of the Albion forces. But I'm sure you know that I need you to work with all the officers. Even the new one, whose capability I'm sure you know. Trust your princess, please?"

De Poitiers remained silent and Henrietta smiled. She needed both of them to work together if she was to win this war, and she didn't understand why De Poitiers was so concerned about the letters. As long as the commoners believed in their ruler, it would be fine.

"Very well. I will attempt to work with that captain. But understand, Princess, the converse must be true. He must be expected to work with me."

Henrietta bowed at that concession.

"Of course, general. The two of them are staying in Tristain, and will be attending tonight's victory ball. I'll be sure to have a talk with them."

As De Poitiers gave his thanks and left, Henrietta slouched down on the throne and covered her face. There was still so much to do. She had to plan the invasion and deal with the neutral countries. Furthermore, in the aftermath of her great victory, several of the nobles and Cardinal Mazarin had hoped that she would be crowned Queen, and her infirm mother had assented to the plan. The more she thought about it, the more she knew she would have to accept. Sooner or later, she would be the Queen of Tristain anyways. She might as well make it sooner.

She heard footsteps, and even with her face covered, she could tell whose steps it was. Relaxing a little, she stood up from the throne and looked at who had walked in.

"I haven't had the time to check on you. Is everything all right, Wales?"

The Prince of Albion, he who still claimed his throne, helplessly waved his arms.

"How can I complain? All the perks of being royalty while I've stayed in this palace, none of the exhaustion that comes with ruling. I wouldn't mind being in exile if it continues like this."

He gave a small chuckle at his own witticism, and Henrietta couldn't help but join in. Eventually, it turned into full laughter, as both began just happily laughing for seemingly no real reason at all. The two then dashed forward and hugged each other, just standing in each other's arms as they continued to laugh.

Wales was the first to stop and he stroked Henrietta's head for a while. They both fell silent and continued to remain as they were for quite some time. The prince was the first to break it.

"You know, it's been a while since I've seen you that happy, Henrietta. You don't know how worried I was."

"It's all right, Wales."

"No, no, let me finish."

The princess fell silent, and so Wales began to talk.

"You're not fighting this war for your country; you're fighting because you won't hand me over. And I'm so sorry for it."

"What are you talking, Wales? We both know that wouldn't have been the end of it!"

"I know, I know. You wouldn't have ended the possibility of war, only delayed it. But you could have gained time if you had given me up. Given yourself time to prepare for the invasion, fortified cities, I don't know what you could have done in the week, the month my life would have given your country. Perhaps you wouldn't have needed to burn down La Rochelle if you had given me up."

For some reason, Henrietta's mind flashed to something pink and there was something… wrong. Instinct told her to let whatever that thought was die and listen to Wales.

"I'm really an idiot, am I not? There's no need to think about the past. But Henrietta?"

"Yes?"

"You're going to invade Albion eventually, right?"

There was a long silence after those words as the two continued to hold each other. Henrietta sighed.

"Yes. I will invade Albion. And I'll put you back on the throne afterwards, and end Cromwell's reign."

Wales gave a small laugh for some reason.

"Well, then I'll be a king. And well, the marriage with Germania is cancelled, right?"

"Wh-wh-wh... wait a moment, you aren't proposing we-!"

Wales could feel Henrietta heating up as she still stammered.

"We-well… it would be a marriage of one monarch to another, right? It would be a formal, political arrangement! Not done because we're in love or something! But yes, Albion could be a valuable partner to Tristain, so it would be in the best interest of our country, right?"

Henrietta moved her head up and looked at Wales, who nuzzled his head to hers.

"Yes. Of course it would. It would only be a political arrangement."

Henrietta grasped him tighter in response, and no more words were said. Their fingers touched one another, and their two rings connected, creating the rainbow color of togetherness.

…

It was late at night, and the palace of Tristain was bustling with activity. While the commoners had had their chance to regale their ruler at the parade, the nobility also wanted their moment of congratulations. They had come to Henrietta and had requested to host an extravagant ball within the palace, one that would be paid by them. The ruler had accepted, and now the grand hall was filled with the upper crust of Tristanian society, as they flitted about and idly chatted with one another.

Louise stood at attention at one end of the walls. Practically none of the nobility knew her key contribution, and most of them wondered why the youngest daughter of the proud Valliere family was the only who was attending. However, for some reason she didn't mind. It was odd. She had always wanted to be great, to accomplish wonderful things and be acknowledged by everyone. But now that she had, she didn't mind that there was no one in the room who knew that she was a powerful mage.

"It's because you alone are the only who needs to acknowledge your superiority."

She turned her head. Her partner was the one who had spoken, and he was besides her. He had taken the time over the last few days to improve his uniform. Gold epaulettes were on his shoulder, and the muddy boots he had been wearing throughout the campaign had been replaced by elegant leather shoes. Still for some reason, he had insisted on wearing that horrible black pointed hat within the ballroom, and even as Louise looked up at him, her eyes kept flitting up to the thing.

"Can't you please do something about that monstrosity?"

He shrugged with his hands behind him in response.

"Oh come on. It's not any worse than what you tried to knit while we were marching back."

Louise's eyes shot up in anger, and Napoleon knew that she was thinking about drawing her wand. It didn't matter. To have been forced to use the Gandalfr abilities to take down that woolen demon merited his complaint. Perhaps Void Magic also would make her capable of summoning other creatures? He would try to find that out later.

"Anyways, what do you mean 'acknowledge my superiority'?"

"Exactly what I mean. You're wondering why you do not want to talk about everything you've done, right?"

Louise nodded.

"That's because you know you're better than them. What good are the adulations of someone below you? Nothing. The mark of a confident person is that he is alone, secure in his own superiority. And the only way to prove that superiority is through great deeds.

You are a great mage, Louise, and one who has my respect. You've earned it."

Napoleon finished, and nothing was more said between them. They continued to wait in the back, watching the other nobles as they conversed with one another. None of the other nobles seemed to have any interest in speaking to them, and Napoleon and Louise caught bits and pieces of what they said. Louise couldn't help but smile at some of the ridiculous stories which were already being told about the battle, though she did rather like one story of how the musketeers had ridden on dragons and stormed theLexington.

There was a ringing sound of a bell, and the group of nobles quickly quieted down, only to look up and see Henrietta arrive at a balcony above them. She wore a white evening gown with a black choker around her neck. Her guards moved behind her, highly concerned about her security after what happened during the parade, and besides her was the Prince of Wales. The crowd murmured at the presence of the exiled sovereign, but as the princess waved, they responded with a massive outburst of applause. The nobles finally stopped after several minutes and their ruler began to speak.

"I am aware of the greatness of our victory, and how we should celebrate it. Almost forty thousand Albion soldiers, assisted by a hundred and twenty ships which held about twenty thousand additional men, attacked our great nation. By ourselves, with no one but Brimir to assist us, we beat them back and utterly destroyed their armies with incredibly few losses. Over the course of that entire campaign, we may have lost less than ten thousand men on our side.

The invasion of our great land has hardly been the only crime which the Reconquista have committed. They started a rebellion against their own king whom many on the day of his coronation had sworn to follow and obey to the very end. They employed all sorts of cowardly tactics in order to fuel their lust for power. And when they took control and murdered all of the Royal Family asides from the Prince besides me, they immediately set their sights on conquering further territory, not even permitting their dear land to rest for a second from the ravages of war. But with our courage and Brimir's will, shown through the great lightning bolt which destroyed their symbol of arrogance in the Lexington, we triumphed and have for now secured the safety of our fair Tristain.

But while we may allow ourselves a brief period of rejoicing, and however few suffered, we must never forget. We cannot forget those who perished at La Rochelle and those who fought in plains and mountains to defend our country. And we must still remember that this war is not over. I will never, ever surrender. Not until Albion is invaded and Cromwell is made to answer for his crimes against Tristain! His injuries against us have been grave and without mercy! So we will continue to fight in the name of justice. We will advance on Albion, in the name of Brimir and our freedom! Long live Tristain!"

Her speech ended and the nobles cheered. Cries of "Long Live Henrietta!" filled the room for quite some time, only broken by spates of applause. Louise naturally applauded upon hearing her friend speak, but then noted that Napoleon was also applauding. However, unlike the rest of the crowd, his clapping was polite, calm, and almost mechanical.

As the clapping finished, the musicians began to play, and the ball formally began. Louise wondered what she would do, and then jerked up. Napoleon had grabbed her hand.

"WH-what are you doing, Napoleon?"

Her partner blinked in confusion.

"What are you talking about? It's a ball. You dance in balls. That's what the other nobles are doing, isn't it?"

"Well… you're being too brutish about it, you military freak!"

"Alright, alright."

Those were the words he mumbled, but then he whipped off his hand and gave a deep bow to Louise.

"My apologies, mademoiselle. May I please have this dance?"

Louise trembled in response for some reason she didn't understand. She then abruptly grabbed his hand and practically dragged him to the dance floor. The two walked towards the center of the dance floor together, listening to the music.

"This is a minuet, isn't it?"

Louise nodded in response to her partner's statement.

"Do you know how to dance?"

"In my world. Your dancing does seem similar enough."

As the first minuet ended, they took proper positions, standing apart with their fingers lightly touching. The music started, and Louise began to twirl.

Then the doors of the ballroom slammed open with a bang so loud that it overwhelmed the soft music. The performers stopped and the nobles with annoyance turned towards the person who stood in entrance. But as they saw her, anyone who thought of yelling at the intruder for disturbing the party promptly decided that discretion was the better part of valor. With her blonde hair waving about like a Gorgon and a demonic aura surrounding her, the monster let out a roar.

"WHERE ARE YOU, LOUISE FRANCOISE LE BLANC DE LA VALLIERE? PLAYING SOLDIER? COME OUT AND FACE YOUR BIG SISTER ELEANOR'S PUNISHMENT!"

As the crowd reacted with shocked silence, Napoleon looked at Louise. The girl who had defeated over a hundred ships had apparently had been stricken dumb with shock, and fear was written all over her now pale-white face. He sighed and glanced over the woman who continued roaring in the doorway for his partner.

"Things never work out just as they're supposed to, are they?"