If La Chanson were basically War and Peace.
In the grand scheme of the extraordinary palaces of Europe, the ballroom and throne room of Stolkholm was nothing extraordinary. The grand veneer of the Swedish Empire, which once housed the great wealth of the Baltic monopoly, of military might and tradition, had long since seen better days.
Of course, to the naked untrained eye, it was a glamorous, exciting place, with the grandest of chandeliers, artwork, and lighting. The hundreds of nobles dancing in the halls were proof that the function, and therefore the reputation of such a place, were quite unaware, unwilling maybe, of the loss of such grandeur. For a moment, in this very hall, the world was Sweden's again.
Of course, to the trained eye of the venerable Frenchman entering the room, towering over those who considered themselves his betters, with silken clothes and fancy shoes, makeup and wigs, he could see the… lack of maintenance. In his eyes, eyes that had seen the Hall of Mirrors, the grand palaces of France and Europe… this place was… lacking.
The finery was superficial, everything that made it special, the marble statues, the great paintings, and statues, were old, and damaged. Perhaps not to the untrained eye… but he could see it all.
These nobles… they were living in a past that had long since abandoned them. Carlos Rex was dead, and with him, his empire. The grand wealth gained from the Baltic was now in the hands of the Tsar of Russia.
The man himself was not a noble, quite the opposite in fact. The man walking into the room was a soldier, a foreigner, and, to all in attendance, the king consort to her eminence, Queen Elsa the First, Queen of Sweden, and Norway, and the Lady of castle Arendelle. And to all who dared oppose her, The Snow Queen of the North. The many was but a humble surveyor several years into the past, a lifetime to any and all who studied the state of Europe.
The man wore, as he always did on special occasions, his uniform, mended and repaired by some of the finest tailors, which adorned on his chest, numerous medals, and awards, from nearly every nation in Europe.
The most notable medal was worn on the front or all the others, a medal that would always be in front of his uniform, until the day he died… The Legion of Honor.
If all the decorations were to be believed, this man, among many of his peers, was the finest and most dangerous generals in Europe. In fact, he held a title that most men in the world would be honored to have… that he and a select few men of war… would ever grace. He was a Marshal of France, a Sword of Napoleon, and easily, one of the greatest general in the history of the world.
The man, stepping into the room, was Brian Auclair… and he dreaded every moment of his existence that led him to that point.
It was not that he was afraid of the mass of people in front of him. Quite the opposite in fact. To his eyes and ears, and with a blade by his side, he could cut down half the room in a bout of anger if he were so inclined. The men here were not armed, and with many inebriated by the drink of wine and champagne, they would not see him as a threat until he was far too late.
Rather, he was nervous of the idea of the crowd, the mass that would look at him, and gawk at his very being. He stood quite tall, towering over every man and woman in the room by a head or maybe more. He was a sight, a side show… or rather, the main show of the entire court. An oddity, not known for his heritage, but of his skill. His worth, determined not only by his status, but of who he served, and whom he had married.
As he walked through the crowd, his anxiety grew, for the stare's began. The gaze of the nobles were of curiosity, of anger… of fear. They all were frightened of him, just as he felt anxiety against their stares. They knew exactly what he was capable of. For he among only a few in the world could truly be called a man who could destroy or strengthen a kingdom.
Brian Auclair alone, could bring a death and destruction few in Europe ever witnessed.
"Good evening, your grace." A noble stated, giving him a bow. It was a small bow of the head, but the respect and fear was there.
"Good evening." Biran replied as he bowed in response. "Is Her Grace among us?" He asked.
The noble nodded. "She is at her station by her throne, sire."
Brian nodded. His answer was not needed, for all in the crowd understood.
The crowd parted as the giant wandered through the crowd, as he carefully wandered to the throne. Careful not to touch the giant, for fear of angering the beast that they had heard so many tales about.
Of course, it was not the man that they truly worried about, as their fear was well evidenced by looks and glances. They feared for the woman the giant was walking towards.
The woman on the throne was rather young, barely older an adult in the eyes of the society of Europe and her nation, having been crowned two years prior. She wore a gown of silk, as green as the forests of Germany, a light green that had just come to life, stretching out into the sun to absorb the life-giving life. On her neck was a sapphire, of quality, only matched by the royal jewels of France, a pendant and a reminder of Sweden's great and powerful past as a world power. Untouched, even in defeat, even as an unsure monarch was on the throne. A long purple cloak was draped over her shoulders, leopards fur as well to provide warmth.
Her skin was as white and pale of the snow that fell outside the palace. Her hair, the lightest shade of gold, that in certain light could be mistaken for an albino's. But the most brilliant eyes or sapphire and sky beamed forward.
To any and all who saw her knew she was Queen of her people, able, healthy and wise. Any hint of fear was gone, for she knew the giant, her husband, would never harm her.
As the giant walked forward, the woman gave a smile, and for a moment, any and all could tell the great trust that both showed each other if they could look past the politics that had arranged their marriage.
Brian stood next to his queenly wife and sighed. "I take it your as nervous as I am?"
The quaint gaze as small smirk that rose from the queen's lips was anything but. "Oh no. I can't be."
"I take it the party is going well?" He asked.
"Indeed."
AN: Hello Everyone, with
@Plausitivity taking a short sabbatical to rest and recuperate, and
@SzechuanSauce bombarding me with ideas almost every day, you're going to be seeing a rather... different set of updates that may be coming soon. (Lord willing)
To put it bluntly, your gonna see a partial Novelization of La Chanson de la Victoire of key scenes we've already written but didn't make the cut in the writing room, and of events that have happened off-screen that you have not seen, like Napoleon and Brian's first meeting, several noodle incidents that were only hinted at in the text, so on. (All in third person, sorry guys.)
Why you may ask?
War and Peace... that monster of a book that seems to have no end and covers scant a decade of history, of this era has been finished by me after several weeks of daily readings.
And holy shit, am I going to try to give it a whirl, while Plaus gets his groove back and other updates can be finished.
But until that time, Enjoy.
