Chapter Text
March 3rd, 1813
At last, the day wanes and I find a moment to commit my thoughts to these pages. The men have set their tents upon this small clearing, fires crackling, the scent of pine and damp earth heavy in the air. For now, there is a calm which I fear may be illusory, yet it affords me the rare chance to reflect upon the path that has led me here. I write not for others, nor for the hope of recognition, but to preserve the order of my own recollections amidst a world that increasingly seeks to overwhelm reason.
I was born in the year 1786, in a modest, lakeside town called Hallstatt. My parents were of quiet means, devoted to their livelihood as keepers of a small fishery, and to the nurturing of their singular child. My earliest years were spent amidst the constant rhythms of the lake: cries of the birds, the little waves it brought, and the sharp tang of fish upon the breeze. My father, a man of stern yet steadfast temper, instructed me in the ways of the nets and the craft of the trade. I learned, even as a boy, that labor is its own lesson, and that persistence often outweighs the advantage of size or strength.
A memory remains vivid, one which has long haunted me. I was nine, a timid boy with a curiosity greater than my sense of caution. My father, satisfied with my abilities, allowed me to accompany him in our modest fishing vessel despite the gathering clouds on the horizon, as he always had before.
At first, the lake was playful, gentle upon the hull, carrying us across its expanse as though it bore no malice. Yet by midday, the weather shifted with a suddenness that left even my father nervous. The wind tore across the water, the waves mounting and striking the boat with a fury I had not known to be possible, for such a calm body of water. Aye, I had not even realized the waves of the beautiful lake could be so much more cruel than that of an ocean. I was thrown against the mast, and I was cast into the sea. I recall the icy water pressing upon me, the cold stealing my breath, until my father’s hand found mine and drew me to safety. The vessel itself sustained damage from the assault of nature, yet we returned, battered but alive. That day instilled in me a wariness of the water, of its unpredictable cruelty, which persists even now.
School, I must admit, offered no sanctuary from the perils of life. I was small, slight of frame, and afflicted with a speech (that I am fortunate enough to have mostly discarded with age) that betrayed me, marking me as other. The children, keen to recognize weakness, took every opportunity to mock and belittle me. I endured their jibes as best I could, striving to take solace in study and in the written word. Knowledge, I resolved, would become my shield.
In time, my family relocated northwest, reopening our fishery in a new town named St. Wolfgang. While I lamented the distance from my birthplace, I found relief in the kinder disposition of the children here, who aided me in learning the new town. Here, I also learned English and French, the two new languages standing alongside my Austrian tongue. It was not without challenge, finding friends with my inflicted speech and size, yet I persevered, as I have always learned to do. Yet I never abandoned the lessons of the harbor, which remain as inseparable from me as the heart that beats in my chest, despite my profound terror of the water.
At twenty-one, I entered the service of the Husaren-Regiment Nr.1 . My stature, slight though it is, has never hindered my judgment, nor the loyalty of those I command. I have learned, through both instruction and trial, that command is measured not in strength of arm, but in steadiness of mind. I was promoted to officer in short order, entrusted with responsibilities beyond my years, and I have endeavored to meet them with diligence. Battles have tested both body and spirit: the War of 1812 has brought me to the edge of despair and triumph alike, and though we have returned from engagements with losses, the men under my charge remain largely intact. It is for them, as much as for my own conscience, that I must remain vigilant and deliberate.
The infection some men have nicknamed the “Blight” has cast its shadow across the lands. Rumors reach us even here. Fear travels swiftly when minds are unprepared, and I observe it in the eyes of both soldiers and civilians alike. Our current campaign, the disruption of a vital British supply line, brings us into direct contact with the consequences of this terror, though we have yet to encounter its most dreadful manifestations.
Our march has been long and arduous. Yesterday, we took in a most unexpected companion: a cuirassier of the French forces, wounded and alone. At first, suspicion and enmity dictated every interaction. Despite our homelands being allies for a time (seeing as we were now neutral, though technically our alliance had ended early this year) , we were wary of the man, as we had been with any stranger we came across. Yet the necessities of survival demand compromise, and our sympathy has led us to shelter him in our encampment.
I observe him carefully. He is larger, stronger, and a year or two younger than I, and he bears the weight of his own battles upon his shoulders. Yet he is human, as am I, and perhaps that recognition may serve to temper the sharp edges of our allegiance. It is, for now, a cautious truce, fraught with tension, but necessary if any hope of success is to be realized.
The clearing in which we now rest is free of the blighted, or at least, the menace has yet to find us. Fires crackle in the evening air, and the men speak in low tones, some in laughter, some in prayer. I sit in my tent, apart, reflecting upon all that has led me here. From the small harbor of my youth to this forested encampment, the journey has been one of instruction, endurance, and loss. Each hardship, each trial, each insult or misfortune has prepared me, in some measure, for the duties I now face.
I cannot, nor do I wish to, erase the memory of the suffering I have witnessed. Nor should I. It is the measure of life that one must bear the weight of both joy and grief. I recall the children who mocked me, the townsfolk of my early years, the harsh discipline of my father, the dangers of the water, and the fear that once gripped my heart. I recall the men I have led into battle, the close calls and the near misses, and the determination that has guided me thus far.
It is my hope that these pages may serve not only as record, but as counsel to myself. That in moments of indecision or dread, I might return here and find the clarity I require. Tomorrow, we press onward. The British supply line lies before us, vital to their operations, and yet exposed to our resolve. The coming days will test us in ways as yet unseen, and the measure of our courage and strategy shall be revealed in way we never–
“Sir?”
Arnaud was jolted from his thoughts, his gaze stuttering from the leather-bound journal in his hands to a young private crouched at the opening of his tent. He swallowed, disconcerted that he had been startled so easily.
“Y-yes? Is anything the matter?” he asked, a bit quickly, sticking his quill in the journal and snapping it shut.
“The French cuirassier has been harassing some of the men, Sir. He is seemingly distraught with our stationary position.” The private hesitated, his unease evident in his eyes; something Arnaud had always found curiously revealing. Then, he blinked, and Arnaud looked away.
“Very good, thank…you for letting me know. I will see to it that he is reprimanded.” He said, nodding in dismissal.
The private dipped his head and disappeared back toward the fire.
Arnaud exhaled slowly.
It had only been a few days since they had taken in the Frenchman, and already he had proven himself a persistent source of irritation for the lieutenant. More than once had Arnaud found himself correcting him, perhaps more than was strictly necessary. In truth, he held no formal authority over the man; they served opposing nations, after all. And yet, for reasons not entirely clear even to himself, the cuirassier seemed to heed him…at least in part.
He rose to his feet, binding the journal with a thin bit of leather. He reached for the lantern that sat at his side, and hunched out of the tent, straightening up as a cool night’s breeze ruffled his neat, ashen locks that sat slightly longer than normal, tickling the sides of his face.
Across the clearing, his men sat gathered about the fire, their weary faces cast in flickering light. The low murmur of their voices carried faintly through the stillness.
He approached.
“Men. Feel free to retire to your tents. I will keep an eye out.” Gone were the days Arnaud would risk his men messing up on night duty. So, every night, day after day, until he could no longer stand up straight, he would watch. He knew it wasn't the best decision, but felt he was obliged. His men had found death on their doorstep at every turn, so why not grant them the rest they so clearly need? His mind was sharp. A few nights of not sleeping had never clouded his judgement too drastically.
Some men seemed hesitant to have their lieutenant alone, as they always did, exchanging worried glances, but Arnaud assured them he would be just fine. He still sensed unease between them as they reluctantly stalked away and slipped into their tents, the lantern lights in each one eventually being extinguished by a tired hand.
Soon, the site fell into a subdued quiet, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire.
After a moment passed, Arnaud turned, looking around the dimly illuminated clearing.
Ah.
The handful of a man, the cuirassier—Lucien—stood at the edge of the clearing, facing the dark line of trees. His posture was rigid, as though he expected something to emerge from the heavy shadows at any moment.
Arnaud approached, lantern swaying faintly at his side.
Lucien turned at the sound of the older man's footsteps, his expression sharp. The helmet that so regularly sat on his head was absent, dark hair left uncovered, slightly disheveled.
“What do you need?” he snapped; then, after the briefest pause and the clearing of his throat, added stiffly, “Sir…”
Arnaud pursed his lips, his patience with the taller man growing thinner with every word he spoke. After a moment, he spoke. “My men have brought to my attention accusations of you harassing and belittling them. Causing unnecessary conflict.” He said, fixing his sharp, blue gaze onto Lucien. He knew he did not present an imposing figure, yet he had long since learned that getting a message across was not solely a matter of intimidation.
Lucien blinked, then a small scowl crawled its way onto his strong features. His dark eyebrows knitted together, and the corners of his thin lips turned downwards, more than usual, Arnaud thought. The cuirassier was always so agitated.
If this is so,” Arnaud continued, “then I must remind you that we took you in. We were under no obligation to do so.
“By no means am I threatening you with abandonment, I just wish for you to remember where each of us come from, And what is being risked to keep you here.” Arnaud stood his very straightest, attempting to rise above the man’s midchest region, but failing. How pathetic.
Lucien's lips tightened, as if he had just tasted something sour. He seemed to be holding back a nasty comment. A deep breath, then, with a daunting scowl: “I will remember your… sacrifices,” he said, the word edged with something difficult to place. “Sir.”
The formality was obviously sarcastic, but it was better than his usual aggression.
Seemingly satisfied, Arnaud nodded, and turned on his heel. He could almost feel the heavy eyeroll that Lucien had just performed behind his back, but paid no mind.
Instead, he returned to the fire, now reduced to a bed of low-burning embers. The flames had receded, leaving only a dim, steady glow.
Arnaud supposed it was for the best; he did not want to alert any animals, or enemies, to their position. He sat himself upon a log that one of his men previously occupied, tucking his gloved hands into his lap.
As the night fell deeper over the small clearing, so did the cold, beginning to settle in earnest. It crept through his uniform, biting through the coarse fabric, sinking into his bones. He suppressed a small shiver, drawing his arms around his clammy frame.
For a time, he simply watched the embers, focusing on the bit of heat that pulsed from the wood, almost as if it were inhaling and exhaling in quick succession. It was relaxing, in a way.
He drew his coat tighter around himself, struggling to ignore the cold pressing in from all sides.
And yet, he sat.
Waiting.