ONCE UPON 24 TIMES - STORY X

Story the Tenth:
III - The Fairy Godmother (The Empress)
Cinderella (Genderflipped, war episode in Type 314)

The Price of Leadership

Once upon a time, there was a young orphan who strained under the oppression of a wicked stepfamily, that had wrested the rightful place from that unfortunate child.
Truth is, Elliott had never forgotten his lady mother's last words, on her deathbed, that he should stay true to himself, as brave and as kind, and she would smile upon him from above. After this advice, she sighed and ceased to breathe: it was as if she had fallen asleep.
And so, even a decade after this event and the estate's subsequent change of master, Elliott, the rightful heir, for whom a university degree had been expected before... had to soil his fingers and scrape his knees as assistant gardener, weeding the plots and removing the bug pests, and not sharing the table with Colonel Gerhard Cronbladh --his lord stepfather-- or with Ser William and Ser Killian --his two conceited stepbrothers, whose imposing height and rippling limbs made Elliott seem to be even more of a stripling.
Regardless of how painful his predicament was --forced to starve, thirst, freeze in winter, sleep on the floor of the estate garret without any mosquito nets--, this lad still took his lady mother's last wise advice to heart, keeping as cheerful as ever, thinking that it could have been worse. And, lo and behold, the flowers had never grown in brighter colours, and the berry bushes had barely nipped by the frost, since the rightful heir's unjust demotion. It was as if the plants wanted to cheer him up, or that he had spread to them some of that never-give-up attitude.
In the garden there was a willow, and under that willow a rock of dark granite upon which was carved in elegant letters, under a carving of a winged heart:

HERE LIE

FREDRICK RUNIUS

*159X - +161X

ELOISE CRONBLADH, WIDOW OF RUNIUS

*159X - 162X
PEACE BE UPON THEM

It was the grave of Elliott's parents, and always had he picked wildflowers that the stepfamily called "weeds", like wild daisies, thistles, and dandelions, and laid them upon the sacred stone, behind the curtain of willow-branches, so that none of Herr Cronbladh's guards or servants might see what he was at, the golden-haired, green-eyed waiflike usurpé with a face as soft as a rose petal, that Enjolraic ephebe, more Hermaphroditus than Narcissus. He was a bright, beautiful boy, as beloved as a prince, as beautiful as an angel or a faery. How tall, thin, and lanky he was, but he still had those charming eyes and that angelic mouth, and had plenty of learning and accomplishments. And the fact that it all should go to waste, both his looks and his wit... But still the stripling, though growing into manhood, seemed physically reluctant, still a girlish boy who, if he had been forced to don a maid's uniform instead, would have traded the charms of Frey for those of Freya his twin sister.
Now in those days when young Elliott Runius turned seventeen, the province where he was born and bred and dwelled with his stepfamily lay on the fringe of two great powers, whose rulers, as rulers are wont to do so often, had squabbled over that frontier province for decades, even centuries... and they had tossed that region back and forth within their territories like a ball, the victor always snatching the lands from the loser with a crushing peace treaty. For about two decades, there had been a tense armed peace... but it came to pass, by chance, that the ruler to whom the province was denied in the latest treaty declared war on the other. A numerous army had entered, sweeping across the shire. So war broke out, thousands of able men were drafted into forced marches to slit one another's throats, and everybody about the palace was very busy polishing up armour and sharpening swords, for the master and his sons were to ride at the head of the army. Count Cronbladh had given each of his two boys, who were already men, the command of a company that would be marching against the enemy; and now each of both leaders was at the head of a good-sized number of ranks. All nobles old enough to bear arms and serve as officers were summoned to put their weapons at the service of the Crown, even though the proclamation confessed that it would prove quite difficult to vanquish the powerful forces that assailed them. Dread and anxiety dominated life among the armchair generals, worlds away from the front.
"I am already all grown up, and I wish I went to war... to perform my duty for Crown and Country during wartime, as bravely as I do during peacetime."
Thus he told his stepfather, stepbrothers, and the officers of the regiment, wearing his heart upon his sleeve as earnestly as usual. "Please give me at least a horse, so I can follow you to the war front." But they all jeered at the stripling. "Flower child... you'll be far more useful staying here at home and weeding the gardens. The enemy outnumbers us by far, and victory will surely desert us ere springtime turns to summer. But still..." Here Ser Killian made a pause, then continued in an ironic tone. "I may need an orderly if the soldier who does all my chores should... pass away, right? There's one horse left at the estate stables. We leave for camp in advance, and, once we have left, you may take on your steed and catch up with us."
Once they had all departed, the young boy entered the stables. The alleged "steed" was a scrawny dun mare, so old that she hobble-clopped, hobble-clop hobble-clop, and seemed to have three legs instead of four. Still, he led her by the halter before straddling on her back (many years had passed since Mum was still alive and little Elliott could ride his pony, but, in spite of being condemned to over a lustrum or two on foot, he realised he had not forgotten the muscle memory of riding!)... Still within the estate gardens, he rode after the other men-at-arms who were in the regiment. In a short time he stopped, and said to them: 'My horse can go no further; you must go on to the war without me, and I will stay here, and make some little clay soldiers, and will play at a battle.' Before he left, he stopped at the garden gate and hobble-clopped over to the shade of the willow. There, dismounting, he left the last "weeds" he had gleaned and clasped the stone in his arms... but why was the stele suddenly warm, and moving in his grasp...
"Will I ever come here again? Will I, should I fall, see my parents again in the afterlife or in another life? All I ask for is a decent charger, for I am going to war, for the first and maybe the last time in forever..."
Right behind his back, the stripling heard a rustling in the willow branches, from among the lindens of the promenade. Pushing aside the natural curtains, he stood in awe, his eyes and mouth more open than ever. A stablehand in uniform-like livery was walking down the promenade, leading a stallion whose black coat shone like satin, so fiery that Elliott saw that the horse literally breathed out fire. On the other side of the charger marched a squire carrying a full suit of armour: a helmet, a breastplate, plate for all four limbs, a rapier, and a pistol.
Twenty steps behind, there marched a troop of warriors with stony faces. Their flame-bladed swords glittered in the springtime sun, but they wore no helmets or breastplates, or any other armour. These tall, dark, muscular warriors were naked from the waist upwards, their rippling chests and limbs as rock-hard and dark as their stern faces. Their arms were strong, and their granite skin glittered with reflections from the light of the sun.
The trolls marched formed in battle array, placed side by side close together like tercios, in the deepest silence, but still the tread of their steps shook the ground. One would have thought of a host of classical statues of Trojan-era heroes or demigods, or of bogatyrs, marching forth.
Buckling on his new helmet and plate armour, with the sword-hilt on his left hip and the pistol holster on his right, Elliott picked up the reins of the fiery stallion and turned around, drawing steel, to address the rock trolls, before handing over the reins of the limping mare to the squire and sallying forth, at the head of the whole regiment, towards the war front. And thus, he went forth towards the field of battle at the head of his ranks.
As he addressed his "men," the lad thought of how unexpected this surprise had been: he had wished himself the best armour, the sharpest sword, and the swiftest horse in the world, and the next minute was riding as fast as he could to the field of battle. Furthermore, at the head of the most numerous and brilliant army that those plains had ever seen! Forth the stripling galloped, dressed as the lord and general he was by right, and all the army followed him on foot at the same magical speed.
They reached the battlefield in the afternoon, as the daytime moon was beginning to rise. A great quantity of Count Cronbladh's men had already bitten the dust, and the rest, including the colonel and his sons, were beginning to retreat. When the stranger arrived at the site of the engagement, the Cronbladhers were surrounded by the enemy ranks, and victory seemed clearly to tilt towards the invading side.
The fight had already begun, and the enemy was getting the best of it, when the stripling, a stranger to the Cronbladh regiment, rode up, and in a moment the fortunes of the day had changed. In that moment, he ordered his ranks to charge against them, and, when they tried to flee, the enemies were pursued, without allowing any one of them to leave alive. Right and left this strange knight laid about him, and his sword pierced the stoutest breastplate, and the strongest shield. The tercio he led resembled a living wall; the bullets bounced off the trolls' chests, and pikes and swords shattered without even giving them a scratch. The rock warriors, always in silence, penetrated the enemy ranks, stabbing and slashing and crushing the wounded beneath their feet. The others tried to flee, but the young leader dashed off in their pursuit, and woe unto those who came across his sword! He was indeed 'a host in himself,' and his foes fled before him thinking he was only the first of a troop of such warriors, whom no one could withstand. Count Cronbladh and his men, including the officers, were left standing agape. Since the new leader's soldiers were invulnerable, he was shortly declared the victor, leaving the field covered in heaps of slain and military trophies. The strange leader fought so bravely that only two of the enemy were left alive, and these two were only spared to act as messengers. He only took the flag of the foremost enemy regiment as spoils, both as a token of humility and for reasons than now shall be seen. When the battle was over, the colonel sent for him to thank him for his timely help, and to ask what reward he should give him.
Instead of sending back the lieutenant who had given him the message, the mystery commander insisted most courteously that he should present himself, dressed in his best ceremonial uniform, before Count Gerhard Cronbladh. In sooth, the lace on his cuffs and collar, and his courteous manners, in spite of his youth and military inexperience, made the colonel think this unexpected ally was some foreign duke or elector, and not one of those turncloak stateless warlords of fortune who sold themselves in exchange for the best price. Thus thought not only old Cronbladh, but also his right-hand and left-hand man, who were his twin sons. With such a powerful ally, the young commander earnestly assured them, it was useless to advance any more with their army. As soon as he produced the banner, he soon fell into dealing with both aides-de-camp, since Ser William had claimed that flag as rightfully his. The "foreign leader" proved rather willing to negotiate, but with the condition that he had to run the gauntlet twenty-four times in exchange. For a while this officer, and his father and brother, resisted such a humiliating condition; but, seeing how stubborn the foreign lordling was and how impossible to vanquish his obstination, they finally agreed.
That night, as his orderly massaged Ser William's back with aloe salve, making the young man wince and shiver, he reflected upon the events of the day. The officers' jeers, their wives' and daughters' chuckles, his twin and their father looking away in dismay... and the sneer on that stripling's lips. Who did that pampered bastard think he was? Two rows of soldiers with hazel rods, time and time again, and so many blows that even blood had flown... but his heart, his spirit, suffered far more than all that bodily pain. Gulping down a draught of brandy to quench his thirst and drown his sorrows, as his orderly bandaged William on the back. The scars, both within and without, would remain for as long as he breathed. Was that flag, and that promotion to captain, really worth it, if it entailed such a social disgrace? Not for as long as he kept a coat and shirt on, right?
Then the stranger commander left the field through a byway, and when the soldiers rode back to the fortress where they were garrisoned, they found Cinderelliott in a private soldier's uniform, sitting on the ground in the courtyard, making whole rows of little clay dolls.
The next day they went out to fight another battle, and again our little hero appeared, mounted on his lame horse. As on the day before, he halted on the road, and sat down to make his clay soldiers; then a second time he wished himself armour, sword, and a horse, all sharper and better than those he had previously had, and galloped after the rest. He was only just in time: the enemy had almost beaten the king's army back, and men whispered to each other that if the strange knight did not soon come to their aid, they would be all dead men. Suddenly someone cried: 'Hold on a little longer, I see him in the distance; and his armour shines brighter, and his horse runs swifter, than yesterday.' Then they took fresh heart and fought desperately on till the knight came up, and threw himself into the thick of the battle. As before, the enemy gave way before him, and in a few minutes the victory remained with the king. Once more, they fought so bravely that only two of the enemy were left alive, and these two were only spared to act as messengers. And, as before, the strange leader captured only the flag of the most relevant regiment in the enemy ranks.
The first thing that the victor did was to send for the knight, in ceremonial uniform, to thank him for his timely help, and to ask what gift he could bestow on him in token of gratitude. This time, it was Ser Killian who claimed the flag captured by the mystery general. The "foreign leader" proved rather willing to negotiate, but with the condition that he had to run the gauntlet forty-eight times in exchange. For a while this officer, and his father and brother, resisted such a humiliating condition; but, seeing how stubborn the foreign lordling was and how impossible to vanquish his obstination, they finally agreed.
That evening, there had been a soirée to remember the second epic victory in a row, with a supper under the stars and fireworks, as well as all the local ladies being invited to the revels. However, no matter how fond of celebrations both Cronbladh brothers were, they were conspicuously absent from the soirée. Yet their absence was obviously justified.
That night, as his orderly massaged Ser Killian's back with aloe salve, making the young man wince and shiver, he reflected upon the events of the day. The officers' jeers, his twin and their father casting those piercing stares at him... and the sneer on that stripling's lips. Who did that pampered bastard think he was? Did he think that war as a game? Two rows of soldiers with hazel rods, over and over again, and so many blows that even blood had flown, and he had almost fallen unconscious at the end of the ordeal... but his heart, his spirit, suffered far more than all that bodily pain. Quaffing a draught of brandy to quench his thirst and drown his sorrows, as his orderly bandaged a broken Killian on the back. The scars, both within and without, would remain for as long as he breathed. Was that flag, and that promotion to captain, really worth it, if it entailed such a social disgrace? Not for as long as he kept a coat and shirt on, right?
After the punishment show, the foreign leader rode away. In the evening, when they all returned from the battle, there he was, in his ranker's uniform, sitting on the ground, making clay dolls.
The courtiers looked upon him with scorn. “Why does he not go home and get to work?” they cried. “Such a scarecrow is an insult to all who see him.” One of the courtiers, more ill-natured than the rest, fired a shot at him, and it pierced his leg so the blood flowed. The lad cried out so that it was pitiful to hear him. The King felt sorry for him, and drew out his own royal handkerchief and threw it to him.
“There, Sirrah! Take that and bind up thy wound!” he cried.
The lad took the handkerchief and bound it about his leg, and so the bleeding was stopped.
The next day, when the courtiers rode by, there sat the lad still in his usual place, and his leg was tied up with the bloody kerchief, and the King’s own initials were on the white silk in letters of gold. The courtiers did not dare to jeer at him this time, because the King had been kind to him, but they turned their faces aside so as not to see him.
As soon as they had gone the lad sprang down and ran to the woods, in pursuit of reinforcements, but he was in such haste, that he forgot the kerchief that he had used to bind up his wound, and so, when he rode out upon the battle field, he had it still tied about his leg. That day the lad fought more fiercely than ever before, and there was a good reason for that improvement.
For on that third day, it happened by chance that this time it was the decisive battle, that has gone down in history, alongside with the village in whose environs it was fought, as the great Battle of Taradiddle.
On that sacred day, the recent great victories had awarded Gerhard Cronbladh a promotion to general, in absence of the strange young leader (even though, in his heart of hearts, no matter how much he denied it, Cronbladh knew said promotion was not his own by right). It should be not overlooked that we have hitherto not breathed a word about this illustrious leader's physique, and this has not been without a good reason, for we wanted to wait for him to don his general's uniform first. Let us now take a glance at his noble features: picture yourself a tall and robust (though not too heavy-set) military man in his fifties, marching forth at a steady pace, chest puffed forwards and shoulders slanting backwards, his neck stubbornly upright. Curly hair cropped short, once a lovely shade of chestnut, turned by the decades a salt-and-pepper colour, especially noticeable at the muttonchop whiskers, the only facial hair that he allowed himself to grow. A sharp widow's peak, a narrow brow, an icy blue piercing stare, and a slightly upturned aquiline nose of those that characterise great military leaders (viz. Caius Julius Caesar, the Count of Tilly, and, in more recent times, Napoleon Bonaparte himself), as well as that powerful lantern jaw, gave him the countenance of a hero, not even marred by the fact that he had to wear spectacles to read, or his sagging jowls and double chin. He rarely smiled, the default expression that those jowls pushed the corners of his lips into being rather like a stern frown of repressed anger. Long story short, and adding the accoutrements of his new rank (epaulettes of pure gold, a plumed tricorn, the frilliest and laciest cravat you may imagine, a rapier with a gilt hilt and his surname etched on the blade, a bâton of command), Gerhard Cronbladh was a redoubtable sight, more dreaded than beloved by his officers. Nevertheless, like old Bonesapart and old Grand-père Jehan t'Serclaës, he had that inkling of charm that made him the cornerstone of the whole host (hence why he envied and admired his younger rival).
On the first of Fructidor, as the ballads telling the engagement at Taradiddle always begin (by stating the date), ever since the stars had begun to fade, our general was pacing back and forth in front of his pavilion, while engaged in conversation with his aides-de-camp. No chronicles record, but it should be known, that he spent the whole last night of Thermidor wide awake with his thoughts, troubled by a constant gut feeling that something was about to occur. It would be a cliché to say that General Cronbladh felt so tense because he unwittingly foretold his own demise, but alas, no record of his thoughts or feelings for that night have been preserved for posterity.
But let us go back to our story's chronology. On the first of Fructidor, as the ballads telling the engagement at Taradiddle always begin (by stating the date), ever since the stars had begun to fade, our general was pacing back and forth in front of his pavilion, while engaged in conversation with his aides-de-camp. The sun had not risen yet, but one could already feel its presence. It was one of those serene and luminous summer morns, Mercury and Venus and morning dews, when anyone would find themselves happy to awaken in the midst of smiling nature. The soft, hilly ground was covered in greenery and thousands of wildflowers: poppies and daisies and primroses, not to mention the thornroses in full bloom on the hedges; the scent of the air was intoxicating. Not even the croak of a frog, not even the chirp of a cricket, disturbed the tranquillity: the whole encampment slept, except, of course, for the sentinels on duty, who paced restlessly back and forth as they stared distractedly at the dawning sky.
And then, suddenly, as Venus leaves, a shrill reveille pierces the air.
Within the wink of an eye, like swarming honeybees, the army leaves the tents; the cloth of which they are made is all folded, the horses are saddled, the guns are cleansed and dried up, the fast is broken, and, in between drinking a sip and the next, there is conversation and laughter. Then, to the sound of a drum roll call, they all run to arms and form in rank and file. Awaiting their orders, in the meantime; shall they wound, shall they be wounded, shall they kill, shall they die? They are of course ready for anything. Aides-de-camp crisscross across the plain; at every instant, orders arrive, and orders depart.
Sitting in front of a large map upon his foldable table, within his pavilion, Count Cronbladh sticks in and tears out his pins, similar to hat-pins, in several bright colours. He hasn't even taken a sip of cold water to refresh himself. The enemy is on the march, we know the power and the direction of each different corps, we guess their intentions. They are coming.
The general rubs his hands with a confident air. Then, after clearing his throat, he calls out in a deep, manly bass-baritone:
"On horseback, messieurs! Let the revels begin!"
In response to that booming voice, three cannon blasts echo. At that signal, divisions gather and regiments display in battle array. Officers race back and forth, veterans swear through gritted teeth, and greenhorns keep silence. Some of the conscripted think of their province, of their village, of the friends and relatives they have left behind; others comfort them, and promises are exchanged: 'tis promised that not one of them shall have to fear.
Long story short, it's the calm that always comes before the storm.
And now the fifes and drums sound a cheerful, foreign-like march that is instantly recognizable: it's that ally of theirs, the Great Elector or whatever he may be, arriving followed by his brilliant officer staff. But no rock trolls at all, since he now was sure that it would get more exciting if it were trickier, commanding real people instead. Anyway... Le voilà! Éljen! Evviva!
Riding his fiery steed, whose mane flutters in their wake, and his trusty sword in hand, he salutes the flag, that slightly dips to the ground as he passes. Everyone admires the youthful grace of the foreign leader, and everyone takes to heart, for themselves, his address to the regiment:
"Friends, allies, upon you I count!"
From every bosom, from every heart, a new reply rings out loud with elation: Vive! Éljen! Evviva! Er lebe! And what is the leader himself thinking? Elliott smiles confidently, drops his hat and waves it as he leaves the reins...
His sole presence, a smile and a sparkle in his eyes, is a light to every heart, like that of Gustavus Adolphus. What a stark contrast to the older Gerhard Cronbladh!
"Klang, me lad, why are you not that merry?" an older sergeant, with a silvery moustache, asks a young footsoldier of his company. "Why 'aven't you saluted the Gin'ral as 'e passed by? On a battle day, it's needed to show a li'l feelings. The Gin'ral, the Crown, the Country, the flag, they're all one and the same; one 'as to salute the flag!"
"Keep calm, Sarge. To make you 'appy, as you say, I'll have myself be killed like anyone else!"
"You've a grudge, me lad, and you're so wrong! Is it 'is own fault, of some lad who loves fighting in war? Why, 'e was raised to do that, and 'e as never learned anything else. Does 'e know what it cost 'em pearents to raise a lad of twen'y by the sweat of their brows? Y'see, the kings, the queens, the lords are given money and able men, without countin' em, and tell 'em to fend for 'emselves. And they do like you, egsactly as they're told!"
Lowering his head, Ranker Klang replied nothing out loud. But he said to himself that, if those rulers had been raised better, he would have been by his little Frida's side instead of running towards squalor, illness, and Death.
After having reviewed the frontline, Elliott returned to the centre. There, placed upon a little hill that crowned those lands, he followed with his eyes the march of the army.
To left and right, in the distance, ranks of soldiers, of horses, of cannons, of carts could be seen. Sometimes a hill, like a fold in the ground, concealed battalions; sometimes trillions of bayonets seemed to catch fire in the light of the summer sun. Upon seeing that long train advancing across the countryside, following the undulations of the ground, one may have taken it for an oversized serpent, a Titanoboa or Jördmungandr, slithering along a sinuous path.
Quite soon, the gunshots rang, the cannons roared. When the firearms kept silence for a while, strange clamours could be heard, the sky was black with smoke, and, time after time, in the midst of these sinister clouds, immense flames sprung up to pierce the skies. Those were estates, farmsteads, villages set to the torch by the enemy.
Count Cronbladh was right: the revels had just begun.
The army began to march at a slow pace. The artillery rolled on the kingsroad, while, to left and right, upon the meadows, marched the troops of horse and those of foot, crushing the poppies, trampling the daisies into the dust, and not even leaving a blade of grass behind.
Upon approaching the village of Taradiddle, there took place the first engagement with the enemy, whose advance guard outposts had been spotted hours ago by the lookouts. The enemy host, upon Taradiddle Hill, occupied one of the strongest positions. Yet, in advance, upon the plain itself, there was an enemy army in battle array, which lunged upon its adversaries as soon as they came to view.
At this point, the old Cronbladhian maxim (or rather traditional maxim, which Cronbladh followed) of not striking until they could see the whites in the enemy's eyes, was instantly forgotten.
"Tally-ho!" he said. "These scoundrels aim to hoist us with our own petards! These are national tactics that the ruffians have stolen... Yet that is not enough and never will be, ye madcaps! For you would actually require to wrest our men from us as well!"
Of course he was right. After two skirmishes and streams of blood shed, the enemies were torn backwards, and there was a slight disorder within their ranks.
From the village of Taradiddle, right then, descended a magnificently horsed and equally magnificently dressed cavalry unit, at the head of which, to the steady pace of his chestnut mare, rode a tall young man in a white pelisse and a shining breastplate, crowned with a silver casque. Every spyglass across was nailed on one end to the officer's eye, and on the other to the raven-haired, dashing rider. An aide-de-camp (was it Ser William, Ser Killian, or a lesser lieutenant?) recognised him instantly:
"I know this fellow... he was introduced to me a fortnight ago... 'tis none other than the Grand Duke of Briesland himself, at the head of his cuirassiers!"
The twin captains were about to storm forth on horseback, sword in hand, to win such a valuable prize and gain back their lost reputation, when their father suddenly stopped them:
"Ser William, Ser Killian, we are no longer in the days of knights and jousting. Ever since firearms were invented, our duels are decided by hot lead, not cold steel. Thus, even ere either of you could reach the Grand Duke, he will be lying on the ground, writhing in his own blood: for our snipers have already got him within range. Galloping forth that foolhardily towards the enemy may be a pretty sight, no doubt; but that is not war. That is madness."
"I would have killed the Grand Duke of Briesland with mine own right hand, in single combat..." Ser William muttered. His twin brother tugged him at the sleeve.
"See, Will? That young man cantering forth so bravely, so confidently, ready to confront the enemy? And a bullet fired from the shadows is going to strike him down, defenceless, like a sitting duck..."
"Maybe... maybe you are right, Killian", the other twin sighed, turning pale. "There is something in that, something that revolts a noble, generous heart. That is not a duel, nor a tourney at all... 'Tis murder, or at least something quite close to murder," Will whispered.
Everyone looked on in silence. As the Grand Duke approached, snipers could be seen crawling on the tall grass that was left, and concealing themselves in the trenches... then, suddenly, right as that young officer, turning his head, gave his cuirassiers the order to charge, the report of guns rang from a trench below ground, entire ranks were brought down; and, in the midst of this mêlée of wounded and dying men, and wounded and dying horses, a single chestnut mare, brought out of her wits, galloped straight towards the enemy. The rider prince was dead.
"The rider prince was dead," the ballads of the First of Fructidor exactly say that verse. His form, once embalmed and laid in state, would be so mangled by hooves and so riddled with gunshots that it is still impossible to discern which injury was the killing blow.
But Cronbladh, nevertheless, retained his usual sang-froid:
"Allons-y. These messieurs have lost the first round; but at the second round we shall get even. Do you see yon little kirk there, upon Taradiddle Hill? Once we reach that shrine, the match is already won."
Yet it was by no means easy to reach the shrine. In fact, it took three hours, three hours of fighting to life or death for the right to take but a single step. Intrenched within the village, the enemy defended themselves furiously; each and every farmhouse in Taradiddle was a fortress that had to be taken by storm. The casualties were appalling; entire regiments had disappeared, the troops that survived were worn-out with fatigue, and, to add insult to injury, came dreadful news of the right wing, which the enemy was beginning to surround. Every instant, with fluttering queues or wigs and equally fluttering manes, cavalry officers arrived storming forth, asking for reinforcements. The Count General laughed into their faces, as he swore as uncouthly as any non-commissioned officer:
"Reinforcements?! And where do they want me to get them from? Donnerwetter... Let them have themselves killed, not even down to one man! Do these scoundrels think they are going to live forever?"
All around, the faces of the staff officers were dark with gloom, except that of the youthful blond ally, that beamed with confidence. In spite of all the trouble that he had been through for that man's sake, Count Cronbladh's merry mood charmed Elliott. He was even a little startled when the general, pushing him aside, whispered in his ear:
"The time is now, Ser, the hour that calls for the heroes. If, within an hour, we have not reached that height, there will nothing left to do but handing over our swords, and return home to the scorn and jeers of our countrymen."
"Rather die than live a craven!" the young blond proclaimed, drawing steel.
And, plunging his spurs into his steed's sides, he sallied forth into the thick of the fight. Already they were in retreat when the lad rode forth upon the field.
In his wake, he gathered all the scattered soldiers whose paths crossed his own: grenadiers, hussars, riflemen, cuirassiers, and lancers thrown off their horses; it was with that sacred batallion that the last powerful effort was made. Around those happy few, the bullets whizzed through the air, the men fell like ears of grain mowed down by the scythe, the leader's horse was shot under him and nearly crushed him; but still he remained undaunted, not even the least fazed. In fact, the opposite occurred: the scent of gunsmoke and blood intoxicated him. Thus emboldened, he hopped on a stray white mare, and, bareheaded, his golden hair fluttering in his wake (for his ribbon-queue was as lost as the hat), sword in hand, it was to his warcry of "Éljen!", in a youthful tenor voice, that he rallied his troops, and that, victorious at last, he stormed into the shrine, trampling the slain and the dying alike under the hooves of his steed.
Once victorious, sighing and drying the perspiration from his brow as he entered the little white-washed kirk, he stopped and looked around.
"Where's Cronbladh? Where is Count Cronbladh?"
"They've taken him to the vicarage, not far away... he is wounded."
Desperate, Elliott made one last dash on foot, towards the one that had once been his conqueror and was now his old friend. It was as if the young blond's ankles had wings, his heart pounding so loud that he could hear it. In the end, he found the fiftyish general lying on a futon-like mattress of straw, giving orders to the artillery to swipe the enemy off the map and attain victory. But his orders were broken with coughs, and his mouth was full of blood, and he but whispered to his aide-de-camp; a bullet had pierced his chest, on the left side.
"Dearest General... I hope that this injury is but a flesh wound, and that you soon shall revel in your decisive victory..."
"My debts... cough! ...are all paid!" Count Cronbladh replied. "I have... cough! ...little time... cough! ...left to live!" A crackling sound could be heard inside his chest, and his face was strangely pale, making the blood on his bandages and lips look a crimson shade of red. "What do I care? Cough! The enemy... cough! ...got what they should... cough! ...and we shall not be... cough! ...be met with... scorn!" Here came a more violent coughing fit. Every word he breathed tore at his lungs, and the surgeon constantly put an index finger to his lips, encouraging the general to keep silence. "Ser... I leave... cough! ...the army... cough! ...up to you, Ser!" Though Gerhard Cronbladh was light-headed with both fever and blood loss, and fading fast, he thought he could see the stepchild he had made a drudge out of... in his younger friend's visage. Elliott took him by the wrist; it was icy cold, and the artery gave no pulse. "All is... not lost... cough! Adieu et merci!" After those French words came another coughing fit, and he was tossing and writhing feverishly, as unchecked tears, unproper of a military leader, welled in the young blond's eyes.
It felt like reliving the same scene for the third time; or for the second time, for he was but an infant in the cradle when Herr Runius died, and the death of Frau Runius was what had scarred the young orphan the most. He had never hated, only dreaded and respected his stepfather... but also discovered, more recently, that there was this whole new side to him; they had become friends, and yet they had barely got to know one another...
Elliott was about to leave, his head downcast to conceal the tears, as Cronbladh called a soldier to his bedside (the surgeon having left to tend to others):
"A drink... cough!... a sup... cough! Schnapps!" All that blood he had lost and was drowning in, all that liquid wrested as perspiration by his fever, all the heat that seared his brow and his insides, urged his system to absorb more of it. He was dying of thirst.
"Voilà, mon général," replied a sergeant, producing a hip flask, which he put to Cronbladh's lips. The wounded leader eagerly quaffed; he soon drained the flask at one deep draught without even breathing. Thus had he drained whole flagons of lemonade and of laudanum on that same sickbed. His thirst quenched for what would be the last time, Cronbladh turned to the non-com, a man his age, and spoke:
"Merci, mon vieux... cough! Now wrap me... cough! ...in my cape...! Lay me... cough! ...on my side!" As the sergeant and an aide-de-camp swaddled him and laid him in the lateral recumbent recovery position, another coughing fit ensued, at the end of which the weak, crackling voice of the general whispered:
"This dream... was so lovely... cough! ...yet it was so... so short! Cough! Bonsoir...!"
Those were his last words.
Then he was still, the stillness only broken by his erratic breathing, his racing pulse, and the crackling in his chest. One hour later, he breathed his last.
From the church tower, a downcast Elliott followed the retreat of the fleeing enemies. Their flight was nipped in the bud, their defeat utter and complete. Seized by panic, the wretches did not defend themselves anymore. They ran away, casting off their guns, their knapsacks, their swords, anything that weighed them down, in order to run lighter, with death's fear ever in their eyes. Their batteries were nailed, their carts were overturned, and the cavalry was fleeing head over hooves, crushing everything in its wake. In vain the officers tried to rally that confused crowd; they were dragged along, insulted, struck down. For panic has no eyes or ears. Billions of men drowned in the Trifle stream, that flows through Taradiddleshire, to escape an enemy which no longer pursued them.
"And all night, the Trifle ran red," the ballad of the First of Fructidor ends. Thus was the celebrated engagement that covered the enemy realm in shame and that of our hero and his friends with glory.
The next evening, a general who was aide-de-camp to the enemy king brought to the staff pavilion a letter which said (this is but an excerpt, the most relevant part of the message):

"We demand a suspension of hostilities and peace; you shall fix yourselves the conditions; I leave it to your generosity. Vanquished, we have at least a privilege that we pay with too hard a price for having right to invoke it at this moment. We celebrate the courage and the dexterity that you have displayed today; I have wished to end like you have begun."

Within that instant, the King of Elliott's country and his aides proclaimed the suspension of hostilities, and the peace negotiations were prepared to be arranged the next day. Our hero had been for sixteen hours on the move, from before dawn till after dark, and thus he seriously needed some rest. He sank down on the bloodstained futon that had been Cronbladh's deathbed, worn-out in body yet exalted in spirit. So many ideas, so many emotions swirled inside his head that, in spite of the fatigue, he could not even shut his eyes. What kept him wide awake, if not the revelation of his real identity, the fact that he would, as Cinderelliott the flower child, be hailed as the victor of Taradiddle, and bend the knee, dropping the sword at his feet, to accept the lordship wrested from him?
In a nearby chamber, the generals and aides-de-camp invited to their table the envoy from the nation that was no longer an enemy. They had found some costly provisions in the enemy staff carts, and thus they drank merrily and, as they quaffed and caroused, they held a review of the events of the day. Each and every one at the table gave an account of their feats of derring-do, and there was no one who had won the battle all by himself. They all unanimously condemned the Grand Duke of Briesland for his foolhardiness; he had died by his own madness, they said, and that quip was all of his frontline requiem. On the other hand, they spoke a lot of Count Cronbladh and the three-hundred officers who had been killed with him, to wonder who would be their successors, mentioning the blond stranger as a more than potential candidate. Much more was spoken concerning promotions and condecorations, but, above all, they praised the good luck of the army, and the youth and bravery of the strange leader.
Wide awake that night, his head throbbing with uneasiness, Elliott wished to be alone with his thoughts. The full moon of the first night of Fructidor was shining bright, and everything around was calm and serene, but it was a sinister, eerie tranquillity; in the distance, one could see the lights of the camp, the fires burning far away. To left and right, amidst slain horses, shattered carts, and scattered weapons, soldiers lying upon their backs were sleeping, never to awaken. Upon those faces, writhed by agony and rage and despair, Death herself had not been able to imprint her mournful serenity. Elliott thought of how peaceful his mother and stepfather had looked (yes, even Cronbladh!) as they breathed their last, in comparison. Their gritted teeth, the froth in their mouths, their haggard eyes... they still whispered, or maybe asked to avenge their blood shed for the pleasure of kings and lords. The chimes at midnight pealed from the distant shrine. It was the witching hour of Lammas, a time when the dead could rise from the grave. Unable to withstand the look in those glazed, sightless eyes, the young man crouched in an empty trench to hide himself.
It was then and there that he beheld the most dreadful of spectacles, the one that would turn the tide of his life away from the hell of warfare.
Sheltered by the cover of darkness, two marauders, a man and a woman armed each one with a lantern, rifled the corpses and insulted Death herself. Pale, quivering, he watched them from behind an upturned cannon.
"Here's a husband or a fiancé," the female said in a contralto voice. Just look at his left ring finger!" After struggling for a while to pull the ring off, she sighed and turned to her partner in crime. "A silver ring indeed, but it won't come off..."
"Just chop the blasted finger off, you nitwit! Just look at these earrings... fine for a lady, eh, Missis? Well, they're piercings torn from a bloke's ear, and that bloke seemed as straight as straight can be... Anyway, since they're good and dead, who can stop us from taking what is ours?"
"An officer!" the female marauder squealed with glee, cradling the form of a young lieutenant, a stripling of sixteen. "Golly, what a pocket-watch, a Nüremberg egg!"
"Search him well, through and through... he must have gold in his purse."
"Oh, it's a wallet... and what's that, a handwritten letter?"
"I would rather have it full of banknotes... but what do we care, when there's always something to win? Let's see, Missis... you're the one who can read, so why not read aloud what he's written to his ladylove? That sounds exciting, eh?"
The female brigand took the letter in hand, and, after clearing her throat, began to read the lieutenant's last written words:

"Dearest Mother,
When you receive this letter, you will have no children left. I have the feeling that I shall die tomorrow. I write this letter at one turn of pitch-and-toss, leaving it all to chance; I hope that a friendly hand shall warn you of the news. I want you to know that I have breathed my last sigh for you, and that I still love you even beyond the grave. I have nothing but my sword; I leave you without resources, and entrust you to the care of the Gods above, who will bring you solace. As for me, I die worthy of your love, faithful to the honour that you have taught me, contented to shed my blood for the greatness of Crown and Country.
Your young hopeful,
Lieutenant Edward."

"Ah, Missis! Is that mama's boy going to cloud us with all those fluffy feelings of his? Allons-y! The moon is full, and the sentinels will spot us soon! Watch out for gunshots!"
"Oui, mon garçon," the reader replied. "Your mum will receive your letter," she addressed the dead stripling in a tone both ironic and solemn. "And happy all those who die like you!"
"'Scuse me, Missis, are you beginning to get Shakespearean again?" her companion chided her. "The pox take you and everyone else who's been to school... they always get touchy-feely! Here, there's something shining in the moonlight, like gold... can it really be gold?"
They approached, lanterns in hand. Dazzled by the light, a richly caparisoned charger reared and began to whinny frantically. It was the Grand Duke of Briesland's chestnut mare, with an enormous wound right through the abdomen, marching upon her bloody entrails. After some heavy steps, she fell, her four legs stiffened by rigor mortis.
Right then, a pack of wolves, Gods know from whence they came, stormed barking and howling towards the noble beast, and the mangling and devouring began. At this sound, the frightened marauders left their prey in haste, without caring the least.
As for Elliott, he took advantage of the chaos to escape instinctively, at first confused, but soon taking the path to the village, along the path where, hours ago, he had so brilliantly risked life and limb. There, where the thick of the fight had taken place, the slain lay in heaps, the ones upon the others, drowning in lakes of blood. Once more, he recoiled in dread and was about to flee the scene, when he suddenly heard groans, screams of pain. He came closer. An officer, a lieutenant, still young and good-looking, came forth crawling on the palms of his hands, using his arms, dragging painfully along both his legs, bloody stumps torn off at the knees by cannon fire.
"Water...!" he muttered. "De l'eau... Agua... Help...! So you think I die for you... and leave me to die...? Scoundrels, you scoundrels! Curse all the lords, curse their ungratefulness... Water... or death, for mercy's sake!"
And, as he crawled forth like that, his thirst and fatigue constantly increasing, he bumped upon the body of another officer.
"A... flask... Je suis sauvé!" Then, upon realising that the other officer's flask had been shot through, despair instantly set in. "No, nothing... it's broken... Ah, a pistol! Thank Goodness it happens to be loaded...! Now here's to the happy victor; may my blood stain his face!"
And, with a steady hand, the thirsty lieutenant put the muzzle to his temple, then pulled the trigger. At the report of the suicide gun, a dying young ranker raised his head and looked around left and right, looking rather confused. Upon recognising his beloved leader, he rose up and dried up his tears on the lacy cuffs.
"Around 'ere, comrades, and I admit no more reasons," a deep manly voice was heard. "Sergeant Bäcker knows what he does; 'e's an ol' moustache, and you're all but greenhorns. I'm sho' 'e was struck down 'round here. There 've been six aides-de-camp killed 'ere in three minutes, even one whose brain matter 'as stained my whole uniform not long ago. Lantern, please. Right. Y'see? Already two on the ground; the others must not be far away... Are you dead, me lad?" he thundered.
"Sarge!" the youngster replied in a stifled voice.
"Here I am, me lad. 'Morning corning, Klang. How d'you do?"
"You see where I am and how I do, Sarge."
"'Oly cow! Whad'you wish fo', me lad? This is war! T'day you won the lottery; t'morrow it may be ol' me! Trust ol' Sergeant Bäcker, I'll never leave you like dat. Holla! You there, bring a stretcher!"
As they lifted young Klang up to the stretcher, he lost consciousness. His whole body was red and raw with wounds.
"Sarge, we should not care to carry him. He's dead already."
"And do I gives you the 'onour to ask for yer opinion?!" Sergeant Bäcker replied. "If you, like ol' me, knew the theowry of it all, you chatterbox, you would know a man is dead only if the Caernel 'as put 'im like dead on the list. Forwards, and no more talking!"
Upon seeing this scene, the leader had crouched behind a heap of slain to eavesdrop. He left it all frightened, and saved himself fleeing like a killer stained in the blood of his victims.
To escape the dreadful butchery, Elliott had taken a byway along the outskirts of Taradiddle village. The war had also come to the locals: the fences were torn off and the farmhouses had been set on fire. Everywhere there were smoking and charred ruins, everywhere loneliness and desolation.
Upon a haystack lay a farmer in his thirties, his last breaths rattling in his throat. Though disabled by a broken collarbone and thus spared the draft, he had defended the shire, farm, and family against the enemy or against the marauders, or both. He had been shot dead. Next to the slain, crouching on the grass, lay a young woman with an infant in her arms. Four boys, the youngest of which was but twelve, and whose features displayed no family resemblance to either parent, took turns to wash the pale face with zinc buckets, while, behind the scene, a white-haired, wrinkly-wristed old crone cried to the heavens for retaliation:
"Curse all kings, curse all lords, curse all armies on this Earth! Vengeance for the poor... vengeance for the widow, for the waifs, for the mother mourning her only son, whom these brigands have slain! Are there any gods up there, that let the innocents be trodden down?"
"Peace, Grandmother," the eldest of the waifs replied. "To avenge Uncle, and to avenge Father who died in last war, there are four of us. One day, we will be all grown up, and we will be able to slit the enemies' throats..."
"Come, Ewan," the youngest of the waifs tugged at his brother's sleeve. "Take up a rock. In fact, Rhys and Kyle have already taken theirs. We'll break the heads of the enemies tonight!"
As all four of them headed out on the path, a forlorn female voice, more youthful, cried out to them...
"Stay here, me lads! Ewan, Kyle, Rhys, Niall... stay here; you'll all be killed!" She held her own child, the infant, still cradled in her arms.
In the meantime, the young leader left in a somber mood. He had no idea, for all his years as an indentured servant, that out in the wide world there were orphans who fared worse than he, and who had even been denied the chance to have a childhood of their own. Waifs. And most of them due to war... The musicians under their own flag, those who played the reveille and the drum rolls, were waifs in uniform, for instance... What a crime warfare was, and how he had been deceived! It seemed that every single one of the slain was calling him an assassin or asking him back for their lives. Whence could he flee? Whither, whither? The rest of the night was a blur.
"Wake up, Ser," said the reassuring voice of an aide-de-camp.
Elliott was back on his straw bed, and looked around in a state of shock.
"Pardon me, Ser, if I have startled you," the aide-de-camp continued. "But you were screaming so loudly, and drenched in such a cold sweat, that I thought it well done to tear you out of your nightmares, Ser."
"You should have done that earlier!" the warlord sighed, and, until dawn, he remained there motionless, his head buried in his hands.
When the sun rose on the second of Fructidor, the most precise orders were given that the slain should be earthed (each officer in a grave of his own; non-coms and rankers, in mass graves; the General himself, as well as the enemy Grand Duke, laid in state), and the marauders should be pursued.
"They will be shot at dawn on the spot," the officer replied.
"No, thanks. Too much blood has already been shed," Elliott replied. That sudden, serious address of their young ally, of youthful appearance but mature judgement, moved all of the staff officers. Three aides-de-camp were sent to Taradiddle and the surrounding villages, to try to repair, with what money could, the war crimes and disasters of the day before.
Then, Elliott saddled his white mare and sallied forth to the frontline hospital.
All night long, the surgeons had toiled with their usual devotion to their duty; admirable soldiers braving fatigue and contagion, as others brave gunfire! Already more than three thousand wounded, friends or foes, had undergone surgery and were bandaged and bedridden; but outside, within tents raised in haste, there were still billions of them bleeding upon the straw, and, in the distance, one could see long rows of soldiers and peasants shouldering, upon stretchers, their dreary burden. Turning his head away from that sight, the leader entered the first hospital that opened before his eyes.
Led by one of the head surgeons, the young warlord went from bedside to bedside, stopping before each wounded man, giving rewards to some of them and reassurance to all of them. Some of the wounded rose painfully upon their elbows to thank their hero, while others laughed.
"Que voulez-vous, sire?" said an ironic hussar with a bandaged head. "You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs!"
Most of the wounded, however, did not move, and not even speak. The painful look in their eyes said without words: "Without you, we wouldn't be here." It was heart-rending for Elliott.
At the end of the gallery, he entered the operation theatre. There, young Klang lay bedridden, screaming as loud as he could for Death to take him away. Two surgeons, their arms drenched in blood, were cutting into the poor lad's flesh, as they rallied him to give him courage.
"Keep on whining," said one of the surgeons. "This is the sixth bullet we take out of you, and no vital organs have been hurt. Two wicked toes on the left foot broken, voilà une belle affaire. You're luckier than a con trickster!"
"Kill me...! for mercy's sake... kill me...! I want to die...!"
"No," the young blond said, approaching his wounded underling. "There's no need for you to die, Klang; you need to live, for those who await you, to bring them the medal which you have rightfully won."
To Klang, now promoted to Ensign Hohenklang, it seemed as if an angel or a winged victory was standing on his sickbed.
"Of course, Ser..." he muttered, half dead. "I will live... for you, and for little Frida... Thank you, thank you very much indeed..."
The warlord had barely taken a few steps when the old gray sergeant, crouching at the foot of Klang's operating bed, raised his lanky figure and, looking at Klang with sparkles of joy in his eyes:
"So 'e 'as a chance, this cadet over 'ere? Lucky laddie, Klang!" he sobbed, elated. "Why couldn't it be ol' me who got six bullets inside, for the King or the Great Elector or the Great Panjandrum to come on foot to me and ask 'ow do I do?"
Upon hearing that deep baritone voice, the young blond pivoted quickly, turning around.
"Sergeant Bäcker, I saw you yesterday by my side, and I have summoned you to be mentioned in the order of the day. You will never be forgotten."
The Sarge opened his mouth, stretched out his arms, tried to swallow something that seemed to be choking him, did not succeed in that, and all his reply was to stand at attention and perform a military salute, bringing a smile to the fair warlord's lips.
Upon entering headquarters, where he had been invited, he came across the Lord Chancellor and the director of the Mirror, the leading national newspaper. The King was still a little boy, and the reins of state were in the hands of a regency, to which these two great men belonged.
It was not to deal with trifles that they had reached the frontline, but going straight to the point of serious things, speaking of the conditions of peace. After such a crushing victory, one could ask the enemy for anything. Even for the Moon, the Lord Chancellor wittily quipped. There were those four enemy provinces that the realm was interested in. It was conditio sine qua non to ask for the cession of said provinces. In sooth, the people of those borderlands had nothing to do with their victors, and even hated them since long ago. For they were not of the same language, of the same creeds, nor of the same customs... but who cared about that? Realpolitik does not stoop for such trifles; it takes good garrisons and a sturdy administration to surpass all that loathing. It only takes to sacrifice three or four generations; the end justifies the means, right? Let those so-called race biologists explain their ridiculous theories; nothing is more contrary to experience. The various peoples are like hot sealing wax, and it all depends on the hand that plunges the signet in.
But for response to that overture of his, the Lord Chancellor obtained for response that the fire had ceased. The new generalissimo, that young blond, wished for no more conquests, and cared nothing for being the jailer of a people of indentured servants. He had had enough of warfare and its disasters; all that was needed was a peace that humiliated no one, an honourable treaty for both nations, to put an end to those too long divisions for once and for all.
The Lord Chancellor replied with a friendly stare:
"I understand, Ser, and forgive my foolhardiness if I say that I share your emotion. A battlefield is a dreadful spectacle indeed. It takes more than one day to toughen up to it. But, as long as there are different governments and different nations under the sun, there will be quarrels, fighting, battles... War is an illness indeed, but a needful illness. All that our wisdom and wit can do is reduce the number of occasions, and, to attain that goal, what better way is there than to crush the enemy and reduce them to powerlessness?"
"My Lord, you may have forgotten all your history lessons. For centuries, our nations have fought each other. And we have killed trillions, and trillions of us have died, both soldiers and civilians... so are we more developed in our days than on the first day we fought, throwing down spears? No, my Lord. War breeds hatred, and hatred, in turn, breeds more war. It is time to break that vicious circle and refuse that old false Realpolitik. We want peace."
For a while, silence was kept, until the Chancellor, after some throat-cleaning, resumed:
"Ser, before you take such a grave decision, I pray you to listen to a man who has spent decades and seen his hair turn white serving this Crown and Country. Once peace is signed forever, how will the Crown be able to maintain an army five-hundred thousand strong? What will be made out of all those discontented officers and idle soldiers? For how long will the nation be able to hold such a heavy and such a worthless burden?"
"Well, why not employ three-hundred thousand of them in tilling the fields that this war has ravaged, my Lord? It will certainly be a win-win situation..."
"If that is the case, it should not only be the military, but also the government, the whole administration, that has to be reformed. Sadly, we shall have to live only by the fruit of peacetime economy, like the other lesser nations around this great power and our former enemy, right?"
Elliott kept silence as the Chancellor cleared his throat, took a sip of brandy, and resumed:
"It will be a great evil indeed, the day our whole army is disbanded; it will be the end of our glory days as a great power. Consider our government, and you will see that everything is calculated so that all the forces, all the money, all the resources of the realm are in the hands of the Crown. The people own nothing. Their fortune, their grown sons, their blood: it all belongs to the King. And our administration holds in its grasp the highest as well as the lowest among subjects, accustoming them all to obey: to obey at class, to obey to pay taxes, to obey conscription into military service... and this solid education makes the finest soldiers the world has ever known. The glory and the power of the realm... Voilà the only aim of our government! Suppress warfare, suppress the army, and what remains of the grand design? A people of workers has nothing to do with administration. Everyone lives only fending for him or herself, only thinking of themselves and themselves alone. But it is the army, it is warfare, that tear the individual out of that narrow life, replacing the love of family and the selfishness of the hearth by that patriotism which makes a whole nation live upon the will of one. Is there anything more noble than a nation that sheds its blood for the greatness of its ruler? (Here, more throat-clearing). Voilà, Ser, what my zeal and my experience oblige me to say. Peace on Earth... there's nothing lovelier on the paper, in fact, it brings the rise of a new society. It was on horseback, sword in hand, that this nation was made a Great Power. It is by the sword that our authority has been kept steady and stable through the ages, both within and without our confines. The work is crowned, and I would dare to say that you do not even have the right to destroy it. The army is the arm of the realm, and if the sword is dropped..."
"My Lord, I appreciate your zeal and your devotion. But all that carnage I have seen upon the field has opened my eyes. That absolute power which charms you fills me with dread. What? Placing in the hands of few men the right to send the entire nation to the abattoir? I have already had enough of that dreadful privilege, and I wish for no more of it. Come hell or highwater, my dice are cast. I would prefer being the meanest one among a free people than the Great Panjandrum of administration. Though I am younger, I know better. You and me have been raised wrong, I believe. We should better reform our education first, together. I trust my people, and I hope that they should pay my love back with love."
"Ser," the Lord Chancellor replied, "I am leaving within half an hour for the capital. Here is the list of casualties we have suffered. Three-thousand slain and twelve-thousand wounded. Which figures should appear in the Mirror?"
"And... a question, my Lord: why doesn't the Mirror newspaper tell the truth, the pure truth, and nothing but the truth?" Here, our hero was a little surprised. He had used scraps of the Mirror in his household chores at the Runius estate, papers of days gone by, but nevertheless readable.
"Why, it has never been so, Ser! Here's another novelty that will frighten the entire nation. Our custom is to reduce our own casualties to a quarter of the real figures, and to multiply the casualties of the enemy by four. And everyone has grown accustomed to these calculations. Tell them the truth, and they shall not believe."
"Well, that's another education to reform! Let us start as soon as possible, Your Lordship."
"Before leaving, Ser, we need your signature, as Commander-in-Chief. This is the bill of two-hundred millions meant to pay the extraordinary expenditure of today, the memorable day of Taradiddle."
"Fifteen thousand men hors de combat, and two-hundred million galleons spent!" The expression of Elliott's face was one of shock.
"What is that compared to the glory you have won, Ser?"
"And what is glory, after so much blood and so much gold spent on trifles? The signature, Your Lordship. I will sign this. But you say two-hundred millions, and on the paper it says... two-hundred and twenty!"
"Oui, Ser. Ten million galleons for the national banks, and ten millions for all the events of the victory revels. These pluses are also part of the glory. And no one can haggle about this."
"Should I oppose myself to the joy of my people? I would be proud of the homages that our brave soldiers would receive. Especially General Cronbladh... But why not grant our subjects the pleasure to organise the revels themselves? Are they incapable of spending their own money, Your Lordship?"
"Certainly. Since centuries ago, they have left the reins of their joys and their sorrows to the government. Public displays of emotion, positive or negative, everything ruled by administration. What would authority be if the people did not mourn when the Crown mourned, or celebrate when the Crown had something to revel in? They pay their taxes and don't worry, as long as they have bread and pleasure assured. Is there a happier condition than that?"
The treaty was signed with a sigh, as the young leader turned his back, not listening at all to the dignitaries, but dreaming of the slain, of the wounded...
until, wearied down by all that ennui, he strode out and rode away. In the evening, when they returned to commemorate the victory in the ruins of Taradiddle, and also to mourn their beloved leader, they found Cinderelliott making clay dolls, as usual.
Then all the enemy’s forces fled back, and the Crown’s men pursued after them and cut many of them to pieces, and the rest were glad to get safely back into their own country.
After that the lad would have ridden away as before, but this the Lord Chancellor Regent would not allow. He called to him and rode up to where he was, and when he saw the bloody kerchief tied about the stranger’s leg he knew he must be the very one he had left making clay dolls in the swamp awhile back. This the lad could not deny, and when the Regent questioned him he told him everything.
"They have won the decisive battles," the Regent muttered with a sigh.
"Let them bare their backs, and we shall see who the victor is."
Both young officers were commanded at gunpoint to bare themselves from the waist upwards, revealing, louder than words, the humiliating gauntlet scars.
"They will never lie," Elliott replied, now clad in the armour and lace he wore as a general; and his presence increased the admiration of every onlooker.
It was the whole nation that threw itself at the feet of the young victor and worshipped him like a god. Love, hatred, everything is for these people a fad, a passion. Lord General Elliott Cronbladh-Runius, who now even put his step-surname before his own by blood, had succeeded; he was young and victorious, happy and glorious, and took all hearts, no matter rank, age, or gender, by storm. Throughout the fortnight that it took from the frontlines to the royal seat, he had to attend military reviews and receive countless delegations, receive one-hundred and fifty laurel wreaths and six thousand bouquets, shake forty-five thousand hands, salute the ladies, embrace the damsels and kiss their right hands, and, to crown it all, listen patiently to three-hundred speeches and two-hundred compliments... not to mention all the music, the bell peals, the soirées, and the suppers.
'Tis true that he had an iron health, and that he had enjoyed the military profession, but soon he realised that sorrows are far easier to bear than joys. After four days, our hero felt at least a little stupefied by all that flattery; by the weekend, he dreamed of rest and loneliness. On the ninth day, if it weren't for his good education, he would have thrown all the speeches out the window; and, on the tenth day, he felt a fierce urge to do the same to all the delegations. Glory and victory, laurels and warriors, Julius Caesar and Gustavus Adolphus... all of that buzzed in his ears like those impertinent, annoying gadflies that cows always chase away. All those honest, decent townspeople who left their shops to sing, in a lyrical way, the battle they had not even seen and the feats they had not even made; all those provincial magistrates that put their ceremonial swords in the scales of justice, saying that the games of strength and hazard were in the lap of the Gods; all those rural militia that, with the pride of victors, marched by in a military style keeping pace with their sheep... all of that was not only tiresome, but also tensed the young general's nerves. Luckily, he had by his side a merry correspondent for the Mirror, who, with a glance, a gesture, or a quip, encouraged the orators so well that most of them wound up short of words, to His Lordship's good cheer and satisfaction.
However, even merriment must come to an end. As soon as the cathedral spire of the capital came to view, there was little left for him to spur his horse in the sides and flee as quick as he could back to the château, yet fortunately etiquette was there to restrain him in place. Nothing troubled the ordered march of the victorious army that carried its leader in triumph.
The entrance was admirable; main streets lined with flower arrangements, national flags on balconies, wenches perched at the windows, gamins perched on the lamp posts and treetops and rooftops, crowds packing the sidewalks; everything announced the elation of the common people. All hearts fluttered as the troops approached, all eyes sought the young victor. Now watch! Two heralds open the march; here are all the cavalry bands sounding the national anthem, here are the wounded soldiers leaning against their brothers-in-arms and carrying with them thirty flags taken from the enemy. Now two-hundred drum rolls sound at unison.
Fifty paces after the drummers, and thirty paces before the other generals, Elliott himself appears riding his war horse. At that sight, three ringing hoorrays drown out the military music; hats and handkerchiefs are waved above everyone's heads: Vive! Vive! Vive! Pale as a lily, the victor salutes with his sword; the cheers are doubled, tripled, tears are seen in everyone's eyes, whether military or civilian, young or old, meek or bold. Who would not die for someone this brave or this charming? Happy those days, should they have a tomorrow!
The parade lasted for six hours.
Night after night the Crown arranged fresh entertainments for the guests---balls, concerts, theatricals, and mock-fights were on the varied programme. Everyone had to appear merry and delighted with the entertainment, although impatience and doubts tortured them in many ways. Sometimes the Regent would take his bâton or wand, and, flourishing it around, assume the airs of his rank, and give his commands to everyone at the table, and so forth.
The only ray of hope to these courtiers was the look of discomfort on the victorious general's face; he looked anything but like a successful lover, and entered into all the enjoyments with as much zest as they themselves did. During the day he would often disappear, and on his return look more dejected than when he left, in spite of his efforts to appear merry. It was therefore safe to conclude that Lady Fortune yet withstood his wooing.
When he entered the château he called home, Elliott was drunk on emotions, on fatigue, and on noise. After resting for a while, he took his pleasure in donning his most elegant uniform. Young and victorious, he wanted to present himself with his advantages. Was that coquetterie or vanity? No, it was simply desire to please his loved ones.
He looked at himself in the full-body mirror, not finding himself the slightest unattractive, when he was startled by a sudden knock on the door. A valet in royal livery entered with a bow.
"Who's there?"
"Ser, I am an officer bringing orders from His Majesty. There are a hundred and two delegations waiting for your presence in the drawing room."
"And... who summoned all of these delegations?" Elliott replied in shock.
"The Lord High Chamberlain himself, according to the rules of etiquette, Ser."
"One-hundred and two... could as well have been two-hundred. When should I ever break free? Always someone else's, never master of myself... Allons, monsieur, announce me. I am ready."
He followed the valet with the resignation of one condemned to death.
The hall was full of uniforms in all colours that are bright; red, orange, white, blue, green, with gold and silver thread...
The review soon began.
The first reputation was presided by the general director of education, an old noble in an old-fashioned wig who advanced at a measured pace, sighed, donned his gold-rimmed spectacles, and began the following speech in a monotone voice:
"Good Sers,
Victory comes to those who honour, and abide by and practice the age-old customs. Punishment awaits the proud whose ambition and whimsy spread out human blood as though it were water. It is the superb who are shattered. Fear consumes them from within, sword or shot consumes them from without. Young people, children, and elders alike, all are exterminated. They have been freed from their earthly concerns! The righteous rejoice at the sight of vengeance, and as they wash their hands in the blood of the wicked."
"Halt, Your Lordship," the young victorious general replied. "'Tis the Fates who refuse or who give victory, as we know, and I thank them for their kindness towards our kith and kin. But the power of armies calls itself the power of vengeance; it is through warfare that the faults of nations and/or the passions of royalty are punished. There are softer, sweeter powers; there is peace, there is forgiveness. These allow us mortals to live, to work, to cultivate our spirits, to love our fellow humans, to spread over this Earth the welfare and the truth it needs. 'Tis this mercy that we need to implore nowadays. Let us forget warfare and the evils it begets, and may goodness spare us forever from the return of such a scourge!"
These words, uttered in a firm tone, and listened to with eager ears, put the entire assembly into disarray. At the aftermath of battle, each delegation had come with a warlike speech. There was not such a peaceful artisan or shopkeeper who was disposed to cleave the enemies in twain with six-foot words; and voilà that the victor spoke of work, of mercy, and of peace. Que faire en pareil cas? The most skillful sheathed their speeches back into their scabbards to use them when they had a better chance, and sang an ode to peace; while others, not in a state to improvise, read aloud their dithyrambs and tried to hush these accents so terrible to them; only one, more naïve or more skilful than the rest, paid no heed to what he had just heard: he put a reveille horn to his lips and sounded the charge at the top of his lungs, with the entrain of an old veteran. It was the leader of the honest national hatters' guild.
"Ser," he said, "we are good honest townsfolk who don't understand at all the way diplomacy works. We only have our good common sense, disdained by the beaux esprits, as what belongs to ourselves. But in our lives, when a wasp buzzes too close, we crush it, and, should more wasps appear, we lodge four bullets inside their nest. For five hundred years we have fought this enemy nation, and the time has come to wipe out those vermin. We should have done it since ages ago, if no one had listened to those peacemakers or lawyers. Ser, please work this wonder. Give us a solid peace by exterminating the last of our enemies. We're invincible. If we've ever lost the upper hand, it was because we were betrayed. Nowadays we have nothing like that to fear; our resources are inexhaustible, our soldiers are bold, why should we delay? Those wretches dare to say that one of them can wipe out six or seven of us; history is there to set the record straight when it comes to this boast: one single ranker of ours swallows up ten of their leaders, as everyone knows. En avant! Sire, let the standard of victory fly; then we shall see if that strikes fear into their souls..."
The last words of the orator were, however, stifled. The poor fellow fell backwards, without pulse or voice, in the arms of his kindred guildmasters. There was a moment of confusion impossible to express. Deputies, chamberlains, valets ran in all directions, striking at arm's length to left and right. It took more than a quarter of an hour for order to be re-established.
And Elliott, who had had to make some effort to put on a brave face, found friendly words to excuse that ridiculous incident. He promised that justice would come out, consoled the stunned orator, and gave him such a hearty handshake that, in spite of etiquette, the artisan leapt up to his throat and dried up his tears on his epaulettes.
This scene touched every heart in sight; the young victor himself put a stop to the general display of emotion in ending the reunion with the following words, which were drowned out in cheers:
"Messieurs, I cannot be happier or prouder of your opinion. Continue to aid me with your advice and your opinions as you do now. If freedom of speech were banished from the face of the Earth, it shall be here that it will find a home. The first need and right of a leader is that of knowing the truth; the first need and right of subjects is that of telling the truth, without arrogance and without weakness."
From that evening onwards, the press came out with this memorable response on the front page.
The one hundred and two delegations descended with a buzz down the stairwells of the château, and the young ex-commander, now restored to his rightful place, began to breathe normally once more.





COMMENTARIES:
There are Cinderelliott stories, of Aarne-Thompson type 314, which trade the ballroom for the battlefield and the shoe for a wound received in action. Unfortunately, these are not as well-known as their female counterparts. So I have decided to make them more well-known, also to reflect upon warfare, violence, masculinity, and other such themes.

In the Aarne-Thompson summary of the episode: "The king demands the help of his sons-in-law. Goldener has only a poor kit and is mocked. With the help of his magic horse he achieves various heroic deeds. [···]  and defeats a foreign army three times in disguise. He is wounded and is bandaged by the king. Three times he withdraws and is mocked as a fool. Cf. Type 530. Goldener’s identity is revealed (e.g. by wounds, brands) and his true status is recognized [H55, H56]."
Los motivos principales de la Tercera Parte de LPE (secciones [4] y [5]) coinciden con este argumento-tipo ATU, 314: la ayuda solicitada por el suegro a sus yernos; [···] la derrota del ejército enemigo [4c]; la revelación y el reconocimiento final [5].
4.1. El caballo de siete colores de Juan de Ariza (1848)
Juan de Ariza cuenta con el privilegio de haber sido autor, en plena mitad del siglo XIX, de la primera colección de cuentos populares españoles (Amores, 2001b). Su corta pero original serie, compuesta por cuatro cuentos, llevaba el título de «Cuentos de viejas» y aparecería publicada entre los años 1848 y 1850 en el Semanario Pintoresco Español (1836-1857), la revista fundada por Mesonero Romanos que hacia mediados del siglo XIX mejor iba a contribuir para consolidar el modelo de publicación familiar, de divulgación y de entretenimiento.
 [4c. Ayuda militar] Finalmente, el reino se ve asediado por un numeroso ejército enemigo. El rey entrega el mando a sus dos yernos, pero es Alfredo (el advenedizo huérfano) quien logra que el caballo mágico le proporcione un ejército brillante y salir victorioso de la batalla. Esta vez el Tiñoso pide a sus futuros cuñados, los aristócratas/generalísimos Alberto y Cecilio que, a cambio del estandarte real, capturado por él al enemigo, marquen sus espaldas con un hierro candente en el que pueda leerse: «Esclavo del Tiñoso».
 [4c] [Ayuda militar] Pero entonces el embajador moro llega al palacio con una embajada y se declara la guerra. Vuelve a ponerse de manifiesto la cobardía de los príncipes y la caballerosidad de Juan Tiñoso. Terminada la guerra, se celebran grandes fiestas.
Las compensaciones serán también asimilables: y, finalmente, a cambio de los pendones o banderas ganados en la batalla, recibir el estigma de esclavitud con un hierro candente (LPE, 7 colores, Mercè, Tiñoso). Un acto de degradación del que burla claramente la versión mallorquina, Mercè, al regodearse en que se les marcó en las nalgas. Este final común es importante. Los elementos anteriores estaban anotados en el tipo internacional ATU, 314: «He [···] defeats a foreign army three times in disguise». Pero este final, no. Aunque confirma el final del tipo: «Goldener’s identity is revealed (e.g. by wounds, brands) and his true status is recognized».

In my version, replacing family-in-law with stepfamily to draw a closer parallel to Cinderella stories (in folkore, the antagonistic family-in-law and stepfamily are interchangeable), and placing more emphasis on the military aid episode, placing it as the centerpiece of the whole storyline, as well as occupying most of it.
My main sources here are the stories of Iron Hans (Eisenhans) and the Southern Italian Duck-Lad (Paperarello), not to mention the Magyar Prince Cinders (Hamupipöke királyfi). In one of my university yearbooks, I have the battle scenes in the Prussian Eisenhans handwritten down. Aside from Juan de Ariza's horse story above, from which I took the blackmail for the stolen flags; but replaced the branding with the more humiliating and historically accurate punishment of running the gauntlet for the stepbrothers.
The death of the stepfather... I had to add this as a cathartic note; as for the punctured lung and all the suffering that it entails, I took it partly from Lord Nelson, partly from General Bombe at the Battle of Necedad in Laboulaye's Poodle Prince (I translated the name of the village into Taradiddle, which more or less means the same). The deathbed scene re-enacted for a third time in Elliott's life, and that final reconciliations, manly tears... I can picture myself Gerhard Cronbladh in that painful trance indeed, as well as how painful and how cathartic it is for Elliott at this moment...
As for the regiment of fricking rock trolls, it's from Caillou qui biques by Charles Deulin, one of the best retellings of ATU 314 out there: https://archive.org/stream/bpt6k57257110#page/n161/mode/2up/search/caillou Trolls fighting under a human muggle commander against human muggle enemies, like WHAM.