Siege of Toulon

[Ladorak]

Four months...that's all it had taken. James Saumarez had been hoping to last a tad longer, but instead he had broken down much sooner than anticipated. It happened right after his first combat in this war.

A few weeks ago...brilliant autumn day, the retracting shadows indicating the shortening of the days...and the changes coming over Saumarez's coat. As a northern least weasel, he became white like his stoat cousins, and was already starting to show some of that peppery backside as his brown started to recede.

Off the Rosferian coast, before noon, HMS Crescent had had a run in with a Rosferian national frigate, the Reunion. A sharp, short fight ensued, lasting around two hours, in which the two evenly matched vessels ranged alongside each other and blasted away. Saumarez had eventually cut behind his opponent's stern, raking her as he did so, to deliver broadsides to the opposite side of her hull. He had lost his fore topmast, and the Rosferian had lost the entire battle. Captain François Denian had been brave, but as most Rosferian captains tended to do, he had fired too high, aiming at Saumarez's masts while Saumarez had battered the hull of the Rosferian vessel, killing or maiming 120 of the Reunion's crew out of a total complement of 300. Such heavy losses precipitated the Rosferian's surrender, and Saumarez had lost not a jack, save for one.

In the opening salvo, an unfortunate crewbeast had been late in jumping out of the path of his gun's recoil, and had his right leg crushed under the weight of the three ton weapon as it rolled backward.

For his gallantry and heroism in capturing the Reunion, James Saumarez was now Sir James Saumarez, Knight Grand Cross. King Poynt had promptly Knighted the weasel Captain upon his return to port, and the jack had sat down to pen a letter to his sweetheart, Dorothea, in the most glowing terms he could muster.

But unexpectedly...halfway through that message, Saumarez had broken down in tears. The oddest set of circumstances preceded the breakdown. When relating the injury of his crewbeast, Saumarez was reminded of pain...and being reminded of pain made him think of his fiancee, who he had all but ignored the past four months, sending perhaps a letter or two if that. It was then that his moral compass spun wildly back to true standings, and his inner pain at what he was doing overwhelmed him as surely as a dammed river bursting its confines and flooding a helpless town.

The weasel knew his passing over his future wife in favor of his secret lover was simply heinous, and it was with terrible guilt that he penned a new letter, crumpling up the previous one he had begun. He wrote to Priscilla Steep, apologizing for not writing sooner, and wishing her well on her upcoming campaign. He related the events of the battle, and how his ship had achieved victory over the enemy. He concluded with a veiled desire to see her, and informed her that by the time the letter arrived, he wouldn't be far behind it. He added his promotion to the tail end of it, singing the letter as "Sir James Saumarez, Knight Grand Cross, yours in matrimony". Perhaps he was hoping that her knowing that he was now a Knight might help to erase his lower status, and also convince her that his government had chosen well in picking out a hero from their group of captains.

And thus he found himself, early on an October night, mists curling about the captured harbor of Toulon as his skiff bumped up to the dockside. The Crescent had needed repairs after her sharp action, and needed a new fore topmast (and probably a new foremast just to be safe), so the newly promoted Knight had taken the opportunity to depart from his beloved homeland, and travel thousands of miles across the sea to visit his future wife.

The mist wreathed a sleepy dock guard who quickly wiped his eyes at Saumarez's approach. The fellow was Welkinite, judging by his red coat (not white like the Ferlusanians, or pale blue like the Neapolitans, as Fugate's mission to secure their aid had been a success), and peered at the impressive looking cross pinned to the approaching weasel's overcoat, indicating his Knighthood.

"Excuse me Sergeant..." the kindly spoken Knight addressed the guard. "But might you direct me to a Captain Priscilla Steep's station?" he asked, scratching the side of his head with a spindly claw.

Frowning, the soldier shook his head, as it didn't ring a bell. "If she's a Ferlusanian, Commandant Gravina would probably know...but hold on here...is she that weasel jill? The one with the temper?"

"Temper? Perhaps." James stated, aware that his future wife's emotions were still a mystery to him by and large.

"Oooh she's in charge of that Majorca Company. Up at Fort St. Antoine." he motioned in the general direction of a towering mountain to the north, just barely visible through the mists. Squinting, the Knight nodded, and inquired as to the location of the fortress. The soldier responded in like kind, stating it was at the base of the mountain's western side, not actually on the slope itself.

Nodding, Saumarez thanked the red coat, and began his trek through town towards Mount Faron, the towering edifice that overlooked the Allied lines. Little did he know, as he started out, that tonight was no ordinary night. Taking advantage of the misty conditions, the Rosferians were currently marching stealthily up the other side of that mountain towards the fort at the summit, Croix Faron, in an attempt to catch the Ferlusanian garrison unawares and seize control of the heights over the city.

But that was as of yet knowledge unknown to the Allies, who were relaxing for the night, preparing for sleep in a few hours. It mattered naught to Saumarez, who was only interested in seeing Steep tonight. He knew he was in a combat zone, but had been told that the Rosferians had been quiet as of late, as quiet as mice. It was business as usual...right?

[spender]

Poker was, by and large, a waste of time. It was too easy, when half the table started wagging their tails after picking up a card. Captain Priscilla Steep kept her tells to a minimum. It was impossible for the other soldiers to tell if or when she was bluffing. The only proper clue they got was when she stood up and threw her chair across the table, and they weren't sure if that wasn't because Private Rivera had been snuffling in his drink too much, or if it was on account of a particularly bad paw of cards.

They were all relieved when she was summoned away by a visitor. As jovial as the weasel was when the whiskey was flowing at supper, there had been entirely too many close shaves for anyone to sit completely comfortable in her presence. They laughed along with her jokes, grinned and shared their own kit-inappropriate stories of war, but when she left, it all somehow became real.

The worst part was that she could sense it when she left the room. The atmosphere in the hall was different. It was lighter, it stank less of musk—there was no fear.

She scared them.

She loved them. But not one of them had been with her before. None of them knew her. It didn't seem fair.

Sighing, she padded down the hall. For all her bright-eyed mischief with her soldiers, there was a hesitation in her stride, as if her footpaws didn't want to lift once they'd set down. By the time she made it to her quarters, it was a struggle. She was tired; she hadn't been sleeping well. Not that she ever did. But now, on duty and far from home, it wasn't simply a matter of catching up in the afternoon. She was pushing herself to the limit every day, and in the silence of the fort's hallways, it showed.

It was all she could do to bottle it up again before she opened the next door.

"I'm sorry," she said, too distracted by the sudden realization that her uniform jacket was unbuttoned to notice the peppered jack's clothes and lack of station, and thus, speaking in Ferlusanian as she hurriedly fixed herself up, fully expecting him to be a superior of some sort. "I'm a little late. Captain Steep, sir. You wished to see me? The message was not clear why..."

She frowned. Why was he standing at her desk? Holding her mail? Specifically, those accursed letters from that Captain Sam-something that she had never bothered to open, and instead kept bundled up to use as a paperweight...

Oh, zipperfriskin chivvers...

Steep groaned. It was him, wasn't it?

[Ladorak]

Saumarez had been shown to Steep's chambers, the soldier muttering something under his breath about luck or some such thing. Saumarez's grasp of Ferlusanian wasn't great. His brow furrowed upon seeing a stack of letters on her desk...a few of them from him.

There were the one or two he had sent...and the most recent one, compressed into a bulging envelope. None of them were open. He began to rifle through them, placing first one on top, and then another, checking the dates on all of them. Not a single one opened. Well...he could tell where this arranged marriage was going.

He took note of the trash can sitting next to her desk, just as the door opened behind him. Raising his brows, the weasel turned to face...well that was a nice sight. The entering jill had her jacket unbuttoned, and seemed terribly distracted by it. Saumarez patiently waited, doing his best to avert his eyes from that wonderfully creamy white belly fur as his fiancee made herself look presentable, still not noticing him apparently.

And then she paused...and it must have hit her. The jack was slightly amused at her reaction, and tried to stifle his slight smile as she groaned. "Hello darling." He spoke up then. There wasn't much behind his statement, more of a bemused undercurrent if anything. "I see you've been making use of my letters...as paperweights." he said, holding them up in front of him now. "Since I brought a few things with me that might serve the task better, why don't we put these in a more appropriate place?"

He promptly tossed his unopened letters into the trashcan beside her desk, listening to them land with a thud of finality. "No sweat right? They're only words. I uh...brought you some presents." he opened his own jacket now to reveal a large bottle of Odde Tinge. "It's not indigenous to this region, but it's quite strong. I figured you'd appreciate it. I've managed to secure several casks of it, so you should be set for a few weeks...perhaps even a month. I hope it helps alleviate some of your woes." he said, exhaling as he finished, holding the bottle out for her.

He would have to break the news to her at some point as well, but best save it for the moment. The garrison commander had already informed him of the lack of room for him to stay, but upon hearing that he was affianced to Priscilla Steep, the CO had been quick to suggest they share the same bed. But that would come later...let's let her catch up first.

[spender]

Steep's heart thumped. The evolution of her species to stand on two legs, speak with thickened tongue, and have the necessary opposable claws and brain processes to succeed, had also rendered her heart's natural rhythm considerably slower than her unevolved, feral counterparts. But that that moment, she was certainly proving herself capable in the beats-per-minute area.

How long had he been here unattended? Had he only picked up the familiar envelopes off her desk because they'd been out in the open, or had he gone rifling through her drawers prior? Did he know, had he found, had he read the other stack, hidden in the lowest drawer, under a soiled pawkerchief and piece of undergarment that she had been so sure would repel unwanted paws from prying? There was no evidence that this was so, but Steep knew... beasts could be clever. She was clever. She was clever enough to grow bored with her cleverness, to become lazy in her hiding, to leave edges and corners poking out of stacks... For some time, it was the only shred of excitement in her life, that unknowable variable. It had lent mystery to her suffering, to question if her father or the butler or the maids knew, but just never said...

Now the thrill of mystery had turned to ashen fear in her throat. Why would Saumarez choose to announce his findings? It would not make a difference in their predestined relationship.

The weasel did her best to calm down. Her poker face remained stable.

Ignoring the bottle of green-blue liquid held out to her, she circled around Saumarez and fished the letters out of the garbage bin. She placed them back on the desk, fiddling with each until they were all straight, a tiny paper pyramid.

"Not just words," she said, now in Welkin for his comfort. "Ideas. Ink. Time. Letters are not gifts. They're promises... to keep."

She closed her eyes, placing her paw on the top of the stack. Each one had caused her a week of restlessness. Each one had been a falcon's talon circling her head, tugging until it felt her scalp would tear off. Just knowing there was a Captain James Saumarez out there, wasting his time on her, reminding her of the futility of her life, was a massive blow to her productivity and well-being. She dared not read them, not because she didn't care for him, but because she knew they would complicate her daily life beyond reasonable health. She was only just holding on now; another sleepless night, another panicked binge, and she would lose that grip. She'd fought off physical illness for too long to let it get a pawhold in her and bring her down now. Didn't he see that this wasn't the time? That the very thought of him in her life caused her so much ache and stress that it nearly doubled her phantom pains, nevermind his actual physical presence?

And now he was here. Was this even allowed?

"Thank you," she added, opening her eyes. She spun around and headed to the dresser, where she began collecting glasses. "There's a corkscrew around here somewhere. Ah, on the bed."

She kicked an empty wineglass beneath the bed, pausing to wince at the wooden clatter it produced—so that's where her fiddle had gotten to...

"I must give you credit. You're the first one to give me a practical gift for my affections. The other suitors seemed to think the one thing a shut-in needed was a fancy ballgown."

She snorted, then sat on the edge of her bed. Might as well try to make the best of it...

[Ladorak]

Much to the Knight's surprise, the jill ignored his proffered booze, and instead retrieved his letters from the waste bin. That was singularly unexpected...perhaps there was more compassion in her than he had initially given her credit for. He allowed a wisp of a smile to grace his lips as she set the letters on his desk.

"Read them whenever's convenient for you." he said in a low voice, almost a whisper. She closed her eyes, having completely ignored the alcohol. She wasn't a selfish creature after all...she cared enough to get his letters out of the trash, even if she never had any intent to read them. He had been secretly hoping she would have done just that, but not expecting it. She had exceeded his expectations...that was a step in the right direction.

He pondered if something was perhaps wrong, and he waited for her to open her eyes and start to get her glasses out of the wardrobe. He assumed this was an invitation to drink tonight. Why not? It wasn't as if the Rosferians had done anything recently, from what he'd heard.

"Hardly." he said, chuckling slightly at her ballgown comment. "What would you possibly do with that on the front line?" he asked rhetorically, moving over to her and sitting down by her side on her bed, holding out the bottle so she could undo the top and they could start to partake. "No, your father recommended an alcohol of some kind, and this is the strongest I know of...not even a Welkinite invention, oddly enough." he let the jill dig the corkscrew into the fibrous material, yanking the stopper out with a nice pop.

The jack proceeded to pour her glass first, giving her a nice amount so that it was almost to the top. The better to help with the pain, right? He poured his ration next, not giving himself quite as much. Reaching out to set the bottle down on her desk, he lifted his glass. "To my new Knighthood perhaps...that's right, they knighted me for capturing a Rosferian frigate...though I'll let you read that in my latest letter. Actually...I might feel more comfortable making the toast to you...and your indomitable will." he tipped his forehead in her direction, and took a drink before looking back at her.

He sucked in his cheeks for a second, as he'd never tasted this...minty drink, but it wasn't half bad. It'd probably knock him on his rump if he wasn't careful though. "Is...anything wrong?" he asked. "I noticed you seemed rather distracted...or weighed down by something. Are you alright?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice as he studied her.

[spender]

Steep stared into the depths of her drink. Her ... father? After all his hounding and pleading to her her to stop, had recommended this? Knowing full well she was on duty again? Was he trying to ger her kicked out and sent back home? Old fart was probably all alone and miserable without her...

Saumarez was rambling on. Steep listened with half an ear. Knighthood, yippee. So he did his job. That was ... something.

The drink had settled in her glass. The surface was reflective, dark and pale blue-green; she could see her face in it. The scar on her nose glistened and bulged in the circular mirror, like some creature prying at her face from the other side. Like a giant, rotting mass of algae growing, pulsing with each new beat of life—her life, sucked out of her through the maddening, festering welt, to feed this monster attached to her head.

"...down by something. Are you alright?"

"Hm? No."

Steep swished her glass, dissolving the hideous creature inside.

"Don't ask stupid questions," she said, and then raised the glass, guzzling it down in one go. Normally, she didn't care for the subtle flavours of alcohol. It was a necessary drug, not something she did for fun. But this was new. It was worthy of her attention.

Slippery ... slimey ... minty... was that lemon? ... sour, yet ... burning, of course ... It was good.

She held her glass out for a refill. Why not use up the whole bottle? It's what it was meant for. Besides, nothing had been happening here. It wasn't like tonight, of all nights, the Rosferians were suddenly going to storm the mountain...

"Why did you come here? Doesn't the Welkin Navy need your ship somewhere?"

[Ladorak]

The least weasel shook his head. "No...not at all. If...you had read my latest letter, you would have realized that the Crescent is in for repairs...quite extensive ones in fact, as she was damaged in battle...lost her fore topmast, among other things." he began pouring her refill, not even finished with his first glass yet. "So because of that...and my recent gaining of a title, I decided to take a leave of absence...the King said I had earned it after all...and..." I was going to visit Dorothea...but here I am instead.

"Well...I wanted to visit you." he stood up now from his position on the bed, downing more of his drink as he did so. "I...was going to write to somebody else at first...telling them about my victory...and the details of the battle...but in the end...I...thought of you. So I composed the letter to you instead."

He walked over to her desk, looking down at the unopened envelope. He tapped it with a claw, but didn't slit it open. "Anyways, I figured you wouldn't mind the company. Even if you despise me...well...I wanted to see you. Priscilla..." he turned to face her, leaning back against her desk. "I've been thinking about your situation."

He paused, swirling the bluish liquid around in his glass. "I...have this stupid thing...where...I'm empathic to the pain of others...not...on the extent that they experience it of course...but still...to an extent. The only casualty we suffered in the battle was a poor fellow who failed to jump out of the way of his cannon's recoil in time. I visited him later on, after the fight was over. His leg was crushed...completely shattered. I doubt they can save it. It was broken a little below the knee, bout here." he reached down and drew a line on his shin with a silvery claw.

"He was in quite a bit of pain at the time, but told me that he was still proud to have served in the fight. Well...it got me thinking of you...and your suffering. See at least his pain will fade in a few weeks, after they amputate and cut the bad part off. But you...your pain doesn't fade..." he cast his eyes downward, looking at her floor. "And I thought...maybe you'd like a visitor. I know I'm not the first on your list...but I wanted you to know that at least one weasel is thinking about you...and plans to spend time with you...even if physically I can't do much."

He lifted his eyes and his snout back up to angle them at her, a sympathetic look in his eyes. "I'll be here...for better or worse for now..."

[spender]

Steep remained seated on the edge of her bed. She pressed her glass, empty again (she'd barely noticed), against her forehead, digging into the scar with the rim. If it was only just a little softer, the glass could break... a nice, quick thrust. Over.

Sometimes that was all she wanted.

Right now, she wanted to laugh.

"Una lesión," she wheezed, grinning and trying to hide it behind her arms and paws, her head tucked away from view. One, and he goes on this guilt parade... he'd never survive in the army... Yet how did I?

"Stop this," she said, more clearly, straightening up. "Stop it right now, do you hear? You can't... you can't go about feeling sorry for everyone. Especially not me. You should leave soon. You've done enough—th...thank you. This was very kind." She gestured at the bottle. "But I'm not some fading..." What was the word? Oh, well. "I'm not dying, and I don't need you fretting over my deathbed. Go back, Saumarez, and forget about me—forget about whatever pain you think I have."

Steep stood up from the bed then, and bent down to kick something out the other side from underneath. She walked around and picked up her fiddle.

"It's all in my head. Imaginario. Aha." She found the bow under a pillow, then slid back onto the bed and rested her back against the headboard. "So worry about yourself."

She closed her eyes and began playing.

"Uno de nosotros necesidades de ser feliz."

[Ladorak]

She turned away, seeming amused at something he said. He regarded her with a dour look, but waited for her to turn back around. One injury? Or an injury? He wasn't sure. His Ferlusanian was rusty. He could speak better Rosferian than Ferlusanian.

He raised a brow when she told him to stop it. How could he stop worrying about others? That was his nature, not something he could just stop doing. "Leave? You must be joking..." He said, shaking his head, an amused smile breaking out on his face. "It took me a month and then some to get here. I'm not just going to leave. And what's this rubbish about forgetting about you and this so called imaginary pain?"

He pushed off from her desk, watching as she retrieved her violin. He liked the viola himself, but violins were far more common. She was also misunderstanding his motives...but so was he. He had come out here because he was to be married to her...and had spent next to no time with her. He wanted to perhaps make it up to her...until he realized there was nothing to make up. She wanted him to forget her...well that was one thing he couldn't do. They'd be bloody husband and wife after all.

"Now Priscilla...you know I can't do that." he said, moving over to her bed. He listened to the strings on the violin beginning to sing, and heard her say something...but this one he could interpret. Ferlusanian and Rosferian had common roots, and he could fill in the rest. One of us needs to be happy... So it wasn't just in her head? Why else would she be upset?

Make something up James! Tell her...you wanted to see her! That you wanted to be with her! Not because you had to, but that you wanted to...that'll work!

"Priscilla...that's nonsense. There's no reason you can't be happy. And I'm not leaving and forgetting about you. Preposterous! Priscilla..." he reached out for her paw, but realized she was playing her violin and that that wouldn't work, so settled for resting it on her shoulder. He gave her a smile, sitting down beside her. "Come on. I traveled out here to see you...to visit you. To be with you. It was a conscious decision I made, not out of obligation or coercion or anything like that. I requested shore leave...and I'm going to bloody well spend it with you! You're not worth forgetting...alright? We're going to be husband and wife...you're not just someone that's been forced on me. That's not true."

It was, but at the same time Saumarez was trying to make the effort. "This isn't a duty or an obligation...it's something I wanted to do. When I requested my leave...I was thinking about you, and about visiting you. I could've spent it with my family, right? But I'm here. Almost a thousand miles from home...with you." he kept his paw on her shoulder, his smile remaining up on his features. His half truth sounded much better than even he had been expecting. He had indeed thought of her, but would've preferred to spend his leave on Guernsey. Yet here he was. He may as well play off this and see where it lead him.

It wasn't like he absolutely did not want to spend time with her after all...that wasn't it. He listened to that haunting melody she was playing, not recognizing the tune, but figuring she wasn't half bad. It wasn't chamber music, but it was better than what he'd expected. He'd give her credit on that. "It's nice. What's the tune?" he asked, pointing at the violin, the squeaky strings bending slightly under the pressure of the horse hairs on the bow.

[spender]

The tune, the tune... what was it... Steep almost didn't recognise it herself.

"Ode to Joy," she whispered, pausing a moment. "In minor key." And, apparently, half tempo. A dirge to joy, really.

He didn't get it. He was saying the same things he'd said before—that he wanted this to work, that they were to be married, that he should get to know her, spend time with her—chivvers! What a load of gull. Did he have to be so bloody amiable? So prissed-up and proper? Couldn't just just admit he had hated this as much as she had, that he didn't think it was fair to thrust two weasels from enemy nations together for the sake of a partnership that was destined to crumble soon as the war was over? And without war, what were either of them? Best not to even think about that.

And now he was taking away the only thing she thought she could have held onto; she needed someone to talk to, to tell how awful it was, to complain to and cry to and who would hold her and not understand. But no—he had to go and have empathy, and she knew she could never open up to him now. She had to stay stronger than ever, hole herself up away from him, because if she slipped... and he caught her... he'd lose his balance, too.

The worst part was, she couldn't tell him any of this. He had effectively shut her down; she could literally think of nothing to say to him to give him what he wanted. The memories she had of herself weren't who she was. Who she was now was going to kill him.

He was a good jack. He didn't deserve her, or any of this. He was a good soul, and the last thing Steep wanted to do to him was let him understand and feel even a fraction of what was going through her every day. If he tore himself up over one crewbeast losing a leg, a lifetime with a wife like her, well...

She'd liked ribbons, as a kit. But she didn't want a husband who was made of them.

In a silent fit, she tossed the fiddle across the room. It crashed into the wall, making a noise not unlike a bewildered "quack". Steep slid off the bed and stood up. She wobbled, grabbed the post, and lurched towards the door.

"Wicking hell... I left my beret at supper... going to go get it..."

Her claws gouged the wall as she hurried out the door into the hall.

There was another bewildered "quack". A small white head poked out from under the bed, followed by a long, skinny neck, and then a globular mass of feathers that waddled out the open doorway after Steep.