#waterloo

The Eve of Battle.

Arthur Wellesley x Reader.

• ✦——————————✦ •

― A lady's favour was a personal token - such as a ribbon, a sleeve, scarf or glove bestowed by a noblewoman upon a knight before a battle or tournament. It served as a public symbol of her affection, support, and his devotion to her, intended to bring him good luck and inspire honorable combat.

―

Now on Ao3 x

―

It was the end of the world.

The end of the world as you knew it perhaps.

You frequently wait, in back rooms, when these worlds ends come beckoning, tonight, perhaps, more than ever in a downpouring of rain and wind rattling the great, pitch black outdoors. In boudoirs, foyers, bowers and cloakrooms; you wait in one such chamber for a visitation, as was frequently the case in the rehearsed regimen between you and him, looking for his emergence from the emptied parlour room adjoined to the dance hall that temporarily, by happenstance doubled as a clandestine, makeshift war room for the hasty, whirlwind occasion that interrupted the collective matineeing and waltzing once the Prussian envoy arrived in a graceless, impatient huff, resulting in Arthur and his posse secluding themselves in said set of four constricted walls and shutting the door. Everyone knew the news by now, everyone whispered it even as the downpour filled the drafty halls with the tense, cleansing scent of petrichor mingled with the melted candle wax --- Caesar has crossed the Rubicon. Napoleon has entered Belgium.

Funny that. The map of Europe might just change by tomorrow.

And here you were worrying; how Arthur would head out in such drizzle and foul weather.

People who love, you muse seated by the window enveloped in the velvet moisture of darkness and the occasional netting of flashing lightning, doubtlessly all had to be like that --- concerned with the utterly mundane. Perhaps when doomsday truly arrives, lovers would lay entwined in bed from here to Portugal, wondering if the other is warm beneath the covers. If their pillow needs adjusting. When he steps through the closed door illuminated by the silver candelabra that was your companion in waiting, crossing the wooden flooring in wide strides like a commander crossing an ocean, he reaches to kiss your hands in an instant.

-"God, I pray for you."-

You manage desperately, through a quiet gasp, the dam of your accumulated anxiety and fear held fast by a mere thread in public only to snap in half as your lips surge to meet his face, his cheeks, chin, mouth, eyelids, forehead, the hook of his nose, the hands holding your own as he pays homage to them, everywhere, all at once, at the same time, peppering him with your kisses feverishly, feeling your heartbeat echoed in your rigid, strained windpipe. God help you. God help him. God help everyone. What if he never returns? What if this is the last night you'll ever have to share a kind word with him? -"Hardly a goodbye."- He seems to chuckle with a partially amused, playful hum purring deeply at the back of his throat that doesn't alleviate the situation as it ought to, because how could it? You sniffle through your nose, feeling the prickle of tears dampen and blur your vision of him, stinging your lashes with salt threatening to spill; he grabs you by the shoulders and shakes, if only a little. It was bad luck. You should not be here, behaving like someone prematurely grieving for somebody already fallen; he knew that and you knew that too, but occasionally, the body could not rein itself in. It ran loose, like a wild charger through a field of canons. -"Damn you, I have been known to be stubborn in joining the choir invisible! You won't be draping your mirrors any time soon."- He raises his voice, giving you a good tug back and forth, possibly the only man alive who knew how to chastise like a General barking corrections at an unruly ensign but do it with infinite affection when he wished to, making you feel less like someone reprimanded and more like someone whose open wound was being tenderized with the balm of near paternalistic assurance. The tears are now spilling freely and without sound down your cheeks, dripping down the precipice of your trembling jaw, the muted candlelight illuminating the empty room bleeding into an aquarell of distant, flickering oranges drowned out by the heavy, velvet draperies spilling on the parquet. You have not even managed to dance with him tonight. He was opening the ball with the Duchess of Richmond. Time was slipping through your fingers. -"But, Arthur. In all that rain and mud and chill."- You whine pleadingly, sounding funny to your own soul even as you uttered those words intended for a man who has spent years in the Peninsula. Years in India. Spain. Portugal. Those who love in earnest, something inside you whispers, they always worry. Or they would not be those who love. Did Orpheus not turn when Eurydice tripped behind him?

-"My good Samaritan."-

He cooes with a lopsided, wolfish grin that showed no teeth.

A flicking, playful finger wiping your tears.

Tugging itself tenderly under your chin.

Holding you just so, the commotion outside drowned out only by the thunder.

He would have to go soon. They would all depart with him.

Many barely out of their ballroom dancing shoes.

-"She would turn her arms into a living tent to shield me and my entire arm from bad weather."-

Arthur murmurs, hands enveloping your face, thumb caressing under your eye.

Right where the moisture of your bubbling emotions accumulated.

There was no time to waste; you wrench yourself free.

-"Please."-

You reach for the wallpaper, pasteboard box you kept on the windowsill as your solitary, inanimate compatriot, opening the protective lid in a breathless haste, letting it fall with a thud to the floor and removing the long, folded up piece of pristine white fabric you have nestled inside of it like a singular treasure; Months of work, the last few days perhaps most arduous, leaving your fingers stinging with strain even now. You have began your toil when it became common knowledge Napoleon has escaped from Elba, while Arthur was in Vienna for the Congress and it is like every stitch, every tassel, every decorative bead, every initial hidden within the motifs was a prediction that an hour much like this would arrive, when you would be sending him off, on the eve of some battle, on the eve of some great reckoning.

-"Take this."-

You mutter in a hurry, wrapping the sash around the line of his blue waistcoat.

-"I have scarce finished it."-

You apologetically explain, the thumping of frantic, hurried footsteps outside now loud.

Ladies and their partners rushing to bid their farewells; mothers ushering off their sons.

Carriage wheels rolling and drumming down wet, slippery cobblestones.

You had to be brave. You would be brave.

But there was just barely any time; barely any time at all.

Barely time to breathe.

-"Something of mine to carry with you. I shall be at peace, I think ---"-

You trail off, voice trembling, hands working with expeditious fervour to adjust the five yards of pale ivory silk into place, his hands lifted up in mock surrender, allowing the contact, seeming oddly pleased, perhaps hiding whatever he truly felt as not to distress you; Arthur had a habit of doing so. His way of keeping morale high. A soldier's old tactical habit. -"Knowing you have something I made out there."- You manage to add finally, fastening your creation into a knot, as elegant as you could make it under duress; it was not part of the standard uniform accessory, but it was yours and on him and if that could protect him in whatever shape, way or form, then so be it. -"By God! Makes me look like a French Field Marshall!"- He jests, looking down at the fabric around him and all its embroidery and golden fringes and trimming, his observation eliciting a small, tear-bedashed chuckle out of you. It did look a pinch ostentatious and Gallic in aesthetic, yes, like something better suited for Field Marshal Ney's sartorial military choices, but --- -"A lady's favour before the fray."- He softly intercepts your thought riddled with explanations and rationalizations before it can even form on your lips, smoothing over the jab of his humor with the honey of a profound gratitude, the tenderness lacing his word near infinite as he presses another kiss, this time to your knuckle. -"I love you, Arthur."- You whisper, unashamed, without holding back, without care for protocol or manners; he needed to hear this, as plainly, commonly and as casually as it could be said to another human soul lest he be lost to you and never gets to hear it at all and you'd rather be bold and impertinent for but a moment than regretful for the rest of your living days. Arthur smiles with his eyes reflecting the flickering red candlelight acting as witness to two lovers who, if the world was a world of peace would be laying down instead, wrapped up in an embrace meant to last the whole night uninterrupted, rain, thunder and wind be damned. His men were at the door aware of the fact he was not inside alone --- that he retired here for a moment to allow you to bid him Goodspeed properly; you knew they were giving him a strategic opening of precious closure even without them banging on the wooden surface for their Field Marshal's immediate attention and making their presence known. Your knight. Your knight in shining armor. They were all waiting for him. -"A gentleman never says it back before departure."- He quips gently, with a sardonic edge, the tip of his index finger tapping the round apex of your nose, letting go of your hands and arms, the absence of him as cold as death must have been. Your heart clenches with an unnatural ache of missing one that has not even properly leaped over the threshold yet or out of the periphery of your sight.

-"He says it when he returns."-

He promises, stepping out the door, sash billowing after him.

The flooding rain does not stop that night.

“A la Porte de la Croix-Saint-Ouen,

ce 21 juin 1815,

A S. Exc. le Maréchal Prince d'Eckmuhl,

Ministre de la Guerre,

Cest avec une peines (sic) extrême que je suis parvenu à me faire jour pour gagner la Capelle, espérant y trouver des nouvelles de l'Empereur.

S. M. a pasé (sic) le 19, à 3 heures du matin, par Charleroy, sans doute pour aller se mettre à la tête des trouppes (sic) du Maréchal Grouchy, vers Fleurus, pour y faire l'arrière-garde.

La bataille du 18 juin Mont-Saint-Jean a été malheureuse. J'en donnerai tous les détails à V.Exc.

Jen suis bien chagrin. Adieu.

Le Maréchal Ney”

“At the Porte de la Croix-Saint-Ouen,

this 21st of June, 1815,

To H. Exc. the Marshal Prince of Eckmühl,

Minister of War,

It is with extreme pain that I managed to make my way to La Capelle, hoping to find news of the Emperor there.

H.M. passed through Charleroi on the 19th, at 3 o'clock in the morning, undoubtedly to go and place himself at the head of Marshal Grouchy's troops, towards Fleurus, to form the rear guard.

The battle of June 18th at Mont-Saint-Jean was unfortunate. I shall give all the details to Y. Exc.

I am very grieved by it. Farewell.

Marshal Ney”

This letter was part of the collections of Hector Fleischman, a fervent and learned Napoleonist, who died too soon.(from “Le Calvaire de Michel Ney” p.78)

〜〜〜〜〜〜〜〜〜〜〜〜〜〜〜〜

The delayed start of Marshal Ney's attack at the Battle of Quatre Bras, a prelude to Waterloo, has long been a subject of debate among historians. It is generally believed that the attack could not have commenced early on the morning of the 16th, both because Napoleon's orders to Ney were ambiguous and because the troops under Ney's command were widely dispersed.

Regarding this delay, there exists a local legend, which the renowned author Marguerite Yourcenar also touched upon. According to this tradition, on June 15, Marshal Ney stayed at the residence of a local gentleman named Dumon, where he was served wine in abundance. Dumon’s daughter, Camille (born in 1806), testified that she had reached for the dessert—a chocolate cream—intended for the Marshal, only to be slapped for her curiosity. It is said that a heavily intoxicated Ney suffered from a hangover the following day, neglecting his necessary military duties, which ultimately led to the catastrophic defeat at Waterloo.

(Also interesting is the claim that Mortier, who left the battlefield due to sciatica, was 'faking it.' This theory of Mortier's feigned illness is also mentioned by Vigo-Roussillon.)

This account appears in a book from Brussels (the publication year is unknown).

Modern historians dismiss this story entirely; however, it remains fascinating when considering the process by which oral traditions surrounding historical events are formed.

According to experts on Tumblr, Andrew Roberts' works are said to be biased; however, since I am interested in Ney's cavalry charge at Waterloo, I decided to give it a read. While there are numerous interpretations regarding the trigger of this charge, a new interpretation—as introduced in Éric Perrin's biography—suggests that an accidental event was involved, and this theory seems to be drawing attention from both British and French biographers. According to this theory, it was Captain de Brack who shouted that Wellington was retreating. In de Brack's letter (1835), he states that, in response to his shout, enthusiastic cavalrymen began to advance, and this movement spread in the blink of an eye. Then, once Milhaud's unit started moving, Lefebvre-Desnoëttes, for some reason, followed Milhaud's unit without orders. In the movie Waterloo, Napoleon is depicted as not watching the battle lines at this moment due to illness, but this does not seem to be historically accurate.