IMPORTANT – READ – This is an experimental character type for me. Usually (as I'm sure you've notice) I tend to favour the emotionally/intellectually strong female heroine types. However, I wanted to start with a character and really develop them through adversity and conflict. Also thought I'd give this one a bit of a different spin. Update on the Fox and the Robin – it will be updated soon! The chapter has turned out bigger than I thought. I will probably post it up by the end of the week…or next week (latest).

Another note – there are a lot of names! I have included a character reference (for myself too!)

Character information:

Father – Marquis Louis-Joseph de Montcalm born 1712 (age 45) + Mother - Angelique Louise Talon du Boulay born 1717 (age 40)

Children – O= alive / X = deceased

Louis-Gaston de Montcalm – O – Born 1732 (age 25)

Francois-Manuel de Montcalm – O – Born 1734 (age 23)

Jean- Charles de Montcalm – X – Born 1734 - Died 1757 (age 23)

Louis-Alix de Montcalm – X – Born 1733 – died 1738 (age 5)

Marie Renee de Moncalm – O – Born 1735 (age 22)

Giselle Antoinette de Moncalm - X – Born 1735- Died 1736 (age 1)

Jocelyn Daphne de Montcalm – O – Born 1736 (age 21)

Charlot Odette Montcalm – X – Born 1737 - Died 1752 (age 15)

Monique Olympe de Montcalm – O – Born 1738 (age 19)

February, 1757

Chateau de Candiac, near Nimes, Southern France.

An Englishman once said, 'Beauty is power, a smile is its sword'.

These were words Monique Olympe de Montcalm lived by. They were also the words she often muttered to herself during her morning beauty rituals. Sat in front of her vanity mirror, Olympe gazed deeply at her reflection, scrutinizing herself in fanatic detail. As usual, she started from the top and scanned her way down.

Despite courtly fashions dictating otherwise, Olympe kept her lustrous black curls natural; she pointedly refused to wear any powdered wig or false hair tied in with her own. She was still traumatised by her first experience with her mother's personal coiffeurs. It was such a daunting experience for a little seven-year-old, having grown attendants brushing and pulling at her hair, mixing in a strange whitish powder which made her scalp burn and blister. She cried, screamed and thrashed, promptly fleeing the room, her hair half-finished and stained an ugly dark grey. She refused to leave her room until the coiffeur was excused from service. Her sisters, Renee and Daphne, had teased her mercilessly about it; claiming they would have to shave her head like a redskin to let the natural colour grow back. Thankful, it was not true. After some vigorous scrubbing, the acidic powder finally washed out. Ever since, Olympe refused to have let anyone -aside from her personal matron- style her hair. Even then, her dark curls were only to be set in soft curls, delicately twisted and pinned into an arrangement of rows across the front and top of her head. The length at the back was braided and tied up with silken ribbons.

Olympe continued to evaluate herself; her porcelain skin was layered with thick white foundation, a common practice for any noble lady of France. Rouge was subtly smudged around her eyes and cheeks; to finish off, her lips were carefully painted with a dark, cherry red (a colour mixture of her own creation). Its mauve shade accented the depths of her self-loved eyes. Olympe had been born with the most peculiar eyes. They were a pale blue and given the right light, one could dare say they were even the faintest shade of lilac. They were much like her father's; they were about the only thing she inherited from him.

She then frowned; the reflection in the mirror doing the same.

Monique Olympe wasn't the most intellectual of Marquis de Montcalm's daughters, she certainly wasn't the most gifted; but by God, she was the most beautiful. In her most recent visit to the court of Versailles, The King himself, The Beloved Louis XV, had fleetingly dubbed her La Petite Beauté. A title which many would agree with. Even as a newborn babe, Olympe was adored. Her birth had been used as a grand excuse for much celebration and festivities; she was the youngest of the de Montcalm children after all and the last destined to be born. The birth had been practically taxing on Madame Angelique Louise de Montcalm; despite her husband's amorous devotion to her, doctors had advised against any future conceptions. Because of this, and the recent death of one of their other children, Olympe had been treasured and spoilt above all others; numerous guests came to convey their good wishes. Even the famed Madame de Pompadour, retired chief mistress to King Louis XV, had been invited to the extravagant procession. It had truly been a momentous affair. But Olympe learnt very early on that even the sunsets in paradise. The novelty of her birth soon faded and Olympe was soon passed into the care of one of the matrons at the chateau; her mother simply couldn't cope with her constant crying. None of her previous children had caused such fuss; Madame de Montcalm was certain the child was struck by some affliction, why else would the child cry so much in her presence? Her father had managed no better; as much as he loved all his children, he considered Olympe to be a most troublesome and unruly child. She was never a shy child, as a toddler she was perspective enough to gauge her status amongst the household. Her earliest memory was running around the chateau as a toddler; when she came upon any servants or guests, she would outstretch her hand in expectation, awaiting a kiss in greetings. Though her brothers found such antics amusing, her father seemed less than impressed. In his opinion, respectable French women -even his own daughters- were to have some degree of humility. He became increasingly distressed as Olympe grew older, she grew more demanding, vying for his undisputed affections, even when his attention was desperately called for elsewhere. The King would soon send him on yet another campaign in America, accompanied by none other than his own three sons; he had to ensure they fully prepared for the horrors of war. The de Montcalm patriarch had already lost one son, Alix, God rest his soul. He did not want to lose another. The needs and wants of his difficult daughter would have to wait.

Olympe seemed to resign herself to this fact. As she grew into womanhood, she found she had to adapt herself and become more introverted; it was the only way to cope with the mundane life of luxury she was living. Yet with little to occupy her attention, Olympe found herself actively seeking out conflict. Like any child, ignored and abandoned, Olympe sought out some form of interaction; even if it was initially negative. In her fashionable, courtly heels, she pitter-pattered her way into her sister's chambers -without so much as a knock on the door. Marie Renee was the eldest of the de Montcalm sisters; she was also the most scholarly, with ambitions of one day opening her own salon like Madame de Pompadour's in Étiolles. Matters of the mind utterly fascinated Renee; she consumed editions of Voltaire's work with ravenous enthusiasm. Books and manuscripts of every subject and genre filled her personal library. She had more pieces of literature than she did articles of dresses. Olympe never understood the appeal. Dusty, old books had never really interested her; why sit and read when you could do something much more practical? It was an argument the sisters often found themselves debating, on numerous occasions, and as always, it would end the same; Olympe would storm off in a huff and Renee would laugh in apparent victory. Renee readied herself for yet another repeat, hoping it would be a quick hostile exchange; she had no interest in dealing her little sister so early in the morning.

"Ah, my little sister. Good morning." Renee was laid back, reclining by the window of her apartment. She was dressed in a dusky, salmon, pink frock adorned with ruffles. Coupled with her powdered white, curled hair and equally pale skin, Renee looked like a sickly sinister; at least, that's what Olympe thought -silently to herself-. Her sister didn't overly concern herself with the latest fashion crazes, falling in and out of courtly favour. It was her way of standing out in society's forever changing masses; she fully intended to exercise the liberty of free will (one of Voltaire's philosophical notions). Olympe rolled her eyes, waiting for Renee to fully acknowledge her. Her elder sister may be enlightened, but dear Lord, she was still as rude as a common, farm sow.

Finally, dark, almond eyes glanced up from the pages of her book of which her nose was currently buried in. "Finally gracing us with your rapturous presence, I see."

Olympe squared back her shoulders, seeming to prepare herself for this self-imposed altercation. "As the sun must rise, so too must I, dear sister." Olympe did not let the verbal barbs bother her; at least, she was far used to them now to openly show it. Instead, she assumed her haughty indifference and sauntered through the apartment, her eyes causally scanning over the numerous books she had seen before.

She then looked back at Renee, who was watching patiently her, no doubt waiting for more development in her initial exchange. Olympe felt obliged to ask, "Whatever are you reading now?"

Renee closed the book, looking at the front cover with an expression of thoughtfulness, "Just a bit of light reading. History of the Dragon; it contains the actions of Genevieve Premoy. A rather interesting read, I must say." Renee then glanced at Olympe, with a look of obvious disappointment. "Nothing that would interest you, I'm sure."

Olympe ignored her with practiced ease. Renee was trying yet again to bait her with subtle jabs; she always flaunted her knowledge when she could, even over her younger sister. Olympe did not raise to the bait, instead she cantered her head at the book, feigning interest. "Genevieve who? I've never heard of her."

Renee eyes twinkled as she shook her head, grinning to herself like a cheshire cat, "Why am I not surprised? Such tragedy. My little sister, all beauty, but sadly, no brains."

The nerve in Olympe's cheek twitched, but was quickly concealed in a tight lipped smile. "Careful, Renee. Jealousy is unbecoming. It adds -even more- wrinkles." She was silently delighted when she saw the elder de Montcalm lady frown. It seemed she had scored a point in this game of verbal fencing. Nevertheless, Renee seemed determined to retaliate.

"Here, enlighten yourself." Renee tossed the book onto a nearby tea table, uncaring if it landed on target or not. She then gestured her away, selecting yet another book from the pile she had formed beside her as she did so. "Now, shoo. You are far to taxing to entertain this early in the morning."

Olympe scoffed, snatching the book the table as if to prove some point. She'd show her sister; she'd read the stupid book just to spite her…later. When she had less better things to do. With a childish huff, Olympe stormed out. Not that her sister noticed; Renee just went back to reading. As much as Olympe hated to admit it, at least Renee had given her some sort of short lived interaction. Daphne was far less hospitable. Despite this, Olympe immediately made her way to Daphne's apartments, hopefully that perhaps her sister could offer some form of entertainment.

Jocelyn Daphne was Olympe's second eldest sister; a musical prodigy, destined the grace all the great music halls of Europe. She learnt how to play the piano before Olympe was even born, and had played in the presence of Queen consort Marie Leszczyńska on numerous occasions. As soon as Daphne mastered one instrument, she moved onto another. She was currently practicing a marvellously, oversized instrument called a viola da gamba, originally of Spanish origin. Ever since she heard Princess Anne Henriette had begun playing it, Daphne had been determined to attempt it as well. It was proving to be more challenging than she had first anticipated; it required more hours of practice than any other instrument she had previously entertained. But Daphne was admirably rising to the challenge.

Strutting down the polished marble halls of the west wing, Olympe heard the melodious tune of the viola before she even reached her sister's private apartments. She slowed her heeled steps for a moment, knowing it would throw off Daphne's tempo. Despite the early hour, Daphne was reverently practicing like the dutiful, seasoned musician she wished to become. Olympe took a moment to listen; the dozy melody was surprisingly soothing despite its rapid pace. She truly did think her sister was talented, though she'd never openly admit it -her sister was arrogant enough, she didn't need any extra boosts to her ego-. Oh, but how Olympe wished she could have been the gifted one. True, Olympe was beautiful, and she knew it well, but her sister was truly blessed; she could create beauty with the mere movements of her fingers. Her talent would only grow with age, not wither and wrinkle.

As always, Olympe became restless simply waiting out in the hall like timid child. She finally brokered Daphne's room with a desperate smile, frantically trying to think of some sort of excuse for bothering her, "Daphne! Would you like to play hide and seek in the gardens?"

Daphne didn't miss a beat plucking at the fine musical strings, though her delicate, pixie like nose wrinkled in clear annoyance. "Hide and seek? In the winter? Honestly, Olympe, you're not a child anymore. Whatever would people say if they knew the daughters of Marquis de Montcalm were running around in the wilds of the garden like savages? We'd be the laughing stock of France." She hadn't even looked up from her music book, the intense look of focus unwavering. "Now go away. I have a recital at Versailles coming up. It must be perfect."

Olympe left the room as quickly as she had entered, trying not to look so crestfallen, "Fine. You're no fun anyway."

There was really one other person she could seek out. She had already been warned it was unsightly for her to be seen in friendly company of servants; the only other person she could talk to in the chateau was her mother.

He deranged, deluded mother.

She hadn't seen her mother since last week; and for good reason. Since her husband's deployment to America in 1754, coupled with the death of her third son, Jean-Claude, Madame Angelique had slowly begun to decline, mentally and emotionally. Sometimes she refused to leave her chambers, lacking the sheer motivation to leave her bed at all. Shyly at first, Olympe poked her head into her mother's private chambers. The once bright, extravagant room was shrouded in darkness; the curtains were still drawn, shutting out the natural light. Given the shattered vase and scattered flowers on the floor, Olympe assumed the servants had visited earlier; Madame Angelique had promptly diminished them, none too subtly. Olympe stayed beside the door for a moment, ready to take cover if need be.

"Mother…"

Originally, Olympe had hoped, by some miracle of God, she could lift her mother's spirits and distract her from her usual dreary demeanour. She dared to dream her mother may even prove to be more fruitful company because of it.

There was a moment of silence, for a moment Olympe wasn't even sure if her mother had heard her. But then there were sounds of movement; the bed covers shifted to one side, "Odette, my little swan, is that you?"

Olympe bristled instantly, biting the inside of her cheek. That name; how she hated that name. Charlotte Odette; yet another one of her sisters. It had been no secret Odette had been their mother's favourite. And even in death, she was still the favourite. Odette had been a gentle, sweet natured girl. She behaved more like a doll than an actual daughter; rarely did she ever stray from her mother's side. That was, until she was struck by sickness.

Olympe yet again had to remind her mother, none to gently. "Odette passed away, five years ago. Remember?" She then took a tentative step forward, "It's me, Monique Olympe."

"Oh…" The belated woman didn't even try to hide her disappointment.

Odette had been a year older than Olympe, both had shared the same colour hair and enchanting eyes. They had been so close in appearance; many often mistook for twins. Their own, poor mother often confused one with the other; nevertheless, it didn't soften the sting of the mistake. Olympe wasn't sure if it was hysteria or pure alcohol which addled her mother's mind. A lifetime of luxury and prestige had not prepared her the trauma of motherhood. By age fifteen she had been married and pregnant with her first son, Louis-Gaston. Now in her early forties, she had birthed nine children; only five now survived into adulthood. Her two eldest sons, Louis-Gaston and Francois-Manuel currently served as military officers with their father. Her three daughters, Marie-Renee, Charlotte Odette and Monique Olympe lived in the chateau with her, though Marie-Renee was soon to be married. Renee's soon to be husband was also currently station in America, leading in the war effort as an artillery commander.

Jean-Claude, Manuel's twin brother, had been killed recently in the line of duty. King Louis XV had been kind enough to arrange for his body to be brought back for burial; he assured his favourite lieutenant general that a son of France deserved to be buried in the soil of his homeland. The Marquis de Montcalm had found the gesture somewhat touching, it not slightly morbid; however, this was not the first son he had lost. Louis-Alix, at the tender age of five, had died in a riding accident; the Marquis de Montcalm tackled his grief by throwing himself deeper into his military campaigns overseas. It was exactly what he had done previously with Giselle-Antoinette, who had died the year before; only a year old at the time of her passing, she had always been a sickly child. She went in her sleep, which offered some small comfort to Madame Angelique. Yet it was Odette's death that seemed to have devastated Madame Angelique the most. Now the bereaved mother spent most of days in her private chambers, shut away from the world. She eased her grief with sweet wine and renewed it with reminiscing of bitter memories. It was a never ending circle. Olympe would never admit it but she secretly envied her deceased siblings. They held a reserved place in their parents' hearts, one that could never to be moved or altered.

Spite laced the young woman's tone, ridicule masking her pain, "Honestly, you call yourself a mother." She watched as the groggy woman swayed, sitting up from the bed. It didn't even look like she had bothered to change her nightshift since the last time Olympe visited.

The de Montcalm matriarch seemed to be recovering from her latest alcoholic endeavours. She pinched the bridge of her nose, as if trying to chase away the troublesome aftermath which lingered. "What do you want, darling? Mother has a headache."

Stepping closer, Olympe brandished the strips of ribbons in her hand, as if expecting her mother to notice them despite the poor light. "Put ribbons in my hair."

Exasperation laced Madame Angelique's tone, "Darling, we have servants to do that." She wasn't even addressing Olympe in her direction. Instead, her head was slumped aside, facing away from the door.

Olympe realised her mother was just staring blankly ahead, into the darkest corner of the room. She stormed forward, almost desperately.

"But I want you to do it!" Correcting herself, she then quickly added, "You always tie them better."

Truth be told, her matronly servant Marie had already affixed the ribbons perfectly well this morning, as she always did. Olympe had just ripped them out upon making her way to her mother's personal chambers. She was just desperate to keep her mother's attention, anyway she could; her sisters hadn't been as tolerant as she had hoped. Usually they humoured her for longer than they did this morning. All she received from her sisters this morning was unwelcomed wishes and a measly little book.

So Olympe was determined to stay with her mother, even if just for a moment longer.

Madame Angelique finally sighed, heavy with resolution. Apparently, she vaguely recognised the stubbornness in her youngest daughter's tone. "Very well." She beckoned her over to the bed, patting the soft, absent surface.

Olympe hurried to her mother's side, grinning like a fool. It seemed her ploy at worked. They sat in silence for some time. Madame Angelique's technique was clumsy. She didn't even use a brush; she only ran her fingers through Olympe's hair, making uneven braids and tying them with unsecure bows. And though she absently pulled on her daughter's hair at times, Olympe endured it. It had been the longest she had been in her mother's presence in days. In some way, it was almost soothing. From her position on the bed, Olympe scrutinized the faint details of the room. Furniture had been moved into odd locations, clothes were scattered on the floor. Only the furnishings on the walls were left unchanged. Most of the features were commissioned portraits; her mother had been an avid patron of the famed painter Maurice Quentin de La Tour. He was a gifted artist, who always managed to capture the delicacies of features. On one the walls -the very one Madame Angelique has been staring at- hung the most recent addition to the wall; a full length portrait of her husband, Marquis de Montcalm, in full military service dress. De La Tour had been generous in his depiction; de Montcalm looked like a handsome man of youth, as oppose to the middle aged, war weary general he truly was.

With her eyes now adjusted to the darkness of the room, Olympe couldn't help but admire the painting and wonder aloud, "When is father coming home?"

Her mother paused for a moment, letting the a few stray curls escape her through her fingers, "We had talked about this, darling. Your father will be home when this nasty business in America is finally over."

Ever accustomed to getting whatever she wanted -most of the time-, Olympe pouted, "I want him home now."

Her mother only scoffed at her usual antics. "Honestly, Olympe, don't be so selfish. Your father is serving in his Majesty's army. He's a commander now, a very important officer."

"But I miss him."

"Well, you're not the only one!" Her mother suddenly pushed her off the bed and flung herself back under the covers, wailing into one of the pillows. She cried desperately for her husband; her mood shifting violently. She began working herself into hysterics. "Oh, Joseph! My love!"

Olympe simply tugged viciously at the blankets, trying to rouse her, "Mother, you haven't finished doing my ribbons. Mother!"

"Marie!" Madame Angelique screeched, screaming at the top of her lungs. The sheer pitch blistered Olympe's ears. "Marie, get in here!"

The de Montcalm employed numerous servants; their wealth allowed the luxury. Before his departure to America, Marquis de Montcalm ensured there would always be servant stationed within the near vicinity of his beloved wife; he privately acknowledged that she by far needed more care than his children. Sure enough soft, yet hurried, pitter-patter feet could be heard hurrying down the hall. The portly matron -with caution- stopped short at the doorway, hoping to avoid any flying projectiles.

"Yes, Madame?" She tentatively poked her bonnet covered head around the door, trying to see what had upset the lady of the chateau so greatly. When her beady, greying eyes landed on Olympe, her brows creased with vexation.

Madame Angelique was blindly swatting Olympe away, her shrieking growing louder, "Get her out of my chambers. Children should never be in their mother's chambers! Get out! Get out!"

The short, withering matron quickly shuffled into the chamber, taking hold on Olympe's hand, "Come away now. Leave your mother to rest." Marie knew the sooner Madame Angelique was left alone, the sooner she would calm down. She had some small sympathy for the girl, but knew nothing productive could be done. Madame Angelique was an ill woman; there was no cure for her sickness.

Nevertheless, Olympe resisted. Tugging her hand free as they reached the doorway, she scowled, "No, I want to stay with my mother! Mother!"

"Young mistress, please-", Marie tried to plea with her, seeking to the unruly her in any way she could. "Come. We'll finish your ribbons."

But Olympe, none too gently, shoved the matron aside, "Go away! I didn't ask for your help!" She then turned her blue-eyed gaze to the other servants who now congregated in the hallway, no doubt alerted to Madame Angelique's now constant wailing. She bristled at their judging, silent stares. "Leave me alone, all of you!" she spat, turning as vicious as her mother, "Useless! You're all useless!"

Olympe dashed out of the chateau, as fast as her heeled shoes would carry her. She ignored the chill still lingering in the morning air and kept running. She threw Renee's gift of a book aside, uncaring as in tumbled and skidded across the unblemished snow. Olympe only kept her uneven dash for a short time; she soon found herself panting, her heated breaths creating a visible mist. The gardens on the estate were vast; gated with well-trimmed hedges and neatly cut lawns -all now covered in a thick, pure blanket of snow-. The footsteps Olympe left were a tell-tale track of her flight. As always she halted when she reached the border of the woodlands. They had traditionally been the hunting grounds of the de Montcalm men; ever since she was toddler first exploring the chateau grounds, Olympe always hesitated entering its intimidating embrace. She wavered yet again, daring herself to break that cycle and explore the unknown.

But cowardice prevailed yet again; Olympe retreated in bashful indignation, seeking shelter under the nearest tree. Again, she found herself sat alone -isolated- under the great oak. It was nothing new; whenever she had a tantrum she would run away, never going further than the gardens of the estate. Every time, she silent hoped someone would come after her.

Even now, clothed only in her lilac frock -shivering-, Olympe remained where she was. Misplaced pride, or perhaps even stubbornness, kept her rooted to the cold ground. Much like the falling snowflakes, Olympe sat frozen. Waiting. Watching. Snowflakes came and went with the fickleness of thee wind, falling from the misted skies and gracefully cascading in a wintery dance, before softly coming to rest on the ground. But the beauty was fleeting; when Olympe stretched out her hand, the snowflakes would melt in her touch, stealing sips of her warmth with each flake.

Not even the snowflakes remained to keep her company. Olympe chuckled at the thought before dissolving yet again into a bout of tears. She was so absorbed in her misery; she didn't even notice the sounds of heavy footsteps coming towards her.

"Do stop crying, Olympe. Look, you've ruined your make up."

Olympe gave an unlady like chortle; surprised by the sudden deep voice. She looked up and instantly recognised the visitor.

"Manuel…"

She smiled, looking upon the handsome face of one of her older brothers.

He returned her smile, thought it grew into a half-hearted grin, "Olympe, you know you shouldn't cry….You look ever so ugly when you do. Just like mother."

She playfully slapped his arm at such, "Oh, don't tease, you horrid thing."

Manuel, in his good nature, merely chuckled. Though he teased her often, Manuel was the kindest of her siblings, perhaps even the most sensitive. Olympe couldn't help but notice Manuel was dressed in his service uniform; he looked rather handsome in it. But then again, he was naturally handsome man -like all the de Montcalm men-. His white overcoat, highlighted with drapes of navy blue, cut a rather dashing picture. Manuel shared many of Olympe's features; pale blue eyes and slick black hair -though his was often hidden under one of those ridiculous white powdered wigs. They shared a common resemblance missed by their other siblings. Claude, his twin, had shared the exact same. His death in the line of duty had deeply unsettled Manuel. Olympe could still see it in his tired, sunken looking eyes. Losing Claude was like losing half of his own soul. He soon found himself unable to fulfil his duties on the battlefield; he only wished to grieve. Given his useless state, Manuel had been allowed to escort his Claude's body back to France and lay him to rest. It had been a sad affair; Claude's funeral had been sombre, in the early morning during the dead of the January winter. Snowflakes had littered his grave like the flowers that were laid.

Perhaps that's why Manuel was walking about the gardens. The chateau held too many memories; the shadow of Claude's memory haunted him. Olympe could see it in his eyes. Like her, he came out into the cold to escape. But there was nowhere to truly run. So, they just sat there, under the snow covered oak, content in each other's company. Neither spoke for some time; there was a sense of understanding in their shared silence. Olympe knew Manuel never wanted to be a military officer; he wanted to be a painter, he wanted to travel to foreign lands and capture the experiences in canvas and oils. But their father opposed the very idea, insisting all his sons followed in his footsteps, carving the de Montcalm name across every battlefield fought in the name of France. Manuel, ever the dutiful and obedient son, yielded to his father. He hadn't picked up a paintbrush since he was deployed to America. The last thing he painted were miniature portraits of his family, gifted to his father. Despite Mariquis de Montcalm's slight disapproval, he kept them and took them with on his campaign. Olympe wondered where they were now. Her father had never struck her as a sentimental type, at least not openly. As always, appearances mattered more than reality.

Manuel eventually broke the silence with a reluctant declaration.

"They are sending me to America next month." He said it as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Olympe took a moment to absorb the unfortunate news. To her, it sounded like a death sentence. She linked her arm with his, squeezing tightly, even though her fingers were already numb from the cold. "No, Manuel. You can't...Don't leave me too."

But her brother only absently dusted the snowflakes from her head. "The king has requested me personally." He then placed her officer's cap on her head, though it's sheer size caused it to tilt on a lopped side. It obscured him from her sight for a moment, as if he couldn't bear to look her in the eye as he delivered more news. "He wants me to take Claude's posting."

Olympe cantered the cap aside, cocking her brow in utter insolence, "Does he want you to jump into Claude's grave too?"

Manuel gave her a shadowed look of reproach, but continued, "It's not so bad, sister. I'll will be joining father and Gaston in New York. With the three Montcalm men, the British won't stand a chance."

Olympe, however, did not look convinced. Rather than argue with her -as he knew she was prone to doing it-, Manuel changed the subject. From his coat pocket, he retrieved a familiar, slight soggy, book. "By the way. I found this. Is it yours? Seemed a bit obscure to me, finding a book accosted so carelessly in the snow."

She gave a careless shrug, eyeing the book with some disappointment. "Renee gave it to me. It seems like such a bore; barely any pictures."

"You should never judge a book by its cover, dear little sister. Surely even you should know that." Manuel shook his head at his sister's usual childish antics. He surveyed the book with a degree of interest, despite its slightly damaged state. The author's name immediately drew his attention. "Genevieve Premoy? It's been a while since I've heard that name."

"You've heard of her?" Olympe tried to hide her disbelief. Manuel was an artist at heart, more attentive to paintings and sculptures than printed texts and editions. He read far less than her.

Her brother gave her a slight nudge, as if offended by her tone. "There isn't a soldier in his Majesty's army who hasn't heard of Madame Premoy."

"What? Was she some kind of nurse?"

"No, no. Madame Premoy served as an officer in His Majesty's army."

"An officer?" Olympe blinked, letting the statement settle in. "But...she is a woman! How could she possibly manage that? It's impossible!"

The only women in war Olympe ever heard about were Cantinières. They prepared meals -aside from rations- for soldiers whilst out on campaign. Hardly a glamourous profession. Yet some did it for as long as thirty years, going onto active frontlines. Though, of course, they had to be married to the soldiers deploying. An unmarried woman travelling overseas to a warzone sounded inconceivable. Unrealistic. Exciting.

"Anything is possible, sister. We never know what we are truly capable of until we are challenged. We often find we are much stronger than we think." Despite her brother's youngish age, he had centred matured. She'd never heard such moving words; Olympe couldn't help but wonder if it was the war that changed him or the loss of his brother.

He pushed the cold, wet book back into her hands, despite her reluctance. "Read the book, it's quite good. Now come, much longer out here and we'll freeze to death."

The two finally withdrew from the shelter of the oak. The snow, for the moment, had cease though the chill in the air remained. As they slowly made their way back to the chateau, Manuel slung his officer's coat over her shoulders. He had found it rather amusing, seeing his little sister dressed in men's attire, even if it was just his overcoat and officer cap. Manuel even suggested it as a future masquerade costume. However, Olympe took offense to the notion; men's clothes looked utterly unflattering, so drab, lacking colours. Besides, surely she was too beautiful to be mistaken for a man…

That afternoon Olympe retired to her chambers. It wasn't even noon yet and she already felt exhausted from such taxing interactions. Her chamber maids received her with a fright, seeing her in such a state of disarray. They immediately prepped a bath and change of clothes, though Olympe had insisted she only wished to remain by the fire. After a disappointing start to the day, she had no desire to leave her chambers for the rest of the afternoon. She even had her meals brought to her, doubting there would be anyone actual present in the family's grand dining hall. After she had dismissed her chamber maids, Olympe settled by the fire, uncaring if it would be deemed uncivilised. It would dry the book quicker, she reasoned.

With great effort, she attempted to read it. Admittedly, she did skip the odd few paragraphs, but the content was somewhat intriguing. She found the book was an autobiography, written by Madameselle Geneviève Prémoy herself. In vivid description, she went through the account of her life, how she had ran away from home and enlisted -in the guise of a man- in the regiment of the Prince of Condé in 1676. Olympe was shocked when she figured out that Madame Premoy would have only been 17 at the time. Two years younger than Olympe and this girl had been on battlefields fight alongside men. Without fear. Under the alias Chevalier Balthazard, she was eventually promoted and raised through the ranks through bravery in battle. Her gender was discovered when she was wounded during the Siege of Mons. When she was called to Versailles, she was received as a herp; Louis XIV made her honorary knight of the Order of St Louis. Though she was fired from the army, she was still allowed to keep her rank and pension.

Closing the book, Olympe sighed. Many would have sound the story inspiration, if not slightly extreme and radical. But all it did was remind Olympe of her shortcomings, yet again. She could never be so bold. So foolish. So daring. All she had was her beauty. She could never be as brave as Madame Premoy.

From the warm comfort of the fire, Olympe looked out of her apartment windows; she could see snow one again begin to fall, covering the footprints she and Manuel had left in the snow. It erased their presences in the gardens, turning that day into every other day.

Uneventful.

Pointless.

Meaningless.

3 weeks later

The Bout-du-Banc Salon, Paris, France.

France was now entering an age of enlightenment; salons were opening all over Paris. Artists, Poets and scholars congregated within these havens, discussing philosophies and ideas furthering their higher, human society. The salons acted like a sanctuary for those wishing to escape the ignorance of others. These gatherings were usually by request only, Renee had been ecstatic when she had been invited to The Bout-di-Banc, by none other than Jeanne Quinault, the current hostess. An accomplished writer and actress, Renee idolised her. Renee felt attending the Bout-du-Banc salon would introduce her to new scholars and academics, widening her own pool of knowledge and experience. It would also garner further connections and acquaintances in the widening social circles.

The last thing she wanted was to bring her little sister; Olympe. But like a temperamental torrent, she was insistent. Uncompromising. Forceful, even. She had insisted that Renee allow her to attend the salon, had screamed and cried until she was red in the face; but now Olympe regretted it. No one talked to her; at least no one interesting. She was not well known in the scholarly inner circles. She had no idols she wished to listen to, or fellow peers

The only form of entertainment came in the form of a heavily intoxicated soldier seated nearby. At first Olympe was utterly tickled by his slurring words; he sounded no better than a Scottish Highlander. Then again, she was no better. Since the start of the evening, Olympe had been nursing fire crystal glasses of wine. By the time she finally settled herself in a permanent spot, she could already feel the intoxicating warmth of the alcohol spread throughout her extremities. But clearly the soldier was more inebriated than her. He was gulping wine as if it was water.

How the soldier was invited, and why he was event present, puzzled Olympe. Though she didn't openly question it. For now, she just absently listened to his prattling, waiting for the next form of entertainment to walk by. He had offered his name multiple times, but the wine and disinterested robbed her of it.

Nevertheless, the soldier introduced himself, "Beaumont. Remy Louis Beaumont. Sergeant in his Majesty's artillery. Soon to be a dead man."

Olympe paused, her lips to the glass. She was rather caught off guard by such a dramatic statement. Perhaps the soldier was fond of theatrics?

She took the finishing sip of her drink before asking over the rim of her glass, "Oh, and why is that?"

"They're shipping me off to New York in a couple of days. I'll be rubbing elbows with savages and dodging British musket balls."

"savages?" Olympe then paused, "New York?"

"Yes. I'll be joining the artillery support division, under the command of Lieutenant General de Montcalm himself."

"How interesting…" she absently mumbled, gesturing for one of the servants to refill her glass. She had yet to reveal her name, or her relation to the Marquis de Montcalm. Sometimes the name hindered, rather than helped.

Remy only shrugged, taking generous swigs of his drink. "Not very. The Lieutenant General has hundreds of men under his command. He will be only in the company of his finest officers. And they'd never slum with any of lesser ranks."

Olympe zoned out for most of the Sergeant Beaumont's ramblings. His slurring was progressing increasingly worse. She could barely understand what he was saying. Every so often he would mumble of rifles and something about attacking front flanks with cannon fire. It made little sense of Olympe. She only offered nonsensical answers, vocalising her little interest without appearing to be ride. But the sergeant soon lost interest in talking about his military professional. It only reminded him of the inevitable. At some point, he slipped away into the crowds of people, leaving Olympe alone in the corner. She merely watched the world go by in a drunken blur, absently catching faint overtones of conversations and exchanges. The only thing which chased away some of the boredom was more wine. The sweetest in all of France. Nothing less.

The salon swing waned into the early hours of the morning; much to Olympe's annoyance, Renee was still deeply engrossed in conversation with some academic, she seemed utterly fixated with him controversial opinions. Their father would never tolerate such dynamic lines of thinking. Yet Olympe did not share the interest, she merely lingered in the doorways, strolling through corridors, impatiently waiting for her sister. She staggered slightly, the mixture of alcohol and heeled shoes utterly wreaked havoc on her balance. Dizziness slowly robbed her motion. She stumbled her way into the nearest open room, intending to steady herself on the nearest stable object possible. The room was dark, the furniture implied it was some sort of adjacent, unused, lounge. The recliners looked inviting, though one already seemed to be claimed.

Olympe was surprised to spy a familiar face; the artillery sergeant, Remy Beaumont, was passed out in a drunken slumber, in a scandalous state of undress. The only thing preserving his modesty was a table sheet, positioned strategically over his lower body. Olympe could only assume that Sergeant Beaumont had spent the rest of the night in the amorous company of another woman. Whoever she was, she was gone and Remy now slept alone, twisted and bent on cushioned lounger. Olympe could only sniff, rather dismissively. If any of her brothers saw this soldier in such a compromising state, he would be reprimanded. Intoxication, indecent behaviour unfitting a soldier and dereliction of discipline. Not to mention the sorry state of his uniform. His was once pristine uniform jacket had been carelessly discarded on the floor. It was different from Manuel's, she noticed. Remy's uniform was a solid naval blue, lined with flashes of red and white. The polished buttons littered in the faint light of still burning candles. Nearby, the black and yellow lined camp also lay discarded on top of a pile of his red birches and white calf height coverings. As silently as possible, Olympe collected the uniform from the floor, intending to toss it onto the nearest stand. Her brothers took pride in their uniforms, they would have never tolerated such insult. The birches already had unsightly creases in them. No doubt the sergeant would be gripped on his first morning parade for such poor presentation of dress. The coat had not been as heavy as her brother's officer overcoat. But it was made of a fine material; Olympe truly admired the buttons, they glittered like gold. At least the sergeant had done something right.

Perhaps it was the slight intoxication of alcohol; in a moment of giddiness, Olympe slipped out of the private suite, taking the uniform with her. Her first intention had been to hide it. She could only imagine the panic the sergeant would be in when he finally awoke to find his uniform missing. It would teach him a much-needed lesson in personal diligence. Olympe only went a few doors down the hall, finding an empty guest chamber that would be perfect for her little game. She took the cap first, intending on throwing it onto one of the nearby wall mantles, just out of reach of most average sized men. Remy would need a stool of some sorts if he tried to reach it. The mere thought made her grin.

But she stopped when she caught side of a large mirror, secured to the wall. Already afflicted with notions of silliness, Olympe slipped the military cap on. As expected, it was far too big for her. In her reflection, she could see how it obscured a portion of her face. She barely recognised herself and that was only with an oversized cap on. Perhaps Manuel was right; she could masquerade as a man. It was an amusing thought at the time, perhaps she could even make a game of it. See how long it took to be outed. What was the worst that could happen? She would be chastised and returned to her family with a slight scolding. Hardly any consequence…

In the end, she didn't know why she did it. Perhaps it was a moment of madness. A flicker of foolishness. But a torrent of temptation grabbed her.

Olympe took the uniform. And ran.

A/N – anyone else think Olympe's sisters are mean? I was trying to go for mean. I know there is a lot to take in this chapter, it's mostly just introducing you to Olympe and setting up the background. Next chapter shall go more into the story! Rate and review please! I need more to work with than just 'update please'. Do people like the story? How are the characters presented? How have you received them? My goal here was to not present Olympe as a likeable character right away, but perhaps through adversity, things may change, for you the readers and for her as a character. Some of you may be wondering, why have I read this, what does it have to do with last of the Mohicans? Well, be patient! All will be revealed in the next chapter!

Next chapter introduces Magua to the story ! Yes it is another Magua x OC story ! (I love the guy!)

Rate and review!