Author's Note: A huge merci/dankeschön to our translation assistants, a-kiirii-on-board, darkdraconis, and pascaldragon. Thank you so much!

Prompt: Painter!Elsa helps the wealthy noble Hans win Painter!Anna's heart, feeding him clever lines and ideas for romantic notions (a la Cyrano)

Background info: The year is 1556, and it is the height of the French Renaissance. Elsa and Anna are painters, Hans is a wealthy noble/soldier and hires them to paint. He wants to woo Anna but doesn't know how to, so he starts asking Elsa for help. Elsa falls in love with Anna, and Anna falls in love with Elsa through Hans as the catalyst

PROLOGUE

Many hardships and trials had brought the fair Elsa Maurer to the distant land of France. One of the most curious stumbling blocks was the insistence that she keep her name "Maurer" rather than "Masson" once she took up residence there; after all, the words meant the same thing in their root languages. What was the difference? But it meant all the difference to Elsa; even if her family tree had been razed to the ground, she would carry the mantle of their name with her for all her life.

Those were the only things she had left to herself: her family name, her ability to paint lush, vibrant landscapes with both words and brushes… and her panache. When all else failed, she always had that to fall back on.

Fortunately for both Elsa and her pocketbook, that had not been a problem of late. The wealthy cadet, Hans de Neuvillette, had taken quite a shine to her work and her flamboyant style, her flouting of the conventions of modesty and decorum, and taken her under his wing. At first, it had been a single commission for a mural on the ceiling of the foyer, but that had evolved into several other rooms of his sprawling estate: drawing room, study, ballroom. His patronage had been more of a formality by the time it was established. Elsa found herself a kept artist, and though her free spirit chafed at that notion, she could not deny the benefits.

The first and foremost among these being his other ward, Anna. Though she had given her name as Roxanna, Hans immediately decided it should be shortened for his amusement and convenience the moment he snapped her up from hawking her paintings on the streets of Paris. They showed incredible promise, and their subject matter so uplifting from a grimy-faced redhead who barely had enough knowledge of salesmanship to put shoes on her feet and bread and cheese in her stomach. He couldn't have that, and so now he had her, and she had a place to stay.

In Elsa's room. Directly across from her own bed. Seeing her every day was an endless source of inspiration; though neither Hans nor Anna herself seemed to notice, she had a classic beauty that was unparalleled. After a mere week, she could paint Anna's face in her sleep. Her spirit found its way onto her canvas day after day—though in forms that were unrecognisable as her most of the time. Merely her energy flowing into the shaping of whatever that day's subject matter happened to be. She would have it no other way, if she were honest with herself.

Which she rarely was.

La Guerre de l'Art - Un Portrait de Deux Lesbiennes Amoureuses
[The War of Art - A Portrait of Two Lesbians in Love]

CHAPTER 1

The Art of Focus

"Oh! Is that for the auction? At the hôtel de la Motte-Sanguin in Orléans?" a familiar voice sounded in her ear, and Elsa blinked out of her creative stupor, pausing in her painting. She lifted her brush away from the canvas, turning her head to see her muse standing there with her lips curled into a bright smile.

"Ah...yes. Yes, it is," Elsa mumbled, averting her gaze to the myriad of paint splatters and strokes marring her smock. She fancied one mark vaguely resembled the foppish hat her benefactor had worn the other day. "It's...not quite finished yet."

"It looks finished to me," Anna teased, and the blonde shook her head, a smile of her own coaxing onto her lips at the girl's words. "What else do you have to paint?"

Blue eyes swept back up to the canvas before her—to the scene depicting the Siege of Orléans.

She could see how Anna thought it was finished, the entire canvas was covered in an array of purposeful strokes, but Elsa could see how it still missed the highlights that would make it truly complete. It still lacked the holy aura around Jeanne d'Arc that would make her come to life. Elsa's eyes flitted between Anna and Jeanne, momentarily picturing Anna in her place and then realizing she'd left Anna's question unanswered.

"Nothing much, I just need to capture God's blessing on canvas," Elsa's eyes locked onto Anna's face one more time before her focus returned to the painting.

With its current state, it was difficult to discern which of the battling figures was la noble Pucelle d'Orléans. Her famous banner easily stood out amidst the mass of armored bodies, but as for Jeanne herself…

"She was just a peasant girl, you know. Born and raised in a small village called Domrémy." Elsa felt rather than heard Anna take a seat on an empty stool beside her, so close their arms could brush. "I think...I think it's best if you leave her ambiguous, as you have it right now. It would be poetic."

Elsa quirked a golden brow. "The point is to impress the investors at Orléans; not to insult their most revered saint."

"You don't think they'll be impressed with this level of skill?" Anna said. "You're… majestic. Maybe that's silly, but you are; I could never paint this good."

"You're already this good. Don't be so harsh on yourself."

The girl sighed, bumping her shoulder into Elsa's as long as she had not resumed painting quite yet. "That's a lie. If I was, Hans wouldn't have made me your protégée. He can tell I have a lot to learn from you."

"And I can tell we have a lot we could learn from each other," she breathed, turning to look at her—and being startled by the sudden closeness of their faces. But she kept her head, as she always did; panache, above all else. "So many things."

The younger artist flushed slightly. Whether or not it was from Elsa's words of praise, or from their closeness, or something altogether different, she could not say. But she did smirk through her blushing. When Elsa only tilted her head to one side and waited, she relented and spoke her mind.

"Sometimes… you talk as if you were a young noble courting me. And I don't know whether to laugh or to strike you with my gloves."

"You don't have any gloves." Anna glanced down at her hands, then flushed an even deeper shade, which made Elsa chuckle and say, "I can stop if it bothers you."

Anna moved to pull up Elsa's chin and catch her eyes. "Never."

To hide the blush creeping into her face at Anna's frankness, Elsa snapped her eyes back to the canvas. Her hands were steady despite her nerves as she put a broad stroke of light to shine upon Jeanne from the heavens. Despite her best efforts though, all her focus was still on the girl beside her and the way her breath had hitched when her fingers left Elsa's face.

Focus.

Anna knew she was supposed to be watching the technique, but none of her attention was on Elsa's hand.

Elsa had beautiful, slender hands, milk-white as the marble the craftsmen hewed, shaping wonders out of the raw rock—swan-like nymphs, shepherds of Arcady. But the marvels that those hands now wrought—the breath of life Elsa attempted to give her creation, that is what spellbound Anna now.

A holy fervor seemed to have overtaken Elsa as she gazed long and hard at her work, a passion not unlike the one that must have seized her subject. What fancies entranced Elsa at her task, Anna could only guess.

"Ah, bonjour! How are my two favourite girls?"

Both of said "girls" winced when they heard the velvety voice of their patron. So lost had they been in the magic of the creative process that they didn't even hear him open the door or slip inside. Then again, he had a habit of trying to startle them out of their reveries on purpose; he said it helped them focus better. That seemed completely contrary, but who were they to criticise his methods? He was the patron, and they merely his indentured servants of the arts.

"Nearly finished with this piece," Elsa told him in a flat tone, gazing evenly at—or through the canvas. Then she did the magical thing Anna could never seem to bring herself to do: she continued. "Which would be done now, if you had not broken my concentration like a shattered pane of glass."

Hans raised a fuzzy eyebrow, his gently noble features composed into a caricature of hurt. "Moi? I have somehow ruined this work of art, merely by asking how it's coming along?"

Standing, Elsa threw down her palette and crossed to the window, not bothering about the faint smear of white paint that ended up on the polished floors from her brush. "Not ruined. No art is ever ruined unless it has been burned—and even then, that would be a service to the works of certain artists in Germany I had the abominable pleasure of meeting."

"You must embrace the flow of the brush, let your emotions consume you—get lost in them, as they direct your vision." She watched as Elsa threw her hands up in the air, though could not see the twisted frown which marred her otherwise flawless pale face. "And yet, the slightest of interruptions can break l'élan d'inspiration, quash that passion."

Anna just stared at her in wonder. I could never talk to Hans like that… not after he took me in off the streets.

"Ah, but a truly skilled artist could bounce back from something this minor, non?" Hans scoffed, a smirk that indicated he didn't care for a single word of her tirade curling onto his lips. "And you are a skilled artist, aren't you? What am I saying? Of course you are! I wouldn't have brought you under my wing otherwise!"

"Under your wing or on the street I am an artist, skilled or no, monsieur."

"Oh but you are wonderful, Elsa!"

The staredown between Elsa and Hans broke at Anna's enthusiastic blurt. Hans, amused, slung an arm around the younger artist's shoulder, smiling at Elsa. "There, you see? Now, let us, the fans of your work, allow you to return to it. Anna, we will be joining my dear mother and her latest paramour on the veranda for lunch."

Elsa scowled, but Hans met her brooding with an even brighter smile.

"I'll have my man bring you whatever you want to eat."

The scowl turned into a bemused sneer. "Your liver, lightly braised. How soon can I expect it?"

"Oh, come now," he laughed easily, steering Anna toward the exit, waving over his shoulder with one white-gloved hand. "I'll send fruit, and you can ask for more sustaining fare from him when necessary. Return to your labours!"

And the door slammed shut. After glaring at it for what seemed like an eternity, Elsa stomped to her canvas, gazed at the slathered paints, the subject she had been trying so hard to capture. Her hands gripped the edges of the canvas, knuckles turning white, until she lifted it from the easel and raised it above her head…

"No," she finally sighed—had it been ten minutes, twenty? Probably only a few seconds. Slowly, she lowered it back to its perch, the powerful urge to shatter the frame and rob her patron of his treat having passed. That would solve little. Instead, she seated herself and returned to adding the last few touches.

Elsa tried to focus on finishing the painting, yet… something was missing. No—somebody was missing.

She stared long and hard at Jeanne d'Arc's form on the canvas as she endeavoured to get back into the correct frame of mind, the right emotional state… but it would not come back to her—not now.

"Merde!" She cursed after several long minutes spent staring at the work before her on the easel. Not a trace of fresh paint visible after the interruption.

While she started to stand from her seat once more, she was startled by a knock at the door.

"Mademoiselle?" came the call from the entryway in a thick low tone.

She scowled, and yet… she was making no headway as it was. With a resigned sigh, she uttered, "Enter."

Despite the bulk of the man, his tendency to stoop and avoid eye contact made him look rather small. "Mademoiselle," he repeated, proffering a platter of colorful fruits, with a heaping pile of chocolates at their core. An apology, perhaps?

"Set it anywhere, thank you." Elsa sighed and set her hands in her lap, looking at her visitor instead of her painting. He stood, silent, letting her examine him without fidgeting. When she realized neither of them had said anything, she turned in her seat and opened her mouth.

"Is there anything else you might require?" He noticed at the last moment he had interrupted her, and his stillness was broken by several shallow bows. "My apologies, madam, what were you going to say?"

Lips quirking, she dismissed his concern with a flip of her hand. "Merely that you may call me Elsa. It seems we are both servants to the same master, although your abilities to complete your work far surpass mine." She glared back at the canvas, and he followed her gaze with a bemused expression.

"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle, but I could not… I cannot." The manservant shuffled back towards the doorway, seemingly doing everything in his power to avoid eye contact. "As for my abilities, I am but a simple serviteur. You, however, are an artiste."

"Am I?" she asked—more to herself than to him. When he did not answer, feeling it was not his place, she merely nodded in his direction and breathed, "That will be all, thank you."

"Mon plaisir," he responded as he backed from the room, easing the door shut with the gentlest click.

A few days later, the painting was complete, and safely stored among the others that would be debuted in Orléans. Hans had pointed out the running theme of strong women with oddly familiar features, but for him, it was a passing, meaningless detail.

But Elsa knew the reason behind that, of course. Her muse was an unlikely source. Given her tendency to choose female subjects, and to be a painter of such skill in the first place, she had grown accustomed to those who appreciated her talents to presume she was male. It didn't help that "Elsa" was such an unfamiliar name to their tongues, although it didn't have a particularly masculine sound. Either way, it was of little importance.

She had the money she needed and her brush had been given free reign. That was enough for now.

It had to be enough.

And yet, Anna's freckled visage haunted her nightly thoughts; brushed along the edges of her mind in the waking hours.

Of course, she had no interest in her besides friendship, and as a subject for her art. A muse and a companion. Yes, she had heard the limitless accusations back in Germany—the uttered die Lesbe around every salon and social gathering. Not that she ever did anything such as courting a woman, or even showing her untoward affections. Not intentionally, anyway.

Not beyond friendship, or as a business dealing. Lingering kisses on soft, feminine cheeks were merely her way of ingratiating herself into social circles, playing the game. Why did they insist it meant something different when she did it compared to when others did? Obviously, she had to get away from that environment—off to France, where they were much more open about such things. Less stuffy, less… rigid and unwelcoming.

What she failed to recall—or perhaps, even notice at the time—were the way her glances would slowly trail the curves of those feminine figures in their form-fitting gowns, or her breathy sighs upon departing their company, or the way her kisses lingered slightly longer than those by any of the other women when placed upon another woman. Not to mention being unaware of the twinkle in her own eyes when she would speak with—or of—them.

No, she was quite unaware of the depth to which her taboo intentions, however unintentionally, had been openly on display for all and sundry.

But since moving to France, she had turned over a new leaf. No more of that, no more being so blissfully ignorant to the point where even more ignorant husbands would no longer leave her alone with their wives, fearing she would "make off" with them. Such tripe. She was not a monster, she was an artist who appreciated the female form for its many and varied… attributes. That her mind tended to linger upon those attributes long after her paintings were finished was a minor detail.

Though it was so much worse when it came to Anna. She was the only thought in her head when it was empty of all else, the centerpiece of the banquet of her life. She would do anything to see she was happy and healthy, that she was taken care of.

Perhaps that was the real reason she did not dismiss Hans out of hand when he came to her with his plea.

"You want me to what?!"

"I wish to court Anna, and you are going to help me," Hans repeated, setting his wineglass on the table. The ghost of a smile danced on his lips, though Elsa could see the emerald hardness of his eyes that spoke of his failure to woo the girl on his own.

"I?"

Elsa might have tossed her head in scorn. She might have let out a frivolous laugh. Much as she tried to present a front of cavalier contempt, however, something about the prospect intrigued her.

"Indeed," replied Hans, his bright teeth shining beneath thinly stretched lips. He was going to great efforts to appear merry of spirit. Yet, his smile was like the grotesque smile of a painted mask—the artifice of happiness. His laughs were cheerless as he went on, trying to be casual.

"I am… enamoured by her…" He paused. Perhaps he felt this gave his words effect, but it felt like he was struggling to say the right thing, to choose words as delicate as he could muster. "And I have taken note of how she has responded to you. Your work entrances many, of course. It is no small surprise that it has brought her under your… ah… thrall."

Elsa gazed at him.

"You want me to… do what, exactly? Sing your praises to her? Tell her you're the world's best lover? I haven't even had the… extremely dubious pleasure."

His expression darkened very briefly, but he corrected it as quickly as possible. "Indeed. And I'm afraid you are not particularly my type, either—but that is neither here nor there. I'm more… looking to you for guidance. Find out what she desires in a man, her interests and loves beyond the world of painting. Give me your periodically silver tongue to whisper in her ear."

"My periodically silver tongue, eh?" One of her pale eyebrows arched as she sipped at her own glass, mulling this over. "What's in it for me?"

"You capitalist dog," he laughed harshly. "I do enjoy that facet of the gem that is Elsa: straight to the point, as always."

"Well? You haven't answered my question. What do I get out of this? Why should I sacrifice valuable painting time to sit around, asking Anna what her favourite flower is?"

"I've already been giving you free reign in your subject matter, perhaps I could extend it even further?" Hans lifted his eyebrow and smirked.

"Oh, please…" Elsa scoffed, placing her glass down to cross her arms over her chest, "You and I both know giving me free reign on my pieces has lent us both with bigger pockets. You would be a fool to revoke that right."

His smirk shifted into something more akin to a troubled frown. "Indeed, I must be a fool to chase such a lowly girl in this way. A peasant." The smirk returned. "But her beauty, her curves...Ah, yes, they would certainly drive any man mad."

She resisted the urge to toss what remained of her wine at his face. "I ask you again: how would lending you a poetic hand benefit me?"

Hans considered for a long few seconds, just enough to give the impression he was really mulling things over. Had Elsa met the man that day, she might have been fooled; this was the ace he'd walked into that meeting already carrying up his sleeve. Now only the matter of slipping it into his hand to be played remained.

"Your own premises. To be granted to you after our marriage vows are recited; I'm sure you can appreciate that having an extra artist around our new home would be… indecent, in certain ways."

"Any house with you in it is already indecent." However, her barb had no true sting. Property. She had not entered France as a peasant, per se, but neither was she wealthy. The thing he promised would take years and years of further artistic toil—and although she cherished her craft, pumping it out at his preferred speed turned it from a delight to a drudgery.

"Well? What do you say, my dear?" Sipping his wine, he delivered the finishing blow: "Help me catch the vixen, and you need never go on the hunt again."

Elsa's gaze drifted down to the table, eyes tracing the meandering patterns of the polished wood as she contemplated his offer.

But really...was there any doubt?

"When should we get started?"

Hans had this smug grin running across his face and clapped his hands together. "Well…" He looked around the room. "We can start now. Oh, Anna does come here quite often, so yes, now would be the perfect time!"

Her gaze perked up, but she was not quite shocked of his demands. Elsa was used to it. "Unsettled" would be the word to describe how Elsa was feeling.

"Tu rigoles?"

Hans blinked. "Why, no, I'm not joking. You see, she's a wonderful woman, Elsa. I'm sure you can see that."

"I need time, Hans."

He tilted his head. "I don't have much time, Elsa."

"And why, pray tell, good sir," she began, though she nearly choked on the address, "do you not have much time? You are her patron, so why is the expediency of the matter of such great import?" She raised her brow questioningly.

He smirked in a manner Elsa could only describe as malicious. "Because, dear Elsa, I must stake my claim before the young girl est souillée by another."

She fought to maintain a straight face, and hold her tongue—her mind desperately restraining her panache from biting out. The nerve of this man.

"You speak of her as if she were a common concubine. We both know the fabric of her character is spun from silk, not dishrags."

"Of course. But will it remain that way forever?" Noting her ire rising, he held up both hands. "Merely being realistic, not casting aspersions upon her. After all, she has my heart. Why would I belittle the woman I love?"

As if you know the first thing of love. But speaking those words would get her nowhere. "I'll begin tomorrow, when next she poses for me. I'll find out what I can to pass on to you, and do my best not to tell her what a vapid, supercilious cad you are."

That did make him throw his head back and laugh. Clearly, having won their back-and-forth put him in good enough spirits to endure even the most brutal of Elsa's jests. "That's the spirit! I look forward to these new adventures of ours." With no further ado, he drained the glass, tipped it in her direction as a sort of mock-toast, and rose to sweep from the room.

Elsa chose to linger for a moment longer, staring contemplatively at the rich crimson of her wine.

Eventually, she knew this was going to happen. Not that she didn't care for what Hans told her, but she was only a mere artist, hired by him to paint. This shouldn't be her business… it wouldn't be if she hadn't become so attached to Anna.

She sighed and glanced at the unfinished canvas behind her. It wasn't Anna, but she imagined her with her hair splayed gloriously, her figure shaped in the most adoring way, her eyes gazing as though she had witnessed the sun setting behind the ocean. And she was free from any garment, other than a white cloth covering her intimate bits. The thought left her throat dry and taut.

"Pour l'amour de Dieu..." she whispered to herself, and ran her fingers through her golden fringes. It wasn't the time to think of such impure images.

Our contributors: forkanna/Jessica-X, The Wandering Quill, Peanut-Butter-Bandit, Glittering-Snowfall, Cyrianu, nopantsparade/Issandri, iamrottingunman/iamrottingbitch