As the golden morning light streamed through the window, the famous German war hero, the Desert Fox, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel stirred awake to the sound of chirping birds and the scent of lavender.
He frowned immediately.
There were several serious problems— ones that demanded immediate attention.
First of all, birds didn't chirp in the North African desert. They scavenged. And the only birds in the sky these days were made of steel, breathing fire and raining destruction from above.
Though even those birds of steel could be shot down if one had the right tools
As for lavender? No battlefield smelled of flowers. War reeked of gasoline, sweat, blood, and gunpowder—the scent of fear wrapped in iron resolve.
Still groggy, Rommel's fingers brushed against something soft and he soon noticed the soft mattress under his body.
Pillows? His bedroll in Tunisia had felt like a sack of rocks, not the plush comfort he was currently experiencing.
His eyes snapped open. And he immediately regretted it.
The room was a pastel nightmare. Pink curtains fluttered gently in the breeze, tall windows framed by an explosion of floral wallpaper. A vanity table stood in the corner, cluttered with delicate perfume bottles, lace ribbons, and an ornate silver hand mirror.
This wasn't his tent. This wasn't anywhere he had ever been.
This looked more like the bedroom of a rich little girl than the command quarters of the Afrika Korps.
Alarm bells rang in his mind. He pushed himself up—and that's when he felt it. Something was off. The unfamiliar lightness of his frame, the smoothness of his arms. And then he saw it.
Long, golden hair tumbled over his shoulders—HIS shoulders.
His breath hitched. His hands trembled as they traced the soft contours of his face, his chest—
Soft. Curved.
His stomach dropped. His most vital organ—gone.
Rommel swallowed hard. He froze, his heart pounding like distant artillery. He needed confirmation. A mirror. He had to see this madness for himself.
"What in the name of Hitler's mustache is going on?" he muttered.
His voice. High-pitched. Melodic. Wrong. It was supposed to be the thunderous scream that commanded respect from everyone around.
This was worse than being outmaneuvered in El Alamein by Montgomery.
"Is this some kind of British deception operation?! Have the Allies cracked psychological warfare?!"
He threw off the blankets and moved to the vanity—only to realize his legs didn't reach the floor.
With an irritated grunt, he slid off the bed, tottered forward on unsteady legs, and jumped twice to snatch the hand mirror.
The reflection staring back at him confirmed his worst fears.
A delicate girl with golden hair, wide blue eyes, and soft, pale skin. Small. Frail.
He let out a strangled noise and nearly dropped the mirror.
"Mein Führer, what in the world is going on?!"
But before he could think of anything, a sharp knock at the door made him flinch.
"Lady Eris, are you awake? Is everything alright?."
Rommel—no, Eris—clenched his jaw. As a Field Marshal he had been through countless life and death situations and he couldn't falter now.
Thinking quick he replied immediately, "Ahem, I am fine. There is no problem."
(S)he also remembered to fix h(er)is posture and stood straight like the Field Marshal he was.
(S)he needed to take in the situation first and find out more about his surrounding. But it seems like that is not a luxury (s)he had because the maid rushed into the room.
"Scheiße, der Feind ist hier," he hissed, reaching instinctively for his left waist—Where his Luger was supposed to be.
Instead, his fingers brushed against silk pajamas. This was going to be a long campaign.
The maid was surprised to see the little girl standing in front of the table. This was the girl who wouldn't even wake up until she called.
And worst of all why was she standing in such a manner, with her right leg in front of the left and her right hand placed weirdly on her left waist like she was trying to grab something.
As a maid, Elsa has taken care of Eris for a very long time and knew her very well.
As Elsa stared at h(er)im, Rommel frowned.
"Was ist los, Frauen? Do you need anything from me?" (s)he asked carefully, eyes narrowing.
The maid blinked. That was not how Lady Eris usually spoke. And that posture—back straight, feet positioned like a soldier at attention—was completely out of character.
Elsa hesitated, then reached out and placed a hand on Rommel's forehead.
Rommel reacted instantly, stepping back like she'd just pulled a pistol on him.
"Scheiße!" His instincts screamed ambush. Was this woman trying to subdue him? A British agent with some sort of underhanded psychological warfare tactic?
Elsa gasped. "Milady, are you unwell? You've never woken up this early, and now you're acting… strange."
Rommel stiffened. A tactical mistake—he was behaving too differently. He needed intel, and fast.
"I am perfectly fine," he said, adjusting his stance. "Just… conducting a readiness drill."
Elsa's brow furrowed. "A… drill, Milady?"
Rommel nodded, mind racing. He had no weapons, no map, no clear command structure, and—worst of all—no intelligence on his current situation.
"Yes. Readiness is key to survival," he declared firmly. Then, deciding to test his captor, he added, "Tell me, soldier—where am I stationed?"
Elsa paled. "M-Milady… do you mean… your bedroom?"
So this was an interrogation technique—forcing him to question reality. Clever. He'd trained men to resist worse. He wouldn't crack that easily.
"Of course," he said smoothly. "I was simply… ensuring you were prepared."
Elsa still looked confused, but she nodded hesitantly. "Then, shall I prepare your dress for breakfast, Milady?"
Rommel felt his stomach drop.
"Breakfast?"
"Yes, with your father the duke."
Rommel froze. This was worse than El Alamein.