Rommel—Eris—clenched his fists. A duke? A noble house? If this was an Allied deception, it was more clever than any he had ever encountered.
He was certain that this 'duke' must be some British SOE operative tasked with deception and psychological warfare. "I won't be a pawn in your games," was his thought.
However, from the interactions with the woman in front of him up to now, Rommel understood that he had to tread cautiously and play along.
If war had taught him one thing more than anything else, it was: Adapt or die.
"Very well," he said, mimicking what he estimated was the girl's usual voice—less authoritative, more… girlish. "Prepare my… dress."
The maid, Elsa, curtsied and moved to an elaborate wardrobe, pulling out a frilly, lace-edged monstrosity of pink silk. Rommel's eye twitched.
Mein Gott!
This was worse than being encircled by Montgomery's tanks.
As Elsa approached with the dress, Rommel unconsciously took a step back. "I will dress myself."
There is just no way in heaven or hell that he'll allow for a British operative so see him naked. Also, he had to make sure that the dress itself was not bugged.
Elsa blinked. "But Milady, you've never—"
"I insist." His voice was imperious, allowing no disagreement. The maid paused but eventually nodded, putting the dress on the bed and bowing and departing.
Seems like the lady is starting to grow up, was her thought. She felt a complex mixture of emotion of seeing the little girl trying to depend more and more on herself.
The moment the door shut behind him, Rommel exhaled abruptly. Finally alone. He examined the gown as closely as he would a hostile fortress. No strategic advantage. Unpractical fabric. No pockets.
But most importantly and much to his relief, nothing suspicious, other than the dress itself of course, which restricts most of the free movements required to escape.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself into the garment, struggling with buttons and ribbons. By the time he finished, Rommel decided death by sandstorm would've been preferable.
But he had no time to rest, just as soon as he let out a sigh after dress up, Elsa knocked the door again.
"Milady, are you done? Your parents are waiting," she said.
Rommel barely suppressed a groan. Of course, there was no time to regroup. This was a battlefield of an entirely different sort. And he was barely familiar with it.
"Ja, ja, I'm ready," he called out, doing his best to keep his voice light and melodic, even as his pride took another hit. The sound of his own voice grated against his ears.
The door opened, and Elsa entered with her usual brisk efficiency, her eyes scanning Rommel with approval. "You look wonderful, Milady. Truly befitting of a noblewoman."
Unbeknownst to Rommel, the frilly dress suited Eris's delicate frame—a fact Elsa noted with quiet approval.
Rommel almost laughed at the irony, but only in his head. If Elsa had any idea what was really going through his mind—what he was actually thinking—she wouldn't call any of this wonderful.
"Thank you," he replied, keeping his tone measured, even as every word felt like a bitter joke.
The absurdity of the moment hit him again like a punch to the gut. How had he ended up here? Not in the harshest deserts of North Africa, not on a boucage in France, but in a pink silk dress of Victorian era.
"A field marshal doesn't falter—even in pink silk," He reassured himself.
Let the SOE do what they want, let them make up any scenario they want. No matter how absurd it may sound, he will get through it.
Elsa smiled, her composure as perfect as ever, and gestured toward the door. "Shall we?" she asked, her voice light, like all of this was perfectly normal.
Rommel tightened his jaw and forced himself to nod, squaring his shoulders like he was bracing for battle.
"Lead the way," he said, his tone steady even though his insides twisted with unease.
As they stepped into the hallway, he couldn't ignore the overwhelming grandeur around him. Ornate gold-framed portraits lined the walls, gleaming under the glow of massive crystal chandeliers.
They reached a sweeping staircase, and Rommel felt a flicker of panic. The dress was heavy and awkward, and it was all he could do to concentrate on each step.
His military training kicked in, and he placed 'his' little feet carefully, methodically, as if any misstep would cost him his dignity—what little he had left. The petticoats hissed like sand against his knees with every step.
If that was not enough, he had to hold the dress up in fear of stepping into it, rendering his hands useless. What a dilemma. The British seem to be really elaborate so as not to allow him any single chance of resistance.
At the base of the staircase, Elsa led him toward a pair of grand double doors. They loomed ahead, impossibly tall and intimidating. She stopped and turned to him, her voice softer now, almost gentle.
"Your parents are waiting inside," she said, her words laced with expectation.
Rommel drew in a deep breath, steeling himself. He squared his shoulders. Whatever came next, he'd face it like a field marshal—even if he had to do it in pink silk.