The Winter War

Back in January, I reviewed The Broken Dawn, the first book in The Silver Throne series by Aurora Chatsworth. The second book, The Winter War, releases tomorrow, and I was fortunate enough to receive an advance reader copy for review.

The series is a gay historical romance set in a fictionalized, pre–World War II Sweden, following the forbidden love story between Crown Prince Harald and Jakob Eliasberg, his former fellow cadet. As many of you know, I am a military historian, but I’ll admit that my prior knowledge of Sweden during World War II was fairly limited—I mostly knew it as a neutral country. In graduate school, I wrote about Spanish neutrality during both World Wars, so I understand how complex and morally ambiguous “neutrality” can be. Rarely is it absolute—just look at the United States before formally entering either war.

To say I was intrigued by the first book would be an understatement. I loved it. I was especially impressed by Chatsworth’s research and historical awareness. Even within a fictionalized setting, many of the events and circumstances mirror reality, and she remains grounded in historical truth at the level of detail.

The real-life Winter War between Finland and the Soviet Union provides the backdrop for this second installment, and Jakob finds himself in the midst of it—ironically, because it is safer than remaining at the mercy of the Swedish queen.

Crown Prince Harald expected to spend his life in the shadows, until his brother’s tragic death thrust him into the spotlight. With his father dying and his mother threatening everything he holds dear, Harald must outmaneuver the deadly politics of the royal court while Finland burns—and the man he loves fights for his life on the battlefield.

Jakob Eliasberg has found purpose on the frozen front lines of Finland, fighting alongside the ragtag forces of the Finnish army against the Soviet invasion. But even war cannot silence his longing for Harald, the prince who sacrificed everything to protect him from the queen’s wrath. Miles from Stockholm, Jakob fights not only for survival, but to become a man worthy of standing beside the future king of Sweden.

Separated by distance and the weight of a crown, Harald and Jakob wage their own battles—one in the halls of power, the other in the snow-covered forests of a besieged nation. With Swedish neutrality hanging in the balance and enemies closing in from all sides, they will discover that the greatest act of love is refusing to let go.

The Winter War continues the story begun in The Broken Dawn, but it does so in a markedly different way. Where the first novel centered on the burgeoning relationship between Harald and Jakob—two men from vastly different social worlds whose love felt immediate and undeniable—this installment explores what happens when that relationship is tested by distance, danger, and duty.

Much of their connection unfolds through letters, coded and careful, across great distances. The tone shifts accordingly. This is a story of separation—of longing, endurance, and emotional resilience. Both Harald and Jakob face dangers and hardships far beyond anything seen in the first book. Yet despite their physical absence from one another, the romance never diminishes. If anything, it deepens.

Chatsworth writes this beautifully. The emotional weight of their separation is palpable, and the historical backdrop adds a constant sense of urgency. As with the first book, the level of historical detail is impressive. It’s clear that Chatsworth has done her research and has a genuine interest in the period.

I will note that the advance reader copy contained some editing inconsistencies and minor errors. However, given that the book was still in the final stages of editing when I read it, I feel confident these issues will be corrected in the published version. No book is ever entirely free of errors—even those with the most experienced editorial teams—but these do little to detract from the overall reading experience.

Looking ahead, the third book in the trilogy, The Silver Duke, is set for release in October, and I’m eager to see where the story goes next. Too often, historical fiction makes me roll my eyes at glaring inaccuracies, but the best authors immerse themselves in their chosen era—understanding its language, culture, and limitations. Chatsworth clearly does the work, and it shows.

For me, the mark of a truly good historical novel is that it sends me down a research rabbit hole—and this one did exactly that. I found myself reading more about Swedish neutrality and the Winter War simply because I wanted to better understand the world she created.

If you haven’t read The Broken Dawn, what are you waiting for? And if you have, then you’re likely already counting down the hours until The Winter War. Either way, I can’t recommend this series enough. 

I received an advance review copy for free, and I am leaving this review voluntarily.

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If—

If—
by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son.

About the Poem

“If—” is perhaps the most famous poem by Rudyard Kipling, first published in 1910 in his collection Rewards and Fairies. Written as paternal advice to his son, the poem reads like a moral blueprint—an instruction manual for how to live with integrity, resilience, and balance.

Structurally, the poem is built on a series of conditional statements—“If you can…”—that accumulate into a final promise: a life fully realized. Kipling’s language is simple but powerful, relying on rhythm, repetition, and contrast. Each stanza presents a set of virtues, often framed through paradox: confidence balanced with humility, ambition tempered by restraint, and emotional strength paired with compassion.

At its core, the poem reflects a philosophy often described as the “golden mean”—a middle path between extremes. Kipling emphasizes stoicism and self-mastery, urging the reader to remain steady in the face of chaos, to endure loss without complaint, and to approach both triumph and disaster with equal composure.

While the final line—“you’ll be a Man, my son”—reflects the gendered language of its time, the virtues Kipling outlines transcend that limitation. They speak to a broader ideal of human character: one grounded in patience, courage, humility, and perseverance.

What has always made “If—“ endure is not just its advice, but its challenge.

This is not an easy poem. Kipling sets an almost impossibly high bar. To remain calm when blamed unfairly, to trust yourself while acknowledging doubt, to rebuild your life without bitterness after losing everything—these are not everyday accomplishments. They are lifelong pursuits.

And yet, there is something deeply compelling about that ideal.

The poem asks us to hold contradictions in tension: to dream, but not be ruled by dreams; to think, but not become lost in thought; to engage fully with the world, but not be consumed by it. In many ways, it’s a call to balance—to live fully without losing oneself.

For me, one of the most striking lines has always been the idea of treating “Triumph and Disaster… just the same.” In a world that constantly pushes us toward extremes—celebrating success as everything and fearing failure as final—Kipling reminds us that both are temporary. Neither defines us unless we allow it to.

There’s also something quietly powerful in the poem’s emphasis on endurance. Not flashy success, not brilliance, but the simple, stubborn act of holding on:

“Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’”

That line feels especially relevant in moments when life is overwhelming—when the best we can do is keep going, even when we feel emptied out.

At the same time, it’s worth acknowledging that Kipling’s vision of strength is very much rooted in a particular historical ideal of masculinity—stoic, restrained, emotionally controlled. Today, we might read the poem with a more nuanced lens, recognizing that vulnerability, openness, and emotional expression are also forms of strength.

Even so, the heart of the poem remains meaningful. It’s not really about becoming “a Man” in a narrow sense—it’s about becoming whole. About striving, however imperfectly, toward a life of integrity and balance.

About the Author

Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936) was a British writer and poet, born in India during the height of the British Empire. He is best known for works such as The Jungle Book, Kim, and the poem “If—,” all of which reflect his fascination with empire, identity, and moral character.

Kipling became the first English-language writer to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1907, recognized for his storytelling and vivid prose. His work often blends adventure with moral instruction, and his poetry in particular has a didactic, almost instructional quality.

However, Kipling’s legacy is complex. His association with British imperialism has led to criticism, especially in modern readings of his work. Poems like “The White Man’s Burden” have sparked ongoing debate about colonial attitudes embedded in his writing.

“If—,” however, stands somewhat apart. Rather than focusing on empire, it turns inward—offering a personal code of conduct that continues to resonate with readers around the world. It remains one of the most quoted and beloved poems in the English language, not because it is easy, but because it dares to define what it means to live well.

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Quick Note

This is going to be a short post today. My schedule is a bit shuffled this week. I’m working from home today instead of Friday since I need to be at the museum then. I’ll also be working a half day Thursday and another half day on Saturday to prepare for an early morning class next Monday. It’s much easier to set things up when the museum is closed—no worrying about securing objects while moving them around.

It’s probably for the best that today is a work-from-home day. I woke up with a headache, and I don’t think I could handle the bright lights of my office or the mix of perfumes and other scents that come with a full building. Still, there’s plenty to get done, so it’s going to be a busy one regardless.

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A Faith That Crosses Boundaries

“Lord, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof; but only speak the word, and my servant will be healed.”

—Matthew 8:8

One of the most striking stories in the Gospels is found in Matthew 8:5–13 and Luke 7:1–10—the story of the Roman centurion and the servant he loved.

A Roman officer.

An outsider.

A man of power in a system that oppressed the very people Jesus came to teach.

And yet… he is the one who shows extraordinary faith.

The centurion comes to Jesus on behalf of his servant, who is suffering terribly. In Luke’s account, the language used suggests deep affection—this was not just any servant. The Greek word pais can mean “servant,” but it can also imply a beloved companion, even a young man with a close personal bond. Some scholars have suggested that the relationship may have been more intimate—possibly romantic. Others see it simply as a profound, devoted connection.

We may never know exactly what their relationship was, but we do know this: The centurion loved him deeply.

And he was willing to cross every social, cultural, and religious boundary to seek healing for him.

When Jesus offers to come and heal the servant, the centurion responds with words that still echo in Christian liturgy today. There is humility here—but not shame.

This is not the voice of someone who believes he is unloved. This is the voice of someone who understands authority, trust, and faith. He believes—completely—that Jesus does not even need to be physically present. A word is enough.

And Jesus responds with astonishment:

“Truly I tell you, in no one in Israel have I found such faith.”

Here is what stands out, especially for LGBTQ+ Christians:

• Jesus does not question the relationship.
  
• He does not ask for clarification.
  
• He does not require repentance.
  
• He does not set conditions.
  

He simply responds to faith, and He heals what love has brought before Him.

If the centurion’s bond with his servant was indeed romantic—or even just deeply unconventional—Jesus’ response is telling. The focus is not on judging the relationship, but on honoring the faith and love that compelled the centurion to act.

The centurion represents so many forms of “outsider”:

• A Gentile among Jews
• A soldier of an occupying force
• A man of power who approaches with humility
• Possibly a man whose love did not fit societal norms

And yet, he is held up as an example of faith.

Not tolerated. Not quietly accepted.Praised.

The words of the hymn “Faith Is the Victory” echo the spirit of this story:

Encamped along the hills of light,

Ye Christian soldiers, rise,

And press the battle ere the night

Shall veil the glowing skies;

Against the foe in vales below

Let all our strength be hurled;

Faith is the victory, we know,

That overcomes the world.

Faith is the victory!

Faith is the victory!

O glorious victory,

That overcomes the world.

For those of us who have ever wondered:

• Am I worthy?
• Does my love disqualify me?
• Will I be turned away?

The story of the centurion answers with quiet, powerful clarity:

Faith is not limited by who you are. Love is not erased by how others define it. And Christ meets us exactly where we stand.

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Moment of Zen: Shorts

The weather’s warming up, which means shorts season is back—and when a guy in loose shorts sits down, one has to wonder… where do your eyes go first? Perfectly innocent, of course.

…face it—you know this is what you really want to do.

This may only make sense to Southerners—or any college football fan—but if I included an Auburn pic, I had to include one for Alabama too.

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