Re: Blood and Iron

Snow blanketed the gardens of Tyrol in silence, muting even the distant howls of wolves along the forest edge.

A frost had settled upon the old stones of the estate, creeping across windows, wrapping marble statues in a glistening sheen of stillness. But the cold inside was heavier still.

Bruno stood at the far end of the drawing room, his back to the fire. Its warmth did not reach him. Not tonight.

It had been less than a fortnight since he had left the Tsar’s winter palace with news of the man’s terminal condition. He had made no theatrical farewells, no overt displays of finality. And yet his words the previous night still echoed like church bells in Bruno’s mind:

“When your father follows, I shall tell him of the man you became.”

It should have been comforting. It felt like a gravestone.

Heidi entered quietly, her boots brushing snow from the hem of her fur-lined gown. She said nothing at first, simply setting down a tray of tea beside the armchair that Bruno hadn’t sat in since yesterday.

Her eyes drifted to him, studied his stiff posture, his unreadable gaze toward the hearth.

“It’s not your fault,” she said gently, as if the silence had accused him.

Bruno exhaled through his nose. “I know that.”

A lie. Or at least a half-truth. He always knew that the great men who guided his youth would one day be gone.

But he did not expect that the time for them to fall would come so soon, so close together, as if history itself were making room for a new epoch. And he did not expect to feel so alone while witnessing it.

“It’s not their passing that bothers me. In my past life, I had looked up to these men, idolized them. The last kings and knights of a bygone generation. A better generation.”

A pause… A sigh…

“When I came into this life with my memories of the old one somehow still intact, I forged ties to the men I respected most, but I never gave myself a chance to live in the moment. I always viewed them from the perspective of the old world, figures on a page, not friends to be made. And now that I finally understand this. The opportunity is gone.”

Heidi moved beside him and rested her head against his arm. “Even with knowledge of the future, and the world that was. You’re still a man, love…. You’re not a god… You’re prone to mistakes. And it is okay to lament what could have been. We all have such thoughts.”

Bruno chuckled, hollow. “And yet… I alone must grieve with two lifetimes of regret.”

Silence persisted… Heidi did not know how to heal such a wound, she could only sit there and hug the man. As her warmth and presence would have to be enough. But history did not wait for mourning. Elsewhere, it plotted in silence.

Across the Atlantic, in a country blinded by prosperity and pride, President Hoover sipped bourbon and stared at the letter from his secretary of the Treasury. It was filled with bland praise and empty figures, all singing the tune of recovery. But Hoover knew better.

America had not recovered. It had been rescued.

Shares once worthless had been bought en masse. Defunct rail lines, collapsed shipping companies, entire banks quietly salvaged from the wreckage. And yet no single entity could be blamed.

The trail was too clean, too well-paved. Layers upon layers of paper corporations, shell firms, off-shore entities. All legal. All clever.

And all pointing to a ghost.

Hoover closed the file and muttered to himself. “Damn you, Bruno.”

He had searched tirelessly for the slightest trace of evidence. Yet nothing was conclusive. Fragments here or there dating back decades. If one were to gaze upon the web he had spun in search of the truth, they might think he had gone insane.

But it was becoming increasingly clear to him, that Bruno had been buying up land, resources, companies, and industries across the united states.

The web Bruno had cast was wide, wider than he had ever thought it was when he was first alerted to the German influence over the American media.

And the worst part was, that he could not prove it. His evidence was inconclusive, at best it was conspiratorial, at worst it was little more than the ramblings of a mad man!

No one would believe him. Not when jobs were returning, breadlines shortening, and spirits cautiously rising. He was a prisoner of his own success. He could only sigh and accept it. Whatever happened as a result of this, he could not control, nor prevent.

It was a problem for another president to deal with, another generation to endure.

Back in Tyrol, Bruno finally accepted the tea. It was lukewarm, slightly bitter, just as he preferred. Heidi smiled faintly and returned to her embroidery, leaving him to his thoughts.

The fire cracked. The wind howled. And Bruno thought of his father.

Aside from the yearly family reunions, this was the first time Bruno had actually seen his father in years. Decades even. Since he first left the home, he had little contact without his family outside organized gatherings of the House once or twice a year.

Letters had come, as they always did, stiff and formal, laced with concern but never emotion. The last spoke of aching bones, long nights, and memories of the old wars.

He could picture him now, sitting on the sofa of the old family estate in Prussia, a glass of the finest spirits in hand, cane resting by the door, watching the snow fall out the window next to the warmth of the fireplace in the same silence Bruno now kept.

Perhaps it was time.

He stood. Heidi looked up, surprised.

“Going somewhere?”

“I think I need to see him.”

She smiled, understanding.

“Then take Erwin with you. Your father should meet your son properly, not as the boy he was, but the man he has become.”

Bruno nodded. That alone made the journey worthwhile.

The next morning, the train departed east. Bruno sat beside Erwin, who had inherited his mother’s grace and his father’s eyes. He stared at the frost outside, nose nearly pressed to the glass.

“It’s funny, you and mother rarely speak of your childhood together. But from what I gather you were betrothed at a young age. Did you see each other frequently?”

“Once or twice a month… I spent most of my free time in the family library memorizing every dusty old tome gathered since its founding. She accompanied me when she came over… More a nuisance than anything in those days… Hard to believe I fell in love with the brat.”

Bruno chuckled when he said this, his tone gentle, his eyes filled with nostalgia.

Erwin, stared at his father in disbelief for a second, trying to make sure he had heard correctly.

“You memorized the entire family library?”

Bruno nodded his head with indifference.

“By the age of seven, not word for word mind you, nobody’s that capable, but the essence of every sentence written and the information contained in it yes. After that I spent my days training in more noble pursuits like chess, horseback riding, swordplay and marksmanship. I even took my hand at ballroom dancing for a bit, never much cared for it though.”

Erwin was stunned by his father’s words once more, as he sat there in silence. He had known his father was gifted beyond any other man or woman he had ever met. But this? Was this not a bit too monstrous of a revelation?

In fields of Prussia, the air was sharper, the trees taller, and the silence even deeper. The old family estate had not changed. It never would.

Bruno’s father was sitting on the sofa, just as imagined. Thinner. Paler. But still with eyes like polished iron.

He rose when they approached.

“So the heir apparent returns,” he said with a voice like gravel.

Bruno said nothing. Instead, he motioned to Erwin, who bowed politely.

The old man took her hand gently. “You have your grandfather’s shoulders. You should have been a soldier…”

Neither Erwin nor Bruno smiled. Erwin was the first in the family’s history not to continue the family tradition of military service.

And while Bruno’s father had named him heir for political reasons, he had never approved of the man breaking this tradition

Even so, they spoke into the night. Of wars. Of regrets. Of the changing world.

When the fire had dimmed, Bruno’s father spoke softly.

“You have eight brothers, all of which still live. All of which have children of their own…. And yet I did what I should have never been allowed to do, I personally named you my sole heir. Violating centuries of aristocratic tradition in the process.”

Bruno stiffened. But he did not stir.

“Are you expressing regret for this decision? I never asked this of you…”

His father nodded. “No, but it was necessary nonetheless. My youngest son becoming a grand Prince, and the rest of the family, decades of service still Junkers… Raised to the position of Count solely because of your accomplishments?”

There was dreadful pause between the two as the words settled.

“If you were not named my heir, do you have any idea the damage this could cause in the future? It was necessary. Because you shined too bright. Just like your mother always said you would. From the moment you were born, she said you were different.”

Silence passed between them, heavier than the years.

Finally, Bruno asked:

“What are you asking me?”

The old man smiled without joy.

“Before I enter the grave… Can’t you satisfy my curiosity… As great as our bloodline has been, you should not have been born of my line. Perhaps Alexander’s but not my own. Who are you? What are you really?”

Bruno could only smirk as he shook his head. Laughing at the whole ordeal, of course there would have been others to figure it out. However his words were twisted with prose, more than honesty.

“”I am the scourge of God… If the world had not committed such great sins, God would not have sent a punishment like me upon you all.”

He was paraphrasing Genghis Khan with this statement, and his father knew it. Causing his lips to curl into a smirk as he sipped from his drink. His statement surprising even Bruno when he said them.

“I knew it….”

When they returned to Tyrol, a letter awaited. From Saint Petersburg. Wax seal intact.

It read simply:

“The time has come. I go to God now. May our children never forget that we once dared to shape the world.”

Signed,

Nicholas II, Emperor of All the Russians.

Bruno folded the letter with trembling hands.

And poured himself a drink.

He stared into the glass.

And saw the end of an age.

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