Re: Blood and Iron

The snow fell in heavy curtains outside the military hospital in Berlin, muffling the city's usual noise.

The Reich capital, normally all steel and thunder, seemed to bow its head that day.

Inside, the corridors were quiet, nurses moving softly, as though even their footfalls might disturb the presence of death.

Bruno von Zehntner, Reichsmarschall, Grand Prince of Tyrol, the Lion of the Alps, moved with his usual stride.

Though on an occasion like this, there was an unusual somber within his pale blue eyes.

At the end of the hall, guarded discreetly by two of his adjutants, a door bore the simple plaque:

Bruno von Zehntner, Sr.

The old man had lived nearly a century.

Once a proud Junker of Prussia, then an industrialist, then the patriarch of nine sons.

He had stood in the year Kaiser Wilhelm I was crowned, and had mourned when the old Emperor was finally laid to rest.

He had felt the first flicker of hope when Frederick III inherited the throne, and lamented bitterly when the promise of his reign was cut short.

He had watched Wilhelm II rise in the Year of the Three Emperors and lived long enough to see Bismarck himself retire, the Iron Chancellor fading into history.

He had been there in Versailles when the Reich was founded, and he had seen it grow, fracture, and grow again.

He had sired nine sons, each of whom built families of their own, and all had left their mark in service to their house and their fatherland.

He had outlived his wife and most of his brothers.

He had watched old Prussia fade into something larger, more terrible, and more glorious than anything their forefathers could have imagined.

And now, as his life reached its twilight, Bruno von Zehntner, Sr. could at least rest with one comfort:

that his house, his blood, and his fatherland were carried forward in the capable hands of his youngest son.

Bruno pushed open the door.

The room was warm, the fire in the grate burning steadily.

A candle glowed beside the bed, its light softened by the late hour.

His father lay propped up by pillows, his once broad shoulders now gaunt, his hair as white as Alpine snow.

But his eyes, ice blue, sharp, still carried the weight of command.

"Bruno," the old man rasped, voice dry but steady.

"So the boy who hit a bullseye his first time with a rifle, and blamed his brothers for 'teaching him without permission'… is now master of this world."

Bruno almost smiled. Almost. He drew closer, pulled a chair beside the bed.

"You remember that?"

"How could I not?" Bruno Sr. managed a chuckle.

"Nine sons, and only one lied with such conviction that even I fell for it. It still amazes me that I fell for it."

Bruno chuckled bitterly, shaking his head as he thought back to that day. Revealing the true extent of his deceit.

"Would you believe me if I said I orchestrated that to get rid of Kurt and Ludwig?"

The old man smiled wryly, as if he had known the entire time. And then his laugh turned to a cough, but he waved away the nurse's fussing hand.

His eyes never left his son.

"You were never like the others. Fierce, yes, but not cruel. Clever, but not bookish. At least not in the way a boy should be. There was… something in you. From the day you could walk, I knew you would not live as other men. And now…"

He gestured weakly toward the uniform.

"The whole Reich bows to you. Even the Tsar calls you his father-in-law now."

Bruno said nothing. Silence was easier. He clasped his father's hand, a hand still calloused despite its age.

For a while, they listened to the fire. Snow tapped against the window.

The candle guttered and rose.

Bruno's eyes strayed to the flame, and for a fleeting moment, his mind wandered.

He remembered being a boy on their family estate outside Berlin.

He remembered the smell of pine tar and saddle leather, the way his father's voice carried across the training yard when he barked orders at grooms and workers.

The memories of the evening he had defended Heidi's honor at their first ball together.

A duel, in an era where such things were antiquated and illegal.

How proudly his father watched him bloody a prince twice his age.

And he remembered, most of all he remembered how heartily his father had smiled the day he married Heidi.

How the man had given him the keys to his first home. The home he and Heidi had built together.

A home that ended up in the hands of their eldest son, and now their eldest grandchild.

The memories faded, replaced by the reality before him.

His father's breathing was shallow, his skin was pale, the weight of a century pressed into those frail bones.

At last, Bruno Sr. spoke again, quieter now.

"I have lived long. Too long, perhaps. I've seen war, peace, kings rise and fall. I have buried your mother, and I have buried friends. But I will not lie to you, son. I fear the gate."

Bruno frowned. "The gate?"

The old man's lips trembled into a faint smile.

"The gates of Heaven. The Pearly Gates."

Bruno Sr.'s voice trembled, though his eyes still held the flinty steel of a man who had seen three Kaisers crowned.

"I have my sins, Bruno. Pride. Temper. The wars I cheered from afar, the men I sent to die in them. And now I ask myself… after all I've done, will I be welcomed? Or turned away?"

For a long moment, his son said nothing.

The crackle of the oil lamp filled the silence, its light falling across the lines of the old man's face.

Bruno leaned forward, resting both hands on his knees, gaze steady.

"You were a faithful husband to your wife," he said.

"A father who gave his sons every chance to serve. A loyal subject to your Kaiser. A builder of industry, not just for profit, but for the Fatherland. And a man who never abandoned his faith, even when others mocked it as superstition."

His tone sharpened with grim certainty.

"If God were to look on such a life and condemn it… then perhaps when we meet in the next life, you will see me marching into Heaven itself."

Bruno Sr. blinked, then a weary smile crept onto his lips.

A soldier's smile, thin and pained, but proud.

"Still my son," he whispered. "Still, the boy I always knew was different."

A silence stretched between them, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the ticking of the clock on the wall.

For the first time in many years, the Reichsmarschall looked not like a lion, nor a wolf, nor a butcher, but simply a son, holding vigil at his father's bedside.

Bruno Sr.'s hand trembled in his grip.

"When your mother died, I thought the world would end. But it did not. When I saw you rise, I thought the world would burn. But instead… you made it kneel. Perhaps that is purpose enough."

Bruno's jaw tightened. "Purpose is never enough. It must be carried to the end."

The old man smiled faintly.

His breath came shallow now, but his words remained firm.

"Then carry it well, son. And when your end comes, may you face it with the same steel you showed me as a youth, proudly wielding your sword against those who would challenge you, daring the world to doubt you."

His grip slackened. His eyes fluttered closed.

Bruno remained there, silent, unmoving, until the nurse approached with tears in her eyes.

She whispered, "He always asked after you, mein Herr… every day, until the very end."

He rose slowly, placing his father's hand gently upon the coverlet.

The candle beside the bed flickered once, then steadied.

Bruno turned to the window. Snow still fell, blanketing the city in silence.

For the first time since Nicholas' passing, the Reichsmarschall allowed himself to feel the weight of loss.

The boy who once lied about a rifle to frame his brothers had outlived his father.

The man who carried an empire on his shoulders now carried a heavier burden still: memory.

He thought briefly of his own sons, and their sons after them.

One day, they too would sit vigil, wondering if the fire in his chest had burned for them or consumed them.

One day, they would ask themselves whether the world had been worth the blood it demanded.

He drew in a long breath, squared his shoulders, and stood from his seat.

Behind him, the candle burned on.

Bruno bowed his head in respect to the nurse who had cared for his father in his final days and said nothing.

He simply placed his cap on his head and walked out the door.

He did not go home. He could not.

The firelight of his father's room still clung to him, and he needed the cold to strip it away.