Re: Blood and Iron

The bells of Berlin tolled heavy, their echoes carrying through the frosted air.

Streets lay hushed beneath banners of black and white, draped across every facade, every tower.

Citizens lined the avenues in silence, hats in hand, as the procession passed.

First came the regiments of the Reich, their boots striking in unison upon the frozen cobblestones, bayonets glinting beneath the winter sun.

Behind them rolled carriages draped in mourning cloth, bearing wreaths of pine and laurel, the offerings of guilds, regiments, and provinces.

At the center of it all came the hearse: black, drawn by six white horses, the casket upon it draped in the flag of Prussia, crowned by the Iron Cross, the medals of a lifetime laid upon the pall.

And following, step for step, the heads of empires.

Kaiser Wilhelm II walked stiffly, his age showing, his family at his side.

Beside him strode Tsar Alexei of Russia, tall and solemn, his wife Elsa at his arm, her eyes fixed forward, her face pale but unbroken.

Behind them followed the King of Italy and his kin, the Archdukes of Austria, the Dukes of Bavaria and Saxony, the Princes of Württemberg, Mecklenburg, Baden. The great houses of Germany and beyond, united in grief.

And at last came the House of Zehntner itself.

Bruno walked at their head, clad in full regalia, every honor he had earned upon his breast and shoulder.

The Grand Prince of Tyrol, the Reichsmarschall, the Lion of the Alps.

Yet his face was carved with sorrow, his eyes shadowed by memory.

At his side walked Heidi, veiled in black, her poise unshaken.

Behind them came their children, and behind them, the brothers, nephews, nieces, cousins, a sea of blood united by mourning.

The procession wound its way through Unter den Linden, past the crowds, through the gates of the cathedral where kings themselves were laid to rest.

The casket was borne inside, the solemn music of organs filling the vaulted space.

Candles flickered against marble columns. The scent of incense hung in the air.

The congregation filled every pew, nobles shoulder to shoulder, uniforms gleaming, black gowns whispering as they knelt.

The Kaiser himself bowed his head, and the Tsar crossed himself in silence.

When at last the prayers were said, the hymns sung, and the casket lowered before the altar, all eyes turned to Bruno.

He stepped forward, every motion measured, his boots striking upon the marble floor like thunder in the silence.

In his hands he carried a great banner, its silk heavy, its colors bold.

He turned, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he unfurled it before the assembly.

Gasps rippled through the hall.

There upon the banner blazed the crowned eagle of Tyrol, gules upon argent, wings outstretched in majesty.

Around it, a golden wreath of wheat bound the shield, its stalks tied with the red-white-red ribbon of Tyrol.

And at the eagle's breast, upon a smaller shield, the ancient arms of the Zehntners, the humble bundle of wheat, the symbol of their Junker origins.

The past and the present, bound into one.

Bruno's voice rang out, firm and heavy.

"My father was not born to greatness. He was born to service. A Prussian Junker of the new nobility, raised not by centuries of privilege, but by duty, by faith, and by toil. He saw emperors crowned and emperors buried."

His voice carried across the venue, not amplified by microphone, but by the natural weight and power of a man filled with grief… and pride.

"He lived through wars and triumphs, through peace and loss. He buried his wife, his friends, and still he endured. He built with his hands, he led with his will, and he taught his sons that honor was not a word, but a burden to be carried."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembly, over Kaiser and Tsar, King and Prince, and then over the faces of his own kin.

"My father gave me more than life. He gave me a name, one I bore into battle, one I carried when duty called me to fields drenched in blood and fire. And he gave me a house, not vast, not ancient, but steadfast."

Bruno's gaze, downcast and solemn, filled with fire as he stood proudly. A bitter smirk carving itself upon his lips.

The stoic mask he wore cracking with each word spoken.

"By his hand, it endured. By his faith, it stood. By his wisdom, he passed it not to the eldest, but to the one who could carry it forward. In so doing, he bound our line together, from Junker roots to princely honor, from humble wheat to the eagle of Tyrol."

He lifted the banner high, the heraldry catching the candlelight.

"This is my father's gift, and my gift to him. The house made one. The old and the new, the humble and the great, bound by providence. The wheat of our origins, the eagle of our future. A sign of Tyrol's prosperity, of God's grace, of a family that shall endure beyond the grave."

His voice grew stronger, echoing through the cathedral.

"My father's life was marked by sacrifice. Sacrifice for family. Sacrifice for faith. Sacrifice for Fatherland. And above all, love. Love of his wife. Love of his children. Love of his Kaiser. Love of the God he served until his final breath. If such a life is not honored, then no life can be. If such a man is not remembered, then none of us deserve remembrance."

Bruno lowered the banner slowly, planting its staff upon the stone floor before the altar.

He bowed his head, his voice quiet but carrying still:

"Rest now, father. Your duty is done. Your burden is carried. And what you built shall endure."

The hall was silent, the weight of his words pressing upon every soul within.

Then, slowly, the organ began again, rising like a tide, and the congregation stood as one.

Kaiser, Tsar, King, and commoner alike bowed their heads to the memory of Bruno von Zehntner, Sr.

And in that moment, the house he had founded was made eternal.