Re: Blood and Iron

The snows of Tyrol had melted into rivers that rushed down from the mountains, feeding the valleys with the promise of spring.

But in Berlin, the air carried no promise, only the sour tang of tension. Reports arrived daily from the frontier.

French guns "training" too close to the border, shells "straying" into German trenches, patrols cut down in the dead of night.

Bruno sat at the long oak table of the General Staff, his uniform immaculate, his face carved in stone.

Around him, voices clashed like sabers.

"They've killed twenty men this month!" one general barked, fist striking the table hard enough to rattle the inkpots.

"How long do we endure this farce? Are our soldiers to sit idle while the French butcher them under the pretense of drills?"

Another joined in, voice sharp with fury.

"We have every right to retaliate in kind. One barrage across the line would silence their arrogance."

Bruno raised his hand. The voices faltered.

His pale eyes swept the room, cold as Alpine ice.

"That is precisely what they want," he said, his tone low but steady.

"They want us to lash out. They want us to step across the line, so they may paint the Reich as the aggressor before the world. If we give them that satisfaction, we do not begin this war; we lose it before it starts."

Bruno took a deep breath. He didn't know what was more infuriating.

That the French were so shamelessly attacking the Reich under false pretense.

Or that he couldn't retaliate without losing half the investments he had made for this upcoming war over the last twenty years.

He simply rubbed the bridge of his nose to calm himself. Exhaling heavily as his thoughts hissed out along with his breath.

"There are many nations that have vowed neutrality… And we have even more alliances that are contingent on a defensive basis. If we become the aggressors, we lose all of those assurances. I will not concede twenty years of my efforts for the sake of a few dozen men! If we respond in kind, then half of the work I have done ensuring that the Reich is guaranteed a victory in this war goes down the drain."

The Kaiser leaned forward, his white mustache bristling. "And what then, Bruno? Shall we sit idle as our men bleed, telling their widows it was for the sake of patience?"

Bruno's jaw tightened.

He tapped the table once with his gloved hand, each syllable measured. "Their lives will be repaid, Majesty, tenfold. A hundredfold. A thousandfold. When the time comes, we will drown the French frontier in its own blood, and not a grave dug will be deep enough to hold what we shall give them."

Silence gripped the chamber. Even the most hawkish of generals found themselves staring at him, caught between fury and the grim certainty in his voice.

"But not today," Bruno continued.

"Today, we show restraint. Today we demand negotiations, reparations for the families of the slain, and the proof to the world that it is they who break the peace. When the reckoning comes, we will not be remembered as butchers, but as avengers."

The Kaiser's gaze lingered on him. The room was heavy with unspoken fury, yet no one found words to challenge him.

Bruno leaned back in his chair, his voice quiet now, almost weary.

"Wolves do not snap at every thrown stone. They wait. They endure. And when the moment comes, they strike, not in anger, but in certainty. Let the French throw their petty shells at us. This time I will reduce Paris to ash, and their entire history as a people with it for this petulant insult."

The generals bowed their heads. The meeting adjourned.

But as Bruno walked from the chamber he knew the patience of wolves had limits.

The French pressed harder with each passing week. Sooner or later, the storm would break.

And when it did, there would be no holding back.

The chamber emptied slowly, boots echoing across the marble as the generals filed out.

Their voices carried down the corridor, still muttering about blood and vengeance, but the heavy oak doors soon closed, and silence fell.

Only two remained.

The Kaiser stood by the tall windows, hands clasped behind his back, staring out into the Berlin night.

The lamps outside threw pale light against the glass, casting his lined face in half-shadow.

Bruno lingered at the table eyes fixed on the maps spread across the surface. For a time, neither man spoke.

At last, Wilhelm broke the silence. His voice was low, thoughtful, touched with unease.

"You won't truly burn Paris to ash, will you?"

Bruno lifted his head, his pale gaze meeting the Kaiser's.

He said nothing at first. He rose slowly and walked across the chamber.

His boots tapped softly, deliberately, until he stood beside Wilhelm at the window.

"I had the chance once," Bruno said, his voice quiet, almost distant. "In 1916, at the end of the war. The French were broken. I set the outskirts of Paris ablaze, a ring of fire that would have consumed the city."

He paused, his reflection in the glass cold and unforgiving.

"But I stayed my hand. I offered them mercy." His lips tightened into a thin line.

"And mercy was a mistake. They took the peace I gave them, and in twenty years they have built themselves into a blade aimed once again at our throat."

The Kaiser's brows furrowed. "You speak as though there is no choice."

"There isn't." Bruno's tone hardened. "I am not a man for second chances. I gave them one, and they spat on it. Do you know what Machiavelli wrote? 'If an injury has to be done to a man, it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared."

A long silence hung between them. As Bruno stared into the distance. Perhaps reflecting on his own failures.

"I should have gouged their eyes out and cut out their tongues in 1916. Instead, I left them their sight and their voice, and now they scream for war again. This time I will not make the same mistake. This time I will break them so utterly that when I am gone, and when my sons are gone, no man will fear a fourth war with France, because there will be no France left capable of waging one."

The Kaiser studied him in silence, the firelight from the lamps flickering in his weary eyes.

Bruno's voice lowered once more, edged with the weariness of age but carrying the weight of iron conviction.

"My years are not many, Majesty. I will not leave behind another war for my children to inherit. Better that I end France now, once and for all, than condemn the next generation to the cycle I have already endured."

He turned from the window, his cloak brushing the marble floor.

Behind him, the Kaiser whispered, almost to himself, "And so the age of mercy dies…"

Bruno did not look back. "Mercy," he said, "was buried in 1916."

And then he was gone.