Re: Blood and Iron

The cameras were already rolling when Henri stepped forward.

Behind him, the Brazilian sun filtered softly through tall arched windows, illuminating the silk fleur-de-lis draped over the back wall, an ancient symbol reborn for the modern age.

There were no handlers now.

No press agents, no advisors whispering from the wings.

Only a single microphone before him, and the eyes of a broken nation watching from afar.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself.

"My fellow countrymen…" he began, his French clipped and perfect, the old courtly accent of a prince who had never forgotten the land that cast him out.

The weight of centuries hung on his shoulders, but he bore it with ease, his spine straight, his voice calm.

"I do not speak to you today as a pretender. I do not speak as an exile. I speak to you as a son of France."

He paused.

"For too long, our nation has been led not by principle, nor by providence, but by pride and provocation. Charles de Gaulle has claimed the mantle of a republic, but governs as a despot. He claims to be the voice of the people, yet censors their protests, imprisons their dissent, and sacrifices their sons in wars not of their choosing."

He looked directly into the camera now, eyes sharp as bayonets.

"This war was not declared by France. It was declared by a man. And now, that man demands you die for his mistake."

The silence after those words was deafening.

And then:

"The German Empire has made its intentions clear. They have no desire to destroy our nation. But they will, if they must. Their armies stand at the gates of Paris. Their artillery surrounds it. Their skies are shielded. And if de Gaulle forces them to enter the city by fire and steel… they will leave nothing behind. Not even the stones."

His voice cracked slightly, just for a moment.

"I will not let that happen."

Henri stepped closer to the microphone, casting aside the distance between royalty and citizen.

"I ask… no, I implore those of you in uniform, in command, in service to France: lay down your arms. Refuse de Gaulle's orders. Let the fighting end."

He nodded solemnly.

"History will not remember you as cowards. It will remember you as patriots."

Another pause.

"To the people of Paris, to the mothers and the children still trapped within those walls, know this: there is another path. One where your homes are not rubble, your streets not stained with blood, your monuments not reduced to ash. One where France still has a soul, and a future."

Henri lifted his chin then, quiet dignity radiating from him like candlelight.

"I am not your master. I do not demand your loyalty. But I offer you hope."

A faint breeze stirred the flag behind him.

"Let this be the last time France is dragged into war by the pride of a single man. Let this be the hour we remember who we were, so we may become again who we are meant to be."

His final words were spoken in a whisper, so soft the microphones barely caught them:

"Long live France."

And then he stepped back into the silence.

The video spread like fire in dry grass.

Despite De Gaulle's best efforts, blackouts, channel seizures, broadband jamming, even threats to shoot any civilian caught rebroadcasting it.

Henri's voice found its way into homes, into barracks, into hearts.

In Avignon, a café went silent as the flickering television picked up the royal standard behind Henri's shoulder.

In Lyon, a unit of conscripts stared slack-jawed as the prince spoke with conviction their generals lacked.

In Paris itself, besieged, afraid, and still wounded from the shock of the German advance, people wept.

Not all. But enough.

Enough to begin.

---

De Gaulle paced the war room like a lion in a cage. Eyes bloodshot, collar torn open, his once-pristine uniform stained with coffee, ink, and sweat.

"They're airing that bastard's speech in Calais," one aide reported, pale and trembling.

"Cut the tower."

"We did, sir. They routed it through Belgium, then again through Algiers."

"Then jam the frequency!"

"We are, but…"

"Then kill the servers! Cut the power to the entire arrondissement if you must! Do you want them thinking he's king already!?"

Silence.

De Gaulle rounded on his inner circle, breath ragged.

"They'll crucify us," he whispered. "If we give in now, they'll remove our heads like the Bourbons! Don't you understand? Henri's return means our death!"

He turned, slamming his fist against the map of Paris pinned to the wall.

Pins rattled. Some fell.

"This isn't Serbia," he growled. "Bruno may think he can erase Paris like he did Belgrade in 1914, but this is France. This is civilization!"

He pointed toward the sky, as though shouting to the heavens.

"You erase Paris and the world will turn against you. The world will unite to destroy your Reich once and for all. You'll be known not as a liberator, not as a prince, but as a butcher!"

The generals exchanged glances. None dared speak the truth.

That it might already be too late.

---

Bruno sat like a statue of ice at the head of the table, the Lion of Tyrol unmoved by the hysteria now emanating from Paris.

The video of de Gaulle's tirade had been sent directly to him.

In it, the General flailed and barked like a dying man.

Bruno watched it in silence, once. Then again. Then again.

Finally, he stood.

"Prepare the communique."

Adjutants froze. One, a young officer no older than Eva, dared to ask, "What shall the message say, Reichsmarschall?"

Bruno looked out the window toward the west, toward the land of cathedrals and kings, now ruled by ruin and fear.

His voice was frost on steel.

"To the citizens of Paris:

You have seventy-two hours to flee.

Any who bear arms have twenty-four to surrender them.

After that…

I will not sack your city... I will erase it. Not with malice, but with the indifference of a force of nature.

The bridges will fall.

The Seine will run black.

The Louvre will burn, and Notre Dame will collapse in ash beside it.

Your monuments will be reduced to dust, and your nation, what remains of it, will be carved anew from the stone of your failure.

As Rome did to Carthage, so too shall we salt the earth where your republic once stood.

Ensuring it never rises again to blight this world.

Do not mistake mercy for hesitation.

You were warned.

Do not die with your tyrant.

This is your final hour. Choose whether history remembers your surrender... or your eternal silence."

The room was silent.

Even the Kaiser's adjutants, normally impassive, looked pale.

But Bruno's eyes were colder still.

Not angry.

Resolved.

The world may call him a butcher, but so what?

He had accepted the label decades ago when he gassed Belgrade.

People had short memories, and greater egos.

But Bruno, he remembered, and would not hesitate to act if the world forced his hand.