Re: Blood and Iron - Chapter 628: A Promise Remembered
Chapter 628: A Promise Remembered
The rain tapped against the tall windows of Bruno’s Palace in Tyrol. Each droplet streaking down the glass in thin, silver lines.
Bruno von Zehntner sat alone at his desk, the flicker of a fireplace painting the corners of the office in shades of gold.
A courier’s folder lay open before him, its crisp pages filled with the coded transcript from Riyadh.
The Allies had failed.
He read the summary twice, not out of disbelief, but in quiet satisfaction.
Every word carried the same undertone: polite refusal, veiled disdain. The Pan-Arabian King had dismissed the British, the French, and the Americans with a calm, unshakable reminder, Germany had kept its promises. They had not.
Bruno leaned back in his chair, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. A deal made in honor is a fortress no enemy can breach.
He reached for the decanter on his desk, poured a measure of Mosel wine into a crystal glass, and raised it in a solitary toast to an ally half a world away.
“Loyalty,” he murmured, “is worth more than all the gold in the Reichsbank.”
Setting the glass down, he pulled a sheet of cream stationery from the drawer and began to write in his precise, military hand.
The message was short, but deliberate, a personal note to the King, thanking him for standing firm in the face of foreign pressure.
Alongside the letter, he ordered a gift to be prepared: a matched pair of ceremonial Mauser rifles, each plated in gold, engraved with verses from the Qur’an chosen for their themes of trust and steadfastness.
The stocks would be carved from walnut and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, crafted by the Reich’s finest gunsmiths.
They were not meant for war, but for display in the palace halls, a reminder that Germany remembered its friends.
Within the hour, the orders were dispatched. As the rain fell outside, Bruno returned to his paperwork, his mind already moving to the next front in a war that had yet to be declared.
—
The afternoon light slanted through the Oval Office windows, catching the dust motes in golden suspension.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt sat rigid behind the Resolute Desk, knuckles whitening as he gripped the latest report from the State Department.
The words blurred in his vision, another polite rejection, another veiled insult dressed in diplomatic courtesies.
The Pan-Arabian Kingdom had turned away his emissaries without hesitation, citing their loyalty to Berlin and their trust in “agreements honored in good faith.”
His jaw clenched. Good faith. The phrase rang in his ears like a slap.
In his mind’s eye, he could already see Bruno von Zehntner, sitting somewhere in Tyrol, perhaps in that palatial office of his, reading the same report and smiling that cold, wolfish smile.
Perhaps he’d even raise a glass, savoring Roosevelt’s humiliation like fine wine.
The president’s hand twitched, aching to slam the desk, to curse aloud, to shout the words he truly felt about desert kings who dared rebuke the United States. But he stopped himself.
He knew better.
The Oval Office was wired… every word spoken here might be plucked from the air and carried across the Atlantic to Berlin within hours.
The thought of giving Bruno the satisfaction of hearing him lose his composure made Roosevelt’s stomach turn.
Instead, he leaned back, forcing his features into a mask of calm. He slid the report into a drawer and shut it with deliberate quiet.
“Prepare a statement,” he told an aide without looking up. “Something… diplomatic.”
The aide nodded and left, closing the door softly behind him.
Roosevelt exhaled slowly, the fire in his chest banked but not extinguished. In the silence, he could almost hear Bruno’s laughter echoing in his mind.
—
The palace at Riyadh shimmered under the desert sun, its whitewashed walls and tall gates flanked by guards in flowing robes and slung rifles.
The great hall smelled faintly of sandalwood and cardamom as Bruno von Zehntner strode across its mosaic floor, flanked by his escort.
In his hands, a polished presentation case bore the crest of the German Reich and the Pan-Arabian Kingdom entwined in gold.
The Arab King rose from his seat upon the dais, his white bisht trimmed with gold thread, his dark eyes alight with the curiosity of a man who already suspected what gift was inside.
Bruno placed the case before him. “From the workshops of Suhl,” he said, opening the lid to reveal a matched pair of rifles. They were an older design, the rifle used during the Great War.
Based on the G-43, but these were not weapons meant for war. But ceremony, gold plated, and given a pearl parade stock. It was a weapon more glamorous than any made in the modern age.
The King’s hands traced the cold pearl, his voice warm. “You honor me, Prince von Zehntner. And you honor my people.”
They sat together over sweet tea and dates, the rifles now resting on a stand between them. After a moment, the King leaned forward, his tone turning from cordial to deliberate.
“Tell me, how do you see the next five years? Not for Europe, not for Arabia, but for the world.”
Bruno’s eyes did not flinch. “War will break out by the end of it. When it does, what remains of the liberal world will be dismantled. This will be my last war.”
The King chuckled, not in mockery, but in the way an elder humors a younger man’s certainty.
“A wonder, then, what a man who has spent a lifetime at war will do when he retires…”
For a moment, Bruno was silent. His gaze dropped to the rifles, then lifted again, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Govern,” he said simply.
The King’s laughter filled the hall, not derisive but approving, two rulers recognizing in one another the inevitability of their paths.
“I look forward to the day when the Grand Prince of Tyrol becomes the Chancellor of the German Reich.”
The two raised their goblets in a toast and said nothing more on the matter.
