Re: Blood and Iron - Chapter 723: Peace was Never an Option
Chapter 723: Peace was Never an Option
The seasons passed, and with them the war that had consumed the world.
By the spring of 1939, the guns had gone silent.
France had bent the knee.
Britain, robbed of its fleet, its gold, and its pride, had capitulated.
The banners of surrender hung limp in the coastal wind, and the Reich stood unchallenged across the Old World.
For the first time in decades, Bruno von Zehntner had nothing left to command.
He walked the courtyard of his Tyrolean estate, hands clasped behind his back, listening to the slow trickle of water spilling from the fountain.
The last breath of winter had faded, leaving the scent of thawed earth and stone warmed by morning light.
The world was changing around him, again, and in the still water he saw the reflection of a man who had outlived nearly everyone who had ever tried to stop him.
A face worn, aged, yet unbowed.
The golden hair that once shone beneath the banners of Berlin had turned to silver; the eyes that once blazed like steel beneath firelight had cooled to the gray of evening.
He would turn sixty that winter.
And though his bearing remained regal and strong, there was something hollow beneath the surface now, like the echo of a cathedral long after the hymn had ended.
He studied his reflection in silence until a voice, familiar and sharp with nostalgia, carried across the courtyard.
“Bruno von Zehntner… as I live and breathe. My God, you’ve barely aged. I had half-expected to find an old relic hobbling about his garden, and yet here you stand, the same prince who once stole my heart.”
Bruno turned.
There, framed by the sunlight spilling through the arches, stood Princess Victoria-Louise of Prussia, once the radiant darling of the Kaiser’s court, now tempered by years and experience.
A smile touched his mouth. “It would seem time has been kinder to both of us than we deserve. To what do I owe the pleasure, Princess?”
Her laughter was soft, knowing. “My father sends me. He wishes to discuss the possibility of a union between my eldest son and one of your granddaughters. He says you might be open to it.”
Bruno raised an eyebrow, half in disbelief, half amusement.
“Your son is twenty-five. Why has he not already found a bride, or been forced into one?”
Victoria-Louise approached, the sweep of her coat whispering over the flagstones.
Her expression carried the easy arrogance of one born to power, softened only by affection.
“Because, dear Bruno,” she said with a faint grin, “the world has changed. The old ways fade with our generation. Engagements made in infancy are relics now. Most noble houses betroth their daughters at the threshold of womanhood, to men already tested, men with power. The eldest of your granddaughters are of age, and my son would make a fine match.”
He studied her a moment longer, then exhaled through his nose, a weary sound more than laughter.
“Very well. Speak with Heidi. She keeps the house, and she’ll decide what’s best for our bloodline. Though,” his tone turned wry, “she may still hold a certain grudge toward you. You did make your feelings well known once upon a time.”
A faint blush colored the Princess’s cheeks.
She remembered the foolish jealousy of her youth, the whispered rumors, the way she in an act of youthful indiscretion had tried to slander his good name.
Recovering her poise, she inclined her head. “Then I shall tread lightly. It was an honor to see you again, Bruno. You have my respect… and my envy.”
She turned, the sound of her heels fading down the corridor until the courtyard was quiet once more.
Bruno lingered by the fountain, watching the ripples distort his reflection. A small sigh escaped him.
“It seems even I cannot keep all things from changing. But so long as the framework endures, so long as the bones of order remain, the spirit of the old world will not return to haunt my blood.”
His gaze drifted west, beyond the alpine ridges, beyond the sea, toward a horizon invisible to the naked eye but vivid in his mind.
Across that ocean lay the only power still unbroken, a nation of engineers and idealists that refused to die.
The United States of America.
Even now, under Roosevelt’s iron rule, it lingered as a vestige of a new and failed faith, the worship of freedom without discipline, liberty without law. Bruno’s jaw tightened.
He had seen the rot manifest into desecration during his past life. How American ideals spread by the tip of a blade across the world had rendered it to near total collapse of order.
How society decayed, its morals tainted, where degeneracy was worshipped as virtue, and virtue was condemned as heresy.
He would never allow such a fate to befall the world again.
He had fought an entire life to prevent this fate. In as many wars as decades he had lived, he had held the line against the encroaching decay of Enlightenment thought.
And though Roosevelt had surprised him once by acting decisively, by saving his republic through tyranny.
He knew that the American disease ran deeper than one man’s resolve.
“No,” Bruno murmured, “it cannot be allowed to endure. Not as it is.”
He moved toward the edge of the courtyard where the mountains fell away into mist.
The air smelled of pine and distant snow.
To most of Europe, the war was over.
To Bruno, it had merely entered its next phase.
The guns rested, but the true battle, the war of ideas, of civilizations, had only just begun.
The Reich had crushed armies; now it would shape the world itself.
He thought of the Enlightenment philosophers whose words had once inspired republics and revolutions.
They were the architects of decay: men who mistook sentiment for strength, who believed that reason could replace discipline.
Their disciples in Washington still clung to that creed, convinced that democracy could coexist with survival.
He knew better.
“Peace,” he said quietly, “was never an option.”
