Re: Blood and Iron

It wasn't long after Bruno's meeting with the President of the United States that he found himself back home in the German Reich.

His vessel landed in Trieste, where he boarded a private train bound for Tyrol, his sanctuary. His family awaited him there. And waiting they were.

Heidi stood in the entryway of their palace's foyer, a stein brimming with a full liter of beer in hand. She wore a traditional Tyrolean Dirndl, her golden hair braided into twin plaits, a floral crown of fresh edelweiss perched on her head. The sight alone made Bruno's breath catch in his throat.

He, in contrast, was dressed in crisp, modern formalwear, an odd juxtaposition against her folk attire, which these days had been largely relegated to holidays and parades. Even so, he couldn't help but smile. She looked radiant. And absurdly out of place.

Before he could ask why she'd dressed this way, Heidi smirked and thrust the stein toward him, her tone playful, with just the right touch of seduction.

"Just drink your beer and be happy, you old lecher."

Bruno burst into laughter, taking the stein and downing a hearty sip before setting his eyes on her again. She sauntered toward the sitting room, hips swaying, and sank onto the couch with practiced grace.

He opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted again. As she leaned on the armrest, drawing his gaze exactly where she wanted it.

"The kids are gone for the night. Eva took them to Berlin. She's old enough, responsible enough… and they'll be staying at the old palace."

Her smile deepened.

"That means, for the first time in ages we have the whole night to ourselves. So… what should we do with it?"

Did the question even need answering? Bruno intended to savor every second of it.

---

Elsewhere, Heinrich returned home to his estate, modest by noble standards, but tasteful and quiet. Far from Berlin, not far from Bruno's old home.

His butler greeted him at the door, as did the kitchen staff. Despite his newfound noble status, Heinrich had never built a palace or raised a retinue. He kept things small. Loyal. Familiar.

That loyalty had kept him sane after the war, especially once Alya married Erwin and moved into their own home. He still visited, of course, shared meals, told stories, spoiled his grandchildren, but they'd never once visited him.

Until tonight.

He stepped into his kitchen and blinked. There they were: Erwin and Alya, working with his staff to prepare a meal.

"Alya? Erwin? What are you doing here?"

Alya turned, flour dusting her apron, and ran over to him without hesitation.

"Father! You're home!"

She embraced him, but then immediately recoiled. Her nose wrinkled as she sniffed his collar, detecting a noticeable fragrance that didn't belong: Perfume....

"Father…" she said darkly, releasing him. "Please tell me you haven't gone back to your old habits now that I'm married and out of the house."

Heinrich scratched the back of his neck, clearly caught.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She sighed, exasperated.

"You never remarried. And for years, I understood. You were afraid no woman would want to play mother to me. But I'm grown now. I have a family. You don't need to be alone anymore."

She crossed her arms, the scolding expression unmistakable.

"It's time to stop living like a forty-year-old boy who never grew up!"

Heinrich slumped into a chair. A cold mug of beer waited for him. He picked it up, gazing into the amber liquid like it might hold answers.

"I'm being scolded by my own daughter…"

He took a sip.

Across the kitchen, Alya nudged Erwin. Quietly, she whispered, "I don't think he's handling peacetime well. He seems… lost. No one to come home to. Can you ask your father if he can help? Maybe set him up with someone? Before he slips too far."

Erwin glanced at Heinrich, concern etched across his features. He nodded.

"I'll call Father in the morning. He might not know anyone… but my mother certainly will."

Alya narrowed her eyes, catching the implication. Erwin raised his hands in surrender.

"I think she knows someone," he clarified quickly.

Alya didn't say another word. She just glanced back at her father, tired, slightly drunk, and quietly fading. She could only sigh. Because she knew her husband was right. There was little appealing about a lonely old womanizer… even if he had a noble title, and a vault full of gold.

---

Rain broke out later that night, as darkness cast its shadow over Berlin. In a cemetery just beyond the city limits stood a headstone with a single name:

"Erich von Humboldt"

No engraving spoke of who he had been in life. The stone itself was plain, unadorned, unpretentious. But fresh flowers lay at its base, now drenched in rain. They were placed regularly, almost ritually, for the better part of three years by an unknown patron.

And there she stood tonight, silent in the downpour. Dressed in a mourning gown from head to toe.

The rain concealed her tears, or it might have until the man beside her raised an umbrella over her head.

"My lady... it's been almost three years since your fiancé passed," he said softly. "I know you've yet to come to terms with it. But I must ask, please don't make yourself sick from grieving."

The raven-haired woman wiped at her face and tried to compose herself. She had been crying for nearly fifteen minutes. With visible effort, she looked over at her family's butler, forcing a fragile smile.

"I'm sorry to keep dragging you all the way out here, Wolfgang... and for making you watch over me like this. But someone has to make sure the flowers stay fresh. It's the least I owe him."

Wolfgang sighed quietly and shook his head. Despite the official record surrounding Erich's death, neither he nor Lady Luise had ever truly believed it.

But Erich had made it clear: if something ever happened to him, they were never to contact his commanding officer.

Luise had never understood why. Erich had always spoken of Bruno with respect, even reverence. And yet, she honored his request even now, two years later.

Still, Wolfgang had begun to wonder. Perhaps it was the silence, not the sorrow, that prevented his lady from moving on. And perhaps it was time to break the vow he had once sworn to the man who was supposed to marry her.