Re: Blood and Iron

While Bruno and Nicholas discussed matters of strategic importance, their children had gone off to enjoy a more casual environment. Ledgers and secrets were traded for tea and biscuits.

And for the first time, since Elsa and Alexei began to see one another, in the traditional dance of courtship, the ice, so to speak had truly been broken between them. After all, Elsa had revealed, standing in the hallway with her father, that she was more than just a porcelain doll—she was a living, breathing person.

It had taken her far longer than she'd wanted to grow comfortable enough to speak with Alexei the way she did with others close to her. And if she was being honest, it was only the circumstances—unintentional but appreciated—that forced her hand.

She smiled with the grace of a fairy, accepting the tea that Olga and her sisters poured for her, while eagerly listening to stories of her father's time in Russia and its effect on the House of Romanov. Normally, it might be considered poor manners to ask so openly about a relative in a setting of proper courtship.

But the Romanovs adored Bruno, especially the younger generation. Olga's feelings were well known. Her sisters admired him. And Alexei—he saw Bruno as a man to emulate, though he knew only the sanitized version broadcast through propaganda, not the grim embodiment of war that had emerged from the trenches.

From the stories Alexei spun, most of which were myth canonized as truth, Bruno appeared an almost angelic figure—the savior who prevented the rise of the greatest which mankind most wicked inclinations had ever given birth to: Bolshevism.

Elsa, however, knew better. She understood her father more intimately than perhaps anyone but her mother and the brothers Bruno had fought beside. It was easy for her to tell that the stories were heavily embellished, partial truths mingled with grandeur and palatable simplifications.

She could see it in how her father received their praise: not with pride, but with a heavy, hidden sorrow. The man she knew had carried terrible burdens out of this land—burdens that weighed on him even now.

And for that, Elsa felt bitter.

A part of her father had died here in Russia. He had given it—for strangers, for a dynasty, for millions of lives he had no obligation to save. And while Elsa adored him with all her heart, she couldn't deny the wish that he had lived a simpler life—free from the scars he now bore.

It wasn't that she thought Bruno was lacking as a parent. Quite the opposite: she would never trade him for another. One might even say she would fight with all of her being against any such reality imposed upon her. But she mourned the carefree father that might have been, had history allowed it.

Still, it was a strange relief to finally learn some fraction of the truth. And with it, her own place on the board now made perfect sense.

Russia would one day be her home. But she didn't dread leaving the Fatherland. Travel had become swift—a day's trip at most. And when the time came for her to swear her vows with Alexei in the Peter and Paul Cathedral, she would do so without fear.

After a long conversation that melted away the last vestiges of Elsa's icy facade, she thanked Alexei and his sisters for their hospitality. Soon enough, she and her father boarded their aircraft, preparing to return home to Tyrol.

As the plane taxied to takeoff, Elsa clung to her father's arm tightly. Bruno, his blood still warmed by vodka, looked down at her and mistook the tightness in her grip for fear.

"I told you before," he said gently, "it gets easier. Time has a funny way of doing that."

But Elsa shook her head. Her blue eyes locked onto his, shining with sudden, heavy understanding.

"It's not that," she whispered. "I think I finally realized the sacrifice you made here—the price you paid—the things you had to do. All for people you had no obligation to.

Daddy... if the Reds ever come for me, or for Alexei, or for the family we might have one day... would you—" she hesitated, voice trembling, "—would you condemn millions to protect us, too?"

Bruno was stunned. None of his children had ever spoken so boldly to him before. And out of all of them, he most certainly expected either Eva or Erwin to do so. He would never guess the most reserved and thoughtful of his children would ever pose such a question to him.

And yet, she did. Never before had she so clearly glimpsed the blood-soaked shadow that hung over her father's soul. And she needed to know the price was worth it in the end. Even if it angered the man.

Perhaps it was the vodka. Or maybe it was something else. But for the first time, Bruno dropped the mask. His gaze sharpened—steel beneath velvet—and his voice turned cold as the grave.

"For you, baby girl... I would sooner burn the world to the ground than ever permit such a future."

Then, as if realizing the weight of his own words, he softened. Gently, he ruffled his daughter's platinum-like hair, forcing a wry smile as he did so..

"Let's not dwell on dark things. It's not good for the mind—or the soul, for that matter."

He turned his face to the window, watching as the Winter Palace and Saint Petersburg shrank below them. Bruno didn't see the expression his daughter wore. It was not horror. Nor was it fear or disdain. Elsa simply hugged his arm tighter, closed her eyes—and smiled.

Because no matter what the world thought of him, to her, Bruno was—and would always be—the guardian who stood between her and the storm. She would never forget the words he spoke on this day, nor would he, for that matter.

A solemn pact. A vow of eternal protection. And the ruin that would befall the world if he ever failed in his duty as a father.