Re: Blood and Iron

Considering it was a military airfield that Bruno and his daughter Elsa landed at, Russian troops were on hand to greet them — and inspect their luggage to ensure everything was in order.

Despite being a prince in Russia and a close friend of the Romanovs, Bruno was still a man from a foreign country — and a powerful one, at that. Because of this, security measures were taken. Bruno understood it was a matter of formality, not suspicion.

The Russian soldiers personally inspected his and Elsa’s luggage before waving them through, where an armored motorcade awaited — protected by the Tsar’s personal bodyguard.

They were not dressed in military uniforms. Their weapons were concealed beneath civilian coats and tailored suits. The reasoning was obvious: untrustworthy elements existed in every society — especially enemy agents that had infiltrated the Russian Empire. Bruno’s arrival was not something to broadcast to those lurking in the shadows.

Once Bruno made sure Elsa was properly seated, the two of them departed for the Tsar’s Winter Palace — as elegant and opulent a Baroque estate as Bruno had ever seen.

Every time he stepped into the hallowed halls of the Romanov dynasty, he was struck anew by the weight of history, lineage, and artistic beauty.

And this time was no different. Bruno paused in the entryway — his gaze locked on a new painting that had not been there before. It immediately caught his attention. It was him.

He stood in full ceremonial Russian Field Marshal uniform, posed saintlike with a Russian Orthodox rosary in one hand, the gesture solemn, prayerful. In the other hand: a Fedorov Avtomat, held neatly at the shoulder. A halo hovered above his head. The backdrop was pure, angelic light — suggestive of canonization. Canonization he had not received.

Bruno stared for a long while, awestruck. Whoever the artist was, they had captured every intimate measurement of his face and posture — even if everything below the chin was obscured by uniform.

Elsa had stopped as well — at first impatiently trying to urge her father forward until she saw what had caught his eye. She froze.

In the painting — rendered more realistic than a photograph — Bruno appeared to be no older than eighteen. It was the physical age that Chronos had frozen him in time at for many years, at least until his thirtieth came around and the clock began ticking again.

And Elsa found herself unable to understand it. What she saw wasn’t the loving, doting father she’d known all her life — nor the war-weary veteran who tried to hide his pain whenever he came home. What she saw was a martyr.

Head bowed. Mouth parted in solemn prayer. A youth no older than her sister Eva, venerated in his prime — sanctified in oil and reverence. Bruno eventually broke the silence, his tone half-admiring, half-unsettled.

“I must say… the artist knows my features a little too well. It’s a bit uncanny.This is a face I haven’t seen in a long time — but it is mine, to a fault. Not a single millimeter is off. Not one line askew from what I once saw in the mirror. Truly, it’s exemplary work. What do you think, Elsa?”

But when Bruno turned around, Elsa didn’t respond. She was utterly dumbstruck — so much so; she hadn’t noticed the posse of Romanovs standing behind her, smiling quietly at Bruno’s awe. It was Olga’s voice that finally pulled Elsa back to earth. The girl startled, blushing red with embarrassment.

“I wish I could say it was my hand that painted it,” Olga said, “but frankly, my father was the one who commissioned it. He searched far and wide for someone who could fulfill his vision. You could say… it’s his way of thanking you. For everything you’ve done — for us, and for Russia.”

Bruno turned back to the painting, sighing heavily. He shook his head — not angrily, but with a weight that refused to be flattered. Whether it was genuine humility, or an attempt to shield his daughter from the full scope of what he’d done, no one could say.

“I’m afraid your father’s admiration is misplaced. I only played a small part in putting down the Red Menace. I came to Russia to do my duty — nothing more. A civilized man, waging war against Bolshevik mongrels who would drown this nation, and the world, in blood if given the chance.”

But Alexei stepped forward — rejecting Bruno’s attempts at remaining grounded, and making clear just how crucial his role had been.

“That’s not true at all. When you and your men first landed in Saint Petersburg, the situation had spiraled out of control. My family had to flee deep into the East to escape the Bolsheviks. The city was under siege. It was about to fall — until you rallied our defenders, crushed Trotsky, and annihilated his army.”

“You liberated our capital. Then you marched on Volga — cut off the Red Army’s lifeblood of steel and lead. You took Tsaritsyn. You broke their industry. You gave the loyalists a future. Entire generations of men rallied to my father’s banners because of you. We owe you far more than we’ve given — and my father intends to correct that.”

Elsa had been barely a year old when her father had gone to Russia during the winter of 1904. She remembered none of it. And in her studies, the German record portrayed it as if a small contingent of volunteers had aided the Tsar in a victory that was already unfolding.

They never mentioned that it had been her father, leading the vanguard, who had slaughtered the Reds by the hundreds of thousands. As for Bruno and Heidi? They had never talked much about the extent that the man was involved with global affairs, not until their kids were old enough to begin truly understanding, and that was a recent lesson that had yet to fully stick to the girl’s mind.

But now, hearing Alexei’s retelling the tale from the Russian perspective, her expression shifted — a mixture of awe, disbelief, and reverence. For the first time, Alexei saw her without the mask — no Ice Princess, no rehearsed noble posture. Just Elsa. And in that moment, he fell for her all over again.

Bruno, meanwhile, sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked back at the painting one last time — and muttered under his breath. So quietly, only he truly heard it.

“You brat… did you really need to out me as the devil in front of my own kid?”

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