Chapter 455: Saint or Sinner
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.