11th of May 1941
DONG…
DONG…
DONG…
DONG…
The deep, resonant sound of Big Ben rolled across the burning city like the funeral bells of an empire.
It rang without pause. Heavy. Solemn. Inevitable.
No one had ever dared to imagine this moment. No one had dared to speak it aloud. And yet here it was, the sound that would echo through history.
With every strike of the ancient bell, another British soldier lowered his rifle. Some dropped them entirely. Others fell to their knees in the rubble, staring into nothingness as the fight drained out of them.
London had fallen. The South had fallen. Britain had fallen.
The greatest empire the world had ever known, which once ruled a quarter of the planet, was collapsing in a matter of weeks. Not with a final, glorious, desperate stand as so many had hoped and prayed for, but broken, exhausted, and abandoned.
It did not fall primarily through battlefield losses or misfortune. Yes, the British army had continued fighting relentlessly even after Edward's notorious speech. But more and more soldiers began to desert. With every man who laid down his rifle, the pressure on the front lines and on the home front grew heavier. In the end, the leadership had no choice but to face reality.
All because of words. Words that had redirected the people's rage and pain. Words that painted a new enemy, a new injustice, one far closer to home.
"The leadership," Paul said quietly.
He stood at the very front of the bow of the newly commissioned Bismarck. His long black leather jacket fluttered violently in the strong wind. The massive battleship moved steadily up the Thames, its powerful engines pushing the huge hull forward through the dark water.
The enormous 38-centimeter guns were aimed toward the city.
The Bismarck was followed closely by her sister ship Tirpitz and two Kaiser Wilhelm class cruisers. The four large warships formed a powerful column on the river. Their grey hulls cut through the water and left a wide wake behind them.
In the distance Paul could see the half-destroyed Tower Bridge. Burned-out buildings and piles of rubble lined both banks of the river. Thick columns of smoke still rose slowly into the grey sky from many parts of the city.
He remained completely still as he took in the full picture of the fallen capital.
Behind him stood a group of men. These were the pillars of the Reich. The three Reichsmarschälle Erich Raeder, Albert Kesselring and Erich von Manstein were present, together with various high-ranking officers of the Kriegsmarine, the Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe. They spoke only quietly among themselves while they observed the conquered city.
Quietly Paul turned around. At that exact moment a squadron of Luftwaffe fighters appeared in the distance. These planes were different from all the others. They had no propellers. Instead they were powered by turbines. From their bows they released streams of coloured smoke. Bright red and white trails stretched across the grey London sky as the jets flew in perfect formation over the ruined city, flanking the fleet.
The group of officers began to clap at the impressive demonstration in the sky. The red and white smoke trails still hung over the ruined city.
Edward did not clap.
While the German officers applauded the aircraft overhead, the prince merely stood there, hands behind his back, watching the fading red and white trails linger above the ruined skyline of London.
Paul noticed immediately.
He stepped away from the crowd.
"Edward."
"Heinrich."
Edward extended his hand. Paul took it.
For a moment, neither spoke.
"You look troubled," Paul said at last, tilting his head slightly.
Edward let out a quiet breath through his nose.
"Wouldn't you be?"
His gaze drifted toward the horizon, where smoke still rose from the shattered remains of the city.
"I betrayed them...."
He paused.
"And now I stand here beside the man who conquered Britain. My homeland."
Paul's expression remained unreadable.
"And yet," he said calmly, "Britain still stands."
Edward looked at him.
"Barely."
"But it does."
Paul clasped his hands behind his back.
"I gave you my word, Edward. Britain is yours. On paper, at least."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"You will rule. You will speak to your people. You will become their king."
His voice lowered slightly.
"But Britain will remain within my sphere. A Reichsprotectorate."
Edward said nothing for a moment.
"And what exactly will history call me?" he finally asked. "A king? Or the man who surrendered Britain?"
Paul studied him.
"History remembers survivors more kindly than martyrs."
Edward's jaw tightened slightly.
"You speak as though this was inevitable."
Paul looked back toward the city.
A brief pause.
"It was and is. Yes."
Then Paul placed a hand on Edward's shoulder.
"If not for you, we would have bled for months on this island."
"You likely saved hundreds of thousands of lives."
He gave the shoulder a light pat.
"A part of Britain may hate you today."
A pause.
"But one day they may thank you."
A few moments later, the Bismarck finally docked.
Despite the destruction surrounding the harbour, a grand reception ceremony had been prepared.
What remained of the port had been cleared of rubble as best as possible. Rows of German soldiers stood at perfect attention along the damaged concrete, their uniforms untouched by the ash and ruin around them. Massive banners bearing the Reich's insignia hung between shattered cranes and broken warehouse walls, swaying slightly in the cold wind coming from the sea.
Military bands stood ready near the pier, their instruments gleaming beneath the grey sky. Officers, diplomats, and foreign representatives had already gathered, waiting in tense anticipation.
At the centre of it all stood the Wehrmacht's highest command in occupied Britain.
Heinz Guderian stood with his hands behind his back, calm as ever.
Beside him waited Hasso von Manteuffel, speaking quietly to an adjutant while occasionally glancing toward the approaching battleship.
And slightly apart from them stood Fedor von Bock, motionless and stern, his expression unreadable.
All three were waiting.
For Heinrich Jaeger.
Paul descended the ramp of the Bismarck, followed by a squad of black-uniformed Ghosts trailing silently behind him, as they always did.
The harbour had fallen completely silent.
He approached the waiting generals one by one.
First came Guderian, then Bock.
But when he reached Hasso, his expression softened noticeably.
"It is good to see you, my friend," Paul said quietly, adjusting the medal before pinning a golden Iron Cross to Hasso's chest, identical to the ones already gleaming on Guderian's and Bock's uniforms.
"In one piece, especially."
A faint smile crossed Hasso's face.
"Thank you, my Führer," he answered.
The formality remained, yet the closeness between them was unmistakable.
Afterward, Paul honored several other heroes of the war.
Among them stood Erich Hartmann, Germany's famed fighter ace.
Despite standing tall, the nervousness was impossible to miss. His hands trembled faintly behind his back as countless eyes rested on him.
Paul stopped in front of him.
"Congratulations, Major Hartmann," he said, fastening the decoration to his uniform before giving him a firm pat on the shoulder.
"You have served Germany well."
Hartmann straightened immediately.
"It was my honor, my Führer."
Paul gave him a final nod before turning away.
Only then did he step toward the small podium erected near the shattered harbour.
Behind him, enormous Reich banners twisted in the cold wind, framed by ruined cranes and the half-destroyed skyline of the port.
The crowd fell silent.
Even the sea seemed still.
"Today…" he began, his voice clear, calm, yet heavy enough to silence even the wind.
"Today, the guns have fallen silent."
His gaze wandered across the harbour, over soldiers, officers, sailors, and the broken skyline behind them.
"For generations, men spoke of Britain as unconquerable. An island beyond reach. An empire protected by oceans, by fleets, by pride."
He paused.
"And yet…"
His voice hardened.
"Empires are not destroyed by oceans."
A brief silence.
"They are destroyed by arrogance."
"Many believed this war would consume Europe for years. That millions more would die."
He slowly shook his head.
"I refused such a future."
Paul leaned forward.
"We did not cross the Channel to destroy a people."
His eyes briefly shifted toward Edward.
"We crossed it to end a war."
A murmur spread through the crowd.
"Today, Britain remains."
He let the words settle.
"Not as an enemy of Germany."
"But as a nation that chose survival over annihilation."
He raised a hand slightly.
"And let history remember this."
"Germany showed mercy when it held absolute victory in its hands."
The officers stood motionless.
The soldiers listened without even shifting. Some still bearing blood on their faces or soaked in their uniforms.
"To the men who fought…"
His voice lowered.
"To the sailors who crossed burning seas."
"To the soldiers who bled on foreign shores."
"To the pilots who ruled the skies."
He turned slightly toward Hartmann and the decorated veterans.
"You did not merely win battles."
"You changed history."
A pause.
Then his tone sharpened again.
"But hear me well."
He looked directly over the crowd.
"This victory is not the end."
"The age of weak governments, corruption, cowardice, and endless compromise…"
He slowly shook his head.
"…is over."
A gust of wind pulled at his coat.
"And to those across the sea…"
Paul's expression hardened.
"To those who still believe Europe can be manipulated, divided, and controlled from afar."
He let the silence linger.
"To those who profit whenever this continent tears itself apart."
A barely noticeable smile appeared on his lips.
"Your age of interference is ending."
His gaze sharpened.
"For centuries, Europe has bled."
"Kingdom against kingdom."
"Nation against nation."
"While distant powers watched."
"Financed."
"And waited."
He slowly shook his head.
"No longer."
"Europe will no longer destroy itself while foreign powers dictate its future."
"No longer will this continent kneel to interests beyond its shores."
"Europe will decide the fate of Europe."
Silence.
"Long live Germany."
"Long live Britain."
"Long live Europe."
"LONG LIVE GERMANY!"
"LONG LIVE BRITAIN!"
"LONG LIVE EUROPE!"
The harbour trembled beneath the roar of thousands.
Salutes rose in unison.
For a moment, Paul simply stood there.
His gaze wandered and wandered across the crowd until it stopped. His eyes fixed straight ahead, looking directly forward, as if speaking to someone unseen.
You would have called it impossible, an unrealistic dream or nightmare, perhaps.
How wrong you were.
A faint smile touched his lips. His thoughts brushing against that same expression.
Funny.
Somewhere in 2025, people would be screaming at their screens. Calling this fantasy or unrealistic, saying history does not work like this.
No.
You are wrong.
History bends.
The only question is...
Who is strong enough to force it?
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