Scratch Scratch Scratch
The sound of pen imparting its ink echoed in the darkly lit room.
For many, its sound invoked despair, reminding them of gratuitous exams and abhorrent lectures by half-dead tutors. Strangely, the one wielding it found it quite soothing.
Strange. That would best describe the figure currently slaving away. A soon-to-be mythical figure of German history 'til his defamation by association with unsavoury characters around 5 decades from now.
Despite having experienced similarly unbearable years as a student in one of Prussia's most finest educational institutions, Bismark had no repressed phobias for the mighty pen.
While finding his work tedious, he knew deep down the importance of his work. Regardless of the repetitive drabble he would encounter every day, he still knew the importance of acknowledging its sender; stroking egos and stability was hand-in-hand in an autocracy after all.
After all, who would find the work to protect and ensure the prosperity of one's homeland to be regretted or despised? Only a madman would!
Bismarck sighed half-contently, his usual tactic of self-motivation through finding virtue in his work shaking as he set aside another egregious demand by a fanatical, unreasonable, and hopefully independently-acting French politician that wanted Alsace-Lorraine back.
"Damn Revanchists," He thought, neatly rolling up the poorly disguised emotional letter that masked itself as an official state document and hovering it over a flickering candle.
He kept a candle unlike most of his fellow bureaucrats despite the advent of electricity and modern lighting. He reasoned it was for such occasions.
Definitely not because he liked the old ways.
It was because he was poetic!
He enjoyed watching these frivolous, and quite frankly, childish 'diplomatic proposals' burning to ash, mentally conjuring the writers of these 'proposals' across him, as he smirked cooly at their seething faces.
Would their fists be clenched as well? But of course! Their knuckles would be white and their nails digging their palms with fury! While he audaciously burned their demands to demonstrate his superiority.
But that was all reserved for thought.
Because unlike the self-unaware morons of Paris who let their heart drive their bodies, he knew ego had no place in diplomacy. What they call 'passion' is just an excuse to be uncouth.
He sighed. Look at what thinking about the French has done! I am become pompous! The annoyance to all!
"I can't, -nay won't let myself even entertain the idea of the French luring me into sparking a conflict..." Bismarck frowned with slightly pursed lips, "I will never be undone by my own pètard... In extension, Germany won't as well, falling for the same trick that undid third Napoleon..." Bismarck reminisced, allowing a ghost of a smile to manifest as he favourably remembered how the now-dead, disgraced and deposed Napoleon III had fallen for all of his traps.
The 'emperor' had been quick to latch on his carrot, swifter to follow into the cliff he threw the rod over. Because that was what it essential was. A suicide, for no better word could summarise the outcome of the defensive war between the North German confederation and France.
He received a unified Germany from their common defence against the manufactured aggressors.
The French received another Republic. And the jokes were on them, as he didn't have to lift a single finger to provide them that.
The only thing stopping his ghostly smile from materialising into physical form, however, was that he had actually come to respect that greatly-distant relative of Napoleon.
During the latter's captivity due to the French's defeat at Sedán, Bismarck had engaged in close conversation with the 'emperor', and had begun feeling sympathy for him when he realised that unlike the brainless politicians of Paris who agreed almost unanimously for war against Prussia and the Lesser German states for a simple insult manufactured by Bismarck, Napoleon III was forced to propose and ignite said war to support his extremely tenuous position as an unpopular 'emperor' of France, and was essentially forced to step on every one of his traps and follow his figurative carrot, for it remained the only way to retain his authority; populism.
Bismarck frowned at that fact. Once upon a time, the workers and peasants did not question their liege's authority, for their kings and emperors were ordained by god to rule over them, the former being created by god to serve the sole purpose of pleasing their heavenly-ordained masters. But now, that beautiful order was shattered, and emperors such as Napoleon III were forced to appeal to chaotic and unnatural 'ideas' such as nationalism, economic prosperity, social reforms and military meritocracy to keep his subjects content, and not the other way around.
He feared that his emperor would also have to stoop to Napoleon III's level, especially when considering Friedrich III was a well-known advocate of Liberalism and limitations of monarchial power.
The very thought terrified him. He had dreaded it when Wilhelm I chose to hear out the peasantry during the 1848, sending away the army from the capital. He had sighed a huge breath of relief when the emperor had relented and subsequently dispersed the crowd with grapeshot, aptly gaining the nickname: "Prince of Grapeshot" henceforth.
He could not imagine the extent of the despair he would feel when his new Emperor, Friedrich III, willingly, without even being prompted with threats decided to voluntarily relinquish his divinely-ordained powers to rule. He shivered at the thought.
But he repeatedly assured himself that the worst of the German Liberal movements had passed, and as long as his Germany kept its picturesque, orderly army alongside its social structure and common ethos of devotion to the fatherland, he knew his liege's position was secured.
He sighed deeply, pushing the candle dangerously close to the edge of his desk.
He flipped up another document.
It was going to be another sleepless night in the palace.
At least some of these papers aren't entirely wastes of time, he thought, as he delightfully skimmed through a proposal by the appointed magistrates of the relatively newly acquired states of Alsace and Lorraine. It detailed a plan to more extensively integrate the aforementioned state into Germany proper by finally doing away with the Napoleonic code entirely and fully adopting the Prussian rule of law.
Although he was aware of the chaos that may follow, and knew even more that his blessings were meaningless considering his insider-knowledge of the magistrate's incompetence, making his words of approval weigh less than spoken words in successfully doing away with the old codes.
But it was high-time to centralise the relatively newly-acquired territory. This meant he would tolerate the kleptocratic magistrates gaining a virtual free hand to reign hell in their appointed office. He could not afford factionalism, no less regional obstructionism in these trying times.
He knew the consequences well, hell, he was downright familiar with it after all the debacle against the Catholics in the early years.
His blessings to the appointed magistrate of Bavaria to 'persecute' its Catholics proved disastrous when said official went-above-and-beyond, zealously attacking the regional Catholic institutions and wrecking whatever subtle plans Bismarck had in mind to patiently dislodge the Roman pope's influence over the region.
No one seemed to have subtlety. Oh, how his younger self would laugh at him now for how soft he had become!
"Why couldn't the Italians just rid us of those indulgent bastards when they had the chance?" Bismarck tapped impatiently on the corners of his document, creasing it, which would reflect poorly on his professionalism, he thought.
A frustrated expression slowly spread on his face at his anger for one, Gariboldi, whose personal left-leaning political views would make you expect that he would destroy the Papal states and evict the pope from Rome, of which scene would've definitely made Bismarck smile.
For god's sake, they had it coming after for all those years of persecuting the protestants in Germany, causing unspeakable amounts of death and suffering from those relentless religious wars.
They deserved to be knocked down a notch!
He depressed his fountain pen with a little more force than necessary. Years of writing signatures had honed the exact motions for its accomplishment in his sub-conscious, which made his current situation shock him more than it should have when he briefly focused his gaze beneath the tip of his pen and found only an indent, a shadow, a paler shade of black that ink should've made.
He had run out of ink.
With great and almost-lazy gentleness, of which gesture Bismarck figured was to hide his current annoyance and anger of his previous thoughts and current predicament compounding eachother, he set his fountain pen aside, then looked around the dimly lit room to locate another pen.
At first, he refused to leave his seat and instead scanned his table fruitlessly, as if great concentration would manifest a pen before him, perhaps beneath the mountain of paperwork or the edge of his peripheries.
This was why he never liked working in the palace's offices, instead much favouring working in his private building just outside it, stocked with much office supplies and advantage of familiarity coming with the latter. But for this occasion, he had no choice, as he was in the middle of convincing the emperor to forfeit any ideas of enacting Liberal reforms until the night ceased further discussions and caused him to dejectedly retreat into an unfavoured, but still his, office.
He hoped to intercept the emperor early in the morning, and so decided not to return to his offices. For he had done so before with the predecessor many times when confronting a 'bad' behaviour of theirs which he intended to remedy.
...
Safe to say, Bismarck was beginning to regret that decision every minute he spent here. This wasn't his worst day, oh no, far from it. That title would be designated to any of the days he had spent in Russia.
The palace retinues, courtiers and everyday bureaucrats that visited made sure that he had not forgotten about his disaster in dislodging the Catholics in Bavaria, for still yet, in his mind, they misinterpreted his intentions due to those incompetent magistrates, and viewed his 'petty revenge' against the Catholics as nothing but a reactionary measure that would reopen old wounds and divide Germany further, of which goal, Bismarck had no intentions to fulfil in the first place.
He knew many of the individuals that gave him the sour glares personally, and knew they were smart enough to disregard the rumours and see his 'Bavarian project' for the good-intentioned decision it was.
But maybe it was the desire to see a titan, someone who rarely ever failed and always seemed to succeed finally miss and fall.
Or maybe he was the one delusional.
He sighed.
Amidst the negativity, he reminisced of the good times; his first taste of self-gratification in the political stage. It was when he had been requested, then accepted an invitation to participate in talks of whether a constitution should be created to restrict the powers of the emperor when one of the representatives, his friend, had become unexpectedly sick and had to call in Bismarck as a replacement.
He remembered it being his first taste in politics in-person; although he did not enjoy it at the moment, specifically, thinking of the liberals and the chaos they brought to any atmosphere as being toxic and utterly unbearable. It was a little more bearable now though, but still so insufferable.
But he also remembered it as somewhat addicting; the way he had captured even the brainless morons he thought liberals as, in the senate through his fiery speech about the sanctity of the powers of the king and decrying the liberal's outrageous claim that the Germans had united and thrown Napoleon's armies out of the Rhine due to them being supposedly promised a constitution. Outrageous!
They had thrown Napoleon's army out of the Rhine because they were invaders and oppressors! Not because the German people were promised a constitution if they did it! They had fought against France FOR GERMANY, not for some piece of paper like the Liberals were alledging!
...
Bismarck finally noticed the unmistakable silhouette of a fountain pen on a stand nearby, and moved to retrieve it, careful to not knock over anything while his vision was impaired by dark.
While some career bureaucrats would despair at the prospect of standing up from their chair, Bismarck was no such blue-pilled weakling who groaned and whined at needing to leave his desk to accomplish basic tasks.
After all, his legs worked, humans were made to be mobile and active, it wasn't going to break any bones or cause lasting pains and the time required to go and do whatever needed to be done always was shorter than the usual soy-boy ritual of contemplating it for 30 seconds and moaning incessantiously to do something which even a debilitated sea otter with missing chromosomes and every type of diabetes would easily do without a second thought.
At first, he patted pathetically around the fountain pen, not wanting to call his depth perception into question by embarrassingly missing the pen and devolving into self-doubt.
Once he was sure he had a firm grasp on the distance relative of him to the pen, he leaned forwards confidently and grasped the pen in a fist, the latter instrument looking comedically undersized and the former conduct, therefore, seeming immature, yet Bismarck assessed it was a worthy sacrifice despite the lack of audience that could judge him for his cautiousness.
"I need to stop overthinking things," He noted; he still thought extensive planning and thought was essential for any task, especially considering his line of work and the consequences of carelessness, but he disliked how this meticulousness was seeping to his daily life.
"Truly, I'm a slave to my work, slave to Germany especially so, as I let them dictate my entire life." He reflected to no one in particular, "What a glorious honour it is." Bismarck smiled, for it was indeed a prestigious role, and who wouldn't be delighted to serve their fatherland in such a crucial role as mine?
Very poetic. He swore he wasn't a narcissist.
Without a thought, he traced his cautious trail back towards his desk, carefully removing the cartridge from the fountain pen he had just repossessed for GERMANY. He quite liked his artisan hand-crafted fountain pen, and would be a fool and disrespectful to replace anything but the cartridge.
Whistling winds pressed against the distant windows, its well-polished wooden frame, no matter the level of craftsmanship and effort still sporadically tapping what it contained, playing soft 'tinks' which echoed in the room despite the abundant paper piles acting as insulators of sound.
Prompted by this auditory distraction, Bismarck momentarily glanced towards the source, reflecting briefly, on how even the most well-worked and meticulous product still had unbearable imperfections.
He did not overlook the symbolism of that observation.
It reflected almost scarily with his work.
Bismarck despaired to see a Germany without him. Without its trusty carpenter, so to speak, hammering in its loose nails.
Without him, Germany would become unrestrained, impatient and entirely antagonistic. He knew it would become so without his realist influences.
He knew there were many others in governmnet who thought Germany's imperial possessions were lacking compared to the other Great powers such as France and Britain. They tactlessly wished to seize more territories, even from the said powers directly.
He despaired at the prospects of an incompetent chancellor, as while somewhat of an egotist, he knew himself to be near perfect man for the job; a man unrivalled in statescraft, with a similarly unmatched belt of experience. He had mastered the arts of offending none while appeasing all. The last thing Germany needed was a conflict for a piece of far-flung dirt.
"There are none even close to my abilities, at least not in Germany as far as I can see."
He was irreplaceable, and definitely not because of his ego, but of his abilities. Yep, definitely because of his competency and expertise.
"How will Germany fare without me?"
Bismarck blinked away from the window frames, his vision blurring around it, revealing the beautiful, beige starry night sky with the iconic silver crest of the moon pasted on the picturesque, near-fantastical piece of natural art that had inspired so many great men before.
Oh, how much he wished for his Germany to be so fantastically beautiful, so expansive, so... All-consuming. He could only dream.
Alas, his Germany was, unfortunately, a product of artificiality by men, specifically by a man named Otto Von Bismarck. Thereby, the flaws of the product followed with its creator, for mere mortals, no matter how perfect, could only hope to compare with the almighty.
His only solace? "At least the damned Liberals weren't the ones to make it..." He knew he had achieved the closest to perfection, creating a Germany by nobles, princes and kings ordained by god, and not by some dirt-poor peasants, of which class god had assuredly forsaken to work for the benefit of god's chosen people.
He huffed quite exasperatedly, shaming himself quickly for getting so worked up throughout the night, considering, but quickly dismissing the notion that it may be caused by sleep deprivation. He had worked longer hours before, worked through entire nights without problems before. "This should be nothing," The workaholic huffed.
"Then what could it be? What is making me so irritable for no reason?" Bismarck briefly looked towards the ceiling, as if it would assist in his self-reflection, needlessly risking the flaring of pain in his aging, creaking neck.
...
He felt... No pain?!
He blinked wearily, then squinted suspiciously at the fact that he couldn't hear the minuette creaks and chiselling of his bones against one another, which would normally cause either immense or barely bearable pain.
Usually not a gambler well, not anymore at least, but curious of how far he could get away with his probably temporary flexibility/numbness, Bismarck stretched, at first cautiously, then radically bent his head from one shoulder to another; a feat that had been unfeasible since hitting his late 60's without excruciating and long-lasting pain.
His eyes widened at this development, a slight frown lying in reserve, awaiting to be called up to the front if even a slight pain began to flare up in consequence.
But nothing. No pain at all.
Perhaps I will pay for my recklessness the next morning? Bismarck immediately thought, but such depressing imaginations were cut short by an unmistakable sensation of being sharply poked on the palms...
...By what felt like three pincers???
He snapped downwards, narrowly avoiding biting his tongue off to desperately dispel the implications of his impossible physical sensation.
He looked down... To see two clenched fis- claws???
A single brow rose impossibly high on his face, his brain contemplating court martialing his perception apparatuses to immediate execution and imprisoning his eyeballs for life for crimes against the laws of physicality (and or logic).
He pushed away his fists -claws apparently from his face, then hopefully opened them, willing the claws to not acquiesce with his requests. But it did.
The amount of cognitive dissonance and proprioceptive drift affecting him all at once threatened to collapse his mental state; Bismarck swore he could see foam forming in his mouth beakwhatthefuc-.
He knew through corresponding movements, as requested by his 'self' -brain, matched with his -now claws, which would let him logically rationalise that, those claws were, in fact, his hands, however, the aforementioned afflictions on his mind also refused to believe that the claws in front of him were actually his hands through overwhelming memory associated to what his hand had felt and looked like conflicting with how his claws felt now. Not only that, I only have four digits!
His new appendages felt stronger, tougher and were noticeably thicker than his previous ones, and without even having to see a dissection or test his strengths, he could definitely tell the bones and muscles within it were far denser, through the sheer rigidness and 'weight' of his claws which made themselves evident regardless of his assumably strengthed arm to support said 'buffed' appendages.
He made other, far less confusing discoveries with his anatomy, as he no longer felt any pains in his joints, muscles or any place for that matter that had been caused by old age. He felt the very comforting emrbace of his still-not-yet-forgotten youthful spirit and energy, prompting a wild smile to possess his face as a result of overwhelming joy to once again reclaim the title of "wild man Bismarck."
Choosing for a minute to ignore the destructive implications and aspects of his transformation, Bismarck lapped-, nay, exploded out from his seat, his momentum alone causing the massive table to literally fly off from its ancient position, revealing a noticeable dent on the intricate carpet where the table's legs had sat, to then land unceremoniously, alongside its contents on the floor, miraculously breaking nothing in the process.
Bismarck, despite initial indiscipline, landed gracefully on his feet -paws, yet he refused to acknowledge them as such, as he deemed it to be childish to call his base of support anything other than legs and feet, and immediately entered into a duelling stance, convincing himself that the golden gilded fountain pen he held in his claws was his reliable duelling sabre.
He felt a slight discomfort in the fact that he had one less digit to support his supposed sabre, but quickly adapted, orchestrating complex moves from memory, lunging and generally prancing around the office, seemingly locked in a desperate battle against an illusive phantom that seemed to parry all of his attacks.
Bismarck relentlessly attacked this presumptuous phantom that dared toy him by not striking back; so focused in this life-or-death battle, he hadn't even noticed that he could perfectly see in the dark and subconsciously, yet expertly dodge the obstacles littered around the office as if second nature and as if he had returned to his prime.
Finally, Bismarck found an opening, and ever the opportunist, lunged forward to attain it; not noticing the slight flaps of his wings that stabilised him and prevented his fall which would assuredly mean his end, for his enemy was shameless and would assuredly end him while he was helpless, on the ground.
Bismarck drove his sabre into the deep crevasses of his opponent's neck, and with the absent presence of the mediator, was free to drive the tip deeper and twist, ending his opponent for good.
He panted through triumphant a smile, twirling his sabre and depositing it in its sheath cooly.
...
Then the self-illusion broke.
...
The office was a mess; piles of once-organised pages now strewn about chaotically around the room, black smudges of unmistakable shoe-prints, albeit disgusting on the well-polished and crafted marble floor, displayed the aftermath of a great duel between two skilled masters of the finest, most glorious art form, although one of the masters seemed to be a ghost, evident by the missing footprints of one participant.
...
Bismarck glanced towards the window. It was still the dead of night.
...Then back at the trashed office.
...
...
...
"Damn..."
...
...
...
He promptly went back to work.