Berlin-Mitte, 2025
@Mauerfrau
There were many things Gilbert carried from the past into the present—traditions, habits, games he had perfected centuries ago—only to discover that not much had changed. Much to his very delight. Just like during the age of the great cabinet wars, he gathered a small circle of power-hungry men (and on rare occasion women) to keep him company, to entertain him, to be inspected for their future potential. A collection of fine art, carefully curated, arranged around a dining table every first Tuesday of the month at Borchardt. On the first floor, behind the velvet curtain of a private belegtage, he held one of his petits soupers—a tradition he was carrying forth since Old Fritz.
The Borchardt was perfect. It allowed spectacle and secrecy in equal measure. The polite applause when Gilbert entered, the way heads turned to watch his departure—these little ceremonies fed his legend. Yet behind the curtain, nobody knew what was truly said, only guessed.
Ludwig hated these nights. Always had. To him, they had been vanity, theater for men drunk on their own importance. Gilbert had once thought his brother might learn something if he sat at his side—watch and listen while the adults discussed politics. Instead, the boy had often managed to smash all the chinaware with a single remark that cut far too deep to still be disguised as diplomacy. Outrageous, yes. Insubordinate, yes. And yet, Gilbert had sometimes caught himself grinning into his wine as self-important men lost all composure before a boy who had struck their egos at just the right angle. His dog had needed more training for sure—but when he bit, he drew blood, and that had been a sight Gilbert could always revel in.
The suppers stood in Gilbert’s calendar, not hidden but public. He wanted Ludwig to see. Wanted him to know that he, too, was still part of the game, that he too pulled the reins of the state in his own right. Perhaps not with Ludwig’s titles, not with his speeches, but with the quiet hand that moved the pieces before anyone else realized the board had shifted.
Tonight’s collection was carefully chosen. Businessmen with restless ambition, journalists who liked to think themselves cleverer than their readers, and a handful of young CDU politicians hungry enough to sell their souls for a step upward. Gilbert liked fresh blood. New pieces were the easiest to arrange in just the right order, easiest to break in without them noticing the leash snapping around their throats.
He sat at the center of the table, white-grey hair stark against the sea of dark suits. They looked at him and thought themselves powerful, until his red gaze flicked over them and reminded them of their place. He never ruled over them like a monarch; that was too obvious, too gauche. Instead, he laughed with them, drank with them, teased them into believing for a moment that they were his equals. Primus inter pares. The first among others. The severus servorum of the state.
When he leaned in, his voice dropped to that conspiratorial hush that suggested forbidden truths. He owned them. A half-spoken promise of contracts, a whispered word about new fleets, a suggestion of alliances that could outlive them all. He fed them what they craved most: recognition, importance, the illusion of being necessary. And they followed. They always followed.
Behind the sharp gleam of his eyes there was calculation. The restaurant was his battlefield, the clink of glass his musket fire, the signatures that would later follow his trophies. Somewhere, yes, Germany would benefit. Ludwig’s nation would grow stronger, steadier. But Gilbert never did it for Ludwig’s sake alone, and certainly not for his approval. He did it because this was his duty. Because without him, Germany would be naked, fumbling, soft. Gilbert would not let that happen. Not now, not ever. Not while he still drew breath.
Gilbert swirled the last of his wine before downing it in a single swallow. He rose smoothly to his feet, knocking his knuckles against the polished table. “Meine Herren,” he said, voice cutting through the hum of conversation, “as always, a pleasure. You’ve got my number should you ever need a priest to hear your confessions.”
The room erupted in laughter, too loud, too eager. Gilbert smirked, waved his hand in mock courtesy, and with a swift turn pulled the curtain aside.
On the staircase, a young CDU politician hurried after him, breath quick, ambition outpacing his restraint. “Herr Beilschmidt,” he called, hand brushing Gilbert’s shoulder.
Gilbert stopped cold. The look he gave made the young man recoil, hand dropping as if burned. Still, the young man pressed on, words tumbling out. “I keep thinking about what Schwarzer said… about Germany’s weakness. We’ve grown timid. Always apologizing, always bending. Maybe what we need isn’t alliances anymore, but strength. A push. Some vigor to remind Europe—and the world—”
Gilbert moved before he finished, slipping an arm around the young politician’s shoulders and dragging him close, voice dropping low: “Yes. Germany has made mistakes. He stumbles. He’s not perfect.” His grip tightened.. “But no one—no one—speaks of him like that but me. You want vigor? You want a push? Then listen closely: keep my brother’s name out of your mouth unless you’re singing it.”
The pat on the back came sudden and hard, more shove than gesture. The young man stumbled, slipped, and tumbled the last few stairs, sprawling across the marble in front of a startled waiter. Glass shattered as the tray clattered to the ground, liquid spilling, splinters scattering like shrapnel. Gilbert straightened his jacket as though nothing had happened, stepping neatly over the young man.
At the reception, his gaze caught on a familiar silhouette at the bar. Lily sat there, scrolling idly on her phone, nursing a drink. Gilbert’s mouth curved into something between amusement and annoyance.
“You could have said a word,” he drawled, slipping into the barstool beside her. “I might’ve invited you over—instead of sneaking in one of your little informants, I suppose.”
