Family Interlude
Dominion, 1976
I climb out of the car and walk up the bridge to the main gatehouse. I know this is where my friend chooses to make his home when he's not in Berlin, but I've never been able to like it. Not since what happened on Germania, so many years ago. Still, as I walk up to the gatehouse, and they salute me and let me enter, at least I don't feel the sheer gut feeling of darkness that I get when I visit my great-grandfather's iteration of Schloss Wewelsburg. Artur may be RFSS here - which technically makes him my boss, and I still can't get used to seeing oak wreaths on his collar - but at least he hasn't underpinned his reign with the darker rites of the Thule Group. Or at least, not as often. The darkness isn't bound into the very stones here.
"The RFSS is in his private apartments, Oberstgruppenführer Becker," says the newly-minted Obersturmführer who indicates for one of his men to take me up to Artur's apartment, despite the fact that I know the way well enough. The minion he calls over is an even more newly-minted Schütz, who looks seventeen if he's a day.
Newly-minted. By the gods, listen to me. Despite the fact that when I stare at myself in the mirror, I don't look significantly older than I did when I first came to Dominion, over twenty years ago, running the Waffen-SS here for most that time has left its mark on how I see the world. And in my mind, I find myself reciting the old adage that when soldiers, policemen and doctors look young, you know you've reached middle age. Never mind the fact that in Family terms I'm still a child.
We exchange salutes. At least Führer Heydrich mandated the change to the hand to the brow style, rather than the straight right arm, when he came to power, and got rid of the previously obligatory Heil Hitlers. I wonder if Ian had anything to do with that. My escort falls into step beside me and we go through the raised barrier, heading for the archway in the western corner of the courtyard.
Artur's quarters take up the top two floors of the West Tower, above the library which occupies the ground and first floors. Quite what Gisela thinks of his desire to spend half of his time in a draughty old castle, when they have a luxurious - and more to the point warm and comfortable - villa by the Wannsee, is anyone's guess. But then, chances are she's not here with him: she usually stays in Berlin, when he's down here on business.
I like Gisela, and they seem close. But their marriage is less about love and more about mutual respect. Maybe if they'd managed to have kids it would have been different, but rather like Ian and Audrey, and Dad and Susanne, it just never happened.
I wonder what he's going to make of my news. It took a little while to sink in with me, but now it has, I really want to tell someone, and Artur is my oldest friend.
My escort leads me through the archway in the east-west wall, to the doorway at the base of the tower, and we go up the stairs. Then he knocks on the heavy oak door, and I hear my friend's voice from inside.
"Enter."
The Schütz opens the door for me, and then stands back while I go in. I thank him, and watch as he heads back towards the stairs, then close the door behind me.
The room is a combined office and sitting room, with a small, internal spiral staircase up to his bedroom and bathroom - the original stone stair having been taken out to make more space. He's sitting behind his desk, over by the window, in his shirtsleeves, his jacket thrown carelessly over a chair to the side. But he looks up as I come in. I haven't seen him for a few months, not since the last meeting in the Gruppenführersaal, at Winter Solstice, and I notice how tired he looks. But then, if anything, his job has taken a harder toll on him than mine has on me.
"Armand," he says, with a smile, and for just a moment, he seems more like his old self again, "what the Hell are you doing here?"
He slips the glasses he's wearing - for effect, rather than correction, as far as I know - off his nose and puts them on the desk beside him, then gets to his feet.
"It's good to see you, too, Tuur," I answer, with a grin.
I cross the room to him and we embrace. Ian doesn't get the manly hug thing. Never has done. Too British I suppose. But Dad has always been a lot more demonstrative, and I guess I got it from him. However, close up, my friend seems even more tired. Artur has a couple of inches of height on me, but he's more bowed down by life in general. Apparently psychological age is has more effect on our Family than years lived, and he looks five years older than I do nowadays.
"Are you okay?" I ask, concerned, as I step back.
"It's been a long couple of months," he answers, indicating the chairs by the fireplace, and pouring us both a good slug of Schnapps.
Sadly I understand that only too well. The terrorist attack in Moscow, back in November, had claimed a lot of lives, and I knew that the RSHA were up to their necks in investigating who was responsible. After all, it had been the first such atrocity for almost ten years, and there was a suspicion that the perpetrators had had inside help. The bomb had appeared in the middle of Führer Square (we were never going to let it stay Red Square) during the Armistice Day remembrance, as if by magic, which was bad in itself, given that magic isn't common here. But it must have been targeted by someone on the ground for it to get that close.
I was about fifty feet away on the reviewing stand, taking the salute, when it blew, so I was probably the target, which was sobering even now, two months later. As it was, I had been hit by the concussion wave, and blown back, cracking my head against the scaff bar at the back of the stand. I'd apparently been out for a good few minutes before I came back to my senses, and when I did, I was shaking like a leaf.
I'd refused to go to hospital, insisting that I stay with the men, to see if there was anything I could do. The security people wouldn't let me do that, of course. In the end they compromised, and escorted me back to my hotel - they put visiting dignitaries up in the Peter the Great - where Charlotte had been waiting anxiously for news. She had been in Moscow on business for the Ministry of Armaments, reviewing supply lines, and she had seen the blast from the hotel window. She met me in the lobby, because security weren't letting anyone out, in case there was a second bomb, and we'd gone upstairs. At which point the whole brush with death/frantic sex thing happened. And I guess that was when I hadn't been so careful.
The first round is downed in one, and then he pours a refill.
"So what brings you here?" he says, as we sit back in our respective chairs, and he pulls me back out of my reverie.
"Straight to the point, eh?" I answer, "no ‘it's good to see you, Armand, how are you'? Anything like that?"
"I'm sorry. You're right. How are you?"
"Glad to be back in Germany, that's for sure. Christ, Russia's cold in the winter. Have you got anywhere with the bugger who tried to kill me?"
"I wish I had, but whoever it was had magical capability. Which reduces the number of people who can investigate to one."
"You."
"Unless you feel like jumping ship to the SD."
"Not particularly. I'm a soldier, not a policeman. But is sounds like either someone external has discovered Ian's little hidey hole here, or we have some home-grown mages who haven't made themselves known yet."
"My current working theory is Caine's people causing trouble. One of his sons, maybe. That scumbag does, after all, love his Commies, and none of us have endeared ourselves to him over the last couple of years, Amber time."
"Not that we have a vast number of those left, nowadays."
"No, but there are some, and however much we think we've got rid of them, they just keep coming back. Like roaches. And I could certainly see Caine or one of his family sending someone to train anyone native here who might have the feel for it - and we know there are a few - to get himself an edge."
"Just how many potential mages are there on Dominion?" I ask, surprised. I'd thought it was magic-free.
But then, both Artur and I could function as sorcerers, and Ian's Kent Group and Artur's Thule Group could generate results through ritual.
"Maybe one in a hundred thousand," he answers, "I've identified a lot of them here in Germany, and I'm seriously considering founding some kind of school for them. Starting with your little brother Blaine, and possibly my little brother Linden, although I think he has rather a lot on his plate as it is."
"Who would teach them?"
"Probably just you and me, my friend. Who else is there?"
"Should we ask Dad and Ian to find potential British students, as well?"
"It wouldn't hurt, although whether they would want to learn in Germany is another matter. You see Wolf on a semi-regular basis, right?"
"We try to catch up once every couple of weeks, when he's around," I answer, "although he's not about at the moment. We alternate between his flat in London and my place in Potsdam, rather than going out on either town. Thank goodness for Trumps. They save so many questions..."
"Like why would the head of the Waffen-SS be in a bar in London?"
"And why would Wolfgang Ulrich, British tech billionaire, be anywhere near Berlin," I answer, downing my second Schnapps, then sitting back, listening to the fire crackling in the grate and smelling the woodsmoke. It seems so very civilised; so very far from the tension and bloodshed in the East.
"How often do you think Dad and Ian have sat having a drink, just like we are now," I ask, finally, as I top us both up.
"Probably more than either of us can count," he answers, "I know Ian wishes that my brother were here more."
"Wolf was pretty adamant that he didn't want to take a full thirty-years out. Although it made sense for Katharine to be here with the kids."
"Do you miss him?"
"When he isn't here? Yes."
"I envy you, you know."
I look at him, surprised, "In what way?"
"Ian and I...okay, we can at least talk to each other now, but I'm always going to be number two son in his mind. His relationship is with Wolf. It's like that with you and Wolf, too: there's a closeness, an intimacy between you that I just don't have with Ian. With anyone really, except maybe you."
"He's my father, yes. But you...you're my best friend. The brother of my heart, even if you're the uncle of my blood. We've shared things over the years that they'd never understand. Which is why I came here tonight. I wanted you to be the first to know."
"First to know what?" he asks, curious.
"Charlotte's pregnant," I answer, with a grin, "I was hoping you might agree to be the baby's God-father."
I look at him, expecting him to be pleased, but he isn't. His reaction is far more complicated than that, finally settling in an overriding sadness.
"Artur? Are you okay?"
"When's it due?" he says, finally.
"August."
"You're asking me very early."
His voice is quiet; subdued even.
"I wanted you to know," I answer, genuinely puzzled by his reaction
"Have you told Wolf?"
"Not yet. I only found out a couple of days ago..."
"Take my advice, Armand. Don't tell him, or Ian. Not yet."
He looks at me, and there's an expression I've not seen on his face for a long time. He looks...haunted. It completely takes the wind out of my sails.
"What's wrong, Tuur? I thought you'd be pleased."
"It doesn't end well...Family and mortal. Real and Shadow. It killed Susanne. And it made Gisela sick. Really sick."
"I didn't know Gisela had been pregnant."
"It only happened once. She lost it just after the first trimester, and it nearly killed her. She recovered eventually, but it screwed her up inside."
I try to think back. Yes, there was a period, about five years ago, when Gisela was in hospital for a long time. A couple of months. He'd said it was septicaemia: complications from routine surgery.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it hurt. And I was embarrassed."
"Embarrassed? Why, for goodness sake? Surely you know I would have been there for you."
"I couldn't face telling you."
"Why ever not?"
"You're the golden boy, Armand. Wherever you are, that's going to be the case. It's just who and what you are. Apart from what happened with the Lynx, nothing bad ever sticks to you."
"That's a pretty big apart from..."
"Not now you know about it," he replies, "now you can protect yourself."
I'm not sure what to say, so I cover my discomfort by taking another drink. He sounds so jealous, and I wonder if he's angry at me, although I'm not sure, for the life or me, what I've done.
"You've never shown any intention of settling down. You enjoy playing the field too much. You've been with Charlotte what, four months? That's some kind of record for you, and is probably only down to the fact that she's been pregnant for two of them. And however hard Führer Heydrich tries to persuade you, in the end he always lets you off because you're so damned charming. But he never cut me the same slack. I had to be the SS family man with the pretty blond wife, and the pretty blond kids, and I couldn't even achieve that."
I look at him, and wonder if there's anything I can do.
"I didn't want to get married," he continues, "You know that. I've never been that interested in sex, and I've always been something of a loner. But I did my duty, and I tried...I really tried...to be a good husband to her. And you know, when she told me she was pregnant, I was actually happy. But then it all fell apart, and after that it was never the same again. So how could I possibly tell you what we'd been through? How could you have understood?"
"Because you're my friend..." I answer, "and I thought you cared for Gisela..."
"I do. Deeply. And in public we're still the perfect couple. But after that...as I said, things changed. Because I knew it was my fault, and I knew we'd never get a second chance."
"How could it possibly have been your fault?"
"I worked for Dieter, remember. We talked. Have you never wondered why pretty much everyone in the Amber Family is High Blood? Why we all have Chaos heritage as well as Amber. Or at the very least Amber continent, Golden Circle or Black Zone heritage? It's because the stock is more Real."
Stock? I look at him surprised. He sounds like he's discussing racing stud books. It's a side of him I've never seen before, and I don't like it.
"I assumed it was because our parents were a bunch of snobs," I answer, trying to recover myself.
"No. It's because High Blood genetics are too strong for mortal ones. They overwhelm them."
What he says triggers a memory. Mama said something similar to me when I stayed with her, after discovering she was still alive, and we were talking about the person who had died in her place, to make me think she was gone.
"I didn't believe it before," Artur continues, "I thought it was just Dieter being Dieter. After all, he did run the Ancestral Heritage division, and he, for one, doesn't support Bleys's decision to bow to the demands of Ian and the others to open up immigration into Amber. But after what happened with Gisela...that's when I understood."
"But there are half-Bloods," I protest, "that kid Ian keeps an eye on, Franz, is one."
"Yes, but he's not really all there, is he? He doesn't have the spark that full High Bloods do. There's something missing. I think my brother Bobby, the one in Amber, might be the same, although I don't know him well enough to be sure. Maybe he's just quiet..."
"But you're saying that there's a good chance that my kid isn't going to be all there. If it survives to term at all."
"It isn't definite. Especially if there's the slightest chance that Charlotte is, by some miracle, be Blooded," he answers, "but it's a risk you have to be aware of."
And at that point, I realise that his sorrow, his haunted look, is for me.
"I'm so sorry, Armand. I wouldn't wish what happened to me and Gisela on my worst enemy, let alone my best friend."
"What should I do? Should I ask her? Should I tell her?"
"That's up to you. And of course, there's one particular piece of advice I can't give you, because I'm RFSS, and family is everything. What you need to decide, though, is are you going to be there for her? Because whatever happens, she'll need you."
"I..."
I stop. Because I genuinely don't know what to say. I really like Charlotte, but Artur's right - I'm not the settling down type. Maybe that's my curse. Although there is something about her that I find as arousing as Hell...something I've not met with any of the other girls I've been with on Dominion. So I find myself wondering - or hoping, or perhaps even praying - that maybe that means there's a chance that she at least has some Blood in her.
"And if the baby survives?" I ask, quietly.
"Then I would be honoured to be his or her God-father."
"Even if it isn't all there?"
I felt my voice catch in my throat. I know about the T4 policy. Any child born which is physically or mentally disabled, is painlessly euthanized for the good of the Aryan race. It has just never occurred to me that one day, that might apply to a child of mine.
I look over at my friend, and find he can't meet my eyes.
"I'm sorry, Armand," he says, oh so quietly, "but you had a right to know."
The Schnapps is laying in my stomach like battery acid, and I realise that I have to get out of there.
"I have to go," I say, putting my still half-full glass on the table, and getting to my feet, "I'll see you at the Spring Equinox conference."
He nods, as if he understands my haste, and then watches in silence as I head for the door. I can't get out into the open air quickly enough, and it's all I can do to stop myself throwing up.
"Is everything alright, Oberstgruppenführer Becker?" asks the earnest young Schütz who had escorted me earlier.
"Just get my car," I order, and he scurries to do my bidding.
I stand there for a few minutes, gulping in the cold air, and feel it burning in my throat, but I don't care. Eventually I hear the engine as my car is brought around to the bottom of the gatehouse slope, and I compose myself and walk over to the barrier. I exchange salutes with the guards, and then walk down to my car. As I do, I feel as if I'm being watched. I turn, but see nothing, and then I look up. Artur is standing in the window of his office, looking down at me, and I see that thee haunted look is back on his face.
I turn my back on him, and get into my car.
* * * * * *
We manage to survive 34 weeks, but it hasn't been without its scares. Twice Charlotte has ended up in hospital with complications, and it looks as if Artur was right, damn him. But the doctors manage to stabilise her both times. And the scans have been normal...or at least they haven't shown any physical abnormalities.
But tonight...
Doctor Friedrichs comes quickly - there have to be some advantages to pulling rank - and it takes him less than five minutes to organise for her to be taken into hospital. I pull on a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt, and go out with her, but they bar my way as I try to climb in the ambulance. I guess I look so out of context, that they just think I'm some kind of hanger on. After all, they probably don't expect to see someone like me looking like a ratty student.
"I'll drive you, Herr Becker," the doctor says, quietly, and I gratefully climb into the right hand seat of his compact BMW. Dad had joked to me over a beer one time that he had been doing some designing for both BMW and Mercedes. As I try to think of anything but Charlotte, I wonder if what he said is true, and try to spot his handiwork in the vehicle I'm riding in.
The hospital isn't far, and soon we're pulling up, as she's being wheeled inside. Ian's mentioned that it was like this when the twins were born. Dad got luckier with Elena, who behaved to the very end and was born on time. But at least they both had a reasonable expectation that their kids would be born alive. I just have a bunch of hope.
I get taken to a private room to wait, although I occasionally see people going past who pause and look in through the window, trying figure out if they've recognised me. But I'm not there for very long. No more than an hour, before Friedrichs pokes his head in.
"Come with me, Herr Becker."
I do as I'm bid, and he takes me down the corridor, but he isn't saying anything which doesn't do anything for my piece of mind. He eventually leads into a side room, where Charlotte is lying on the bed, sedated. There are tear stains on her face, and in her arms is a little bundle, wrapped in blue. Even I can see that it's too still.
"What happened?"
"We couldn't get him breathing," says the doctor, apologetically, almost cringing, "we tried for fifteen minutes."
"May I hold him?"
"Of course," he answers, but I can feel an underlying ‘but why would you want to?'.
I take him from Charlotte and look at him. He weighs maybe a kilo and a half, but he looks perfect. Ten fingers. Ten toes. The right number of limbs, proper features - although his eyes are closed, so I can't see what colour they are. Blue, I suppose. But no spark of life. I see the doctors slipping out of the room, leaving us alone, as I sit down, and I feel numb to my soul. We were so very, very close.
I find myself reciting the Group's prayers for the departed to myself over his still little form, and as I enter the trancelike state that normally involves, I can see his aura. It's a sickly greenish yellow colour.
I didn't realise the dead even had an aura?
And then I see something brighter, surrounding him as if it's trying to get inside him.
"Give him to me," comes a quiet, familiar voice, and I look up to see my grandfather. Beside him is Artur, looking more off duty than I've seen him for twenty years, in crumpled cotton trousers and an old Rolemaster T-shirt that he must have got from Matthew's crowd. I haven't spoken to him since January, except at the quarterly Gruppenführersaal meetings in March and a couple of weeks ago.
I let Ian take the pitiful little bundle from me. As he does, I see Artur raise wards around the room. And then Ian lays him down in the incubator that would have held him if he'd lived, and begins to Work.
"How did you know?" I ask Artur, quietly.
"We parted in anger last time we met," he answers, equally quietly, and sits beside me, "and you have no idea how much I regret that."
I feel his arm over my shoulder, and we bend towards each other, touching heads like we did when we were kids, before he sits back up and lets the arm drop.
"But I've been keeping an eye on you from afar, and I asked Friedrichs to keep me informed."
"What about doctor/patient confidentiality?"
"Strangely, he was willing to waive that on a direct order from the RFSS."
"It hasn't helped. You were right. He was doomed from the moment he was conceived."
"We shall see."
"And what the heck is Ian doing here? He doesn't have German residency or papers."
"I asked him to come. And who is going to ask to see his papers when he's with me?"
"Because right now, you look the picture of the well turned out SS officer."
"As do you, my friend. As do you," he answers, his tone gently teasing, "What about Charlotte?"
"I don't know. I haven't spoken to her. She was sedated when they brought me in."
"I did some checking," he says, gently, "and it turns out that I may have been too pessimistic when we talked before. As best I can tell, she's either a Rexford or an Amblerash. Not necessarily a Full-Blood, but certainly at least half."
"She was certainly all there," I answer, "She's one of the brightest people I've met. So maybe not all half-Bloods are damaged, if that's what she is."
"I never said that, Armand."
"You got pretty close," I reply, "although given what's happened in the end, it doesn't really matter does it?"
"If anything can be done for your son, my friend, Ian is the one who'll be able to do it."
We lapse into silence, watching my grandfather work. I've heard stories of his ability to heal, and even seen it on occasion, but this is different. This is something I don't understand. Part ritual, part healing, part the gods know what. But after what seems like forever, I hear a gasp. And then the baby starts to cry.
"What did you do?" I ask, getting shakily to my feet, and going over, Artur a few steps behind me.
"I needed to ease the passage of his soul into his body," Ian answers, "it's an Old one, by the way, although that probably isn't a surprise in this Family. No idea who yet, though."
He picks up the little boy, and hands him to me. This time the spark of life is there, and when I switch sight, I see that his aura is a healthier orangey-yellow.
"Keep his head supported..." Ian advises, and I try to make him more comfortable. Then I rock him gently, and his crying subsides to grumbles.
"Isn't that the wrong way round?" Artur comments, "easing the passage of a soul into the body?"
"I can't think of another way to explain it," Ian says, with a shrug, "it was as if his soul couldn't find its way in. I helped, and once it had made itself comfortable..."
Artur and I look at each other. We understood all the words individually, and yet together...
"Let me get the doctors," Artur says, and I feel him bring down the wards and head out.
"You're a father, child of my child," Ian says, quietly, and he wraps his arms around me and the grumbling bundle I'm holding. It's so un-Ian, and yet it's just what I need then. He holds me for a short while, then steps back and sinks into the chair Artur had vacated, looking absolutely exhausted. I drop down beside Charlotte, the little boy on my lap.
"I'm guessing he's about six weeks early?" he asks.
"Give or take," I answer.
"About the same as the twins. So he should be fine, given the Family constitution and the healthy dollop of Chaos blood I'm detecting. Not sure which House."
"Artur mentioned about Amblerash or Rexford, although I haven't a clue."
"Either's possible. They aren't really ones I'm familiar with," he answers, "You should probably feed him, though. If I'd been through what he's been through, I'd be hungry. Hell, thinking about it, I'm starving."
"Will he be alright?"
"There was damage from lack of blood flow and oxygen, but that could be healed once the soul issue was sorted out. It helps that he's going to be a shape shifter, I think."
"So he's not going to be a vegetable."
"No. But you'll need to keep an eye on him. Make sure he's hitting the right milestones when he should be. Do you have a name for him?"
"Not yet."
I look up as I hear footsteps coming towards us, and Friedrichs and the hospital doctor come in, Artur behind them.
"Who are you?" the hospital doctor demands, as he sees Ian.
"Dr Cushing is a consultant I requested to give a second opinion," Artur answers, before Ian can, "do you have a problem with that?"
"No Herr Reichsführer," they reply, in unison, and beside me I feel Ian flinch.
"Good. Then perhaps you should see to your patient," he suggests, oh so politely, "Dr Cushing. May I buy you something to eat?"
Ian nods, and gets to his feet, leaving me with Charlotte, the doctors, and a small child whose volume is rapidly increasing.
"It isn't possible..." the hospital doctor says, taking the child from me as if he can't believe what he's seeing, "he wasn't breathing..."
"Delayed reaction? Shock?" Friedrichs offers, but deep down it's pretty bloody obvious that he has no idea what just happened, and in the end he gives up trying to explain it, "Herr Becker. We're going to have to do some tests."
"Can he at least eat first?" I ask.
Friedrichs calls for one of the nurses. She starts fussing around Charlotte, arranging things so that the little boy can feed. I get the impression from their argument that this isn't normal procedure for a premature baby, but it's obvious he isn't going to wait. She takes the baby and puts him in the right place, supporting him with Charlotte's arm. He figures out what he's supposed to do in thirty seconds flat, and soon the only sound in the room is a contented slurping.
* * * * * *
Lammas. My fifty-third birthday. My son has been out of hospital for a couple of days. Now we know he's going to make it, Artur has asked Charlotte and I to come down to the Castle and bring him with us so he can do the formal name-giving. We've finally decided on Adrian.
Charlotte had been flabbergasted when she'd woken up, to find his tiny, sleeping form, snoring gently to himself after a good meal. They'd told her he was dead, and it took her a while to actually process that he wasn't, but I helped her as best I could. She'd asked me what had happened, but what could I really say? My grandfather had played Jesus, and brought him back from the dead? She wouldn't believe it, and Ian would be insulted. So I just said that obviously they'd screwed up, and left it at that.
He'd been taken to the premature baby unit for tests, and they'd kept him there for a couple of days, trying to find a scientific explanation for something that just didn't have one. In the end they gave up, and let him be in her room with her, where he seemed much happier. She'd been discharged after a few days, but they wouldn't let him go until they were sure he was okay, which involved daily trips back to the hospital. But at least I could authorise my own paternity leave so I could help.
The sun is shining as we walk up to the gatehouse, and I can smell new-mown grass. I also feel as hot as Hell in my dress blacks until I remember that I can cast an air conditioning spell. Magic just doesn't come as naturally to me as it does Artur.
My friend meets us at the gatehouse, resplendent in dress blacks.
"Enter and be welcome," he says, and walks us into the courtyard.
By the north tower, a small altar has been set up, and I see a small group of people waiting for us. Ian's is there, dressed as ever in civvies and accompanied by Marina, but from his body language he's as tense as Hell, which seems like an odd state for him to be in at a celebration. I see Gisela talking to them, looking as beautiful as ever, if a little older than when I last saw her, and trying to be the charming hostess. I'm a little surprised to see her, but I'm glad she felt she could come, especially after what Artur had told me about their own experience.
Dad's presence is less of a surprise, even though he's in civvies as well, not having any form of SS rank here on Dominion, and he's noticeably more relaxed than his father. He's been so excited since I told him about my son. Katharine, Soren and Elena are with him, and to once side I also recognise Blaine and Linden, in their respective Waffen-SS and Allgemeine-SS uniforms. No sign of Rowan, but then, I don't think she approves of me, let alone Artur.
No-one from Charlotte's side, I notice. But then, thinking about it, I've never heard her talk about her family. Which I suppose would make sense if she really is Chaos blooded.
There's another figure there, too, dressed in dress blacks. On his collar I see oak wreaths, with a bar underneath them. His sharp, hawk-like features have never softened with age, and his eyes are as keen and piercing as when I first met him, despite the fact that he celebrated his 72nd birthday in March. No wonder Ian looks tense.
I salute as Führer Heydrich acknowledges me.
"Congratulations, Oberstgruppenführer Becker," he says, with a nod of his head, "although really, after all this, couldn't you have made an honest woman of the beautiful Fraulein at your side?"
I have absolutely no idea what to say to that, and Charlotte seems equally nonplussed. Visions of Ian's shotgun wedding, courtesy of Bleys and Dieter, spring to mind.
"Don't worry, Becker," he says, with a slight smile, as if he can read my thoughts, "Reichsführer Acker has made the appropriate amendments to the naming ceremony." Then he turns to my friend. "Over to you, I think, Herr Reichsführer."
Artur nods, and gestures for us to stand beside the altar, and my family surrounds us, then he indicates for Charlotte to pass Adrian to me.
"Your report, Oberstgruppenführer Becker."
At least he tipped me off beforehand, so I could read up on what I was supposed to say.
"Herr Reichsführer. I am herewith announcing to you our first child, whom my..." Christ, what did I say there...
"Partner?" Artur suggests, with a completely straight face.
"...my partner, Charlotte Sachs, bore to me as my first son on the 30th June 1976, in the forty-third year of the Third German Reich."
"I thank you. I have heard your report before witnesses, and the God-fathers of this child. That is myself, Führer Heydrich and SS-Brigadeführer Cushing."
Huh?
Then I notice the honorary rank pin in Ian's lapel. I haven't seen it since the celebration after the Germania coup. I guess the RFSS can do whatever he wants in that regard, and he must have grandfathered it over to Dominion. I wonder if he had a choice about inviting Heydrich to be one of the God-fathers, though, and I'm surprised he doesn't include Wolf. But maybe the proud grandfather isn't normally on the list.
"Your child will be entered into the birth registry of the SS and noted down in the clan-book of the SS."
He indicates for me to hand my son back to Charlotte, and then begins the formal name-giving. When he did the ceremonies for Rowan and Linden, back on Tenterden, he blended Celtic forms with SS ones. He did the same for Elena, when she was presented to the Group. But this time he follows the SS rubric from start to finish. And soon, Adrian Artur Reinhard Jan Becker is dozing sleepily in his mother's arms.
Führer Heydrich nods approvingly and then calls for the orderly to bring out champagne. However, he only stays for about half an hour, and then heads back to his car, to return to Berlin.
"He's got your eyes," Marina says to me, as she does the proud (nearly) great grandmother thing, once the universal sigh of relief is let out.
"Most babies have blue eyes," I answer.
"Yes, but I can see the Bleys cast to them. You have it...Wolf has it...and Adrian will. Mark my words."
"Is Ian okay?"
I glance over to where he's talking with Artur.
"Any reason why he wouldn't be?"
"Our lately departed guest."
"Oh, that...so he had kittens when he saw him. But I was proud of him. He was polite and everything. Just as well, really. Ah, here they come."
Ian puts his arm around Marina, and reaches out a hand towards Adrian. My son gurgles in response, and I see him smile as he tries to grab hold of Ian's finger, and laughing when he doesn't quite manage it. Across the courtyard, Dad is talking to Charlotte and Katharine, and the youngsters - wow, middle aged again...it isn't that long since Artur and I were the youngsters - are hanging out together. I can see Soren challenging Blaine to do something stupid - which, of course, he will, because he always does if Soren dares him - while Linden and Elena stand and watch.
"You do good work," Artur says to Ian, quietly.
"I try," he answers, and I actually see warmth in their eyes as they talk to each other. At least for a moment or two.
"I hope the Führer being here wasn't too much of a shock for you, Armand," my friend says, turning to me.
"I wasn't expecting him, that's for sure."
"Pretty much as soon as he heard that you had finally produced a son, he invited himself along, and I couldn't exactly say no."
"No, I guess you couldn't. But for him to stand as name-godi..."
"You're the General Commanding the Waffen-SS. Is it really that much of a surprise?" he answers, with a shrug.
"I know I've said it before, but thank you...from the bottom of my heart...for bringing Ian to the hospital."
"I came willingly," Ian says, before Artur can answer, "and I'm glad I could help."
He wiggles his fingers in front of Adrian's face again, and more giggles ensue, from both of them. I feel Artur's hand on my arm, and he pulls me back slightly.
"I would do anything for you, Armand," Artur says, sotto voce, so his parents can't hear him, "you know that, don't you?"
"As I would for you, my friend," I answer equally quietly, "as I would for you."
"And I am so, so sorry that I hurt you, when you came to tell me your news. I shouldn't have darkened your day like that. I should have let you have your pleasure in telling me."
"I needed to know. Because at least it meant I knew I had to worry."
I pause, then ask.
"What do you think Ian did? Do you think he really brought Adrian back from the dead?"
"I have no idea," he answers, "I really don't. But to be honest, does it matter. You have a son, and he seems healthy and happy."
"But is he living on borrowed time?"
"We all are," he answers."
I sigh, because I know he's was right. Then I squeeze his shoulder, acknowledging what he'd said, before crossing to Marina and taking my child back from her. I balance him against my shoulder, where he seems to like to ride, and then go over to Charlotte and give her a kiss.