Pride of Ironblood

"How bad is it?" Bismarck hissed through gritted teeth. A pleasantly warm stream of liquid was running down her back, but in the frigid waters of the north, this was not a good sign. Even after threading eight tin-fish, a ninth still found her.

"Bad." Eugen flicked her spotlight off before gliding back to the front of their formation. The cruiser's emotionless expression as she skated past must be hiding just how bad it was.

"We scuttle the planned raid, then." Bismarck straightened herself as best she could, shrugging off the pain that was beginning to creep its way into her back. "Break contact and make haste to Brest ahead of me. Contact the Luftwaffe and see if we can get our air cover."

"Jawohl." Eugen hesitated, spinning to face the flagship. The moonlight reflected a hidden concern in those deep copper irises of Bismarck's battle partner. "I will go." As the heavy cruiser slid away into the inky black of the night, Bismarck swore she could hear Eugen mutter, "Do not dare die on us."

"I can make no promises." Bismarck found herself mumbling, "For I am not one for fanciful wishes."

She pushed through the pain, steaming herself south as best as she could- though she knew that in the dark they lurked.

"Come, oppressors of the ocean. I shall show you Ironblood's defiance to your rule."

It was in the morning when they came- the flies. They buzzed in the distance, but dared not approach her. Still, she knew it was a prelude. Despite the bleeding, despite the damage to her rigging, Bismarck stood tall as she sailed onward, adjusting her cap and straightening out her uniform for the cameras that were watching her- documenting her.

The hours... oh those tense hours with only the sound of the waves and the pains in her back, but she could not slow. In the distance, trailing behind her like a bloodhound was a maid- one of the royal's loyal dogs waiting for a sign of weakness. Behind her, who knows how many more of the Royal Navy?

They were stalking her like a wounded deer in the Ardennes.

It was when the flies returned, bristling with torpedoes, did the mighty warship's patience give way.

Bismarck kicked a leg out, wheeling her massive rigging towards her pursuer- the maid having drifted well in range of her guns.

"Begone, you vermin!" Her voice roared with the first volley from her guns. Plumes of white water erupted from the near-hits, dousing the Royal maid in seaspray- but the small ship was bracketed now. Perhaps the small maid knew this, as she attempted to skid to a halt as Bismarck's guns flashed double-time.

The second volley fell short, though shrapnel from Bismarck's shells had drawn blood, tearing into the maid's lightly armored body. Like an agitated octopus, the Royal disgorged a thick cloud of smoke before sinking away into it. There was no time to finish the girl, the flies were drawing closer. Bismarck spun the weight of her rigging to meet them, giving one more powerful kick forward to get the speed she would need to dance.

The air was filled thick with the malaise of her flak. Bismarck fired everything she could, but all of her training; all of her technological advantages... it was all meant for modern craft, not these little wooden toys they threw at her. In fury, Bismarck roared to the skies a vehement hatred.

The skies responded by releasing torpedoes.

The still-bleeding wounds in her back stung, reminding her that these tin-fish could bite. Watch the lines- trace the paths-

Bismarck, despite the lacerations sapping her strength, gracefully slid through the first and second lines, deftly danced through the third and fourth…

Even though her rigging was the heaviest on Earth, even though she hemorrhaged her crimson to cold seas, even though she was being chased by the proclaimed monarchs of the ocean- she would show her grace and defiance until the bitter end. A second flight dove in, a second line of tin-fish from a different angle. She prepared herself- readied for her dance when…

A paralyzing shock of agony made her falter. In that split second she had lost her footing, a tin-fish detonated, peppering the armored belt of her rigging. She lurched forward, stumbling to regain her balance.

And another explosion ripped into her from her left. Instantly, Bismarck knew that the armor belt had not taken it- something terrible burned its way up her left leg. She listed, unable to change direction. No matter how hard she attempted to kick off the water and press forward once more… she continued to drift off course. Looking down finally, she could see why.

Despite her defiance... despite all of her pride… Bismarck screamed in pain. Her leg was a twisted, broken mess. The tin-fish had bit deep before detonating.

The sliver of hope for escape was dashed as easily as one could throw a wine-glass upon the ground.

And despite all hope being lost, Bismarck pulled herself up once more. Even with one leg useless, she would stand tall and dignified against her pursuers. With each ragged breath, she tried to push the pain aside, replacing it with that burning contempt for those that so selfishly ruled the seas.

They came from the west at full speed, vengeance burning in their eyes the moment they spotted their wounded quarry. Bismarck knew her Royal enemies, from before the world began to burn. A tense but professional relationship maintained in fleet reviews and naval drills- a time of chest-thumping and bravado. Now with the shackles of obligatory cordiality gone, the Royals were free to show their contempt for the one who dared to challenge their reign.

They were free to hate now that they were enemies. Worse yet, they were vengeful enemies.

The outline of King George in all her glory, alongside the soft-spoken Rodney powered towards Bismarck at full speed, not caring that the wounded battleship had turned her guns towards them. Two cruisers had split from the Royal formation as well, moving to surround Bismarck, leaving her to decide: who would she turn her back to? The cruisers drew closer- Dorsetshire and Norfolk of the Country-class. Bismarck knew them from the intelligence briefing… their guns were no match for her armor. Her attention focused to the battleships bearing down upon her.

"Begone!" The roar of her guns masked the desperation that cracked her voice.

The rounds skipped and crashed before Rodney, peppering the battleship with shrapnel. Even as the fair maiden bled from her wounds, she drove forward still- the same mad dash that had doomed Hood. Bismarck had her dead to rights...

A scream- so visceral, so full of hatred and rage from the demure Rodney was punctuated by the flash of her guns.

Bismarck heard the wail of the shells, trying to shield herself with her rigging as the first salvo struck true.

Her vision went white, a ringing in her ears drowning out the world.

Pain. A pain she thought impossible. She could feel the warm river coursing down her face- she could taste the crimson iron that forced its way into the side of her mouth.

'Fight.'

She forced her eyes open- the blood flowing from the open gash on her head into her eye casted half the world red. Movement to the left and right- flanked by both sides.

'Fight.'

Bismarck spun, snapping a salvo at the fluttering red cape of King George in her periphery. Explosions tore at her rigging's superstructure in her moment of distraction, knocking Bismarck to her knees. Rodney closed the distance as the cruisers circled like sharks that pelted Bismarck with shot. Even while vulnerable, Bismarck tried to rotate her rigging to answer such a despicable attack- but turrets Anton and Bruno did not respond. Smaller shells slammed Bismarck from all angles, battering her into submission as Rodney approached far more confidently than before.

'Fight.'

She wanted to scream and weep; to lament the horrible hand that Fate had dealt her. The physical pain, the anguish of failure, the arrogance of her enemy…

But seeing King George standing there, the flagship of the Royal fleet herself… Bismarck could not- would not- lower herself to such shame. She attempted to stagger back onto her one good leg, only to be forced back to the waves by the barrels of a turret.

"You took our glorious Hood from us." Rodney stood over the defeated battleship, her guns all trained upon the broken frame of Bismarck, "She did not deserve the death you gave her." Her voice was without emotion- no anguish, no pity… but Bismarck could tell that beneath such business-like detachment lay a seething hatred.

"One does not go to war and not be prepared for their own death." Bismarck coughed, wiping away the globs of red that had dotted her chin and stained the ocean beneath her. She tried once more to push herself up... to get her turrets functioning for one final salvo, when Rodney fired point-blank into her.

The rounds slammed into Bismarck's back, tearing into her rigging.

"Sink."

Another salvo battered Bismarck, crushing her armor, biting for her flesh.

"Sink!"

Bismarck struggled, trying to stand in defiance, but her body would not respond- resigned to its fate as she felt the heat of her armor slowly burning through to her skin.

"SINK!" Rodney screamed, unloading every turret at double time into the proned figure, "JUST SINK, YOU BITCH!"

How many salvos had Rodney fired? Bismarck lost count. How long must she endure this execution? She had slipped in and out of consciousness, but the cruel gods of war had kept her afloat.

"Rodney, we're almost out of fuel. Admiral Tovey is recalling us back to Scapa Flow."

Bismarck lifted her head, only one eye capable of seeing anymore. Above her, King George was checking a pocket watch. The red-clad flagship looked down upon the broken battleship, a shake of her head in disappointment.

Not out of pity for the twisted, bloody mess that was Bismarck, but because the Royal battleships hadn't struck the killing blow themselves. There was to be no prisoners taken, no quarter given, after all.

"Dorsetshire, put some torpedoes into her to make sure she sinks and then group back up with us."

"Ma'am." The small blonde cruiser responded dispassionately.

King George spun upon her heel, setting sail east once again. Rodney lingered, guns still red-hot and ready, until she reluctantly shoved off after King George, clicking her tongue in disappointment.

"Forgive me everyone. I… I could not…" Bismarck tried to claw her way forward, forcing her useless limbs to move a millimeter for every stab of anguish that wracked her.

The splash- the churning of the waters from a tin-fish swimming straight for her.

"I-I could not be the beacon you wanted."

Bismarck?

A second splash.

"Forgive me…"

It's just a dream.

The explosion tore her rigging from her, superheated shrapnel digging into her flesh as she was flung like a ragged doll back into the sea. She did not feel the second, nor the third tear her body asunder.

Bismarck-

All she could feel was the cold water finally claim her, smothering her ragged breaths in its embrace, washing away the blood that had stained her body.

The depths called, reaching out for her very soul.

-it's just a dream.

She could not weep; the ocean itself was tears, after all.

Who would weep for her, anyways?

The darkness of the depths swallowed the shattered remains of Bismarck, the pride of Ironblood.

"Bismarck, it's just a dream."

The voice whispering in her ear sent a shiver down her spine- it shocked her very senses. Weariness remained shackled to her as she slowly roused from the darkness. A gentle light- a warm glow like that of a bedside lamp.

"Bismarck, it was just a dream."

Warmth wrapped around her waist, cutting through the chill that had paralyzed her.

"Ja. I am fine." She managed to croak, feeling blindly for the arm that held her in place. Her right hand glided down her nightgown until she found it, partner rings gently tapping together as she desperately gripped her husband's hand.

"I am fine now."

Bismarck gently pulled from the man's cradling of her, sitting up in bed. Her heart was still racing, hair unattractively clinging to her face from a cold sweat, and she shivered from the frigid air that her nightgown did not protect her from. Her commander- her husband- looked into her eyes, carefully and gently scooping her back into an embrace.

She remained frozen, still trying to untie reality and dreams until, inevitably, the shackles melted away as they always did. Her husband's arms, desperate and protective, had loosened when she finally leant into him, gently nuzzling herself firmly into place.

"Just a dream of another life." She mumbled, returning the embrace, "A dream of a proud, yet terrible and short life."