Within the Vistula river, under it's water's, Oskar sat like an anchor.
He did not float.
He could not.
His body was too dense—too heavy—something beyond human flesh. His bones carried a weight that did not belong to ordinary men, something closer to stone than marrow. When he entered the river, he did not drift.
He sank.
And when he reached the bottom—
he stayed.
The powerful current bent around him, slipping past his unmoving form as though the river itself were forced to acknowledge him.
He sat with his legs folded beneath him.
Eyes closed.
Breath held.
Still.
Completely still.
The Vistula flowed over him in cool, shifting layers—across his broad shoulders, through his pale blond hair streaked faintly with platinum, down over his chest and arms—washing away the blood, dust, and remnants of the last days piece by piece.
For the first time in what felt like forever—
there was silence.
No engines.
No shouting.
No distant thunder of guns.
Only water.
Only pressure.
Only the slow, steady pull of the current, and the immense presence of his own body resting at the bottom like something ancient and misplaced.
This was why he truly came here.
Not to merely wash himself or to escape thought, but to face his inner self in this silent space.
Meditation was not emptiness.
It was clarity.
It was the act of placing each thought where it belonged, stripping it of noise, of fear, of illusion—until only truth remained.
And here, beneath the surface he could do that.
His lungs did not burn.
Not yet.
They held far longer than any normal man's should, drawing from reserves that felt deeper than biology—like his body itself refused limitation.
His heart beat slow.
Heavy.
Measured.
Like an engine perfectly controlled.
So he stayed.
And let the world settle inside him.
Dark traces unwound from his skin.
Other men's dried blood loosened and drifted away in faint red ribbons. Dust lifted in soft clouds. Bits of cloth, grit, and fragments of things he did not care to name slipped free and vanished into the current.
Small fish gathered around him.
At first cautiously.
Then without fear.
They brushed against his skin, nibbling lightly—picking at dead flesh, at the remnants of battle that clung stubbornly to him.
He did not move or react.
He merely let them strip away the layers of excess stuck to him.
The river cleaned him.
The creatures of it finished what remained.
Without judgment or hesitation, as nature always did.
And in that stillness—
he sorted himself.
What he had done.
What he had become.
What he would still have to do.
There was no denial.
No running from it.
Only acceptance.
Only forward.
Because peace, he had learned—
was not found in avoiding the weight of one's actions.
But in carrying it without breaking.
And as peace finally settled into him—deep, heavy, undeniable—his thoughts aligned.
Clear.
Sharp.
Ordered.
He understood again what he already knew.
He could not remain here.
Stillness did not belong to war.
The enemy would not wait. His men would not wait. The world itself would not wait for him to sit beneath the water and pretend, even for a moment, that he was not what he had become.
And beyond all of that—
his family waited.
That alone was reason enough.
So he moved.
Slowly at first, careful not to disturb the fragile calm around him. His hands rose through the water, and though the fish scattered at the motion, they did not flee far. They circled back quickly, drawn to the quiet weight of him.
He pressed his palms over his face.
Down along his jaw.
The rough scrape of stubble dragged against his skin—harsh, coarse, a reminder of days without pause, without care, without rest. He had not needed a blade. He had not needed anything but movement and violence.
But now—
he noticed it.
Then lower.
Across his neck.
Thick.
Unyielding.
A column of muscle and bone that did not bend, did not yield—built not for comfort, but for endurance. It felt less like part of a man and more like part of something rooted, something that belonged to the earth itself.
His fingers moved through his short blond hair, the pale strands drifting in the current like faint lines of light beneath the surface.
Then down.
Over his shoulders.
Massive.
Broad enough to carry weight that would have broken other men long ago.
Over his arms—dense with strength, every movement controlled, deliberate, without waste.
Across his chest.
Hard.
Solid.
A surface that felt less like flesh and more like something shaped and tempered.
And as his hands passed over himself, the last remnants of battle gave way.
Cloth loosened.
Grime dissolved.
Dried blood—never his own—broke apart and vanished into the current.
Fragments of violence that had clung to him—stubborn, silent reminders of what he had done—were taken without resistance by the river.
Carried off.
Erased.
As if they had never belonged to him at all.
And in their absence—
he felt it.
That sensation again.
Stronger now.
Clearer.
Not simply of being cleaned—
but of being remade.
Stripped of what was unnecessary.
Of what no longer mattered.
Layer by layer.
Until only what remained was essential.
Controlled.
Unbreakable.
Like a serpent shedding its skin—
not to escape what it was,
but to become it more completely.
Then his hands moved even lower.
Across the hard ridges of his eight-pack.
The deep-cut lines of muscle carved into him like something designed rather than grown.
The sharp V of his hips.
Down over the immense strength of his thighs—and the rest of him, the heavy, undeniable proof that he was still a man beneath all the steel and violence. His body stirred faintly, responding not to the cold water, but to something older. Something deeper.
Life.
Creation.
The instinct to take, to hold, to make something new.
It had been days.
Days of blood and war and death.
Days without softness.
Without warmth.
Without the grounding presence of a woman pressed beneath his body, against his chest—the simple, ancient act of creating life instead of ending it.
The absence gnawed at him more than he cared to admit.
And that irritated him.
Not merely because he lacked control sometimes, but because it reminded him of what he was even amidst war. That he was not just a weapon or a heroic prince in charge of an army, but a man.
One who was built not only to destroy, but to create life.
His jaw tightened slightly.
A distraction.
Nothing more.
He pushed it down the same way he pushed everything else down.
He washed himself slowly.
Deliberately.
As if he could remove not just the dirt, but the unnecessary desires and needs of his body.
He could not.
But his mind quieted and that was enough.
Then at last, when he was finished, he planted his feet deeper into the riverbed—
and rose.
The fish scattered in an instant as his massive frame unfolded from stillness, the motion slow at first, then inevitable—like something ancient and immovable deciding, at last, to stand.
The surface broke.
First his head.
Then his shoulders.
Then the full, towering breadth of him.
Water split and spilled away in heavy sheets, cascading from his body in thick streams, sunlight catching across wet skin and turning him pale, almost unreal for a fleeting moment—
as if something carved from marble had been forced into life.
He pushed his hair back.
Lifted his gaze.
The sky above was wide and endless blue.
The riverbank stretched green and alive—trees bending low over the water, branches heavy with summer leaves, thick undergrowth swallowing the edges of the distant city beyond. Birds drifted lazily across the sky. Frogs stirred among reeds and lily pads, undisturbed by war, by men, by anything beyond their small world.
On the bank, Shadowmane lay stretched in the grass—massive, dark, unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of his breathing. A low rumble escaped him, something between a snort and a snore, as if even a beast like him could find rest here.
For a moment—
Oskar simply stood there.
Chest-deep in the river.
Still.
As if the world beyond the water did not exist.
As if nothing had been broken.
Then—
something struck his arm.
A dull, drifting impact.
He looked down.
A body.
It turned slowly in the current.
A man—middle-aged, dressed in rough factory worker's clothes. A heavy linen shirt clung to him, darkened by water. Trousers hung loose around his legs. Boots still tied, still worn from work that would never be finished.
And in death—
he still held a rifle.
Oskar's expression did not change.
A fool.
One of the many who had picked up a weapon and stepped into something far beyond his understanding.
The current rolled the body again.
The wound revealed itself.
A clean hole through the eye.
The back of the skull gone.
Instant.
Precise.
Efficient.
Oskar watched him drift for a moment longer, recognizing the work for what it was—one of his sniper teams, clean and disciplined, doing exactly what they had been trained to do.
A small, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips.
"…good shot," he murmured.
It was not mockery at the dead man, just approval of his own warriors.
Then he let the man pass.
The river took him without ceremony.
Carried him away.
Oskar closed his eyes again and drew in a long, steady breath.
The air was clean.
Cool.
Almost peaceful.
Almost.
The distant murmur of the city returned to him. The faint echo of life beyond the trees. Wind through leaves. The quiet persistence of a world that refused to stop, no matter how much blood had been spilled into it.
It was a beautiful day.
And he knew—
before it ended—
he would stain it.
Not many would understand what he was about to do.
They would call him a monster.
A demon.
Something less than human.
It did not matter.
He understood, and that was enough.
So he turned and began walking toward the shore, water parting around his massive frame—
—and then it came.
A scream.
Sharp.
Raw.
Desperate.
It cut through the quiet like a blade.
Oskar stopped instantly.
His head turned downstream.
There—
he saw her.
A woman running along the riverbank.
Maybe still in her late twenties—still young—dark brown hair loose and wild around her face, her clothes simple and worn: a light linen blouse now half-unbuttoned from frantic movement, a long skirt muddied and clinging to her legs, the fabric pulled tight across her hips and thighs. Her sleeves rolled, exposing pale forearms streaked with dirt. Everything about her spoke of a working woman—poor, but strong, hardened by life.
And now—
broken.
She saw the body.
She screamed.
And without thinking—
threw herself into the river.
Badly, clearly having no experience with swimming.
Oskar's jaw tightened.
"Ah… shit."
She hit the water wrong—no dive, no control. The current seized her instantly, twisting her sideways, dragging her under before she could even understand what she had done.
She came up choking.
Coughing.
Arms flailing.
Her blouse clung to her body now, soaked through, outlining the full shape of her—her full chest rising sharply, fabric pressed tight over her breasts, her waist, her hips—all of it exposed in the most brutal, uncaring way water could manage.
The weight of the wet clothes must have been immense for her to swim in.
And still—
she fought forward.
Toward the body.
She grabbed it.
Clung to it.
The current dragged both of them.
She was too short.
Too light.
Her feet couldn't find the riverbed.
She was nothing to the current.
Nothing.
"What the hell are you doing, you crazy woman…?" Oskar muttered.
Behind her—
two figures screamed.
A girl—fifteen, maybe—stood rooted to the bank. Dark hair like her mother's, braided but half-loosened, a simple dress clinging to her frame, shawl slipping from one shoulder as if she had forgotten it existed. Her hands were pressed to her mouth, grey eyes wide and unblinking, horror locking her in place.
Beside her, a boy—older, thirteen or fourteen—threw himself forward with a branch gripped in both hands. His boots slid in the mud as he stretched dangerously over the edge, teeth clenched, arms trembling with effort. His shirt hung too large on him, sleeves rolled past his elbows, trousers patched and worn—something about him already trying too hard to be a man.
"Ma! Grab it! Grab it!" he shouted, voice cracking, Polish breaking through his rushed Russian.
The branch fell short.
The current did not care.
It dragged.
Pulled.
Claimed.
For a brief moment, Oskar did not move.
He turned his head instead.
Looked toward Shadowmane.
The great stallion lay sprawled in the grass like some ancient beast at rest, black coat gleaming in the sun, sides rising and falling slowly. One eye opened—just one—regarding the scene with lazy indifference.
Horse and master looked at one another.
Shadowmane blinked.
Then, almost deliberately, he shifted his head the other way and settled deeper into the grass.
As if to say—
Not my problem.
Oskar stared at him.
Then exhaled slowly through his nose.
Of course.
Of course this would happen.
Of course this would be the moment.
The Iron Prince of Germany.
Breaker of armies.
Butcher of the eastern front.
Standing in a river—
completely naked.
Not armored.
Not armed.
Not even remotely prepared for this.
And yet he was already preparing to move, just like back in Sarajevo. When he had taken that three-year-old girl Anica into his care.
He could still see her, standing in her own families blood without realising it. Her family was gone, and those small hands had clutched at him like he was the last thing left in the world. Now she lived in Potsdam with his own family, in the royal palace, running through halls that had never been meant for children like her.
Safe.
Because he had stopped.
Because he had cared.
And now—
Here he was again.
Another person in need that he somehow felt obliged to help.
Another moment where his cold hard logic said:
Leave it.
And something deeper said:
Move.
He closed his eyes for the briefest second.
"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath.
The boy slipped.
Caught himself.
The girl screamed.
The woman vanished beneath the surface—
then surfaced again farther out.
That was enough.
And so he moved.