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Sturm was going to make his way to their encampment.
That alone was enough to give Strahd pause as he read over his brother’s latest letter.
But still, when the two brothers did reunite after a long thirteen years apart, a week after Strahd had received his brother’s letter, it was a heartfelt and genuine reunion. They had met in the centre of the encampment, not far from the temporary mess hall, and after Sturm’s welcoming party had been greeted and welcomed, he had asked to see Strahd privately.
So Strahd had taken him to his personal tent, where they now stood on opposite sides of the war table. Standing over that war table, Sturm looked very much like their father. It gave Strahd pause. Sturm had grown into his role with a grace few men had. Certainly more grace than their father had.
For a while, they traded niceties.
Strahd asked about their youngest brother, Sergei. He had been born shortly after Strahd’s last visit; his mother had been very heavily pregnant, and the family had hoped that Strahd’s appearance would coincide with her labour. It was not to be. Sturm said he had been in charge of Sergei’s education for the past two years, raising him like his own son, and he talked about the boy fondly. He also lamented, many a time, that Sergei had been unable to join him to meet Strahd –
“His leg, unfortunately, he can’t ride a horse for very long without having to stop,” he shook his head. “I had hoped as he matured into a man, and he got stronger, that it would go away, but it is not to be.”
Strahd nodded sagely. Sergei wrote to him. Quite a lot, actually. Strahd had been aware of the boy’s condition for a time, although Sergei did not write about it very much, and Strahd thought it best not to ask about it more than necessary.
Sturm’s children, Angelika, Sasha and the youngest Sonia, were all doing well. Sonia’s second birthday was coming up soon, Sturm said, and that Angelika was preparing to get married, and that Sasha was a squire. That made something in Strahd’s chest tighten – the last time he had met Sturm’s oldest children, they had barely been to his hip.
Things back home seemed to be going well, more than well, in Strahd’s absence. The ache in Strahd’s chest sat funny, and irritated his latest wound from battle, and Strahd tried his best to ignore it.
“What brings you so far from home brother?” Strahd ventured, finally being moved to ask the pressing question. He leaned forward over the war table, “you have never visited the field of battle before. You are taking a great risk venturing so far from safety.”
It was a very pointed remark; Strahd had not wished Sturm to visit, but by the time Strahd received his letter, Sturm was but a week away from where the army had set itself up for the winter. The fighting may have ceased – for now – as both armies prepared to overwinter, but that did not make it safer for a senior member of the Zarovich family to be so far from home.
“Come home, brother,” Sturm said, rather simply, “you have not visited in thirteen years! When was the last time you saw Lilia, or our parents?”
“My place is here, we both know it,” Strahd dismissed, frowning. “Leaving now would be catastrophic for morale. We’d lose this war, and the lives of thousands of good men.”
And my work would have all been for naught , Strahd thought, but he kept that to himself.
Sturm seemed nonplussed. “A temporary leave of absence. A perfectly reasonable request, Strahd, and one that you have no doubt earned.”
“I am not sworn to my duty in the hope to be rewarded,” Strahd reminded him. “It is not a good time, brother. I have never left my men during a campaign, I am not going to make a habit of it.”
And then Strahd narrowed his eyes. “You would not make the journey to tell me to my face what could have just as easily been written in a letter. Why are you telling me now, of all times, that I need to return?”
“As you brought it up earlier, your duty. Your duty is to our parents, to the family, not the front line,” Sturm said, countering Strahd. “Strahd, they need you. We need you.”
He rolled his eyes. “In your letters –”
“Father had not wished for me to tell you the full truth of it,” Sturm said wryly, “you know how he is. Even while he is on his deathbed, he will not admit his weaknesses. You are a lot like him, Strahd.”
Ah, so perhaps not everything was going so well at home . Strahd snorted. “I am nothing like him.”
“It’s true! Your commanders told me you took an axe to the side two weeks ago!” Sturm said, “and yet you are up on your feet!”
“I have taken much worse,” Strahd said, “my hand, thirteen years ago, remember?” He held his palm out, pressing the pad of his finger to the small scar.
Sturm pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed. Despite himself, he chuckled fondly. “Yes, I don’t know how one can simply forget their older brother showing his niece and nephew an arrow wound he can fit his finger through!”
Strahd smiled with mirth. “They had asked to see it. I am blameless.”
“Yes but, that does not mean you had to show them,” Sturm’s smile also widened, “or stick your finger through it.”
The moment of warmth passed, as the two brothers said nothing, their eyes downcast to the war table. The middle brother sighed. “Strahd, your duty is to your family. It is time that you come home, take a wife, and have children.”
When Strahd’s brows furrowed, Sturm tucked a hand into his coat, fishing a decree out of his breast pocket. Directly from their Father – no doubt by the insignia signed into that wax seal. Sturm handed it to his older brother, and Strahd broke the seal with haste, reading quickly. After he was done, he slammed both hands and the letter onto the table. He fixed Sturm with a wild stare.
An order to retire. Lay down the sword, and take up the sceptre.
“‘Temporary leave of absence’?!’ I think not. You mean to supplant me,” he snarled the word. The wound in his side throbbed with a dull pain, the ache that told him he had once again tore the stitches. He ignored it.
“As Father’s health decreases, and Mother’s will as well, your duty is now to come home, and take your rightful place as patriarch.”
“I will not have it. I will not be disposed of, replaced ,” Strahd curled his lip back.
“Strahd! It is your duty –”
“ I owe that man nothing! ” Strahd hissed, his voice dangerously quiet. “I rather think it is him who owes me , for all that I have done for this family! I have shed more blood than every Zarovich born in the last fifty years for our family.”
He curled his hands into fists, crumpling the letter, his breath coming heavily. Warmth trickled down his side, and when Strahd pressed a hand to the wound, it came back red. He swore, and applied more pressure to the wound. Sturm was thankfully silent, and made no comment on Strahd’s wellbeing. He knew his brother well enough that he knew it was best to keep his mouth shut.
“I cannot – and will not – abandon my men, or the war effort,” Strahd said, and gestured to some of the places on the map with the hand currently not holding his side together. “We have hold of their supply lines. We cannot take the city without a siege, but we can starve them out of it over the winter, bring the resistance to its knees – we are so close to winning the war, Sturm!”
Sturm surveyed him sadly. “And what after that Strahd? Then will you return home? Or will you go off on another fool’s errand –”
“ Fool’s errand? ” Strahd snapped. “Watch yourself, brother . Outside of the nest, you are under my authority. Father is no king here.”
He stood to his full height, towering over Sturm, and squaring his shoulders, disregarding his bleeding wound for a moment. “I am on no fool’s errand,” he spat the words out.
“I am going to Barovia after this. We have the men, they do not. Their king is weak, and as green as they ever come. I can finally reclaim what is rightfully ours.”
Sturm opened his mouth, said nothing, and closed his mouth. They had both been raised on the stories of Barovia – their homeland, the land that many of their forefathers had long sought after but had never been able to reach. To Sturm and Strahd both, it was more akin to a myth than a real tangible place.
And now, it was just out of Strahd’s reach.
There was a disease known to mountain climbers known as summit fever – a compulsion to reach a mountain’s peak that was so strong it overwhelmed all other desires and even rational thought. Strahd had long since suspected soldiers went through a similar phenomenon. So close to the end of a campaign that they would do anything to win. He knew his Father had the affliction, in his youth, and he supposed he now had it, too. Many of his ancestors succumbed to this disease in their attempts to conquer their homeland, but Strahd was determined to do it differently.
After a while, Sturm did finally speak. “But Father –”
“Is not dead yet,” Strahd finished. “I will win us back Barovia.”
He fixed Sturm with a stare, utterly composed and confident. “And then, we shall all be reunited. Properly.”
“Do I have your word?” Sturm said.
“Aye. On our father’s sword, I swear it, Sturm,” Strahd said.