The air in the library was thick with cigar smoke and the weight of Bismarck's offer. It was a brutal, cynical, and pragmatic proposal, and Christian knew, with the cold certainty of a mathematician solving an equation, that it was also the truth.
His 21st-century soul screamed in protest. The plebiscite was the morally correct path, the just solution. To abandon it felt like a betrayal of every liberal, democratic principle he held. It meant surrendering tens of thousands of ethnic Danes in central Schleswig to Prussian rule, condemning them to a future he knew would be filled with forced Germanization and cultural suppression.
But the strategist in him saw the board with unflinching clarity. Bismarck wasn't bluffing. He held all the practical cards: the territory, the administrative power, the military force. To fight for the plebiscite would be a noble gesture resulting in a total loss. To accept the deal was a calculated retreat, a moral compromise that would result in a tangible, permanent gain. In the original timeline, Denmark had lost everything. He was being offered something.
He had come back in time to change history, but he was learning the terrible lesson that history could not be changed with ideals alone. It had to be bought, bartered, and paid for in the hard currency of power.
"Your assessment of the political realities is… accurate, Minister President," Christian said at last, his voice steady. He rose from his chair and walked to the large map of the duchies on the wall. He studied the line Bismarck had implicitly offered, the border that would restore Haderslev and Sønderborg to Denmark. It was a victory, but a small one.
He would not leave this room appearing utterly defeated. He would show the Chancellor he was a negotiator to the very end.
"I am a practical man, like yourself," Christian said, turning from the map. "And I see the logic in a swift conclusion. I will agree to advise my King to accept this framework and forego the plebiscite, on one final condition."
Bismarck raised a curious eyebrow, a flicker of respect in his eyes. The boy was not broken.
Christian pointed to a large island on the map, nestled against the coast of Jutland. "The island of Als. Its people are almost entirely Danish. It was the site of my father's first command. Its strategic position flanking the new border is vital for the future defense of the realm. Add Als to the territory to be ceded back to Denmark, and you have a deal."
Bismarck stared at the map, then at Christian. He was being asked for one more concession, a small but strategically and sentimentally significant piece of land. To refuse might re-ignite the boy's stubborn idealism and drag the conference on for weeks. To accept would grant him his primary prize—the majority of Schleswig and all of Holstein—quickly and cleanly.
A slow, booming laugh escaped the Iron Chancellor's chest. "A good horse-trader, Count Eskildsen. You fight for every scrap. Very well." He gave a decisive nod. "The island of Als. We have an agreement. We will present this as a joint, final proposal to the conference tomorrow. They will have no choice but to ratify it."
He extended his massive hand. Christian shook it, the grip firm and final. The new border of Denmark had just been sealed in a smoke-filled room in London.
Walking back through the gaslit streets, Christian felt none of the exhilaration of his previous victories. He had succeeded beyond what any Dane could have hoped for a month ago. He had clawed back territory from the jaws of total defeat. He had won. But he felt a profound hollowness in his chest. He had just traded away the futures of thousands of his countrymen to do it. He had acted not as a hero from the future, but as a 19th-century statesman, making the same kinds of ugly, necessary compromises they always had.
When he arrived back at his hotel, a letter was waiting for him on a silver tray. He recognized the elegant handwriting at once. It was from Amalie Løvenskiold, sent from Copenhagen.
He opened it. It was a short, simple note, full of the hopeful idealism he had just been forced to sacrifice.
"Count," it read, "All of Copenhagen is buzzing with the news of your plebiscite proposal. To stand for the will of the people against a tyrant is the highest form of honor. My grandfather says you have given the nation a cause to be proud of again. We are all praying for your continued success in this noble fight. Yours, Amalie."
Christian sank into a chair, the letter trembling slightly in his hand. He read her words about honor and a noble fight, and then thought of the deal he had just made. He had won them a new border. But he looked at his hands as if for the first time, and felt the phantom weight of the ink from Bismarck's pen, staining them with the price of his victory.