"Clap clap clap..."
The sound of shoes clicking against marble echoed through the silent hallways of the Palazzo, as a way to present the arrival of people before they could even be saw. The sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap reverberated off the high stone walls, filling the cavernous space with a hollow, unsettling quality. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the weight of the palace itself was pressing down on him, urging him forward toward an unknown fate.
The hall before him was dimly lit, the flickering light of chandeliers casting long, distorted shadows that danced across the stone floor. It was as if the entire building was holding its breath, waiting for him to cross the threshold. The thick silence was broken only by the sound of his footsteps and the faint rustle of air that stirred through the grand, vaulted corridor.
Prince Amedeo of Savoy stopped his walk at the centre of the room, not far from his destination, his gloved hand hovering over the brass handle. The polished surface gleamed in the dim light, but his reflection in the metal seemed... off. A stranger's face stared back at him. His face, yes, but a face that no longer felt entirely familiar.
It was strange to see, as so tall man being so nervous, balancing himself from one foot to the other, trying to calm himself, giving the allure of a scarecrow. Really ridiculous.
Already by his attitude, which is increased by his height, this thing in particular has been one of the most difficult to adapt to.
The beaty of the palace loomed behind him, an overwhelming fortress of stone and marble that seemed to carry the weight of centuries on its shoulders. The vast hallways were eerily silent, the walls adorned with portraits of men who had shaped Italy's destiny, their eyes following his every movement. There were no cheerful whispers here, no servants rushing with orders. Only a heavy stillness that hung in the air like a forgotten secret. The cold seemed to seep into the very bones of the place, the air thick with the scent of aged wood and wax.
It was the weight of history that unnerved him, the sense that the building itself was alive, watching. Watching him.
Prince Amedeo of Savoy paused outside the heavy oak door, feeling the cool chill of the place press against him. The palace was magnificent in its austerity, every stone, every drapery a testament to a forgotten legacy. A legacy that was not entirely his own.
Not anymore, anyway.
Prince Amedeo of Savoy tightened his gloves as he walked through the dimly lit corridors of the Palazzo Venezia, his mind spinning with uncertainty. The air was thick with the scent of wax and dust, the kind of scent that permeated every historical building he had ever visited, except this one. This was not just any old palace—it was the heart of a nation, the seat of a man whose name echoed in every corner of Italy and beyond. Benito Mussolini, Il Duce. The man who had not only revolutionized Italy but had plunged it into a future none of them utterly understood, before erratically plunging it into the horrors of wars, and the shame of the defeat. The one who brought Italy into new heights, just for making it fall from there.
But also, the father, hand and brain of an all movement, a political ideology completely new to this world, and who still resonate to the modern day, although mostly in whispers behind closed doors, and of course scream, political slander, a libel for those with your ideology doesn't match or isn't compatible with.
Fascism, the totalitarian dream of a nation, the revolution in brown. The state above all. The leader above all. The symbol above all. And all and everything can and must bow to it. Every hand raised to one man, to his power and the glorification of it.
Fascismo... it really has a nice ring to it... whatever is your political orientation.
Not that it really matters in this country at this present day.
But as always. Italian tends to make everything sound right and elegant. You could spit on a name on three generation that it would still seems class.
It's like Japanese in a way... guess German is the exception from the trio.
German doesn't make things ring nice. But it always makes you sems more serious and intellectual than you really are. But i guess it's appropriate for them.
Gosh, he must be totally squeezed by hisnerves to think about things like that.
Amedeo's boots echoed off the marble floors as he passed under portraits of long-dead kings, men who once held the weight of Italy's destiny in their hands, their faces forever immortalized in oils. His own family's legacy weighed heavily on him, but it was a history he didn't fully recognize anymore. Not after the rebirth, not after the chaos of it all.
How did that happen? He doesn't know, he would gladly give anything to know.
The last thing that he remembers was his last day... a long, brutal, nervous and very chaotic session of hoi4 multiplayer. The adrenaline was intoxicating, the nervousness making him almost suffocating as he was pushed to his limits, facing the world only to reach the end, as the last hours of his session, always the most difficult one, were heavy on his shoulders. He thinks he can recall every second of it, it was extraordinarily difficult.
And he then he won, Luxembourg was the last one standing, as master of the world, it's only place.
He was so happy, trough sweat and blood, not his. Its goal was achieved.
That he very shortly celebrated before going to sleep, his bed being his only goal in time at that point.
That is his last souvenir. The next one was when he opened his eyes, rapidly shocked by the sweetness of his sheets. Rapidly panicking before realising his situation as he watched himself in the mirror of this unknow bathroom, quite a nice one actually, but still.
He was reincarnated, or inserted, he doesn't really know as he never saw if he died on his Ikea bed. Whatever...
He was... is... Prince Amedeo, Duke of Aosta, of Casa Savoya. Cousin of King Victor Emmanuel III of Italy, second cousin actually, through his great grandfather King Amadeo I of Spain.
Technically I am not yet duke, as my father is still alive but whatever...
Amedeo of Savoya, a guy with a life like ten.
Somebody who voluntarily enlisted for WW1 although he was 17, a noble who was an alpinist, an aviator. A guy who disappeared in 1923 from his family only to come back 1 year later, after traveling from Somaliland to the Belgian Congo, where he worked as a simple worker under a false identity. Just to travel, see the world and the life of the poor.
One of the youngest general of the Italian army, a fierce commander and a brave man, loved by his soldier and respected by his enemies, a true gentleman.
The governor of the Africa orientale Italiana from 1937 to 1939
And a guy who died from tuberculosis in his own shit in an English pow prison in Nairobi, because of harsh conditions.
After bravely the English during months after the Italian entrance in WW2.
Shit... that's the word who come to his mind.
Of all the people from all the countries, it has to be this one.
So, is it his destiny, dying in his own shit behind the bars of a prison?
What can he do to change that? Nothing.
He is too important to skip this part and not being sent to the bald's stupid war, and not enough to decide what to do and change history.
What can he do? Plotting and depose Mussolini before ww2 ?
He would be dying, caught even before the first line of the plan is imagined.
At this point the control of the party is too strong, and it has too much power and support from the people.
At best he would have a nice monument of him in Rome after the war, maybe even a statue, where people could read "Valiantly fought fascism and bla bla bla." A nice sidenote of history, a little story in ww2 between to tales of battle. One who mask a gruesome death in some dark basement after hours of unimaginable suffering. For approximately nothing gained, if not just more power for the dictatorship after intense purges of the aristocracy.
An italian Stauffenberg.
Or he can try to improve italy best chance to win. With his weapon knowledge.
Although he would love, even better weapon would not save Italian chances of winning. The industry and the leadership is not prepared for this, and for nothing actually.
Besides, helping Charlie Chaplin to create his lebensraum? Don't really want that...
Better be a divided, ruined, humiliated, even split Italy than any German ww2 victory.
Or he can rise through the leadership and try to influence them to not join germany's side? Or even persuade to fight the Hakenkreuz guys ?
Nope, not important enough. Besides, even if he was the king, the pope, his mother or anything, He don't think Benito would care and listen.
Soh e is trapped here, in the body of general soon to be dead, with not enough power to change things, but too much to escape his responsibilities and not be dealt with. Forced to see event unfold. Like the passenger of train he didn't take.
Guess he will have to try to squeeze between the event, just avoid every bad theatre and try not to be judged as a war criminal by the allies once berlin has fallen and the two mushroom have been sent to Japan.
Maybe he could do that ? After all, all the bad stuff he will do will only be in the colonies, and future colonies.
So if he can manage to not do something too much ugly, maybe it will not figure as a part of all the after-war trials. After all, it's not European enough to care about that.
But from now, only a question was in his mind... why ?
Not why is he here... he stopped to think about it since a long time (two months).
Why is he here, as in here literally, the Palazzo Venezia in Rome, headquarter of the man of the nation.
He was previously in tripoly, assigned to his méharist unit before receiving a letter from a strangely clean man, wearing his white uniform without any sign of grime, a demanding thing in the Libyan desert.
But most worrying was the letter, signed from the hand of the Duce himself, issuing a direct command from him.
It was short, concise, simple.
"You are needed. Palazzo Venezia. 15 march."
And now, standing at the door of Benito Mussolini's office, he felt that disorientation more keenly than ever. Why had Mussolini summoned him? Why now? And what role did the prince—Amedeo—play in this new reality he was stuck in ?
Why had Mussolini summoned him today? The question gnawed at him. He was a prince, a descendant of kings, but why specifically him? Why now? Did he do something wrong? Was his behaviour suspicious ? Is he suspected of treason ?
History was his passion, but living in it? Living with it? That was a new kind of hell.
The door to Mussolini's office loomed ahead of him, stark and imposing. He swallowed and wiped his palms on his trousers. The call had come in the morning—no explanation, no details. Just a curt order: "You are needed."
Amedeo had tried to push the unease aside, focusing instead on the one thing that had always defined him—curiosity. His intellectual pursuits had always kept him steady, and surely this would be no different. If anything, it would be a fascinating opportunity to understand the man who had risen from obscurity to reshape Italy, the very man whose rise had altered the entire course of history.
For a brief moment, his mind wandered back to the man who had once lived in this skin. Was there a part of him, some lingering influence, that was shaping his thoughts, his decisions? He had tried to ignore it, to convince himself that he was simply someone new, someone with his own mind. But Amedeo's old emotions, his passions, they were there, under the surface, faint echoes that stirred when he least expected them.
But there was something in the back of his mind, like a whisper in the dark, that told him this meeting would not be what he expected. It makes him go from reasonably fearful to extremely.
He reached for the door handle, pausing for a breath. The weight of the moment pressed down on him.
With a firm grip, he opened the door and stepped inside.
Immediately greeted by the unyielding presence of the man who had reshaped Italy in his own image.
Amedeo's breath hitched. There was an aura about the man that was almost magnetic, yet chilling. Mussolini was not the kind of leader you admired from a distance. He was the kind of man you either followed or feared. And in that moment, Amedeo wasn't sure which emotion was more appropriate.
The room was unnervingly still, the only sound the faint rustle of papers on Mussolini's desk. The Duce's gaze never wavered as Amedeo stepped closer, his shoes clicking against the polished floor.
Benito Mussolini sat behind a vast, imposing desk, his posture rigid, before raising his eyes in his direction, after briefly ignoring him.
Eyes sharp as far as it could be. It was as if the Duce never rested—his eyes, those piercing, unblinking eyes, seemed to see everything. Mussolini did not rise to greet him, nor did he offer pleasantries. There was no warmth in the room, only an air of silent command.
The room was as grand and austere as he had imagined. Mussolini's office was a reflection of the man himself—no-nonsense, elegant, yet brutal in its simplicity. The Duce was sitting behind a massive desk, his back straight, his hands folded in front of him. His gaze was sharp as he looked up from a stack of papers, his expression unreadable. It wasn't the welcoming warmth Amedeo had expected from a monarch or the formal courtesy one might expect from a man of his status.
No, Mussolini wasn't one for pleasantries. Amedeo felt it in the air immediately.
The tension in the air was thick, like the silence before a storm.
What do I do? Amedeo wondered briefly. Should I say something? Should I speak first?
He could feel the old Amedeo rising within him—the prince who had known how to navigate royal courts, how to act with deference, how to project the weight of his name.
"Prince Amedeo," Mussolini said, his voice low but authoritative, carrying the weight of command.
"Il Duce," Amedeo replied, bowing slightly, but not too much, a subtle sign of respect, not subjugation. The instinct was there, the formality that came with his title. At this time, he wasn't entirely sure who he was supposed to be anymore.
And Mussolini was no king, nor a man very fan of the idea of royalty, He was a revolutionary, and that was something Amedeo could not forget.
Mussolini's gaze flickered over him for a moment, measuring, assessing. Amedeo could feel the weight of that scrutiny. The Duce was a man who knew how to control the room, to command attention without raising his voice. There was an unsettling quiet about him, a silence that spoke volumes.
"Please, sit," Mussolini gestured to the chair across from his desk.
Amedeo did as instructed, his mind racing. He couldn't help but notice how Mussolini's eyes never left him, measuring, weighing. The silence between them stretched longer than Amedeo was comfortable with.
"Do you know why I called you here?" Mussolini's voice broke the silence, cutting through the tension.
Amedeo had prepared for many scenarios, but this question left him momentarily speechless. Why had Mussolini called him? The same curiosity that had once driven him as a historian now burned through him like a fever.
"I'm afraid I don't," Amedeo answered honestly, though the words tasted like a confession. "I had assumed it was a matter of state?"
Mussolini's lips curled into a faint smile, but it wasn't one of warmth—it was cold, calculating. "Yes of course... that we will discuss it, a lot, I hope... but first let me ask you something..." he say with a strange smile on his lips.
"Are you more Star Wars or Lord of the rings ?"
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Uh ?!????