The Bridge (France, England)
Title: The Bridge
Warnings: Death and war. Implied dark sex.
Characters: England, France
Summary: Near the end of the Napoleonic Wars, France suffers a major defeat.
France had lost battles before; perhaps as many as he had won. That was the nature of war; he was old enough to understand that. It was something he’d been at peace with since before England had ever begun his tiny wars with his tiny kings, before half-Viking Normandy had brought civilization to the frigid little island. It wasn’t to say that he didn’t get angry-- which of them didn’t?-- but he didn’t lose his composure. He didn’t despair.
That day, in the middle of October, it hit him all of a sudden, a realization that he had been trying to stave off for months: The war was turning sour. Even after the long, frigid expedition in Russia, he hadn’t lost hope-- how could he, faced with the calm certainty of his Napoleon? We will regroup, he had been told. We will rise again, stronger than we have been since Charlemagne. Now, nearly a year later... Not even in the presence of his quiet, intense, ambitious emperor could he forget the forces amassing across his borders: Smug Russia, bloodthirsty Prussia, cold Austria, furious England.
Those few days in Saxony felt like a dream. A million times, the tide seemed to be turning-- a million times, they had been pushed back. The mood of his people was tumultuous, unpredictable. He himself had started to feel the strain. After the emotional turmoil of the past few decades, when Napoleon announced the retreat, he didn’t feel angry, or even scared-- he felt tired.
The evacuation was timed beautifully, like any venture the emperor oversaw. The troupes would withdraw over the last bridge across the Elster; the Coalition wouldn't notice their retreat until it was too late. Once their men had crossed, the bridge would be destroyed. They would reconvene, lick their wounds, decide how to proceed.
The numbness didn’t start to dissipate until he had crossed the bridge himself; he looked back once more at the site of their greatest defeat yet, and saw England’s face, across the Elster. Fiercely satisfied. Triumphant. Growling, he turned back, fighting over the river through the crowds of hurrying soldiers. “My Lord!” he heard a voice shout from behind him. “I will oversee the retreat personally,” he responded, and ignored the protests of the unknown man.
England was waiting for him when he stepped off the bridge. “Francis,” he said. France bristled at the informality of the address. “Good of you to stop by.”
“Arthur,” he said, nodding curtly.
England took a step closer. The look on his face told France that he had been rehearsing for this moment for long, long years. “You reached too far, Francis,” he said quietly, eyes burning with barely-concealed excitement. “You always do.”
France smiled at him, distantly. “Perhaps you simply lack ambition.”
England’s face darkened. “My empire reaches to corners of the earth of which you couldn’t begin to dream.”
“And yet,” said France, smile still pleasant, “it has taken you, and every major power in Europe, twenty years to gain an advantage over my children.”
“We have not simply gained an advantage,” England hissed. “We have destroyed you.”
France was opening his mouth to form another delicate barb, when he heard the explosion. He looked over his shoulder, and saw to his horror that the bridge, the bridge...
England looked as surprised as he felt-then he laughed, gleeful. “Good Lord, I couldn’t have designed this better if I’d tried. Look at them falling, by the dozen-- how many do you think know how to swim?”
It wasn’t-- it couldn’t-- the fuses weren’t meant to be detonated until their men had passed safely, along with the rearguard... He watched as hundreds of his children fell into the water, thousands more panicked and trapped on this bank. He fell to his knees. The sheer incompetence of it... Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard England continue to laugh. When a boot swung at him from the side, he didn’t bother to duck. It sent him crashing to the ground, but he didn’t take his eyes off the wreckage of the bridge, the men struggling and dying in the water.
England’s boot was on his chest. “Beautiful, isn’t it,” he breathed. France looked up and him, in something like bewilderment. England spat at the ground next to his face.
He shook himself, and made to stand. England’s boot pushed him back down. “Beautiful? You have fought too long aside Ivan, old friend,” he said, gritting his teeth.
“We have never been friends, Francis,” he said, and his boot connected with France’s face.
He spat blood. “We were once,” he said, softly.
England laughed again, and the sound was harsh. “When your filthy Normandy marched on my shores? Or after, when you strongarmed the Plantagenets onto my throne?” France didn’t answer. “We were enemies all along,” England continued, his voice hushed now too. “You know it as well as I.”
France couldn’t bring himself to argue, as England knelt next to him, pinning him down, and turned him over. In the midst of the chaos and death, there was no attention to spare for two men rolling in the mud behind a low stone wall. When he came-- which he did-- it was to the sound of gunshots and screaming.
NOTES
*So here we are, at the end of the Battle of Leipzig, Napoleon's first really major defeat (outside of Russia). Riding the momentum from this battle, the Allies (Russia, Austria, Prussia, Sweden, and a bunch of German states-- England was hanging out with Portugal and Spain, breaking France's hold on the Iberian peninsula) marched on Paris. It was the beginning of the end for France. Not the actual end though-- read about the Hundred Days, if you want to fully appreciate how intense Napoleon was.
*Now, a note about the England characterization in this fic, since I know there are a few people who don't like England to be this mean. Remember: England is pissed. He's been fighting this war on and off for twenty years, dealing with inconsistent allies, and being regularly humiliated. Integrating sex into that kind of political dynamic is a author-by-author thing, but if you choose to-- which, if you've read me before, you know that I do-- you're gonna have to walk the noncon line. IMHO. Feel free to flame/discuss/disagree, it makes us all smarter.
*Thanks for reading
Warnings: Death and war. Implied dark sex.
Characters: England, France
Summary: Near the end of the Napoleonic Wars, France suffers a major defeat.
France had lost battles before; perhaps as many as he had won. That was the nature of war; he was old enough to understand that. It was something he’d been at peace with since before England had ever begun his tiny wars with his tiny kings, before half-Viking Normandy had brought civilization to the frigid little island. It wasn’t to say that he didn’t get angry-- which of them didn’t?-- but he didn’t lose his composure. He didn’t despair.
That day, in the middle of October, it hit him all of a sudden, a realization that he had been trying to stave off for months: The war was turning sour. Even after the long, frigid expedition in Russia, he hadn’t lost hope-- how could he, faced with the calm certainty of his Napoleon? We will regroup, he had been told. We will rise again, stronger than we have been since Charlemagne. Now, nearly a year later... Not even in the presence of his quiet, intense, ambitious emperor could he forget the forces amassing across his borders: Smug Russia, bloodthirsty Prussia, cold Austria, furious England.
Those few days in Saxony felt like a dream. A million times, the tide seemed to be turning-- a million times, they had been pushed back. The mood of his people was tumultuous, unpredictable. He himself had started to feel the strain. After the emotional turmoil of the past few decades, when Napoleon announced the retreat, he didn’t feel angry, or even scared-- he felt tired.
The evacuation was timed beautifully, like any venture the emperor oversaw. The troupes would withdraw over the last bridge across the Elster; the Coalition wouldn't notice their retreat until it was too late. Once their men had crossed, the bridge would be destroyed. They would reconvene, lick their wounds, decide how to proceed.
The numbness didn’t start to dissipate until he had crossed the bridge himself; he looked back once more at the site of their greatest defeat yet, and saw England’s face, across the Elster. Fiercely satisfied. Triumphant. Growling, he turned back, fighting over the river through the crowds of hurrying soldiers. “My Lord!” he heard a voice shout from behind him. “I will oversee the retreat personally,” he responded, and ignored the protests of the unknown man.
England was waiting for him when he stepped off the bridge. “Francis,” he said. France bristled at the informality of the address. “Good of you to stop by.”
“Arthur,” he said, nodding curtly.
England took a step closer. The look on his face told France that he had been rehearsing for this moment for long, long years. “You reached too far, Francis,” he said quietly, eyes burning with barely-concealed excitement. “You always do.”
France smiled at him, distantly. “Perhaps you simply lack ambition.”
England’s face darkened. “My empire reaches to corners of the earth of which you couldn’t begin to dream.”
“And yet,” said France, smile still pleasant, “it has taken you, and every major power in Europe, twenty years to gain an advantage over my children.”
“We have not simply gained an advantage,” England hissed. “We have destroyed you.”
France was opening his mouth to form another delicate barb, when he heard the explosion. He looked over his shoulder, and saw to his horror that the bridge, the bridge...
England looked as surprised as he felt-then he laughed, gleeful. “Good Lord, I couldn’t have designed this better if I’d tried. Look at them falling, by the dozen-- how many do you think know how to swim?”
It wasn’t-- it couldn’t-- the fuses weren’t meant to be detonated until their men had passed safely, along with the rearguard... He watched as hundreds of his children fell into the water, thousands more panicked and trapped on this bank. He fell to his knees. The sheer incompetence of it... Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard England continue to laugh. When a boot swung at him from the side, he didn’t bother to duck. It sent him crashing to the ground, but he didn’t take his eyes off the wreckage of the bridge, the men struggling and dying in the water.
England’s boot was on his chest. “Beautiful, isn’t it,” he breathed. France looked up and him, in something like bewilderment. England spat at the ground next to his face.
He shook himself, and made to stand. England’s boot pushed him back down. “Beautiful? You have fought too long aside Ivan, old friend,” he said, gritting his teeth.
“We have never been friends, Francis,” he said, and his boot connected with France’s face.
He spat blood. “We were once,” he said, softly.
England laughed again, and the sound was harsh. “When your filthy Normandy marched on my shores? Or after, when you strongarmed the Plantagenets onto my throne?” France didn’t answer. “We were enemies all along,” England continued, his voice hushed now too. “You know it as well as I.”
France couldn’t bring himself to argue, as England knelt next to him, pinning him down, and turned him over. In the midst of the chaos and death, there was no attention to spare for two men rolling in the mud behind a low stone wall. When he came-- which he did-- it was to the sound of gunshots and screaming.
NOTES
*So here we are, at the end of the Battle of Leipzig, Napoleon's first really major defeat (outside of Russia). Riding the momentum from this battle, the Allies (Russia, Austria, Prussia, Sweden, and a bunch of German states-- England was hanging out with Portugal and Spain, breaking France's hold on the Iberian peninsula) marched on Paris. It was the beginning of the end for France. Not the actual end though-- read about the Hundred Days, if you want to fully appreciate how intense Napoleon was.
*Now, a note about the England characterization in this fic, since I know there are a few people who don't like England to be this mean. Remember: England is pissed. He's been fighting this war on and off for twenty years, dealing with inconsistent allies, and being regularly humiliated. Integrating sex into that kind of political dynamic is a author-by-author thing, but if you choose to-- which, if you've read me before, you know that I do-- you're gonna have to walk the noncon line. IMHO. Feel free to flame/discuss/disagree, it makes us all smarter.
*Thanks for reading