[fic] Vienna pt.3
Characters: Most of Europe
Rating: Well, there's no sex, and no real violence, so apart from bad language, it's floating around the 13+ area at best.
Pairings: None. It's really not that sort of fic, since the whole thing is about shifting alliances. Slight leaning towards Austria/ Hungary, England/ Prussia, England/ Portugal, England/ France, France/Spain, France/ Poland, and Spain/ Romano, but in all but one of these cases, it is nothing particularly sexual.
Summary: It's really just a small, tiny, general glimpse into a few of the many, many events that occurred during the turmoil that Europe faced following the French Revolution, up until Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo, and the signing of the Final Act at the Congress of Vienna.
Part 1/ Part 2/ Part 3/ Part 4
-1808-
The house was so quiet.
In truth, though he had always complained about the lack of silence and order in his household, Austria found that the reality of it was desperately lonely.
For so long, his life had been in constant upheaval, managing the Holy Roman Empire, making sure that Italy stayed out of trouble, putting up with Spain, fending off Prussia’s irritating advances, bickering with Switzerland. Constant hassle, and noise, all concentrated within the walls of his home. And yet, in the harsh light day, the loss of such things was felt keenly, a sharp pang of regret filling his heart and making his chest hurt.
Everything was such a mess. The Holy Roman Empire was gone, the damage to him irreparable. The boy left in his place was a wide- eyed, fragile thing, unsure of who, or what he was. Italy was gone, leaving his home some years ago with his hand tightly clasped around France’s, a wide, confused smile on his face, head filled with swirling thoughts of finally returning home. Even Prussia was at risk now, badly beaten back, Berlin taken from him after only nineteen days, and his newly acquired territory snatched back.
Austria missed them all. Even Prussia.
Everything he’d known, and trusted for centuries had fallen in only a decade. England was doing his best to stay strong against France, but his interests lay in Iberia, not in the East. Sweden likewise, was refusing to back down, but his interests laid solely in the North, all focus entirely upon Finland. It was a sad way for the Fourth Coalition to end up, especially since Austria could not boast to have been a member.
Damn Austerlitz! The word still tasted like bile upon his tongue. It was a scar, still healing upon his chest, the constant itch driving some sort of simmering, molten indignation beneath his calm façade. It would not be his final action in this conflict. He would not allow it.
The clink of bone china distracted him from his thoughts, startling him. Good. He needed a clear mind, and an impassive face if he was to strike back at France. No use rushing headlong into these things. Prussia had, as always, taught him that extremely effectively. What he needed to do was be subtle about it. His army was already beginning to go through the process of reform, his treasury weighing up how much they could afford to spend on war. It was all kept secret, of course. He had no one to rely on these days. Not with nations falling, and defecting all around him. He was alone once again, but not weak, and more importantly, not stupid.
All he needed was a few more months.
‘Fetch me some paper, and a quill,’ he snapped to one of the serving women who had been standing silently, awaiting his command.
In a moment, and a refreshing flurry of movement, a small pile of paper, and a quill had been placed before him at his desk. Without a second thought, he leant down, snatching up the quill and dabbing it into his ever- ready pot of ink, readying himself to write another letter to his top general.
‘Would you like some more tea, Master Austria?’ the maid asked gently.
Blinking, he sat back, the familiarity of the voice strangely comforting to him, compelling him to meet her gaze.
Hungary smiled back, a soft quirk of her lips, expression oddly serene, and patient.
Austria stared at her for a long time, the look in his eyes shifting from one of surprise, to cool calculation. Hungary coloured, forcing herself not to fidget under the scrutiny.
‘Why are you still here?’ he asked finally.
Hungary looked astonished at the question, and perhaps even oddly hurt. ‘Do you not wish for me to be, Master Austria?’
Austria considered the question. ‘Yes,’ he said. Strangely, he found that he meant it. She was the last piece of a family that he had pictured in his memory, and she was still here. Still reminding him that he wasn’t quite as desperately alone as he felt. ‘I am…’ he flushed, looking away uncomfortably. ‘I’m glad that you are still here.’
Hungary blushed at that, though her smile threatened to blossom once again. ‘So am I… Master Austria,’ she added.
‘Hungary,’ he said slowly, looking back towards her, eyes sharper, and more intense through the lenses of his spectacles. ‘Do you know what I am planning to do?’
‘I… can take a good guess,’ she admitted.
‘What will you do?’
She stared at him levelly, and for the briefest moment, they were almost equals. Then Hungary blushed and looked away, as if remembering her place. ‘I will stay here,’ she answered.
‘By my side?’ Austria pushed.
‘… By your side,’ Hungary confirmed.
Austria was convinced.
‘Pull up a chair then,’ he said, trying to act nonchalant. ‘And we’ll discuss what I expect to happen.’
At the suddenly coltish way Hungary leapt away from his desk, and scurried away to the other side of the room in order to grab at the first chair that she could see, Austria actually found himself fighting back a smile.
**
-1807-
England watched impassively as Prussia sped off, new gun safely in hand (‘No hard feelings,’ he’d said. ‘Y’ know. About the Berlin Decree. I had fuck all to do with it.’), before shoving his hand back into one of the pockets of his brown, woollen coat in order to check his new pocket watch. With a huff, he slipped it back into his pocket, annoyed at himself when he realised that he’d allocated too much time to Prussia, and that his next meeting wasn’t for another fifteen minutes.
His sigh was visible in the cold November air, and he shivered, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he leant against the wall of the miserable alleyway that he had decided upon earlier that day. Still. He had to laugh at Prussia’s earlier words. Well, not so much at Prussia’s words, as the Berlin Decree in general.
France, being a royal (or perhaps unroyal would be more fitting) idiot, as usual, had honestly thought that it would work. Had honestly believed that banning the rest of the continent from trading with England, would actually damage England. Had honestly not even considered that England would immediately respond by drawing upon the vast resources of his colonies instead. In the end, much to England’s glee, France had ended up hurting the rest of Europe with the trading ban, more than he had hurt England. Because Europe needed England’s goods, and they weren’t about to let something like a silly ban hold them back from suiting their needs. So what if England wasn’t allowed to be as overt about it as he used to be? Smuggling wasn’t a far cry from privateering, and damn if he hadn’t been a fan-fucking-tastic pirate in his day, so really, it had been a pretty easy decision to make. Spit in France’s face, possibly make some money, and have some fun while he was at it. All only made possible through France’s own legislation. To someone of England’s disposition (wherein his mean streak was wider than the English channel. In fact, it was less of a mean streak, and more of a mean nine-hundred-and-sixty-three-mile-round-journey-from-Newcastle-to-Penzance) it was delightfully amusing.
Better still, business was booming.
Not that he didn’t need it. England was an obstinate bastard at the best of times, but he wasn’t under any illusions. France was strong -almost ridiculously so- and with Prussia crushed in one fell swoop, Austria humiliated, Russia bowing, Sweden’s worries elsewhere, and Spain still firmly under control, England had been left to go it alone. Crushing Denmark’s fleet had helped to ensure that France wouldn’t try anything funny with boats again for a while, but that still left the land. Without any support coming from the east England was, strategically, stuffed. Not that that would stop him, of course. He’d experienced hundreds of years of war with France already. He’d sort it out. Eventually. It was just taking a little more time than he’d anticipated.
If England was entirely honest with himself though (and he rarely was), this war felt absolutely nothing like his past fights with France. It hadn’t felt right since day one.
England knew civil war. He’d had around ten himself, and what he did know about them was that they fucked with your head. In most of them, he’d just had some pretty crazy mood swings, and the odd migraine, but the worst ones had sent him absolutely fucking loopy. So yes, England knew about civil war. He could have written a book collection on it, but France’s civil war? That had been worse than worse.
It wasn’t like England liked the guy, or cared about him particularly, but going to war with him was something oddly familiar and, while frustrating, almost exhilarating. They’d spent the best part of five hundred years locked in a morbid game of chess with far too many pieces, and far too high stakes, but it was something habitual, almost natural to the both of them. This war, however, felt nothing like that. England had seen it coming, watched with growing horror as France lost himself more, and more by the day, but he’d done nothing to stop it, could have done nothing to stop it. The battle had been internal, and when France had re-emerged, somehow he wasn’t France any more.
It had thrown England. Naturally, he’d responded to France’s actions with hostility, but it felt entirely different to all of the times before. He could see it in everyone else’s eyes, especially Spain’s. That feeling that somehow they’d reacted too late, that they hadn’t realised in time that something horribly different had occurred. England had spent many nights at his desk, clawing at his hair, and gritting his teeth, analysing everything that he could have possibly done, feeling some ridiculous level of responsibility even though he’d had his own issues with America to deal with. In the end though, he’d come to accept the situation, resigning to end it as soon as possible, for everyone’s -especially his own- benefit.
The most odd thing that had arisen out of the situation however, was something that England barely even dared to acknowledge- he found himself missing France. It was utterly stupid, and illogical, of course. He hated the guy, had been his sworn enemy for most of his living memory, and yet…
And yet France was, he was loath to admit, the one consistency that he’d had in his life. Everything around him shifted and changed like the waves of the ocean, and yet France had always been there, static at the edge of his vision, annoying him, and tormenting him, yes, but stable. Waking up in the morning, knowing that France would still be on his doorstep, waiting to piss him off at the first opportunity that he could was the most certain thing in his entire life. Eternal nemesis France might have been, but being an enemy with someone for that long, and dedicating so much energy towards him for so much of his life well… well it made France almost, sort of a friend. Sort of.
England coloured at the thought, and dismissed it as quickly as it had come, blaming the cold autumn air. Point was; he didn’t miss France. He simply missed having someone to focus his hatred upon. Because the guy he was fighting at the moment, while he looked, and sounded like France, wasn’t the France that he knew and hated, so the sooner that France went back to normal, the sooner England could relax and happily go back to hating France. And then everything would feel all right again.
Shaking his head to clear it of his wondering thoughts, England irritably checked his watch once again, cursing at the Italian brat’s tardiness, and cursing Spain even more for probably being the cause of it. He wasn’t keen on dealing with him any way, considering how close he was to Spain. If word got out that he was doing business with him, then France would crack down on trading even more, and profits would likely plummet.
It was just as he was considering leaving that the brat came barrelling into the alleyway.
‘England, sir!’ he panted, almost folded in two as he tried to regain his breath. ‘Sir. I am so sorry for being late. I couldn’t sneak away from Spain- the controlling freak- and-’
‘Not interested,’ England cut in, already starting to walk of. ‘You can get your supplies elsewhere. I won’t deal with nations who won’t take my generosity seriously.’
‘But, England sir-’
‘I’m taking a huge risk for your benefit, and you’ve just proven to me that it’s not worth it,’ England interrupted him, a small part of him wanting to hurt the child’s feelings, lingering resentment over his close relationship with Spain overriding his better judgement.
The boy frowned for a moment, hurt flashing across his face, before it was replaced with a look of urgency. ‘England, sir! Don’t you know what’s happened?’
England felt his blood run cold. ‘What do you mean “what’s happened”?’
‘France has sent an army into Spain’s lands!’
England stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending. ‘Since when is that new? Spain’s his personal lapdog these days.’
‘No!’ the boy responded, shaking his head fiercely. ‘You don’t understand! France is marching on Portugal.’
England’s face went slack with shock. ‘What-’
‘He says that it’s because Portugal won’t stop trading with you. He wants to split him up, and share out the pieces between himself and Spain! Spain's joined him for now but-’
England was already gone, marching swiftly towards the direction of the harbour, mind focused coolly on numerous calculations. Money. Troops. Boats. Timing. Getting to Lisbon as soon as possible. Evacuating the royal family. Fortifications. Ammunition.
Beneath it all, a quite rage had been stirred, thumping with the beat of his heart in his ears. His one friend in this miserable, stinking world was under threat. Under threat for his loyalty to England, staying by his side, regardless of the danger that it put him in. And France had the audacity-
At the thought of the upcoming bloodshed, he smiled savagely. He made quick work of seeking his ship out in the docks, boarding it, and shrugging out of his coat, tossing it carelessly to one side.
‘Bring me my jacket,’ he snapped to a young deck hand, who immediately stopped gawking at him, and ran off to do as he was bid.
‘Captain?’ his First Mate questioned.
‘Haul anchor, lads,’ he shouted, taking his jacket from the boy who had hurriedly returned. ‘And raise the flag,’ he added as he began to button it.
‘Captain?’
England grinned at them, and if the crew hadn’t known who he really was at that moment, they would have unanimously thrown him overboard for being demented.
‘We’re going on a trip, lads,’ he explained, skipping up the stairs, and heading towards the wheel with a flourish. Understanding somewhat, the helmsman obliged, stepping aside mutely, and allowing England to seize the wheel.
‘Where to, Captain?’ the Second Mate asked.
‘Well, first of all, we need to head home. Get all of the boys together, so to speak,’ he responded, leaning bodily against the wheel. Then he grinned again. ‘After that? Well… I wanted to go and see what Lisbon was like this time of year.’
**
-1812-
The Duchy of Warsaw reached forwards, patting his chestnut mare softly on the neck, steadying her as she tossed her head and danced slightly. Something in the air had made her anxious, and the possibility that she might rear was not a remote one.
He could not blame her, staring out across the border as she was, the wind blowing in from Russia’s lands feeling unnaturally cold for a June day. He turned away, looking briefly to the north, eyes carrying a faraway look, quietly burning with a distant longing.
‘This will be a glorious victory for us both, Warsaw,’ France said, sitting astride his own mount to his left.
The Duchy of Warsaw (soon to be the Kingdom of Poland once again. It was only a matter of time now, just a matter of being patient) turned back to face him, a grim smile upon his lips. ‘It sure will. When do we start?’
‘Soon, Warsaw, soon,’ France soothed him.
‘And Liet- Lithuania?’ he urged, correcting himself only as a second thought.
‘Do not stress yourself, my friend,’ France smiled. ‘My armies are already moving towards Vilnius to help him fight back against Russia. Soon he will be as free as you are now.’
The Duchy of Warsaw allowed his shoulders to relax slightly, though he was too world- weary to be fully relieved. ‘And when you’ve helped him take Wilno back for himself, you’ll totally announce that I’m a kingdom again, right? That we’re both a kingdom again?’
‘Of course, of course,’ France said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘I’ve been considering something like “The General Confederation of the Kingdom of Poland.” Doesn’t that sound wonderfully grand?’
The Duchy of Warsaw paused for a long moment, silently repeating the name to himself in his head. Okay so, it was a bit long- winded, and “confederation” didn’t sound quite as cool as “commonwealth” but… to be a Kingdom once again, to have his true name back, to have Liet by his side again, ruling their peaceful lands, and harvesting mushrooms in the forests… it made his eyes burn, and his throat constrict with longing.
‘Yeah,’ he replied finally, voice a little too shaky for his liking. He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah that does sound kinda grand.’
‘I am good to my friends, Warsaw. You should know that,’ France said with a fond smile.
The Duchy of Warsaw smiled back, albeit in a slightly forced manner. France had been good to him, he had been but still… he had to worry just the slightest bit over how long it was taking him to formally announce that he was a Kingdom again. He’d been liberated five years ago now, but still his bosses were French, and Dutch. Sure, they were a Hell of a lot better than Russia, but still… he’d been a good friend to France. He’d provided not only troops, but also food, and while he appreciated being invited to stand with France at the head of the march on Russia, the promise of vengeance didn’t quite overwhelm the nagging worry that he still didn’t have any sort of international recognition, or representation.
‘So when are we kicking Russia’s ass?’ he said instead, trying to lighten his own mood.
‘Soon, Warsaw. We have him outnumbered. It’s only a matter of time before we take Moscow. If you want, I can make him apologise to you,’ France smirked.
‘The only thing that I want from that fat bastard is to see him on his knees,’ the Duchy of Warsaw hissed, fingers flexing around his reins. ‘And when he has been humiliated, and shamed, I will take Liet, and leave him to rot.’
‘Of course, my dear,’ France muttered, staring out across the border, eyes fixed on where Moscow lay, far beyond the horizon. ‘Next year you will be Poland once more, and you and your little friend will live happily in my new, unified Europe.’
The Duchy of Warsaw turned to stare at France in amazement, daring to hope for the first time in a long, long time. He felt his throat tighten again, and tears threaten to spill from his eyes.
‘God bless you, France,’ he whispered hoarsely.
France smiled back at him. ‘By next January, Russia will have fallen. This I promise you.’
The Duchy of Warsaw nodded, wiping at his teary eyes with the back of his gloved hand. Then, after clearing his throat, he straightened up in his saddle, and glanced back at the Grande Armée, spotting his own troops easily among the mass of soldiers.
Russia would fall, he told himself. Russia would fall, the world could go back to normal, and scholars would soon be writing that 1812 was the year that Poland returned to his rightful place on the map once again.
**
-1813-
Spain tossed in his sleep, mumbling something under his breath. When he settled down once again Prussia, and England returned their attention to their individual maps, studying them in the light from the campfire.
They sat in silence for a few moments longer, before Prussia settled his down across his lap with a sigh.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said.
‘You don’t get what?’ England answered, sounding only half- interested.
‘Him,’ he replied, jerking his head over to where Spain was sleeping fitfully. ‘Come to think on it, you too.’
‘What about me?’ England responded, setting his own map down, and staring at Prussia through narrowed eyes.
‘Well, you two and your dumb kids,’ Prussia sneered. ‘Look at the state they get you in. You adored that America kid, and he stabbed you in the back and completely fucked you up, and Spain’s fucking obsessed with his kid, and look at him now, practically crying in his sleep. What’s the fucking point?’
England glared hotly at him, not appreciating Prussia’s salt in a still very raw wound. ‘What’s your fucking point?’
Prussia looked honestly surprised. ‘What? I’m asking an honest question here. You two both find these little kiddies, put your heart and soul into raising them, and then shit goes wrong, and you get your heart broken. It just seems so fucking silly to me. We’re meant to be alone. We’re stronger that way, and yet you, and Spain broke that huge fucker of a rule by getting too close to another nation, trusting them too much. I mean, fine, I know that you and Spain are in different situations. Your kid got too big for his boots, and Spain’s pussy kid got himself taken away, and yeah, it sucks to be you, but still... you two should never have been in that situation in the first place.’
England stared at him, silent, and thoughtful. Prussia had expected to get a fist to the face, rather than an actual answer, but there England was, actually considering his question.
And then he sighed, and it was a heavy, regretful sound, but beneath it, Prussia swore that he could detect a strange fondness.
‘You won’t understand until you experience it yourself, having someone who looks up to you, and trusts you, and needs you. It’s terrifying at first, but it’s also so, so nice. To be important to someone else, to have the responsibility of a tiny life in your hands knowing that it’s your duty to help it grow… it’s strangely exhilarating. For most of us, we will never know what it is to be a father, but to be given the opportunity to try something like it, to be like a father, or a big brother… it’s precious. I made mistakes with America, I admit, and I worry even now that I could make the same mistakes with Canada, but even so… I’d never regret finding him, and looking after him- looking after them both- even if I would change a lot of things that I did.’
Prussia stayed silent, the words shaking him slightly. After a moment he sneered once again, though it seemed less confident than before. ‘Oh well. Looks like Canada still needs you to look after him.’
England flinched, and looked away.
Prussia glanced at Spain once again, and shook his head slowly. Idiots. They were nothing more than idiots. Nations were meant to be alone.
Snorting softly, he picked up his map, continuing his earlier study. ‘I’d kill myself before I let anyone call me “big brother”,’ he muttered.
**
-1808-
Sweden was not an emotional man, and he was not a naïve man. He had guessed from the start that fighting Russia would result in a losing battle. The same, sadly, could not have been said for his king who had too much faith in Sweden, and England both.
England had helped, of course, lessening the pressure that Denmark was putting on him, but Sweden was finding it hard to keep up with Russia alone, without France, and Denmark worrying him from the south. With France in control of the Baltic Sea, there was little that England could do anyway, tipping the favour ever more away from Sweden.
It wasn’t that Sweden was fearful for himself. He’d spent so many years at war, and he was used to it, resigned to it almost. To say that he didn’t care about himself would have been incorrect. He did care about himself, but he’d been around for such a long time that he knew he’d find some way to be all right in the end. The problem was that this time, things were different. He would have been able to handle the entire situation, and any resulting loss much better, if it hadn’t been for Finland.
The younger nation sat next to him, tired expression almost undetectable beyond his blackened eye, and cut lip. He was pale, Sweden noted with great dissatisfaction. Thin too. He didn’t smile much these days, becoming increasingly withdrawn as Sweden, and Russia fought ceaselessly over his body.
Sweden watched him with weary eyes, pitying him, desperately wanting to reach out and pull him to him, cradle him protectively, guard him from the hurt…
He didn’t.
He knew that to Finland, his expression was utterly unreadable, but, frustrating as that was, Sweden hoped that, somehow, Finland might know how sorry he was that this had ever happened.
Pride meant a great deal to Sweden, more so than others might have thought. He’d agreed with his king when he had refused to submit to Russia, and France’s agreement for him to join the continental system. It wasn’t best for him, and, more importantly, he would never give in to bullying, having put up with Denmark for more time than he liked to recall.
And yet now, as he considered what the cost might be, he questioned whether any of this had been worth it. If he lost Finland… He had to look away, heart aching at the very thought, but knowing that Finland might misread his intense expression as something else. Might drive him further away.
Sweden stared sombrely into the crackling flames of their campfire. That was the saddest part to this whole debacle, of course. Deep down on some level, he knew that Finland wanted to go. His shy companion, never entirely honest- never daring to be- even as his body was brutally taken from him piece by piece by a foreign invader, had had the seeds of something new planted into his thoughts. Russia, cold, and unrelenting, still offered something that Sweden never had: a level of freedom, of independence that Sweden had not allowed. Yet still he was here at his camp. He fought at Sweden’s side, remaining with him out of fear of the unknown, and perhaps some sort of gentle feelings of friendship, and fondness.
It wasn’t going to last though, Sweden knew that now. Even if, by some miracle, he beat back Russia, and avoided confrontation with Denmark, and France, Finland was slipping through his fingers.
It was a thought that terrified him. He needed to clench his hands together to stop them from shaking. A life without Finland with him… it made him want to vomit. They’d been together for such a long time, living through joy and sadness, though wins and losses, through peace and war… it was hard to remember being without him. Even under Denmark’s rule, they’d been together, had run away together… it was…
Sweden swallowed heavily. He would not give up. He would not stand back and let go of the only person in his whole life that mattered to him. The only person who had ever smiled at him like he was more than just a nation, who came close to understanding him. Even if Finland wanted to go, he would not let him, at least not without getting him ready for living in the world alone, slowly guiding him until he could stand strongly on his own two feet.
‘Sweden, sir?’
Sweden looked up, surprised out of his thoughts.
‘Mmmm?’ he answered.
Finland smiled at him, though it was feigned. He tried to hide his wince as his cut lip stung. ‘You look a little unwell- I mean today has been tough!’ he backtracked nervously. ‘Would you like to get some rest? I can keep watch for a while.’
Sweden stared at him for a long moment.
His mind buzzed with things that he wanted to say, jaw tightening and relaxing with the urge to speak. Most of all, however, he wanted -longed- to say just one thing above all else.
Instead, he simply said ‘’K’ and leant back upon his bedroll, pulling the cover over him, and closing his eyes, suddenly feeling bone weary.
Please be here when I wake up, he thought, clutching at his blanket, and drifting off into a fretful sleep.
**
Rating: Well, there's no sex, and no real violence, so apart from bad language, it's floating around the 13+ area at best.
Pairings: None. It's really not that sort of fic, since the whole thing is about shifting alliances. Slight leaning towards Austria/ Hungary, England/ Prussia, England/ Portugal, England/ France, France/Spain, France/ Poland, and Spain/ Romano, but in all but one of these cases, it is nothing particularly sexual.
Summary: It's really just a small, tiny, general glimpse into a few of the many, many events that occurred during the turmoil that Europe faced following the French Revolution, up until Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo, and the signing of the Final Act at the Congress of Vienna.
Part 1/ Part 2/ Part 3/ Part 4
-1808-
The house was so quiet.
In truth, though he had always complained about the lack of silence and order in his household, Austria found that the reality of it was desperately lonely.
For so long, his life had been in constant upheaval, managing the Holy Roman Empire, making sure that Italy stayed out of trouble, putting up with Spain, fending off Prussia’s irritating advances, bickering with Switzerland. Constant hassle, and noise, all concentrated within the walls of his home. And yet, in the harsh light day, the loss of such things was felt keenly, a sharp pang of regret filling his heart and making his chest hurt.
Everything was such a mess. The Holy Roman Empire was gone, the damage to him irreparable. The boy left in his place was a wide- eyed, fragile thing, unsure of who, or what he was. Italy was gone, leaving his home some years ago with his hand tightly clasped around France’s, a wide, confused smile on his face, head filled with swirling thoughts of finally returning home. Even Prussia was at risk now, badly beaten back, Berlin taken from him after only nineteen days, and his newly acquired territory snatched back.
Austria missed them all. Even Prussia.
Everything he’d known, and trusted for centuries had fallen in only a decade. England was doing his best to stay strong against France, but his interests lay in Iberia, not in the East. Sweden likewise, was refusing to back down, but his interests laid solely in the North, all focus entirely upon Finland. It was a sad way for the Fourth Coalition to end up, especially since Austria could not boast to have been a member.
Damn Austerlitz! The word still tasted like bile upon his tongue. It was a scar, still healing upon his chest, the constant itch driving some sort of simmering, molten indignation beneath his calm façade. It would not be his final action in this conflict. He would not allow it.
The clink of bone china distracted him from his thoughts, startling him. Good. He needed a clear mind, and an impassive face if he was to strike back at France. No use rushing headlong into these things. Prussia had, as always, taught him that extremely effectively. What he needed to do was be subtle about it. His army was already beginning to go through the process of reform, his treasury weighing up how much they could afford to spend on war. It was all kept secret, of course. He had no one to rely on these days. Not with nations falling, and defecting all around him. He was alone once again, but not weak, and more importantly, not stupid.
All he needed was a few more months.
‘Fetch me some paper, and a quill,’ he snapped to one of the serving women who had been standing silently, awaiting his command.
In a moment, and a refreshing flurry of movement, a small pile of paper, and a quill had been placed before him at his desk. Without a second thought, he leant down, snatching up the quill and dabbing it into his ever- ready pot of ink, readying himself to write another letter to his top general.
‘Would you like some more tea, Master Austria?’ the maid asked gently.
Blinking, he sat back, the familiarity of the voice strangely comforting to him, compelling him to meet her gaze.
Hungary smiled back, a soft quirk of her lips, expression oddly serene, and patient.
Austria stared at her for a long time, the look in his eyes shifting from one of surprise, to cool calculation. Hungary coloured, forcing herself not to fidget under the scrutiny.
‘Why are you still here?’ he asked finally.
Hungary looked astonished at the question, and perhaps even oddly hurt. ‘Do you not wish for me to be, Master Austria?’
Austria considered the question. ‘Yes,’ he said. Strangely, he found that he meant it. She was the last piece of a family that he had pictured in his memory, and she was still here. Still reminding him that he wasn’t quite as desperately alone as he felt. ‘I am…’ he flushed, looking away uncomfortably. ‘I’m glad that you are still here.’
Hungary blushed at that, though her smile threatened to blossom once again. ‘So am I… Master Austria,’ she added.
‘Hungary,’ he said slowly, looking back towards her, eyes sharper, and more intense through the lenses of his spectacles. ‘Do you know what I am planning to do?’
‘I… can take a good guess,’ she admitted.
‘What will you do?’
She stared at him levelly, and for the briefest moment, they were almost equals. Then Hungary blushed and looked away, as if remembering her place. ‘I will stay here,’ she answered.
‘By my side?’ Austria pushed.
‘… By your side,’ Hungary confirmed.
Austria was convinced.
‘Pull up a chair then,’ he said, trying to act nonchalant. ‘And we’ll discuss what I expect to happen.’
At the suddenly coltish way Hungary leapt away from his desk, and scurried away to the other side of the room in order to grab at the first chair that she could see, Austria actually found himself fighting back a smile.
**
-1807-
England watched impassively as Prussia sped off, new gun safely in hand (‘No hard feelings,’ he’d said. ‘Y’ know. About the Berlin Decree. I had fuck all to do with it.’), before shoving his hand back into one of the pockets of his brown, woollen coat in order to check his new pocket watch. With a huff, he slipped it back into his pocket, annoyed at himself when he realised that he’d allocated too much time to Prussia, and that his next meeting wasn’t for another fifteen minutes.
His sigh was visible in the cold November air, and he shivered, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he leant against the wall of the miserable alleyway that he had decided upon earlier that day. Still. He had to laugh at Prussia’s earlier words. Well, not so much at Prussia’s words, as the Berlin Decree in general.
France, being a royal (or perhaps unroyal would be more fitting) idiot, as usual, had honestly thought that it would work. Had honestly believed that banning the rest of the continent from trading with England, would actually damage England. Had honestly not even considered that England would immediately respond by drawing upon the vast resources of his colonies instead. In the end, much to England’s glee, France had ended up hurting the rest of Europe with the trading ban, more than he had hurt England. Because Europe needed England’s goods, and they weren’t about to let something like a silly ban hold them back from suiting their needs. So what if England wasn’t allowed to be as overt about it as he used to be? Smuggling wasn’t a far cry from privateering, and damn if he hadn’t been a fan-fucking-tastic pirate in his day, so really, it had been a pretty easy decision to make. Spit in France’s face, possibly make some money, and have some fun while he was at it. All only made possible through France’s own legislation. To someone of England’s disposition (wherein his mean streak was wider than the English channel. In fact, it was less of a mean streak, and more of a mean nine-hundred-and-sixty-three-mile-round-journey-from-Newcastle-to-Penzance) it was delightfully amusing.
Better still, business was booming.
Not that he didn’t need it. England was an obstinate bastard at the best of times, but he wasn’t under any illusions. France was strong -almost ridiculously so- and with Prussia crushed in one fell swoop, Austria humiliated, Russia bowing, Sweden’s worries elsewhere, and Spain still firmly under control, England had been left to go it alone. Crushing Denmark’s fleet had helped to ensure that France wouldn’t try anything funny with boats again for a while, but that still left the land. Without any support coming from the east England was, strategically, stuffed. Not that that would stop him, of course. He’d experienced hundreds of years of war with France already. He’d sort it out. Eventually. It was just taking a little more time than he’d anticipated.
If England was entirely honest with himself though (and he rarely was), this war felt absolutely nothing like his past fights with France. It hadn’t felt right since day one.
England knew civil war. He’d had around ten himself, and what he did know about them was that they fucked with your head. In most of them, he’d just had some pretty crazy mood swings, and the odd migraine, but the worst ones had sent him absolutely fucking loopy. So yes, England knew about civil war. He could have written a book collection on it, but France’s civil war? That had been worse than worse.
It wasn’t like England liked the guy, or cared about him particularly, but going to war with him was something oddly familiar and, while frustrating, almost exhilarating. They’d spent the best part of five hundred years locked in a morbid game of chess with far too many pieces, and far too high stakes, but it was something habitual, almost natural to the both of them. This war, however, felt nothing like that. England had seen it coming, watched with growing horror as France lost himself more, and more by the day, but he’d done nothing to stop it, could have done nothing to stop it. The battle had been internal, and when France had re-emerged, somehow he wasn’t France any more.
It had thrown England. Naturally, he’d responded to France’s actions with hostility, but it felt entirely different to all of the times before. He could see it in everyone else’s eyes, especially Spain’s. That feeling that somehow they’d reacted too late, that they hadn’t realised in time that something horribly different had occurred. England had spent many nights at his desk, clawing at his hair, and gritting his teeth, analysing everything that he could have possibly done, feeling some ridiculous level of responsibility even though he’d had his own issues with America to deal with. In the end though, he’d come to accept the situation, resigning to end it as soon as possible, for everyone’s -especially his own- benefit.
The most odd thing that had arisen out of the situation however, was something that England barely even dared to acknowledge- he found himself missing France. It was utterly stupid, and illogical, of course. He hated the guy, had been his sworn enemy for most of his living memory, and yet…
And yet France was, he was loath to admit, the one consistency that he’d had in his life. Everything around him shifted and changed like the waves of the ocean, and yet France had always been there, static at the edge of his vision, annoying him, and tormenting him, yes, but stable. Waking up in the morning, knowing that France would still be on his doorstep, waiting to piss him off at the first opportunity that he could was the most certain thing in his entire life. Eternal nemesis France might have been, but being an enemy with someone for that long, and dedicating so much energy towards him for so much of his life well… well it made France almost, sort of a friend. Sort of.
England coloured at the thought, and dismissed it as quickly as it had come, blaming the cold autumn air. Point was; he didn’t miss France. He simply missed having someone to focus his hatred upon. Because the guy he was fighting at the moment, while he looked, and sounded like France, wasn’t the France that he knew and hated, so the sooner that France went back to normal, the sooner England could relax and happily go back to hating France. And then everything would feel all right again.
Shaking his head to clear it of his wondering thoughts, England irritably checked his watch once again, cursing at the Italian brat’s tardiness, and cursing Spain even more for probably being the cause of it. He wasn’t keen on dealing with him any way, considering how close he was to Spain. If word got out that he was doing business with him, then France would crack down on trading even more, and profits would likely plummet.
It was just as he was considering leaving that the brat came barrelling into the alleyway.
‘England, sir!’ he panted, almost folded in two as he tried to regain his breath. ‘Sir. I am so sorry for being late. I couldn’t sneak away from Spain- the controlling freak- and-’
‘Not interested,’ England cut in, already starting to walk of. ‘You can get your supplies elsewhere. I won’t deal with nations who won’t take my generosity seriously.’
‘But, England sir-’
‘I’m taking a huge risk for your benefit, and you’ve just proven to me that it’s not worth it,’ England interrupted him, a small part of him wanting to hurt the child’s feelings, lingering resentment over his close relationship with Spain overriding his better judgement.
The boy frowned for a moment, hurt flashing across his face, before it was replaced with a look of urgency. ‘England, sir! Don’t you know what’s happened?’
England felt his blood run cold. ‘What do you mean “what’s happened”?’
‘France has sent an army into Spain’s lands!’
England stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending. ‘Since when is that new? Spain’s his personal lapdog these days.’
‘No!’ the boy responded, shaking his head fiercely. ‘You don’t understand! France is marching on Portugal.’
England’s face went slack with shock. ‘What-’
‘He says that it’s because Portugal won’t stop trading with you. He wants to split him up, and share out the pieces between himself and Spain! Spain's joined him for now but-’
England was already gone, marching swiftly towards the direction of the harbour, mind focused coolly on numerous calculations. Money. Troops. Boats. Timing. Getting to Lisbon as soon as possible. Evacuating the royal family. Fortifications. Ammunition.
Beneath it all, a quite rage had been stirred, thumping with the beat of his heart in his ears. His one friend in this miserable, stinking world was under threat. Under threat for his loyalty to England, staying by his side, regardless of the danger that it put him in. And France had the audacity-
At the thought of the upcoming bloodshed, he smiled savagely. He made quick work of seeking his ship out in the docks, boarding it, and shrugging out of his coat, tossing it carelessly to one side.
‘Bring me my jacket,’ he snapped to a young deck hand, who immediately stopped gawking at him, and ran off to do as he was bid.
‘Captain?’ his First Mate questioned.
‘Haul anchor, lads,’ he shouted, taking his jacket from the boy who had hurriedly returned. ‘And raise the flag,’ he added as he began to button it.
‘Captain?’
England grinned at them, and if the crew hadn’t known who he really was at that moment, they would have unanimously thrown him overboard for being demented.
‘We’re going on a trip, lads,’ he explained, skipping up the stairs, and heading towards the wheel with a flourish. Understanding somewhat, the helmsman obliged, stepping aside mutely, and allowing England to seize the wheel.
‘Where to, Captain?’ the Second Mate asked.
‘Well, first of all, we need to head home. Get all of the boys together, so to speak,’ he responded, leaning bodily against the wheel. Then he grinned again. ‘After that? Well… I wanted to go and see what Lisbon was like this time of year.’
**
-1812-
The Duchy of Warsaw reached forwards, patting his chestnut mare softly on the neck, steadying her as she tossed her head and danced slightly. Something in the air had made her anxious, and the possibility that she might rear was not a remote one.
He could not blame her, staring out across the border as she was, the wind blowing in from Russia’s lands feeling unnaturally cold for a June day. He turned away, looking briefly to the north, eyes carrying a faraway look, quietly burning with a distant longing.
‘This will be a glorious victory for us both, Warsaw,’ France said, sitting astride his own mount to his left.
The Duchy of Warsaw (soon to be the Kingdom of Poland once again. It was only a matter of time now, just a matter of being patient) turned back to face him, a grim smile upon his lips. ‘It sure will. When do we start?’
‘Soon, Warsaw, soon,’ France soothed him.
‘And Liet- Lithuania?’ he urged, correcting himself only as a second thought.
‘Do not stress yourself, my friend,’ France smiled. ‘My armies are already moving towards Vilnius to help him fight back against Russia. Soon he will be as free as you are now.’
The Duchy of Warsaw allowed his shoulders to relax slightly, though he was too world- weary to be fully relieved. ‘And when you’ve helped him take Wilno back for himself, you’ll totally announce that I’m a kingdom again, right? That we’re both a kingdom again?’
‘Of course, of course,’ France said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘I’ve been considering something like “The General Confederation of the Kingdom of Poland.” Doesn’t that sound wonderfully grand?’
The Duchy of Warsaw paused for a long moment, silently repeating the name to himself in his head. Okay so, it was a bit long- winded, and “confederation” didn’t sound quite as cool as “commonwealth” but… to be a Kingdom once again, to have his true name back, to have Liet by his side again, ruling their peaceful lands, and harvesting mushrooms in the forests… it made his eyes burn, and his throat constrict with longing.
‘Yeah,’ he replied finally, voice a little too shaky for his liking. He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah that does sound kinda grand.’
‘I am good to my friends, Warsaw. You should know that,’ France said with a fond smile.
The Duchy of Warsaw smiled back, albeit in a slightly forced manner. France had been good to him, he had been but still… he had to worry just the slightest bit over how long it was taking him to formally announce that he was a Kingdom again. He’d been liberated five years ago now, but still his bosses were French, and Dutch. Sure, they were a Hell of a lot better than Russia, but still… he’d been a good friend to France. He’d provided not only troops, but also food, and while he appreciated being invited to stand with France at the head of the march on Russia, the promise of vengeance didn’t quite overwhelm the nagging worry that he still didn’t have any sort of international recognition, or representation.
‘So when are we kicking Russia’s ass?’ he said instead, trying to lighten his own mood.
‘Soon, Warsaw. We have him outnumbered. It’s only a matter of time before we take Moscow. If you want, I can make him apologise to you,’ France smirked.
‘The only thing that I want from that fat bastard is to see him on his knees,’ the Duchy of Warsaw hissed, fingers flexing around his reins. ‘And when he has been humiliated, and shamed, I will take Liet, and leave him to rot.’
‘Of course, my dear,’ France muttered, staring out across the border, eyes fixed on where Moscow lay, far beyond the horizon. ‘Next year you will be Poland once more, and you and your little friend will live happily in my new, unified Europe.’
The Duchy of Warsaw turned to stare at France in amazement, daring to hope for the first time in a long, long time. He felt his throat tighten again, and tears threaten to spill from his eyes.
‘God bless you, France,’ he whispered hoarsely.
France smiled back at him. ‘By next January, Russia will have fallen. This I promise you.’
The Duchy of Warsaw nodded, wiping at his teary eyes with the back of his gloved hand. Then, after clearing his throat, he straightened up in his saddle, and glanced back at the Grande Armée, spotting his own troops easily among the mass of soldiers.
Russia would fall, he told himself. Russia would fall, the world could go back to normal, and scholars would soon be writing that 1812 was the year that Poland returned to his rightful place on the map once again.
**
-1813-
Spain tossed in his sleep, mumbling something under his breath. When he settled down once again Prussia, and England returned their attention to their individual maps, studying them in the light from the campfire.
They sat in silence for a few moments longer, before Prussia settled his down across his lap with a sigh.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said.
‘You don’t get what?’ England answered, sounding only half- interested.
‘Him,’ he replied, jerking his head over to where Spain was sleeping fitfully. ‘Come to think on it, you too.’
‘What about me?’ England responded, setting his own map down, and staring at Prussia through narrowed eyes.
‘Well, you two and your dumb kids,’ Prussia sneered. ‘Look at the state they get you in. You adored that America kid, and he stabbed you in the back and completely fucked you up, and Spain’s fucking obsessed with his kid, and look at him now, practically crying in his sleep. What’s the fucking point?’
England glared hotly at him, not appreciating Prussia’s salt in a still very raw wound. ‘What’s your fucking point?’
Prussia looked honestly surprised. ‘What? I’m asking an honest question here. You two both find these little kiddies, put your heart and soul into raising them, and then shit goes wrong, and you get your heart broken. It just seems so fucking silly to me. We’re meant to be alone. We’re stronger that way, and yet you, and Spain broke that huge fucker of a rule by getting too close to another nation, trusting them too much. I mean, fine, I know that you and Spain are in different situations. Your kid got too big for his boots, and Spain’s pussy kid got himself taken away, and yeah, it sucks to be you, but still... you two should never have been in that situation in the first place.’
England stared at him, silent, and thoughtful. Prussia had expected to get a fist to the face, rather than an actual answer, but there England was, actually considering his question.
And then he sighed, and it was a heavy, regretful sound, but beneath it, Prussia swore that he could detect a strange fondness.
‘You won’t understand until you experience it yourself, having someone who looks up to you, and trusts you, and needs you. It’s terrifying at first, but it’s also so, so nice. To be important to someone else, to have the responsibility of a tiny life in your hands knowing that it’s your duty to help it grow… it’s strangely exhilarating. For most of us, we will never know what it is to be a father, but to be given the opportunity to try something like it, to be like a father, or a big brother… it’s precious. I made mistakes with America, I admit, and I worry even now that I could make the same mistakes with Canada, but even so… I’d never regret finding him, and looking after him- looking after them both- even if I would change a lot of things that I did.’
Prussia stayed silent, the words shaking him slightly. After a moment he sneered once again, though it seemed less confident than before. ‘Oh well. Looks like Canada still needs you to look after him.’
England flinched, and looked away.
Prussia glanced at Spain once again, and shook his head slowly. Idiots. They were nothing more than idiots. Nations were meant to be alone.
Snorting softly, he picked up his map, continuing his earlier study. ‘I’d kill myself before I let anyone call me “big brother”,’ he muttered.
**
-1808-
Sweden was not an emotional man, and he was not a naïve man. He had guessed from the start that fighting Russia would result in a losing battle. The same, sadly, could not have been said for his king who had too much faith in Sweden, and England both.
England had helped, of course, lessening the pressure that Denmark was putting on him, but Sweden was finding it hard to keep up with Russia alone, without France, and Denmark worrying him from the south. With France in control of the Baltic Sea, there was little that England could do anyway, tipping the favour ever more away from Sweden.
It wasn’t that Sweden was fearful for himself. He’d spent so many years at war, and he was used to it, resigned to it almost. To say that he didn’t care about himself would have been incorrect. He did care about himself, but he’d been around for such a long time that he knew he’d find some way to be all right in the end. The problem was that this time, things were different. He would have been able to handle the entire situation, and any resulting loss much better, if it hadn’t been for Finland.
The younger nation sat next to him, tired expression almost undetectable beyond his blackened eye, and cut lip. He was pale, Sweden noted with great dissatisfaction. Thin too. He didn’t smile much these days, becoming increasingly withdrawn as Sweden, and Russia fought ceaselessly over his body.
Sweden watched him with weary eyes, pitying him, desperately wanting to reach out and pull him to him, cradle him protectively, guard him from the hurt…
He didn’t.
He knew that to Finland, his expression was utterly unreadable, but, frustrating as that was, Sweden hoped that, somehow, Finland might know how sorry he was that this had ever happened.
Pride meant a great deal to Sweden, more so than others might have thought. He’d agreed with his king when he had refused to submit to Russia, and France’s agreement for him to join the continental system. It wasn’t best for him, and, more importantly, he would never give in to bullying, having put up with Denmark for more time than he liked to recall.
And yet now, as he considered what the cost might be, he questioned whether any of this had been worth it. If he lost Finland… He had to look away, heart aching at the very thought, but knowing that Finland might misread his intense expression as something else. Might drive him further away.
Sweden stared sombrely into the crackling flames of their campfire. That was the saddest part to this whole debacle, of course. Deep down on some level, he knew that Finland wanted to go. His shy companion, never entirely honest- never daring to be- even as his body was brutally taken from him piece by piece by a foreign invader, had had the seeds of something new planted into his thoughts. Russia, cold, and unrelenting, still offered something that Sweden never had: a level of freedom, of independence that Sweden had not allowed. Yet still he was here at his camp. He fought at Sweden’s side, remaining with him out of fear of the unknown, and perhaps some sort of gentle feelings of friendship, and fondness.
It wasn’t going to last though, Sweden knew that now. Even if, by some miracle, he beat back Russia, and avoided confrontation with Denmark, and France, Finland was slipping through his fingers.
It was a thought that terrified him. He needed to clench his hands together to stop them from shaking. A life without Finland with him… it made him want to vomit. They’d been together for such a long time, living through joy and sadness, though wins and losses, through peace and war… it was hard to remember being without him. Even under Denmark’s rule, they’d been together, had run away together… it was…
Sweden swallowed heavily. He would not give up. He would not stand back and let go of the only person in his whole life that mattered to him. The only person who had ever smiled at him like he was more than just a nation, who came close to understanding him. Even if Finland wanted to go, he would not let him, at least not without getting him ready for living in the world alone, slowly guiding him until he could stand strongly on his own two feet.
‘Sweden, sir?’
Sweden looked up, surprised out of his thoughts.
‘Mmmm?’ he answered.
Finland smiled at him, though it was feigned. He tried to hide his wince as his cut lip stung. ‘You look a little unwell- I mean today has been tough!’ he backtracked nervously. ‘Would you like to get some rest? I can keep watch for a while.’
Sweden stared at him for a long moment.
His mind buzzed with things that he wanted to say, jaw tightening and relaxing with the urge to speak. Most of all, however, he wanted -longed- to say just one thing above all else.
Instead, he simply said ‘’K’ and leant back upon his bedroll, pulling the cover over him, and closing his eyes, suddenly feeling bone weary.
Please be here when I wake up, he thought, clutching at his blanket, and drifting off into a fretful sleep.
**