the battle being referred to is the Battle of Blenheim, which ended in victory for the Imperial, Prussian and Danish troops on 13 August, 1704. the title is from a poem by A.E. Housman called "The Day of Battle".
Soldier, Fly or Stay For Long
If Austria were to have an obverse, he knew, without fraction of a doubt, that Prussia would be the embodiment. It's the only thing he can think of as he watches the Prussian troops storm the great Bavarian battery, the gun crews scrambling to flee in the wake of the oncoming soldiers. Somewhere among their ranks, he knows, is Prussia himself, mouth stretched in a ferocious grin as he swings his sword forward, planning his final blow before he's even met his opponent, a master in his element.
If Austria isn't careful, he thinks that, perhaps, he may have something to fear in the future.
The future is not now, however, and his attention is drawn to the great cheer arising over the battery, and Austria raises his eyes without thinking, snagging them on the triumphant form of Prussia as he climbs above them all, sword in hand, blood smeared across his face and all over his uniform. Austria himself is not entirely clean, the formerly pristine Imperial uniform marred with blood of both his own men and that of the French, the price of the previous three defeats the Imperial regiments had faced.
Austria, though, he does not wear blood like Prussia does. He wears it with disdain, thinking that he should like to go home and change into the more comfortable and acceptable jackets he so favours, while Prussia wears his with pride, his eyes gleaming from the sheer thrill of battle. Austria doubts, in that moment, that Prussia has even properly processed his victory, so distracted by the rush of adrenaline is he.
It is one of the many differences that set them apart, Austria thinks, lowering his sword to his side, his arms weak with the effort of holding it for so long, even as his nose wrinkles with displeasure at the smell of death and carnage in front of him.
To Eugene, though, the Savoy Prince who stands triumphant with the Prussian forces, he supposes it's worth it.
Looking down at the golden ring that still glimmers on his left hand, Austria wonders if he feels the same as his commander.
"You still wearin' that thing?" Prussia crows as he nears, and Austria can feel his face react accordingly, smoothing into a cold mask even as Prussia stops in front of him, still breathing heavily, though it is not of exhaustion, as it would've been with Austria himself. It's another difference, Austria notes-another way that the militaristic new Kingdom differs entirely from himself, and he thinks, darkly, that he would not like to be so crude as this young nation, so drunk off the thrill of war that he would forget his conduct.
Prussia doesn't mind, though. The terrifying gleam is slowly vanishing from his eyes, but the grin is still there, only widening as he darts his eyes pointedly to the wedding band on Austria's finger. Austria feels his eyes narrow in an automatic reaction.
"Why would I not?" Austria asks crisply, his stance that of the aristocrat he is, despite the blood decorating his own face, despite the way his arms feel as if they weigh an entire tonne. He catches Prussia's eyes on his face, sees something hungry flash in the other nation's red eyes, but he cannot fathom it, nor can he understand the way Prussia's breathing speeds up when he beholds the rest of the blood decorating Austria's person-the signs of death, and ultimately, of their shared victory.
Eventually, Prussia just shrugs, insolence bleeding from every pore in a way that makes Austria's eyes frost over.
"Because it's going to fall apart," Prussia says simply. "I mean, don't get me wrong, Spain's pretty awesome—not like I am, naturally—but there's no way he's coming out of this the same." Abruptly, the Prussian grins, and without knowing why Austria takes a step back.
"You're wrong,"
"Am I, little master?"
Austria doesn't dignify him with a response, instead tucking his sword into the scabbard at his side, but even that is a heavy load for him, and he struggles to keep the slight grimace off his face as he moves his head to see Denmark some distance away, whose equally victorious troops cluster around him. Far off, France and Bavaria have retreated to lick their wounds, and Austria thinks, with grim satisfaction, that perhaps this time France'll have the decency to stay down.
"Hey, priss, I'm talking to you!" Prussia says almost angrily as Austria continues to ignore him, but he cannot ignore the way Prussia reaches out and snags his wrist, and Austria finds suddenly that he cannot move, frozen both by anger that Prussia would dare touch him, and by the Prussian's obviously superior strength. Slowly, he turns his head back towards the other nation, and sees that, while the insolent smirk still remains on Prussia's face, his eyes are serious.
"Release me," Austria demands sharply, and he gets his wish, but Prussia is quick, and has a soldier's instinct, and when he slides his hand over Austria's to release him, he slides the golden ring straight off of Austria's finger before the dark-haired man can even blink.
"Tch. You idiots put so much stock into these silly little baubles," Prussia says as he twirls the ring between his fingers, and Austria can feel a cold flush rise on his face. He holds his hand out, palm up, and fixes Prussia with a steely glare.
"Give it back, Prussia."
"Why? It'll be useless soon," Prussia challenges, and Austria can feel the moment his control snaps, and he grabs for it, only for Prussia to laugh and pull it out of reach while Austria curses at him in German.
"Return my property to me, you troglodytic ruffian!" The words are hissed between gritted teeth even as he forcibly reigns in his temper, taking a step back and holding out his hand again.
"Spain your property now? Should've figured, with how this is turning out for him. You prissy little Habsburgs wouldn't know true warfare if it bit you in the ass." He accompanies the statement with an uncouth snort that makes Austria's blood boil, but he holds out the ring, only instead of dropping it into Austria's palm Prussia instead seizes his hand, smirking as he slides the ring back on.
"Shall I drop to my knees too, little master? Would that please you? Make it a bit more proper?" It's punctuated with an arrogant laugh and an equally intolerable smile, but his eyes are serious again, and when Austria tries to pull his hand away, Prussia removes the ring again, flicking it carelessly over his shoulder as he walks away, loudly humming.
"Mark my words, little master-that ring won't last ten more years, and then you'll wish you had left it here, or that I hadn't been so awesomely kind as to give it back."
Austria snaps something back at him, but his eyes are distracted by the glint of the gold ring amongst the blood-soaked dirt of the battlefield.
Slowly, Austria bends down to collect the ring from where Prussia tossed it, sliding it back on his finger without another word, moving to return to his troops.
But he cannot shake Prussia's words, and deep in the recesses of his mind, he wonders if Charles' death foretells a downfall for more than just Spain. Then he realises he's actually giving credit to what that obsolete fool said, and he shakes off the dark mood, reaching his soldiers with his head high and his posture impeccable.
He never takes his hand off the ring, though, and later, much later, when he stands across the battlefield from France and Prussia and Spain, it will still be there, hung on a string against his chest, but he will not bat an eyelash when, after Prussia leaves him crumpled in the dirt, he realises the man took the ring with him.