This fic was inspired by a mixture of history studies and listening to Rolling Girl by Hatsune Miku (but you already knew that, didn't you?).
The Holy Roman Empire was pretty turbulent most of the time because it wasn't a true empire. It was really just a collection of (Germanic) states, each headed by its own prince. Over all, it was actually sort of a mess. It was really only a title by the time it was finally officially disbanded by the Holy Roman Emperor in 1806.
The second part of the fic is about Ludwig/Germany specifically. It's... kind of one of those "it's the same person" fics, but it's not really stated.
He had never considered his dreams to be unreasonable or impossible: he had only desired to unite the Germanic nation, perhaps all of Europe, in the name of God and the Roman Catholic Church. However, humans were strange creatures – never content for long and always wanting something more. The unstable system of princes and electors eventually began to fail, crumbling under the pressures of societal changes and war.
"No problem." He would murmur as he lay in his bed every night, fingering the small, gold cross around his neck.
"No problem." The words would roll from his lips to be carried away and swallowed up in the chaos of a developing continent.
Closing his eyes, he would give into slumber and allow himself to slip away from his days of unrest and anxiety. He would lose himself, instead, to the wild keening and clanging steel that haunted his dreams.
Then, he would rise again at dawn, standing proudly to face his troubles as best he could. Hands, small in size though great in strength, fumbled to contain a mess of an empire. Even as he trembled with exhaustion, he would force himself to fight all the harder.
"Are you alright now?"
"Not yet." He would answer, young brow furrowing beneath the enormous weight of a weakening nation. "I still can't see my destination."
Holding his breath, he would close his eyes and visualize his ideal world.
He had never been truly exhausted until that day, slouched heavily on the shoulder of his elder brother. Humans were stubborn, slow to forgive, and for that reason he bled from a bullet wound in his chest and a shard of shrapnel in his gut. The constant shouts of the battlefield had blended and blurred until they became one long shriek of despair for a hopeless conflict that would ultimately achieve nothing but more death.
"No problem." He whispered, gritting his teeth against the frigid numbness that seared his suffering frame.
"No problem." The words dropped from his bleeding, trembling lips to be lost in the roar of an embattled world.
Even as he lied to himself, he knew that he could never be made good again. He had been young, restless, and angry, and now his hands were stained with blood. All around him the continent had writhed, drawing him in and leaving him disgraced. Striking back at those who had once so wronged him, he found himself sinking into a ghastly mire of fighting and killing.
He planted his feet firmly, suddenly, taking his brother by surprise. With a weak smile, he resigned himself to struggling onwards. Shot down in gunfire, burnt to ash, plucked from the sky, or bombarded from above, he would just keep getting back to his feet and trying again. Eventually, the end would be in sight.
"Are you alright now?"
"Just a little more," he answered, the crushing weight of his own handiwork burdening his weary shoulders. "Maybe something will be in sight soon."
Holding his breath, he closed his eyes and begged for peace.
"Are you alright now?" his brother asked again, tired eyes scanning the other's war torn body. "It's okay. You must be getting tired, right?"
Holding his breath, he imagined that he could be saved.
