Author's Note: We're saying good bye to the last of the 18th century, and to me, that's sad, as I am growing more and more attached to Old Fritz. He pops up so much in my research, and I still haven't gotten to do anything with him, really. I'm also in awe of Marie Theresa. She kicked so much butt. But that has been depicted, you know, in cannon already. Maybe I just have a thing for strong female leaders (as well as leaders who challenged sexual norms in general. I love Voltaire's depiction of Fritz. We all know it's true), and there are several really cool ones to choose from in the 1700s. But there were in the 1500s as well. Dunno what happened in the 1600s, oh, wait: SWEDEN DOMINATES! Hurrah for Queen Christina.

Finally: Okay, now that I've got the fun stuff out of my system, this chapter is dark. I realize that this will come as no surprise to any of you lovely people favoriting, story/author alerting, and reviewing, but this is heading into dark even for normal MF-writing territory. There is heavily implied rape in this chapter. Maybe I'm just too inured to violence as an American, and didn't see the need to warn about the liver drop last chapter, but I do see implied rape as needing a big fat warning label. For those who just want to skip entirely over the grim stuff, we get back to more betrayal and killing in two weeks time. If you're just looking for a warning in preparation for reading: The sections containing the implications are Prussia's "Grodno" section, Poland's "Free City of Krakow" section, and Denmark's "Vienna" section. If you wish to read everything but the nasty sections Control (or Command, if you are a Mac user) F, and type in "Turku, The Grand Duchy of Finland" which will pull you past the scene with Poland and Prussia. To get past the explicit mention of Austria's role in partitioning Poland in the "Free City of Krakow" section, so Control F, with "Moscow Russia" to skip over that, if you feel the need. The most explicit section occurs in the "October 1864 - Vienna, Austria," section. To skip over that, Control F again for "Moscow, Russia," to move past the scene dealing with Denmark after Slesweg has been forcibly seized by Prussia.

Warnings: Prussia using threats of seizing Warsaw in a sexual manner; hungover unhappy!Sweden; Austria using kindness to be excessively cruel; Denmark losing his territory to an angry Prussia and Austria; and Ivan on Bloody Sunday.


Eight Men


Historical Notes


Grodno - The Second Partition of Poland was not as violently dramatic as the First Partition, because the Polish Grodno Sjem (the Polish parliament that met at Grodno, while the Polish Lithuanian Commonwealth was intact, the Sjem moved its meeting location every session so it could have a better view of the conditions within the land, supposedly) had been bribed to simply give land to Russia and Prussia. The reason that no one on the international stage complained was because at that point Poland's only ally was Prussia. This was a poor alliance brought about by Austria's betrayal of Poland-Lithania, which had caused the First Partition. Originally the Commonwealth had allied with Austria because they were in the same boat, two formerly powerful kingdoms who were surrounded by other kingdoms (Prussia and Russia) that were eying their lands with predatory expressions. Together they were a strong force, even if separately they were very weak. No one would dare attack Poland-Lithuania while it could call on Austria, and no one would attack Austria while it could call on Poland-Lithuania.

Unfortunately, Austria got into this thing call the Seven Years' War with Prussia, and when Poland-Lithuania, which, it turned out, had to remain fairly neutral because of Prussia's actions, tried to help Austria, the Prussians got wind of it. Rather than open up a fifth front, Old Fritz flooded the Polish-Lithuanian market with counterfeit gold. This busted the Commonwealth's economy and while the government tried to repair it, they started to pass some revolutionary reforms for the peasantry, because the entire system needed an overhaul, and why not do it all at once? This made Austria freak out, as its peasants grumbled: "Hey, why do they get to eat if we can't? You should enact the same reforms," and Catherine the Great, in the same boat with her peasants, sidled up to Austria and said: "Prussia and Russia have been looking for a little help taking on Poland-Lithuania, so join us in suppressing this crazy ally of yours." Austria agreed, and that's how the three countries decided to carve chunks out of Poland the first time.

So, Poland had just lost Lithuania, and Russia was now on the border, eying Poland hungrily, since, obviously, it didn't get enough the first time around. Poland needed an ally, because even though Austria really disapproved of the democratic reforms that Poland was trying to institute, Poland wanted those reforms. So, it looked around at the only neighbors it had powerful enough to protect it. Austria, reform hating, was out. Russia, controlled by the Polish-land hungry enlightened despot Catherine the Great, was REALLY out. Sweden was busy forging a non-aggression pact with Denmark-Norway, and Poland hadn't had the best relationship with it since that Catholic-Protestant business in the 1600s, anyway. Plus, Sweden was pretty weak since that little Northern War business. That left Prussia, who honestly didn't mind the reforms as long as it didn't get too messy. So, against religious, political and cultural boundaries Poland allied with Prussia. Unfortunately, Prussia then got BEAT by France in the War of the First Coalition. Prussia lost a chunk of land, and it's allies, the German States, were in danger from a Revolutionary France that was swiftly destabilizing into utter chaos. So Prussia wanted more land. Co-incidence! Russia wanted more land, too, and Catherine the Great was worried that the Polish political reforms would spread to the the bits of Lithuania that she held, and she would have to deal with more peasant uprisings as they clamored for silly things like rights and food. So, she asked Prussia to look the other way while she took a tiny piece of Poland. Prussia said, "sure, as along as the Prussian Empire gets the best parts of the west." And thus, Poland was stabbed in the back and carved up a SECOND time.

Turku - Finland was treated quite well for a country captured by Russia. Perhaps it was memory of the way the Finns had fought in the Wraths, or a deal made with Sweden to keep relations friendly with Bernadotte, or simply the fact that Finland was not a very productive area in comparison to the rest of Russia, or because the Finns did such a good job of convincing Russia that they weren't going to be any trouble as long as Russia wasn't any trouble to them (there are many theories), but Russia gave Finland near sovereign status immediately as the Grand Duchy of Finland, and quickly reincorporated it with the pieces of Finland that Russia had taken in the Great Northern War. Finland had relatively few taxes to pay, mainly the army tax, because initially it did not send any soldiers into the Russian Army, and preferred to pay money instead. About the only thing that Russia and Finland disagreed upon, at first, was the location of the capital, which was at the time, Turku. Russia thought that this was too close to Sweden, and in 1814 insisted that the capital be moved to Helsinki, which was closer to Moscow, and where "Swedish" culture did not completely inundate the streets.

Christiania - After deposing King Charles (as mentioned last chapter) Sweden was in the market for a new king, one who could deal with the fact that Europe was coming apart at the seams, thanks to France's little problem with wanting to conquer the whole of Europe. The Swedes chose a French revolutionary general, Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, to be their next king, Karl XIV Johan. He came to the throne as the Norwegians threw their weight behind an independence movement, and France picked up steam, heading into Russia, so not all of the Swedish nobility trusted him, what with him being French himself. He made himself really unpopular by becoming good friends with Tsar Alexander, and giving up Sweden's dreams of reconquering Finland. And yet he was one of the longest reigning Swedish monarchs who brought the throne back into serious power after the massive disaster of his predecessor. It is his swift and brutal repression of the Norwegian independence moment after the Treaty of Moss, which concluded the brief Norwegian-Swedish War, that is credited with keeping Norway in union with Sweden until the reign of King Oskar II. Supposedly, he used secret police and informers to keep tabs on all politicians in Norway, and break up any meetings, and arrest people who were talking about the possibility of starting another war.

The Free City of Krakow - As mentioned above, because of the events leading up to the First Partition of Poland, the Hapsburg Empire and Poland were not on the best of terms. However, the Austrian sections of what had been Poland were treated fairly well in comparison to the Russian and Prussian sections (although when one looks at the conditions of the Austrian Empire at the time period that means very little). At one point Austria declared the City of Krakow a free city-state, where Polish culture had a renaissance and bloomed. This nationalism lead to rebellion against the Austrian Empire (part of the 1848 uprisings that forced Austria to create the Austro-Hungarian Empire because of how badly it had been weakened), and thereafter Austria cracked down on Poland, removing the freedom, and restricting the citizens.

Vienna - Oh Slesweg. Denmark was not being a good overlord in this time period. Remember the "not-Norway" comic strip? It was doing this to the German State of Holstein, too, and making life horrible for all the Germans in the Danish province known as Slesweg, which was united with Holstein through personal union. Because of this, Denmark was treating both areas as though they were under the Danish crown. It turns out, however, it is not a good idea to abuse and punish the people who work the only real fertile agricultural land in your possession. The rest of the German States, presenting a much more unified front since Napoleon's attempt at making a unified German state, went to Prussia and Austria to complain about the way Denmark was mucking with them. Prussia eagerly agreed to jump to Germany's defense, provided it could keep the territories in question, while Austria joined in, worried that Prussia was going to become more powerful if it got the most fertile parts of Denmark to keep for itself. The first War of Schleswig ended with Denmark managing to take control of both Holsten and Slesweg, but that just precipitated the Second War of Schleswig, where Prussia and Austria kept hammering Denmark until it had to withdraw from both disputed territories. During one of the battles, the Prussians jumped the lines in excitement (like, you know, you do in these sorts of situations), and began to conquer Denmark proper. They took all of the Jutland Peninsula, and the Austrians, rather than see a Prussia in control of the entirety of Denmark, pointed out to the Danes that Prussia had Denmark by the proverbial short hairs, and they should negotiate. The end result: Prussia kept Schleswig, Austria got Holstein, and Denmark was sent limping back home to rethink its foreign policy, and decide that isolation was the best tactic since the last time Denmark had 'won' a war was 1721, and if it kept losing this much land each time it got into trouble, soon all that would be left would be Iceland, because no one in their right mind would want that area.

Please note that the question of Schleswig was not fully settled even then. Prussia entered into the Third War of Schleswig against Austria to gain Holstein for the German Empire, and then after WWI Schleswig was given a choce as to whether it wanted to become Danish land again, or remain in German hands. This caused a split in the province, and now North Slesweg belongs to Denmark, while South Schleswig is part of the German province of Schleswig-Holstein.

Moscow - Um, Bloody Sunday in Russia is one of the key events towards sparking the Russian Revolution. It happened January 10th 1905, and we've seen Russia's role in it in Hetalia, already. Do I need to go into further historical note?


Chapter 4: That Which Suffers


January 1793 – Grodno, Russia (Previously: Grodno, Lithuania; Modern: Hrodna, Belarus)

Feliks looked at the tall ceiling arching over his head. Yelling and shouting had died down. He was not even certain if there had been much of that to begin with. No dramatic final battle in front of the chamber [1]. Nothing to indicate that any of his fiery men and women contradicted the state of affairs. Nothing reflecting the will of the humans all over his land. Amazing how quickly a little gold changed minds. People who had once been his humans had made their decision. Already he could feel the lands floating around inside him, cut from the very core of who he had been. Second time. Better make it the last, or this would get a habit, or something.

Behind him, a huge oak door thudded open, and boomed shut. Something peeped nervously at the loud echoes, and Feliks knew the careful shushing that coddled baby birds but had no mercy for anything else. His hand wrapped around the handle of his rapier unconsciously. The hip popped to one side. He should have worn an evening gown. That would have showed them all. Especially the traitor. Oh, certainly Poland was still gorgeous, but an evening gown would have made him fabulous as he fell from grace once again.

"Judas had the dignity to kill himself, Prusy. Like, what's your contribution to the hall of the uh-tterly damned?"

Prussia glided around the shorter man, his cloak flaring around him making the black wings to Poland's burning white ones. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm going to look you in the eyes as I give you up."

A furious growl rose in Poland's throat. He felt as though his rage would tear right out of his chest, and attack—the utter callousness! "You. Bitch."

"Oh, I don't think so," Prussia spun on shiny black cavalry boots, whipping off his hat, and placing it on a table.

He smiled fondly at the coos from the little birdie puff ball. That was better than looking Poland precisely in the eye, after all. Of course, when it came right now to it, he would, because that was his promise, and he could keep that. "In fact, I think you're about to eat those words."

Whirling once more, Prussia collapsed into a delicate chair in the French fashion that Feliks had both laughed at and enjoyed. Sticking out his legs, Prussia gazed obscenely at the fallen nation, resplendent in black and gold today, aquamarine dramatically forming flowers and dragons among the sparkling yellow foliage worked into his jacket. The expression surmounting his radiance had frozen in dislike.

Prussia's face twitched into a long leer. "Going to go out in a blaze of glory, Polen?"

The hand on the rapier tensed once more. "I'm not going to go out. Ever, Prusy," Poland returned his eyes to the Gothic vaults of the ceiling. "You have, like, every kind of nerve, don't you? You force me to beg—I begged you, which, I don't know, should go down in history as, like, the absolute pit of absolute pits—I begged you. And you said you'd protect me. You'd support my reforms. I never liked you, Prusy, but hah, I thought you were loyal."

"My people come first, Polen, they always have," the lanky man shrugged, one hand going through silver hair with fingers that could handle a sword or complex arpeggios on a flute.

Poland did not bother to hide his disgust. "This was totally not about your people, Prusy. Be fucking honest with yourself. You're, like, a greedy pig, and Ivan has the best trough."

That stung. Prussia mantled, springing out of his chair to push aggressively into the shorter man's space. "Hey, I lost some of my land, and more of my boys than I want to think about. 'Scuse me, for wanting some compensation. Francis just beat my ass, and he's fucking looming over Lutz, and you're not doing anything important. Fuck your reforms, Polen. Fuck them. I don't care. You're my possession in everything but name! Get it? I say that Ivan and his precious Tsarina can have their way with you, you smile, and say: 'Like, yes. How would you totes like it?'" batting Feliks-imitation eyelashes at Poland, Prussia forced his voice to flute in a feminine register before dropping into a harsh growl. "I don't think you get who you're talking to, Polen."

"Gilbert Beilschmidt," Poland leaned in, bridging the few inches between them with a finger. "Liar. Cheat. Thief. Total pain in the ass. And the man who I put my trust in."

The red eyes sparkled heartlessly. "Well, you shouldn't have done that, now should you? Because I'm also Königreich Preußen, and I will do whatever the Hell I want!"

"We were never this bad to you," Feliks used the whisper like a dagger, letting the sharp words slide into the brain.

Prussia, however, drew back, sneering. "That's because you were weak," the cocky grin returned, ten times more vicious. "I hear Toris can't get enough of Ivan. All he's missing is you, isn't that right, Len-ki-ja?"

Poland's entire body should have been frozen in time so that some new Michelangelo could sculpt the perfect distillation of powerless raging murder. In a crescent of silver the rapier lanced from the waist to stab right into Prussia's heart. But this was the kingdom's game. This was what he was good at. If Francis had come at him like this, the revolution would be over.

He whirled around the blade grasping the outstretched wrist, and pulling, pulling until there was nothing left to do, but follow through, and wrap the arm up and behind. Poland kept tight hold of his silly court sword, stamping down harshly with loose booted feet. Prussia danced, expertly moving his toes out of the way of the vicious heels. Push. Poland crashed to the marble floor, Prussia falling with him, and pinning him, the weight of the man's body crushing the hand that held the rapier.

"It's over, Polen," the pale empire crackled in his ear.

Feliks tasted a little blood from where he had bitten his tongue in the fall. "I gave you so much for your protection."

Prussia grabbed the free wrist, and wrenched it around to meet the other. "Not enough."

"What would have been enough?" Poland asked the spindly chair leg cynically. "Carthage? Jerusalem? Grunwald?"

Prussia looked down at Królowa Feliks, subdued, broken, and about to be carved into something even less for the hideous Russia. How did he keep getting into these situations? Well, he would never be on the receiving end. He was the awesome Prussian Empire. Even if Francis had slapped him around a battle field. Even if everything that had made his Empire magnificent had become sour and angry in the end. [2]

His lips were cruel, as Gilbert leaned over Feliks' ear. "Can you give me Fritz again?"

Feliks barked out a laugh. "A dead human?"

"A great one," Prussia croaked, holding ravens in his throat. Silence echoed in the chamber. Then: "You can't, Feliks. No one can. And even if you could, we don't know how great they are until their time is spent and done. Of course I was going to betray you. Neither of us knew how it was going to happen, that was all."

The door opened behind them, and Gilbert quickly turned his head. "Hoi! Lutz, what the Hell did I say?"

Serious blue eyes accused him of being stupid. "I heard the crash. I thought I should check. If there had been a fight—," the young man trailed off, as Prussia's glare intensified. He was the great Prussian Empire. He did not need his little brother's help.

"I said don't come in here. Poland and I have some things to discuss that are none of your business."

Feliks chuckled under Prussia's knees. His voice tinkled, brightly savage. "Oh, a, like, discussion is what we're calling this, now, Prusy?"

Prussia punched the side of his captive's head, his red eyes gleaming unpleasantly. "RAUS, Westen!" Long fingers twisted in Poland's hair as the door closed quietly. "Yessss. This is a discussion, is it not? You and me discussing how I've betrayed you. We could also discuss, for example, how you should probably divest yourself of your nice coat and shirt. And the pants. I hear tell that Ivan doesn't like complicated things, and it'd be a pity seeing this lovely get-up ripped."

"It is absolutely fantastic, isn't it, Prusy?" Feliks snarled prettily. "I'm just surprised you're not taking first honors this time around. A boy might think you're getting whipped by Russia."

Just for that, Prussia slammed Feliks' head into the floor, before rising, wary of the sword. For a malicious second, he let his left hand linger possessively on Poland's hip. Fully satisfied that he had made his point, Prussia waltzed back to his chosen chair. "What can I say? Ivan was more keen on this, and wanted to rush in. Of course I'll let him."

Felik, picking himself up, set his jaw as he listened to Prussia's grating words. Clearly had suspicion come over him in a storm cloud. "That's unlike you, Prusy."

"Really?" the empire purred, wanting Poland to ask, wanting to dangle the proper doings of an empire before him. "How so?"

Swallowing, Poland drew up a second chair facing Prussia. "You're a bastard, Prussia. You tell me what I'm totally not seeing."

Prussia steepled his long fingers together. "What exactly is Ivan getting, one has to ask? As far as I see, he'll be milking you for Mińsk, and yes, there is a lot of nice land there, but," the fingers reached out, so Prussia could tickle Poland's chin, his touch bringing ink to the surface, and causing the country to tense in violated fury. Poland caught the finger in a grip that threatened to break it, but Pussia's pleased voice crawled over his ears, "I know the precious little secrets of Gdańsk, and how you squirm over Poznań. Who cares about first and second when you can have the best? Ow! Watch it, or I'll have to do something violent."

"Won't you need baby brother to come in and help?" Feliks hissed viciously, pushing the finger back in its socket forcing it perpendicular with the palm.

Prussia's free hand blurred, and the blond head snapped to one side. Prussia's mouth had straightened into a sword's edge. "Lutz has no part in this, Feliks."

"Not going to let him share in the victory?" Feliks asked nastily. "I thought brothers shared everything."

"Not this," Prussia growled, fighting back embarrassment that made him want not to look at the fellow nation and blush at the thought of little Lutz knowing or wanting to participate in this kind of thing. Ludwig was honorable. That much he could be proud of.

"Not—," Feliks blinked for a moment. "He doesn't know how to partition?" The surprise made Poland drop Prussia's finger.

Gilbert looked away, heat rising through his frame. "Not the way we're doing it, no! He's my little brother. I'm sure he picked up the mechanics somewhere. 'Nyway," Gilbert couldn't stop his mouth, despite the frantic signals from his brain telling him that he needed to shut up. Shut up now. "I think he was partitioned before I picked him up, or at least, he'd been partially partitioned, or prepared for a really violent partitioning, or, I'm not sure. Since he can't remember any of it, what if something set him off, or something?"

Poland sneered at the quavering end of the sentence, hanging fragile between them. "You think I'm, like, weak? Prusy, you deserve to be staked out in the snow."

"I don't recall asking you, Królowa!" Prussia yelled uncomfortably.

Waving an elegant hand, Feliks leaned forward, suddenly the power in the room. "It's a reality of our existence, Prusy. Nations fall. They rebel. They collapse. They are partitioned."

Prussia sneezed, which rather took the wind from his very angry sails, but he continued glaring at Poland. "Not Lutz."

"That's totally what I said about Toris," Feliks' retort was a slap in the face. His subsequent bell-like laugh twisted in Prussia's gut. "You're, like, telling me the good little boy is out there, not in com-pleeeete naivete of what big brother Prusy is planning with bad Mr. Rosja? For real? I should, like, in my capacity as the eldest involved, and completely most mature, like, enlighten him."

He rose from his seat.

The next seconds rushed past for Prussia, who leaped from the chair, taking distance eating strides that pushed Feliks against the wall, a tapestry keeping the elegant coat from rough plasterwork. His hands, white in the shadows of lamps and candles, tore the elegant golden sash from Feliks' waist, and had pulled up the loose turquoise patterned linen shirt, before sinking claw-like into the flesh under the rib cage. Lit by candlelight, malevolence resided in his face, reveling in the inky lines and letters that blossomed all over Poland's flawless skin, crawling under the collar of the shirt, and appearing on the hands, before winding under the sleeves of the jacket.

Cold, powerful, Prussia's mouth curved into a ravening hook. "Do that, Polska, and I'll go first, and be so good at what I'm doing that you'll beg to give me Warsawa in the end [3]," a knee clad in black breeches slipped to part Poland's legs, thigh grinding against the flaccid penis through layers of cloth.

Feliks grit his teeth. "You're not helping him, Prusy."

Prussia pushed against his enemy meaningfully. "I'm doing as I see best."

"Then you can barely see at all!" Feliks yelled.

Red eyes hovering, one thumb slipped over scaring skin, and stroked the beginning of a hip bone. "I see enough," Prussia's words floated on the air, beating blackly. "I see Gdańsk. I see Poznań. I see Warsawa," he crooned. "You were right. It's a gorgeous place. Think about what it will be like when I make it mine. Think about it Polska. How I'll rip the noble Polishness from its foundations. How it will be my language on the street. In the schools. Tak. How my fashions, and my aesthetics will burn through your own. How my people will replace your people," he hurled Felik's body from him.

Poland stumbled, caught by the unexpected moment, black ink still running over him, denoting the map of his skin. But already, some of the words flashed across Prussia's pale white fingers, which the militant nation held high, as though he never wanted to touch Poland ever again.

"Don't mess with Lutz," Prussia told him. "I'll come down on you like the wrath of God."

Catching his balance, Poland wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand. "Lame. I've felt that before, Prusy. It's not that terrifying."

"You had your girlfriend to take the beating for you," Prussia saluted Feliks, two fingers touching his gray hair for a moment. "Get undressed. I'm going to find Russia."

His hand was on the iron latch when Feliks, still in the realm of candlelight, spoke. "Why'd you bother coming, Gilbert? It's not as though we want to spend my last moments of dignity in each other's presence."

Gilbert chuckled. It bounced in the small chamber, modulating and changing in pitch. "I'm about to feed you to the Russian Empire. I did promise I'd look you in the eyes. This is what Judas does, isn't it, Królowa?"


September, 1811 – Turku, Grand Duchy of Finland (Turku, Finland)

It was not quite a coffee shop. It was, certainly, a place to sit and relax, and as the weather turned a little nippy it was a place where you could get warm drinks. Most of these were of the alcoholic variety, and Finland had chosen a seat close to the window, because further in the air was a smokey combination of bad lighting and food smells. Also, the chill outside seeped in through the glass, and while it was not strong or even really noticeable to the two nations using the shop, it meant that Ivan was just slightly uncomfortable, but did not know it. This was a state of affairs of which Tino approved.

Still, he felt a little guilty. After the war Ivan had clearly tried. "Did you come here to see how we're getting along with our senate?" Tino asked politely, as Ivan eyed the mug of piimä [4] Tino had suggested with suspicion.

"Is there anything stronger to drink?" Ivan asked, took another sniff, and Tino could just see him regretting his choice of words.

The Grand Duchy grinned. "Of course. Beer or viina [5]?"

Ivan looked affronted that this was even a question. "Vodka. So, how are things coming along? You are liking them, да?"

Cautiously, Tino nodded. "I've never felt so strong. And thank you for granting me the old provinces. Incorporation has been a little tricky, of course, but it's wonderful being me finally."

Ivan became a study in delight. "I had hoped so, Kitten. You are such a stubborn land, sometimes. I had to do something that would let you—," breaking off in mid-sentence, the large man cocked his head and then swiveled, looking at some Imperial Academy students [6]. Ivan frowned slightly. It was not the frown of a nation on the brink of bringing down the law, but one slightly confused by events, and looking for an explanation. "Kitten, are those humans speaking Swedish?"

Tino nodded, sighing. "I really wish that they wouldn't do that," Ivan nodded amicably. "Why they just can't speak Finnish like the rest of us, I won't understand. Still, Ålanders, what can you do?" Finland couldn't help smiling fondly [7].

Ivan's face had fallen once more. "Russian would also be acceptable, да? Turku could use more Russian."

Tino's cheeks gained a degree of tightness. "I think we're fine at present. Of course, if more Finns decide to start speaking it, I won't object. That's the wonder of autonomy, isn't it?"

"I could bring some programs that teach—,"

"We're fine," Tino emphasized. "Really, Ivan, this has been so much better than last time. Let's keep it that way."

Russian's eyebrows drew together over the bridge of his impressive nose. "Are you suggesting that you would show your claws, again, Kitten? I do not like your claws."

Tino nodded in agreement. "Of course, Ivan. Let me get you your drink," he rose from the stained table, and walked to the back.

On his way, he passed the humans laughing about something that one of them had done to one of their teachers. It seemed a far cry from the war on the Ottoman Empire Russia focused on, just as it was a far cry from the war with Napoleon that was quietly sputtering out across Europe. Finland had not seen much of France, but in a way he was glad that he was out of it. He was feeling stronger than he ever had. It was as though he was becoming whole, which was ridiculous, but that was how it felt.

Was this how Ruosti felt all the time? Tanska? Norja [8]? Tino couldn't help the small scowl that crossed his features, as he grabbed for the proper bottle. He had only felt something approaching this when he served in Ruosti's armies. Back in the days of the Empire. Maybe, too, when he was fighting Russia, but there had been so much to do. New hiding places for the humans to find, slaughters to watch so that at least someone who felt for the dead was witness to it, weapons to steal, fights to win. But now he could actually feel it. He had time to sit back and feel the identity of Suomi which had always been there in his heart now spreading through his bones and muscles, and filling him entirely. Why was it that Venäjä the only one who allowed him this kind of, of, self? Was that the word?

Ruotsi had always been there, and helped him, protected Suomi at the cost of Tino's dignity on occasion, but also at the cost of Su-san's dignity at other times. Why then—the bottle shook, and Tino quickly pulled it away, realizing that he had been about to fill the Venäjä-sized glass to overflowing. That would have been embarrassing. Glancing surreptitiously at the bottle, he hid it behind the counter, promising himself that he would have the rest of it, once Ivan left. Tino felt the need to indulge just a bit after talking with his new overlord about his status as Suomen suuriruhtinaskunta [9].

Goodness it felt good to think of himself like that. Not a part of Sweden, but something separate. Get rid of the Russian part and—he probably shouldn't think these things while Ivan was in the same room. Tino had always been terrible at hiding his thoughts, and Ivan would be offended, and chances were that would end in a fight, which would be less than wonderful for the laughing students, and the lady responsible for making soup in the back, and the baker around the corner, who was having a hard enough time getting his ingredients as it was, and the city, which was a lovely for a city filled with memories and thoughts, and new burgeoning ideas of independence and identity, and what it meant to live and breathe without taxation. That last part made Tino giggle quietly to himself as he returned to the table [10].

"You are happy as Великое княжество Финляндское [11]," Ivan stated, taking the drink with a nod of thanks. "I want you to be happy. You know this, да? Everyone who is a part of me should be happy."

Tino too a deep breath. "I was wondering, um, Eduard says he is in a lot of pain because of what you're doing to his peasants."

Ivan clapped Tino's shoulder with one huge hand. "Do not worry, Kitten. I am giving you autonomy, да? Your people do not need the kind of help that I must administer to Eduard's people. Tell me, is this not a better rule than what you experienced with Швеция [12]?" Ivan looked at Tino expectantly, making Tino's stomach churn.

He smiled slightly, thinking of the anger, and not of nights by the fire, or jokes swapped, or watching Berwald solemnly sew clothing together. Yes. That was it. Sweden was the horrible empty feeling of not having all limbs attached, but not knowing that they were missing. Berwald was laughter, shyness, uncontrollably human. That was how to honestly answer the question.

"Yes, Ivan. It is."

At this, Ivan beamed. His face filled with joy, shining above the scarf. "You really do love me, Kitten, don't you? When you show your claws—Well, from now on you will only show them at my enemies. They will not realize what they have come across until it is too late. And together, we will butcher them, да, Kitten? You will have fun. You have always had such fun."

Tino, thinking about his self-promised viina, nodded.


February 1814 – Solna, Sweden

Sunlight lanced through the curtain. Head exploding in showers of sparks, Sweden rolled over, and tried to get his entire body under his pillow. That was when he realized that there was no pillow, and his cheek was stuck to the wooden floor by a puddle of drool. It smelled.

Normally, the first thing he would have done involved finding the harshest lye, and thorough scrubbing. But as he tried to move, pain gripped his whole body in red flares from his joints. Okay then. This was going to involve careful steps. Step one. He would open his eyes.

Everything was blurred and too bright. Closing his eyes again, he put one large hand over his face, probing carefully. Okay. No glasses. That would explain the blurry, and the light sensitivity—his other questing hand discovered cool pewter, a tankard, perhaps—that was probably a hangover. Small steps. Sit up, without opening the eyes, as this has proved painful. You can do it.

He managed to get through that step, and sat there, in the dark with slumped shoulders. What had happened? Norge had, had, he had no idea what Norge had done. It merely hurt. Magic using cheater.

Sweden smiled a little at that. The first time they had discovered that Norge did not take well to Danmark on his vessels an ogre had sent Tani flying into icy water, leaving the young tribe spluttering, and claiming that Sami had cheated, even as he dipped back below the surface of the ocean, not good at treading water while holding firmly onto a newly forged axe.

Opening his eyes, trying to ignore the way his eyelids itched, and burned, Sweden looked around. The room looked just trashed. There were burn marks all over everything. It did not really matter, he thought, seeing the victims of the destruction. His precious maps. His Empire. Burned to charred ash. Norge really knew how to hit where it hurt. It was probably a good thing that the northern neighbor (now member of his house) had never seen the maps with invasion plans for Norway. That would have made last night a vastly different conversation. Probably. What had he said?

Sweden swept a throbbing gaze over the devastation. Next step: clean up. There was something soothing about pulling the furniture out of the way. He needed this. Time to tidy. Time to get all this mess sorted out, and then hopefully as his hands were busy he could get everything else straightened out. Try as he might, the idea of attacking Danmark again had little appeal. It had spent his anger, but as always, everything else returned, and he was tired right now.

Attacking Russia held a lot more appeal, but everything that he was that said wars were the will of his humans, and not the other way around. He wanted to widen that smile on the edge of a sword. So, I have been very generous, да? I take your fist plaything, and give you a new one. Perhaps he is not as sweet as the one that I took, but I'm sure he has his charms.

Sweden found his face growing unusually cold, and the former flag pole he was pulling clear from the wreckage for the small pile of reusable materials creaked dangerously under his grip. Norway looked at him. "I am a sovereign kingdom, you know."

And now he was the property of Sweden. Sweden had been through a brutal series of wars. Norway was compensation. Although, what was he going to do with that compensation? He is not as boyish as the last, I suppose. Will that be a problem for you? Bright purple eyes shone innocently at him, filthy thoughts lurking in their depths.

He would do as he always had. Norway was not strong enough to stand on its own. Sweden knew that. Even if Norge himself was determined to a path of destruction, he would step in. The people demanded a proper kind of care and obedience. Norge remained entrenched in his mountains and forests, not thinking of any world beyond that. He did not care for his people. He needed Sweden. Perhaps he had not realized it yet, but he needed Sweden.

A door opened. Russia stepped through it. His humans had mediated this. Well, of course, it would be Russia this time, Sweden thought sourly. If France is not available to put his sticky fingers everywhere, Russia will do it. He is an Empire now. Interfering in the business of others' is his prerogative.

Norge, tied with rope, followed, his face akin to his mountains. Stiff. Lacking human expression, but in the language of rocks a person could look at him, and stand back because the precipice was harsh.

Grunting slightly, Sweden forced a bookcase upright. Irreplaceable volumes and pages were scattered underneath ranging from lightly charred to ash. He started to sort with a distracted determination. Good. Fix. Reuse the paper. Impossible. Impossible. Impossible. Fix. Fix. Impossible. Fix. Impossible. Impossible. Fix? He regarded the heat eaten last half of a volume of poetry. When had he ever had this? Maybe it was something Tino had gotten? Only he did not see "My Hellish Little Bloodbath of Romance," written on the inside cover.

Just the thought that—Damnit. Berwald found himself scrubbing at throbbing itching eyes. Even if it had been Tino's, long poems about the beauty of dew on a spider's web did not seem like it would be something that Tino would pick up. Tino liked the confessional, the biography, and the character sketch. If he was going to read, he wanted to read about people.

Berwald's head hurt. He placed the half burned book in the pile for reuse. Carefully, he gathered the pages on the floor. He moved his piles to outside the room, making certain that they did not stray too far from the door, in case some unwary boy or girl tripped over them.

He was not sure how far this place was impinging on the human world. He liked the Military Academy. He liked the idea of young men coming together, learning things, and coming out of it a little wiser, and a little readier for the outside world. Ready to take on that world as brothers in war time, and ready to lead that world as brothers in piece. Where the girls fit into it, Berwald was a little more hazy. The doings of humans, and their ways of classifying things remained a mystery. If girls needed to be taught sewing rather than sword work, that was what was needed, and Berwald would not stop them. He had never been a young girl, after all. What did he know?

What, don't you want him? After all the trouble we went to, thinking of a suitable replacement. It is not nice, да. It mocks our efforts.

Norge's eyes were murderous, for Norge, at least. Their blue spoke of avalanches.

His face felt stiff. Checking with a few tentative fingers revealed a strong angry crease where his eyebrows were threatening to become one. The headache was really pounding now. He would have thrown up, but for some reason Sweden could not find anything to throw up, and relieve the nausea. Well, that was the consequence of drinking with only rum to absorb the beer.

Finding a broom he began to sweep the rest of the mess up. The table would need a lot of planing and sanding before it was usable again, and even then it would probably have to become an intricate piece. Sweden did not like the idea of a delicate, spindly thing, taken up with so much carving that it had lost its functionality. However, salvaging that table, and planning what to do with it would help pass his evenings and maybe get the poison that had been running through his system to ooze out a little.

The broom stopped at the threshold of the door. Sweden looked at that border for a long while. By rights, it should not exist. By war it should not exist.

Watch that one, the disgusting thing chirped. It bit me when I tried to bind it the first time. But I know you, да, and you like your boys to be docile and sweet in your power, so I had to tie him up after he and дания parted ways. The violet eyes leered, and Sweden could see those hands patting Tino's hair as they had patted his hair, before shoving in not so long ago.

Next to the Russian, England paled. Perhaps it had been because the memory had shone so clearly on Sweden's face. No. He paled, looking at Sweden, not even glancing at Russia. The stupid, fluff headed boy believed the words of the monster. Believed that the lion was a deranged pervert.

Norge looked away. Cold. Hungry. Unhappy.

Norge had left. Norge, who knew how the game was played, who understood that he was the bounty of war, and belonged to Sweden, had left. He had left, believing that what Sweden wanted was a replacement for something that could honestly never be replaced, and believing that Sweden's only connection with Tino had been, had been—

It wasn't like that! I wasn't like that! Tino wouldn't have been safe like that. He would have told me. He would have told me if I was growing sick.

He abandoned the broom to stand in the clean circle of devastation that had been his private room. As expected, one thing that had been destroyed last night had already returned to its proper shape with no effort from Sweden. The sword gleamed in a way that hurt his eyes from the light streaking in through the window. He picked the weapon up. He had worn this at his side for the entirety of his Empire. It had been made for him, and presented to him only a few days before Lützen [13].

This is mine?

A golden roaring teeth filled smile. Of course it is. You are my land. An empire's lion needs his fangs.

Before the sword it had been a staff. Something that could fend off Denmark's attacks. Something that protected himself. Something that protected Tino. Protected his people. And then came the sword. His sword that carved the mighty Swedish Empire from nothing but the will to fight.

Stormaktstiden [14]. His era.

One that lasted fewer than a hundred years, and most of them were fighting. There was more fighting yet to come. He would rise and reign once more, but not with his fangs. This sword's final act had nearly been to cut the head from the shoulders of the newest member of his house. That was not to be its legacy. He loved the blade, he loved its maker, and he loved the man who had given it to him, but with this in his hands, channeling his rage, he forgot what it meant to be Berwald. He let the lion and the fang take control.

"It's 'ver," he told the sword quietly, walking to the wall where the glorious flags had hung.

The brackets were still there. There was still Norge's childish rebellion to stop. There was still Tino to rescue. There probably would always be Danmark to fight. Firmly, he placed the sword on the wall, and picked up the bare pole of a former flag staff.


July 1821 – Christiania, Norway (Oslo, Norway)

In the dim light of early morning, Norway flew out of a window, his exit heralded by the crash of glass and splintering wood. The close wall of the nearest house took him in the back, almost before he had the time to tuck and roll onto the cobbles below. Sweden stood firmly in the doorway, tall and forbidding. Norway felt the skin of his eyelids twitch, and jaw clenched, he pulled himself into a crouch, one hand on the ground, the familiar rush drawing him onward.

Green flashed overhead, punching towards Sweden. Predictably, his staff swept around in a smooth block, just as Norway cut the feeling of earth and Norway from the troll, who, according to old laws, turned to stone. With a vicious crack, Sweden's weapon rebounded, and Norway was already on the move, running in a loose crescent. He came under the vibrating defense on the left side, fists whirling into an uppercut which never reached the rocky chin, as the butt end of the staff slammed into his gut. Norway slipped on the wet moss clinging to the stones of the shady street, and came down hard. Sweden's boot slammed into his chest. The staff hovered in front of his nose.

"G've up?" with the police whistles blowing in the background, the giant almost sounded merry.

Norway fought to keep his face blank. "What's to give up? We were just talking."

"Treaty y' acknowl'dged says y'r Svensk mark [15]," Sweden's eyes were lazily hooded behind the glass. He had everything well in hand, didn't he? "Act l'ke it. N'more s'cret m'tings."

Norway tilted his head. A woman who had no reason to be toting fish up on the high hills of the city was walking away from the end of the street, basket on her hip. "You'll stoop to any level, won't you?"

"M'king will," Sweden continued watching Norway, and the shorter nation received the strong impression that Sweden was perfectly happy to stand in a Norwegian street with a troll statute, and wait until Norway gave up.

He had a long wait ahead of him. Norway's hand scythed out, touching the rough gray limb by his side, and it burst into warm green pulsing life, that lunged forward, punching Sweden off his conquered land once more.

Norway lunged to his feet, looking for a weapon that would actually hurt Sweden. His humans would talk, if they wanted to. Their words would fill the streets, declaring the breaking day. Informers or no. Prisons or no. Sweden's precious French king, or no.

Had he been anyone else, Norway's lips would have curled into a smile at that thought. As it was he ran toward Sweden, defending himself against the obliging Bagatell [16], who did not seem to mind pitting his strength against a nation with a staff swinging in economic circles. Keeping the Norwegian spirit at arms' length. Well that would soon change.

Norway sprinted toward the pair dancing further up the narrow and twisting street. His hands caught the butt of the staff as Sweden, executing an elegant turn shoved his weapon between elbow and side. The impact jarred the its way through the lithe body, but he tossed the stick aside, and dropped to the cobbles, kicking at Sweden's boots.

This was an old trick, and it only slowed the old Nordic down enough for the troll to get another solid punch to Sweden's torso. But that was not Norway's object. "Speaking of giving up," he flowed upright, slipping within the circle of Sweden's shattered guard, driving an elbow into his foe's spine, as he stood on tiptoe to whisper in the nation's ear. "How's Finland doing?"

The mighty fist crashed into the side of his face. Norway stumbled into the side of the nearest cheery blue building. But the close quarters were working for him, oddly enough. Cities irritated him, normally, but the twisting street was hampering Sweden's movements, breaking his control over his weapon.

"Th'ght y' knew th't t'pic's off l'mits," Sweden was no longer moving.

A quick glance to the side showed Norway that his magic connection had vanished again. He was going to need to apologize to Bagatell profusely. Once, in the name of battle was fine, but this was unacceptably—since when did he care this much?

Norway stood proudly in his city, pushing aside the minute concerns. "How many topics are off limits, Sweden? My sovereignty—,"

The tall man snorted. "W'll y' jus' give up? 'S over. Y' did well. Ch'se m' king. I g've y'—,"

"I need international recognition, Sweden," Norway found himself growling. He was not going to show how much this hurt. "The last treaty I attended, England thought that I was you. Can you name any other nation who has to endure that kind of humiliation [17]?"

The harsh blue of Sweden's eyes spoke the truth. That was his intent. He wanted Norway's land to become Swedish. If you couldn't defeat people by force, perhaps trickery would work. But Norway was a better trickster. Or, he knew better ones, anyway.

"You give up," Norway told him. "You can't ignore me."

A gold eyebrow rose. "Y' th'nk not?"

Norway drew on the earth. "Not here. Not with your French king. Not without your precious Finland. I want my freedom Sweden."

For a second, Sweden's eyes glanced eastward. "We 'll w'nt th' 'mpossible, Norge."

It wasn't impossible, Norway brought his palms up, returning the earth's power to Bagatell. He was Kongeriket Norge, and even if he was not fully sovereign right at the moment, he would continue fighting. It must be hard to be Sweden, he thought cynically. The man would never see his favorite again, and his plans for rebuilding his empire were dependent on a nation who hated him. Sweden had a long time to wait indeed.


March 1840 – The Free City of Krakow, Austria (Krakow, Poland)

Feliks could not help but grin viciously when he saw Rodderich's wince. He kept the grin confined to his tea cup, however, and soon enough Roderich sat down, signaling for a waiter. As the man ordered, Feliks wondered what they would talk about this time. Their meetings left the blond man with a vile taste in his mouth, and nausea in his gut. Not because Roderich's rule was particularly deplorable, indeed in comparison to Russia, Feliks would have to say that Austria was a treat. That was not hard to do, of course, but even given how violently Austria reacted toward forms of national expression, he was easier to live under than both of Feliks' other overlords.

No, the roiling feeling swirling in his intestines had far more to do with Roderich's cruelty.

"Do you have to be so, um, gaudy?" Roderich toyed with his napkin.

Poland raised expressive eyebrows. The tea did not even splash as he flipped a hand fashionably to show off the richly embroidered clean linen gathered at his cuffs. "I wanted to look, like, spectacular for you, Roderich."

The tips of his ears going pink, the Empire muttered something about a walking dress. Plain would have been fine, if Poland had to wear women's clothing.

Poland gazed at him archly, eyebrows insinuating far more than Austria would ever find proper, but if Roderich was in a mood to squirm today, Poland would let him squirm. Would prod him into squirming. Feliks would make this distasteful state of affairs as painful as he could. "Do you object to it when Elizavetta wears her flowers all on her dress?"

At this, Roderich looked away. "So, you heard. I-I had nothing to do with that, you realize? It was her own nobility [18]."

Ah, the guilt explained. Austria had been letting his problems fester again, rather than dealing with them. Feliks would not complain too loudly. He had a whole city of what still was Polska mostly under his own control because Roderich hated to deal with things that involved effort. No wonder Metternich held his lead so tightly. Roderich allowed it. Felicks remained surprised that Prussia had not eaten Roderich's empire whole by now. Admittedly, Ludwig's growing power had rather shorted the last visit Prussia made to Warsaw, so Prusy probably had his own worries.

"Is that what helps you sleep at night, Roderich?" Feliks purred.

Austria's coffee arrived with its biscuit, and the composer busied himself with rearranging things on the saucer. "Have you been able to go to Paris recently? I heard Chopin [19] the last time Francis invited me over."

Poland's jewel eyes hardened in irritation. "No. I was with Ivan before coming here. How is he?"

A sleeve, still in the old style and hiding ruffles, flew into the air, wildly gesticulating. "Divine! The man—my God, I will never be able to grasp every nuance! He puts his soul into his music. We all do, of course, but it's so complex. It's like-like-like fire."

Trying to lean in without appearing too excited, or thirsty for the news, Feliks nearly sloshed his tea all over the richly patterned skirt. "He's that fantastic?"

Roderich nodded seriously. "Francis was crying after the ètude. I want his hands."

"Those are useless to you without his spirit," Poland crowed excitedly. "And that is mine. From every atom, that is mine!"

Austria scowled slightly, and pushed the golden brown baked good nearer his cup. Feliks did not feel sorry in the slightest. Fryderyk screamed to the world whose subject he was. He practically was Poland. The fiber and soil and spirit that made Feliks the embodiment of a non-existent land, and hundreds of people holding onto their traditions and language with grim teeth. What he should be. Francis, the traitor, had taken his composer in, but the man never stopped being Polish by all that was holy.

Austria cleared his throat, gloved fingers absently toying with the ends of dark brown hair curling close to his collar "You're technically not even a country any more, Feliks."

Poland sneered. He could not help it. The sneer distorted his face. It shouted. It raged. It told Austria everything. Everything that he, Poland wanted to scream at the failed empire. But, all he could manage was a low venomous: "Like, whose fault is that?"

"You forced my hand!" Austria jumped up, his metal worked chair screeching against the cobbles of the outdoors cafe. So that was what this meeting was going to be.

Poland jumped up too, his skirts flowing in glorious, rebellious color all around him, his eyes flashing over a red scowl of fury at injustice. At Austria. "You're saying I asked you to partition your old, best friend? Shut up. Last time I checked, I wasn't white haired or violet eyed!"

Roderich stepped back a pace. Legs wearing the sinful silk stockings of Western Europe advanced around the table. "You made me do it! You and your reforms! My peasants were going to kill my nobility, seeing what you were allowing and I wasn't!"

"Then you should have let them DIE!" Feliks shrieked. "I never made you do anything! It was your own cowardice! You couldn't deal with your peasants, like, you should have just let them—,"

Roderich trembled, frozen in time by the suggestion. Feliks could have left him in the middle of a blizzard and found more color in his face when he came back to defrost Austria.

Finally, dredging up a whisper, because Feliks was almost upon him, Austria managed: "They're my nobility, Feliks."

As if that was explanation enough. Pul-lease. Poland tilted his head high, proudly bearing his throat, as he grabbed Austria's unresisting hand. "Hear that, Roderich?"

The rumble of cart wheels, and the clop of horses hooves. Girls giggling down the promenade. Polish and German blending into uneasy French as men did their business. The sounds of patrons from within the cafe, all mumbling about the two nations. One soberly noble, and the other a glaringly brilliant bright peacock of a romantic.

Austria's purple eyes clouded with confusion, as Poland pressed up against him, trying to acquaint himself with the man's horribly unfamiliar-yet-too-familiar body. Roderich was cruel. "It's music. Shall we dance?"

Austria stepped away. His hand remain connected for a moment. Fingers wrapped desperately around one another. Mutely, they asked, using the unhappy line of his mouth, the sad crease in his eyebrows, for some understanding. Some pity. He sighed, and then broke with Feliks, skin parting with a sigh.

That was so Roderich. It made Poland's stomach sick, and twist in agony. Here he was, elegant, lovely, smart, even kind on occasion—Just look at Feliks' bright wonderful city that he might be able to love even more than Warsawa, if that was possible. Roderich just gave it to him. In return for the partitions, and the loss, and the promise that there would be no more Poland, and that he was going to be dissolved, and just gone.

"You're a cruel bitch, Roddy."

Austria started in anger. For a moment aggression showed in the tense arch of his back, the slight bend in his knees, as though he was about to spring. The conductor's baton at his side could be sharp, if he wished it to be. This was the Austria that survived Prussian aggression, possibly. This was not where he held his deplorable viciousness, though.

With effort, the grand nation straightened his frock coat. "I—I am good to you, Polen."

You're a petty autocrat who mails me reams and reams of laws and orders every month, whether I'm in Russia's house, or screaming at Prussia. Poland slammed his left hip toward Roderich like a weapon, his hand resting delicately on it. A defiant eyebrow rose, daring Austria to bring forward proof.

"I—I—I tried to keep him from getting Warsaw, you know! I let your people speak like, well, the way that they do."

That made Poland want to slap him. Hard. "Polish, you mean? Mają prawo języku polskim [20]?"

Roderich's lips went tight, his mouth compacting around hard teeth. "Yes. That."

Poland leaned in, until they were nose to nose. "That's, like, not the right answer. You've failed the test. Like, bye, now. Stay after for the answers, and receive some fucking brownie points, like, yeah?"

The affront did not send Austria storming away. To his credit, when the man had his back to the wall, he could fight. Hard, when he wanted. Poland knew this from furious, humiliating experience. But he wanted Austria's back to the wall. He wanted the angry, furious Austria, not the soft, guilty, scared man who made you want to protect him from his own lack of courage.

Austria pushed back, and they were chest to chest now, as personal as you could get with clothes on.

Poland would not give him an inch, though. "Like, answer one: point out all the things we have in common. Love of the gorgeous, flaming Polish Chopin. Our to-tal addiction to the finer things in life. The, like, uncool lack of money that we have for those things, if you want to sniffle and whine. Our totes intense hatred of Prussia. Substitute that for, like, hatred of Russia. Though that's more of a fear in your case, I suppose."

Roderich stepped to the side. Poland mirrored, not daring to stumble. Roddy was not to be counted upon if Poland fell. "Instead," Feliks purred, reaching out for the hand again, which was given willingly, without conscious thought, probably. "You remind me that you took Liet because you weren't man enough to tell your humans to jump in a lake. You weren't man enough to do the right thing. You weren't man—,"

Suddenly Austria twisted their interlaced fingers, pulling Poland closer as he fought back a snarl. "Prussia did worse."

Prussia was violent. He only wanted one thing when he took a nation. Each thrust, breathy crow, each piece of praise of himself was for his land, his people, and his way of carving deeply into his opponent that they were nothing in comparison to his power. Three times, and Feliks believed that he was an expert in Prussia and sex. There was only one setting, after all. Take and conquer.

"Prusy was expected to do worse," Poland growled, forcing Austria to circle. It was not one of the beloved waltzes. "It's what he is. You were my friend and you took Liet from me. And then you tell me that it's my fault?"

Austria swallowed. Feliks watched the adamsapple bob with hard eyes.

Prussia was violent. Austria was cruel. Prussia never kissed Poland as he sank in. Feliks couldn't tell what was going on, when Austria began taking his partition. There were other ways. Softer ways. Harsher ways. Better ways to take land. But Austria took his portion of Poland with a kiss that was pure Roderich. Beautiful and sweet, trying to smooth over the grim and bad reality of what he was doing.

Russia held him down, and laughed at his humiliation the first time. The second time, with Prussia's knife in his back, Feliks had his nose broken, and Russia laughing at him again, before screaming that he had corrupted Toris, and then there was just a memory of agony. The third time, Russia told him that he would consider making a hobby out of this. Because Poland was fun to partition. Then came the club and the fists.

Roderich chose a kiss. He chose to blame Poland. He chose to, in his rough German way, make the partitions feel as good as he possibly could. And it was so Roderich of him, that Feliks wanted to smash his face in, and set a horse on him.

"Yes. I said it was your fault."

Feliks let go. They spun apart. Poland did not want that filth touching him. "Liar. You are just afraid. When your empire crumbles Roddy, what will friendship mean to you then?"

Austria turned away, his shoulders angled in angry pride. "The same thing it does now. Guten Tag, Polen [21]."

Poland snorted. "If God has any feeling, you'll never find anyone willing to stick by you. Or, when you do, it will be too late. Go back to your nobility."


October 1864 – Vienna, Austria

Why were all the ceilings so tall when he nearly bumped his head on every door frame in these silly palaces? Austria's tastes in floral wall paper were not helping the scene, either, Denmark thought. Not much had changed since 1814. Austria was reliable that way.

A small noise by the too small door made him try to cover the mess he was currently in, but all he had were his hands and the flags. Prussia's idea of a joke, no doubt.

"Denmark?"

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Swiftly grabbing the white and black of Prussia's longer flag, Denmark tried to stand and wrap the cloth around his waist bare in one movement. The pain shooting up his spine suggested that he was going to be limping to wherever his clothes had been stashed. "Island, what in the Hell are you doing here?"

The purple eyes gave him a blank stare that made it clear that his question was beyond pointless. "I should have thought it was obvious."

Denmark scowled. Iceland was not Norge, and if he tried to act like him closer to Denmark's arm, he was going to get a right ding upside the head. Instead, the old nation had to lean against the table the two German nations had decided upon as the final site of punishment. The edge of the wood bit unpleasantly into the backs of his thighs. "I told you to wait. And if Faroes is with you, I will—,"

"She's not with me," Iceland leaned against the door frame, his face showing unveiled concern.

Prussia leaned against the door, having tossed Denmark into Austria. His expression reminded of Denmark of a hawk just after a kill. Excited, hungry, and desiring much more. "Whoops. Y'gotta be careful on these thresholds, Matthias."

Stepping past the doorway, Iceland trailed his fingers on that horrible wallpaper. It was just the steadying movement of a child looking for some familiarity in an unfamiliar place. Walls just as tangible walls under a hand were familiar. He froze suddenly. Swallowed. "Denmark? You're, ah, um?" Nervous fingers twitched towards Denmark's lower body.

Closing blue eyes tightly, the sandy headed kingdom tilted his head, and then looked. Through the white slash of the Prussian flag red welled, blotching the cloth. Oh fuck. That was still bleeding? Shit. Just. His hand balled into a fist. It rose to thump the table in fury, but the force was already gone. Just shit. "Um, yeah. Look, go find some bed linens or something, will ya, kid?" Denmark requested roughly.

"Austria won't mind?" Iceland's head tilted to one side, considering the curtains dangling from one broken curtain rod as bandaging material, no doubt.

Austria called out in shock as he heard the brackets pop from the wall. Denmark tore the heavy drapes from one end of the rod, whirling to toss it at both members of the German Confederation. Prussia laughed, ducking under the fouling cloth, advancing even as Austria hung back, sidling out of range.

"Treaty's been signed. Multiple treaties," the youngest one in the room hissed with elation. "Won't you come here and just give the land to us, will you?" In a bright blur the pale nation leaped for Denmark's throat, sword ready to deflect any missiles or limbs remaining in Denmark's arsenal.

Denmark shook his head. "And who cares if he does?"

Iceland shrugged. "It's his house."

An experienced, bitter smile graced Denmark's face. Aristocrats were good at surviving, but he would put money on the fact that Gilbert would have this place, too, before the end of the century. The building of empires had a rhythm, and Prussia's was gearing up, even if his territory was negligible overseas. Austria did not stand a chance. "For now, Island. Anyway, he just took Holsten from me, so he can fucking give up a few sheets, yeah? Run along."

Iceland nodded, and ran. Denmark closed his eyes once more, tilting his face toward the ceiling. It was over, wasn't it? The hurt and anger bubbling and churning in his veins rushed headlong into the sea in his heart. God DAMNIT!

He pushed his body from the desk, and limped to the long window, keeping a tight grip on his humiliating wrap. That bright white sunlight of a partially overcast day filled the room. Sadly the view of the street was nothing to write back to Copenhagen about. Resting his arm on the wall, Denmark could still maintain the pride that he did not think of Prussia slamming his face into the wall nearby, over and over again until Denmark only had bright lights to fight against. That was probably how they had gotten his trousers removed.

Thumping the wall with a gentle fist, he leaned his forehead against cool glass. Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

Someone else stepped on that creaking board of the threshold into the room. It couldn't be Iceland, because they stopped for a moment. And then the familiar scratch of a voice, skittering over octaves. "Now that, that is a good look for you."

"Go away, Preussen!" Denmark felt himself reaching for an axe that had been lost somewhere back in Jutland.

A rustle of cloth and feathers, accompanied by some cheerful peeping crawled toward Denmark's ears. "Shush, birdie. Big old mean Königreich Dänemark is just a sore loser. Always has been."

Denmark's shoulders tensed. He prepared himself, ready to turn and rush Prussia. Kill him, if he could. "I took my licking. What do you want now? The rest of Jutland? My islands?"

"A sandy wash of nothing but some pretty flowers, and a group of hard headed people dreaming of years long gone?" Prussia purred. "Nah. I'll let you keep those. Unless you get like Poland, of course. I've always fancied Copenhagen. Anyway, I'm here as a lowly mail boy this morning."

Denmark did not turn. He could feel Prussia slipping behind him, cold fingers sliding down the groove of his spine. "Any lower and you'll find out how it feels to reconstruct yourself from bits splattered on cobbles," the threat stilled those fingers.

Prussia laughed, angling himself to where he could reach the older nation's ear with his teeth. "Sorry, you wrapped up in my flag like that—well, it's a hard invitation to pass up, Matthias. And you know it's going to happen eventually. Once you're a little stronger. I don't take undesirable regions, after—,"

"Bruder!"

The shout rang from some further hall, and the fingers removed themselves. Denmark glanced to the side, seeing Prussia's mouth slide into an annoyed pout, narrow red eyes surmounting it. The way the gaze worked its way to the door spoke volumes about little brothers and their irritating habits. "In the conference room, Westen! You don't need to scream the whole place down!"

Catching Denmark's black expression, Prussia raised one white eyebrow, an evil grin spreading over his face. "That's riiiiiiiight. In the excitement I forgot," the freezing hand stole over Denmark's shoulders, and gripped the strong neck. "You owe Lutz an apology. In a proper language and everything. With Norddeutscher Bund in your address, if you please [22]."

"What?" Denmark asked, startled. Not the apology. The war had started over his impatience with Ludwig, after all. "Is that what he's calling himself nowadays?"

Prussia shrugged, something tense and uncomfortable lurking in his face. "It's something we're thinking of trying out. He's-He's," Prussia trailed off for a moment, looking oddly vulnerable.

But that was Prussia after a victory, too. Assured that nothing could take him down, the former army asked for people to see his weaknesses. It was how France had managed to fuck with him only fifty years ago. If Denmark was quick, he could have Prussia on the floor, pleading for mercy and his life before Ludwig stepped into the room.

"This is the bit you really like, isn't it?" Denmark skidded on the polished floor as Prussia slammed a booted heel into his throat.

He gargled, clawing for Austria's chair, where the calmer nation waited for Prussia to subdue the northerner. The next blow came to the stomach. "The fight. Knowing that no matter how hard you lose, you still had it in you to take a chunk or two out of your opponent? You don't respect anyone who doesn't play by those rules, either, which I like. But," Prussia's gloating expression became a bloodthirsty snarl, "Lutz doesn't play like that. You slapped him around like your personal whipping boy," his feet hopped excitedly over the river of Denmark on the floor, one shiny boot slamming into Denmark's spine, causing the large nation to arch taut. "For what reason? Because he didn't punch you back when you punched him? Well, I got some saved up just for you!"

"He's—ah fuck. What do you care?" Prussia finally managed. He grinned again. "The German nation is going to be the strongest power in Europe. That's all you need to know. That, and Schleswig is mine."

"I'll be taking this, then," Gilbert drove his sword through Denmark's left thigh, stapling the naked nation to the table.

Roderich, leaning over Prussia's shoulder frowned. "He was to be—,"

With a teasing lick of the lips, Prussia glanced at his ally and rival. "Jealous you can't have it? Go turn down the lights, Roddy."

Indigo flaming in the composer's eyes Austria gripped the right knee, forcing the inky map to swirl over Denmark's skin towards his fingers. Prussia smirked, ducking the inkwell that sailed from the darkness. Denmark, glistening unhealthily as he tried to curl upward from the table reached for another missile, willing the towns and villages away from Austria's grip.

Prussia patted the clean shaven cheek with affection, withdrawing his fingers swiftly, as sharp fangs snapped at them. "You're not going to get what you want, Roddy, if you don't stake a claim. He doesn't give up."

A creak of wood kept Denmark from throttling Prussia. He stared dully over his shoulder, looking at Ludwig, tall and broad shouldered, but not really seeing him.

The icy Germanic eyes widened, skating around the room. "Osten! Why haven't you cleaned this up? Austria has been very kind to let us stay here, and you trashed his palace. And why is Denmark wearing your—Prussia! Get him his clothes. This is not how things are done."

Gilbert stuck out his tongue. "Hey! He did most of the trashing. I just helped a bit. C'mon Dänemark, don't you have something to say to Ludwig? I'm thinking something along the lines of: I'm sorry for inviting you to my table and then snatching your rightful land in front of you, and laughing about it? I'm sorry for beating you up whenever I wanted more money? I'm sorry for being an annoying shitty neighbor who has the impulse control of a five-year old?"

"Gilbert," Ludwig stared at his brother meaningfully. "Jetzt!"

Scowling, Prussia shoved his hands into his pockets. Something crinkled. He drew out a thick fold of paper sealed in wax, and tossed it at Denmark's feet, before stomping away. Ludwig remained in the doorway, painfully correct, and unhappily pink in the face. Denmark regarded his southern neighbor for a long moment. He never wanted to see either of them, ever again.

"You—I'm sorry. You appear to be wounded, Dänemark. I will get some bandages for you, until you heal," Ludwig began, but Denmark shook his head, wondering how surreal things could become.

He tried a grim smile, but that was not in his vocabulary at the moment. "Nah. I sent Ice out to pilfer some sheets."

Ludwig's noise of recognition fell into the gulf separating window and door. There was just cold glass separating Denmark from fresh air. He could toss one of the remaining chairs through the wood frame and then jump. Jump into free sky and get the hell away.

Austria was a good kisser. It must be all of his practice. For a second, Denmark lost himself in the mouth, and then Holsten wriggled up the hand stroking his thigh. Evening blue eyes saw the word wrapping inkily around Roderich's shoulder, the letters rearranging themselves to say 'Holstein' as a final insult before sinking into Roderich's skin and vanishing from sight. Conquerors did not need to show the maps of their bodies to others. That was for defeated nations.

Fury flooded Denmark's system, and he kicked out, toppling a chair, but not coming close to Austria because Prussia caught the foot, twisting warningly.

A noise brought his attention back to reality with a jolt. "Um, yeah, what?"

Ludwig cleared his throat once more. "I was wondering, if I may ask, what exactly happened here?"

Denmark snorted. What had happened? Papers littered the room. The daylight was picking up smears of his blood. One of the drapes spilled over the floor, and its mate was threatening to join it as it dangled on the end of the curtain rod. Three chairs were all but match wood. Denmark grinned evilly.

"As far as I know? A treaty was signed. All used to be so simple, didn't it? We'd meet, fight and it'd be over. Until the next time. When did we start getting nasty about things, do you know?" He limped toward the desk again, seeing his shirt trailing sheepishly behind one of the legs, making a break for the wall shadows.

Ludwig's answer was soft: "I don't. It seems as though we've always been like this."

Denmark paused. Surely Ludwig wasn't that disenchanted with their lives. There had been good times when at worst a war meant drowning once or twice because Norge really did not like competition on his seas. When everything was back together between them by sunset. "Well, it wasn't always like this. Treaties and paper. Hah. Used to be all you needed was the word. Then people got in the way. Made us—,"

Ludwig did something that he never would have done a few years ago when Denmark could have reached across the table and smacked him for talking back to his big brother of an overlord. "I don't think humans can make us do as much as we say they can. There's something very dark inside us, Dänemark."

"Cynic," Matthias accused abruptly.

Ludwig shrugged. "Perhaps. But we've always been bad to one another. I met you swearing with Gilbert that together you'd grind Sweden's bones to paste and divide his land between the two of you. I fought by your side and witnessed you cut off his arm. He had Finland carve your face to ribbons at one point! Once you took pieces off of him an inch at a time. You said you wouldn't stop until he screamed. You think there was ever a point when nastiness was not part of what we did?"

Denmark ducked his head to hide a bit of a grin. Sverige had not screamed once, and run him right through, tearing into him with that calculation that only someone who knew you really well could manage. "Helsingborg's still a bit of a mess, I'll admit [23]. But we didn't always used to fight this way. Once it was just me and Prussia sitting on Estonia's knees beating him about with a bible, you know? Poland chased us off eventually. I guess I started getting nasty about things in 1520, well, maybe, I started in 1450 or so, but still, it was wars, you know [24]. The battle field. We didn't plan the nasty shit, it just happened. A natural consequence of me wanting your land, or you wanting to get your grain through this harbor without import fees, or whatever. 1520 was, well, I planned it. I didn't think it would go as far as it did, but still, I planned the thing, I suppose. But before that? You fought. You died. Life moved on. Now it's—there's something unclean about the whole thing. Something's wrong with, I dunno, the modern age, or something. It's all become treaties and broken unions, and words on stupid paper. It's doing something to the humans, and us. We never—"

He waited far into the witching hours every night. Sve would stop by on occasion. Norge once or twice. And then, one morning, before false dawn could make her appearance, Father returned. Denmark helped his father out of bloody furs. They went swimming together, where Germania scrubbed more blood from long wounds running down his back and chest. He remained deadly quiet throughout the cleansing.

It was from these horribly silent mornings that Denmark learned the value of putting a wound behind you. How to forget the pain of the injury, even if the injury itself could not be so easily expunged. After the disappearances Denmark knew better than to ask about Rome. For days he would not mention the strong skirt-wearing man, and until several weeks had passed he would only refer to Rome distantly as 'that dark man from the south' because that was how the pain of Rome could be forgotten, even if there was still a Rome shaped scar in Germania's shoulder, or back, or chest.

Denmark smiled suddenly at the shadows. Waiting politely for the end of his sentence, Ludwig did not so much as shift his weight. Probably wise, Denmark thought, given how the cheap Austrian's palace was prone to groaning. However, for once Denmark just let the silence rest heavily on him. He was not going to share these thoughts for a huge box of Belgian chocolates and the entirety of Prussia and Austria. These were the kinds of things that he could only talk to Sverige and Norge about.

"If it's any consolation," Germany finally said, seeing that there would no longer be an exchange of opinion, "I'm sorry that it had to be this way."

"Had it?" Denmark inquired grimly, picking up his shirt and shaking it out. Blood had spattered over the cream in areas, and his vest was nowhere in sight.

A pause, long and thoughtful, filled the room, pressing on Danish ears. "Yes, actually. I don't think anything else could have made Gilbert and Roderich agree on anything."

Norddeutscher Bund. Something we're thinking about.

Denmark stared at the shirt. Plans. "It's not going to be Prussia's empire, is it?"

"I need to be a nation as well, Dänemark. There is something—," Ludwig was interrupted by Iceland hurrying back into the room with linen.

Denmark straightened enough to see the slight scowl on Ludwig's face. Even if Austria had no grounds for complaints, he did not approve. He could go piss up a rope, as far as Denmark was concerned. With a click of his heels, Ludwig nodded stiffly, everything of the past few minutes melting into the nation face. It was a little creepy how much it reminded Denmark of Sverige, because that, too, reminded Denmark of the man who had raised him, and he couldn't help wondering, as he had many times before, exactly what Ludwig would look like with his hair longer.

"Please don't forget your letter," the representative of the various, disparate, bickering German lands nodded at the two.

Denmark pointed at the letter with a swift "Well, pick it up, kid," as he grabbed the sheets from Island, and began to rip into them. He pretended not to notice the near frustrated glare sent in his direction. He thought about reminding Island that if he did try to take advantage in the way Ludwig had, Denmark would teach him a painful lesson.

Instead he quietly dressed his bleeding thigh, trying to will the agony away. Soon the gash would close. Soon everything would be back to normal. Soon he would have revenge—How? A grim voice piped up, possibly in the guise of Island, or someone else with more common sense. What was the point of revenge? He always lost these measures. Did he really want to live under Prussia's rule? Worse, possibly, might be Ludwig's.

Revenge was revenge. He wasn't a child, to cower in fear of losing. He'd faced worse.

He had help then, the grim voice of cynicism continued.

Iceland, who had his back expressively to Denmark as the man worked on his injuries, brought over a pile of rusty reds and browns. They weren't Denmark's clothes, and he looked up to see Hungary in the doorway. No question if they were at least the right size, anyway. "Go away."

She opened her mouth in protest or apology, or consolation to just something. Denmark lunged upright, the white and black flag tangling around his leg. "If you want all the juicy details, go ask your pansy husband! I'm sure Prussia would oblige if you really want! Otherwise: Go. Away," he began to sort through the multitude of layers involved in dressing. There was no creak of floorboards. "Island, get your puffin to attack her or something. I'll take responsibility."

"You need to talk—,"

Denmark snarled, his fist smashing into the table. "I've got people to talk with. I don't need any European help or sympathy. Go off waltzing, or whatever it is you Austrians do!"

A short whud made him look up. One hand had slammed palm flat on the thick wall between hall and room, as Hungary glared. Denmark almost grinned. He still had the talent of being able to really piss off anyone he wanted to. "Én vagyok Magyarországon [25]," her face was scarlet, and Denmark wondered for a moment if she was going to attack him. She managed to stuff that annoyance somewhere else, however. "I'm sorry."

A swirl of green, and then she left. Denmark started to put on the garments that she had left. His beloved top hat was no where to be found, unfortunately. He lost more head gear this way, the limping nation thought grimly, trying to lighten his own mood, and failing spectacularly.

"C'mon, Ice, let's go," he snapped his fingers. "Oh, and gimme that letter."

Purple eyes looked blankly at him, but the thick paper was handed over. "It's from Sweden."

Indeed three crowns were embossed on the blob of red wax sealing the folded thirds. It could just be from Sverige's government, but a second blob showed two crossed swords, and Denmark's usual communications from Sweden's army tended to be more physical and violent than allowed by letter. An official missive, probably, but perhaps a personal promise.

Starved eyes lit momentarily, not that he wanted to let any kind of hope show where Prussia or Austria might see. Of course, long delayed, but welcome, anyway, Sverige was going to offer a quiet alliance against the German powers. All the meetings over the years had been worth it. Sverige now had seen that Denmark might need a bit of—not help, of course, but, well he was going to offer it anyway, because that was what officious, reliable Sverige did. Yeah. He'd offer help, and after a bit of insulting him, Denmark would work with him, and maybe he'd work things out with Norge so he could have use of the other's navy (he was not interested in anything else. The old joke was too old. Norge had no humor in his soul, and it did not matter). Together, in a great alliance, they were going crush central Europe. Denmark would kid and rib Sverige for coming at the twelfth hour, of course, but he was going to be better about this than he had been in the past. He was going to make this work.

Eager fingers popped open the wax seals, and he unfolded the single sheet. At the top, Sweden's hand began with the date: the 10th of March. Denmark's eyebrows furrowed. This letter was a little late. Still, maybe Sweden had been unwilling to march to war if he had not had a personal meeting with Denmark. And Denmark had not received the letter because he had been busy, what with Prussia dragging Austria all over Jutland. That was it.

The noises of a quiet palace gave way to bustle of an active city as Denmark read and reread the words. The letter was short, and in bad Danish, but even so, he could not find any obvious mistranslation. There had to be a mistranslation. Somewhere. There had to be.

But nothing in the words changed, even when he tried translating from what he thought the Finnish would be into Danish. Du startede denne krig, Danmark. Må ikke forvente sympati. Jeg ved, at du har været besat. Jeg har fuld tillid til, at du er i stand til at ændre situationen, medmindre du har glemt vores gamle lektioner [26]. The words refused to change.

Well, he could deal with that. He didn't need Sverige's help. He didn't need anyone. He was the Kingdom of Denmark! He was mighty. He was grand. He was the fucking king of Northern Europe. And you know what, you bastard? This was just the excuse he'd needed. Everyone expected that he'd run around declaring wars. No support from the northern union? Who the Hell needed them, anyway? He certainly didn't. He could take his time. Some of his councilors had been making noises about fixing the agriculture problems. He'd look into that. He'd fix things. He'd fix it all. Slesweg would run crying back to him, as soon as it could, seeing how well Denmark was doing. He didn't need anyone else.

"Fuck," Denmark muttered, crumpling the paper.

Iceland tilted his head to one side. "Bad news?"

"Fucking typical news. Now shut the fuck up. We need to get back home. You got the money for a carriage?"

The boy stared at Denmark in astonishment. "But—I—all I have comes from my allowance."

At this Denmark growled warningly. "Yeah, and I give that allowance to you. So you can spring for the carriage. It's all my money, anyway."

Accusing Denmark of being horrible with his expression, the dependent nation clenched his jaw stubbornly. "I need that money—,"

"Does it look as though I've got my wallet on me?" Denmark exploded. "You're fucking paying." He had to get back home.

"I'll tell Norway," Iceland muttered, fishing around his pockets for his coin purse.

Usually that threat made Denmark at least pause. Iceland did not like playing the tattle-tale card, because it meant that he had to talk to Norway, and he was just as pissed at Norway for leaving him with Denmark, as Denmark was pissed at Sweden for taking Norway from his union. But today was not a good day, and Denmark was not going to take back talk from his lands. Not today.

"You do that. He doesn't fucking care what happens beyond his little argument with Sweden. You're nothing to him. You're fucking lucky I'm willing to take care of you. I let you have your own house, and still let you eat at my table, you ungrateful little shit. Now, let's get the Hell out of this country."

He willfully did not see the fury that crossed Iceland's face. He ignored the fact that last night he had not expected to see anyone even vaguely willing to run around for him this morning. That was the duty of Danish territories, after all.

The people of Sweden, at this time, believe that wasting troops on a purely Danish problem would be ill-advised. You started this war, Denmark. Finish it on your own. Do not expect sympathy. I know that you have been occupied. I have every confidence that you are capable of changing the situation, unless you have forgotten our old lessons. If you can't get out of a fight, you should not have looked for one in the first place.


January 1905 – Moscow, Russia

God, protect the Tsar! [27]

Ivan could not stop his hands shaking. He stared at them, long and hard, trying to curse them into stillness. His hands refused to obey. Maybe if he ignored the trembling it would go away on its own. Ivan couldn't afford this kind of weakness. Not in winter time.

The door to his room opened softly. Thinking it was Toris again, Ivan did not turn from the fire. He didn't want to face Lithuania right now. Toris had seen too much.

"Vanya?"

He swung around, eyes wide. Katyusha crossed the expanse of rich carpet, catching him around the wide shoulders in a hug that rivaled the fire place in warmth. The trembling spread from his hands, up his arms and finally across his whole body. What was going wrong? Why wasn't his control working? He had become so big and strong. He had defeated Sweden. He had Defeated the Ottoman Empire. He had fought off the Tartars and the Golden Horde. He had brought so many nations to live with him and why didn't they care or love him? They were nations. They were all they had of each other, so why was it all breaking down, and why was he breaking?

Ukraine held Russia up as he practically fell on top of her, a heaving trembling mess. He could feel dampness sliding down her cheeks where they met with his cold skin. She was mumbling something, but in the confusion whirling through his head all he could really hear was the soothing Russian chant of "Vanya, Vanya, oh poor Vanya."

Swallowing heavily, he pushed her away, holding her at arms' length, looking at Katyusha with unhappy relief. "I thought that you weren't speaking to me," he whispered. Like Tin—Finland. Like Natalya. Like Poland [28].

"Oh Vanya," Katyusha stroked his cheek comfortingly through her tears. "Some things are bigger than what your tsars do to us."

Strong and majestic,

Katyusha brought him warm tea as he sat on the old carpet, crying like a child. The samovar gleamed in yellow brass and the reflected warmth of the fire lit up the corner of the room where it nestled between bookcases. Ivan stared at it gloomily as Katyusha settled the steaming teacup in his hands.

"I am Russia," he mumbled, feeling his skull crack again. The cracks widened and spread, and filled with snow, which lay in drifts across his brain. General Winter would know his weakness, and come to test him again. "I am Russia. I am Russia. I am Russia. I am Russia. I am Russia. I am Russia."

Katyusha sat next to him, her yarn out, as she began to knit. "Not right now. For tonight, be Ivan. Please?"

He did not want to be Ivan. He wanted to be Russia. He wanted to be land. A vast stretch of wilderness with no mind to be confused, or body to be hurt.

Reign for glory, For our glory!

"Have I failed them?" Ivan asked, looking at the books once more, and gulping his tea.

Wind rattled the window, calling to mind General Winter's laugh. Katyusha's needles clicked together soothingly. The domestic noises only emphasized the smothering silences pressing around them. Smokey curls off the remainder of the tea filled his head, melting the snow. Katyusha refused to answer. Silence pressed. Ivan gave.

"Why won't you tell me?" the fine china smashed into brass bound handles, crashing into a tinkle of bone. Ivan stormed to his feet, his face red with screaming. "Why won't you tell me what's wrong, Katyusha? Why do you hate me? Why won't you give me the answers? I'm only a stupid child! I need you to give me direction!"

Furiously, he grabbed the back of his tall wing chair, and smashed it into the wall. The wood cracked. Snap. Crack. Bones. Bones. Human Bones shattering under bullets. Their screams as he began to bleed from the mouth. He was mighty! He was Russia! He was more than human! He was a nation! No matter his hardships he could not die. He was immortal. Inhuman! Their petty concerns were not his! He did not need them. Why did they hurt so much as they died?

A chair leg shattered in his hand. He stared at blood and splinters, before howling. His scream echoed beyond the walls of his room, swirling outside to be picked up by general winter's laugh. Katyusha, on the floor still, hid her streaming eyes behind the rapidly shuttling needles, raising the mere five inches of scarf as a badge of protection against her giant younger brother.

God, protect the Tsar!

No one would protect them. It had always been this way. His sister was the only one who would stand between him and the world, and one woman was not strong enough for that burden. Not for as long as she had to carry it, all alone. Ivan had vowed to help her, but he had been so helpless for so long. He had done her such disservice.

"I-I am sorry," he knelt to hug her. "You weren't supposed to see that."

Ukraine nodded, taking the tattered ends of his old scarf, ignoring the red brown stains of the morning, to dab her eyes. "I'm sorry, Vanya. I haven't done the best job of being a big sister. I should have seen this coming. I was so busy being angry with you for so long."

He stared at her, his face going rigid in shock. Katyusha was infallible. She had never hated him. Never. He had misheard that. She had just stopped speaking to him because she was concerned about Natalya and her own crops. That was all.

"You weren't really angry with me," Ivan told his older sister, reaching out to envelop her in a hug that would quench all protests.

She did not answer, because a good older sister would not shatter was little was left.

Strong and majestic,

What had gone wrong? Ivan asked himself as he cleaned up the shattered tea cup.

He was a land. He did not feel the pain of humans. Humans did not feel his pain. They were separate. He was alone, except for the others of his kind, and there were so few of them. They never wanted to visit. Why not? He was great and glorious. Toris could tell anyone who asked. So he was rough with Poland. He didn't like Feliks. He did not want to be stuck together with the heartless trickster for eternity.

"Did you really shoot your own humans?" Katyusha asked quietly.

Ivan smiled gently, trying to explain in a way that she would understand. "They weren't mine, really. They couldn't have been mine. They were betraying me. They refused to be happy. They were just peasants, you know. There are always more peasants."

Click. Click. Not so much as a sniffle. Ivan looked over. Katyusha had busied herself in her knitting. Her cheeks were still shiny with tear trails, and her eyes had that pink quality, but for some reason she was no longer crying. She was no longer even frowning. Her face had become that same blank Toris' became in the evening. Ivan hated that blankness. It meant that something had gone terribly wrong, and no one would tell him what was wrong.

"I was strong, Katyusha. You would have been proud of me."

The needles came to a halt. Ukraine turned her head to meet his innocent smiling eyes. Something flashed in her face, and Ivan wondered if she could see how broken his head was. He hoped not. Ukraine should never feel guilty.

Reign for glory, For our glory!

The clock surprised both of them, chiming a quarter hour. Ivan looked at the china and gold thing on the mantel piece. Katyusha looked at the decoration as well. "It's very pretty," her fingers swept the carpet under her knees. "I—You live in such a fine house, Vanya. Sometimes I forget that. Or I only remember the house and not you," she smiled sheepishly.

Ivan gazed at his hands. They were still shaking. Maybe they had never stopped. "Do you? Is that why you have been angry with me?" his voice was much quieter than he wanted it to be. He didn't sound strong enough to hear the truth. He had to be strong for his sister. Katyusha tried to protect him from too much.

She sighed. The knitting began once more, clever fingers working, probably in the hope of sorting out thoughts. She had told him before, when he was young and small, and the Tartars hurt them all, that she loved making scarves for him, because the act of knitting was relaxing. She could think everything through, and get her plans in order. Even if it's just for the next day, Vanya, having everything thought out is very important.

Russia tried to organize life along that same principal. If everything was planned out before hand then nothing could get in the way of those plans.

"You tried to take away my language. I know that you like Russian, Vanya, but to me, Ukranian is beautiful. I love to hear the children sing it—,"

Roaring filled his ears. Red filled his vision. Ivan sunk to the carpet moaning, as he hugged his knees. Happy children. He was supposed to have happy children. Why weren't they happy? Why didn't they love him? Why did they go against him?

Why did he go against them?

Reign to foes' fear,

His shriek cut through the room. Books exploded. Papers ignited. Katyusha screamed, running for the hallway. A log from the fire burst in wonder and glory all over the bookshelves. Orange and red cascaded away in sparks, but the yellow caught and flared to bright white.

Ivan grinned, feeling warm at last. Yellow surrounded him in licking flames. This was it. This was right. This was his happiness. His true heart. Holding blistered and peeling flesh to the flames he laughed. So warm. So perfect. Bright and burning, this was what love felt like. His heart had been with him all along. In the fire. In the pain.

Right now he was beautiful.

Orthodox Tsar.

Water fountained. A sandbag slapped the flames. Wooden knitting needles became the sword of a just and loving sister, pulling him backwards from his office. Toris, kindly and fierce, ran in to combat the flames, a wet blanket muffling his head. Shouts and screaming reverberated in Ivan's ears as Katyusha organized people, trying to stop the fire before it spread.

They were all here, he thought, as Natalya's skirt dashed from the edge of his vision to the fore. Such a wonderful thing, to hear Tino and Eduard trying to convince Toris to let them in so that they might save the books [29], even as Feliks yelled to Toris to stay out of the place and work on the hallway, because the office was gone. Yet their argument, and the subsequent need to rescue Latvia from a falling beam only seemed to drop into a deep abyss. Hollow. Empty. Cold. Ivan wanted to be back there. Back in the fire. Where it was warm. Where everything was beautiful. Where he was marvelous, a bright shining star that shot from the back well of the heartless.

For a night, fighting flames, fighting Ivan's spirited efforts to join that fire, they were all as they were supposed to be. A family. Friends. Loved ones. Everything was perfect, as Ivan burned. But eventually enough water was procured, enough earth was thrown. Katyusha sat bandaging his torso, as Tino pronounced the blue military coat scrap. Natalya, banished to a corner by Katyusha after she proved a hindrance to bandaging Ivan, sharpened her knives, looking at Tino significantly.

Toris and Feliks pulled the samovar from the rubble. Eduard made tea. Silly little Raivis managed to burn himself on the first cup, which Ivan downed without tasting. He looked around at the assembled lands. No. Not lands. The words of Catherine were haunting him.

"Where am I going wrong?" he whispered, looking from one to the next.

He loved them all. They had to love him. They wouldn't have rescued his home, otherwise. But they hated him, too. Because they did not understand that he needed the inferno. He needed to burn to become pure to be beautiful. That was the secret. To be the last star in the sky you had to light it brighter than the sun.

He loved them. He asked them to tell him how to make his rule better. No one stepped forward with answers. He hated them.

Finally, scrubbing away the suspicion of tears, Katyusha spoke up. "You're not listening to us, Vanya."

"I am now!" Ivan thundered.

Tino, the first to truly betray him, looked around, and smiled sadly. It was a smile that said that this was old ground. "Venäjä, it's too late. Et kuuntele."

Ivan felt anger suffuse his body. "What does that even mean?"

Toris, green-eyed, tired, and slightly nervous looked up, always ready to draw Russia's ire. "It means you went too far for us. S-some of us, anyway."

"Totes, no," Feliks jabbed spitefully. "You've gone majorly too far for all of us! We've been telling you for, like, years."

Ivan cast around for something to throw at Feliks, but Katyusha caught his hand. "No, Vanya. Listen to what we are saying. Even if you don't like it. The way you treat humans, the way you treat us, and the way you treat yourself is what is wrong. You need to start listening, because something has to change."

Ivan looked at his older sister. Change was terrifying. It had to be avoided. But Katyusha loved him.

From the corner, Belarus caught his eyes, and held them. "I am fine with your language and customs, brother," she told him, her eyes red rimmed. "But I wish to have some of my own, too. Just a little. Not much. I love yours more. But sometimes you forget me, and then I need something of my own to keep me company."

Ivan looked at them all. He was still missing something. They all thought the way Belarus did, as far as he could see. But thinking like Natalya was dangerous. He could not let them think that he would forget them. He could never forget them. They were his family. His friends. Yet their complaints made them hate him.

"I love you all," he mumbled, at a loss. But only Natalya beamed at this pronouncement.

Eduard just shook his head. "Th-that doesn't m-m-matter, now."

"Whatever's in your head totally isn't love," Feliks muttered, understanding the role of the scarf much better than anyone else.

God, protect the Tsar!

Reign to foes' fear,

Orthodox Tsar.

God, protect the Tsar.


May 1942 – London and Hastings, England

It was rainy. That made Alfred grin. It was always rainy in Britain. At least, according to his view of England. Arthur had always been surprised by his cloudless summer skies. Alfred had been surprised to see only Matthew in White Hall, going through espionage reports. Arthur not being in London had seemed, well, wrong. Alfred flitted around his country, but that was because there was such an awful lot of America, while England was a postage stamp in comparison.

Together they had opened Arthur's office, Matthew trembling, and going on about curses, while Alfred plowed in, surveyed the mess, and decided that only a true hero and friend could help clean the room. He also pointed out to his brother that unless Arthur had managed to discover alcohol based magic, they were safe from any curses. Matthew ventured, on a border between timorous and sarcastic, that they might not be safe from glass cuts. They had spent a good two days on neatening up the office, throwing out all plans that involved magic, despite the fact that Matthew seemed to believe all the bosh, and was quite terrified that Alfred might sit on the chair with a note reading: "Sure Death: Get America to sit on it." Please, Alfred knew better than doing anything England's hand writing suggested.

After removing the empty bottles, and refiling the reports and documents scattered around (okay, so America invented his own filing system. It was a security precaution, really. Just because Arthur would have to either beg him to sort out the documents, or remember Mattie's name to do it did not have a bearing on anything. Really) Alfred looked at Matt.

"So, I'm here to save the free world as we know it. Where is Arthur, so we can get down to business?"

"RAF airfield, South Coast," Mattie replied, adjusting his goggles. He smiled tiredly, "It's been good to see you, Alfred. If you want to call a meeting, I'm sure Russia and France could come over at short notice. Poland's kicking around somewhere. Er, unless he's trying to convince everyone of the usefulness of a cavalry charge. Then he's probably being kicked somewhere."

Alfred blinked. "Wait, Russia? Isn't he the Bolshie enemy?"

"He's been on our side since before your ruckus with Japan," Canada shrugged, as they carefully closed Arthur's office, locking the door. "Sure, he's a little, you know," Matt shook his hand, trying to find a polite way to say 'off kilter,' "but he's generally pretty nice to me. He even remembers that I'm not you most of the time, and doesn't call me 'Commonwealth.'"

Alfred nodded. "Okay! I can work with that. I'll just have to get to know him, and then I'm sure that we'll be good f-friends."

God, the tremor in his voice crawled along his spine. Matt luckily didn't understand, and instead looked at the corners apprehensively. "Wow. He must be close by. I've heard his aura can really mess with you if you aren't careful. He curses Japan all the time, he says."

Alfred smiled grimly. "I'm sure we'll be best friends. Y'know, I couldn't help noticing I don't have that many allies in the Asian theater."

They walked down the wide steps, and Matthew gestured mutely at the pile of rubble just down the block. "UXD went off during the Blitz. Sorry. Mind the debris. Anyway, you were saying? Isn't China helping you?"

"That's the one with the pandas without Arthur's eyebrows, right?"

Canada grinned, his laugh rusty. "You left a bit of a modifier dangling. I'll assume you mean that the country has the eyebrows, and not the pandas. Yeah. He's Russia's friend, I think."

America paused to allow a bicyclist past. They continued on, towards a car. "Yeah, he helps out, sort of. Same way Philippines helps, and Korea. Japan's just, well, a lot to handle."

Canada nodded gamely, opening the car door for him. Alfred grinned. "Thanks for letting me drive, Mattie."

"Uh, no. No such luck," Canada replied, getting into the right side. "You're lucky we're not walking. Getting petrol coupons is a nightmare, these days."

America blinked, as Canada smoothly pulled away from the parking spot. "But, we're nations, surely if it's for the war effort, or whatever."

Matthew smiled mirthlessly. "This isn't the land of roses and chocolates, Alfred. It would be unpatriotic for me, especially me—you know we could definitely cover the distance if we needed to without the car—to use military petrol on a simple drive to get you to see Arthur before we go and get planning. It's not a proper use of our resources."

"You'd really make me get out and walk?" Alfred exclaimed. He crossed his arms. "This, this right here, this is why you're late to meetings. How can you be such a stick in the mud?"

"Well, that's Captain Stick-in-the-Mud, to you, so you're better remember to stand to attention when I arrive at pointless meetings late due to not wanting to waste resources," Matthew shot him a grin.

Alfred made a mental note to see to it that his people treated him as at least a major. He looked out at the countryside. "So, what are they having you do?"

"Training Arthur's people," Matt replied lightly. "I'm in charge of airfields for the RAF, and I've got a ton of snipers that I'm very proud of. I do home defense forces training, too, and I'm on convoy duty at least once a month."

Alfred nodded. That fit with everything he'd heard so far. "Who has been in charge up home for you? I wouldn't have thought that you could stretch so far."

Matt, who had been scraped thin by the long years, nodded in agreement. "I try to get home about once or twice a year. It's been harder, now that I don't have the excuse that I'm trying to do under the radar diplomacy to get you moving. Ontario seems to be doing a good enough job in my place, though, and he'll always have Quebec."

"Oh joy," Alfred sighed. "Probably a good thing that all of New England insisted on joining up, then. Minnesota is going to have words with me when I get home. I can feel it."

"You left Minnesota in charge?"

Alfred gripped the door handle as they swerved around a hay wagon. "No; New York and Missouri are. Minnesota had to come back with me when we got out of Bataan. Hospital rest in winter with Ontario and Manitoba running around with no parental advice, though. Imagine how you'd feel."

Matt nodded in understanding, although little sympathy. "I suppose that's true. What's Asia like, then?"

"Oh, you know, hot, jungle-y," Alfred waved a hand. "A lot of my boys died there."

The blankness in Matt's eyes was a little worrying, considering that he had those eyes on the road. "Well, that's how it is. More will die on this front, too."

Alfred didn't like the dry fact-i-ness of that statement. He stared at the tall grasses speeding by, wild flowers just blooming, as the rain drizzled off them. What amazing blotches of color they made against the gray. "So, you got anything else to report about your doings?"

Matt's small exhale was the equivalent of rolled eyes. "Yeah. Mostly I make sure things work."

"Huh?"

"Oh, you know, things like making sure Arthur is up in the morning, and gets to his meetings. Or if France needs something for a plan I get a hold of it, or Russia needs to coordinate with us, I manage the phone calls. When I get back, I think I'm going to go into theater, and become that one tech guy whose job it is to see that nothing goes wrong."

Alfred snorted. "Trust me, I've worked Broadway, there is no such position."

Canada considered this for a long minute. "Hmm. How about the guy who is supposed to make sure that nothing goes wrong, and then swears loudly and bunks off for a cigarette once it does?"

"There's definitely room for opportunity in that direction," Alfred nodded sagely. Thoughtfully watching the scenery he tried to think up a plan. "Hmm. So, you haven't really left the island since—,"

"Since Trondheim. I mean, I was at Dunkirk, but that was in my role as the guy there to make sure that nothing goes wrong. I also occasionally go on quiet runs for the Ministry of Dirty Tricks, but that's not so much Canadians as Canada and his special invisibility, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I'm a good teacher, it turns out. They don't want me to leave. After watching England and Wales try to teach together, I think I can see why."

Alfred snorted. "Try having England teach anything and it'll be a miracle if his humans survive. Hmm. Anyone tapped Australia for help?"

Matt nodded. "Certainly. But his commute is even worse than mine, and we needed him in the Pacific, even before you joined."

Allowing that to slide, Alfred looked out the window again. "You think he'll be surprised to see me?"

Silence dominated. Then, Canada, who could read in between multiple lines, even in American English, replied: "Surprised to see you? Probably. It depends on where we find him. But he's not going to be pleased."

"I come in to save the old man's ass, and so of course my reception is going to be impolite," Alfred grumbled, sitting back in his seat.

Canada's derisive noise was all that the twin blonde needed to know that he was about to be taken down a peg or six. "You think we'll all be home by Christmas, just because you're here, do you?"

Deciding that the silent treatment would let him escape a lecture, Alfred remained quiet for at least fifteen more minutes, formulating a plan. "So, you've got to get off the island—,"

"We've all got to get off the island," Canada whispered. "Me, England. Everybody. We're defeated, Alfred. Okay, so we got a bit of hope when Germany invade Russia and he switched sides, and then some more when you showed up, but I don't think, unless we win something really big, we're going to get rid of this feeling as though there is an anchor around our necks."

Alfred, never one to be contained, shivered expressively. "Brr. Is that what it's like?"

The car wheeled into Hastings. For a moment Matt had to close his eyes in concentration, and then he scowled, pulling into the nearest parking spot. Getting out, he stumped around to America's side, and looked down the walk, muttering to himself. "I don't freaking believe it. He says he's going to go review his planes, fly a few missions, get out of the office, and he comes down here on his off time to waste money on antifreeze alcohol at the pub."

Alfred followed Matt's stare to a shoddy little building with a sign out front declaring it The Red Lion. "Surely it can't be that bad."

"Hah," Matt groaned. "Hah! We'll have whiskey and brandy, and gin if it's handy, and moonshine by the tun. I don't mean to say England has a problem. But I'm pretty sure that Arthur does with this stuff, and that's how our national spirit is manifesting itself. Beaten, defeated, and ready for the next drink. If only his hobby was skip rope, or something happier."

"Yeah, but being defeated at skip rope is pretty pathetic," Alfred pointed out, before starting for the doors. "C'mon, Matt. I think I have a plan for how things are going to shape up, you know?"

Realizing that Alfred was going to try to share this plan with England before letting Canada screen it for stupidity, Matthew moaned, and trotted after Alfred. However, his brother nation had already made it inside the pub before he could get to the swinging doors.

Through surprisingly clear air—back home, this place would have been wreathed in cigarette smoke—Alfred made out a crumpled heap in a green uniform by the bar, drawing dulsitory circles and arcane formulae in spilled beer on the counter. "Yo, barkeep," Alfred boomed jovially, making certain that his voice was so loud that not even Arthur could pretend that he was anyone else. "I'll have a pint."

"Ignore him," Arthur ordered, swinging up in his seat, his voice reverberating in command. He glared over his shoulder. "What are you doing here?"

Alfred just grinned, sliding into a seat. "Saving you, like a hero should."

"Pah!" Arthur went back to his curse circle, adding curlicues to represent Nantucket. "Like I needed saving. Especially not from you. By you. Definitely, I need saving from you. Git."

Slapping him on the back, Alfred grinned. "Awww, Artie, it's not that bad, is it? Just say: 'thank you for breaking your neutral—,'"

Arthur shot up in his seat, his eyes glazed with fury. "Thank you? To a fool who was almost too late for the last war, and I don't know why he bothered to show up for this one at all?"

America scowled. "Hey, the hero always saves everyone at the last minute."

"You useless child! This is not a story book! Your 'last minute' gets people KILLED!"

He knew that. Of course he knew that. He had lived it time and time again. Arthur had no right to even think for one moment that he did not feel that, know that, and live that. But suddenly Mattie was between them, pushing both nations back into their respective seats.

"Arthur, America has come early, before the conference begins, because he wants your advice on a plan he's got in the works. Alfred, tell him, eh?"

Put on the spot, Alfred almost couldn't move, or think or breathe. Plan. Plan. Plan. What had his brilliant plan been? Oh! Right. "Well, obviously we're going to have to free France," he began. "But I was thinking past that, actually. To the next step."

"You mean besides storming across Western Europe to knock politely on Germany's bunker?" Arthur asked sarcastically.

Nodding seriously, Matthew managed to stop the impending fight once again. Alfred continued, trying not to seethe. It was beautiful in its simplicity, so England had to approve. "Yeah. I was thinking, you're tied up in Northern Africa, right? Well, the only person there right now is Italy, right? Leaving Romano at home. Which means, well, after we get France back together, we need to invade Italy!"


Footnotes and Annotations


[1] - The First Partition only occurred because there was a short sharp war, and when the Sjem was asked to ratify the partition Polish politicians blocked the door in an effort to keep their countrymen from actually signing the document. As mentioned above, Prussia had already bribed the Grodno Sjem to sign the treaty agreeing to the Second Partition, even though there was no popular support for suddenly becoming Russian or Prussian land.

[2] - Prussia had recently lost Old Fritz, who had kinda turned against him in the end. Old Fritz became kinda jaded at the end of his life. Everyone still loved him, but he wanted to be the kind of crotchety old man who hangs out in his house with his dogs yelling at kids to get off his lawn. He had outlived all of his friends, and didn't really want to go out and make replacement friends, so he shut himself up with his books and music when he wasn't out inspecting his armies.

[3] - Prussia did not take Warsaw until the Third Partition of Poland. However, the way Prussia tended to add territory to its lands often was based upon whether it thought that the geographic area was interesting, or not. The land between whatever city or grain field Prussia had set its sights upon and actual Prussian soil was just a bonus that could be held by Prussia or not. Obviously, this as a foreign policy had some interesting effects.


[4] - Piimä is a fermented milk drink native to Finland. I have never tried it, and I'm not certain that it can be found in the Southwest, but I imagine that Tino is subtly trying to give Russia a message or two.

[5] - Viina is a grain alcohol that is the Finnish equivalent of vodka. I believe that the proof is higher, however. Although that might just be circumstantial evidence.

[6] - The Royal Academy of Åbo (the Swedish name for Turku) was renamed after the Russians took over Finland, to become the Imperial Academy. This University was originally built to serve the needs of the Swedish upper class in Finland, and so the fact that the students who enter speak Swedish is no accident. The Academy, like the capital, was later moved to Helsinki, although this was because the Great Turku Fire burned down the Academy in 1828.

[7] - Åland is obviously the Finnish island of Åland, which honestly has Swedish roots so thick that you can't fell the tree. Even at this point in history when the Swedish influence is still strongly intertwined with the Finns, Ålanders (I'm not certain if I'm using the right English demonym) stood out as being extra Swedish.

[8] - 'Norja' is Finnish for Norway. Please note that the initial autonomy that was granted to Finland meant that the use of the Finnish language suddenly flowered. Which is nice for me, because I love a language that will use any excuse to double up a vowel, even if I can't actually read it. I just look at the word and get a warm fuzzy feeling.

[9] - 'Suomen suuriruhtinaskunta' is Finnish for 'Grand Duchy of Finland.'

[10] - As mentioned in the historical note, Finland did not initially have to pay that many taxes, especially in comparison to the money that Russia poured into it. Simply put the Russian Empire was so large that it could make up the economic loss that it suffered getting Finland back on its feet. But once Finland was, and the whole taxation issue was raised, things started to get a little ugly.

[11] - 'Великое княжество Финляндское' is Russian for 'Grand Duchy of Finland' and is pronounced 'Velikoye knyazhestvo Finlyandskoy'

[12] - Shvetsiya


[13] - The Battle of Lützen was the battle in the Thirty Years' War where Gustavus Adolphus was killed.

[14] - 'Stormaktstiden' is Swedish for 'Era of Great Power' and is used to talk about the time of the Swedish Empire.


[15] - 'Svensk mark' is Swedish for 'Swedish land.'

[16] - 'Bagatell' is Norwegian for 'little thing/something of no importance.' I stink at naming things, but Norway knows all of his trolls by name. He's that kind of person. Anyone have any other troll or fairy names that they prefer, I'm glad to take them.

[17] - Buck up, Canada-kun, it might just be that Arthur is horrible with names! Not that he's a forgetful guardian who needs to be smacked about by an irritated polar bear or Prussia, depending on your favored method of England reminding. On a more serious note, contemporary political science papers commented that Norwegians abroad were believed to be Swedes (particularly by the Brits, but these were papers being written by American academics who tended to be dismissive of the English in general. Pish, tush, Oxford? That's a little hole in the wall), which was rather interesting, given how strongly they felt about their status as a separate nation. Dun worry, Norway, your work paid off! Now only Americans have difficulties telling the Swedes and the Danes apart. We know all about you. You're the uncooperative bastard with all that oil!


[18] - All over the Hapsburg Empire various ethnic nationalities are bidding for reforms and freedom at this time. Just as in Scandanavia, old peasant folkways became the romantic fad, and people began to dress in versions of what they believed to be their cultural heritage. The more anti-Western fashion the costume, the better. Big color and masses of baroque embroidery with high skirts (they showed above the ankle, begad!) were really popular. On a political level Hungarians were fighting amongst themselves for using Hungarian, instead of Latin as the official language, and helping out the poor, and doing other things that aristocratic classes generally find suspect. The Hungarian nobility started going in for assassination, and arson in a big way. The events leading up to 1848 were not pleasant. Austria was wary of all of this, as cultural nationalism was a huge threat to Imperial unity, but due to hands-off political approach, it allowed the laws to remain the same, while not addressing the social issues that challenged the law. If any district got too uppity, the Hapsburg nobility figured that riding in and cracking a few heads in an appropriately violent and brutal way would solve the issue. It was a tried and true political method, after all, but it becomes a little harder to crack a multimillion person population in open revolt over the head.

[19] - Fryderyk Chopin, a Polish composer and nationalist in a time when Poland was not even a nation. The man played a mean piano. Seriously, go out and listen. He owns Mozart. Freaking owns (I admit my opinion of Mozart is significantly lowered by Mozart's penchant for pastorals. If I was just looking at things like the Requiem or the Queen of the Night Aria, the contest would be harder to judge).

[20] - 'Mają prawo języku polskim?' should be Polish for 'They are allowed to speak in Polish?' I am very leery of this translation. Corrections are always welcome.

[21] - 'Guten Tag, Polen' is German for 'Good day, Poland.'


[22] - 'Norddeustcher Bund' is German for 'North German Confederation' and one of the names that Germany took on as it worked toward unification. It represents the alliance with the German States, including Schleswig-Holstein, and Prussia. This will not be adopted for a few years, however, Bismark knows which way the wind is blowing for Prussia and Germany. More on this little historical tangle in the next chapter or so.

[23] - The Battle of Helsingborg is the last Swedish victory in the Great Northern War. Basically Denmark, invaded Scania and pressed forward, while Sweden retreated. The Danes got comfy for about a year, and then the Swedes drew out the Danish lines, so that they were ragged and stretched far too thin, and circled around, hacking the Danish Army to pieces. The Danes and Swedes fought so hard, though, that it took until just about the time of this scene for the place to return to something other than a poverty poor battle field. Keep in mind, this battle happened during the Great Northern War, which ended with the Treaty of Nystad in 1721. This scene takes place in 1864. I'm not good at math, and I can tell that's a looooong time for recovery.

[24] - 1450 is about the time that the first major Swedish-Danish dispute within the Kalmar Union took place. Thanks to the need for three countries to agree on the king of the Union, each time a monarch died, the Kalmar Union had a tendency to dissolve for a few months, or, once the Danes and Swedes started to really get into the whole political succession thing, explode into small wars. 1520 is the date of the Stockholm Bloodbath, where the Danes, after yet another invasion of Sweden, took over the capital and invited the nobles to a dinner party celebrating Danish awesomeness. Well, turns out the best way to celebrate Danish awesomeness is by stabbing your Swedish guests in the back, gloating over the remains, get roaring drunk and go on a rape and pillage expedition of the main city thoroughfares.

[25] - 'Én vagyok Magyarországon' is Hungarian for 'I am Hungary.' Austria has not yet gotten his act together and Hungary has not yet proposed to him, and right now their relationship has been rocky given the nationalism sentiments, and Austria's brutal suppression of Hungarian rights and culture. But the most stable Hetalia divorced couple is about to finally stop dancing around this issue in three years (guess why I added that sixth drabble to Worldly).

[26] - 'Du startede denne krig, Danmark. Må ikke forvente sympati. Jeg ved, at du har været besat. Jeg har fuld tillid til, at du er i stand til at ændre situationen, medmindre du har glemt vores gamle lektioner,' is Danish for 'You started this war, Denmark. Do not expect sympathy. I know that you have been occupied. I have every confidence that you are capable of changing the situation, unless you have forgotten our old lessons.' Denmark is only reading the bluntest part of the letter. I had a full length letter written, but I wasn't sure enough of the translation to risk it.


[27] - The text interrupting the scene is a translation of an orthodox hymn sung by the Russian protesters as they were gunned down by tsarist troops. It sounds beautiful in Russian, but everything sounds beautiful in Russian. Case in point: 'Become one with Russia' should sound like: 'Stan'te odnim s Vanya/Rossiyeĭ.' (I prefer 'Become one with Vanya,' because the message is oddly much creepier).

[28] - All these regions had experienced Tsar Alexander II's program of Russification, and for them most part reacted very badly to it. Even Belarus, which was at the time just an ethnic grouping, found ways to subtly rebel against the insistence on a unified Russian culture across the Empire at the expense of the White Russian culture. Russia faced the same problems that Austria had as nationalism swept through Europe, and chose to force ethnic homogeneity on its disparate groups, so that it would not have the rebellions that Austria faced. This approach did not seem to work any better than ignoring the problem.

[29] - Thanks to reader Anon for pointing out that "In 1827, the University of Helsinki got the right to obtain a copy of every book printed in the Russian Empire for its collections. This collection was almost sold after Finland gained independence, but for some reason it was not, and collecting continued, it was just harder than it used to be." I had Estonia and Finland trying to save the books because Estonia cares deeply about knowledge and Finland would want to be there for Estonia, but this piece of knowledge makes it even better.


Thank you very much for reading. I think I might have lost a little bit of my soul writing some sections. Geh, I still need advice on fixing the Norway and that trite Bloody Sunday Russia section. But the rest was necessary to bring my characters through to the end. Hang in there my Nordics, it will get better! Er, Poland, well, you will rise, right? And if I've made people feel conflicted-hate for Prussia (or straight out hate), then I've accomplished at least one half of my goal.

~ MF