(August 1870)

Prussia stood on a hill, trying to ignore the oppressive summer heat. Before him was his army's camp; tents and cook fires and men all spread out before a single city. Canon fire sounded intermittently, and there were always little skirmishes, but things were relatively quiet now. Even he was grateful for this little respite. Their war in France had been moving quickly, certainly quicker than he had expected. While he'd had some trouble at the beginning, their forces had picked up speed and were now devastating the French. The poor fools' armies were divided now, too, and nearly half their forces were besieged here, by his forces to the East, and Germany's to the West.

"I don't understand," Germany said. "Why are we going to war with France? His boss may have slighted us, but that hardly seems like a reason for war."

"It's just a pretext," Prussia said.

"Well, obviously, but to what end?" he said. "Why fight a war we do not need?"

"Unification," Prussia said.

Germany fidgeted uncomfortably. "But can that not be accomplished peacefully?"

Prussia shrugged. "Sure, but that would take decades. You've seen the states, Germany, they couldn't agree on what to order for breakfast much less how to unite a country. But if their's one thing everyone can agree on," he said. "It's who their enemies are. And nothing brings people together faster than a common enemy."

"I-I know that," Germany replied. Then he said, "I've never really fought in a war before."

"I know, kid," Prussia said. He put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "If you aren't ready, I can handle this one."

"No," Germany said, firmly. "This is my fight. If I can't see it through, then I don't deserve to become a nation."

Prussia smiled, and he felt a little pride welling up in his chest. "Good. I'll be with you all the way."

Germany turned to face him. "Thank you," he said. God, he still seemed so young, Prussia thought. Anyone else who saw him wouldn't have thought him over 18. Though, for some reason, Prussia couldn't seem to get the image of a small child out of his head, even if he now had to look up to meet his brother's eyes. Part of him hated the idea of sending Germany to war. Prussia still wanted to shield him from the brutality and horror and death that came with it. But he also knew that wars were a part of their existence and Germany couldn't be shielded from that reality forever. One day, he would have his baptism by fire.

"We should go and meet with the generals," Germany said. Prussia nodded. He knew from experience that military men did not like to be kept waiting.

And now here they were, in the midst of the conflict. Germany had seen his first battle, seen men killed. Prussia had been there, watched Germany process it, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. And then they had put on a brave face and carried on.

Prussia saw the sun beginning to set, and he decided it would be best if he wandered back to camp. His generals didn't like it when he went missing for too long. When he made it to the command tent at last he saw that the place had not lost its usual bustle of activity, with officers and aides constantly moving in and out. Someone always had a report to give, or a message to deliver. The guards, who had been quick to commit his rather distinctive appearance to memory, waved Prussia into the tent. Inside there was a large map on a central table topped by several figurines indicating German and French positions. Right now, they were mostly concentrated around Metz, the city they currently had the pleasure of besieging. However, figurines also marked French forces in Châlons, under the command of the Comte de MacMahon.

Currently, his generals were arguing over how best to secure Metz. They did not doubt that the French would surrender eventually, considering their enormous disadvantage in the situation, but time was important here. And there was always the possibility that other French forces would be deployed to relieve the city. Honestly, Prussia only half listened to them as they talked. He was not one for coming up with strategies. Action was more his forte, so he elected to stare off into space and let the generals beat their chests and say their pieces before finally coming up with something useful.

Suddenly, they were interrupted by a messenger running in. Not unusual, but a quick word from one of the officers silenced the tent so that they could all here what he had to say.

"Sirs," the flustered, out of breathe soldier said. "A report from the Western army. MacMahon's forces have moved to relieve Metz."

That caused a small uproar before someone said, "Well, clearly we must prepare to meet them."

"Well, sirs," the messenger said. "Forces from the West are already preparing to do just that."

Prussia's heart fell into his stomach. That meant that Germany was about to face a massive French force, alone. Immediately, he wanted to order the rest of his army to mobilize, and back up the other half. Dammit, he wanted to help his brother.

But he knew he couldn't. Their army needed to keep up the pressure on Metz. That meant that he was stuck here. And it took every ounce of discipline he had not to start cursing and punching whatever was nearest to him.

...

It was getting dark. Night hadn't completely fallen yet, but the sun was certainly well on its way along its downward descent. Germany hoped that would allow them to hide better. They were out numbered, but taking the French forces by surprise would give them a great advantage. He glanced to his right, then to his left, and saw his own soldiers flanking him. Despite his best efforts, guilt started to well up inside him until he became nauseous with it. These men were fighting for him, because of him. If they died, it would be his fault. Desperately, he tried to force those thoughts away. He needed to be strong now. For their sakes, any hesitation in his resolve was unacceptable.

The man next to him (who looked young enough to still be a considered a boy) started shaking. His breathing was shallow, and his face had lost all his color. He was clearly terrified. Germany felt that he needed to do something. This was his man, after all, but he had no idea what would be appropriate. And there was also the fact that he was just as afraid of the impending battle.

No, he needed to be strong now. This was his chance to earn his nationhood. No one was going to give it to him, and he had to prove himself worthy of it. So he reached out and put his hand on the quivering man's soldier. He gave a small, surprised sound and then looked up at Germany with wide, brown eyes.

"Stand firm, soldier," he said, in the steadiest voice he could manage. For a moment, he wasn't sure he had helped at all, but then the soldier nodded and he stopped shaking. Germany gave a small sigh of relief. But then, they heard footsteps marching towards them.

The French had finally arrived. He prayed that they did not know about the German forces; prayed that their plan would succeed. It had to succeed. They could not let the two French armies combine their strength again. He took a few deep breaths, and waited for the order to fire.

After the order came, everything became a blur. The sound of hundreds of shots going off all around nearly deafened him, and then he wished it actually had once he heard the terrible cries of horses and men filling the air. He could barely see through the smoke, but there were flashes of rifle fire in the haze. He heard the order to advance. His limbs seemed to move with the command almost without his will to guide them. Then they fired again. Germany could not see if he had hit anything. He heard a grunt of pain, and a soldier two men to his left collapsed. More men fell in a volley of gunfire, and Germany felt rage boil up inside his chest. Rage for his fallen men, rage at the French for killing them, rage at himself for making this necessary. When the order came to charge, he burst forward with every ounce of strength he had, lungs burning from the smoke and his own furious battle cry. While he could see very little, instinct told him that they were winning. He could almost feel his own forces driving the French back, making them crumble. He wished he could have taken more pleasure in it.

Later, it seemed like the battle only took an instant. At the time, though, it seemed like years. Years of hearing wounded and dying men, seeing blood and corpses littering the battlefield, feeling the recoil of his rifle beat against his shoulder. His unit stayed together, like a single entity. When they lost a man, they kept going, driving into the enemy forces until they felt all opposition dissolve before them. Finally, it was obvious that the French were in retreat, and they were given the order to halt. A rousing cry went through the ranks of the victors, but Germany did not join them. Instead, he left in an attempt to find his commanders.

They were not hard to find, once some of the smoke cleared. They were towards the rear, sitting on horseback, in their distinguishing officer's uniforms.

"What is our plan, now?" he asked as he approached them. Evidently they had been discussing just that.

"MacMahon is on the run," one said. "I say we give chase."

"We cannot risk the siege," another protested.

"Indeed," yet another said in agreement.

"I say we pursue the French forces," Germany said, his voice ringing with an authority that even he did not recognize. He saw that his officers had not expected it either. So he pressed his advantage. "If we can catch and defeat MacMahon's forces, it will be the decisive stroke in this war. We can end it," he said. "And this is our best opportunity."

Surprisingly, at least to him, his word seemed to hold sway with them. While they continued to argue all the way to their makeshift command post, they were able to determine that MacMahon was likely to retreat to Sedan. They could most certainly catch up to him, and with the French army in retreat, they had a good chance of beating them.

So, after word was sent to their other forces, Germany and the rest moved out, in pursuit of MacMahon. When morning came on the second day of pursuit, the last day of August, they received a reply from the other camp, clutched in the beak of a little yellow bird. It was universally recognized as his brother's. Germany had no idea why Prussia had kept that little chick all these years, but he had never actually managed to ask him about it.

Most of the reply was simply confirmation and details from the other commanders, but there was also short note written to Germany. When he opened it, he was not surprised to find Prussia's handwriting.

Hey West, it said. Prussia had never called him that before, but Germany found he didn't mind the new nickname. He continued to read. "I just wanted you to know that if you die in this battle, I swear I will kill you. No, that is not a joke. I would find a way. Because I am that awesome. Anyway, I would give you some really wise pre-battle advice, but all you really need to remember at this point is which end of the gun to aim at the enemy, and I think that's something even you can manage. Other than that, you have it covered.

So, go out and give 'em hell, little brother!"

Germany smiled at the letter, and said softly, to himself, "I'll do that," before tucking the note away into his pocket.

…..

Sure enough, morning came on the first day of September, and the sun rose on the carnage of battle before the city of Sedan. This time, rather than standing in the ranks, Germany rode on horseback throughout the scene of battle, giving orders and shouting encouragements to his weary troops. But it looked as if they had a distinct advantage. The French were pinned down in the city, and Germany knew that their commander had been severely wounded. But he refused to allow himself to become overly confident. The battle was not yet won.

But as the day wore on, the tide seemed to turn more and more in their favor. His forces pressed forward, winning skirmish after skirmish and making the French position increasingly hopeless. Around midday, it seemed that there was a lull in the fighting, now. The wounded were being carried away, some on stretchers, others in the arms of their comrades. The dead were covered up, for the time being.

Afternoon turned to evening, and luckily it started to cool down a little as well. Germany didn't like the heat. It was suffocating enough with the blasting of rifles and canons without nature lending her hand.

Suddenly, Germany saw a figure a little ways away. He was also mounted, but Germany could not see his uniform from where he stood. Cautiously, he urged his mount forward, to get a closer look, and the other rode up to meet him. As they approached one another, it became increasingly obvious that the stranger's uniform was not German.

Germany doubled over, gasping, as he suddenly felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. Dammit, the French were attacking again. And he had not been ready for it. He only hoped that his soldiers would be. As he fought to bring back the air that had been driven from his lungs, he finally saw the rider clearly. His blonde hair had been drawn back into a ponytail, but there were several pieces that had escaped and hung across his face. His clothes had been rumpled and singed in a few places, but he still wore a slightly cocky grin.

France gave him a slight, mocking bow. "Allemagne" he said in greeting.

Germany felt all the anger he had been trying to contain bubbling back up again. France had also started this war. France had killed his people, and the arrogant bastard stood there before him smiling. Germany no longer had a rifle, but he still had a cavalry saber at his belt, which he drew now. France mirrored the action.

"En garde!" he called. Germany charged forward, raising his sword. When he met France, the other nation clearly had not been expecting such a ferocious first attack. His first parry was too weak, but he managed to avoid the rest of the cut enough so that no blood was drawn. Their swords clashed again, both still on horseback. France was clearly the more experienced of the two, and Germany was quickly losing any advantage he had managed to gain from his first assault. But he refused to give in.

After a few more blows, both combatants stepped back, circling the other. "So this is Prussia's upstart?" France said, his tone taunting. "I was expecting more."

Germany said nothing in response. His forces were winning. France was only trying to goad him.

"A quiet one then?" France continued. "Or simply too shy?"

"I have nothing to say to you," Germany said in a low voice.

"Ah, so you can speak," said France. "So why not-"

Germany cut him off with another charge and a swing of his sword. France, caught off guard, reeled back from the blow, barely managing to keep his seat. But metal clashed again as France was able to bring his sword up to parry the blow.

"And rude too? You really are one of Prussia's." He riposted, and Germany met it with his own blade. "War is no place for children," France said. "I suggest you return to hiding behind your brother's coattails. I think you'll find it suits you better."

"Shut up!" he yelled as he attacked again. France was ready, and none of Germany's blows came close to finding a mark. He realized, though, that he was off balance now. Dammit, France had gotten to him. He had attacked too aggressively. But, if he could regain his balance…or maybe France thought he was worse off then he was? Then this should work, he thought. He feinted wide, making it look as if he had lost control of his attack. France's blade made as if to follow his, but Germany knew that it would instead target him not his sword. France began to move out of his feint, but Germany moved faster than he expected. Germany thrust his sword. France wasn't fast enough to stop him.

He grimaced and cried out as the tip of Germany's saber bit into his flesh, low on his right side. Blood began to flow from the wound, creating a red blossom on his uniform, but a murderous rage filled France's eyes, even as he clutched his side, trying to slow the bleeding. He brought his sword back up into a ready position. This arrogant child was not going to beat him so easily. Germany's blade rose to meet his. He was only too happy to finish off this French bastard.

Until he felt something akin to a blacksmith's hammer strike hit him and pain erupt from his shoulder. He bit back a scream, and somehow managed to calm his panicked mount. France was still bleeding, and Germany could barely see straight, but neither combatant had any intention of backing down. There had been too much resentment sown on either side for them to stop now.

But before both battered nations could advance again, something in the distance caught their attention, simultaneously. They looked towards Sedan, and over the city a while flag blew in the breeze.

"Dammit," France swore under his breath. Then he turned to Germany. "I suppose this will have to wait," he said before riding back towards the city. Germany wanted to chase after him, but the pain in his shoulder held him back. Besides, there was no honor in pursuing a beaten enemy. He had France's surrender. That would have to be enough.

He sheathed his sword and began riding back to his headquarters. He clutched tightly to his shoulder, hot, sticky blood flowing freely over his hand and uniform. He found that he had little movement in his arm. This would have to be treated, he thought. Then he began chuckling. Prussia would be furious with him if he came back without an arm.

When he reached camp, he was immediately helped from his horse and rushed to the medics. One doctor looked him over, and determined that the bullet would have to be removed and the arm set back into its socket. They shoved a flask in his mouth and had him swallow fiery liquid, probably some kind of alcohol. It was as close to anesthetic one could obtain on the battlefield. While he supposed it was helping, the operation was by no means painless. In fact, it was one of the most agonizing experiences of his life. Having a doctor dig around in the flesh of one's shattered shoulder for small pieces of metal was (understandably, he thought) a fairly unpleasant experience. It lasted for hours, until his throat was too hoarse to even give a respectable scream anymore. Yet each moment of agony was one he would never have traded for anything in the world.

It was painful, yes, but it was a different kind of pain. This was pain he could face; something he could stand up to. As a child, he had constantly felt overwhelmed by his own suffering. It was a sickness he knew no one could fight, and that had been where the worst of his torment had come from. But this was a wound sustained in battle. A battle he had won. And facing this agony was proof that he was no longer helpless, no longer a child, no longer afraid. When he screamed, it was equal parts pain and defiance.

He assumed that he had passed out at some point, because when he woke up, there was a clean, white bandage on his shoulder, and he felt only a dull throb instead of absolute torture. He sat up slightly and found that he was lying on a cot in the infirmary. It was very busy. He wanted to ask what had become of the battle, the French surrender, their own casualties, but he found that he was very tired, now. Well, that should not come as a surprise. He had been shot after all. And besides, all that would keep until he had given himself a chance to rest.

He was informed later that when Sedan had fallen, they managed to capture the French Emperor Napoleon III, along with 83,000 troops. Germany marched on Paris, then to put the city under siege. Not long after that, Metz fell, and Prussia's force was able to rejoin him. Of course, Prussia had insisted on seeing the "well earned battle scars" as he liked to call it. Germany sighed. The wound was mostly healed now, though his shoulder was still somewhat stiff. There was a pale scar, although it was not nearly as impressive as Germany had thought it would be.

Nevertheless, Prussia seemed to approve. "Not bad," he said when he saw it. "Better than my first, anyway."

"What was your first?" Germany asked.

Prussia shifted uncomfortable. "You don't want to know," he said. And that was all the discussion he allowed on the subject.

...

Fall turned to winter as they sat outside Paris. Germany did have to admit; the people here were fierce fighters. Even though they had resorted to using improvised weapons, like kitchen and farm equipment, it took months for the Parisian's resolve to even show signs of a crack. But however much he admired them, there was only one possible outcome. Eventually, they would have to surrender.

It was only a day before negotiations for that surrender began that Germany stood in the Hall of Mirrors at the Palace of Versailles. It was a beautiful place. One of the most beautiful he had ever seen. Of course, a run down barn would have seemed like the most beautiful place in the world to him at this moment. This was what he had fought for, watched men die for. At that moment he stood beside Wilhelm I, currently kneeling as the King of Prussia. When he rose, however, he would be Emperor of Germany. A united Germany, a single empire, no longer a weak confederation.

Prussia was beside him, grinning brighter and wider than Germany had ever seen. He wanted to smile too, but he thought he had better appear more disciplined. This was a serious occasion, after all. The ceremony was a long one, and Germany had to stand for all of it, but, frankly, he did not care. He was much too elated to notice the growing soreness in his legs or stiffness in his knees. Actually, the discomfort was quite welcome. It proved that he was no dreaming.

But the ceremony could not last forever. Wilhelm rose, resplendent in his rich clothing, jewels, and crown and scepter. He left the room, and the other guests followed. Germany and Prussia were left alone.

Prussia let out a loud, boisterous laugh. Germany's mask cracked at that, and even he had to smile. Prussia continued to laugh until he doubled over and fell to the floor.

"Prussia," Germany said, kneeling down. "Are you alright?"

"So much better than alright, West," he said, wiping a tear from his eye. "God, we waited so long for this."

"Yes," Germany said, sitting beside him. "I can hardly believe it."

"Oh, hang on a second," Prussia said, searching though his pockets. "Dammit, where is…Oh, there it is," he said triumphantly. "Here," he said. "I've been meaning to give this to you."

In his hand, he held a silver medal in the shape of a cross. Germany gasped as he recognized it.

"This…this is the Iron Cross," he said.

"Brilliant observation," Prussia teased.

"Can you just give this to me?"

"Of course. I mean, whose going to argue with their own country getting a military honor? One that was well earned, I might add."

"I…thank you," Germany said.

"Don't mention it. Like I said, you earned it." Prussia leaned forward and pinned the cross near Germany's throat. "Looks pretty good," he said.

Germany touched the metal, still warm from sitting in his brother's pocket. "Things will be different from now on, won't they?"

"Probably," Prussia said.

"I'm not sure I can do it."

"Then you're an idiot."

"What if I do something wrong?"

"Then we'll pick up the pieces. The world will keep going."

"What about you?" Germany asked.

Prussia raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"I mean, will you be answerable to me now?" he asked nervously. "Like a state?"

"I guess so. Pretty weird, isn't it," he replied with a grin. Seeing the concern on Germany's face, though, he added, "Don't worry about it. I can't stand politics anyway. I'll be glad to foist it all on you."

"Alright," Germany said.

"Remember, kid, I wasn't meant to be a statesman," he said. "I'm a soldier, born and bred. But not you."

Germany looked down and the military uniform he was wearing and gave Prussia a puzzled expression.

Prussia only chuckled and shook his head. "Weren't you paying attention for the past hundred thousand hours, West?" he asked. "Germany, you're an Empire."

Author's Notes

Hooray! Germany is a country now! History lesson time!

The Franco-Prussian War- The final war fought for German unification. Essentially, both France and Germany knew they were going to fight a war, they just needed and excuse. That came when Spain offered the throne to Leopold, Prince of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen (try saying that five times fast). Now, the Hohenzollerns were a Prussian dynastic family, and France did not like the idea of a Spanish-Prussian alliance, and Otto von Bismarck knew this, so he persuaded Leoplod to accept the throne in order to provoke war with France. France complained to to King Wilhelm I, who was much less enthusiastic about a war, so he put a stop to the whole thing. It seemed all hope for war was lost, until the French Emperor Napoleon III insisted that Wilhelm I apologize to him, and make sure any possible claims from the Hohenzollerns on Spain were renounced. Wilhelm was not thrilled, and gave Bismarck permission to publish the French demands, as well as the Prussian rejection. Bismarck edited them before releasing them to the public, in such a way as to anger both the French and German people, and six days later, France declared war. The war lasted from July of 1870 to January of 1871, and it did indeed result in the capture of the French Emperor (whoops) which led to France declaring itself a republic, but that's another story.

Then, on January 18, 1871, in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, King Wilhelm I was crowned Emperor of Germany, an event which represented the culmination of the efforts to unite Germany.

Thanks all again for reading :) Reviews are loved. And Europe might want to watch out when these next chapters come. Our next date comes between 1914 and 1918, and we all know what happened then (at least I hope we do...)