Heartbreak is the thing that is a constant of the universe. No matter whom you are, your heart will get broken. It is law.

The longer you live, the more times your heart breaks. This does not make it any easier.

Every country is born innately with this knowledge, the knowledge that their heart will be broken countless times, and even that does not make it easier.

Some would ask what the point of existence is, then, if we are only in the world for a time, during which we must suffer unbearable pain, only to leave when our time is up. And I do not have an answer. No one does, despite centuries –no, millennia- spent looking for it.

But sometimes the sun comes out from behind the dark clouds of despair, the gloomy fog of misery, and the world is brighter and the heartbreak is forgotten- if only for a moment.

Children, though to an immortal's eyes, stay young for so short a span, are a salve to heartbreak. Or a cause.

But in this cause, a salve.

A child, perhaps four or five years old, sat on the floor, coloring.

"Fiona, what are you drawing?"

"My empire." She showed France the picture. It was, as France had not quite expected, a map of the entire world. Ah, she was entering her empire-building phase. Children grew up so fast these days. Well, he remembered his own empire-building days. Ah, that had been fun…

Nevermind. "And how are you going to go about achieving such a great empire?" France asked, scooping his daughter up into his lap.

She flashed him a brilliant smile. Evidently, she had inherited mare than a little charm from her mother.

"Maman, I would like a pony, please."

"And a pony you shall have, as soon as I talk to your father." As it happened, Scotland walked in. looking distracted.

"Franny, where is Tormod?"

"He is at Norway's house, remember?" France turned to his daughter. "Why don't you run along while I talk to your papa?"

She nodded and ran off.

"Sorry, I've been distracted lately…My brother keeps trying to take away the pound…" Scotland sank wearily into the couch.

"Perhaps you ought to switch to the Euro."

"Perhaps." Scotland ran a hand through his hair.

"Écosse, I think it is time to give Fiona a pony."

"Franny…"

"She is more than old enough to learn to ride. Besides, I think it would be good for her."

"I'm not getting her a pony." Scotland, as he occasionally did when life was being difficult, massaged his temples.

France had to take action. And he did, by climbing into Scotland's lap. "Écosse," he purred, "perhaps we should…discuss this…"

"Fuck, I can't discuss anything when-"

"Oh, what a shame," France whispered, less than an inch from the Scottish man's lips. France always got what he wanted, and this was ninety percent of the reason why.

"God dammit France."

France sat back. "Hm?"

"Why do you always do this?"

"You cannot say that you do not like it."

"Perhaps not, but… God, it's hard to get a word in sometimes."

France got up and lounged in a different chair. "Fine. Let us… discuss. Why shall we not get Fiona a pony?"

It became almost immediately evident that Scotland had no good reason for forbidding his daughter that which she desired the most.

"Well, then, it seems like we do not have a problem after all, Écosse. I will, of course, do the research necessary, as you seem quite busy, whilst I have no duties pertaining to the economy, or laws, or anything of that nature," France said icily, brushing past Scotland with all the dignity he possessed (which is to say, more that you or I will ever have).

"Francis!"

France paused in the doorway. "Oui?"

"Look, we can talk about this, you know."

"Can we? You don't seem to want to talk anymore."

Scotland regained massaging his temples. "I'm sorry. We will get Fiona a pony and riding lessons and whatever else she needs. I just- Look, I am sorry."

France glided back across the room to sit next to Scotland. "I forgive you." One hand reached up to massage a particularly tense muscle in Scotland's neck. "But I'm afraid I must ask another favor of you."

Scotland frowned. "What is it, Franny?"

France could barely contain his grin. He had Scotland right where he wanted him… He had wanted this question answered for many, many years. "Tell me about you and Monsieur Norvège."

Scotland's frown deepened. "I thought we agreed to not talk about it."

"Perhaps. But all treaties are reevaluated in due time, n'est pas?"

Scotland looked like he was going to dismiss the entire subject. To prevent that, France dug his fingers into the over-tensioned muscle with perhaps a little more force than strictly necessary.

"Fine! But only if you tell me yours," Scotland grudgingly agreed.

"But of course." France leaned over to peck his husband on the cheek.