Chapter 10

Sotatorvi kun soi
When the war horn sounds

Russia adjusted the scarf around his neck to better protect his face from the smell of smoke wafting in the air. In the distance he could just make out the red glow against the night sky and the billowing smoke as Москва burned. He felt sick as he leant heavily against the horse by his side, hoping not to fall down on his knees. Петербург may be his capital now but for a long time his ties to Москва had been much more powerful and watching it burn like this hurt. It felt as if his heart was trying to crawl out of his chest, as if it twisted and shrivelled from the heat inside him. His only relief was that most of his people hadn't remained in the city but instead had fled under the Governor's orders.

Of course, watching France panicking was pretty nice too but somehow it wasn't as good as he had imagined. Many of his ideas weren't as good in practice as they were on paper, no matter how many times he tried.

Well, actually, there were a few exceptions but somehow even that thought left a bad taste in his mouth.

Russia was overcome by hacking coughs, his gloved hand rising to hide his mouth as he choked the phlegm free from his throat. He lowered his hand with a grimace, his eyes landing on the glob of spit and blood, black from all the ash in the air.

It was the third day after the first fires had been started and they still weren't showing any signs of stopping as they raged across the wooden structures on either side of Волга.

"Мы ликуем славы звуки,

Чтоб враги могли узреть,

Что свои готовы руки

В край вселенной мы простреть…" he murmured softly, closing his eyes and flinching as he poignantly felt, at that moment, as another building came down miles away.

At the heavy footsteps behind him, he turned, meeting the eyes of Governor Rostopchin who offered Russia a stiff bow. The man was short and wrapped in a thick coat as he held a handkerchief delicately before his nose to lessen the stench of burning wood in the air. "Lord Braginsky," he said softly. "The scouts have returned with a prisoner."

Russia took a steadying breath and pushed the pain aside, pulling a vacant smile to his lips. It wouldn't do to seem weak before his men; to them he was merely an extremely high-ranking member of the court, whose death would potentially open a nice position with the Tsar's ear. Sometimes he thought that the only thing that stopped some of the more ambitious nobles and generals from attempting to assassinate him was that subconscious recognition of his status as their Nation.

He followed the aged Governor down the side of the hill, keeping a white-knuckled grip of the harness of his horse. They soon arrived to the army camp, its edges dotted with the now homeless Muscovites. The officers' tents in the northernmost side of the camp took a while to reach, especially by foot. But while his knees shook as he walked, he felt that climbing onto the saddle would be somehow worse.

He was pretty sure he would fall, for one thing. Or at least waver, looking like he might faint.

Down on the humans' level, it was easier to escape notice; part of the time he could hide behind the horse and he didn't stand out by being above everyone else.

"What was it you had for me?" he asked after having handed his horse away and locking his knees, still smiling and trying to appear nonchalant.

Rostopchin waved sharply at one of the guards standing to the side who disappeared behind one of the tents with a slight bow. The Governor turned back to his Nation, frowning slightly. "A most unusual prisoner, my Lord. The troops who captured him swore they saw him rising up right after being shot in the leg and he seems barely affected by having his finger ripped off."

Russia stiffened a bit. "Oh? Most interesting."

Either it was a human with an uncommonly high pain tolerance or a Nation. Russia found it hard to believe but he doubted anyone besides a Nation would be able to ignore a wound so easily. Could they have captured France? Shuffling footsteps behind them alerted him to the approaching guards and their prisoner. There was no limping and if the prisoner had truly been shot in the leg…

He turned sharply on his heel, taking in the apparently docile form held between the guards, dressed in a singed blue uniform jacket, long brown hair falling messily across his shoulders. He appeared to be clutching his bloody hand close to his chest, as if to hide the missing finger and how it was slowly growing back.

'Ah,' Russia's eyes turned cold as he took in the stumbling personification of Lithuania.

"It has been a while, Mister Laurinaitis," he observed with a cold smile, causing the other Nation's head to snap up, his eyes wide as he stared up at Russia with fear in his eyes. "It seems French service hasn't been treating you too well, да?"

Lithuania winced at the tone, biting his lip. " Пр-прости меня…" he whispered, stumbling a bit over the pronunciation. 'As if the mere speaking of Russian would earn him forgiveness,' Russia thought savagely, his hands curling into fists at his sides, wishing to punch the kneeling Nation in the face and kick him in the stomach for good measure. How dare Lithuania oppose him?

"Don't try to act innocent, Laurinaitis," he ordered sharply and Lithuania shivered, seeming to fold in on himself. He turned back to the Governor who had been observing the interaction with barely concealed curiosity. "Take him back to his… accommodations. I'll deal with him later."

"Да сэр."

Canada didn't really like fighting; as he saw it, talking was generally the best way to work things out. His logic was that a lot less people got killed that way but did anyone ever listen to him? Noo, of course not; he was just a young and stupid colony, not old and powerful Nation like the Europeans or 'an independent Nation of freedom and greatness' as America had taken to calling himself after leaving England. And he had attempted to drag Canada along with him, too.

'And now he's doing it again,' Canada thought with a huff, adjusting his grip on his musket, trying to ignore the scratchy feeling of his red, ill-fitting uniform jacket. They were all a bit too big for someone who appeared at most fifteen years old.

Sure, it would be nice not to listen to anyone but when it came to down to it, someone would be telling him what to do anyway, especially if things went America's way. And he honestly would rather listen to England than America; at least the older Nation wasn't always there to breath down his neck and he was actually smart and knew how Nations and governments worked. America though? He was not only younger than Canada (by 96 years!) but he had been independent only 36 years; as if he was going to listen to America, ever.

America still probably couldn't even tie his tie properly.

And now the stupid Yankee was attempting to annex him, eh? No way that was happening; Canada would protect himself to the last. And he would have to, especially with the war in Europe tying up most of England's forces.

France was a hoser too, now that he thought about it.

And couldn't America have at least chosen a bit more humane time to attack? Canada had been shaken out of bed barely after five in the morning; by all logic America should still have been asleep. Maybe his brother just hadn't slept at all? That would explain the unnaturally early hour.

He adjusted in his position behind a slight rise on the heights, peering down at the Americans crossing the river in the gradually growing morning light. He took aim with his musket at one of the invaders already on his shore and shot, feeling morbid satisfaction as his victim dropped like a stone. 'Good riddance.'

A second man went just as easily as the first, one moment it was there and then gone, like a candle that had been blown out. 'Humans are so fragile,' he thought distantly as he felled the third invader, who made an attempt to crawl away from the line of fire. Maybe he should feel more guilty about killing and injuring them, and on some level he did feel guilty. But that was just a waste of time.

"Guilt has no place in battlefield," England said as he gently adjusted the grip of Canada's small hands on the weapon. One of his arms was in a sling and his voice was rough and dark but gentle in how he educated Canada. "Guilt only leads to hesitation and that leads to losses – losses of people, territory, battles and eventually wars. If you must feel guilt, leave it for after the battle, when it can do no harm."

Canada bit his lip nervously and nodded, hefting the heavy gun in his hands, pointing it at the target England had set out. His hands shook from the exertion, the muzzle wavering up and down, from side to side as a bead of sweat trickled down his temple, tickling his face and making him want to blink.

He glanced up at England who stood slightly to the side and behind him, staring expressionlessly down at his colony. It sounded as if he was speaking from experience that pained him deeply… but he actually wasn't certain of that. He hadn't been under English rule for long but in those decades he had already learned his new guardian differed from France like night and day. Where France was generally rather open about his feelings, England preferred to keep his hidden. And that left Canada guessing on his caretaker's true feelings, carefully hidden behind the brusque words.

"O-okay…" Canada murmured nervously, taking a deep breath. 'No guilt, no hesitation.'

He squeezed the trigger.

"Found you!"

His blue-violet eyes shot up and to the side from the battlefield below, his heart beating wildly as his gaze fell on his brother grouching only several yards away, grinning. His blond hair was windswept and his blue uniform fit him much better than Canada's red. America's musket was hanging carelessly across his back, as if he didn't even expect to need it against his brother.

Canada's knuckles turned white and his eyes narrowed as he immediately swung his weapon to point straight at America, something stopping him from shooting. "Get off of my land or I'll shoot you, America," he growled.

America snorted derisively. "As if you could ever do that," he said, appearing wholly unconcerned by both Canada's threat and his musket.

"Don't try me, eh."

"You're only saying that 'coz you're afraid of England," America refuted with what seemed to be one hundred per cent certainty. "Why don't you ditch the old man and come with me? England's got nothing on me, I'll protect you!"

Canada stared at his brother in disbelief. Did he honestly believe that? He wasn't afraid of England in slightest. Sure he could've been a little nicer and less unfair and he did have his scary moments – especially when talking about America – but scared?

"Sorry, I'll have to refuse," Canada said firmly, raising his musket, now actually in a position ready to shoot. "Get out off here, Yank."

America had never been one to give up easily (or maybe it was just stupidity) and he continued to smile brightly, his blue eyes shining with excitement, trying to cajole Canada into seeing his side of things. "Awww, don't be like that, my place is great. I mean, I've got democracy and none of this stupid monarchy shit –"

No guilt.

No hesitation.

Canada squeezed the trigger and the musket roared.

As a rule, Prussia didn't like being told what to do. Sure, military discipline was okay (sometimes, when it was justified) but he had had enough with overzealous orders and over the top discipline when he still went by the name Teutonic Order and later when he was a vassal of Poland and Lithuania. Then later he had to take orders from his Brandenburg too – and kind of from the Holy Roman Empire but he was, had been, weak and no one obeyed the Empire absolutely anyway. But now Brandenburg obeyed him and his other older brother was dead, at France's and Austria's hand.

Was he bitter? Not really, they had been anything but close. Austria had been the one who was close to the Holy Roman Empire, which was why he had been so surprised to hear the aristocrat had assisted in their brother's demise.

But that was over and done with, and of no consequence anymore, years after the fact. What did any of that matter to Prussia? He had his own worries, one of them at the moment being avoiding orders.

Religious Orders were all about discipline and while Prussia had all but revelled in it at the time, it had eventually left a sour taste in his mouth. Since then he hadn't been the most obedient of Nations to his leaders; but he worked hard and did well, excellently even, with a certain amount of freedom. And after some time his leaders learnt he was more likely to listen to orders too if he was given a chance to run wild at least sometimes.

Everyone else knew that too; the other Nations and their rulers, the fisherwoman down the street in Königsberg.

So France treating him like a mangy dog was a definite mistake; there was no way Prussia wouldn't rebel and turn a bad situation to his advantage at first available opportunity.

His withdrawing from the war in 1795 and then the losses in 1806 had shocked him to the core; zum Teufel, most humans alive still remembered when he was called 'an army with a country!' Losing to France like that had not been in his plans and if nothing else, it had proved to him that no matter how awesome Alte Fritz and his tactics had been, the world evolved. And if the großartig Preußen was going to stay awesome, he would need to evolve too and catch up with the latest military tactics.

And going vigilante seemed like an excellent way to do that.

While he had been forced to give his men to France to attack Russia (his retrained, reorganised and too-small army – stupid treaty), he himself had ignored the summons, preferring to return to his beloved Königsberg, which he had always held more dear to him than any other city. Even his King, cautious as he was, preferred to have the Nation out of the capital for a while. Although Prussia was ready to bet he wouldn't be nearly as relieved if he knew what the Nation was planning.

Namely, telling Frankreich to fuck off and beat him into a pulp afterwards.

A sudden breeze of cold wind threw heavily falling snowflakes right into his face, causing him to sputter and stop in the middle of the street, wiping his face in agitation. He scowled at the dark clouds for making him colder than he already was but continued on his way, adjusting his hat. Now, where was that stupid mill again?

He had assured Yorck that he could make his way there just fine (because he was großartig) but the stupid weather made this harder than it had to be and the mill remained nowhere to be found.

"Are you lost?"

Prussia stumbled in surprise at the question, turning on his heel to meet the gaze of the Nation he had been on his way to meet. Russia was smiling that same creepy smile he had had since the Northern Crusades and Prussia didn't like it because it was as if he had plunged into that frozen lake all over again.

"Of course not," he scoffed, straightening under the taller Nation's scrutiny. "Just taking my time, enjoying the awesome weather."

"Of course," Russia agreed brightly. "Shall we?"

It didn't take them long to arrive at the mill, where Prussia was – unjustly – scolded for wandering off on his own and Russia was simply served a bottle that even at this distance smelled slightly of alcohol. A slight shift from the corner drew his attention and he felt his eyes widening in surprise at the sight of a dirty and slumped Nation leaning heavily against the wall.

Russia followed his gaze and smiled slightly. "Ah, yes, I had to teach Литва some manners. I hope you don't mind he'll be sitting in?"

Prussia cooled his expression into one of indifference, not willing to admit his unease. "Sure, as long as he won't be bothering us."

Russia's smile seemed to darken. "Oh, he won't, he's learnt his lesson."

As the two Nation signed their agreement, Lithuania seemed to curl in on himself in his corner, the ice-cold wind screeching beyond the thin walls of the mill.

Karl Johan was eager to please; that had become quite clear the moment he had been chosen as the Crown Prince of Sweden and had met his new Nation for the first time. He had heard stories, Sweden could tell that much and the Prince had seemed somehow disappointed when the meeting finally took place. The Nation had a vague feeling that the French general felt sorry for him and how he nowadays preferred moping around the palace instead of taking active part in politics as he used to.

And he really couldn't blame him for that. As he was now, he really wasn't a Nation, a Kingdom, to be proud of at the moment. He felt unbalanced, as if something that had always been there was now missing, as if he had lost one of his limbs.

And Finland truly had been his right arm, his support in all things.

And Karl had realised it very quickly and apparently decided he needed compensation and because Russia was far more useful as an ally, had set his sights on Norway. Not that he hadn't been intent on adding Norway's lands to his own for several of his previous wars with Denmark already but this time…

… that idea had truly set fire within him.

He didn't need Finland and his weird eastern ways, not when he could have Norway, who was practically his brother and a much greater threat encompassing pretty much all of his western border. Together they would be powerful, with their shared peninsula united under Sweden's flag and King. And it would weaken that Danish mutt, still thinking he was better than everyone else just because he used to lead the Kalmar Union –

Yes, getting Norway was the best choice.

And he wouldn't enter the war on the continent unless he had his guaranteed compensation. Russia had already agreed – doubtlessly thankful he wasn't gunning for Finland – almost a year ago in the secret meeting in St. Petersburg and later again in Åbo. But with how the alliance was shaping up, he would still need to convince England and Prussia of his right to Norway – and to Greenland, Iceland and the Faroe Islands as backup.

And today, if things went as planned, he would get the first one on his side.

England stood in the meeting room, staring rather pensively out of the window. The only sign of nervousness were the sharp taps of his right boot against the stone floor, clearly restless but forcing himself to stay still. Weak spring sun shone on his messy blond hair, making him appear somehow ethereal in the light, a painting by one of the Renaissance masters.

"England, thank you for comin'."

The Island Nation's alert gaze snapped to his northern counterpart, offering a tight nod. "My pleasure, Sweden. It's always good to meet you."

A bit of a lie probably, there had been a period of time when Sweden had been considerably closer to France and his interactions with England had been strained. Besides that, the phony war they had had the past two years and his unofficial and official recognition of America's independence before the Treaty of Paris had been signed notwithstanding, the two of them generally got along rather well. And Sweden wasn't very convinced about the meeting being England's pleasure either; the younger Nation was pale and had heavy bags under his eyes, stretched thin by the fighting both here in Europe and in his colonies in North America.

"You as well," Sweden nodded, motioning for the other to take a seat. "Tea?" he offered, knowing the other's preference for that over coffee.

"Gladly."

Each having received their choice of beverage from a handy servant stationed outside the door, they sat quietly for a while, enjoying a silent moment in the hectic world that surrounded them. While England was young – younger than Sweden at least – and Middle-European, he knew how to appreciate silence (at least sometimes when France wasn't involved) which Sweden found unusual the further one headed south. Southern Nations didn't seem to understand the concept of silence, meandering around their loud cities, not quieting even in the rare moments they weren't at war with each other.

Sweden was secretly convinced that Denmark and Netherlands had switched places at some point in history. Denmark was just too loud to be a true son of the north.

"You haven't left Denmark with much choice in your Treaty with Russia," England observed, green gaze intense over the edge of his teacup. "You have me in quite a bind and I don't like it."

Sweden shrugged, unconcerned. "It's non-negotiable," he said calmly. They both were well aware that if England didn't agree to the Treaty and attempted to get Danish support for the Coalition against France, he risked war with both Sweden and Russia. And with the Treaty between the two of them in place… Denmark would lose Norway no matter what. And even if England approached him about joining, who would willingly join an alliance that was determined to take your lands from you?

"Surely you're aware that your help in Europe is limited unless Denmark is on our side," England pointed out.

"That doesn't concern me."

England let out a growl, almost slamming his cup on the table and standing up, marching back to his previous spot by the window, glaring down on the bustling streets of Stockholm. Sweden sat there calmly, observing the younger Nation expressionlessly. He remembered when he had been hot-headed like that – taken by the powerful feeling of independence and other nations falling before him left and right – before the Battle of Poltava and the subsequent losses had taken everything from him. This time he was determined to gain something; he would be strong again.

And England knew he would need to bow down to his demands if he wanted the help he desperately needed against France's expansion. The maritime Nation whirled sharply on his heel, pointing a finger sharply at Sweden. "I have one condition before we sign this Treaty."

The Scandinavian raised an eyebrow and grunted. "And that is?"

"We offer Denmark a chance to join the Alliance on his own free will and secede Norway," a hopeless proposition on all accounts but apparently it made England feel better and righteous in his decisions. 'To be so young and innocent again,' Sweden thought, amused. And it really was no skin off his back to agree; if nothing else it gave him even more of a right to take Norway when Denmark refused.

Sweden hummed, pretending to think, staring expressionlessly at England, who was already starting to fidget. "Alright… if you can guarantee a colony in the West Indies for me."

No matter how much this was about the war, it was also business.

A moment of silence, during which England clearly wracked his brain on how to fulfil that wish. "Guadaloupe," he said finally. "I've seized her from France and I'm willing to give up my position in relation to her," he glanced sharply at Sweden, "with you having the exact same rights and duties as I have at the moment."

"That's acceptable," Sweden agreed. "Let's inform our representatives so that they can write up the papers."

Italy let out a frustrated huff as he applied too much force to the brush, leaving a glaring splotch of reddish-brown paint on the canvas. He pouted at the smear marring his lovely hillside landscape; he had hoped to add a some subtle warmth to the shadow beneath the tree.

But on top of not having the proper control of his hands, the colour had come out too intense, looking a bit as if blood had been spilled on the spot and was then left to dry. He sighed tiredly and cleaned his brush, starting to mix more of the grassy green colour. He still wasn't used to his larger body and the lack of coordination showed in his painting. And in most other things; it was really frustrating.

To think he had spent centuries hoping to grow.

'Lucky I'm using oil paints…' he thought, shaking the annoyed thought determinedly away. He could still save his tree-shadow no problem; he just needed to spread the reddish-brown properly among the blues and greens the shadow was comprised of. And then maybe add some dashes of yellowish white to give it some depth…?

Italy hummed thoughtfully, his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth as he started fixing the colour with careful brush strokes. It would still take many more layers before the mistake would be completely hidden but that was fine. Italy was willing to spend time on perfecting his technique and polish the end result.

As long as he wasn't bothered, that is. He just hoped France wouldn't try more hare-brained schemes like attacking Russia again; that hadn't been nice. It had been really cold there and so few had returned – Italy still considered himself lucky to have managed it and it was one of his worst experiences ever. Although he hadn't lost any flags, which was good.

And he much preferred staying out of the actual fighting when given the chance. Oh, he could fight, and pretty well too, but it was generally just too much trouble and he preferred trading. One could ruin someone just as easily through trade as through war and it was much less of a hassle. In wars a Nation lost lives, in trading, it became rich and Italy liked being rich.

There was a knock on the door and Italy, long-used to the fact that when he was disturbed he should not have a paintbrush in his hands to invite the risk of destroying his painting or the disturber's clothes, set it down before calling cheerfully: "Come in!"

The door was pushed open, letting a familiar face saunter in, dark hair, dark eyes and olive toned skin, generally annoyed expression, with a smidgen of dust on his shoes. "Fratello," Italy said with a smile.

"Bastardo," his older brother said blandly, peering curiously around the room, even risking a few pokes at one of the still life paintings comprised of delicate glass vases and colourful flowers, leaving a slight grease stain on the drying canvas and a burgundy paint stain on his finger. Italy held in a sigh of frustration; now he would need to fix that too.

He wasn't even offended by the bastard comment, he had learned to never expect anything else from some of his siblings, especially Napoli – who went by Sicily because politics were a total mess and why did they have to have two Sicilies literally? – who was one of the oldest. As far as most Italian states were concerned, the present-day Kingdom of Italy had always been too German to be one of them. And still, somehow, nonno had liked him more, so his southern siblings had always been a bit bitter about it. Not overly – except when they tried and sometimes succeeded in taking his lands.

Not that it mattered much at the moment; if he discounted Sicilia-Napoli, he was the strongest Italian Nation on the Peninsula, French puppet State or not. Some of his siblings were mere French Provinces right now.

"What are you doing here, Sicilia?"

His southern brother shrugged, seemingly uncaring, "Just checking how the venerable 'Kingdom of Italy' is faring," he answered somewhat mockingly.

Italy hid a scowl and instead smiled sweetly. "That's nice of you, fratello. And how is the venerable 'Kingdom of Sicily' doing under French rule?"

His older brother shot him a scowl and Italy swallowed down his victorious hum of 'Be~'.

"Fucking miserable," his brother's answer was surprisingly frank and shocked the younger of the two into silence.

"Oh?" his fratello generally liked to pretend everything was fine and nothing actually concerned him. And Sicily actually had many Nations fooled that his only expressions and feelings were 'angry' and 'annoyed.'

And 'scared' but he refused to show that if he could help it.

Sicily shot him a scowl. "Think about it a bit, idiota. Isn't it bad enough we've already been ruled for centuries by other Nations and now we can add another one to the list!"

"I've been under French rule before," Italy shrugged, internally agreeing that his brother was correct. Sure, Austria had been nice enough (sometimes) but that was mostly because Italy knew how to work his way around a trader of any sort and was thus considered useful. Especially if he was distracted by something else – like cleaning – while Austria took care of his money.

But it would be nice if he didn't have to listen and obey other Nations and given France's recent problems… who knows, maybe he could become independent someday.

That is, if he managed to subdue his siblings who were most likely as annoyed with the situation as he was.

"Well fuck you. As far as I'm concerned, Spain was bad enough," Sicily gritted his teeth and blobbed down on one of the spare chairs he sometimes used for portrait models.

"I've been under Spanish rule too," Italy observed thoughtfully.

"Shut up Lombardia."

"That's Regno d'Italia to you, be!"

A/N:
Chapter title: a line from the song Kotikansalleni (Fin. For My Own People), words by the poet Eino Leino, composition by Heikki Klementti.
Москва/Moskva (Rus.): Moscow
The Fire of Moscow: September 14-18 1812, part of the Russians' scorched-earth tactics, most of the city burned to ground.
Петербург/ Peterburg (Rus.): St. Petersburg; the St. (Sankt) was used only in official documents.
Волга/Volga (Rus.): the Volga River, the longest river in Europe.
Мы ликуем славы звуки, / My likuem slavy zvuki,
Чтоб враги могли узреть, / Chtob vragi mogli uzret',
Что свои готовы руки / Chto svoi gotovy ruki
В край вселенной мы простреть / V kray vselennoy my prostret'.
We rejoice glory sounds
That enemy could behold,
That their hands are ready
At the edge of the universe, we stretch.
Above is a verse from Гром побе́ды, раздава́йся!/ Grom pobedy, razdavaysya! (Rus. Let the thunder of victory sound) which was an unofficial Russian national anthem, written in 1791 by Gavrila Derzhavin, composition by Osip Kozlovsky.
Прости меня/Prosti menya (Rus.): Forgive me.
Да сэр/ Da ser (Rus.): Yes sir.
War of 1812 because things in Finland were actually pretty boring at this point. And a quick ref to Invasion of Canada 1775.
Battle of Queenston Heights, October 13 1812, the first major battle in the War of 1812.
Canada is older than America because New France was established in 1534 and New Sweden in 1638 (going back to my NS=America theory).
And France wasn't very popular with the Canucks after they came under British control so no Papa!France here. Instead we have Daddy!England teaching Canada to shoot sometime after the American Revolutionary War.
Königsberg was the capital of Duchy of Prussia 1525-1701, after which it was the regional capital of the Province of Prussia within the Kingdom of Prussia.
Zum Teufel (Ger.): the Devil, used as a swearword about equaling "Hell."
Greis Fritz (Ger.): Old man Fritz, Frederick der Große (the Great).
Großartig Preußen (Ger.): Awesome Prussia.
Frankreich (Ger.): France
Литва/Litva (Rus.): Lithuania
Convention of Tauroggen December 30 1812 was basically Prussia saying "fuck you" to France while his royal family looked in the other direction. In the convention Prussia agreed to stay out of the conflict between France and Russia, technically breaking of his own alliance with Napoleon.
Sweden had a sort of fascination with Norway as FarbrorEstersPojkar have already shown us in their cosplay videos. Most Swedish-Danish wars had Sweden invading Norway at some point.
We already had a look at Sweden's private unofficial mail from 1777, but the official acknowledgment of American independence was the Treaty of Amity and Commerce in April 3 1783 (5 months before the Treaty of Paris), making Sweden the first neutral country to do so.
Nordics are all total coffee addicts, but Sweden is in denial.
I decided that they work the Treaties sometimes like this, two or more person discussions and then have the official people take care of the legal documents. And I did it this way because I can't be bothered to look up all the real people and England's second appearance was getting overdue anyway.
The scene takes place on March 3 1813, in the signing of the Treaty of Stockholm.
Kingdom of Italy (1805-1814) was a French puppet state and in that time provided about 200,000 soldiers to Grande Armée. 27,000 of them marched to Russia, only 1,000-2,000 returned. And they were noted as the bravest troops in Europe.
Italian and German histories are a total mess. In the case of this fic Romano is actually the Kingdom of Naples, but the contemporaries still called it Sicily because fuckifIknow. For the purposes of this story, the history and names of North Italy go as follows: Lombardy, Duchy of Milan, the Napoleonic Republic and later the Napoleonic Kingdom of Italy, Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia, and when Lombardy is ceded to Kingdom of Sardinia, he takes over and after the country is all unified, he decides to call himself Veneziano because Venice is pretty and he's been beating everyone else up anyway.
"Be-" is apparently a real Italian verbal tick that comes from "bene," good/well.
Fratello (Ita.): brother.
Bastardo (Ita.): bastard.
Nonno (Ita.): grandfather.
Idiota (Ita.): Idiot.
Regno d'Italia (Ita.): Kingdom of Italy