Sweeping up his volunteers took time. Perhaps unsurprisingly, rebel cells were spread across quite a bit of land, but with a victory under his belt, they were a bit more willing to come and serve their 'rightful king'. Admittedly, Lelouch was worried about what would happen if they were caught up by Danubian forces…

With no offense intended towards them, despite all their nobility and gallantry, they were rabble. And there were few things more disastrous than rabble being hunted down by cavalry. That limited their utility, although bodies to fill uniforms and hold ground were almost always useful, in some way or the other.

Regardless, they were his, and it would be a shame to see them scattered to the wind or to see the revolutionary fire in their breasts stamped out. He couldn't wait and gather up every potential soldier, but they built up some forces as they marched, the splendor of a victorious army attracting ambitious dreamers and more practical opportunists. (Lelouch had to scare some of the more annoying away- he wouldn't have his revolutionary army slowed down by hangers-on.)

Then Lelouch was left with several choices. To his south, there was Dalmatia, a land that could- possibly- be made into a proper addition to his own, but at the same time, it was separated from much of the Danubian Empire by the peaks of the Balkans. Admittedly, mountains were not a completely alien terrain to him, but they were still difficult to surmount.

On the other extreme of the empire, there was that sparkling gem on the Danube, Vienna. Seizing her would put him in a position to make demands, assuming that he could even manage such a feat. However, at the moment, that would mean plowing through the Tyrol and her people to get there… not the most stellar of ideas.

Then there was the middle path, give or take. Seize Trieste and bring Istria under his control… perhaps send a few probing attacks down the coast of the Adriatic while investigating something far more serious. The attitude of the Carpathians.

As he marched in the direction of that great basin, Lelouch couldn't help but wonder, his mind caught up in a historical fancy. What would have it been like, the better part of a millennium ago, to pick up everything you had ever known and ride? To leave the steppe behind and make a new life in Carpathia.

Lelouch had no plans on migrating, of course, but the choice the Magyars made now would certainly have just as much of an impact on Europe as those thundering barbarian warriors would have back then. And that choice would shape them in turn, as surely as the migration turned them from nomads to settled peoples, who were converted from their pagan ways to Christianity by kings who saw themselves as successors to the apostles.

But the male line of Saint Stephen had long since died. In place of the Arpads, Habsburgs now reigned in Hungary, and Lelouch imagined that there must have been some Hungarians would prefer to throw off their yoke. Not all, certainly, but some.

What would become of that Apostolic Crown?


The king has fled. Long live the king.

Some four hundred or so years ago, some clever clogs had come up with the original phrase- with dead instead of fled- in Napoleon's own country, referring to the ancien regime. As soon as one king expired, the next immediately ascended to the throne. There was, he supposed, some reliability in that system, barring succession crises.

And Napoleon knew that he had come to mimic that system more than some people would have liked. The revolution was a strike against the very same dynastic claims that he had now pressed… perhaps the horse he had ridden to victory upon would throw him. But he would never let it be said he did not carry on his father's legacy, even if he was little more than a pale, lunar reflection of that brilliant sun.

On the subject of sun-kings and their descendants, Bonaparte's predecessor had fled, and was, as far as they could tell, headed for the Rhine. In another time, it might have been madness, throwing himself at the feet of another monarch, pleading for aid… but the Bourbons and Hohenzollerns had a shared enemy in Bonaparte.

Unfortunately, the king had been spirited away by royalist elements, meaning there was no chance that they would simply be caught at the border, unlike… a certain Bourbon who had undergone a rapid reduction in height. For what it was worth, it did help Bonaparte by flushing out some of the royalists.

He was under no illusions his army was not, in large part, composed of fair-weather friends who had joined because of the recent food issues. Maybe, if the Bourbons had a few more years to settle things down, they might have weathered the storm better, but there was no use in idle speculation. People remembered his regime, as misbegotten as it may have been, or his father's own more glorious regime.

The transfer of power was not perfectly smooth, of course. For rather obvious reasons, the nobility were not too fond of him, and with that, his military took a hit in leadership, and he certainly needed it now. He needed just about every man he could get his hands on, so there would certainly be some… growing pains. If nothing else, battlefield promotions promised some sort of quality?

Before he could even do that, he had to make sure that his administration was in proper order- a draft from all parts of the country had to be enforced, after all, and while some regions had turned their coats with remarkable swiftness, he worried about areas far from his armies. His victory over the royalist forces earlier had been a coup in several ways: men who surrendered were, in some cases, willing to fill up holes in his ranks; it had proved his martial might to wavering provinces, and it had struck fear into the old king's heart.

And flight from the people was a terrible sin. What father- for that was what these great monarchs claimed to be- would abandon his children? (Napoleon had retreated himself before. Perhaps, if the king won, it would be remembered as a temporary setback in a glorious reign. Historians could be generous like that.)

Bonaparte also made sure to keep a good number of guards around himself. While his predecessor had survived, that was no guarantee Bonaparte wouldn't evoke the wrath of royalists, republicans, or both. Mostly, these guards were Corsicans- he supposed that he held the isle in personal union with France now, like some monarch of old- just because he didn't have the time to plumb the depths of the government, rooting out sympathizers.

And of course, promises had been made. Promises that he would have to keep, even in times such as these… if he played the part of Caesar, he would be met by a Brutus. Admittedly, his brilliant strategy to avoid such a fate was empowering his own senate… was he handing them the means to cripple him? Absolutely. But he could consolidate later. He needed to survive now.

They'd need to secure the north coast, the Pyrenees, the Rhine in particular… Mustering forces would take a while, but his guards and legionnaires were already ready to move. He could march them as hard as his supply lines allowed, maybe even picking up some local forces along the way… Assuming that they could be armed properly.

He didn't particularly like to imagine what state his economy would be in by the time this was all over. But debts would be a problem for the him of the future to solve.


All of Lelouch's new volunteers were chomping at the bit to plunge into the Empire, to strike against their oppressors and free their countrymen from perfidious Habsburg armies. Although before that, there was an enemy more vicious than even the Danubian dogs: logistics.

He couldn't exactly depend on goodwill deep in enemy territory, and while looting was a very traditional way of solving that particular problem, it was both not particularly palatable and prone to all sorts of issues. Even if the Danubians didn't take a note from the Russians and start burning fields- something which might provoke their subjects- there was the issue of low yields… (If it came down to it, he would.)

Hopefully, all the food they could ever need would be brought in behind them. This, of course, was a wild overestimation of their logistical capabilities, and he couldn't go in too deep. Lelouch wouldn't be touching Galicia- in other words, Danubian Poland- both for fear of provoking the Russians to action and for the sake of his logistics. What a marvel it would be, to have grain grown on the Nile, shipped downriver and through the Adriatic, have it disembarked and then hauled over the mountains… just to feed some conscript. And they now approached the city that might make that possible.

Trieste! A sparkling gem on the Adriatic- not Venice, certainly, but more critically, a port. It would be quite useful, even if Lelouch knew there was risk inherent in making any one spot the lynchpin of his logistical plans.

There was, for what it was worth, a token defense of the city by some mix of fleeing soldiery and garrison troops. At least, there was an attempt, until choice bombardment of their positions and some very accurate work by his artillerymen got the civilians shaking in their boots. That, alongside some implications about how much damage they could do to the city's naval lifeline, seemed to cow the people. And if the garrison was having problems before...

Lelouch did intend good treatment for this city, but he was under no illusions that he was welcome here. Well, perhaps he was liked by some, but his public approval would continue to plummet as he marched, getting further away from Italy. The city was a mixed bag- as surely as commerce flowed through the city, people did. There were some Italian speakers in there, some who thought him a hero, but there were others. Many others.

For what it was worth, he tried to put some polyglots in the garrison. It wouldn't be large- basically just enough to keep public order and prevent any shenanigans- but he could try to make them a little less hamfisted and more capable of keeping order. He kept many of his Foreign Legionnaires, barring those from Trieste, of course, because their knowledge of the lay and language of the land was too valuable.

His resources were finite. He simply couldn't assign a massive garrison to the city. Splitting his forces up piecemeal was… well, he could recognize that it might be needed one day, but it was inadvisable. Dalmatia was appealing, but Lelouch was loath to split his forces now for a little strip of land like that. If chance allowed, he might just pluck it, but he could not afford a distraction when the grand prize dangled just ahead of him, target he would sink into like a dagger, the heart of empire.


Unfortunately, Bonaparte had no semaphores or other means of communicating any more rapidly than men on horseback, so that just meant he needed a lot of men of horseback. Not just to tie together his realm, for proper communication and the delivery of edicts- something more of a logistical problem than it was back on Corsica- but as police… and, he imagined, scouts who would catch the first signs of invasion. An invasion he knew would come from somewhere.

So he sat in an office in Paris proper, surrounded by babbling administrators who were already hatching plans for what to do the moment he turned his back. These were- he hoped- temporary appointments from the upper crust of Paris who would in time be replaced by properly elected officials. They would also be left with the critical matter of running the elections… he did leave a small fraction of his more republican men in Paris as peacekeepers. And reminders that anyone who infringed his democratic promises would suffer for it.

"I do hope that you will properly maintain Paris and her surroundings in my absence. I believe we all understand the… repercussions of not fulfilling our duties to the best of our abilities?" He smiled icily.

They responded with a proper chorus of "Yes, your majesty," or "Of course, your majesty," and Bonaparte internally cringed at the thought of cleaning up whatever mess they would make in his absence.

Afterwards, he proceeded to go out and do a final sweep of Paris, meeting the people- with some reasonable limits, considering potential risks to his life- and generally trying to improve morale before the struggle. But he did have a few personal destinations in mind.

Les Invalides, where he spoke to the veterans and wondered how many of his own men would join their ranks- or how many of his men would join his father in the ground. The senior Napoleon, the greater, rested in a churchyard some ways away, another stop in the younger's tour. If nothing else, his father had received a dignified burial among his countrymen. No great marble plinth, no towering edifice, a simple grave courtesy of a rather hurried burial… (Barely any time to lay in repose, a hurried mass. The Second knew the way the wind blew back then, that his father might not have gotten a thing had more republican elements taken control...)

Still, the grave was humble. Perhaps that was why he was permitted to stay in Paris. Maybe the Tsar or Kaiser or one of the Kings who came to that conference drew some satisfaction from the Emperor resting alongside the rabble, no greater than his own soldiers in death. Or perhaps they just feared that if his body was returned to Corsica alongside his son, a true monument would be made there, a testament to his life, something tremendous, something a Bourbon would have never allowed. (Countless swarms came to this plain grave, no mausoleum no necessary.)

At the very least, he rested alongside the men who had so occupied his life, who fought for him so faithfully, even if the excess of flowers and trinkets set it apart from the rest. Exhuming him seemed a tragedy, even if arrangements could be made elsewhere, even if some massive mausoleum could be built.

He liked to think that his father needed no great tomb to tower over Europe, even in death. However, threats lingered in that long shadow, foes that crept and sulked alongside ones he could declare war on (or who would declare war on him).

Bonaparte wanted to head towards the Rhine with haste- the Prussians could spring on him before the Britannians could arranged a crossing, he figured- but there were certainly logistical concerns… Not to mention another place he wanted to see first. No pun intended.

The school for the blind was not the most charming building, and it definitely seemed that it could use more funding, but he supposed that function trumped looks here… He and his guards walked the halls, their boots sounding against the floor like volleys. Of course, Bonaparte was swiftly lead in the direction of the principal of the school, who almost seemed to wilt as he approached, before giving a clumsy bow. "Your majesty."

"Greetings. You are the head of this institution, I presume?"

"Yes, your majesty." He gulped, shivering like a banner in the wind before speaking up. "Your majesty, if your aim is trimming budgets, I beg of you-"

Napoleon sighed. "I'm not here to close you down. I'm seeking a certain Braille?"

"What did he do?" The principal groaned.

"Nothing troubling, I assure you."

The principal didn't quite seem to believe him, and for a few moments Bonaparte almost wondered if he was going to stand up and refuse to give up Braille… but the principal folded and began to guide them down the halls.

Before he even entered the classroom, Napoleon could hear the faint sound of an instrument, and he was suddenly struck by both nostalgia and the sweet sound of La Monaco, an air his father was quite fond of. Vaguely, he remembered his first dance lessons, when his father would guide him through the only steps he really knew…

He shook his head, dispelling the memories- however sweet they may have been- and entered the classroom to see Braille, he assumed, playing in front of a class. A musical education, perhaps? Some minor quirking of his head seemed to show that he heard them, even if his eyes remained lidded.

Slowly, the notes faded away, and Braille turned their way. The eyes were lidded, a smile still on his face. "Hello. Might I ask who you are?"

"Napoleon Bonaparte the Second."

Some murmuring from the class. "The emperor?

"The king."

"Yes," he nodded, "no reason to cause undue offense. Surely, though, you must have more pressing business than the schooling of the blind, your majesty."

"Very true- but I came to deliver thanks. The Princess of Italy appreciates your work greatly."

Braille smiled. "I had hoped some good use would be made of my little system."

"I've used it myself- simple, but so elegant. I can't believe it hadn't been made before."

Braille shrugged. "Missing something simple is easier than you'd think."

"Yes, we're quite… blind... to things…"

Thankfully, Braille was graceful enough to laugh. "We're all blind to the future, your majesty, and yet we look to it regardless."

"The blind leading the blind…" Bonaparte mused.

"I'd avoid pits, your majesty."

Heh. "I'll try my best." Would a handshake be a faux pas? "Presuming that I survive these coming years, I hope to work with you in the future, Mr. Braille."

The school could stand to be improved majorly. Hopefully, Bonaparte lived to see such a thing come to pass. He shook his head as he left the school What was with him and vision puns today?


There was something about mountains that appealed to men, Lelouch thought. They were some of the only things in the natural world that could truly compare to the heights of their ambitions. Lelouch sat in shadow- the shadow of a thousand years of dynastic dreams, of the old regime, once thought as unshakable as these very peaks- as they traced a path between the slopes.

These were the Dinaric Alps, the Balkan branch of that famed line, and they were mountains that could prove just as fierce as their fellows to the north. Lelouch was not willing to emulate Hannibal this early in his campaign, so he tentatively probed the nearest mountain passes, looking for reasonable paths, which he found.

Lelouch was not going to wring his hands uselessly over something he had no control over, but it was worth remembering that the folk of the towns they passed by were Slovenes. More broadly, southern Slavs. Quite obviously, the nationalism trick wouldn't work here- or at least, Lelouch himself wouldn't be able to try it- so the way was fraught with danger.

Lelouch had no issue with the south Slavs, but he couldn't help but consider the Hungarians, and what he might be able to offer them. As cold as it was, if he had to pick between freeing the Slovenes and the Croats or freeing the Hungarians… well, he knew who he'd prefer at his side, and which country would damage the Habsburgs most with its absence. Both would be nice, of course, but he had to pick his targets, spin his story and aims the right way...

The Polish nobility had something, back when they had a state. Lelouch believed that the concept was called the Pacta Conventa. An agreement between the king and his nobles upon his ascendancy, where whatever pledges and privileges the king had granted to his 'supporters' were listed. It, alongside another set of articles, made Poland-Lithuania perhaps the most constitutional state in eastern Europe- before it fell, of course- especially considering that their king was elected. (Tough luck if you weren't a noble, though.)

That was what Lelouch hoped to bring to mind or to plant in certain people's minds. Hungary had elected her kings once, and perhaps they could do so again- an odd sort of compromise between pure republicanism and monarchism. It would not quite be the ideal republican state that the philosophes dreamt of, but Lelouch needed allies… And the price for the Hungarian nobility might be a republican or republic-adjacent government where their interests were met.

But of course, the Hungarians wouldn't just roll over and join Lelouch because he waved a constitution in front of them. People were disinclined to join wars that they didn't think they could win, after all, so Lelouch needed to make an appropriate show of strength before he could tempt them, if that was even enough.

And Lelouch's opportunity to prove himself would be heading towards him as fast as they could reasonably march.


The meeting was between scouts, Italian and Danubian vedettes bumping into each other amid the trees, shaking off their confusion before coming to blows. Carbines barked and sabers flashed, the Italians not really putting up a dedicated fate as much as knocking the foe off their tails so they could return to the main army.

This was alien terrain though, and even the occasional foreign legionnaire from the region couldn't completely prepare them for the terrain. Trying their best not to run their mounts ragged, they raced through the wooded hills, returning to the main body of the army. Of course, they went to meet their foe, although Lelouch tried to mind the energy of his men- now was not the time to exhaust them.

Lelouch surveyed the field of battle while trying to look relatively inconspicuous- he certainly couldn't get himself shot now. Clumps of forest were dispersed about, thinning in the direction they marched as civilization's appetite for pasture and wood ate away at them. It was charming, in a sort of rustic way, but it was soured by the threat of an enemy lingering over the next crest, lying in wait. No time to send up a balloon, though.

Still, there was no reason that Lelouch couldn't take advantage of the land as well, even if he didn't know it as the natives did. His forces placed themselves on the hilltops or shortly behind, trying their best to hide in the grass and unkempt brush. There was little time to erect defenses, but they attempted to put up some stakes- there would be no deep trenches or cheval de frise here, unless the Habsburgs took all damned day.

Sluggishly, the cannon were pulled uphill as pioneers hacked and slashed at the rough impeding them, horses grunting and whinnying as they pulled their limbers. His heavier pieces lingered behind, and while he gave no orders to stop, he had a feeling they wouldn't be in the fight for some time.

All the while, a wheeling, thundering skirmish took place ahead of them, their cavalry harrying and delaying as much as they dared. Vaguely, he remembered studying similar tactics- the caracole, he believed? Fire off your pistols (or carbine) and wheel to the side, let the men behind you fire, reloading as you reached the back of the formation…

Thankfully, the officer in charge of his cavalry seemed to remember that particular tactic's great weakness (well, one of several), and they quickly made themselves scarce as enemy cavalry began to appear. A counter-charge would obliterate them. Now there was just the problem of stopping the plain old charge.


They rode as fast as they dared, not wanting to exhaust their horses even as they traveled toward destiny. The infantry tried their best to keep up, but some of the less fleet-footed began to lag behind as the horse pulled ahead, anxious to fight. Still, they weren't foolish enough to completely abandon their foot.

Unfortunately, the cavalry had no time to rest once they had neared the field, as the Italians had decided to heckle them as they prepared. Tactically wise? Certainly, although quite annoying. Of course, the Italian cavalry turned and fled when faced with the threat of a heavy charge. Some of their own Danubian scouts limped back, bringing news of the enemy. (Some didn't bring news at all. Or rather, they didn't share it.)

The Italians appeared over the hills. At the very least, they understood the concept of forming squares and lines, although the formation wasn't nearly as dense or tightly ordered as it should have been. Did the young king fear cannon? The Danubian artillery wasn't quite prepared yet, although if the prince wanted to brace for cannon and not coursers… well, that was his mistake, and it would be punished accordingly.

While the Italians waited, the cavalry prepared their charge, men gathering together and forming the dense wedges which could trample the foe underfoot. The infantry got into position, ready to seize upon the moment, waiting anxiously for the cry of the horn.

Inhale, exhale. The whinnying of horses as hooves scraped against the earth. The clatter of a thousand spurs and stirrups, the saber's rasp. Countless pre-battle checks and ceremonies, interrupted by a horn's wail. A wail joined by a wave of war cries, followed by the thunder of horses on the move in mass.

For a moment, it almost seemed a vision out of antiquity, a great wedge of cavalry swallowing up the distance with their hooves. Lances dipped and sabres were drawn, blood rushing hot. This was what they were born to do, charging to defend the Empire just as Sobieski and his hussars sundered the Turks at Vienna.

The threat was new, the enemies strange, but the cavalryman was still the same. Just the sight of them shattered the rows of Italians, and they turned and ran, scrambling to cower behind a ridge as soon as they caught sight of the Danubian horse. What cannon they had attempted to cover their pitiful retreat.

Smelling something off, some of the cavalry tore themselves away from the formation, wheeling away from the mass, but although the main body lost riders, more carried on, caught up in the chase.

They charged directly into hedges of stakes and bayonets, half hidden in the grasses at the hill's tops, and were met with a volley at such close range that missing was impossible. Momentum was checked by the sudden weight of dead and dying men and horses, but they carried on regardless. A bayonet was all well and good, but it couldn't exactly hold up several hundred kilos of horse by itself.

Lelouch watched, transfixed, as one lancer struck true. Spearhead met flesh, digging in as the shaft bent, the wood curving into an arch, shallow at first but growing steeper until it bent so far it shattered, releasing a spray of splinters before the rider tumbled, bleeding from his own wounds.

The fight devolved into the sort of messy melee Lelouch disliked. Killing the enemy at a distance, preferably behind defenses, was safer… but sometimes, you needed to bleed. With the understanding that was the price for making the foe bleed more. Amid that tangle of wood and steel, the speed faded away and even if the line bowed and bent, it did not buckle.

Even while not at a gallop, the advantage of a horse was significant. Mass and height. Some of that was lost when charging uphill, and the tables would turn if the hussars managed to push his men off the crest. They'd literally fall upon them. It would be tremendously risky to try supplementing them with artillery, indiscriminate as it was, not to mention that his cannon was focused on the creeping lines of infantry which hoped to capitalize on the charge. Rifled guns had already eaten away at them, thankfully, but if the attack wasn't resolved...

Blood slid down bayonet blades, creeping into the rifling and making the wood slick, wood chipped away by saber blows. Horses screamed alongside the guns, the air reeked of smoke and blood. For the men who fought there, it was hard to think of much else beyond the moment. Like a clot, they were all stopped up in it, although the hussar's push grew dangerously close to shattering the line.

Hooves thundered, but it wasn't the hussar's retreat or even a breakthrough. Lelouch's light horse had made their reappearance, and they were more than ready to finish the job they had started earlier. The noose tightened, and the hussars were closed in, their mobility useless. For what it was worth, they fought like demons- Lelouch could only marvel as they fought, but he could see no way out. Blood rolled down the hill.

Grimly, Lelouch considered the potential taste of horsemeat.


The infantry who had borne the brunt of the charge were in no state to fight- they limped away, pulling the bodies of their comrades, as others filled in their place in the line. Without as much need for surprise, they went over the top of the hills, their formations thinning as they skirmished. Their damage inflicted was not spectacular, but Danubian morale wasn't great, as not many were willing to share the fate of those unlucky hussars.

Cannon and rifle fire ate away at the enemy's ranks, the former tearing bloody troughs. It was a harrowing assault, but they held on, marching through the screaming hail and approaching Italian positions, their formations as loose as they dared. Their light cavalry ran interference, spooking Italian skirmishers back, back into their dense formations.

Not exactly the most pleasant sight to look up and see, big blocks of infantry just waiting for you… but they carried on anyways. Their morale was bolstered as their own artillery finally, finally began to fire- even if their utility was limited, for fear of friendly fire. The Italians rushed to fire back- counterbattery fire, and all- but finding artillery was proving difficult...

Those cannons that didn't work so well at long range had no shortage of targets up close, and they fired until concern for their own comrades silenced the guns. Already, some of the Danubian forces lagged behind, having withered under shot. Still, some charged on through the smoke, falling upon the Italians- especially those slowly loading riflemen.

Without horses and with their momentum sapped, it was not the day's finest charge, but the infantry met with a clamor. Really though, at the end of the day, differences in the melee were marginal at best. Whether you were Savoyard or Slovak, a bayonet was bayonet, and one fighting man was not terribly different from the other.

But this was no one-on-one fight, either. Up and down the line, the men not preoccupied with the fight moved to help their fellows. Already beleaguered by pressing the attack, the Danubians were not particularly happy to realize they were starting to be outflanked, their line more piecemeal than they had thought… And if the men up front, in the fight, turned and ran, guess who saw it? Those on the way- and who would want to join a losing battle? With that, morale went. And with morale, the battle.

As the Italians licked their wounds, counted their losses, and reorganized themselves (not wanting to overextend), the other army scattered. Some simply decided to go home or figured that there were more profitable ways to use muskets. Some? Well, some hadn't participated in the battle at all, or had peeled off nice and early. They had better things to die for. Lords who were a little closer to their hearts.

(Oh no! Their 'tragically misinformed' overlords stumbled into a disadvantageous situation and weren't getting the best information throughout. How could that have happened?)


Of course, Lelouch's march into the Habsburg domain did evoke a response from the Habsburgs themselves, causing them to call for aid. A coalition was needed to stop these sorts of things, after all… but the cry from Vienna was met by silence. Not for lack of desire, admittedly…

Prussia had already begun to devote herself to crushing the French and protecting the Rhine, and with the rest of their forces tied in defending the homeland and settling unrest, they temporarily left the Danubians to their affairs, over the Bohemian Massif and past the Carpathians. The great empire of similar name but very dissimilar origin, Russia, had different concerns. Some minor sparks in Poland and other domestic quibbles consumed far more time than truly necessary as the regent bickered with other power-holders.

And the Turks? They were keeping a careful eye on their uppity Egyptian Pasha and their possibly reformed dependents in Barbary. Undermining of their power by an external force aside, seeing the Maghrebi make something of themselves other than lowly pirates would be good. It might even make bringing them back under the control of the Sublime Porte worthwhile.


Politics was going to kill him one day, Schneizel was sure of it. Running a country was endlessly stressful, especially one that was in a state of active war. Well, it almost always was, someplace or the other, but with the French situation right off their doorstep… even if it wasn't as great a threat as some rags would have you believe, the people perceived them as a threat.

And the people were thoroughly entangled in his duty. He wouldn't call it 'sacred', not necessarily. His duty was to the country, and his extraordinary means meant he had an obligation many times greater than the average man. Schneizel's duty as a prince, as a growing power in the court, was service.

Or perhaps it was sacred, in an odd sort of way. He laid the whole of himself upon the altar, a sacrifice to a power greater than any man, a power that would outlive him. Her priests were just politicians, her tithes just taxes. And taxes were not all she asked, jealous goddess that she was.

She wanted martyrs. She wanted sacrifices, enough to make those blood-soaked indigenous deities of America look like the very image of pacifism, enough to make Moloch's tribute look tame. And it was his job to sate her endless thirst for martyrs.

There was, of course, an influx of new men joining the army for the reason of the obvious threat directly off their coasts, not to mention the matter of Italy. And while just sitting on all that spare manpower, waiting for a problem to crop up sounded tempting, Schneizel was obligated to make a showing on the continent, both to sate the people's fear and for that all-important matter of prestige.

Did Schneizel think that the wooden wall could be reasonably circumvented in the short term? No, barring some sort of miracle on the enemy's side or unprecedented technological advancement, although the latter was perfectly possible, what with Lelouch acquiring Asplund… There was always a good reason to leave some men behind to defend, the problem was that they had so much to defend, not just in Europe. If only all his problems were from the Italians and French!

Clovis had snatched a chunk of the army to handle some situation of his involving his Dutch (how much of that so-called necessity was paranoia…?), the companies in the Indies had a voracious appetite for officers, not to mention the constant slow drain on manpower that was everything beyond the Mississippi and south of the Gulf of Mexico. Their 'control' over there was greatly overstated, and of course, the precious metal mines required guards…

But all the jewels which decorated their splendid crown were worth nothing if there was no body for them to be set in, no circlet which bound them all together. On a more idealistic level, that was the monarch, to whom all those oaths of loyalty were directed, which meant that it was in their best interest to avoid any decapitations.

On a more practical level, the binding of their splendid Britannian crown was her people. Not in some bleeding heart republican way- although a crown without people was nothing but a fancy hat- but rather in a cold recognition that their sea lanes needed to be patrolled, their uniforms needed filling… and few places provided those bodies quite like the heartland.

To lose her would be crippling. Survivable, perhaps, through monumental effort, but he did not wish to see the empire limping to the west to bleed out in America if they even made it there.

An expedition into Europe would be made. Had to be made. But there were few things more valuable than trained, equipped fighting men in times like these, and the last thing they needed was for to Bonaparte to take after his father in the worst possible way.


An assembly had been called in Frankfurt, over the rather concerning matter of the second Bonaparte's move for France. It was logical, considering the obvious threat to their continued existence- so German princes gathered for an assembly.

Prussia, of course, was ready to crush the French- they had this wonderful new power base on the Rhine from which they could push, and they hoped to draw more of their own forces from Prussia proper. For that purpose, they cowed a few of the smaller German statelets which separated their holdings. States which already permitted Prussians through to manage their exclaves, of course.

Of course, the Prussians did not wish to charge into the fight alone, so they called for aid from their German fellows. These sorts of things were best with overwhelming force, after all. They didn't really expect much opposition, considering that the Austrians had taken voluntary leave from the German picture. Unfortunately, they suddenly found themselves with another south German rival, even if they did not rise to heights as great as the Habsburgs had.

Perhaps the formation of cliques was inevitable when a confederation like this came into being, but the Prussians were still rather displeased to find a block opposing their move. The Bavarians had made inroads with their southern neighbors, and while their success was not quite as great in the north, they had managed to convince several princes to adopt a more isolationist stance.

As a confederation, they didn't really have any strong overarching power to force states in either direction- the Prussians couldn't be stopped, sure, but by the same measure, they couldn't push others into joining them in the fight with anything other than normal diplomatic means.

These normal diplomatic means included, of course, no shortage of intense bickering. The Prussian diplomats, smelling something foul, began slinging (partially justified) allegations of collusion with the revolutionary powers. The counter-salvo was a little less powerful- it was hard to get a harsher condemnation than that- but the general gist was that the Prussians were warmongers, but worse than that, they were warmongers who were happy to sacrifice the armies of the other German princes.

The Bavarians proceeded to present themselves as a counterbalance to the Prussians, spreading rumors that the Prussians wished to weaken the other princes purposefully. Whatever for? To allow them to more efficiently spread their influence over the whole of Germany, and perhaps even remove the con- prefix from their Confederation. Was it fear-mongering based on little substantial evidence? Probably, yes. But independence was something to be treasured, especially among several of the smaller German kings, who realized that they were no match for Prussian arms, even if they had similar titles.

So Lelouch's letter led to a smaller number of enemies than he and Bonaparte might have had otherwise. Regardless, the Prussians still marched onwards toward the French- even if they did so with worried looks over their shoulders, towards a confederation that did not seem quite as aligned with them as they might have hoped for.

There was also the matter of internal issues- none of the German princes could boldly devote the whole of his forces to putting down Bonaparte while also trying to keep their own houses in order. They had been hit by some of the same issues as their 'friends' over the Rhine, and while none of them had any potential Bonapartes waiting in the wings, ready to storm in and press their claims, the same dream had taken root in German soil.

Fighting broke out in the streets between reactionaries- those who remembered when the first Napoleon towered over Germany like a colossus- and revolutionaries inflamed by the Italian example, the promise of a nation that stood above petty potentates and lordships. The two groups came to blows in places and required military intervention.

They all looked to the past, in a sense. Either the Confederation of the Rhine, still within living memory, or before that, the (romanticized) peace before the French sent Europe spinning into chaos. And of course, there was history far before that, if you wished to pick examples from there. The Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation, proud and indisputably imperial, back before it was caught up in red tape and pointless division. Or perhaps you wanted the red tape- a little princedom all your own.

Of course, this unrest was only inflamed by the news of the Confederation gathering an assembly to discuss what was to be done about the rebirth of Bonaparte's France. Perhaps it was reassuring for some, to know that something was finally going to be done, but there was an unhappy undercurrent as well. Princes met in their gilded halls to discuss politics, potentially sending thousands to die to crush meaningful change while they suffered none of the dangers the people did.

For some, it brought a very old verse to mind, back when even nationalism was a distant dream. The people of the past weren't wrong, foolish, or any less human- they wished for many of the same things the modern man did: food, shelter, liberty… and like the modern man, they were denied by those above them.

As their forefathers might have put it: When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?


Omake: Ash (Thematically, this might have fit in better last chapter. Unfortunately, I've been loosey-goosey with the dates.)

To preserve appearances, Lelouch attended religious functions alongside his soldiers, to increase their morale and to preserve his image as a pious monarch. Admittedly, Mass in the field was different from at home. The great columns and pews were replaced by tents in line, the distinctive odors of an army on the move replacing incense. But he supposed that to a true believer, the divine truth was more important.

The celebration was perhaps a bit larger than usual, but it was a special day- not necessarily fun, as that was yesterday, but important regardless. Ash Wednesday. (If nothing else, Lelouch couldn't help but feel that the men abstaining from meat during Lent would help their logistics a little…)

Honestly, he liked the day's Gospel reading. He had familiarity with the book because it was expected of him, but some verses still struck true.

"Take care not to perform righteous deeds in order that people may see them…" It was a cry against the hypocrite. The self-righteous, who pronounced their good deeds from the rooftops so they might be lauded with praise. (Of the many nobles of the Britannian court, the ones he loathed the most were the ones who pretended to care.)

The intended function of the day was twofold: it was a call to repentance… and it was a reminder that you only had so much time to do it. Memento Mori. Remember death. More specifically, your death. Although Lelouch did not believe, he supposed it fulfilled another function for him, that of the servant who stood behind Roman generals during the triumph, whispering mortality into their ears.

"Remember man, that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." A dusting of ash in his hair, to remind him that for all the heights he reached, he would one day be little more than that very dust. The crown would leave him one day, as surely as breath would.

Of course, his plans called for that to be far in the future. He had vanities to chase.


The quote at the end is John Ball, an English priest who said as much in the 1381 peasant revolt. The same phrase was used during the German Peasant's War and as such is also in Wir sind des Geyers schwarzer Haufen, an interwar German song. It's aggressively anti-clerical and anti-nobility, and had popularity with both the left and the right. Including that particular bunch of right-wing Germans, unfortunately. The titular Geyer was a knight who fought alongside revolting peasants in the German Peasant's War. Wild story. Unfortunately, he got an SS division named after him. (Kyrie eleis indeed.)

As for La Monaco… My description largely comes from Musical Quarterly, Vol 7. No. 4, page 581. At the same time, I found very little info about it otherwise. It adds a nice bit of character to Nappy II: Corsican Boogaloo tho.

Anyways, my theming grows more deliberate.

Thanks to the folks at Emerald Library for giving me some of the motivation needed to finish this for Christmas. (I'm really out here posting a Lent-themed omake on Christmas smh) Happy holidays, and here's to a hopefully productive new year.