The news of Napoleon's provocations came on the hooves of a single rain-drenched messenger who had ridden straight from Paris to Vienna, confiscating horses along the way. He frantically explained that England and France were close to blows, and France's new emperor seemed ready and willing to engage in war. The Holy Roman Empire listed to the news and watched the look of determination pass over his Austrian guardian's face. He knew the thoughts that were crossing the man's mind; they were the same ones that were on his. Wars in Europe never remained the business of two countries. Many of the squabbles about relatively little land had turned into wars involving several powers. There was no reason for this one to be any different; Austria already had reason to enter on the side of the British. His ire had been raised by French victories against him when he had intervened in the ill-conceived French revolution.

For his own part, Holy Rome was tied to whatever decision Austria made. The Hapsburg king was also the Holy Roman Emperor, and it was the empire's duty to abide his will. But, his feelings about it also crossed into the realm of the personal. This commoner who did not even have a drop of blue blood had dared to name himself Emperor, when that title was reserved for his leader. Certainly the Russian monarch also used it, but that was a different faith and a different ambition. For reasons he could not entirely explain, Holy Rome felt like the act of crowning Napoleon emperor was a threat to him directly. He could not allow another Emperor to exist on the continent; it would undermine what little authority he possessed. It was already clear that his brothers and cousins were not likely to obey him, despite the title he had been given by his father. If he ever wanted to truly fill the role his father had left him, then he could not let this usurpation stand.

But, from the way that Austria's eyes flashed at the news of Napoleon's coronation, he knew that there was no need to plead his case to his guardian. As soon as he ordered the messenger to be fed and housed, Austria turned to Holy Rome. When their eyes met, it was clear that their thoughts were the same. When the Austrian walked over to him with graceful rage in every step, Holy Rome waited patiently. The first words Austria spoke seemed incredibly obvious, "This cannot continue." The blonde simply nodded, not certain if the other even cared about his opinion. Austria continued only glancing at Holy Rome, "I have been patient with Francis thus far, but he has gone too far. If he starts a war with England, I will fight him without a second thought."

It seemed like he was talking to himself, save the fact that he glanced at his young companion every so often. It was not unfamiliar behavior. Spain had acted much the same way when his king was emperor. These great powers with their armies and their prestige cared little for the opinion of a young man who had been thrust into their care. Holy Rome had no power to impose his will on them. If his father was still alive, he would have been deeply ashamed of his youngest son. Had he wished to object to the war, and he did not, he would have been ignored. He asked instead, "And will I go with you to France?"
Austria nodded and said, "Naturally. I will need the support your name brings."

The question of support seemed like an odd one. France had been able to win thus far, but he had just emerged from a revolution. It should not be hard to defeat him and place his new ruler back in the proper place. Holy Rome felt a sudden stabbing uncertainty in his gut. If Austria thought he might need support, what kind of war would this be? It was unusual for Austria to show any kind of hesitation or weakness. He was the true empire and Holy Rome was here to provide the title he wore like an overlarge mantle. The unease settled on him, and he was tempted to shake it off. But, Austria continued talking to him, "You should pack what you need for a campaign. We will be ready to move at a moment's notice. I doubt Napoleon will hold off on declaring war on England."

Holy Rome nodded. He understood that this was an order, though it was disguised as a suggestion. He did not mind though. The conversation was just an affirmation of what they both knew. War would come, and Austria would put France back in his place. Holy Rome did not even flatter himself to think that he would be a part of that victory.

Though he had taken up swords play, his skill remained remarkably poor. It made little sense; his father had been the greatest warrior in Europe and his older brother was famed for his prowess in battle. Austria had even made the passing comment after seeing him practice that he looked nothing like Prussia, who had already been a prodigy at his age. It had laid another failure on the mounting evidence that he was a disappointment to his father. He sometimes wondered if he had been forced to learn instead of doing it at his leisure, like Prussia had, he would be better.

Austria turned and walked away, indicating that he was done dictating. Holy Rome was left standing in the hall considering his own position. He would go with Austria to France and very little would change. An Austrian victory would not give him influence or real power. He had been a shadow behind other empires for so long that he had let go of the hope of reestablishing the authority his father had. But, there was a new feeling in his gut that was not abating. He sighed to himself and decided that it came from France encroaching on the titles that rightly belonged to him.

The way back to his own chambers was short. He pushed open the heavy gilded door by himself though a servant hurried to his side to do it. This coddling and pampering was slowly becoming resentful to Holy Rome. He felt like he had become indulgent and weak fed on Viennese luxury. As he walked into his own chambers, he waved away the servants who usually waited on him. Once he was alone, he glanced around at the things around him. It dawned on him that he was not even certain what should be brought on a campaign. Usually he ordered for his things to be made ready. He let out another sigh. He would do it later.

A soft voice sounded behind him, "Holy Rome?" He turned to see a familiar set of hazel eyes looking at him, His heart leaped into his throat at the sight of Italy. He tried to smile through all of his dour thoughts. But, Italy's usually sunny face was decidedly sullen. The Italian spoke again, now that it was clear that Holy Rome was paying attention, "I overheard Austria talking about war with France. Is it true? Are you going with him?"

There was concern in her voice and it was unusual. Holy Rome felt it compound his own feeling of uncertainty. But, he did not want to worry his sensitive little friend, so he replied, "It is true. But I should not be gone long."
The other took a tentative step into the room, and seemed to hesitate before saying, "I don't want you to go."
The short statement struck at Holy Rome's heart. Though the Italian had said relatively little, the tone was enough. Instead of any kind of anger, he responded with confusion, "Why, Feli?"

Holy Rome took a step toward Italy, not certain if he was being too forward. He longed to take the other in his arms, but he didn't want to scare her away. For some reason, Italy seemed to find him intimidating. Italy looked directly at him and said, "Every time you and Austria leave, I'm alone here. I don't like it." There was a pause before Italy continued, not giving Holy Rome the proper time to think and respond, "And when you leave I worry that you won't come back."

The words made Holy Rome's heart race. He felt a slight heat in his cheeks as he blushed at the thought that Italy worried for him. He stepped even closer, so that they were close enough to suggest affection. Italy's concern, though profoundly touching, was misplaced. If, by some miracle, they lost this war, then it would be no different than the thirty years war; Holy Rome would be diminished yet again, but he would return. It was the pattern of European wars. With each war he lost, Holy Rome's name commanded even less respect. He said, speaking to Italy in the most soothing tone he could summon, "You don't need to worry. I will come back."

Italy came even closer, her hazel eyes even wider. It was so precious how emotive her face was. She was unguarded in a way that was so uncommon. All of the empires around him were guarded, and the change was always refreshing. Italy only spoke once she was close, "Promise me that you will come back. Make a promise that you can't break."

The earnestness warmed Holy Rome to the core. He wanted to make the promise so that Italy would not doubt his intention to return. He hoped that when he returned he would have the courage to ask for her hand in marriage. He had intended to for many years, but when he faced Italy with the idea, the words to explain that it was about his feelings and not territorial gain. Italy should not think that his affection was only a way to reconstruct the Roman empire. Holy Rome pondered how to make a promise so that it was completely sincere. Finally, he lighted upon an idea.

He pulled off one of the rings that he wore on his hand and extended it to Italy. The one he chose was very old. It was gold and red jasper with an eagle stamped into the surface of the jasper. As he placed it softly in the palm of Italy's hand, he said, "This ring was my father's. Your grandfather gave it to him as a sign of friendship. He gave it to me when he died."

Holy Rome remembered when this ring had been brought to him and he had known that his father was dead. It had been the sign that he was meant to be the successor of Rome, the next empire of Europe. Italy stared at the the ring in her palm with the purest sense of wonder. Holy Rome, feeling unusually bold, folded Italy's hand over the ring, "This ring is very special to me. Look after it until I come back. I promise I will."

Without any warning, Italy threw both of her arms around Holy Rome. The sudden hug made an even more aggressive blush take to his cheeks. Italy said, still holding him tight, "Thank you, Max. I wish I had something to give you so you won't forget me." The blonde slowly returned the hug, realizing that this was acceptable; Italy would not shy away from him.
He responded with the first thought that came to his mind, "I could never forget you."

Hesitantly, Italy pulled away and said, "Is Prussia allying with Austria?" The question hit a sore nerve, though it was probably not intended. Why did everyone seem to think that Holy Rome needed his older brother to fight. Even if he felt like it was necessary for Prussia to assist in this war, he dared not ask his brother for help. Prussia thought he had did not deserve his position, and had made that abundantly clear the last time they had spoken. And by Lutheranizing, Prussia had cut off any authority that Holy Rome had over him. It still hurt to think about. Holy Rome had only ever had the most sincere of intentions towards his brother, but they had come to nothing. He had not chosen to be his father's successor, and often thought that there must have been more happiness in his brother's monastic life than in all of his trinkets and luxuries. There was a gulf between them that even the best of intentions could not bridge. If he had to face Prussia on campaign, then it would be nothing but discomfort. It was almost comforting to know that his brother's grudge would keep him from intervening.

He took a deep breath before replying to Italy's innocent question. The anger had to subside before could respond. He said, "No. We won't need his help." Italy nodded and looked Rome bit his lower lip, contemplating whether this was a gesture of disappointment. But, Italy looked back at him and wordlessly pressed their lips together. The blonde was caught completely off-gaurd, so he made an undignified squeak. But the feeling was sweet, and he pulled Italy closer. It was a short kiss, but it was all that Holy Rome wanted in the moment.
When Italy pulled away, she said, "Remember me by that and come back." Holy Rome smiled to himself and nodded.

The war came much as Austria predicted it would: France's aggression quickly brought both Austria and England into the fray, followed by the Russian emperor, who had pledged his support to the allied effort to dislodge France. Russia had even arrived himself with his emperor. This war was becoming far larger than it should, and Holy Rome thought every night of the promise he had made to Italy. He had said he would be back soon, but that now looked very unlikely. Vienna had been captured, and Austria seemed deeply shaken by the loss. His capital was currently occupied, but he had not dared to strike back until he had Russian reinforcement. It was strange to Holy Rome to see Austria in this state.

Usually the title of Holy Roman Emperor fell to the most powerful monarch in Europe, and Austria's emperors had been exactly that for many years. But Napoleon's voracity and skill seemed completely unmatched. Though it was largely hidden from Holy Rome, he knew the desperation that was growing. He had even overheard Russia and Austria talking about the necessity of recruiting another ally, if one could be found. Prussia's name had been mentioned. Holy Rome took it as a sign of how badly the war was going. But, Austria had assured him that the tide would shift.

They were currently camped at Austerlitz, waiting for an opportunity to strike. This was the moment, Austria had assured him, that they would have victory again Napoleon and drive the French pretender out of Vienna.

Holy Rome was practicing his swordplay again while he waited for the battle to start. He drew his sword and tried to balance his stance with it in hand before lunging like he was attacking an enemy. It still felt unnatural, especially the heavy blade in his hand. As he made his second attack against an invisible opponent, he heard the very familiar sound of Austria clearing his throat. It was a sound of a gentleman's impatience. Embarrassed, Holy Rome sheathed his sword and turns towards Austria, who was shaking his head.

His irritation resonated in every note of his voice as he said, "What are you doing that for? You aren't going to be fighting anyone." Before Holy Rome could respond and explain that he did not want to rely on others, Austria continued, "Anyway, it does not matter. France's army is running out of provisions, and he has weakened on his right flank. I am going to attack and I'm going to drive him out." He smiled to himself, as though he was congratulating himself on his patience. Then, he said, "I want you to stay in the center of our troops. You should be safe there. If, for some reason, our ranks break, don't try to stand your ground. You should retreat with our troops. Do you understand?"

Internally, Holy Rome was fuming. He did not want to be treated like a liability. But, he dared not contradict the empire. He already knew that Austria would hear no dissent. Instead, he said, "I will."

Austria nodded and walked away. Holy Rome was left alone to find a horse and ride to the center of the line. He knew what would happen from here; the battle would unfold in front of him, with no need for his intervention. From his small horse, Holy Rome could see Austria's assault on the French flank already starting. Apparently, giving Holy Rome orders had been the last step before the assault started. His heart sank at the idea that he was an afterthought. But, seeing a battle from a distance was better than being shut away in Vienna. This had not been his father's idea for him, but there would be other battles.

But, he felt the wind that had buffeted his back fell to an ominous quiet lull. The yellow and black banner of the Empire, which had been waiving proudly, fell against its pole. Holy Rome turned his gaze back to the French right flank, and to his horror the weak flank seemed to be growing as reinforcements joined it in anticipation of the incoming Austrian attack. Holy Rome's breath caught in his throat. This was a trap and he could do nothing to recall Austria.

His heartbeats grew loud in his own ears. If the open flank was meant as a distraction, then what was France's real goal? The answer came in a growing roar that turned his blood to ice in his veins. Another segment of the French army was bearing down on his own position, even as Holy Rome struggled to comprehend what was happening.

The sound of a bullet flying past his ear finally woke the blonde to the reality of the battle that had descended upon him. The only thought that came to him was that Austria had told him to retreat. Now was not the time for heroics. Holy Rome pulled the reins of his horse tight and nudged the animal to turn away from the flood of soldiers. The horse was slow to react and Holy Rome felt his heartbeat skip as the animal finally jolted forward. Only when the horse reached a gallop did Holy Rome feel a sense of security.

Then, the ground seemed to fall out from under him. Holy Rome did not comprehend the fact that he was falling until his hit the ground and the impact knocked all of the air out of his lungs. He did not push himself back up immediately. He focused for the moment on pulling in a breath. The air tasted foul. Holy Rome's tongue was accosted by earth, blood, and gunpowder. The pain of the fall was something less tangible that faded to a blur on the edge of his awareness.

Holy Rome found the strength to push himself to his feet. Only then did he look at the carnage that lay behind him. The corpse of his horse lay behind him from where it had thrown him. The hole of the musket ball in the creature's flank left little doubt in his mind that this had been intentional. A sinister laugh revealed the origin of the shot.

France lowered the musket that had been at his shoulder. Smoke curled from the end of the barrel. With a careless elegance, France pulled his sword and dropped the musket. Holy Rome struggled for words faced with his enemy. Nothing passed his lips but a sputtering. France spoke instead, "Were you trying to run? Gilbert never would have run. He would have faced me like a man."
Holy Rome finally managed to say, "What do you want with me?"

He could guess that this was a kidnapping to forcibly strip the title from Austria and give it legitimately to Napoleon. Holy Rome knew that he was little more than chattel to these empires. And yet, a fear, cold and concrete, was seeping into his consciousness. Though he knew it would do little good, the young man pulled his sword from its scabbard.

France let out a short derisive laugh at the sight. Instead of addressing the sword, which he treated as though it was of no consequence, France answered the question, "My emperor is planning a new European order and there is no place in it for two empires." The words sounded strange. Surely, the two titles could be added to Napoleon's titles if he desired them. Holy Rome would have to reside at the French court, but he would endure. France read his confusion in his face and clarified, "You will have to die, and I see no better place than here."

With that France raised his sword. Struck numb by the words, Holy Rome mirrored the movement. If needed to fight to keep his life, he would. He had promised Italy that he would return, and he had to keep that promise. The Frenchman scoffed and, in two swift strikes, knocked the blade aside and struck Holy Rome's hand. The blade cut deep into the flesh and he dropped his own sword.

The Frenchman lowered his own blade so that it was pointed at Holy Rome's chest. The boy felt frozen to the spot by the realization that he could do nothing to save himself. He could run, but that would do nothing. He would not get far without France finding him again. And he would not die like a coward with a sword through his back. The other said, "Just accept this and die with dignity."

The point of the rapier pressed into Holy Rome's flesh and he gritted his teeth against the pain of it. It seemed ridiculous to care about this superficial pain when the sword was about the plunge into his chest. But it still hurt and Holy Rome focused on not whimpering. France's eyes flashed as he pressed the sword the rest of the way through. Curiously, the pain was less once it passed through the skin. Holy Rome could taste blood on his tongue as it welled up from his pierced lung. The feeling in his fingertips was fading, and he could feel his knees weakening as blood poured from the wound and stained his shirt.

France removed the blade. Without the solid piece of metal holding him up, Holy Rome fell to his knees and then fell face first into the mud of the battlefield. The world was blurring as the pain faded to resignation. In his fading sense of consciousness, Holy Rome heard France say, "Goodbye, Holy Rome."

Holy Rome could only see in one direction and in it he saw the imperial banner, torn by French musket fire, lying forgotten in the mud. So, this was what it felt like to fall. It was numb and blurry, not painful. Though this was his end, the only thought that occurred to him was that somewhere there was a girl with a Roman ring and a broken promise.

Holy Rome's eyes had closed and the sounds of the battle had left. He was conscious, but the effort of keeping his eyes open was now too much. It was cold. Much colder than he ever thought he could be. Then, he felt something unexpected. Two arms on either side of him, pulling him up. He was leaning against someone's chest, and it was warm, comfortable, and familiar. There were words, but he could not make them out. But, the voice was concerned and he felt it resonate through his chest. This was good. He was in the arms of someone safe. He let the warmth of their presence envelope him and hold him firmly to the world.

The boy awoke like he was rising from the depths of very deep water, leaving everything he had had before behind in the depths. When he opened his eyes, the room was not familiar, but it felt like no room would be. He let out a low groan as he registered the feeling of pain in his chest. The sound caused a figure on the other side of the room to turn towards him.

Red eyes met his own and there was a spark of recognition in the fog of his mind. This man he knew. This one was safe. He recognized the white hair and the red eyes. He spoke the word he associated this person, "Brother." His voice sounded hoarse and strained, but the sound carried. The other's eyes widened and a relieved smile appeared on his face.

He walked over to where the boy was lying and kneeled next to him. The younger tried to remember how he had gotten here or where the wounds came from, but the information was gone. All he knew was that the man next to him was his brother and his name was Gilbert. Trying to find some answers, he asked, "Gilbert, what happened to me?"
The other's smile fell and he responded, "Do you not remember?"

The boy shook his head and tears began to well in the corners of his eyes. There was something missing, something beyond events, faces, and names that he had lost. Gilbert responded, "Well, that doesn't matter."
He took his younger brother's hand in his own and said, "All you need to know is that I am your older brother and I am going to protect you from here on out."

Still trying to get some grasp on the situation, the boy asked, "What is my name? I…" His voice failed as he tried to say that he didn't know. His brother pulled him into a very gentle hug. He spoke, "Your name is Ludwig." The name seemed to fit, so he accepted that this was correct. Gilbert continued to speak, "And for now, you're going to stay here and heal. I am going to deal with France. And one day, you're going to be the German empire, just like our father wanted."