This fic really has no pairings. It's really not that sort of fic, since the whole thing is about shifting alliances. You will, however, find slight leaning towards Austria/ Hungary, England/ Prussia, England/ Portugal, England/ France, France/Spain, France/ Poland, and Spain/ Romano, but in all but one of these cases, it is nothing particularly sexual.

As a European, I love reading into the mess that the Napoleonic campaigns created. As to be expected though, as a fanfiction and not a dissertation, I have in places utilised my "artistic lisence."

Enjoy!

-1808-

It had been another beautiful day; an image straight out of an oil painting, of blue skies, and green fields dotted with small points of red as the tomato crop began to ripen.

His kingdom, Spain thought with pride as he sunk further into his rickety wooden chair, may have lost its vast amounts of wealth, may have been recovering from war, may have been struggling to regain its pride, but it would always have the sun. Some small part of him reasoned that it was all the gold that he would ever need (the larger part of him scoffed at the thought. There would never be enough gold for him. He was trying though, these days. In losing the strength to rule the world, Spain had found it easy to make the transition into an idealist.)

There was something strangely satisfying about spending his day on a nameless little farmstead a good few leagues away from Barcelona. More so than his grand palace in Madrid which ran rife with political intrigue and struggle. He had to laugh at the thought. Perhaps Romano was right to call him a simpleton, after all. He was always so cute when he thought that he was making a clever insult.

A perfect day indeed, Spain sighed, eyes closing in a contentment that seemed to sink right down to his bones. He raised his glass of sherry in a wordless salute to no one in particular, bringing it back to his lips in order to savour in its sweet taste. Well deserved, he told himself, well deserved.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts of fetching Romano, and watching the sunset with him, prompting him to smile in confusion. Romano was never polite enough to knock, and he had no reason to (it was his home. Their secret little house where Spain liked to go when he wanted to escape, if only for a few days) but no one else would chose to visit him, especially not so far out in the countryside.

A local farmer, Spain guessed as he loped towards the door, easy grin resting on his lips.

The greeting that was resting on the tip of his tongue died at the sight of France standing in his doorway. He stayed quiet, unsure of what to say, fingers clenching against the wood of the doorframe.

The awkward moment of silence did not go unnoticed by either of them, confirming Spain's dread, and France's irritation that things were definitely not okay between them. Not since Spain had broken hundreds of years of friendship. Not since France had hit back, forcing Spain to stand by his side in a war that he did not wish for, watching helplessly as Naples was taken away from a sobbing Romano.

'France!' Spain forced out a smile that he hoped looked welcoming (leave, oh please leave). 'What an unexpected pleasure,' he said in a light tone.

France smiled back at him. 'The pleasure is all mine, if I am allowed to see my dear Spain.'

Spain simply smiled back, mind frantic as he scanned for any sign, any small sign that France was okay now, daring to hope that perhaps he was, perhaps he'd seen sense (he's just invaded Portugal, you fool. He made you help him, and now he's come for you too. He knows what you've been doing. He knows what's going on in Madrid.)

'Are you going to invite me in?' France prompted.

Startled, Spain reflexively stepped aside, unsure as to whether it was his optimism, or the quiet thrum of self- preservation that had begun to stir in his veins, that shifted him to one side in silent invitation. Memories of France forcing his way into his home in Madrid were still fresh, and he found himself dreading a repeat of the events of the past fourteen years. He wanted an end to all of this. He was so tired of it all.

'Ah, Spain!' France laughed suddenly, the sound warm, and strangely affectionate, startling Spain from his worries. Behind France's back, and out of sight, his face tightened into a concerned frown. 'Is this hovel really what you've been reduced to? It must be awful to be so poor.'

'Drink?' Spain offered, already busying himself with the sherry decanter (the finest crystal. A small luxury, and a reminder of times gone by), back turned to France so that the other could not see his expression.

'No, thank you. I need to keep a clear head. Can't have you going and getting me drunk now, can we?' France laughed again. It sounded odd to Spain. There was something wrong. He was sure of it now.

'I guess not,' Spain replied, forcing cheeriness that he didn't feel into his voice.

'I doubt it's your best stuff anyway,' France continued. 'I'd imagine that's currently being squandered by your glorious royal family.' An obvious jab. A sharp reminder of the last time they had come to blows.

Spain's hand tightened briefly around the decanter, and when he turned back around to finally face France, he had dropped all pretences, face set in an insulted scowl. 'They were chosen by God, France. You would do well to remember that, yeah?'

France only smirked. 'You're so predictable, Spain.'

Spain's frown deepened. 'Why are you here, France?'

'Eh?' France looked genuinely surprised at that. For a moment Spain didn't know what to think. 'Why would I not come to visit you? You're the closest thing I've ever had to a brother, my dear Spain, my most beloved neighbour. Surely you do not think that I have forgotten you?'

Spain's frown softened at how sincere France sounded, hope once again sparking within his chest. Hope that maybe France was coming back to his senses. Hope that maybe they could sit down, and talk, and negotiate, and maybe even get France his monarchy back. And then everything would be back to normal, and they could sit and talk late into the night together once more. He could forgive France for the invasion only a few short years before, could forgive him for the coercion, and even the threats against Romano if it meant that France would go back to being the man that he had adored for so many years.

'My unending love for you is the very reason why I have come to you, my dear Spain,' France continued, hands coming together before his face, almost as if he was praying. 'You are the one who I want by my side when I begin the new European order. Once I enlighten you, of course,' he added.

'Enlighten me?' Spain parroted, heart sinking as the hope within him flickered and began to die.

'Rid you of those ridiculous little uprisings,' France explained, as if it was such a simple feat. 'They want independence for you, Spain, but they are blinded! They don't realise that you are independent, that I love you and wish only to help you claim back what you have lost!' Spain stared at him, stunned into a horrified silence. 'Now, we'll see if we can't get these traitors to calm down once Joseph is on the throne of Spain.'

'Joseph?' Spain spluttered. 'You've already forced Charles, my God chosen -'

'God did not choose your king, Spain,' France responded, staring at him levelly. 'God would not chose a single, pitiful, fragile human creature to hold so much power. God has chosen us. We are the ones with the power here, and since your mind is too clouded by complacency, I have taken it upon myself to see that someone more able is there to guide you when I cannot. You should be thanking me for my kindness.'

'Power?' Spain scoffed. 'What you talk of is madness!'

'No,' France snapped. 'What I speak of is nothing less than perfect sense.' He stopped to take a deep breath, closing his eyes in an effort to calm himself. When he spoke again, his voice had returned to its usual, soft state. 'I want you by my side, Spain. You are my most precious ally, and it pains me to see your vision so clouded by nothing more than sentimental dogma.'

'Dogma?' Spain hissed. 'You are the one who has committed heresy!'

'How so?' France asked. 'Because I have set you free of a life of servitude?' Spain said nothing, spinning back around to pour himself a glass of sherry. It was all too hysterically funny. "Set free." He almost laughed at the thought. 'Don't be a fool, Spain. You're better than that.'

'Oh?' Spain said, staring sardonically at the wall. 'I'm the fool?'

'Yes,' France said simply. Spain's hand tightened its hold around the neck of the decanter. 'Look at yourself, Spain. Look at me. I stand on the verge of glory, while you live in fear, longing to return back to the glory of your past. Come with me. Join me in your rightful place at my side. Help me to tear down those traitorous thoughts within your heart so that you may know happiness. Reclaim what you have lost. Gold, glory! It could be yours once again. Just allow yourself to see sense!' Spain chuckled. A small, wan sound that caught France's interest and made him cease in his impassioned rant. 'Why do you laugh?'

'I'm laughing at myself; not you,' Spain smiled, staring down at the crystal cradled in his hands, 'because, for a moment there, I actually considered it. Ahhhh!' Spain sighed, causing France to frown in confusion at the unexpected sound that was far too slapstick for the tense atmosphere in the room. 'You always know how to hit my weak point, right?' Spain continued, though he still did not turn to face France. 'Gold… hmmm… sounds so lovely doesn't it? Just thinking about being wealthy again makes my heart skip a beat. It actually makes me feel some kinda of regret to turn down your generous offer.'

'Spain,' France warned. 'Choose your words carefully.'

Spain shook his head slowly. 'You talk of seeing sense, France. My mind has never been clearer. You talk about traitorous thoughts? Traitorous to whom? My people want freedom. They want to feel pride in themselves once again. They're tired of living in a puppet state, and I'm tired of being a puppet state. I do not wish for war. I just want a simpler, more peaceful life. Sure, I still get the occasional cravings for blood and gold, but they fade more and more each day, and I'm happier for it. Maybe I don't want glory any more. Maybe I grew up, and began to appreciate my life as it is, yeah?' Spain broke off to smile fondly. 'It's not like I can really even afford to join you on your little crusade across Europe, even if I wanted to. As it is, I cannot help wanting freedom, France. If you'll let me go, I'll cause you no hassle. As long as I have the sun, Romano, and God by my side, I know happiness. So please, leave me be.'

France stared at him, silent for a long moment, Spain praying that he had heeded his words, that their years of friendship, and brotherhood would count for something. 'Then know happiness no longer,' France responded finally. Spain's smile immediately dropped from his face at the tone of his voice, barely restraining from shivering at the iciness in it. 'God is not by your side. And Romano?' France laughed, though the sound carried no humour. 'He longs to be free of you, longs to cease being your prisoner. Surely you've noticed the way in which he's grown up recently, Spain? Surely you know what that means?'

Spain said nothing, knuckles turning white as he gripped the decanter.

'He was only too eager to leave your side, the moment that I offered it. And now, thanks to your thoughtless arrogance, you stand against us.'

Spain stopped breathing at that, stunned into a horrified paralysis. It was happening again. Romano was- oh God, Romano. Without even being aware of moving, Spain was at his front door, flinging it open, shouting, calling out, eyes desperately scanning the empty fields.

'Romano. Where is Romano?' Spain snarled, whirling back to face France, eyes wide in feral panic.

'He's already with my men, Spain. He came willingly because he wants greet the future too. He has seen sense, and no longer wishes to be subservient to a selfish, and misguided man,' France replied, his voice as steady, and cold as a rock.

'Romano, he-' Spain choked on his own breath as he felt anguish flood him. Roma… Roma hated him that much? Hadn't even said goodbye- no. No that wasn't right. Romano hated France. He hated living under France's controlling watch. He hated how he had lost Naples. There was just no way. Romano would never let things end between them like this.

'At least I cannot take the sun away from you,' France continued. 'Though I can always pray for that to happen. It's no less than you deserve.'

'You!' Spain hissed, mind buzzing with roaring electricity, body shaking with the desire to fight, hands trembling with the need to tear, and rend, and cause pain. It was horrifying, and illogical, and fundamental, and Spain embraced it, barely feeling the sting of glass in his fingers as the decanter that he still held shattered in his fingers.

'You could not afford the price of joining me, but you can afford the price of fighting against me?' France said in a deadly tone of voice. 'I forgave you for your last betrayal, my dear Spain, but I have been foolish enough to allow you to hurt me so deeply once again. It is a mistake that I shall not repeat in future.'

'Bastard!' Spain roared, lunging at France, barely even thinking straight. He had to- had to get France out of his house- had to get Romano back- had to fight for God and his people and what was right.

But Spain had been weakened from too many defeats, had grown sluggish since his fall from power, had lost his focus since he had lost his freedom to France. He had the heart, but not the capacity, and France had become so, so strong.

He took the first hit to his cheek, barely feeling it. The next hit broke his nose, causing his face to explode in pain. The one to his gut made him see stars, leaving him little time to register the fact that his back had collided with the floor. By the time the skin on his brow had split, and flooded his vision with blood, he could barely breathe, lungs aching at the pressure from his broken ribs. The pressure grew, his eyes bulging as France ceased in his blows to encircle his hands around Spain's neck instead.

'You repay my kindness, and love with war. I could spit on you for your ungratefulness, but you're not worth it. You're not worth anything to me any more. You're just a piece of land to me now, and I will have you, but never again at my side. Never again as my friend, and brother, and comrade.'

'Fuck you,' Spain wheezed.

France's eyes, glittering in madness, were the last things he saw before the next strike knocked him unconscious.

In the darkness, he prayed.

-1796-

Poland's gaze flitted around the room nervously as he waited, hand itching to reach out and grab- somehow he managed to stop that train of thought, the bitter pang of sorrow, forcing his focus back onto the issue at hand.

'Ah, Poland!' France called out as he stepped out from beyond the double- doors of the audience hall. 'What a pleasure it is to see you today.'

At that Poland bowed stiffly. 'Many thanks,' he said, straightening back up, 'for seeing me on such short notice. You must be very busy.' The words tasted almost acidic on Poland's tongue, formal words, and grovelling shows of respect very, very far from his usual style. Unfortunately, however, it was necessary, and Poland was a far more pragmatic man than most people believed him to be. If a little discomfort was all it took for the greater good, then so be it.

'I'm never too busy to see old friends,' France responded with a cheerful grin, and a sweeping hand gesture. Poland barely refrained from snorting at that. Apart from sharing some members of the monarchy (which, considering that they were both European, it would have been far more strange if they hadn't shared any royalty) he and France had hardly ever been close. Still, Poland had to be thankful for the fact that he had had to deal with France in the past, because otherwise, he would have been a stuttering bundle of nerves right at that moment.

'I'm honoured,' Poland replied politely. He didn't mean it, of course.

'Am I right in assuming that your arrival here without an army at your back means that you are one of the few people in Europe who isn't calling for my blood?' France smirked, finding his comment far funnier than he should have. Poland looked at him for a long moment, before shrugging his worry away. Everyone in Europe knew that France had gone half mad. What was far more important to Poland was that he was strong, and for that reason alone, he couldn't care less about the state of France's mental health.

Poland took a deep breath and looked France straight in the eyes, straightening his posture in a way in which he hoped made him appear much stronger than he actually was. 'I want to join you,' he said simply. France stared at him a long moment, silent, leaving Poland's words to hang heavily in the air.

And then France smiled slowly. 'Do you now?'

'You're totally fighting a war on all sides, France. You've managed to piss everyone off to the extreme, and now, on your Eastern front you've got the freak patrol of Prussia, Austria, and Russia,' he spat the last name as if it was poisonous. 'Well it just so happens that I totally hate all three of them, and would like nothing more than to see them all crushed like bugs. I figure that you're the guy who can do it, so I wanna help.'

'You want to be back on the map,' France stated, grinning smugly at him.

Poland clicked his tongue. 'Okay, fine. Yes I do. I wanna get my land back, and I wanna see them suffer for what they did. My people want their independence back, and I'm gonna do everything in my power to see that happen.'

France regarded him for a long moment. 'And what makes you think that I need you so badly?' he said finally.

Poland scowled, insulted. 'Because my people are fighters, France. They'll give everything they've got to get free of the oppression that those bastards are forcing on them!' He broke off when he realised that he was almost shouting, the barely withheld fury that he had forced himself to keep in check around Prussia, Austria, and Russia spilling forth far too easily. He had to take a moment to breathe in deeply, reining his emotions in, trying desperately to appear much calmer than he was actually feeling. He had to get France to take him seriously. He wouldn't let his journey, and the risks that he had faced –was still facing- go to waste. 'Look, no matter how you look at it, my cavalry is, like, still the best in Europe. If you let me join you, and if you help me fight for my country, I can totally guarantee the best, and bravest men you will ever see will join your ranks.'

France hummed in thought. 'My help in liberating your country, in return for your troops?' he clarified.

'And Lie- Lithuania's safe return,' Poland added.

France seemed surprised for a moment. 'Ah,' he said finally. 'I was wondering what looked so odd about you, besides the bandage, of course,' he said as he pointed to his eye. 'You know… it really is rather bizarre to see you on your own after all of these years.'

'Will you help me or not?' Poland snapped.

'I must admit that your offer is delightfully tempting, Poland,' France admitted. 'One question though,' he added. Poland simply looked steadily at him in response, waiting for him to continue. 'Ah, I was just wondering who is currently in possession of your eye.'

'…Prussia,' Poland said after a long moment.

'Ah, I suppose you want me to help you get that back too. Not that that is a problem to me, my dear Poland. You do have such alluring eyes.' France's smirk suddenly made Poland feel uncomfortable, reminding him sharply of just how dependent he was on France's answer to his request. 'Very well,' France nodded suddenly. 'Kneel before me, and it shall be done.'

Immediately, Poland dropped to his knees, swallowing back his pride, and almost grimacing at the bitter taste that it left in his throat. 'I'll kneel, France,' he said quietly, head bowed. 'But that is all that I'll do.'

France laughed at that, sounding genuinely amused by Poland's implication. 'Of course, my dear, of course; you forget that I too am an admirer, and practitioner of Catholic virtues.'

Poland said nothing, continuing to stare down at the floor, mind focused on the future. He would right the wrongs done to him, and his people. He'd return everything to normal. He was, as his people were, a fighter. And while he acted the clown, when it came down to it, Poland was already ready to do what needed to be done.

France's laughter penetrated his thoughts once again, and slowly he turned his eye up to stare at him. He was wearing a far- away expression, eyes glazed, and mouth curved into a delighted grin, Poland noted uncomfortably.

'With the hussars by my side, it will look almost as if God has sent his angels,' he smiled, though Poland had no way of telling if France was actually addressing him, or not.

Poland shuddered at that. He could only pray that, if that was the case, God had chosen their side.

-1793-

For the briefest moment he thought that Romano looked cute, but even he had enough sense to chide himself for it. There was nothing cute about Romano standing stiffly at his side, and wearing an oversized military jacket. What, in other circumstances, might have been adorable, instead now only highlighted how fragile Romano was. How his wiry frame, though growing, was still adolescent, still all too easy to bruise, and cut, and crush.

Spain could barely hold back his look of disapproval.

'Stop looking at me like that, bastard,' Romano muttered, looking away. There was no reason to. Spain had already seen the fear in his eyes.

'Why don't you let me handle this, yeah?' Spain said in a gentle voice.

Romano was quick to look up, the terror in his eyes briefly pushed back by a flare of anger. 'You think that I can't do it?' He challenged with a snarl, making his features seem older for a moment. 'Naples and Sicily are mine, Spain. You cannot take away my right to represent them, and if you do, you will only prove that you are nothing more than a tyrant.'

Spain was taken aback at the accusation. 'Romano…' he tailed off. Romano had always been wilful, but recently it had been changing into something more sophisticated than a mere child's temper tantrum. It was making it harder and harder by the day for Spain to keep on pretending that nothing was changing. 'I just want to protect you,' he said sadly, hoping that it would be enough to dull Romano's anger.

Romano faltered, seeming to become confused over whether he should glare at, or run to the other man. He settled on looking away with flushed cheeks. 'I don't need your protection, idiot. I can look after myself.'

Spain shivered slightly at the sense of foreboding that ran through him. Not wanting to think on it, he shoved the thought away. 'I don't want to see you get hurt,' he insisted.

Romano laughed at that, a short, bitter sound. 'You should know better than most that sometimes war is necessary.' He sounded almost accusing, the tone, and the implication both making Spain's heart ache uncomfortably.

'Yes, Romano, I know about war. More than enough to know that I don't want you to experience it.' Romano looked back at him, surprised by the unusually stern tone of his voice. When their eyes met, however, Spain's features softened. 'Let me help you. Please.'

There was something frightening, Romano realised in that moment, about seeing Spain with that expression. His green eyes appeared slightly sunken, his skin vaguely ashen. Romano knew then just how tired he was. He had been for a long time.

Suddenly, Romano was not just fearful for himself.

He swallowed sharply, and looked away once again. 'Fine,' he breathed out. 'Fine, but only if you let me help you in return.'

'Romano…'

'Not that it's for you, or anything,' Romano hurried to finish. 'France's revolutionary ideas must be stopped. They are not in the best interests of Naples and Sicily, and that is why I fight. But…' Romano offered him a brief smile. Nothing more than the corner of his lips quirking up for a second, but as expected, Spain didn't fail to notice it. 'You're a terrible boss who can't do anything for himself, so I suppose I'll have to carry on looking after you while I do it.'

'Roma…' Spain studied him for a long moment, surprised, but not unpleasantly so. His little Romano was certainly growing up fast. For some reason, the thought scared him a little bit less than before, and he looked away, unable to hold in his laughter. 'Okay! Leave it all to boss!' he declared, pushing himself off from his seat on the window frame. He stretched languidly, before setting off down the hallway, heading towards the conference room with Romano in tow.

Somehow, it made the decision to declare war on France just a little less painful.

Quickie notes: France isn't wholly mad. In fact he did a lot of good for Europe under Napoleon, but to the rest of the more conservative European nations, the kinds of ideas that the French were proposing were preposterous. Going to war with practically everyone also didn't help very much. However, France is not quite sane in this fic during this period of time, still recovering from being in a very bad place, and was still slightly torn internally over what he should even be doing, what with there being a good number of French Royalists fighting against Napoleon, seeking the restoration of the house of Bourbon.

In 1808, the Spanish were planning an uprising against France, which was further fuelled by Napoleon placing his own brother upon the Spanish throne. Napoleon sent in the French army to quash the rebellion, which was what ended up sparking the Peninsular War.

Romano's hatred for France throughout this story stems from both his character in the comic, and the fact that half of him -Sicily- consistently stood in opposition to French expansion.