Welcome to the final part.

-1796-

'How could you?' Romano screeched incredulously, whacking Spain on the arm. The resulting wince –genuine hurt, must have hit a wound- made Romano feel guilty, but he was too horrified to stop and apologise. Sure, Spain was weaker than he used to be, but it had never occurred to him that he could be so stupid as to side with France.

'I had to, Roma,' Spain responded, using the gentle tone that Romano hated so much. The tone that always meant that Spain was lying to stop him from worrying.

'You fucking lost, Spain! And as if signing some shitty, so-called "peace treaty" wasn't enough, you have to go and fucking join him. What's going to happen to us?' he demanded. He honestly didn't mean to sound so cruel, but he was just so terrified. Spain was meant to be strong, and look after them both, because Romano couldn't do it alone. He couldn't.

He felt sick. Shit, he was going to throw up.

Spain watched him with an infuriatingly understanding expression. Romano hated him all the more for it, wishing with all of his heart that Spain would get angry or… or something.

'I didn't lose, Roma,' he said again. 'I signed a peace treaty. We made peace. That's good isn't it?'

'Don't patronise me,' Romano hissed. 'I'm not a stupid, fucking kid any more, Spain. I get the difference between being forced into something against your will, and signing a genuine peace treaty! England, and the others were going to help us, and now you're on France's side?'

'Romano…'

'He has my brother, and now he has you, and I'm just supposed to fucking accept that?'

'Romano, I had to-'

'Why did you have to?' he ranted, hands flailing wildly. 'If you'd just held on a bit longer, you wouldn't have had to humiliate yourself. You wouldn't have had to join France's side, because you can't honestly tell me that you actually fucking agree with him when you were at war with him only last year! When he fucking invaded.'

'Romano!' Spain's voice boomed, stopping Romano's rant dead. Romano stared at him with wide eyes, shocked, though it faded the moment that Spain winced again. He was still injured from before; his wounds were healing so slowly. How could he side with the man that did this to him? It upset Romano more than he cared to admit.

'Romano,' Spain said again, much more quietly, and gently than before. 'He said, that if I join him, he'll concede parts of your house to me, maybe even little Ita's house too. I know it's not much, but it's the only way that I can look after you, and perhaps even your brother. It'll keep France off my back too. If I take advantage of what he's offering me, then I might be able to reclaim some of what I've lost. I'm sorry, it's the best that I can do.'

He was sorry. Romano could see it clearly on his face, and in his eyes.

'Y- you idiot-'

'I know, I know,' Spain smiled sadly.

'What are we going to do?' Romano implored, gripping onto Spain's shirt, holding on to him as if he were a lifeline.

Spain took a deep breath, releasing it in a puff of air. 'Well,' he said. 'I suppose I'll just do what France tells me to while I get my strength back-'

'And what about me?' Romano interrupted, eyes wide, and fearful.

Spain smiled at that, lifting his hand with some effort, to run his fingers through Romano's hair, careful to avoid that one curl. 'You need to keep your head low, and voice down. Think you can do that?'

'I'm not a child,' Romano scowled, even as he leant slightly into Spain's gentle ministrations on his hair.

'Okay,' Spain said with a smile.

Romano was silent for a while, before hesitantly speaking up once again. 'When- when you're strong again, will you fight back?'

Spain considered his question carefully, before nodding once. 'When I am stronger, when the time is right, I will reclaim my freedom, yes.'

'And will you come for me, if I get taken away?'

'Yes.'

Romano nodded silently, throwing himself impulsively into Spain's arms, pressing up against his chest, a budding nation, but still a child in so many ways.

France found them in much the same position when he entered Spain's bedroom several minutes later.

Raising an eyebrow at the sight, he gazed upon them as the younger one pulled away, blushing fiercely. France observed the scene with some surprise. He had suspected Spain of strange tastes for quite some time now. Perhaps he had been correct all along.

'If you wish for the boy to stay for the next part, I have no objections,' he stated.

Spain's head drooped tiredly, leaving him looking defeated. 'No. He will leave.'

'But, Spain!' Romano protested.

Spain's head shot up, and he fixed Romano with one of the sternest looks that he had ever given him. 'Out, Romano!' he snapped. Romano felt tears swell in his eyes, flooding his vision. Lying bastard! He thought, outraged. That lying bastard he- 'Roma,' Spain said again, more gently this time, expression apologetic, and resigned. 'Why don't you head down to the kitchens, yeah? Go and see if cook will make you something nice for dinner?'

'You heard him, run along now, boy,' France added.

Spain gave him a dark look, before returning his gaze to Romano to give him a shaky smile.

Shoulders sagging in defeat, Romano's anger evaporated into nothing, and reluctantly, he did as he was bid, leaving Spain's bedroom, and closing the door behind him with a click.

It was only an hour later, as he was throwing pebbles into the lake by the villa that he realised why Spain had wanted him to leave the room. The tears sprang up, and overflowed in an instant, distant promises echoing in his memory. Horrified, he sank to his knees, dropping the pebbles that he had collected to the floor, as he reached up to grab at his hair instead. That stupid bastard! That stupid, stupid bastard! He was always doing such stupid things to protect him, because he couldn't do anything himself. He was fucking useless, his own promise to protect Spain back ringing sharply in his ears, jarring, and taunting, reminding him that he hadn't been able to do a Goddamned thing.

He sobbed until he was dry heaving, feeling small, and pathetic. The world was changing forever, and if Spain couldn't stop it, who could? Romano could do nothing. He was too weak, and too insignificant, he had proved that when he had been forced to watch Spain fall, forced to watch the man who had raised him cast aside his pride in order to become little more than a puppet. Anything that Romano could try to do would be ineffectual, and if he got hurt, then Spain would only become even sadder.

Do your best, Romano, Spain had told him once. Romano had snorted derisively, asking what would become of him if his best wasn't good enough. Spain had only smiled and told him that his best would always be good enough for him.

It was strange... Spain was, he knew, not a good person. He was capable of evil, and had committed great sins, wild heresy in moments of madness that he carried within him like a lurking plague. And yet, much as Romano knew that it should matter to him, it didn't. Much as he knew that he should not grieve for the fall of another great tyrant, he did.

He was a man of sin in so many ways, but he was also the only man who had ever made Romano feel like he was worth anything at all. A man who loved openly, and lived life to its fullest. A man whose bloodstained hands were capable of remarkable gentleness. A man who Romano would not see suffer under the rule of France.

Do your best, Romano.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing his tears away, and sniffling. Honestly, he was supposed to be growing up, and here he was crying like a child.

It was time to grow up. He was convinced of it, now more than ever before. He would do his best, and if his best wasn't good enough, at least it would be written in the history books that he had stood firm against a great tyrant, while the rest of his kin fell around him. At least then, if he were cut down, he wouldn't die a coward.

-1815-

If anyone had asked England how he would have chosen to spend the night that he won the war, he would have scoffed and answered with something along the lines of "getting shitfaced, because I deserve it."

He would have believed that, even until that very morning as he had readied himself, knowing that it was the final stand for both himself, and France. Everything had come down to one, defining moment and England had dared to think of the future for the first time in a long time, even as he had stared down an army that matched his own in might, and grim determination.

England was sparing with the truth, but he was not delusional. It had been a close thing, much more so than he would have liked. Without Prussia there to turn the tide, he couldn't honestly say that he would have won. Trust France to make it such a climatic affair. It could have been such a nice, boring battle, but no. It had been a heart- stopping scramble in a field of mud, with neither side being quite sure if they were winning or not.

God. The more that he thought about it, the more he felt like having a heart attack over it.

Prussia, who was sitting next to him, quietly humming to himself as he jabbed at their campfire with a stick, seemed not to notice England's belated worrying. Instead, a good while after they had finished talking, he made a loud, frustrated sound, and threw the stick down, distracting England from his thoughts.

'Goddamn it, England!' he growled. 'I can't get your stupid, fucking marching song out of my head!'

England's mouth curved into a small smirk. 'The British Grenadiers?' he chuckled. 'Yes, that one is sort of catchy.'

'You've been playing it for over hundred years now. Can't you pick a new tune already, Jesus! It's like, whether I'm with you, or against you, all I can ever hear is that fucking song when you're around. Dah dah dah.'

England couldn't help his laugh. He was bone weary, tired from too many years of war, and barely believing that it was finally all over. He couldn't concentrate on one thing for more than a moment, too many things requiring his immediate attention, too much planning for a new, and immediate future.

And yet Prussia would always be Prussia, and that was so overwhelmingly comforting to England in that moment, that he found himself uttering his first genuine laugh in years.

'That's right. Revel in my pain,' Prussia groaned. His grin was good-natured, however, and almost friendly.

'I always do, Prussia,' England chuckled. 'Oddly it's more satisfying when you're on my side.'

'Tch, sadist,' Prussia snorted.

'What does that make you then?' England smirked.

Prussia fell silent, thinking it over as he flattened a piece of grass with the toe of his boot. 'I dunno,' he said after a moment. ''spose I must be a masochist on some level if I willingly joined your side again.'

'My side keeps winning though,' England pointed out.

'Only because I keep graciously saving your scrawny little arse, and inspiring your poor redcoats with my awesome presence,' Prussia grinned.

England snorted softly, lips twitching in a suppressed smile. He was never quite sure if Prussia just had a good sense of humour, or was genuinely that self- deluded, but either way, England had always found him to be extremely amusing.

They lapsed into silence for a while, staring into the flames of their campfire, both unusually sombre.

'I wonder what we do now,' England mused.

'Celebrate,' Prussia answered. 'Just like we are right now. Booze, and women, and music… heh.'

England smiled. 'I can arrange the music if you want, dah da-'

'Don't you dare,' Prussia growled, though his lips curved into a smirk.

England let out a tired laugh, but obliged him nonetheless, falling quiet once again. He thought on France, asleep in England's tent, wrists bound, pride in tatters, and sporting what would become a beautiful black eye by the morning, but otherwise unharmed. Once his army had fallen, he had seemed strangely compliant, almost as if he was awakening from some half- awake state. England was not a fool. He knew full well that France had known was he was doing all along and that France had, he was loath to admit, displayed a good number of ideas along the way. And yet he also knew that without his little General filling his mind with nonsense, France could finally have the chance to recover that he needed, the chance to clear his head after the nastiness of the revolution.

'You know, for a victor, you look like shit,' Prussia spoke up, interrupting England's wandering thoughts.

'You're a fine one to talk,' England replied, nodding his head to where Prussia's once- white trousers were painted with a grimy layer of dirt. 'You look like you've been for a swim in the Ganges.'

'Yeah, well you can blame Belgium for that,' he sneered, jerking his head over towards where Belgium was sleeping on her bedroll. 'I don't think I've seen so much fucking mud in my entire life.'

'You should try living next to Wales,' England chuckled, but the joke was largely lost on Prussia. His laugh tapered off into a soft sigh, and he sat staring into the fire, eyes half- lidded and mesmerised. 'I'm tried,' he admitted.

Prussia looked at him, extremely surprised. It was dangerous for nations to go around admitting that they were weary. It could encourage others to take advantage of any weakness that one might admit to. And yet, somehow, Prussia couldn't bring himself to consider turning on England in that moment. Not after all of the shit that had been dragging on for far too long.

'Me too,' he agreed, sounding hesitant. England looked up at him, and caught his eye, but he frowned, and looked away, shaking off his sudden feeling of vulnerability. 'So, when all of this shit's over, I'm going to go and enjoy my new land, and keep my eyes firmly on Russia, and Austria. It's only a matter of time before they try something, and I need to be ready to crush them.'

'Heh…' England smiled, eyes distant. 'Don't know who I've got left to fight. France won't be bothering me again for a while, and Spain's not a threat any more… it's going to be bloody strange, not fighting, I mean.'

'Ahh, I'm sure you'll find someone to play with. Personally, I'd suggest Russia,' Prussia smirked.

England couldn't help but grin back. 'Well, I really do hate that tosser.'

'Good. That's settled then. I can't see this shit tip staying very peaceful for long anyway. It's just not how we work.'

England hummed in agreement, brushing some dried mud off his coat. 'It most certainly is not, no.' he looked up at Prussia then, eyes narrowed, and calculating, taking on the look of a greedy hawk circling around a fresh corpse, 'I hope you won't find me too forward if I suggest that we see to some marriages between our royal households in the future? It could be mutually advantageous.'

Prussia's eyebrows lifted slightly, and his mouth quirked into an amused smile. 'Oh? Your illustrious house of Hannover finally noticing me, are they?'

England shrugged, and returned to picking mud off his coat. 'Well now that the Holy Roman Empire's gone, it makes things a little bit easier to cope with in Hanover. God rest the poor little sod, but with him gone, it makes things a lot easier for me to manage.'

'Hmmm, for you, and I both,' Prussia agreed, already thinking about marching west at some distant point in the future.

'George would be happy with it, I think,' England smiled softly.

Prussia shifted slightly, his face taking on a sombre expression when he realised that England wasn't referring to his Prince reagent. 'I'm sorry for what's happened to him.'

England knew full well that Prussia wasn't just humouring him. There was very little in life that Prussia took seriously, but a good king was something that Prussia would always value. Still, England did not speak, simply nodding to indicate that he had heard, and acknowledged Prussia's words. They were supposed to be celebrating, not wallowing in sadness, mourning over great kings that had been lost to them.

And still, neither of them moved from their quiet contemplation by the campfire. Maybe tomorrow they would celebrate. It was a thought that made England smile. Not because of what he could get up to, however. It was just nice that he could even think about "tomorrow."

-1914-

France heaved a weary sigh, dropping his head to allow his chin to rest upon England's shoulder. Without really thinking about it, England bought his hand up to push half- heartedly at France's face, muttering a distracted 'Getoff,' though his eyes remained fixed upon the map that he had unrolled across his desk.

France ignored him, studying the criss-cross of lines that represented the borders between the lands of Europe, thin and twisted, looking as fragile as a spider web. In his head, it sounded poetic, but in reality it was anything but.

He shivered, unwilling to let his mind dwell on how brittle the borders really were, on what he- or rather; all of them- had come to accept as unchanging, and almost sacred with an unforgivable level of complacency. Now it was far too late for the benefit of hindsight.

Swallowing, France bought his hands up to fold around England's shoulders, holding him in order to steady himself as he was assailed with dread.

'Really,' England muttered, though he seemed very far from angry, 'Entente cordiale, or no, get off me, France.'

Wordlessly, France released him, stepping back in order to lean himself against the wall behind England's desk. Patting his pockets, he located his cigarettes and popped one into his mouth, lighting it, and throwing his used match into one of England's plant pots.

'What will Spain do?' England asked him, though he did not turn to face him, fingers continuing to trail gently over the map.

France shrugged. 'He wants nothing to do with it.'

'Italy?'

'Ah,' France paused inhale from his cigarette. 'Now he's a strange one. In words he's with them, but he doesn't seem very happy about it, Romano even less so. I also heard a little rumour that neither of them want to do anything that would piss you off.'

'Me?'

'Hmmmm, well they know how much you need the Med to get to your beloved India, and we all know how you get when people try to step in your way to her,' he chuckled.

'Shut up, Frog.' This time England did turn around to face him, if only to scowl at him.

'Anyway,' France continued, completely ignoring England's glare, 'I wouldn't be surprised if Italy ended up joining us, because he's made it very clear that he's not keen on being on their side.'

'Ah.'

They fell silent, and France took the opportunity to focus on the smoke that was coiling up into the air before him, forcing all other thoughts out of his mind, if only for a few brief, merciful moments.

'This is going to be bad, isn't it?' England sighed, slumping in his chair.

France stared at him for a long moment, before closing his eyes and nodding. 'I'm afraid so, my dear.'

'Shame,' England's gaze drifted over towards the window, eyes fixing upon the seemingly calm day outside. 'But I suppose we always knew that the agreements that we reached at the Congress of Vienna wouldn't last forever.'

'With us, it never really does,' France smiled.

God bless Europe, they both thought in that moment. The fickle bitch that she was.

Notes: France, I would like to stress, is not the "bad guy" in this fic. All parties are as equally guilty in being greedy, power- hungry vultures. Ironically. Napoleon did a great deal of good in Europe, introducing some revolutionary, and modern thinking into the system. That being said, by and large, he is historically noted in the rest of Europe as a great tyrant, with most European nations, excluding Poland, and North Italy (who used the opportunity to seek independence) entering into war with France at some point in the campaigns. Most noticeable was Spain who, despite being a great historical ally of France, was opposed to France throughout the entire French Revolution. After falling to France in only a year, Spain became France's ally, though it was little more than a puppet state. After a decade of 'co-operating' with France, shortly after Napoleon put his brother on the throne of Spain, the Spanish rebelled against the French (who were already in Spain in order to defeat Portugal), sparking the Peninsula War, and giving us the term 'guerrilla warfare'.

The reason why England is featured so much not because I am writing from a purely Anglo-centric point of view (though that helps), but more because it's hard to find any part of the Napoleonic Campaigns where England isn't involved in some way or other. England was the only nation to remain at war with France throughout the entire situation, and was a core member of all six coalitions. Austria was England's most consistent ally throughout the campaigns, with Prussia in opposition to French expansion, but first having too much attention focused on occupying Poland, and later falling to a French invasion in only a few days, meaning that Prussia was in, and out of coalitions.

I had Romano as still living with Spain up until a very late point in order to depict Romano's Bourbon royal family which, at the time of Napoleon, still had very close ties with the Spanish throne. At the start of this story Naples has been taken from him, but Sicily remained free, and fighting back against France. Since I couldn't have him split himself in half, and, going with his character in the manga, I had him stay with Spain, at least until Spain fell to France in the Peninsula War. Sicily was, surprisingly, staunchly against France throughout the entirety of the campaigns, which I tried to convey here, while still keeping it so that Naples lived under French rule. Urgh. Thank you, Hetalia. Additionally, I am aware that Italian unification was already whispered about by this point. Again, I went on the character. Judging by Romano the character, and the plight of Sicily, I feel that Romano was opposed to the idea of unification at this stage, purely because it would mean being under French rule. Not because he is opposed to the unification himself.

'The British Grenadiers' ("The Granadeer's March", before Great Britain was created) is an English, and British marching song dating from the 1600s. It is arguably the most famous marching tune that we have. It is still played today.

"You look like you've been for a swim in the Ganges," casual nineteenth century English racism agogo!