Notes: I am really, really sorry about the long wait for this. I have two reasons: Real Life (TM) being crazy, and the fact that I am an obsessive research monkey: the more I learn about a topic, the more I realize I don't know, which means the more I have to read to make up for that, and it just kind of . . . snowballed . . . and . . . yeah. But I'm good now!

(Only in Hetalia does writing an English fanfic involve perusing tourism websites for towns in the Czech Republic. I am SO going to Brno/Brünn if/when I get the chance.)

Funny thing I learned: the honest-to-god abbreviation for Feldmarschalleutnant, Johann's rank, is FML. I found this humorous. I'm so mature, really. :D

Last thing: Characters are going to bash historical figures. Characters aren't exactly objective observers. So don't trust 'em. ;)

Enjoy.

Chapter Four

Austria had reached the end of his tolerance for unwanted surprises. He inhaled through his nose, lips tight and grim, and strode into the dining area with careful steps, refusing to allow his injuries to slow him. "Ludwig?"

The boy looked up from his breakfast, stiffened, and paled. The girl sitting across from him twisted around and gave a little wave, which Ludwig eyed with visible trepidation. "Good morning, Mr. Austria," he said faintly.

"Good morning. Who is your companion, and where is Prussia?" Austria asked.

"Er–"

"Someone say my name?"

"I'm Liechtenstein," the girl announced as a viciously bright-eyed Prussia clomped down the stairs, peering around with devilish interest.

Austria felt a sudden urge to let Hungary try her hand at doing something painful and debilitating to France. "Ah," he said, pointedly ignoring Prussia. "I see." What was next–a Württemberg, a Hanover, a Pomerania in addition to Saxony and Bavaria and whatever the devil Ludwig represented? The Empire was breaking up. It had been crumbling for a long time, and would eventually dissolve–if not by this treaty, then by the next, and then–

"Wait wait wait–"

"You heard her," Austria snapped, at which point Hungary stepped over the threshold, halting two steps in. She raised a hand to her mouth and made an odd noise somewhere between a squeak and a giggle. Austria, unamused and in pain, could not understand it.

"So who's this?" Hungary asked nonchalantly, joining their little group around the table.

"Are you Austria?" the girl said, peering up at him.

"She says she's Liechtenstein," Prussia supplied.

"Yes, I am," said Austria.

Hungary didn't spare Prussia a glance. She curtseyed, sweeping her green skirts out to either side. "Pleasure to meet you," she said. "I'm Hungary. Welcome to the world. It's a little crazy sometimes, but you'll get used to it."

". . . It's nice to meet you, too," Liechtenstein said. She stood and gave a wobbling imitation curtsey, and Hungary nodded in approval.

Austria rubbed his eyes behind his spectacles with his left hand. Why. That was all he wanted to know. Why. It was not a particularly difficult question, and yet God had never answered since he first posed it centuries ago. Perhaps He had a twisted sense of humor. It would not surprise Austria.

Ludwig had been glancing between all players in the conversation in quick succession, an unnerving habit that put Austria in mind of a trapped animal. He cleared his throat. "M-may I show her the cathedral? Please?"

"Yes," Austria said curtly. "Please stay together and keep out of trouble. By which I mean away from the French delegation. Do you understand? Ludwig?"

The boy stuttered his assent and tugged Liechtenstein away. "Have fun," Hungary called after them.

On her way out, Liechtenstein turned back and faced Prussia. "I think you're insane," she said cheerfully. "Dancing is fun!"

And she waltzed out.

Austria watched them leave, shaking his head. Too much, too many developments, too many complications in too short a period of time . . . He needed time. Breathing space, enough to think.

"Did she just–"

"Shut up," Hungary said. She put a hand on Austria's left shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Not really, no." Time. One day until Gyulai arrived from Vienna, until things began in earnest, until–

"We can get out of this, Roderich. We'll be okay."

"How do you propose to accomplish that?" he sighed.

"Yes, Liz, do tell," Prussia chirped, perching on the table with one leg drawn up to his chest, head cocked to one side like a ridiculous bird. "I'd love to hear your amazing escape plan."

"Let me think," she said coldly. She folded her arms and scowled at Prussia in utter disgust. "Well, let's see–oh, I know. Archduke Charles. He's got an army sitting on my lands just waiting for a decent opportunity to do more than poke at supply lines. France is tired. He might not admit it and he might not act like it, but he is. He can't keep fighting like this."

"And neither can we," Austria said before Prussia could get a word in edgewise, which would not be a good idea because he could see where this was going and the last thing they needed was–

"Not alone, no," Hungary said grimly. Her tone dropped and shifted, and her expression went, if anything, even colder. "But guess whose army is close enough to make trouble for France if we do decide to go for it?"

For a fraction of a second, Prussia's ubiquitous crooked smirk lost its bite, and something distant and hollow flickered in its place. Then it snapped back. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm kind of sitting this one out. I don't feel like risking my neck for–"

"You know what needs to be done and you just won't do it," Hungary snarled. She took a step forward, and Prussia stood up again, attempting to make use of the difference in their heights in the ensuing glaring contest. It was not a significant difference anyway, and had rather less effect than he'd apparently hoped, because Hungary jabbed a finger at his chest and demanded, "So why do you keep avoiding the issue? What is it–are you afraid, Gilbert?"

He laughed, loudly. "Heh–you are never gonna let me live down that one time with the Cumans, are you?"

"Don't even try it."

"Try what?"

"Changing the subject!"

"Who the fuck cares?" Prussia sidled away and stalked out of the inn, calling over his shoulder, "I'm a goddamn neutral power this time around, got it? So have fun knuckling under to France! The only thing you can do is stall for time, you pathetic . . ."

Whatever else Prussia said was lost as the door slammed shut behind him. Austria sat down in the chair recently vacated by Liechtenstein, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, "Why."

Hungary remained standing, gazing at–no, through the door with a frown. "Time . . ."

"Hmm?"

". . . Nothing. He just . . . never mind." But Hungary remained distracted and distant as Austria prodded their conversation to lighter topics. A breath before the exertions of tomorrow–Gyulai and Liechtenstein, Talleyrand and Napoleon, the beginning of what Austria fervently hoped was not the end.

France had seen many battles, and many aftermaths to battles, and they never became any cleaner or nicer as weapons and tactics improved. The corpses and cripples only multiplied. This was no different. Brünn was a town now intimately acquainted with death–the wounded lay everywhere, in the houses, in the churches, everywhere–and on the fields outside Austerlitz, the dead–Austrian, French, Russian–rotted.

It was still pleasant to walk through the town. He had seen the Austrian diplomat earlier, looking a bit more uncomfortable than usual as he crossed the Lower Market Square; France greeted him politely and continued on his less-than-merry way.

The Cathedral of St. Peter and St. Paul loomed over him in silent splendor, the intricate stonework climbing the walls instead of ivy. The twin spires soared to the heavens like upraised arms, the defining points of the skyline.

France's greatest cathedral had undergone something of a crisis of faith. And a year ago, it had hosted the coronation of an emperor who took the crown from the hands of the Pope himself and placed it on his own head . . .

France entered the cathedral on a whim. He had nowhere else to be–he might as well enjoy the sights of the town, non? He had already made the acquaintance of several local women and serving girls bustling about his accommodations; one, a petite slip of a thing, had blushed and nearly tripped on the hem of her skirt, while the other, robust and ruddy-faced, had winked back.

He scanned the almost deserted cathedral, eyes settling on the other occupants. Two golden-haired children, a boy and a girl, sitting in the pews, leaning against each other and gazing around in naked wonder.

France blinked.

Nations.

Qu'est-ce que vous cachez, Autriche?

France was behind them; he approached with care.

". . . like this place. It's pretty," the girl was saying in their universal patois, her head on the boy's shoulder. He seemed on-edge, a bit uneasy with the close contact.

"Yes, but . . . I know what it's for, what it's about. I just . . . I don't think I quite belong in here."

"Why not? Are you a Protestant nation or something?"

The boy shrugged, half-dislodging her. "Maybe."

She straightened up. "Huh. Well, I still think this is very pretty, and I think you shouldn't be uncomfortable or anything because–oh, hello!" She'd noticed France as she gestured around the cathedral, and now she beamed at him. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Bon jour," he said, giving an other sweeping bow. As he rose, his breath caught.

The Holy Roman Empire stared back at him, white-faced, mouth open in shock or fear. I killed you, France thought wildly. I killed you over a week ago, at Austerlitz, I watched you die, I watched you disappear–

"Ah," he said with about as much articulacy as he could summon up under the circumstances. "Er . . ."

The girl was shorter, calmer, and altogether much more agreeable, though her innocent expression had a definite coolness around the emerald eyes. "You're France," she said.

He recovered, taking her hand and kissing it gently. "I am," he replied. "To whom do I have the honor of speaking?" He didn't look at the boy.

The girl pulled her hand away, still as unruffled as a clear summer sky. "Liechtenstein."

"Enchanté, mademoiselle." He glanced at the boy. ". . . Henrique?"

"Wes–Ludwig," he babbled. "M-my name is Ludwig . . ."

France scrutinized him. His eyes were wrong. Lighter, flatter, colder blue. France would have been relieved had he seriously entertained the notion that the boy he killed had come back from the dead to haunt him. "Have you any idea which lands you represent?"

"N-nein," the boy squeaked. German. Interesting. And he slipped out of the nations' speech when nervous. Likewise interesting.

Liechtenstein curled her slender fingers around Ludwig's wrist and tugged, standing up, keeping herself between him and France. She smiled at him. "You should look at the gardens outside, Mr. France; they're lovely."

It was the dead of winter. All the gardens were scrubby and frosted-over and there appeared to be snow flurries beyond the tall windows, but France recognized an attempted escape when he saw one. He let it go. "I'll make a point of enjoying them," he said. He stepped to the side, trying to let the child-nations out of their row of the pew into the aisle where he stood, but Liechtenstein pulled Ludwig the other way, to the outer aisle rather than the center. He followed her, stumbling over his own shoes and the hem of her–well, it appeared to be a nightgown coupled with a boy's coat. Probably Ludwig's, in fact, since he seemed to be missing his.

France examined the paintings and statuary in the resultant silence, not really seeing any of it.

Prussia was fuming. Politics and stupidity and–and politics!

He, Gilbert Beilschmidt, wanted to take out his frustrations on France's smug little Emperor and his much-vaunted Grande Armée. He wanted to, and he couldn't. Because Gilbert Beilschmidt was Prussia, and Prussia was smack in the middle of this convoluted mess–okay, so maybe not in the geographic middle, but close enough. Close enough to make an alliance with the coalition powers risky at best, and an alliance with France equally dangerous. Close enough to render this neutrality shit pretty much useless.

France and Napoleon sent their troops tramping through Prussia's territories–sent them to snatch British diplomats from Hamburg, to saunter all over his lands en route to Austerlitz–and the king just sat there and did nothing.

He kept his advisors and ministers at odds, jockeying for his favor, because he was afraid to make the wrong decision.

Haugwitz wanted to cozy up to France. Hardenberg wanted to cozy up to Russia. He had no buffer between himself and Russia (no, he was not going to apologize to Poland), and France didn't care about buffers at all.

Prussia did nothing. He could do nothing.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

He breathed out fog in the frigid morning air, kicked at pebbles in the road as he circled the inn–not that he was avoiding it, or the people inside it, he just didn't feel like lurking in the stuffy interior–and wondered what was happening in Vienna. The king had sent Haugwitz there with an ultimatum for Napoleon. Quit fucking with us or we'll unleash holy hell, something like that.

But then . . . coalitions and alliances never lasted. Ever. He'd broken too many himself to still believe that a handshake and a few signatures meant much in wartime. They crumbled, toppled, fell apart.

Russia was out. Austria, too. England would keep fighting, of course–he always did, when it was France. Those two seemed to indulge in war the way normal people indulged in chocolates or sex.

Still. There goes the mighty coalition.

There goes the war.

It was a mess.

Prussia nearly ran into Liechtenstein and West as the pair of them speed-walked around a corner. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, not in a mood to be polite.

"Sorry," Liechtenstein said hurriedly. "The cathedral was . . . interesting. But we kind of . . ." She finished at a low indistinct mumble he'd come to expect from West when he was trying to be evasive, and the only word Prussia caught was France.

His gaze snapped over to West. "What. Happened," he growled.

West had that wild-eyed panicky look from the night they found him, and not because of Prussia; there was a different panicky look for that. "He came up to us in the cathedral, we were just sitting there and, and he introduced himself and . . ."

"And?"

"And that was it," Liechtenstein finished.

Prussia scowled at her. "I'm not usually one to agree with Austria on anything, but in this case, we're trying to keep you two from landing yourselves in–"

"We're fine," Liechtenstein said with a bright smile. "He just said hello. Don't worry so much."

"If France knows about you," Prussia exploded, "if he knows that you're new nations or whatever, he'll snap you up–"

"Our nations," Liechtenstein said, "technically don't exist yet. I mean, mine doesn't. I don't know about West's."

"Nobody knows what West even is," Prussia muttered.

West tensed up even further. He was going to snap one of these days, he was wound so tightly. Liechtenstein squeezed his hand. Then she raised an eyebrow at Prussia. "We will be sovereign nations. And you don't want that, do you? It'll weaken your position. Austria's, and yours."

"This has nothing to do with me–"

"Then why do you care so much?" She was–this was ridiculous, he was arguing with a kid, and he couldn't tell if she was just being annoyingly perceptive or actually trying to argue him into a corner–

"It's too late," Liechtenstein was saying. "France already knows, so there's no point getting mad at us, all right? You were worried that his seeing us would . . . make him try to split up the old territories?" She rubbed her nose with her free hand. "We're already here. It was–it is going to happen anyway."

". . . What are you, a Calvinist?"

"I don't know what that means," she said. There was an unspoken I don't think it matters very much in the pause after her statement. "Can we go see the town now? West, do you want to see the town?"

West nodded without looking at either of them.

"Then we should see it," Liechtenstein concluded, brooking no argument.

Prussia gave up. "Fine, whatever," he grunted.

"Thanks."

He let them go, defeated. He raked a hand through his hair and hissed out another breath between his teeth. Girls. Nations. Hungary, Liechtenstein–he'd never understand them. Never.

That's just an excuse for getting chewed out twice in one morning.

Shut up.

"We must laugh at man to avoid crying for him."

–Napoleon Bonaparte