The windows shatter. Broken glass sprays across the room. Belgium screams as pain rips through her body. Shells rain down, blasting stones apart and ripping craters into the earth. She can hear the cries of her people. They fight, they flee, they struggle to hold their positions from the onslaught. Belgium grits her teeth. They were not prepared. There was nothing they could do. Germany's forces are too strong and quick. Her shoulders shake. She saw what was in Prussia's eyes; she knew the brothers would not take no for an answer. Seizing the tablecloth in her hands, she forces herself to straighten. Belgium notices blood against the pale green fabric.

"My land is not a road," she thinks. She inhales deeply and hurries to her china cabinet. Gently, she touches the dark wood. She will miss her porcelain dishes, but delicate things cannot survive such a world. Belgium pulls open the drawer. Her pistol lies inside. "Switzerland is lucky. He has mountains. No fool would cross those." But she has flat, easy rolling plains. How lovely for trade. How lovely for an invading army.

The pistol's weight in her hand is a small comfort and relief.

She pushes the door of her house open. Bits of broken glass crunch under her shoes. Dark smoke hangs in the air, and she smells its acrid scent. It burns her nose. For a moment, she thinks of her brothers. One safe, untouched, unbothered, still neutral. Will it stay that way for long? The other Germany and Prussia had taken before they even approached her. Has he also experienced this, or was he spared the fury of their insulted pride? Belgium hopes Luxemburg is safe and well treated. She wonders if that is a fool's dream.

Her eyes sting with hot tears. She blinks them back, once, twice, three times. Now is not the time to weep. She will cry when the guns are silent, the dust clears, and every German soldier lays down his weapon for the last time. Not now. Not a minute before that day.

She must stand with her soldiers. She must find her king. She must protect her people.

Belgium's grip on her pistol tightens. Gathering her skirt in one hand, she runs to the forts. Shellfire and dying men's shouts echo in her ears.

xxx

"Vanya, be brave," the oldest says.

"Vanya, stay strong," the second tells him.

"Vanya, come home to us," the third whispers in his ear.

The fourth simply smiles and slips a photograph into his pocket.

xxx

"It's a long way to Tipperary,

It's a long way to go.

It's a long way to Tipperary,

To the sweetest girl I know."

England watches the men march and sing. His horse stands completely still, undisturbed by the loud cheers going on around him. England pats the horse's neck encouragingly. He is lucky to have found such a fine mount. It is a good animal and will serve him well in the coming months.

His eyes focus on each man's face as the new soldiers pass by. England knows he should not; such action will only hurt him in the end. He cannot help it, though. He feels a swell of pride at the sight of his men, so young and so fresh. Most of them are still in university: Oxford or Cambridge. They are filled with the stories of knights and heroism, glory, comrades in arms, and honor. They go to save a trampled nation and defeat the villain. England inhales deeply. Just a month earlier, he would never have supported getting involved in Austria and Hungary's little revenge plot. But that was before Germany and Prussia decided to strike Belgium down. The very thought fills England with rage. What had Belgium done to deserve such treatment? She kept her distance from the intrigues her neighbors embroiled themselves in. Before, England would not risk his men, but Germany's cruelty was just the thing to bring him and his citizens into this conflict. They would save her and her people. England vows this with every beat of his heart.

He hopes Belgium is all right, no matter what Germany and Prussia have done to her. England has already heard the stories of what is going on over there, and they fill him with rage.

Sensing his peaking emotions, his horse shifts a little. "Hush," he soothes it. "It is all right. You'll probably see worse in a few days." England dreads the battle almost as much as he longs to put Germany in his place. Apprehension plagues him. His foes are formidable; the fight will not be easy. His men know this, even as they cheerfully sing. They will win, though. England is certain. He is strong, and together with his dominions and allies, they will give Germany and Prussia such a thrashing that the brothers will never attempt such vicious acts again. It should not take long, either. If all goes well, his men will be home by Christmas. That would indeed be a happy way to end this difficult year.

Suddenly, a woman bursts out from the throng of adoring well-wishers. She grabs a man, a complete stranger from the way he stares at her in astonishment. The woman kisses him firmly on the mouth and disappears as quickly as she appeared. The men march on. White handkerchiefs wave in the air. A mix of optimism and anxiousness settles inside of England, making him oddly jittery. A trickle of sweat runs down his neck. It is a terribly hot day, after all.

"I will do my duty," he repeats the words he told his king. "I promise I will."

"Goodbye Picadilly,

Farewell Leicester Square

It's a long, long way to Tipperary,

But my heart's right there."

xxx

Kneeling on the stone floor, Erzsébet presses her hands together and prays. She prays for her people, for her soldiers, for the wives and children left behind. She prays for the Emperor, the politicians, and the generals. She prays for their allies. Most of all, she prays for her husband.

Her mind is divided. Roderich should be with his men at the front fighting this war he has pursued so vigorously. He seeks revenge. Let him have it. Let him realize how strong he really is, even with all of his land, history, and people living under his roof.

Erzsébet closes her eyes. Roderich is not a soldier; he never has been.

Unbidden images fly into her mind. Roderich bleeding, his spectacles smashed, his body nearly unrecognizable. She has seen the new innovations that everyone is so proud of. Roderich has little skill with even basic weaponry. How does he expect to survive out there? She should be there, assisting him, protecting him. Working as the equal partner in this arrangement they have. "Equal partner," she repeats to herself. That is what they agreed on when they married. No one seems to remember that now. Her husband's generals forbid her to fight. The Emperor loathes the thought of it. To them, she should be quiet, demure, and submissive. She must stay at home, while her men go to the East.

Do they truly expect Erzsébet to wait at home like the patient little wife while her husband faces Russia's strength and Serbia's cunning?

She looks up at the statues of Jesus, Mary, and St. Joseph. Do they hear her? She wonders why she worries about her husband so much. If she found herself in a similar situation, would Roderich pray on his knees? "But you never will as long as you are his wife," Erzsébet reminds herself. "He will not even give you the opportunity." She frowns. If only Roderich gave his consent, they could convince the generals together. Erzsébet knows the ways of warfare well. She practically grew up on the battlefield.

Her eyes widen. An idea comes into her head, a wild, foolish, dangerous idea. It is insane, yet she refuses to dismiss it. She is strong; she can handle heavy weapons. Could she pull it off? Erzsébet knows she can. Conrad insists the war will be short anyway. Erzsébet thinks the man is a fool, but perhaps, for once, he is right. If he is wrong, she believes she can endure until the deception is no longer necessary.

"Mrs. Hungary?" Liechtenstein's soft voice interrupts her thoughts. Surprised, she turns to see the girl standing at the entrance of the chapel. She wears her white nightdress, and her hair is loose. Erzsébet rises. She winces at the pain in her knees.

"Lili, what are you doing awake?"

Lili enters the chapel. Her bare feet barely make a sound. "I cannot sleep." Erzsébet nods, understanding.

"I have that problem too." Lili walks up beside Erzsébet.

"Are you worried about Mr. Austria?" she asks.

"I am," Erzsébet replies.

"I think Mr. Prussia is too. He told me Mr. Austria doesn't know what he is getting into."

"Gilbert said that? When?" She is not surprised. Gilbert has always been extremely critical of Roderich's military skills. Frequently, he delights in lording his superiority over him, much to Erzsébet's annoyance. This time, it sounds like an astute observation.

"Before the list was sent to Serbia."

Erzsébet frowns. "If he thought that, he might have tried harder to keep Roderich out of this."

"Maybe Mr. Prussia thinks the conflict will somehow help Mr. Germany." She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't understand that, though. Wars always hurt someone in the end."

Wrapping her arms around the girl, Erzsébet pulls her close. "Are you frightened?"

"Yes."

"We will protect you."

"Even if my people do not fight? I don't want them to get involved in this."

Erzsébet touches Lili's head tenderly. The girl has seen many, many conflicts. Erzsébet knows better than to comfort Lili with promises that all will be well. "Roderich and I respect your wishes," she tells her.

"Thank you." A moment passes. "Are you leaving with Mr. Austria tomorrow?"

Erzsébet sighs. "That is a funny question."

Lili shakes her head. "It's not a funny question. Are you?"

"The generals don't want me to go."

"Then I'll ask another question. Are you going to fight Mr. Russia?"

Erzsébet looks down at the girl. "And if I said yes?"

"I wouldn't tell anyone."

"Well, you have your answer."

"Is Mr. Austria going to fight too?"

The girl is too smart for her own good. "Of course he is." Pressing a kiss to her forehead, she whispers, "Say your prayers, Lili, and go straight to bed."

"Goodnight, Mrs. Hungary. Be safe," Lili says as Erzsébet hurries out of the chapel.

She removes her slippers before climbing the stairs. The house is dark, and most of its occupants have retreated to their rooms. Erzsébet feels strangely calm. She knows what she must do. It will be for only a little while, anyway. It may be dangerous optimism, but it is better than worry and hopelessness. She will save her husband from unnecessary harm. If their leaders judge only one of them fit to face their enemies, then it will be her. "What a good partner you are," she hears a little voice in her head whisper. The thought leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. She ignores it.

Slowly, she opens their bedroom door. Roderich is still, his face hidden in the darkness. He is not asleep. Erzsébet lies down beside him. A husband and wife should be together on a night like this. Roderich reaches out, and Erzsébet touches his hand. His skin is soft. She shifts closer. Their fingers intertwine.

xxx

Dear Alfred,

Well, this is it. I know what you think about this whole thing, and I understand that. It's Europe's problem, and it really shouldn't bother us. But it does bother me. Maybe it is because of my position, but I feel like I have to stand beside Arthur and Francis. They need all the help they can get, especially if Francis' rants about Prussia have any truth. On top of that, well, I've never been one to stand aside when a lady is hurt, and I'm not going to do it now. I suppose you've heard some of the things that are going on over there. Disgusting. I never thought Germany could be so vicious. Emma has disappeared. There's been no word, no sightings, nothing. I'm very worried about her.

There's a lot of excitement going on. I guess that's natural. I feel it too, really, but I'm also nervous. Things are so different in Europe, and maybe they'll be all right, but I'm not sure. Sorry, I think I'm rambling. What I'm trying to say is, sometimes I feel like I'm the only one, apart you that is, that remembers your civil war. Arthur tells me repeatedly that it's going to be short, but I don't know. When was the last time they fought a real war? I mean a war where both sides were heavily armed and trained? I wonder if they've forgotten. I remember what your civil war did to you, and the idea of that kind of damage happening to Francis terrifies me. Anyway, I'm still not making sense. Don't worry about me. From what I hear, it's going to be quite a company. Jack and Danny are coming. Ravi too. I haven't heard from Gupta, but I think Arthur will have him doing something, especially if things spill into his area. I don't know if they will, but there are rumors. With all of us there, things shouldn't be so bad.

I heard Roosevelt wants to take men to Europe. If he does, will you go? What has President Wilson said about it?

If you don't mind, could you come up to my house occasionally and check on Kuma? He can take care of himself, but I would feel better if I knew someone was looking after him and making sure he was all right.

I'll write as often as I can. I'll tell Arthur and Francis hello for you, too.

Your brother,

Matthew

P.S.

If this is over soon, let's spend Christmas together. It's been a while.

xxx

Austria removes his leather gloves and tugs on the cuffs of his sleeves. He hates his uniform. It is well tailored, but it does not fit. Whenever he catches a glimpse of his image in the mirror, all he focuses on are wrinkles and folds. He looks like a child playing dress-up in his father's clothing or a young man putting on a show of valor and pretending to be something he is not. Austria understands why. Warfare does not thrive in him like it does for Prussia, Germany, or even his wife. He was not bred for war; Switzerland knew that well. It has been centuries since the thrill of battle has inspired him, since he could hold Italy by the scruff of his neck. He cannot wear his uniform like a second skin, and that disturbs him.

Memories of past failures play in his head. He ignores them. Dwelling on the past will only distract him and cause pain. Maybe if he was a stronger fighter, if he was comfortable with the new technology, things might be better. Others would not look at him as if they expected him to invent some sort of compromise in order to save his delicate skin. Austria brushes invisible dust off his sleeve. They have forgotten he can fight fiercely once he has been pushed into a corner. He might have lost battles in the past, but he has won wars. Austria does not relish combat, but he will show the others exactly what he can do.

He sighs. Why did Serbia have to be so difficult?

Pushing open the door, he enters their informal dining room. Hungary is waiting for him. She stands beside a table laden with fresh pastries, a final treat before he leaves for the front. His wife gives him a slight smile. She wears a pale mulberry gown that makes her figure both statuesque and soft. The color suits her; Austria has never liked Hungary in black. Returning her smile, he sits down. Hungary pours him a cup of coffee and sits opposite him.

"What did the Emperor say?" she asks, spreading jam on a piece of toast.

Austria adds a bit of sugar to his coffee. "He told me to be brave and remember what I am fighting for. I intend to make him proud." He takes a sip. Hungary watches him. "He also gave me a message for you."

The knife makes a clinking noise as Hungary rests it on the porcelain plate. "What was it?"

"He wants you to remember your place in this arrangement and that this is for the good of the Empire."

"It is for the good of the Empire that I remain here while you and my people fight our enemies?"

"Elizabeta," Austria begins. He is unsure how to start. This is not how he wanted to spend his last breakfast at home. "Understand. It is not your place to fight this war. It is all taken care of. What would happen to our house if both of us were occupied in the East? Your duty is to remain here and make sure Anna, Jakub, and the others remain in line and stay loyal."

"What do you mean it is not my place? I have fought for you before when my status was much less." Austria places a hand to his temple. "I am as much a part of this Empire as you. We are threatened, and you need all the help you can get. Roderich, let me fight with you."

"I cannot." His head feels fuzzy. He takes another sip of coffee, hoping that will help. "You did help me in the past, but it is not necessary now. Your people's efforts will be of great assistance, but you do not have to come too. I can handle this. You must stay here."

Hungary leans back in her chair. For a moment, Austria thinks she has accepted his judgment, but he knows his wife better. "I knew you would say something like that."

"Well, it is what has been decided."

"Foolish decisions," Hungary mutters, and Austria does not feel like contradicting her. "What time does your train leave?"

Austria glances at his watch. The numbers blur. Why is he suddenly so dizzy? He finishes his coffee. Perhaps it will clear his head. It does no good. He needs to lie down, but there is no time. He must finish breakfast, give final instructions to the servants, kiss Hungary goodbye…Why did they have another disagreement now? Austria knew Hungary was not pleased, but could she not keep it to herself? He needs stability right now, not rebellion. She always wants more, more, more, and Austria does not know what else he can give. What can she want? She is his wife. Her people have some sovereignty. Is that not enough? He looks up, and Hungary stares at him with an anxious, curious expression. He removes his spectacles and rubs his eyes.

"An hour," is all he can manage. Perhaps he has enough time to lie down. The sofa is only a few feet away. He stands, and the floor shifts like ocean waves. Hungary rises and moves close to him. He brushes her away. He does not need her help. Squaring his shoulders, he takes a step and falls to his knees. Hungary's arms wrap around him. She is so warm and strong that Austria takes comfort in her embrace. He tries to focus on her face, her green eyes, her brown hair, the sound of her voice. She is saying something, but the words make no sense. He just wants to sleep. His eyelids are heavy.

Suddenly, through the haze of his mind, he recognizes what she is repeating.

"I am sorry. This is for the best. You'll be safe. I promise. I promise."

He understands, and indignation fills him. He struggles against the growing exhaustion. She cannot do this. It is impossible. He tries to move, but his body is too heavy. Her hand cradles his head.

"I will protect you," she whispers.

"Erzsi," he begins, but he cannot continue.

Darkness engulfs him.

xxx

"Will you be all right?" Gilbert folds another shirt and slips it in the bag.

"Of course," Ludwig insists, a little annoyed that his brother persists asking these questions. He understands the situation well. Gilbert has drilled military history, weapons training, and strategy lessons into his mind and body. If asked, Ludwig can list the numbers of men, animals, and artillery in each unit with perfect ease. He feels proud of his abilities, and he relishes the gleam of pride in Gilbert's eyes. Part of him does not want to admit it, but Ludwig was waiting for an opportunity like this, where he could show the world whom he was and what he could do. For as long as he can remember, his neighbors treated him with apprehension, distrust, and resentment. Is it his fault that he grew up quickly?

Maybe if he had maintained his friendship with Ivan, the tensions in the East would not be so strong. Ludwig will not criticize the Kaiser for the decision, though. Any "what ifs" are speculation and irrelevant. It was probably for the best. Ludwig cannot comprehend what it would be like to fight a friend. It cannot be good. Frequently, Gilbert rants about France, calling him a variety of vicious names and insulting his reputation. If warfare can destroy a friendship so thoroughly, then Ludwig never wants to find himself in such a position.

Not that he would ever want to be friends with France if half of Gilbert's stories are true. "Why does he not fight back?" he wonders aloud. The lack of resistance his forces have faced so far has been stunning. Even Belgium's people put up a struggle.

"Because, kleinen Brüder, we still have the element of surprise." Gilbert grins widely. "No one expected us to do what we did. This is something you must remember for the future. Strike fast and never hesitate. Like this." Before Ludwig can react, his brother pokes him hard in the belly. Ludwig jumps. "Ow," Gilbert mutters, shaking his hand out. "Sometimes I forget you don't have a soft little tummy anymore."

Ludwig rubs the spot. It does not hurt, but Gilbert's fingers left a dull pain. "Did we do too much in Belgium?" he asks. He likes the blonde nation. She always seemed so gracious and cheerful.

Gilbert's smile fades. He continues packing his bag. After a few minutes, he shrugs. "Our offer was rejected. We came in. There was resistance. We fought back. That is all there is to it. She knew the consequences."

"We stayed in there too long." Ludwig sits on Gilbert's bed. It is true. He has memorized the timetables, and he knows they are days behind schedule. "Will it affect us?"

"Of course it will affect us, but I don't think it is so bad that we cannot recover." Gilbert looks at his watch. "Twenty minutes. I should hurry up." The grin returns. "I'll say hello to Russia for you."

"And Roderich, since you'll be fighting with him."

"That's one way to put it." Gilbert sighs and shakes his head. "If Conrad thinks he can turn the little prince into a fighter, he is more delusional than I thought. Anyway, I can handle Russia by myself."

"Then maybe you can be back for Christmas," Ludwig suggests. Gilbert says nothing. "This will be over by Christmas, won't it? That is what the generals are telling His Majesty."

Gilbert places a hand on Ludwig's shoulder. "Yes, it will definitely be over by Christmas." His red eyes are serious, and Ludwig does not know whether or not to believe him.

"You think the generals are lying?"

"Lying is a harsh word, West. They are simply confident in their abilities. Completely understandable, since they are working with the most formidable pair of brothers in the world! When faced with us, our opponents will turn heel and run. You have nothing to worry about." He shoulders his pack. "Now, are you sure you will be all right?"

"Yes," Ludwig repeats. "I promise I will be fine."

"Good. Now, listen to your officers but trust your own judgment. Look after your men. Don't get tangled up with strange women; they're trouble, especially in France. Write to me and tell me about any developments, but be discreet. You never know who's reading your mail. And remember who you are."

"I will," he promises. "You do the same?"

"Absolutely." Gilbert turns and stares at Ludwig. An odd looks comes in his eyes. He rests his hand on the side of Ludwig's neck.

"I am very proud of you," he whispers. "You have grown up so much."

Suddenly embarrassed, Ludwig glances down at their boots. "Thank you. I could not have done it without you."

"Of course not!" Gilbert laughs. Grabbing Ludwig's arm, he pulls him off the bed. "Now get your cap and come see me off at the station."

xxx

At first, Francis does not notice the pain.

Then, his leg gives out from under him.

The rifle falls from his hands.

He collapses on the ground.

Blood gushes from his ruined knee. He grips it as the hot liquid splashes over his hands, staining his blue jacket, soaking into the field underneath him. He grits his teeth, willing himself not to scream in agony. Around him, Francis watches as his men continue to charge and fall as the German guns cut them down. They shout. They cry. Some hesitate, while others continue moving forward. Francis sees their faces.

Shock

Uncertainty

Terror

Francis' head grows light from blood loss. The color is indistinguishable from the brilliant red of his uniform trousers.

He knew Germany was incredibly strong. Prussia would not let him be anything less.

Francis thought he could beat him this time.

The German troops advance. Their spiked helmets gleam in the sun. Francis imagines he can see Ludwig among them, tall, blond, those blue eyes icy with determination.

Francis feels the land slip out from under him.

The hated call rings out. "Retreat! Retreat!"

Arms wrap around him, pulling him up. A sergeant heaves Francis onto his shoulders. "Let me help you, Captain. We need to get out of here."

Darkness tinges his vision. Francis guesses his body will be dead before they can reach the doctors' care. But not for long.

Hate inflames every part of his being.

Germany will pay. He will pay for every stolen foot of territory, every destroyed home, every soldier's life lost.

France swears this with his soul.

xxx

There was a battle once, when Prussia was still young and naïve about the ways of the world, where his knights fought against the forces of Poland and Lithuania. Prussia remembers the way he watched in horror as his leaders were slaughtered and humiliated and his knights rendered powerless. In that moment, he thought the world was ending. Never had he been so shamed. Blood stank on his black and white tunic as he was forced to bow to his victors and acknowledge their superiority. The memory still leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Prussia wonders if Russia is experiencing the same shock and horror as he did then.

Never did he expect it to be this easy. He has always feared Russia's power, and he has felt the sting of defeat from him before. But this is summer, and General Winter is nowhere to be found. The advantage lies with him.

The Germans push forward. The Russians panic. They drop their guns and run.

A smile spreads across Prussia's face. Times change. The conquerors become the conquered. Ivan has entered his land; Prussia will force him out.

In the chaos, Prussia spots him. Russia's eyes are wide with confusion and fear. He is a piteous sight, like a defenseless bear.

Prussia's grip on his rifle tightens.

This is it. Decades of diplomacy, contrived friendships, holding his tongue, flattery, and delicate, formal dinners come crashing to their end. He is a soldier, born for battle.

Prussia charges.

His blood sings in his veins.

He has missed this.

Notes:

Okay, first I am so, so sorry for the long delay between chapters. A little thing called grad school applications entered my life late last summer, and has left me a poor, bitter, shaken shell of my former self. (In all seriousness, those things are time-consuming, complicated, and expensive, and leave you biting your nails and doubting your self worth.)

We've finally got war! Germany's military might really did take everybody by surprise, from the French in the West to the Russians in the East, especially at the Battle of Tannenberg. Stories (most of them false) about atrocities German soldiers committed in Belgium provided a slew of propaganda material for the Entente, especially England, who was incredibly skilled at making Germany look absolutely vicious. It's frequently called "The Rape of Belgium", but as you might have guessed, I'm steering away from that as much as possible. As for what is happening to Belgium in this fic, you'll just have to see.

"It's a Long Way to Tipperary" was a popular song among English soldiers during the war.

Franz Conrad von Hötzendorf was Chief of General Staff for the Austria-Hungarian army and navy.

For anyone curious about Hungary's decision, there were women who disguised themselves as men and fought in WWI. One was a Serbian woman named Milunka Savić, who joined to protect her brother (she's also the most decorated female combatant in military history). So it does have some grounding in history.

The title is "Never Such Innocence Again" in Dutch.

Hopefully, you won't have to wait another six months for the next chapter. And keep your eyes peeled for a new historic fic of mine coming soon.