Chapter Text
December, 1804. Napoleon crowns himself emperor of France.
The occasion is a joyous one, filled with many royals and the country himself. There’s a renowned artist here as well who’s sketching it down on a canvas so he can paint it later.
“Monsieur, how do you feel about this?”
“He has talents,” France muses. Napoleon is a man who came from poverty, and now he lives like this. It’s unheard of, but it might just be exactly what France needs right now. He’s still not entirely recovered from the French Revolution last century. Napoleon might be the man to restore France’s former glory.
With the crown on his head, Napoleon locks his eyes with France. Love and pride emanate off this man, the deep feelings he has for his own country; France can feel the thrumming of his heart, can practically hear his thoughts:
Victory belongs to the most persevering.
La Grande Armée is soon created. Looking over the formation plan, France must say he continues to be impressed by Napoleon.
They’ve garnered some allies, and naturally, also some enemies.
“Britain is still insistent on fighting us,” a general informs him.
France rolls his eyes. “Of course he is. I wouldn’t expect anything else. How are we progressing?”
“We can’t invade, the royal navy is there…”
France clicks his tongue. They’re stuck in a stalemate; Britain can’t fight on land because France is better, and France can’t fight on water because Britain is better.
“There’s also a letter for you. No sending address, but the stamp is of royalty.”
France takes it and opens it up.
I could do this all day, twat.
He rips it to pieces. “Contact Spain. I need to speak with him.”
He lets the ripped letter flutter away with the wind.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Spain asks warily.
“Of course, mon ami! It was Prussia who chose Britain over us, shouldn’t we teach him a lesson?”
“If you say so…”
France looks over the battle plans. Austria has tried to win, but he’s lost. They’ve made plenty of advances elsewhere. Britain has still not budged, but that’s okay. There are more ways to destroy a nation than just invading.
“After we get Prussia to retreat, I want to cut off Britain from the rest of Europe. He shall not be allowed to trade with the rest of us.”
“You’re going to make him poor?” Spain asks.
“Exactly. He’ll be running to me and begging soon enough.” France makes plans inside his head in the near-coming future. He imagines he’ll feed England the moldy bread he’s got stored away, and make him drink water from puddles. He’ll be France's personal pet.
Spain has quieted completely, so France asks impatiently: “What is it?” The sooner they get Britain to yield, the better. All of Europe will be in France’s palms once the biggest threat is gone.
“It’s just ah…” Spain says sheepishly. “Portugal will still be trading with him.”
That puts a snarl to France’s lips. “Can’t you do something about him?”
Spain sighs. “We’ve been well lately, I don’t know… He’s neutral, after all.”
France steps up imposingly close. “In this day and age, it is foolish to preach for peace. If you are unwilling to defend yourself, you will fall. You are either with me or against me, do you understand?”
“I do…”
“Good. I shall send my men to help you. I’m sure Napoleon would agree this is what needs to be done.”
He’s getting closer and closer to ultimate power. Soon, the French Revolution will just be a thing of the past, a testament to France’s talents and ability; who else can sink so low, to the point of near-death, and rise like this?
France watches Spain’s back as he leaves the room.
He will do whatever it takes to rise even more.
Spain is weak. He is pitiful and no good.
The stench of death is thick in the air. Blood oozes on the streets from the bodies scattered about, leading in a trail up to Spain’s destroyed body — but he is still breathing, and the look he’s giving France sends shivers of pleasure down his spine.
“Your people put up a good fight,” France says with a smile. “But alas, the better one will always win.”
“You are still just as mad as you were last century,” Spain spits. “This is betrayal. I won’t forget it.”
“I’m not expecting you to.” France kneels in front of the man. He uses the blade of his sword to tilt Spain’s chin up. “From now on, you’ll be one of my pets.”
But it seems that France has underestimated Spain.
In the next blink, a sword has completely pierced his heart, and he collapses forward, sputtering blood from his lips. Spain’s emerald eyes are searing at him, like green flames.
“Do not think I’ll go down this easily,” he says lowly. Blood is pooling from the wound on his abdomen. “You have started a too big war to win, my old friend.”
“Who do you have that is smarter than Napoleon?” France’s vision is going black at the edges, but he still has the strength to grin, to tease; he’ll heal soon enough anyways. He’s too strong now.
Spain’s grip on the sword tightens, and then he cuts off France’s head in one clean swipe.
For the next few years, France and Spain are at war with each other.
France has put full trust in Napoleon. He has never felt so high before in his life.
“How is the food, is it good?” He asks Napoleon, who’s sitting across from him at the table. And then he cannot help but laugh. “That Austria is surprisingly a feisty one, wouldn’t you say? He tried going up against us again, but lost. Again! How humiliating.”
Napoleon remains silent, however.
France puts down his glass. “What’s wrong, my beloved emperor? Is the food not to your liking?”
“It is perfect, as it always is.”
“Then…?”
“I worry for my brother.”
Ah, France thinks. Napoleon’s brother is currently fighting off Spain, who’s putting up a valiant effort. Still standing on two legs. “He will be okay. Spain won’t last much longer.”
“And Britain is still not defeated.”
That sours France’s mood greatly. Britain is always there like a thorn in his side. Had they not been here, England most of all, this war wouldn’t be drawn out for as long as it has.
“I have a plan,” Napoleon says then, and France perks up. All of Napoleon’s plans have been superior so far. “We’ll take Russia next.”
“Russia?” France says. His eyes widen as it slowly dawns on him. With the support of someone so large, maybe Britain will finally, finally yield. It’s been so long since he’s seen the bushy eyebrows of his detested rival, pinned beneath him… he’s tingling at the thought.
“I have a feeling he’s going to go against us,” Napoleon states. “We must strike first.”
France nods with a grin plastered on his face. Russia is mad that France has tinkered with Poland. The country was supposed to be off limits in this alliance of theirs, and cutting off Britain from the rest of Europe ended up scarring Russia’s economic state as well. Suffice to say, Russia is pretty furious right now.
Pretty vulnerable, too. The perfect time to strike.
France remembers this beast of a nation as the man of Ivan Braginsky. A bear-like foe with sadistic tendencies.
He cannot wait.
With six hundred thousand men, they start their march.