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Eight years.
Greece has been counting the clock in her head since she heard of the border crossing into Moldavia.
Nobody knows the death toll of the war; not yet - but the thought haunts her mind as often as an oncoming storm.
If she were to try to count each of the lost souls, how long would she sit and utter names? She fears if she started she’d never stop.
Was it worth it?
Greece swallows.
It had to be worth it.
She still remembers the speech echoed to her from that fiery revolutionary. The words had moved her then, but she’d dismissed it as a far-flung hope. It was the brashness of youth, after all. The dream of freedom had been rotting for centuries. As the war dragged on, however, those words became what she clung to in place of prayer. Now, they carry her through hallways swarmed with statesmen and diplomats. Fight for the faith and the fatherland.
She turns left. The people of Europe, fighting for their own rights and liberties…
Maybe. Wasn’t that what she’d told herself? Maybe.
The door in front of her swings open silently, giving way with a single push. …Invited us to imitation.
The Great Powers had - did - despise revolution, and Greece couldn’t blame them. Back then, she’d wondered if the hopes of her people, crushed for four-hundred years, would be enough to carry her forward. If she’d even live to see the day.
And now, she’s faced with a resounding yes.
Britain swings open the door. The sitting room is silent, save for the sounds of waves crashing in the distance.
“Here.” He says, beckoning his companion. Comfortable, and, most importantly, isolated.
The Russian Empire squeezes in behind, awkwardly ducking his head to avoid hitting himself against the short doorway. Britain sits down on one of the couches, swinging a leg over the other as he watches the titan navigate the room in hidden amusement.
Russia settles opposite to him, almost comically awkward in the couch from the way he seems to avoid ever fully relaxing. His eyes dart around the room, assessing the interior before they rest on Britain.
Britain raises his brows, staring back at the silent giant. “Well?” He prompts. “Speak.”
The man sighs. “You already know why I’m here.”
Britain tilts his head in a so-so motion. “If it’s about a certain ‘archenemy' of yours, I’ve already given you my answer.”
Russia’s face visibly pulls into a frown. So it was. “Britain, will you stay so ignorant to what’s happening in the Mediterranean? You can’t-”
“I thought I already made this clear, Russia. Multiple times over.” Britain sighs, interrupting him. He’s heard this before at least five times; he can already see where the conversation is heading. “I will not go to total war for Greece. Austria is already at my door because of what I’ve done already.”
He glances around the room. There’s no tea that he would’ve liked to sip on, unfortunately, so he continues.
“I sympathize with her, I do, but my hands are tied.” Britain shrugs, slouching back against the couch. “The others agreed at the last convention it was an internal affair. We’ll uphold the Vienna agreement. End of story.”
Privately, Britain wonders how much longer the tentative peace of Europe would last. The Congress of Verona had been a disaster. He’s surprised the Russian Empire even reached out to him again.
Russia’s face darkens. “I didn’t take you for a coward.”
“You are a fool if you think I am,” He responds calmly, intertwining his hands. “But for God’s sake, Russia, let me exist in peace. What happens in the Mediterranean is no concern of mine. Besides, I’m sure you can handle it, just like you ‘handled’ a certain Spanish neighbor of ours."
Britain lets the last part drop with as much venom his voice allows. The Empire’s face flushes a beautiful shade of red at his response, no doubt reminded of the arguments flung around.
“You haven’t changed, have you?” Russia accuses, a furious gleam in his eye. Britain snorts.
“My friend, on the contrary, I’m keeping up with the times. You’d be astonished at how much easier it is to run a country when you don’t have to worry about - what was it? The Christians in the Balkans?” He shakes his head in mock disapproval. “Put your own interests first, you understand. And Greece, like I’ve already said, is not my problem.”
“Don’t lecture me,” The Empire fires back. “And didn’t that secretary of yours even express that you’d be open to support if another one of the Great Powers was willing to cooperate? Well, here I am!” He extends his arms furiously, as if opening for a hug. “Damn whatever Austria thinks. The Ottomans are killing them - good, virtuous Christians, and you are doing nothing but turning a blind eye! Where is your honor?!”
Britain leans away from him. Good Lord. He’d rarely seen the Empire this fevered. Not to mention badmouthing Austria on top of it. He glances around again, relieved to see that nobody’d noticed the raised voice over the sound of the waves outside.
“Calm down.” Britain hisses. “Unless you want someone walking in.”
The Russian Empire slowly sinks back into his seat, blinking furiously. He turns his head to the side, refusing to meet Britain’s eyes. Still, he seems to be taking in deeper breaths in a conscious effort for patience.
“You have to understand,” Russia restarts, voice quieter, “my hands are tied. I can’t leave them there to die. Please, Britain.”
Britain uncrosses his legs, feeling irritation spike into discomfort at the sight of Russia begging. Where is my honor? Well where is his dignity?? Good Lord, he knew the Russian Empire liked to tout himself into some sort of saint, but this was a new low. The sight of the behemoth bowing his head to Britain, back hunched in seeming defeat, makes him cringe.
But what could he say? It was simply easier to let the Ottomans deal with the Greeks on their own. It wouldn’t destabilize the Ottoman Empire (much) and Europe would remain unchanged.
Keep the balance.
Britain opens his mouth to try to reason that with him. “Fine, then. Say Greece, somehow, wins her independence. What then? The Ottoman Empire is weakened, and who knows what could arise from that? Someone - “ Britain avoids saying ‘you’ - “Could easily take over his territories. Might I remind you why we shouldn’t interfere? Are you so eager to see another Napoleon so soon? Or, God forbid, let the rest of Europe follow her example in revolution?”
He watches the Russian Empire’s face darken again. There it was, the hole Russia couldn’t argue himself out of. For all of Russia’s seeming fixation as the great, grand protector of the Orthodox so suppressed under Ottoman rule, it was obvious to anyone who looked that it wasn’t solely out of the goodness of his heart. Britain could practically picture the map now; Greece freed…
Along with a nice outpouring of new Russian puppet states.
Eugh.
Russia glowers at him and Britain leans back, satisfied and vaguely interested to see how he’d try to claw his way out. But instead of firing back, Russia digs around in one of his pockets, pulling out a single, vaguely crumpled piece of paper.
Britain raises his brows, leaning forwards as Russia flicks it over to him. Oh? An ultimatum or a threat, perhaps? He catches it, glancing up at Russia as he unfolds the note.
The words written in French only make his brows rise higher and higher.
The Court of Russia has positive information that before Ibrahim Pasha’s army was put into motion, an agreement was entered into by the Porte with the Pasha of Egypt that whatever part of Greece Ibrahim Pasha might conquer should be at his disposal; and that his plan of disposing of his conquest is to remove whole Greek population, carrying them off to slavery in Egypt or elsewhere and to re-populate the country with Egyptians and others of the Mohammedan [Muslim] religion.
His mouth turns dry. The entire Greek population? Carried off to slavery?
Dread settles in his stomach. Certainly, he couldn’t police the Ottoman Empire’s murders of Greece’s people, but this-
He tears his eyes away from the note to look at Russia.
“So?” The Empire says, finally leaning back against the couch. “Do you see why my hands are tied?”
Britain furrows his brows, thinking furiously. Of course the so-called protector of the Ottoman Orthodoxes would need to jump to Greece’s rescue now. And when he did, Britain’s own citizens would applaud Russia whilst wondering why in the world weren’t they fighting for Greece too?
Hell, some of them were already asking that question. Everybody was sympathetic to the Greeks’ plight. He’d hoped it would’ve blown off as the revolution dragged on, but as soon as this information became public, they would be up in arms to fight. If he wanted them placated, he’d have to intervene before citizens grew angry.
Britain closes his eyes. Damn Russia, damn Greece.
“Fine,” he grits out. “I’ll consider it.”
The Russian Empire shifts. “Thank you.”
Britain doesn’t look up at him, silently passing the note back.
Later, months later, when Britain has just placed the quill down from the document agreeing to the settlement of Greece, Russia leans back and crosses his arms, a thoughtful look in his eyes as he stares at Britain.
“What?”
The Empire tilts his head. “When will you be meeting with France next?”
Britain blinks. Eh? “I’m not sure. Why? Is there trouble?” His envoys stationed in Paris hadn’t mentioned unrest in France’s cities apart from the usual rabble of unhappy people under their king. But that would pass.
Russia uncrosses his arms. “No, nothing that I know of. I have a favor to ask of you, though.”
The Englishman frowns. Has he not done enough for Russia already? “What?”
Russia hesitates. “Are you willing meet with her? And suggest she join our negotiations?” The Empire asks. Upon seeing the look on Britain’s face, he hurries to explain. “Let’s be honest, Britain, Austria will never accept the offer. If he courts France first, then it would be very easy to turn Europe’s against us. If it comes to that,” he adds hastily.
“Do I look like a messenger to you?” Britain snaps. “If you want her assistance, seek her out yourself. I want nothing to do with this.”
Russia sighs. “I don’t mean to degrade you, Britain. But can you tell me that France will take well to me asking about helping Greece? She’ll think I’m trying to take control.”
So do I, but you still had the nerve to ask me. Britain thinks spitefully. “Why can’t you just ask Prussia?”
“I already have.” Russia frowns, turning his eyes to the paper. “He, unsurprisingly, decided to follow Austria’s example.”
Britain scowls. He could hardly blame Prussia for avoiding the rebellion - hell, Britain still didn’t want to be involved, honestly - but he can’t help petty frustration rising in his stomach. Damn you too, Prussia. Now he has to go lobby France?
“Please.” Russia adds, his tone softening. Now it's Britain’s turn to cross his arms, leaning against the table. “For the good of Greece.”
‘For the good of Greece’ - right… But Britain doesn’t voice his thoughts. Instead, he drags a hand down his face, feeling exhaustion drown him again. God, how many powers will be dragged into this? “...I’ll message my diplomats.”
At the very least, Britain thinks, someone else to be wary of Russia’s influence would be a welcome presence.
It just had to be her though, didn’t it?
The escort leads him through winding halls that Britain has long lost track of. There are intricate designs carved and glorious paintings hung, but they blur in his periphery as he hurries to keep pace. It’s almost eerily quiet. It seems that everyone had been, more or less, shooed from the nobleman’s estate in order to prepare for their meeting.
Finally, the man halts at the entrance of a corridor, where light spills in from the open hallway. He points to the exit. “She’ll be here shortly.”
Britain gives him a nod before stalking outside.
He squints in the sudden sunlight, raising an arm to shield his gaze.
It’s a garden.
A lovely, quaint area, bursting with greenery. He recognizes a scant few bushes as he moves through the area, momentarily entranced. The heady scent of earth swamps him the farther he goes, admiring the plants. The ones at the entrance are neatly trimmed, but the further he walks into the garden, the messier it becomes - flowers that droop onto the walkways, oddly-grown vines that explode outwards in a mess of leaves…
Britain raises his foot to step over a crushed bud, eyeing the floor with suspicion. What kind of gardeners does the owner hire?? He can see the careful placement of each plant, and suspects that perhaps some years ago this garden had been a beauty to behold, except somewhere along the way it’d been abandoned to nature’s whims.
Gravel crunches underfoot behind him. He turns, a shiver running down his back at the sight of that flag.
“Britain.” France greets him, clasping her hands together. Britain gives her a half-bow.
“Good afternoon.” He says as pleasantly as he can manage, straightening immediately after. France doesn’t mirror his sentiment, brushing aside him to continue walking down the garden path. Britain rolls his eyes and turns to follow her, falling in step by her side.
“This is certainly an interesting garden,” he comments, plucking a single rose from a passing bush. “I’ve never seen half of these flowers before. Which nobleman owns this estate?”
France doesn’t spare him a glance, instead letting her eyes travel over the scenery. He can practically feel her debating whether to engage with his small talk; in the end, she responds with indifference.
“It used to be mine.” She says simply. “I gifted it to a count before the revolution.”
Britain blinks, momentarily faltering in his strides. Oh. The Kingdom had kept a garden?
Somehow, the thought of her having any interest with plants seems hard to reconcile with the France he knew, but the garden had clearly been loved, once upon a time. For a brief moment, he wonders if she’d missed the little place, when she was hundreds of miles away fighting the rest of the continent.
Britain is half-tempted to ask more, but she interrupts him before he can even open his mouth.
“You know, Britain, I agreed to meet because my envoys have been telling me some rather interesting things lately,” France says dryly. “I’m sure you’re aware.” She pauses, brushing her fingers against a shrub. “Things such as the Russian Empire meeting you in Brighton, things such as a visit to Petersburg…”
Britain feels the tips of his ears heat. The rose in his fingers twirls faster. “I-”
“And the protocol signed between you and Russia concerning Greece’s revolution. Remind me, Albion - what was it we’d agreed upon? Oh, right, you weren’t there, but again, I’m certain you’re aware, no?” France brushes her hand over a flower, watching it sway in the wind. “So, then, does deciding Greece will be autonomous strike you as letting the Ottoman Empire deal with his own affairs?”
“I won’t deny that I wasn’t involved - but Russia pushed my hand.” Britain admits. “Have you spoken to him lately?”
France eyes him with disgust. “Why would I talk to him? Of course not. Maybe a better question is why you have spoken to him. I know that Europe is inflamed with sympathy for Greece, but what in the world could’ve possessed you to ignore Vienna entirely?”
Britain makes a face. “Maybe your stunt with Spain did it in.” He says flatly, and watches France’s expression shift into something ugly.
Horrible diplomacy, a little voice that sounds like England wheedles him. Alienating your allies by bringing up old wounds, good job.
…
He sighs, slowing his strides as he rummages around in his pocket with his free hand. Britain pulls out a folded paper, a copy of the same note the Empire had shown him only a few months before. “...here. I think you’ll understand my motives if you read this.”
He hands it over to her. France blinks, clearly thrown off by his switch in temper, but unfolds it cautiously nonetheless. He watches as her brow furrows farther with each word she reads.
“Is this true?” France demands, looking up from the paper.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Britain confirms, staring into the ruby-red centre of the rose’s petals. “It’s largely why I agreed to the protocol with Russia.”
He holds out the rose, turning it so the bud is facing toward her. “Make no mistake, I don’t mean to disturb your fragile concert. But do you see now? Russia would certainly go to war over this, and if Russia was going to act, I wanted to at least temper it with my own hands so he couldn’t try to take land for himself.”
“Then what do you want me to do?” France snaps, plucking the rose from his hands as she resumes walking, twisting the thorny stem between her fingers. “Greece has nothing to do with me. And I presume you two are perfectly capable of taking care of it yourselves.”
Britain shrugs, following. “Russia wanted to offer everyone a place in case Europe was unsettled by me and him acting together. Whether he’s genuine in being harmless, I doubt it. But think, France; it’d allow us to monitor his movements more closely. And - who knows? I know your people are as infatuated with Greece as mine are. It’d look good for you to support her.”
“Don’t speak as if we’re partners in this,” France hisses, tossing her hair. “As far as I’m concerned, Russia and you are both still rewriting the agreement between everyone else at Verona and forced the Greek question upon all of us.”
Britain breathes slowly through his nose, exasperation barely contained under his voice. God, why were all of them the same? “Like I said,” he mutters through clenched teeth, “Russia forced my hand. But if you’re so cold-hearted you have no care for the millions lined up to die, then perhaps Greece will only be supported by an Anglo-Russian force after all. I’m sure your press will have a field day.”
He turns on his heel and starts marching back along the gravel path, stepping without care over overgrown greenery. He only gets ten paces before she calls out to him.
“Wait.”
Britain pauses, turning to watch her delicately pick her way closer.
“I have zero belief that the likes of you care this much about the Greek people for purely altruistic reasons,” France says, holding the note up in her hand for emphasis - “but, I suppose… you aren’t… completely mistaken in the fact that… it might be in our best interests to - what was it? Hold him back. Un peu.”
He narrows his eyes at her. She really can’t ever admit when he’s right, can she? Prideful git. “Then I’m glad we’re on the same page,” he snarks, reaching for the note.
France holds it out of his reach, tapping the paper against her chin thoughtfully. “But I have one condition.”
Britain bites the inside of his cheek. “What?”
“Greece will not be allowed to be fully independent.” France starts, pinning Britain with a violet stare. “Autonomous, yes, sovereign, no. She must remain under the Ottoman Empire’s sovereignty.”
Britain lets out a short sigh, reaching for the note again. “That’s already in the protocol’s terms.”
She still pulls it away, holding the paper close as she points to him with the rose in her other hand. “Then I’m sure you’ll have no trouble reminding a certain friend of ours. I think giving him your navy is a horrible idea, but if there is nothing else we can do, then at the very least, drive that condition into his frozen head.”
“I am not giving him my navy.” Britain says flatly.
“C’est bonnet blanc et blanc bonnet.” France replies in equal deadpan, patting the note against his chest. “Whatever you say.”
A scowl forms on his face. He tucks the paper back inside his pocket, watching her sashay away from him, holding the rose to her nose.
Russia better be grateful.
Bavaria frowns as he steps into the room, empty except for servants who line the edges and ministers chattering idly. Even here, maybe twenty paces away from the Great Powers, he can still feel their influence pressing down on his neck.
Ugh. He shakes his head to clear the effects, trying to maintain a peaceful visage. He had to look nice and agreeable in front of them, although his mouth wants nothing more than to curve into a scowl.
The idle chatter between the three other incarnations pause as each turn their heads to him. Russia is as intimidating as ever and Bavaria settles across, ending up between Britain and France. Both are more intimate to him than Russia is (although only God knows how many times Bavaria has had to sit next to Austria and listen to him and Russia talk about mindless drivel for hours) but his spine still prickles when their gazes converge.
“How have you been, Bavaria?” Britain says cheerfully, raising a cup of tea as if in toast. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
Bavaria nods mutely, glancing around the table. They all seem rather relaxed, at the very least - hopefully that meant that there’d be no squabbling over the table.
He clears his throat. “I’ve been doing fine, Großbritannien, thank you.”
“Lovely to hear,” France comments, interjecting before Britain can respond and earning a glare from the man. “We were hoping our offers hadn’t scared you off yet.”
The Russian Empire audibly snorts at that, muttering something under his breath; Bavaria purses his lips, glancing between each of them before choosing his next words.
“Of course not,” Bavaria says as smoothly as he can manage. “The prince is a little hesitant, but - “ he waves his hand flippantly - “he’s young yet. He’ll grow to accept the honor.”
“Good.” Britain grunts, setting down his cup. “Then I’m sure he’d be even more thrilled to learn that we’ve rescinded our idea for the changed territory of Greece. After... Taking a closer look, we’ve agreed that the Aspropotamos–Spercheios border is unsuitable.”
Bavaria tries not to show the skepticism on his face. More like they were forced to reconsider after the last candidate left. “I see.”
“We’ve reverted it back to the Arta-Valos line,” France says, pointing to the dark bar on the map laid out before them. “A bit further north, but along a mountain range.”
“It’s more practical,” Britain cuts in, ignoring France’s side-eye. “And occupies a good bit of the Greek population.”
He nods slowly. “And… the Ottoman Empire just.. accepted this?”
France titters as if he’d just made a practical joke; the Russian Empire doesn’t share her enthusiasm, however, and only gives a short, growled “yes.”
“I see.” Bavaria says awkwardly. “Well… I’m sure Greece will be happy with the arrangement. And Prince Otto as well.”
Britain makes a noise of agreement, taking another sip of his tea. “Yes, well, one would hope. So long as the boy is less troublesome than Greece’s past governor-”
“Kapodistrias was a good man.” Russia interrupts. Britain coughs into his cup, and Bavaria catches a few choice words whispered into the drink. Across the table, Russia raises his brows. “What did you say?”
“Britain had a bit of a paranoid fear of Greece’s late leader,” France explains to Bavaria with a twinkle in her eye while Britain simpers a polite ‘nothing’ to Russia. She reaches up to adjust the choker on her neck, watching Russia glower suspiciously at the Englishman.
“... I see.” He repeats.
“I take it the boy is well rested and waiting for news?” Britain pipes up, dutifully avoiding Russia’s gaze. Bavaria nods, back straightening. “Wonderful. Then we won’t keep you any longer, thank you, Bavaria.”
The German state nods, feeling his skin crawl as they all refocus their attention on him. “Of course.”
The door can’t open fast enough.
France leans back in her chair, looking thoughtful. “You know, it’s curious, the prince’s name. Otto.”
The Russian Empire finally breaks his stare away from Britain. “What of it?”
“A German name through and through.” She tilts her head. “Greece’s people are not going to be happy.”
Britain blinks at her as if she’d just grown two heads. “Why do you care?” he asks bluntly, setting down the teacup with a gentle clink on the table. France shrugs, lacing her fingers together.
“Just interested.” She says dismissively. Britain snorts.
“Your revolution has made you sympathetic.”
“Maybe,” France admits. “Although, I will say, the last time Europe tried this, it went rather poorly.”
The room falls silent. Britain and Russia both share a single, fleeting glance; there are memories of fighting blue coats that make them both shudder. France doesn’t seem to notice, gaze wandering back to the table.