Greetings, all! Ready for a new chapter, much of it epistolary?

Hey, so if anyone's interested, my sibling (who for some perverse reason prefers to remain gender neutral - username Aluminium) and I have written a Yu Gi Oh/Hetalia crossover; I wrote Prussia and she wrote Bakura, all in email format. Yep, that's right. Prussia meets Yami Bakura via email and hijinks ensue, involving death threats, puppies, shipping wars, world destruction and some truly awful nicknames. Knowledge of both series is not compulsory - hell, Prussia has no idea what's going on, either. Can be found on Aluminium's account.

[/Shameless self-and-sibling-promotion]

Right, so this is officially the last part to be set in 1789! Only four more years to go...! Yay!

France

Night. Writing desk. Habitual openness, characteristic frankness. All a front, really. Letters to an absent sweetheart; the most bittersweet of all to compose.

Cher Amerique,

And how are you faring, beautiful one? It is very much still the two of us against the world over here – or, at any rate, Europe, which is beginning to feel like the same thing, there are so many threats of war with which I must contend. When I say threats, I mean implicit ones, of course, but then implication is so often the undoing of us all!

What am I writing? Very little of substance, I imagine. You are frowning at me, urging me to cease with such embellishments as war and foreign policy (ah, where lies the difference?) and begin with what I actually wish to speak to you of. The answer, my dear, is anything – I simply wish to speak to you! Yet the ocean divides us, and, regardless, that is obviously no satisfactory answer. All right, have it your way, if you must.

I fear – odd, seeing as how I am all but accused these days of fearlessness; laugh all you will – that this revolution is splitting into two. There is what I suppose one should now call the establishment: those who have all but attained their aims, those who felt stifled by the old regime, as their birth prevented them from realising their ambitions or furthering their potential. These individuals – and here I stress the word, as I feel their egoistic philosophies are significant – are what one could call the bourgeoisie, along with those who aspire to become such. They, to their delight, are now free, provided they have luck and merit on their side.

Is that the full extent of what we have together forged? Is this the pinnacle of revolution? You roll those brilliant eyes at my overdramatic use of the rhetorical, but I assure you that you misunderstand me, as I ask in all seriousness. Tentatively, I will supply the answer: I think not. Individual merit always has its purpose, but recognising it is not the panacea of social change, as I believe tyranny to have... deeper roots. I despise that metaphor, as I do not wish to uproot anyone – it is far too violent an expression. I refer to my own, less bloodthirsty prescription: the situation calls for more upheaval. There, that has connotations not of destroying organic life, but of toppling a building – much like the Bastille, hmm?

Well, the second piece of the revolution is the one to which my heart cleaves, I think. This consists of the firebrands – the radicals! The republicans. Your man, Jefferson, advised me to aim for nothing more ambitious than a constitutional monarchy. Et tu, cher? I do not propose that I advance no further than that which Angleterre has achieved! Regardless, I believe there is a further concern – the raison d'etre of the revolution, I might go as far as to say. There is yet another tyrant to overthrow, and its name is Poverty. Ambition may not be the sole property of the nobility, but still it remains the luxury of the rich and propertied. I worry, Amerique; I worry for the fate of les miserables, and I worry that considerations of their welfare lie abandoned by all but a select few. But, ah, how those few shine! Georges Danton, a tower of strength, and his inseparable friend, that madcap Camille Desmoulins, who managed to incite the crowd to insurrection on the basis of one speech. Jean-Paul Marat I adore – he terrifies me. Sadly, he has now been arrested. We tell ourselves the chains no longer bind us and liberty abounds, yet a man find himself incarcerated for his writing... tell me, Amerique, is that democracy? Again, I do not jest; I ask. Then there is my champion, The Incorruptible: one Maximilien Robespierre. Maxime! He is a mild-mannered, fastidious titan in his speeches. Admittedly, most view him as no more than the 'candle' of Arras (contrast to Mirabeau's Torch) and in form, speech and demeanour, he hardly gives the impression of strength – yet if one listens to what he says! I would have that man speak on behalf of the entire nation if I could.

No, I am not serious. I do not hold with despotism, after all – nor shall I fall into the trap of idealising my champions.

Incidentally, writing this, I realise there is a third section to this revolution, and that is the people. The masses, the mob, the citizens... call them what you will, they hold the balance of power in the nation, yet they receive so little materially from those who ought to serve them. They are my heart, my mind, my soul, my life blood. Is that democracy? To feel that every citizen, from the richest to the most downtrodden, comprises a fraction of your soul? To hear those oft-abused 'masses' murmuring constantly in your ear? I believe it to be so.

I believe it to be so.

Dieu, how I ramble! You see, if we were actually conversing, you would have stopped me by now, perhaps with a word, perhaps with a kiss... I miss you, my darling, and I hope all remains well between us. In these times, it is so difficult to tell; relations are volatile and nations are more likely to turn on each other in hate than they are to sit contentedly, twined together by the fire, talking of democratic theory.

All my love,

France

I finished my epistle in the semi-darkness, no doubt spilling half the ink over my hands and sleeve in the process. I ought never to be allowed to write in the dark, as it is a time in which I find myself thinking far too frequently. Unfortunately, it is also the time in which I most frequently find myself writing letters on impulse. I drew a weary arm over my wearier brow and found that I had managed to inadvertently spill candle wax on my sleeve in addition to the ink.

Lying on the desk, pushed slightly to the side, was an unopened envelope which seemed to stare balefully at the note on my blotter.

"There's no call for unfriendliness, Angleterre," I muttered, giving the offending package a jaunty tap. "Patience, cher. At least try to be civil."

In my mind, the envelope seemed to glare at me. I laughed, knowing that if its author were actually present, he would be verging on homicidal at this treatment.

I broke the seal (quite deliberately, he had used the royal coat of arms) and unfolded the letter, inching the candle closer as I did so.

Upon perusal, the tone of the letter revealed itself to live up to my expectations. Really, the expensive paper belied its terseness. England's custom was never to think before putting pen to paper and rarely bothering to proof-read. However, whilst in his previous letter his traditional disdain for me showed signs of thawing, his manner had frozen up once more with indignation – probably at the hint of friendliness in my reply.

For fuck's sake, Frog,

No need to act as though you just discovered the Philosopher's Stone. Revolution existed long before this year, much as you'd love to claim to have invented it. I'll admit to being slightly impressed, but no more – honestly, I have never known a nation to delight quite so disproportionately in their own slither of audacity. As Europe's greatest attention whore, you have succeeded in capturing the attention of most. Now what do you plan to actually do? Spare me the guff about liberty, equality and whatever the third one was; if you are sincere in your ambition to lead the way for the rest of us, you have to show us that your system is modern, functional and not the greatest political embarrassment since your Queen decided that taxes ought to go straight to her jewellery fund.

That caution you so arrogantly dismiss is what has kept my government alive and stable. Need I remind you that, currently, you have achieved little more than I have already done through reform? Marat's little diatribe against my constitution notwithstanding. Do you intend to spread revolution across Europe? A dangerous vision. Continue this way and you will find yourself at war with us all.

Also? Spare me your effusiveness. I will take it as read that you are thrilled, inspired, rapturous, etcetera, about your little revolution's latest excesses. Naturally this euphoria will not last – nonetheless, whilst it persists, I beg you not to subject me to it. Anyone would think you had started a new love affair. I feel it necessary to remind you of the difference between politics and love. One is rational.

Why am I advising you to combat your own foolishness? God knows. Perhaps out of a desire to preserve something that - despite the fact it was brought about by you - could potentially be great.

You know exactly where you can shove your ardent enmity,

England

My current relations with England were... difficult to describe, at best. Particularly given that he is reading over my shoulder at present, but I shall do my utmost to ignore him and supply an accurate account of our relationship back then. Obviously there was the usual underlying animosity – that goes much without saying – yet I might be as daring as to observe some signs of admiration from him. Admiration that he did not even try unduly hard to veil. He mutters viciously under his breath at this, but I will not be dissuaded from writing!

It had been surprising to receive a letter that was not murderous, before. On the basis of a few – unpleasant – scenes that had occurred between us recently over the subject, I had wholly expected him to still blame me for America's recent transgression. Yet, although his anger held no bounds initially, I do not think he held a grudge in 1789 (correct me if I am wrong, petit) – over America, at any rate. Odd, seeing as, rationally speaking, I so clearly deserved partial responsibility. But then, say what you will about politics and, I dare say, love – neither is rational. Although, naturally, during the Enlightenment, I felt otherwise. Rationality was my raison d'être.

Petit, calm yourself –

- I can feel the heat of your belligerence even from across the sea.

I sense a pattern here, don't you? First, you regard my innovations with ill-disguised awe. Then, by way of compensation, you seek to belittle them. Ten years too late, you then adopt them as your own and hope I will forget they ever belonged to me. So... ten years' time, petit. Let us see where your precious stability ends up. In the gutter where it belongs, I'd imagine.

You did not trouble to ask, but suffice to say that I am faring exceptionally well. Certainly I am not on the edge of the deadly peril you seem to be alluding to. Never have one people been so united in favour of a cause!

As for my 'effusiveness' – well, we all fall victim to that, no? Case in point: your previous letter. 'It must have been... bliss to be there'. Ha! How blunt and to the purpose that was. Certainly no gushing there.

But you must excuse the base sarcasm. I do not write to snipe at you. Overmuch.

You seem to be behind the times – not just in the obvious sense, although that accusation still rings with the truth of a thousand clear bells – but in terms of news. I have been taking plenty of actions with my little revolution. All church property has now been nationalised. Excess indeed! I can picture your look of pious horror. It is quite adorable. Yes, no longer will the church have a stranglehold on the country – nor must the people be slaves to it. How heathenish! How irreligious! Indeed, petit, indeed.

Both Louis Capet (the King, but we call him that no longer; it only encourages him) and the National Assembly have moved to Paris, meaning no more traipsing between Paris and Versailles and back again for me. Meanwhile, Desmoulins has published a journal, 'Histoire des Revolutions'. I even have a new currency! The Assignat. Truly, Angleterre, if you imagine I have been spending my time sitting in the rubble of the Bastille, waving a flag and composing slogans, you should cease thinking in caricatures. Although, incidentally, they now seem to be selling pieces of the demolished Bastille as souvenirs – souvenirs of a time in which political dissidents suffered torture! I suppose every event has a commercial aspect. I shall send one to you; you with your morbid sense of humour would appreciate such a gift.

As it is, I await your reply with bated breath – truly, Angleterre, one letter from you is enough to send my spirits soaring.

With all due scorn,

France

Present Day

"I suppose it'd be too much to ask you not to include every single one of our private letters back from the late eighteenth century?" asks America, laughingly. He is not annoyed – France judges that he does not really care either way; America has, for one thing, never been one for secrets. The only part of his life about which he displays a certain reticence is, of course, his period as England's faithful colony. The rest may as well be displayed for all the world to see and revel in – provided nothing too uncomfortable is revealed.

"Much as that would make for illuminating reading, I only include a handful," replies France, slyly. "Simply to provide the relevant context." Context is all.

America rolls his eyes, grinning, and does not pursue the matter any further. In some respects, he has fewer inhibitions than France himself.

France leans back into his chair (grown slightly uncomfortable after all these hours; England always did opt for stateliness rather than comfort in terms of furniture) and laces his hands behind his head. He is waiting for the inevitable onslaught of spluttered protestations from England's corner of the room – the one of them with enough inhibitions to share. Anything concerning him and his correspondence, and England will be up in arms – this, France knows now from experience.

Yet the inevitable does not occur. England is silent. Indeed, he is practically calm – by reasonable standards, not even by his own.

"Angleterre?" France's tone verges on concerned.

"Frog?" he drawls back, lazily.

"Aren't you – going to vehemently protest that I have got everything wrong?" France asks, now quite worried.

"Irritation, violence, sarcasm – all that denial-ridden jazz?" America prompts, helpfully.

England blinks innocently at them both. "I'm tired," he shrugs, mildly.

France tuts. "Lack of sleep has never been known to mitigate your..."

"Being you," supplies America.

"I was going to say 'unique qualities'; still, that works just as well," concedes France. "It defies grammar, slightly, but no matter."

"Grammar? Tch," says America, with a dismissive grin.

"Yes," said France. "Indeed, grammar is most unnecessary."

"Didn't say that exactly –"

England makes a small, irritated noise; they appear to have forgotten him in their quibbling. "As I said before: I am tired. Due to this, I shall not attempt to flay you alive, Frog, for your woeful misjudgement of my character and motives. I will not upbraid you for the supreme inaccuracy of this latest little instalment. I will refrain from commenting that if you wish to air the dirty laundry that is your little entanglement with America, there are far better places to do it and far better audiences to subject to it. I could go on. But I won't. Because, right now, I am tired." His voice increases in pitch towards the end of this speech, but otherwise remains level and seemingly detached.

France laughs. "This is history. I am merely detailing the evidence."

"Fuck your evidence," mutters England, wearily.

"He wasn't even sarcastic. That answer barely even made sense," whispers America to France. "Uh, is England OK? Politics getting to him, maybe?" To England, he says, with a jarringly cheerful air, smile containing wattage enough to rival a thousand high-energy light bulbs: "How's the election going?"

An acid glare by way of response. The light bulbs dim somewhat. England then deigns to reply. "They are hashing and rehashing trivialities. Clegg and Cameron, that is. Although he has not rejected Labour's advances yet... Impossible man. He delights in playing the role of kingmaker." Having spoken, he toys with a loose thread on the armchair, then realises what he is doing - mutilating the furniture - and snaps it off daintily, looking a little abashed.

"You were crazy about him just a few weeks ago," America reminds England.

"Yes," says England; his tone drips with disapproval. "The thing about temporary lunacy is that it is just that: temporary."

"Cleggmania," sniggers America. "That was what they called it!"

"Your capacity for obsession with the trivial is astonishing."

"Cleggmania!" trilled America.

"Stop being so endlessly petty."

"Cleggmania!"

"... Idiot."

France

It was a numbing December; often, in order to outwit the cold, I would pause at Robespierre's lodgings in an attempt to absorb warmth by osmosis before travelling to my own. He would look startled yet welcoming every time, updating me on the workings of government when I had managed to miss the debates, trading observations, ideas and predictions.

Today, I had knocked to no avail. Yet I spotted a candle within the room – some signs of life! Spurred onwards by this faint hope (it really was cold outside), I pushed at the door, which yielded to my hand.

(Either he had forgotten to lock it, or had made a deliberate decision not to do so, on the basis that he trusted people. Both would have been typical of him.)

"Forgive the intrusion, Maxime, but I believe I would have frozen on the spot had I not taken refuge in-" here I paused, having spotted Robespierre, slumped on a spindly chair with his head hanging heavily in his hands. "Maxime." I rushed over, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Francis," he said, glancing up at me with a tentative smile. "My friend." With that, he allowed his head to droop once more – the very picture of exhausted defeat.

"What is the matter?" I said, very gently, kneeling next to him. Robespierre was hardly prone to such emotional behaviour – hence why this was worrying.

"I would not want to trouble you," he murmured, after a pause, "but this affects you also. You have an entitlement to the knowledge, and I suppose it falls to me to give you the news."

"Ominous indeed," I said, with perhaps a touch of levity. "It can hardly be as bad as you imply. Come – let us have this horrifying news. Dispense with the self-dramatising and out with it, already." All spoken with fondness, of course. Robespierre rarely panicked in response to major events; I imagined this could be of nothing but the utmost triviality.

He sat up, with a sudden surge of grim resolution. I smiled and this time he did not smile back. "The National Assembly," he said, "in their infinite wisdom, have voted to distinguish between 'active' and 'passive' citizens."

"What?"

"To wit – those who fulfil a property criterion will be enfranchised. Those without property are 'passive' citizens, and will thus be unable to vote."

I stared, uncomprehending.

"I stood against it," continued Robespierre. "Vehemently. I did my best, but I was in the minority."

They could not do this to me. They could not, once more, cut off all the voices I heard, the voices of my citizens –

"I am sorry," he said, gravely.

"Is this to be nothing but a rich man's revolution?" Every syllable of mine stabbed at the air, sharp and ineffectual. Scathing, but to no avail.

"No," said Robespierre, quietly, but with conviction.

"Is this all we are capable of?" I spat; verbal daggers piercing uselessly at an invisible, invincible enemy. Perhaps I was swiping at the shadows of Marat's words to me.

"No," he insisted, firmly. His eyes locked with mine, determined and flinty with hope.

How could I remain caustic under such a gaze?

"Or have they clipped my wings?" I asked, more softly, acerbity forgotten. The question seemed to float in the air between us, like a drifting feather, dancing inexorably downwards.

He did not answer, but it was mostly down to avoidance of unnecessary repetition. His answer was still a firm, uncompromising no. "They've sabotaged you a little, certainly," he said, having regained his habitually flawless composure. "Yet the battle is not over."

I felt a small thrill down my spine, regardless of how commonplace the metaphor was. "Oddly enough, that statement is suitably vague enough to fill me with confidence."

He smiled and the tension eased somewhat. "My pleasure."

Somehow, the sudden flippancy was enough to make the situation slightly more bearable. Fraternity , I thought, although often dismissed as an afterthought tagged along to its more glamorous siblings liberty and equality, had the power to at least console. Perhaps in the future, if given the chance, it would even manage to achieve more. I had not given up on infinite possibilities – only on effortless victories.

Present Day

England slotted his fingers together in a steeple, forming a delicate rest for his chin. "Really, Frog, for all the time you waste assuring us you never idealised anybody, it seems for all the world to be your hamartia." He pauses. "One of many. Hamartiae?"

France smiles and shrugs. "Whereas you, petit, would categorise the mass of humanity as worthless, expendable buffoons, no?"

"No, actually. You know I wouldn't," says England, seriously.

"Reasonably intelligent underlings, then," ventures France, amused.

"We are all of us enthralled by humans; there's no point denying it," says England, sharply.

France chuckles. "No," he agrees. "I just wanted to see if you would try."

"They're fragile, of course. But then, so are we, when it comes down to it. We are a product of humanity; why would I seek to diminish them?" England seems genuinely hurt. Again, thinks France, this is typical of England. Insults, being traded habitually, are nigh on meaningless for him; misunderstand his finer feelings, however, and he will act wounded enough to suggest your utter brutality.

France nods, theoretically in agreement. "But that is exactly why I was captivated by it all. Who wouldn't have been?"

"People are volatile; revolutionaries even more so," scoffs England. "That's not demeaning – it's fact."

"Opinion, actually," France says, his bland tone carelessly screening mischief. England allows himself to be provoked, shooting him a look that screams don't be so bloody pedantic. France replies with a look which succinctly states: hypocrite.

"People are people," says America, bluntly. "Is there really anything else you can say that's true?"

England snorts. "And tautology is tautology."

"Revolution is revolution," murmurs France. "Perhaps that statement is neither tautology, nor the truth..."