Eeeeeyah. I'm sorry. This might turn out to be more than just Spain.
For Spain, it was quick.
Almost like a surgical amputation. Exactly like a surgical amputation. It was as if he had simply woken up one morning without his arm, and every now and again he still gets phantom pains right where his faith used to be.
Atheism had happened to him like an accident. He'd never meant to lose something he'd held as precious as his God and he was overwhelmed with guilt at his own doubt, but doubt isn't something one can control- it breeds itself without permission, without regard, without pity. It's like a cancer that eats away every reason to stay awake until all that's left is a helpless oblivion where your soul used to be.
Once upon a time, Spain had been religious. Once upon a time, he'd been as sure of his God as he was that he was on the right side of Him. He would wage wars, burn heretics, pray like a madman- all in the name of his God. And he remembers being happy. Blissfully, wonderfully, stupidly happy. Where is that certainty now?
Gone. He lost it somewhere in his centuries, back when the world was mysterious, back when the heart was unknowable and the brain unthinkable. When he stopped wondering, he stopped looking. When he started knowing, he stopped believing. He trampled God with his science; he killed God with his medicine.
And now Spain wakes up with too many answers in his mind.
He's tried to keep his doubt discreet, the way he'd often hide a cracked rib from his enemies back when he had something to fight for. He could take England's gloating if he had to. He could take France's pity, or Belgium's tears, or Prussia's nonchalance. That would all hurt more than he could say, but not nearly as much as it would hurt if Romano- his darling little Roma- ever found out.
The sun sets on the Mediterranean tonight. Now Spain knows it's because of the Earth's rotation as it careens through black nothingness, not for God's love. He looks from the fiery clouds to his protégé beside him in the sand.
The sun gleams off Romano's dark hair and lights up his sun- kissed skin. His eyes are shut tightly, his lips moving silently with his evening prayer. The wind flows through Romano's white shirt and for a second, Spain sees how he had once mistaken this glowing, peaceful creature for an angel. But the moment passes and Spain can see the stains in Romano's shirt, the twitch in his eyebrow, the clench in his jaw. Beautiful still, but earthly and realer than anything.
"What the hell are you looking at?"
Spain jumps and blushes under Romano's glare. "Ha! Nothing, Roma, go back to praying! Sorry!"
"I've finished," Romano says. He eyes Spain curiously. "Haven't you?"
Oh yeah, Spain thinks sadly. I'm supposed to pray too, just like I taught him all those years ago. We're supposed to pray together, because God hears a family louder than a single voice. Spain had taught Romano that before he'd even taught him Spanish. How could he forget?
Spain looks back to the golden ocean and bites his lip. He'd taught Romano that every drop was created out of God's love and to be thankful. But now all he can see is the salted blood of a comet that crashed billions of years ago, when the world was new. It's still sadly wonderful, but he can't feel God in the wet sand between his toes like he could when he was young.
Romano stares at Spain uneasily and Spain clenches his eyes shut, partly to look to be praying and partly to keep them from watering. Romano still believes in God with all his heart, mostly because Spain has raised him to. Romano is still so certain, even as his former boss and forever brother lets that fire die to embers. Is Spain heartbroken, or jealous? He doesn't know, but he lifts his palms to his lips and tries to pray.
Oh, he tries! But he has no God to pray to, not since he accidentally killed Him. So his mind wanders to Romano. Romano with his certainty. Romano with his golden beauty. Romano with his adorable fury.
Romano with that look.
Spain frowned. He has only seen that look a few times on Romano. The first time he'd heard England say God was for children and idiots. When France tried to explain where babies come from. When America showed him his own pizza.
And once, only once, when Spain explained what death was, and why he had to kill to win wars.
It was a blood curdling look. Romano's honeyed eyes watered over with disgust and shame and his lips either tightened against a scream or a sob. When Romano gave Spain that look, he hadn't slept for days. He couldn't bear to ever disappoint his protégé like that again.
"Jesus. You done yet? I'm fucking starving."
Spain opens his eyes and feels a tear run down his cheek. He wipes it away before Romano can see and looks up at the first star of the night, bright and cheerful in the deepening blue. He reaches out to God one last hopeful time.
Nothing.
He smiles sadly. "Yes, Romano. I'm done."
No matter where you land on the religious spectrum, try to have a little sympathy for the people that had it and lost it. The world is growing steadily more atheistic, even the formerly uber religious ones, and that has to hurt so badly. Especially since a lot of countries were created "Under God."
Writing will probably get better if I go on.
