One

The wedding bells resounded valiantly throughout the city as the newlywed Portuguese woman slumped down onto the bed, grasping the sheets. Her eyes were clouded with tears. The bedroom's pale white curtains had been pulled back to reveal the balcony and the sun's dying rays dimly lit the room. Though the celebration dragged on outside, she waited in silence—wishing that it would end. Fresh tears had just escaped her eyes when she overheard the clicking and opening of the door. She quickly dried her face, refusing to turn a glance to the man that had just entered.

The door was closed, soft footsteps following it, and as anticipated her husband was at her side, kneeling over the bed where she lay. He brushed the woman's auburn curls back.

"How do you feel, Mrs. Carriedo?" The Spaniard muttered to her in the gentlest tone he could manage, though she internally winced at the sound of her new surname. She didn't respond; her eyes averted his gaze. He sighed heavily, rubbing a thumb over her moist cheeks.

"You know, you shouldn't be crying on your wedding day, Maria."

She blinked. Her dry lips parted, "As if you were the one who proposed, Antonio,"

"That doesn't mean that I can't treat you like my wife."

Her eyes narrowed, "You don't have to pretend to play the role of a loving husband," she snapped, looking up at his emerald eyes.

He paused, then simply smiled, "Now, what would have everyone else thought if we walked down the aisle frowning? How do you think your mother would feel knowing you're unhappy, even though it was your father's last request before he passed so that your future would be preserved?"

There was a pained look in Maria's eyes once she recalled the guests, the family members, of both her family and Antonio's in attendance at the ceremony. She felt guilty for having to wear a fake smile as she accepted gifts, having to force herself to show affection to Antonio, having to create a happy lie for her family's namesake.

"My father, looking down on me, would know that I'm unhappy."

"Then, smile for him, too."

As his words sunk in, she realized that she couldn't even begin to comprehend Antonio's pain.

They were both carrying the burdens of their families and, still, his smile never seemed to fade.

"Now," he reached over and carefully pulled off Maria's heels, "You look tired, and you need to be well rested for tomorrow."

Without complaint, Maria sat up, moving her curls over her shoulder as Antonio undid her dress.

A marriage without love is a strange thing.

You find that your main goal for the day is to avoid the other and to exchange as few words as possible.

Everything loses the fabulousness it would be associated with— if only we were a loving newlywed couple. Sharing a house, a bedroom, a bed—it felt meaningless, like having a roommate instead of a spouse.

That isn't to say that we didn't assign ourselves to our predetermined roles as husband and wife.

Every morning, I would lay out his work clothes and prepare breakfast for him. And every afternoon, I made sure he would have a meal. I cleaned. I washed. I didn't speak a word. At times when I would become completely absorbed in my thoughts, I would repeat the same chores in a daze. Surely, if Antonio caught me in this quiet trance, he would call out to me in a sweet, singing voice, "Maria, you've been wiping the table for twenty minutes."

We lived in a grand house near Madrid. Being so far away from my family's home in Portugal, not smelling the salt of the sea, made me homesick and pale. Antonio would often suggest that we move to one of Spain's many coastal cities, but I refused. It would not have made a difference. Still hoping to relieve me, we would take several trips to Lisbon. He encouraged me to visit my mother—to get out of the house, but I had always feared the cracks that would show themselves in our happy lives. I did not wish to show my mother how deeply miserable I had become.

Only a year had passed when my mother fell ill and became bedridden.

I had no choice but to stay by her side and care for her.

My father's death was something my mother wasn't quite sure how to handle. The illness soon proved to be the final stage of her mourning. She passed, in silence, with a placid smile on her lips, happy to rejoin my father once again.

Her passing severed the last bond of obligation to my crippling marriage. With my immediate family gone, I could roam freely, but a looming debt Antonio amassed from his constant spending had exhausted my family's business. I had to act quickly and with what little money I had left, I sought out help to end the marriage that had consumed the last three years of my life.

Before my mother's passing, only one person knew the truth about our marriage. The older of the Italian Vargas brothers was one of the more frequent visitors to our home. Having been raised by the unrelenting mafia in southern Italy, he looked to other places as a means to escape his harsh life, and being a close childhood friend to Antonio, it wasn't uncommon for him to stay in our home for days, if not weeks, at a time. Oddly enough, where he was cold and aloof to men, he was a kinder person in the company of women and though he was initially timid, he was always eager to speak. Having him around eased my loneliness—to the point where I would spill secrets. He would eventually be the only person I confided in when I plotted to take my leave to re-visit an old friend.

"Dammit!" The Italian cursed, lowering his hands to the ground, translucent red liquid dripping from them. Maria leaned over the young man's shoulder and observed the broken flesh of the ripe tomato he had viciously pulled from its vine. She gathered up the soiled fruit and set it aside in her basket, then wiped the young man's stained hands with her apron. She chuckled, "You have to be gentler than that when you pick tomatoes, Lovino." He waited until she was finished to breathe again.

She reached for another red fruit, feeling the firmness of it. "Use your index finger and thumb to pinch the stem, and then snap it." She held the tomato up for him to see before she laid it in the basket. Lovino scrunched up his face as he attempted to replicate her movements, breaking the stem, but slightly bruising the fruit. He snarled, as though the fruit had damaged itself.

"That's good!" The Portuguese woman immediately praised, aware that the Italian wasn't very skilled with his hands, "Now, we can get this done twice as fast with your help."

Warmth colored his olive skin. He hurriedly pulled at every nearby fruit. "Hey, hey, Signora* Carriedo, I'm finished!" He proudly declared.

Maria turned to him with a soft smile, "Muito obrigada**, Lovino. You're a great worker," she rose up and lightly pecked the man's cheek.

He folded his arms his head turned away, shaking slightly, "W-Well, it was nothing," he stammered, his face a vivid red.

Maria lifted the basket, "Would you like to stay for dinner, Lovino? Antonio will be home in a few hours."

"Of course, I don't want to see that cheerful bastard! But, I'll make an exception if you're here."

Maria glanced up at Lovino in between slicing tomatoes. "I didn't ask, where's the younger Vargas brother, Feliciano?"

Lovino shrugged, "Somewhere with that German potato bastard, probably."

"And Bella?" Maria asked referring to Isabel, a young Belgian girl he had grown fond of over the years. She paused, gauging his expression. At his reluctance to answer, she quickly apologized for mentioning the name.

The Italian turned away from the woman and spoke, "I thought you and Bel were good friends."

Maria fought a frown, "I've gotten out of touch with her and Eliza." She swiftly moved to the stove and poured rice into a boiling pot.

Lovino watched, his chin resting on his palm, "You're making that stupid rice dish again?"

"Paella, and, yes, I do try to make food he enjoys."

Lovino snorted, "How long do you plan on staying married to him?"

"My mother's funeral is in a few days, and I'm still looking for someone to fund the business. Whenever that someone comes along, I can finally have some backing to push for a divorce."

He folded his arms over the table and lowered his head, "You're a strong woman, Signora Carriedo—the way you're able to endure pain like that without shedding a tear."

Funny, Lovino's words stuck with me as we stood to say our final farewells to my mother.

I realized, then, the last time I had cried was three years ago…

*Italian for "Mrs."

**Portuguese for "Thank you very much,"

Whew, hello guys! I've been wanting to write a story featuring Portugal (Maria) as an OC for a while, and here's the final product. The story is reminiscent of real events in history, but with a twist! (This chapter starts with the Iberian Union in 1580) There are several pairings, but I won't give away what they are and hopefully you guys will find out soon enough! Uhm, other things I wanted to mention...Oh! Antonio and Maria aren't related in the story because...I didn't want there to be any incest...

Also, cookies for you if you know who Maria's old friend is!