Author's Note: This is the prelude to a scene I wrote about Spain and Fem!Romano. For those of you who haven't read the original, I wanted to show the darker side of Spain, who always seems to be smiling, and to show Romano trying to bring him back from that darkness, since Spain is always there for him (her). After all of the horrors that Spain has committed for God and for power— from the Spanish Inquisition to destroying the Aztecs— he becomes consumed by the guilt and lust for war inherent among humans, and is basically reduced to an animal. For those of you who have read it, I decided to write the lead up to the scene. So, here's how they got to where they were. I would love your feedback. It probably wasn't the best idea to write something backwards like this, so let me know if it doesn't flow right or make sense. And I'll re-upload the ending once this catches up to that point. I know, if you've taken the time to read this, that you're all thinking, "get on with it," so that's it.
The Salt Taste of War
Lovina stared out of the window, fingers tracing the warped panes of glass. Her bare legs were tucked up under her against the predawn chill. The sunrise was just setting the hills aflame. Behind her, Antonio shuffled about the room, pulling a shirt over his head. She stared fixedly ahead, unable to turn around.
"You're leaving again." It wasn't a question. Lovina pulled the collared shirt, his shirt, closer about her shoulders. He stopped behind her. She could see his reflection in the window, tying a red ribbon around the hair at the nape of his neck, the same ribbon she'd ripped off with clumsy fingers the night before. It was all crooked, and she wanted to redo it, to run her hands across his neck, to catch her fingers in his hair, to keep him there forever. But she couldn't bring herself to turn around. He leaned forward as he buttoned up his shirt, brushing his lips against her bare neck. His breath made her shiver.
Antonio straightened back up, finishing buttoning his shirt to hide the thin scars zigzagging across his skin. Usually when she was agitated, Lovina waved her arms wildly as she spoke, jabbing at the air. It was when she was quiet like this that anyone had anything to worry about. She blew onto the warped glass and drew patterns with whirling fingers before the mist cleared. Her other hand pulled the collar of her shirt tight against her neck, but he could still see the dull bruises along her shoulder.
He wanted to catch her up, to wrap her up in his arms. But, the bruises on her skin were from his hands. He wanted to throw her down onto the bed, to feel skin on skin, to breathe her in, to hold her and never let go. But he had to leave.
He thought back to the smell of blood, the red world shrouded in ashes, the manic laughter he only later realized was issuing from his own mouth, the shrieks of horses and dying men, the steady rhythm of his halberd back and forth, striking through metal and skin and bone; men reduced to so much raw meat; grasping fingers, gasping mouths, staring eyes. And him, above it all, whirling back and forth, laughing and crying and screaming and killing; his halberd's silver dance through the smoking sky. He could never let her see him like that. He would rather die than have her see what he'd become.
She brushed the dark hair from her face with long fingers, turning away from him so all he could see was the curve of a cheek.
"I'll be back soon." Or not at all, he almost added. She spun around, curls falling messily across her face.
"Why do you have to go, Antonio?" Am I not good enough? Those words were left unsaid. Why? Because he could never let her cry again. He had to be stronger; he had to protect her, especially from himself. He had to go.
"Because the colonies are all in revolt." Because I can't ever let anyone hurt you again. "And I am spreading the word of God." And I would rather be there when I break than raise a hand against you. "And they need someone to show them the way into the future." Because I love you.
"Then let me come with you." She looked up at him with questioning eyes, sitting back on her heels and pressing her palms into her legs.
"No," he snapped, loud enough to make her start visibly. "You'll be safe here," he continued, softer. He picked his red coat off of the floor where he'd thrown it the night before, swinging it over one shoulder. Lovina stared off at the hills again through the foggy glass, a hand clutching at her other arm.
He leaned down again, pressing his lips to her forehead. She didn't look up at him, just stared frozen out the window. Her whole body was rigid. He tried to straighten up, but one of her hands grasped the fabric of his sleeve.
"You have to come back," she whispered, still watching the window. Outside a hawk dropped from the sky, diving after some hapless prey. "You have to come home." Her hand dropped back to her lap, releasing him. He watched her for a moment, then turned on his heels, hands clutched in fists by his side.
She heard him turn to leave, heard the slow click of his heels. She clutched her sleeve to keep from shaking, to keep from running after him and dragging him back. She bit her lip till she tasted blood, waiting to hear the slam of the door. The heels clicks stopped; she was flattened by the silence. They started again, faster this time. Her nails dug into her skin. The door slid shut like a muffled gasp. She heard the distant scraping as he lifted his halberd from the floor, heard the slamming of the main gate. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass and the tears finally came, hot and unbidden, racing down her face.