Summary: Summer 1566. The Netherlands, Belgium and Luxemburg are a unified nation known as "The Low Countries" or "The Spanish Netherlands". Belgium stands by as tension rises between her brother and Spain, the nation whose king rules over all of them. And as much as Spain loathes the Netherlands' protestant ideals, he dotes on Belgium for her unwavering catholic faith. His desire grows. Before long Belgium will find herself torn between her brother's persuasive speeches, Spain's growing feelings and her own people's pleas for peace.

Characters:
Belgium - Marie 'Annabelle' Verlinden
Spain - Antonio Fernandez Carriedo
South Italy - Romano Vargas
The Netherlands - Jan
Luxembourg - Louis

Author's Note: I want to make it clear that this is by no means a correct historical representation for this event. The historical facts in here are that a) The Low Countries was indeed the combined name for what is now the Netherlands, Belgium and Luxemburg, b) Spain's king did rule over them, which is why they were called the Spanish Netherlands as well, c) Spain was a devote catholic and the majority of the Netherlands' population became protestant overtime, due to the Lutheran Movement and the Calvinistic Movement, and d) all hell did brake lose in the summer of 1566, known as the Iconoclastic Fury (Beeldenstorm in Dutch), the start of the Dutch Revolt against Spanish Rule.
The not-so-historical-mention here is that Belgium was not entirely catholic at that time. The north of what is now Belgium (Flanders) leaned more towards the ideals of the protestant Dutch, which is why that particular piece of land was the major battleground for the Eighty Years War that followed the Iconoclastic Fury. The southern part of Belgium as we know it today (Wallonia) was filled with devote Catholics and had no quarrel with the Spanish king. At least, not about religion. Just like the rest of the Low Countries, they were also not so happy with the high rate of taxes that their far-away ruler imposed on them.

What do we learn from this? That wars in history always come down to one of three things: religion, money and power.

Extra Author's Note: I tried to explain it in the story itself, but I'll just mention it here as well. The name I use to represent Belgium in this story is Belgae, which is by no means a correct name for the country at that time. I simply tried to pick a name for her that she had already worn in her previous history, a name that she would be somewhat proud of, a name that would eventually influence the modern version of her name now.
For those of you who are confused by Belgium speaking both French and Dutch. Those are her two official languages. They might be called differently (Walloon and Flemish) and have a different dialect than the authentic French and Dutch, but they are basically the same. (A very small part of Belgium also speaks German, so actually she has three official languages, but I found two would already be more than confusing.)
I know the ending might look a little bit rushed, but I wanted to finish this on Valentine's Day. I might still come back to this later, and maybe even write an 'M'-rated part to it as well. Who knows... Anyway, if you've read all of this first than bravo! You have become just that bit more educated. ;3

Entangled

Ever since she came to live in Spain's house, Belgium had tried to make the best of her situation. She was of the principle that every new human rule should be treated with a sense of neutrality if they were to be given a fair chance. A noble train of thought,... in theory.

In reality, however, there were several factors that screwed with her notion of peaceful collaboration. The most notorious one being that when all nations had been created, they were given the joys and sorrows of human emotions.

And emotions always tend to chance the dynamic of, an otherwise colourless, relationship.

~ x ~

The day had been quiet. A rare occurrence in Spain's house as of late.

This was probably due to the fact that the house only contained two of its five inhabitants. Belgae had been left alone with little Romano since yesterday afternoon, when Spain had been summoned by his King to attend a meeting and he had send a messenger back to the house barely two hours later to inform his charges he would not be home before tomorrow morning. The messenger also stated that their caretaker needed the Netherlands to journey to the Low Countries to settle an affair there, of which the instructions would be given to him once he had arrived.
Jan had not been happy to receive an order from Spain, as he was sure the mentioned issue would involve either religion or taxes —two items on which he had verbally fought the Spanish Empire numerous times. On the other hand, this meant that he could set foot on his own soil again, and he had saddled his horse with next to no complaints.
Belgae had asked him to take their baby brother along. Her first concern being that it had been too long since Louis had seen their home and he had mentioned once or twice that he missed the warmth of their shared house. Secondly, she though the infant country could learn a thing or two from his big brother as Jan would handle the situation with his own preferred sense of Dutch stoicism.
She knew that they would be gone for a month at the very least, but Belgae assured her brothers that she was perfectly capable of representing the Low Countries' mutual interests on her own for that long. She also told herself that she did not feel pained at all when she sacrificed a perfectly rare opportunity to see her own soil and her own people again.

And so, waving off her brothers until they had disappeared from her sight, she had stayed behind. Deep down, her heart reached out for her home, but Belgae sussed its doleful quivers by telling herself she had done so that Romano would not have felt abandoned and afraid, alone in this big house, its rooms of vast darkness often the fuel of the little Italian's nightmares. She was also quite certain that Spain would be far from pleased if he had come home to a nearly empty house, and she did not want to rise her caretaker's temper, even if the occurrences when he showed that side of him were rare, they were unsettling, and even frightening to some extent.

Belgae often wondered if that lazy smile of his eluded them from Spain's infinite hunger for dominance and power. Flaws that festered deep within every nation-made-empire, making them soar with the illusions of the gods of old and throwing a shadow over their humanity.

~ x ~

It was nightfall on the next day when the female nation had tucked Romano in, a lullaby still present in the non-child's last waking memories, and had made her way to her own room to prepare for bed. Spain had not come home yet and somewhere in the back of her mind the edges of worry where softly stirring.

Belgae sighed wistfully as she looked herself over in the oval mirror positioned above the vanity table in her bedchamber, her eyes coming back to focus as she stared upon the image that she saw reflected in the looking-glass. The neckline of her white linen chemise fell lower as she moved, exposing a bare shoulder, and she counted the few freckles that coloured the porcelain of her skin there, tracing them with her fingers, comparing them to those across the bridge of her nose. The dark gold of her hair waved in soft curls around her heart-shaped face, ending somewhere at the small of her back, and her eyes were a mixture of sky-blue and grass-green, framed by long lashes in an even darker colour than gold.

Oh, how she had grown.

She was a fearless child no longer. With round, ruddy cheeks and scraped knees. The spitting image of her mama Gaul and doted on by the Roman Empire, who had no qualms in admitting that the people of this naive, but strong-willed little nation were the bravest of all his adversaries.
She was a headstrong youth no longer. Her hair cut to shoulder-length, and her appearance not so different from her brothers. Tall and slim, with the demeanour of a boy who likes to pretend he is a man grown. For women had no place anymore among the higher ranks of this warrior-like society. Her people grew more politic, bolder and astute alongside her. The air of a successful merchant visible behind her cat-like pupils, arched eyebrows and her long, confident strides.
She was a young blossoming flower no longer. With the appearance of a porcelain doll, all marble white and soft. Longer hair and even longer dresses, as she had no need for trousers and pretence any longer. Resembling any other girl of a marriageable age for that day and age, though with the burdens of disease, war and death weighing heavily on her delicate shoulders.

And then she was a girl no longer, yet no woman either.

She had reached the in-between when Charles V, born in one of her own cities, the heir of the Habsburg Dynasty, became the supreme ruler of the Holy Roman Empire. He had united her with her brothers, the Netherlands and Luxembourg, and had named them the Seventeen Provinces, an entity separate of the Empire and of France. He had meant it as a gift, the closest thing to independence he could give her, and she had repaid his kindness by becoming Europe's major centre for commerce, industry and art.
During that brief period of political prestige, economic growth and artistic splendour, she and her brothers lived a peaceful and prosperous life, and her people's growth showed the effects in her own appearance. Belgae eventually held the exterior of a sixteen year old, maybe even seventeen. The soft swell of curves growing ever more prominent as the years and decades passed by.

All was well, and Charles V held on to his promise for a long time. A long time, when counted in mortal years.

But humans are fickle creatures.

Even someone as righteous as Charles V could not be saved from his own greed, and the Seventeen Provinces' growing wealth fogged his mind. He wanted more. More land, more gold, more power. And little by little, Belgae and her brothers had no choice but to cede their independence, until the day the Holy Roman Emperor died and all his lands were abdicated to his son, Philip II, king of Spain, the country that now possessed them.

Belgae had been anxious to meet their new caretaker, their new lord, their fellow nation, but her nerves had turned out to be unnecessary. The country of Spain was a vibrant young man, and she had been pleasantly surprised at the amount of commercial freedom he still allowed her and her brothers to have.

He had introduced himself as Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, the Spanish Empire, kissing the back of her hand and locking his leaf-green eyes with hers. He had kept a loose hold on her fingers and his intense gaze never wavered when he had asked her for the honour of knowing her name.

She had blushed at his blatant interest for her. (He really was terribly handsome, wasn't he?) Though his inquiry was met with a long interlude of silence, as she had no idea what to answer him.
She had had many names. All given to her by those who had once ruled over her, but at that particular moment in space and time she had no name of her own. She had never truly liked the names bestowed upon her if she was honest. There was only one name she had genuinely liked, and it had been given to her by Rome, the empire who had opened her eyes to the world's innovating wheels of time. Belgae.

So she had introduced herself as such, adding with it the human name her people had given her when her presence required such a baptized title: Marie. But the Spanish nation had seen the light shining in her eyes when she named herself Belgae, a sense of pride and veiled hope present in the tone of her voice, so he had made an allusion on the name and had asked if he could call her 'Belle' or 'Bella'.

Not disliking the sound of it when it had rolled off his tongue like velvet, she had accepted.

~ x ~

Not sure why a simple glance in the mirror had made her mind such a melancholy mess, Belgae lightly shook her head and stood up, turning around to retire to bed. She threw one last glance back at the mirror, scrutinizing her whole being in that single moment, from the pinnacle of her head to the underside of her toes, and she briefly wondered if she could be called beautiful.

The sound of the front door swinging open started her out of her reverie, and she hastily pulled a maroon-coloured robe over her linen chemise when the heavy oaken doors made a sound as loud as a gong echo through the wide and empty corridors of Spain's house as they swung back shut.
The next thing she heard were the heavy steps of leather-clad boots resounding ever louder as they carried up the stairs and along the corridor where her bedchamber —and those of the other inhabitants of Spain's house as well— was located. Belgae knew those boots belonged to Spain himself and the anxious feeling that had been crawling up her spine moments before subsided. Her mind at ease with the knowledge of their caretaker's safe return, she turned around to retire to her bed, when the footsteps stopped right in front of her door. The handle turned and she gingerly faced the doorway, falling into a curtsey when she found no other then the owner of the house at the other end of the long shadow that flooded the carpet in her room.

"My lord," she greeted him, and when she was met with silence she looked up to see his eyes were locked on her, yet they were unfocused. "I am glad you are home."

As if waking from a dream, Spain's gaze slowly turned back to clarity. "Did your brother get my message?" he asked, his voice low and serious.

"Yes," Belgae answered, conscious of the fact that the Spanish Empire seemed troubled and she wanted to ease his doubts with what little information she could give him. "He left for the Low Countries the same day."

Spain nodded. "Bueno."

His furrowed brow left him and he threw Belgae what should have looked like a lazy smile, but the female nation had been living with him for too many years now to regard the curling of his lips as enough reason to believe that those had been the only thoughts on his mind. She spoke to distract herself as the intensity of his stare unnerved her, an uneasiness nagging at the back of her mind.

"Are you hungry, my lord? I could still make you something to eat if you so wish."

Spain's eyes turned even darker then they had been before, and the lazy smile had turned into a smirk, playing on his lips like he was a cat who had cornered its prey. "I am not hungry for food, mi querida."

At his words, Belgae remembered a conversation she had once had with her other big brother, France, and even though she was not entirely sure what he had implied then, and what Spain was implying now, she had been a nation for more than fifteen-hundred years and had seen far too much to believe that others —humans and nations alike— merely had good intentions, and that certain words could be translated in many ways. Contrary to popular believe, she was not a naive country, so her guess concerning Spain's intentions was accurate enough. She did not want to anger him by speaking out of turn, or, god forbid, to smack that smirk from his self-sufficient features. Romano slept in the room next to hers, and she would feel awful if the little Italian woke up to the sound of Spain's anger. So, she acted out what every lady at court did to maintain her good graces. She played dumb.

"I'm not sure what you mean by that, my lord."

Spain's eyes flashed and he grinned. "Sí, you do." With two long strides he had closed the distance between them, his eyes so aflame they could have burned a hole through every fibre of her being. "I have waited a long time to have you alone like this, Bélgica."

Belgae took a step back, the hunger in his eyes making her involuntarily tremble, but not out of fear. She had already seen many similar eyes like his, filled with greed and desire, worn both by nations and men. The pounding of her heart sped up, the adrenaline coursed through her veins, her posture turned rigid and steadfast, and yet her features did not change. Her expression remained tranquil and unchallenged.

But Spain was far too seasoned, both as a nation and a warrior. He saw the defensive stance she put herself in by every minuscule motion of her fingers, her toes, the soft purse of her lips, and he raised his hands in the air as if to surrender. "What I meant by that," he sussed, "what I meant was that I am finally free of unwanted eyes and ears to confess how much I... I care about you, mi amada."

Belgae's stance faltered. She had never been a stuttering fool, but Spain's confession still managed to make her mind form solely incoherent thoughts. "You are a caring master, my lord," she still tried to appease him in the most neutrally affected way she knew. "To everyone in your house."

He looked at her with searching eyes, knowing full well what she was trying to do, and he moved towards her once more. Belgae could feel her spine hitting the wall as she backed up, cornered, and her heart was racing ever faster when Spain cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand, lightly caressing his thumb over the plush of her cheekbone."You must know," he breathed and his eyes found hers, "surely you must know, how I feel about you, Bella."

Belgae cursed herself when she could feel the warmth crawling from the back of her neck to her cheeks, and even though she would have liked nothing more than to avert her eyes, she stubbornly held his vigorous gaze, trying to sound as aloof as possible when she stated, "you are most kind to me, my lord," but her voice faltered when his other hand found her own and he entwined their fingers together. His touch was scorching, and she could feel the burn unravel deep inside of her. "I- I am honoured that you hold me in such high regard as to confess your feelings of profound appreciation for me—"

"—none of that," Spain ordered, and he bowed his head lower so his mouth was right next to her ear. "You know the feelings I confess are far deeper than simple appreciation, querida," he whispered hotly. "Am I wrong to think you feel the same way?"

Belgae shivered as his warm breath tickled her earlobe and her heart. Her orbs half-veiled to him by the gold of her lashes, she kept her silence as they stood there, searching deep into each other's souls through the mirrors of their eyes, hers teal and his' leaf-green. Belgae could not find the words to speak, struggling arduously to keep the inner turmoil she felt at Spain's confession to herself. And yet she did not like how cold her body felt when he stood straighter once more, his hands back at his sides, and his lilting voice breaking the electric-filled silence in the air.

"You are too generous to trifle with me, Bella. Just tell me if I am wrong to hope you will reciprocate these feelings and I will leave you be. We never have to speak of it again."

Belgae almost reached out to him. She hated to see the doubt in his eyes, but she refrained from doing so as his inquiry was not a simple question that could be graced with a simple answer. She had met many a nation in her long years of existence, yet with none of them had she felt an emotion so confusing as this. The sibling-like bond that had formed between herself and her brothers had been a natural flow of events. France and the Netherlands had been there for as long as she could remember, older by a few years then her, they had taken it upon themselves to take her under their wings if she, their little sister, so needed. She had cared for Luxembourg like any older sister would have with a brother several hundreds of years her junior. Even with the nations she had no blood-related bond with (a term that was more a statement, than it was a biological certainty) she had never experienced a feeling that could be described as more than friendship. Such as Britannia —or England as he was called now— who was one of her oldest friends and trading partners. There were the Germanic brothers, like Brandenburg, Saxony and Bavaria, whom she had met briefly to discuss the construction of new travelling routes for their merchants and other such dry subjects. As Belgae had become part of the Holy Roman Empire she had met Austria, Hungary, and Romano's little brother, Veneziano. And there were the nations who lived in the upper North as well. She had met some of them when they had come to pillage and burn her villages as fearsome Vikings, though according to Jan, they were a lot more civilised now, as he himself traded with one of the Nordic nations who was now called Denmark. (Belgae's brothers often liked to forget how cruel and vicious all of them had been during the days of Gaul and Rome.)

And now there stood in front of her, this vibrant, sun-kissed, strong nation and her heart was in tangles.

Spain took her long silence as rejection and his face was hard as marble stone when he nodded. "Yo entiendo," he said curtly. "I will no longer keep you, then. Buenas noches, Bella."

Quick as a cat, Belgae grabbed his hand to keep him in place just as he turned around to walk away. "No, wait," her voice was no more than a whisper and she decided for herself that she would try to convey her own emotions as truthfully as possible, even though she barely knew what they meant herself. "I... I can feel my heart beating in my chest when you look at me. I can hear it loud and clear when you smile at me, and when you touch me, my skin tingles as if it's on fire. I... I have tried to convince myself that those...sensations are similar to what I feel when Jan is looking at me or when I see Louis smile, or when Romano grabs my skirts so I would pick him up... but they are not... Are they?"

Belgae felt vulnerable then, as she spoke from the heart, and she feared to see a glimpse of victory in her caretaker's eyes, afraid, even now, that he would simply look at her as his possession and nothing more. Instead she found him looking at her as if she was a revelation. A goddess in the flesh.

"No," he swallowed in answer, "they are not."

And then his mouth was on hers, warm and welcoming. Surprised, she stilled against him for a bare second, before she let her instincts take over —her French side, Francis would say — and she melted into the kiss, into him.
When they moved apart, Belgae had forgotten the notion of time, wondering if the kiss had lasted several days or several seconds. Her thoughts were scattered, as was her heart.

Spain's smile was wide and more cheerful then she had ever seen it. "Bella..." his voice was warm and sultry. His hand was on the side of her neck, around her throat, half cupping her face, his head leaning forward until their foreheads touched. "Te amo."

His passion melted her, and at the end of the night she found herself all liquid and pleasured and boneless. Her tangled hair settled in a cloud over her pillow, her body pressed to Spain, their limbs entangled in the bed sheets as if they were never meant to have another, their fingers entwined atop his chest, and her heart so full she thought it might burst.

A deep and blissful sleep was about to take her to the land of dreams, she could feel it, but right before she closed her eyes, a murmur passed her lips, one last heartfelt sigh.

"Je t'aime. Ik hou van jou."

~ x ~

The following morning, as the two nations woke up in each other's arms, their minds an empty mess of happiness and warmth, a messenger came with an urgent report for his Empire, cutting their early loving ministrations short.

Spain's eyes burned with fury and Belgae felt as if a stone had been dropped into her stomach when they received the news of her brother's revolt, and how he threatened war upon anyone who would deny him his freedom.

The Eighty Years' War had begun.

Translation:

Bueno = good (Sp.)
Mi querida = my dear (Sp.)
Sí = yes (Sp.)
Bélgica = Belgium (Sp.)
Mi amada = my love/my beloved (Sp.)
Yo entiendo = I understand (Sp.)
Buenas noches = good night (Sp.)
Te amo = I love you (Sp.)
Je t'aime = I love you (Fr.)
Ik hou van jou = I love you (Dutch)