God Could Not Be Everywhere so He Gave Brothers

A/N: Hello my dears! This is a small short story that I'm working on, as prompted by someone on my tumblr. It's being posted here just so I can share it with those of you who may or may not know my tumblr or may not even have one. I hope you enjoy.

My little brother was always a sickly child. Mi mamá babied him and I saw how it angered my Elder siblings. But, the child was kind and giving. He had something that my brothers and I didn't have. He had innocence. Hermanito wasn't brought up during Roman conquests, nor did he see Papá y Mamá die for my siblings and me. He was naïve…but his naivety was the reason he was to be the union of our peninsula.

As time passed, our peninsula changed hands many a time. And many a war was fought. It is believed, amongst my siblings and me of course, that the child began to realize what he had to do in life during the Moorish rule of our country. He never had a true childhood. My little brother was constantly fighting for a country that didn't exist quite yet, and for that, he had the purest of hearts.

His story starts one cold winter day, in the present day province of Madrid. And with the start of his story, we began writing the history books of Spain.

He didn't know any form of the language that became Spanish, only Arabic. After all, why would a child acting as a slave for Moor know the beautiful romance languages once spoken in Iberia? But, at least his name had stayed the same. No horrendous, Islamic or Moorish name was given to the purest child of the Iberian siblings.

"Antonio."

He would always jerk his head at his name, as if he didn't know that it was actually his name. Moor used his name all too often. For being just a child, he was doing the work of a man. Antonio's face was constantly covered in dirt. His hands were just as dirty, mud caked between his fingernails. And so the child worked. He cleaned stables and watched as other children his age played.

Chores were all my little brother knew. One misstep and he had a hand to the face, a paddle to the backside, a cat-o-nine tails to his small, quivering back.

Moor didn't recognize my little Toñito was a sickly boy. He would sport fevers of around 23 degrees Celsius, but of course, there was no way Moor knew that. So Antonio worked, callousing those hands that fought tooth and nail for the nation that stands in the modern era.

One day, Antonio was sweeping nothing from the front step of Moor's home. It was a mundane and useless task, but all the same Antonio worked. He bent down, noticing a piece of parchment that had gotten caught in his broom.

With slender fingers, my little brother lifted the paper and unfolded it, his emerald green eyes scanning across the carefully written words on the paper.

"What is this…?"

Antonio jerked his head up, frowning as the paper was snatched from his hands. "I'm…I'm not sure…I found it on the front stoop…"

The man who had snagged the frail piece of paper from his hands, read over the paper himself, humming quietly. "Can you even read, boy?"

Antonio flinched.

"So you can…" The larger man walked around and bent in front of the child, griping his chin tightly between rough, worn hands. "What have I told you about reading? Where did you learn?"

Once again, Antonio flinched. He glanced down at the ground remaining silent, but the grip on him tightened.

"Where did you learn?" The question was firmer this time.

"From your books…."

A hand to the cheek and Antonio's head jerked to the side. He panted; emerald eyes wide, breaths quick and ragged. "I'm sorry."

Moor stood up straight, crinkling the paper between his fingers, finally letting it fall back to whence it came. "Finish your damn chores."

The child nodded, ducking his head in shame, shakily returning to his mundane chores.

I was told the purest of all Iberia was here. At the darkest part of night, meet past the courtyard. I will save you from your pain. Be free, child. You've done your suffering.
C.F.C

Night fell quickly, and Antonio was sure to head to bed before Moor saw him and could make him work even more. He crawled into bed, snuggling under the light blanket, staring up at the ceiling. He was jittery. The note had literally told him to defy and, dare he say it, run away from Moor.

The night wore on, and finally it was near pitch black outside, the moon hiding behind the thick of clouds that hung in the air. Quietly, Antonio rolled out of bed, packing up the few belongings he had and sneaking into the kitchen, stealing some bread that the cooks had made earlier and some Manchego cheese. He rolled them into a cloth and stuffed them away, his tiny hands shaking.

Slowly, Antonio took a breath, steeling his nerves and pushing open the door, stepping outside slowly, his bare feet barely making any noise in the grass. His green eyes glanced around, his breaths quick and nervous, "…I shouldn't d-do this…" he stammered.

Antonio wandered out further from the house, his hands trembling, knees feeling weak. Once more, he looked around, feeling hot tears well in his eyes. "W-What am I doing…?" Antonio asked himself, sinking down onto his haunches, sniffling, and burying his face in his arms. "Stupid, stupid, stupid…!" He frowned, glancing up as he heard hooves against the ground.

Oh no. This was a set-up. Moor was testing his loyalty. Instantly, Antonio scrambled to his feet, forgetting his sack of belongings and food beside him and he bolted. He ran as fast as his tiny, bare feet could carry him.

But that wasn't enough. Strong arms scooped the boy into their arms and held him close. Antonio simply burst into tears, sobbing and blubbering about how sorry he was and he didn't mean to listen. Slowly, two fingers put themselves to his lips.

"Shh, hermanito, don't you cry now." The words weren't Arabic, and therefore gibberish to Antonio.

The child heaved and shuddered, glancing up at the man clutching onto him. "W-What?" He stammered his Arabic shaky and nervous sounding.

A sigh was heard, "Right, Arabic. That bastard took your native language from you." This time the man behind Antonio spoke in Arabic and Toni sighed in relief. "That knap-sack, was it yours?"

Antonio nodded. "Yeah…"

"Good, because I grabbed it."

The child glanced down, hugging himself tightly. "Who are you?" He whispered.

Antonio could sense the other was smiling, and it just made him even more nervous. "My name's Cristoval. And, mi hermanito, I'm your older brother."