A/N: I'm having a Spain thing at the moment. Don't mind me.
He sat in his chamber, idly throwing knives at the door for practice. All servants and advisors had been told not to disturb him, and an unfortunate maid had almost received a knife straight through the forehead when she failed to knock before entering.
Under his breath, he kept muttering foul words, cursing that insolent boy and his heretic Queen. How dare they reject the divine authority of the Church? How dare they insult him, the greatest power in the world today?
One of his advisors had timidly suggested that perhaps it was not England's fault, after all, that the weather around his accursed shores had been foul as of late. That advisor now lay dead in the courtyard, the heat starting to attract flies. A large straight gash through his left temple led no one to doubt how exactly he had died.
Antonio sat back in the wooden chair, glancing back towards his beloved war axe. How he longed to swipe off that wretched bastard's head. His mighty fleet, the biggest and most impressive the world had ever seen, was now somewhere in the dark, dingy waters of Northern Ireland, battered by storms and whatever ghastly monsters lurked there.
Pérfida Albión. He wouldn't even give him the honour of a name. He didn't deserve one.
----
A cautious knock on the door sent him flying up from his seat.
"¿Qué quieres!?"
"Lo siento, mi señor, pero las noticias acaba de llegar de la flota."
"Y...?"
"Sólo sesenta y siete buques han regresado, mi señor."
He sunk back down into his chair, his fingers knotting through his hair, which hadn't been washed for the better part of three days. Unwillingly, he felt bitter tears start to slip past his eyelids and run down his face. His fist unconsciously clenched around one of the knives, and before any kind of warning, he had thrown it straight at the unfortunate servant. He died quickly, the gas dispersing from his mouth in a little sigh.
Spain frowned. He had always seen death as a beautiful monster, soaked in blood. In his mind, he had conjured up images of a dark skinned woman dressed in black, her hair long and thick and running with that dark red liquid he so loved.
Now, death just seemed grey and empty and cold. There was nothing beautiful in it, nothing romantic.
Antonio shivered, despite the blazing heat inside his chamber. He had killed two people in the space of one afternoon, and had just received word that his armada had returned with only a fraction of the men it had started with. His armada had failed him.
He watched as a single tear dropped from his face onto the stone floor, watched as it disappeared amid the cracks.
----
He saw his own Empire disappearing in much the same manner.
A/N: Spanish was shamefully taken from Google translate, and as such is most probably incorrect. Any native Spanish speakers, do please feel free to add corrections.
"¿Qué quieres!?"
What do you want!?
----
"Lo siento, mi señor, pero las noticias acaba de llegar de la flota."
I'm sorry my Lord, but news just came in from the fleet.
----
"Y...?"
And...?
----
"Sólo sesenta y siete buques han regresado, mi señor."
Only sixty seven ships have returned, my Lord.
----
This fanfic is talking about the Spanish Armada, and how Spain receives the news. During this time, Spain and England were engaged in a bitter rivalry, over both territory and religion. Spain was Roman Catholic, England was Protestant. A massive fleet of ships was assembled in Lisbon, Portugal. It was meant to invade England, but as it neared London, it was driven by the English ships further and further north, until eventually it went around the entire British Isles, being devastated by storms along the way. Only 67 of the 151 ships survived, and around 10,000 of the 26,000 men returned to Spain. It is regarded as a humiliating loss for Spain, and a great victory for England and the English people.