The Man God Sent

A/N: Hi! Welcome to the third installment of the Dictators series. This one is about Spain and Francisco Franco.

I've been looking forward to writing this, since not only is Spain my favourite character in Hetalia, but Franco happens to be an interesting dictator. Even today, his rule is pretty controversial, not just in Spain but also abroad. According to an article in the Spanish newspaper El Mundo dated 19/07/2006, one in three Spaniards believes that Franco's overthrowing of the Republican government was justified. In 2007, Spain passed a controversial law, formally condemning the Francoist rule. There still isn't a general consensus on how to view Franco.

I've found some excellent articles about Franco, and my favourite is Five Remnants of Francisco Franco's Rule Still Visible in Spain Today. It's on a site called goabroad . com , and you should really read it. It's utterly fascinating.

But more about that later. Let's get the formalities out of the way.

DISCLAIMER: This is a very politically sensitive series. I have tried my absolute best to avoid any sort of bias. I've done a lot of research, and I've tried to focus on the facts, and only the facts. However, we are also dealing with Hetalia characters. They're human, in a way. So there is a tangible emotional element to this series. Please understand that before you start reading. It's political, it's sensitive, and it touches a lot of controversial topics. I don't mean to offend anyone.

Forgive me if I don't have my facts right. I'm not Spanish. I've never been to Spain. I don't even live on the same continent as Spain. I hope my research is adequate and my understanding is not flawed.

The significance of the usage of human names needs to be noted. When I say Antonio/Lovino/Gilbert/Francis and the like, I'm referring specifically to their human aspect and not their nation aspect. However, when I use their country names, I am talking about them as countries. Human names and country names have not been used interchangeably.

Headcanons:

In canon, when countries are going through economic troubles, they fall ill. But I've always wondered what would happen if their economy went into depression. I think there's a strip set during the Great Depression era when all of them are ill, but for the sake of this fic, when Spain's economy goes into depression, so does he—psychologically. It's just more interesting that way, you know?

I'd like to think that the personifications affect the population as much as the population affects the personification.

Historical Notes:

I would hate to shove too many facts down your throat. These are the super important ones. The rest are all in the fic.

1. Francisco Franco was the dictator of Spain from 1939 until his death in 1975.

2. In 1931, the monarchy in Spain was replaced by a democratic republic. In 1936, the conservatives fell and the Leftist Popular Front came in with Communist sympathies. Franco, never a fan of the democratic system, organised a coup with some other generals. This eventually gave rise to the Spanish Civil War.

3. You can't study Franco without understanding the civil war. Spain's civil war is seen today as a prelude to World War Two. Sort of like a dress rehearsal before a play, really. If you study it closely, it holds features of both World War One style of fighting (like trenches), and what would later become World War Two style of fighting (like air raids on a civilian population). The civil war led to the death of around 500,000 people. It was fought between the Nationalists (led by Franco), and the Republicans, between 1936 to 1939. It goes without saying that Franco and the Nationalists won.

4. Spain's Civil War was very international, another characteristic of how World War Two would be fought. You had French, English and American soldiers on the Republicans, and Fascist countries like Germany (under Hitler) and Italy (under Mussolini) supporting Franco.

5. Franco's rule started out as very oppressive. He was morally comparable to Hitler or Stalin. Women's rights were curtailed, political prisoners were sent to concentration camps. There was a policy of forced labour and executions. Between 200,00 to 400,000 people died. But as time passed, his regime became more open.

6. The Spanish people still don't talk about Franco or the Civil War too much. It's like some sort of cultural amnesia. This, however, has been changing in recent years.

"What is your proposal? To build the just city? I will.
I agree. Or is it the suicide pact, the romantic
Death? Very well, I accept, for
I am your choice, your decision. Yes, I am Spain."

Spain – W. H Auden

There was dust in his mouth. Spain could taste it. Parched. Starved. Blood on his clothes. Blood in his hair. He lay there, on his side, his full weight on a broken arm. Skin covered in ash. Or was that just his pallor now? Or was that the new shade of red? Did blood run grey these days? Spain thought it only ran black.

It was daytime, but he knew not the hour. This chapel was destroyed in a bombing. A small casualty. There must have been pews. There must have been an altar. But now there was only dust, debris, and Spain was under it. A large piece of wall pressed over his leg. He could not move. He didn't want to. Blood-soaked brown hair dripped over his eyes. Drop-drop-drop.

The last thing he was aware of was noise. Gunshots and screaming and bombs and the roar of things falling and breaking and languages he could barely decipher like French, English, Spanish. He could recognise the different types, too. Basque, Galician. Somewhere out there, he'd also heard German and Italian. And they were all screaming and shouting and running and bleeding and killing and dying and bombs and explosions and gunshots bang bang bang roar roar boom boom boom crush fire crunch aaahhhhh Maria save me and somewhere out there God was shaking his head and burying his children and his tears mingled with rivers of blood until there was only—

This.

Silence.

Absolute, complete silence.

Spain didn't blink. He didn't stir. He barely even inhaled. He didn't want to breathe any more. And the fact was, he couldn't. Forget the broken ribs and punctured lung. He wasn't sure he even existed anymore. What better way than to die in a collapsed chapel in a collapsed country. Perfect for a collapsed man.

But there had been so much blood.

Dios, so much blood.

Spain was going straight to Hell.

Spain couldn't wait to die.

Please, die.

End it.

End what the people had started.

End it because the people had died.

Just please, God, please end it, please.

"Ave Maria…gratia plena…" Spain's voice was not his own. It was shattered. Each word made his throat burn. Water would have helped, but there was no water. No food. Nothing. Just this prayer, this small thread keeping him sane. Just this. The sound of precious Latin. His only Saviour now.

"Dominicus tecum…Benedicta tu in…" he choked on a sob because he couldn't speak, he couldn't sing, he couldn't remember the word. He took a shuddering breath and then cried out because it hurt it hurt so much and yes, nations could die if they were ripped apart from the inside and the oxygen he needed was escaping his punctured, butchered lungs and Spain couldn't breathe he couldn't breathe he couldn't breathe please God make him die now please—

"Sancta Maria…Mater Dei…pray for us sinners…now and at the hour of our death…" A single tear slipped down his eye, cleaning a streak of ash from his face as it went. "Amen."

He closed his eyes. Let death come now. He was ready.

Death came in the form of a man with a gentle voice. His near-balding head, tanned skin, and that crisp military uniform. He loomed over Spain for a moment. (Antonio opened his eyes). Somewhere in the cloud of his mind, Spain noticed that Death was not some cosmic thing, but in fact a human being. Somehow, that made sense.

"Spain?" the man asked quietly, bending down beside him. "Is that you, my child?"

Spain had not been anyone's child. Perhaps a descendant of Rome, but now he couldn't remember. The man brushed some of Antonio's hair from his eyes, and his hand came back stained with blood.

"Spain?" the man asked again, when Spain just looked at him vacantly, unblinking. The man placed two fingers on Antonio's neck, and the exhaled softly. So apparently, Spain was alive? Still? Hadn't God heard his prayers? After all this death, how was it possible? How could Spain still be alive?

Sunlight bounced off the man, making him look like one looming shadow. At least Spain could pretend that this man was Death. That this man meant peace, sleep, safety. But instead, the man walked away, and from a distance, he heard shouting in Spanish. He couldn't make out the words. He didn't care. He just wanted them to be quiet, be blessedly quiet. Noise hurt his head.

But instead, the man returned. "My people will bring you inside and care for you. Wait a moment, they're almost here."

Antonio looked at this man, deciding to call him Death until he knew his name. And then he closed his eyes, hoping that this sleep would be eternal, and Death would carry him away.

When Antonio opened his eyes, it was dark, save for the small electric lamp by the bedside table. There was still dust in his mouth, everything still hurt, and he still wanted to die. Breathing was a bit easier, although it was tiring. He could at least hold air in his body. He lay there in silence. (But it wasn't really silent. His head was ringing with explosions and gunshots).

The room was tasteful, with heavy curtains over the windows, white sheets, a homely sort of feeling that didn't belong to a hospital. Spain didn't really think about it. He didn't care. He was in pain, and there were bandages. That was all he was aware of, really.

The door swung open with a soft swish and Antonio heard it click shut. The man walked into the light, and Antonio recognised him from before. The man called Death. He looked at Spain for several moments, and Spain looked back at him, weary, exhausted.

"You're awake, then," the man said quietly as he approached the bed. "How do you feel?"

Spain didn't want to reply. He just stared wordlessly at the intruder.

"My name is Francisco Franco," the man began simply. "I am your new leader."

Ah, right, Franco. Somewhere in the back of his mind, that name triggered a memory. He was someone important.

Franco went on, "My side, the Nationalists, have won. It's been a few weeks. We've been looking for the personification that ran this country. We heard you'd fled."

Fled? Where would Spain go? Everywhere he went, there was only pain. He'd tried to run, but he was inevitably sucked up into Guernica, Madrid, Barcelona, the chaos of everything drawing him in and then battering him, one bomb at a time. Where would Spain go? Except for Hell, where?

Spain felt a hand on his shoulder. It hurt. His fingers twitched in their sling, and Franco pulled away. His eyes were devoid of apology. His eyes were completely undecipherable. "Rest now, Spain. And fear not. You shall be strong again."

Spain closed his eyes. He didn't care about strength or weakness anymore. All he wanted was safety. Two hundred years of instability and chaos. All Spain wanted now was a constant.

Besides, wasn't this Fascism thing a trend now? Germany and Prussia had a dictator, Italy too. There were Fascists popping up everywhere. It was the flavour of the times. There were other systems to choose from too. Not like the old imperialist days when they had a king and he was absolute. Now there were new forms of governance. Democracy (unstable, unstable, unstable), Communism (eh, whatever), and Fascism.

Spain heard Franco's clipped footsteps move away from him, and he heard the door open and close. Antonio was alone again.

Weeks passed, and still, Spain said not a word. Even when Franco's people demanded that he do so. Even when Franco himself tried to speak to him. Spain had nothing to say. Spain just wanted to rest. To not have to think. He was not ready to face the world yet.

But eventually, his injuries healed, and someone from the police force came to escort Spain to Franco. The dictator just looked at Spain for a long moment, and then sighed. "How are you feeling now?"

Spain didn't reply. He merely looked up, his eyes listless. He tugged gently at the Cross on his neck. And he gave Franco another meaningful look. It was an uncomfortably hot morning. "What is it?" Franco asked curiously when Spain pulled at his Cross again. "Oh, do you want to go to church?"

Antonio nodded.

"Very well. We can arrange for that."

Antonio entered the church and sat at the far end of a pew, staring blankly at the altar, listening to the priest speak. The man's words washed over him, but it was safe here. He glanced around. So few people. All of them so unhappy. He could sense their anguish. The church itself seemed to absorb it, drinking in their pain. Antonio closed his eyes, willing his own terror to become one with the safe, beautiful walls of the church. But it just didn't work.

His monsters were not his own. They belonged to every widow, every raped woman, every lame son, every broken wall, in every broken city. The war was Spain's tragedy. It belonged to everybody.

Antonio would go to church every morning at dawn and sit there until sundown, not saying a word to anyone, not making eye-contact. He knew that the police – the Greys – were there, watching him. He didn't really mind. They were his people, after all. Antonio was not about to hide from them. Why would he?

One evening, the priest approached him and sat down on the pew beside Antonio. "Son, I sense there's something on your mind."

Antonio, staring at his feet, looked up. He gave the priest a weak smile. "Why would you think that, Father?" It was the first time he'd spoken in what felt like years.

"I've seen you here every day for the last two weeks. You sit here all day, not saying a word." The priest's eyes softened. "But mostly, you just look sad."

"Oh." Antonio swallowed, and his gaze shifted to the figure of Christ, because he found it hard to maintain eye-contact with the priest. "I guess you could say that, yes."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Antonio lowered his eyes back to his feet. "I don't see what good that would do."

"You could always try."

"All right." He gave the priest another weak smile, and this time, it wavered on his lips as tears threatened. "I lost everything in the war."

"Ah." The priest lowered his eyes in mourning. Spain looked at him now, his sad eyes, his thinning hair. He must have lost somebody too. "Everything?" the man asked after a moment.

"My family." On both sides. "My finances." Industrial collapse. "My…sense of self," he added softly. "I asked God to take me with him. But I'm still here."

The priest didn't speak, not for several minutes. And then, "We've all lost things during the war."

"That's true."

"But maybe God has kept you alive for a reason."

Spain glanced up. "I don't want a reason anymore. I don't want anything. Just…just peace."

The priest shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his gentle face. "Peace is never handed to us, son. Peace is something we must work for." He paused when Antonio wiped another tear. "Did you fight? In the war?"

No, I ran.

"Yes," Antonio replied, because it was the correct thing to say.

The priest didn't ask about his loyalties. Good.

"You fought, but you're still alive. That must mean God wanted you here for a reason. What is that reason, son?"

Spain closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands. "I don't know."

"I think you do."

Spain glanced up. "I know I should be moving forward."

"Yes."

"But I don't know how."

"By focusing on today," the priest said. "Is there something you're avoiding?"

"Someone."

"Oh?"

Spain played with his sleeves, tugging at them to distract himself. "I should confront them, shouldn't I? I should face them."

"If you think it will help."

Antonio nodded. "Thank you."

"Trust in the Lord, child," the priest said gently. "There is still much to live for."

Spain offered him a smile. A fake smile. "Thank you, Father."

Antonio sat in his chauffeur-driven car, between two police personnel. He stared at his feet. And quietly: "Please take me to see the Generalissimo."

A stunned silence followed this request. They'd never heard Antonio speak. Spain looked at the two men sitting on either side of him. Something in his green eyes must have conveyed his resolve. Resolve he didn't entirely feel. (But he was a personification, he had a job to do. His mood affected the mood of the country, and his people were suffering.)

"Very well," said the senior Grey. "Take us to the Palace of El Pardo."

That was where Franco stayed now. Where kings and queens of yore had lived. Antonio knew that place better than his own mansion (now destroyed). He walked out of the car silently, as though he was going to his own execution, and when he was presented in front of the Generalissimo, he held one of his wrists with his other hand, shifted nervously from foot to foot, and simply said, "I can work now."

Franco regarded him without a single change in expression. He rested his chin on his hands, ignoring the ink pen leaking onto the documents he was signing. Finally, after what seemed like years, but must have been only a few seconds, he said, "What is your name?"

"I am Spain."

"What is your name?"

Oh. Few leaders had asked for that.

"Antonio Fernandez Carriedo."

"Antonio is a good name," he said after a beat. "A good Christian name." He gestured to the chair. "Sit."

The rules were very clear, though Spain already knew the general gist. The Generalissimo was absolute. Catholicism was the only religion he recognised. "And you will only speak Castilian Spanish."

"I'm sorry?" Spain asked, confused.

"The state does not recognise other Spanish languages. The state does not recognise other Spanish names, either. Children shall only be born with Castilian names."

Spain blinked at him. This was what he never understood about leaders. How could they suppress a part of who he was? Even in the Inquisition, even when Antonio himself had been a fanatic Catholic, he was still part Protestant, part Muslim, part Jew, part homosexual, part everything that the state wanted gone. Every single leader did this. Forget that Spain was fluent in all of his languages. He would only be allowed to speak Castilian, and that was how it had been even in the old times.

"All right," he said quietly, because arguing was pointless, and Antonio didn't really care enough anymore. He was done with conflict. He was absolutely done with it.

Antonio was given an apartment in Madrid, a small place with Greys constantly watching him. He didn't mind them. He had nothing to hide. There was very little food. The allowance he was given was tiny, but he didn't want to ask for more. However hungry he was, his people were hungrier. And he could survive a bit of starvation. They couldn't.

Antonio could not get out of bed. He didn't even want to. He was exhausted. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep. Except he couldn't seem to do that either. He just lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling painfully empty. When he didn't show up for work, the Greys came knocking. He didn't answer the door. They used their spare key and opened it anyway.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?" they asked coldly, staring at Antonio's display of apparent laziness.

"I think I'm depressed," he replied quietly.

"Oh fuck," one of them muttered. "Look, there's a country to run. Nobody has time for your drama."

"No," Antonio asserted, although it seemed to suck the energy out of him completely. "The economy," he went on. "I'm depressed. Economic depression."

"Get out of bed," they demanded.

"Call the Generalissimo," Antonio replied.

"No, he doesn't have time for this nonsense."

"Call him. Please."

Antonio forced himself upright, and the room spun for a moment. His hands shook as he held the receiver, and when he heard Franco's voice on the other end, he said, "Please, sir, what are you doing to help the economy?"

"My people tell me you have some sort of mental health issue."

"It's related to the economy," Antonio pressed. "It's happened before."

"Take the day off. I'll see you tomorrow."

"But—"

And Franco hung up.

The world was going to hell, and Spain was watching it happen from the sidelines. Although this felt like déjà vu, something about the Second World War was entirely unique. It was as though World War One had been a bad joke. Russia, England, Germany, France, even America and Japan—they weren't even European!—were fighting. Spain was no stranger to warfare. But this was not an ordinary conflict.

Most of all, Antonio hated that his two best friends weren't on speaking terms.

France and Prussia had never really liked each other anyway, but that had hardly bothered Francis and Gilbert. Sure, their people would fight about literally anything. Sometimes, France would win (thanks to Napoleon). Other times, it was Prussia. Prussia's unification with Germany had left France a little sour anyway, but since the Great War, Francis and Gilbert hadn't said one kind word to each other. Gone were the days when the three of them could just ignore their politics for a few hours and go get a drink. And now, Gilbert had this crazy bo—oh, Spain couldn't say a word against Hitler. Hitler had helped Franco.

"Hitler wants us to join the war effort," Franco told Spain one day. They were sitting in his office, Spain nursing a cup of coffee. He almost choked on the drink as it went down his throat, giving his leader an unabashedly terrorised expression.

"More war?" he asked through coughs.

"It's not like we can afford it, anyway. But Hitler is trouble. We can't refuse the man."

"I beg of you, please, no," he cried, lowering his head to his hands. Spain still couldn't sleep at night. His ears were always ringing. His body always hurt. His dreams were always soaked in Spanish blood. He couldn't tolerate more violence. He just couldn't. The damage to his national identity during the Civil War had thrown him into a mental breakdown he'd never known was possible. He wasn't ready for more gunshots, more explosives. He just wasn't ready.

Franco, for his part, didn't say a word. Not for several minutes. Finally, "Prussia is coming to visit next week."

"Prussia?" Spain's head jerked up. "You mean Gilbert?"

"Whatever his name is." Franco waved his hands distractedly, as though he was swatting a fly. "His argument—and a fair one, let me add—is that the Germans helped us in the Civil War, so in return, we must help them in this new global conflict."

"Are we going to?"

Franco's eyes turned quiet and thoughtful. "We can't afford it. We're a country in depression."

Exactly. Exactly, thank you very much.

"But refusing Hitler is suicide," he went on.

"So what do we do?"

Franco's lips twitched upwards very, very slightly. It happened so quickly that Spain almost thought he'd imagined it. In a flash, the expression was gone, replaced with his unemotional stare. "Leave it to me."

"So who do you support?" Prussia asked as they sat in Spain's apartment. He pushed his chair back and walked around, staring out of the window for a moment before turning back to Spain, his red eyes darker and colder than Spain had ever seen them. Yes, there was the tell-tale mischief in them, as always. But he seemed more…evil these days.

"You know my boss sympathises with your cause," Spain replied delicately, sipping cheap wine from a cracked glass.

"I asked about you, Antonio. Between Francis and I, who do you support?" Prussia coughed, but Spain didn't comment. Prussia had been getting weaker and weaker since the unification, and Antonio wasn't sure how much time his friend had left. But still, Gilbert was dangerous. Lately, Gilbert had become very, very dangerous.

Antonio didn't dare break eye-contact with Gilbert. It would cause an international incident. Gilbert was not himself these days. He was paranoid about having enemies, and willing to stop at nothing for power. If he even suspected Antonio supported Francis, Spain would be invaded and decimated.

"Naturally, I think you're right," Antonio went on, hating himself for every word. He gave his friend a smile, hoping it looked real. "You know me, I love to conquer. And what better time for war than now, with all this new technology?"

"But you still won't join the war effort."

"I just don't have the money," Antonio went on. He'd practiced this in front of a mirror for hours, reciting exactly what Franco had wanted him to say. "If you could lend me, say, a few hundred thousand airplanes or tanks, I think I'd be able to help you."

Gilbert blinked at him. "That's what your boss said. Fuck, Spain, it's not like I have thousands of planes and tanks and whatever just lying around for you." He sighed loudly in visible exasperation. "This is ridiculous."

"It's the truth, Gilbert," Antonio said gently. "I don't even have anti-depressants. Some days I can't even get out of bed. I need to get my economy in order before I can do any fighting."

"But…but you think I'm right, don't you? That Francis is being a whiny bitch?"

Antonio smiled. "Francis is always whining about something."

Gilbert guffawed. "True."

Antonio wished his friends would stop fighting. Just stop, already. And he wished they'd stop trying to drag him into the middle of it all. How was Antonio supposed to choose between his two best friends? (Although, late at night, if he was being honest with himself, Antonio didn't like this concept of Nazism. Not one little bit.)

And then Prussia and Germany stormed through France. It made Spain very, very nervous. Germany was too close to Spanish territory now. But when, at four in the morning, a phone call (sounding vaguely like a gunshot) reverberated through the apartment, Spain launched himself at it and put the receiver to his ear. He couldn't sleep anyway. He was worried sick.

"Hello?"

"Toni, it's me." Francis's voice was whispered, terrified, and carried a sense of desperation and urgency.

"Francis, are you all right?"

"Gilbert's completely lost his head, and then there's his monster of a brother, Germany."

"Francis!"

"I'm fine. Or I will be, eventually. We'll see. Things are bad. Look, I need a favour."

Antonio cringed. He was trying to stay neutral, for heaven's sake. "What?" he asked, his tone betraying his wariness.

"Can you shelter some of my people?"

"Your people?"

"My…my Jews." Francis's voice fell several octaves, and reached a sort of dead stillness. "Germany will kill them."

Antonio swallowed. "Francis, I can't…"

"I know, I know, you're neutral. And I know your boss sympathises with Hitler. But…" Francis went on, "Even Hungarian Jews are seeking refuge with you! Mon ami, please!"

"How many people?" Spain asked. Wasn't it ironic that Jews were now fleeing to Spain? Spain hadn't allowed his people to be openly Jewish for over four centuries now. (Blame the bosses. Always blame the bosses.)

"A few thousand."

Spain closed his eyes and pressed the bridge of his nose. "I need to speak with the Generalissimo. Can I call you back?"

"No. I'll call you in ten minutes. Hurry up. I don't have much time."

Ten minutes later, Francis did call back, and he sounded even more stressed out. "Antonio?" he asked.

"Send them through the smugglers' routes."

"Oh! Merci! Merci beaucoup!"

Antonio's head hit the pillows and he stared vacantly up at the ceiling once more. He did that a lot these days. The conversation with Franco was still vivid. "Sir, what is your opinion on Jews?" "Why?" "France wants to send refugees." A pause. "Tell him to send them over."

Spain was lonely. For some reason, nobody wanted to associate themselves with him. He didn't know why. He hadn't done anything wrong. He'd not done anything particularly evil during World War Two. But still, none of Antonio's friends called him. Not even Lovino. For company, Spain had to look towards his own people. He'd go out on the streets a lot more. After a recession and now a gradual economic boom, Antonio felt a lot healthier.

Everywhere he went, the Generalissimo's face on posters and pamphlets and slogans stared back at him. The Greys were everywhere, watching his every move. But Spain didn't care. He sought out farmers and shop owners and normal people who he could pretend to buy from as shared conversation. For that was the real commodity he wanted: friendship.

He sat at an eatery. He loved the menus where he could order a full meal for only a little bit of money. It was Franco's idea, to provide nutritious meals to workers. Antonio pretended to be one as he sat at a table, tearing his bread and chewing it hungrily.

He glanced up, however, when he saw the owner's wife. She was an exquisite beauty. Raven hair, dark eyes. A haunting glow on her face. When she tentatively entered the dining area and whispered something to her husband, a gentle hush fell upon the eatery. She glanced at Antonio, blushed, and darted out of sight.

Spain sighed, resting his chin on his hand. Incredible how he never saw women on the streets these days. Franco didn't seem to like women one bit. It really bothered Antonio.

Three weeks later, back at the same eatery, another customer walked up to him. "You hear what happened to Maria?" Antonio glanced up at the man. He was one of the regulars. Antonio been coming to this eatery for months now, and everyone knew him. Somewhat. The other man slid into the seat next to Antonio and went on, "Did you hear?"

The owner's wife.

"No, what happened?" Antonio asked.

The man leaned forward, his eyes darting around as though he was sharing confidential information. "Alejo—" her husband—"Hit her. Maria tries to run away, the Greys drag her back. Abandoning the home and all that. Against the law."

Antonio stared at the man. There was sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "And where's Maria now?"

"Who knows? Sancho tells me Alejo's kept her locked up in a room. Beats her twice a day." He shrugged. "But who knows?"

But something else was ringing in Antonio's head. 'Abandoning the home and all that. Against the law.' Of course it was. Abandono del hogar. Women couldn't just get up and leave, could they? Franco didn't like that. They were to be accessories to their families. Wife, mother, daughter, sister. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Are you okay, Antonio? You look like you're going to throw up."

"I feel a bit sick." Antonio stood up, feeling a pounding headache in his temples. "I think I need to go home and lie down."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea."

It was 1970. How was this still okay?

At home, Antonio stared at his reflection in the mirror. It was 1970. The age of dictators was long gone. How was Franco still here? Yes, his policies had been getting a lot less strict. But Spain could still remember the political oppression. Arresting Republicans, gypsies. Throwing homosexuals into loony bins. The disappearances. Although it was because of Franco that Spain had developed such a liking for bullfights and flamenco, but it was also because of Franco that Spain had almost forgotten how to speak his different languages. The only one he knew fluently now was Castilian Spanish. How many people had died in the White Terror? How many women had been raped? Cleansing, Franco had called it. Cleansing.

Antonio's hands shook as he splashed water on his face. It dripped down to the collar and the sleeves of his shirt. The sun was burning outside. And Antonio felt sick. He'd been too preoccupied with himself. Too tired to care. But the years following his Civil War had been a giant agony-induced blur. Hunger, pain, fear. Collapse.

Franco had had a free hand.

And Franco had used it well.

When Spain's university students tried to protest, the police beat them violently. Spain watched in horror as young blood spilled out onto the streets. Why did the young always die? Every inch of him wanted to run into the carnage. If he could save even one boy from the pain, he would have.

But Franco had his hand on Spain's shoulder. Calmly, the man said, "It's like they don't see all the good I've done."

Spain gave Franco a tight-lipped smile. "Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"In schools, they teach the children that Divine Providence sent you to help Spain. Is it true?"

Franco gave him a placid smile, a smile that did not belong with the screaming teenagers dying on the streets. A smile that did not belong to the blood and fear and police brutality in front of them. A serene, peaceful voice. "Yes, Spain. It's true."

A/N: Erm, yeah. So it's pretty obviously a controversial subject in Spain. Franco did do a lot of good things, but he also did a hell tone of bad things. However, during my research, I stumbled across a forum where they were discussing Francoist Spain, and one person said—and I quote—that compared to the other dictators in Europe at the time, Franco was "An Altar Boy".

That part about Spain being lonely was to do with the fact that post WWII, Spain was one of the last remaining totalitarian states in Europe, making it a bit of a political outsider. It wasn't even allowed into the UN. In Spain today, the Franco regime has been condemned by law, and statues, street-names, and other public symbols of Franco have been removed.

Here's something from Wikipedia: "In Spain, a commission to repair the dignity and restitute the memory of the victims of Francoism (Comisión para reparar la dignidad y restituir la memoria de las víctimas del franquismo) was approved in the summer of 2004, and was directed by the then-vice-president María Teresa Fernández de la Vega.[55]Because of his language policies, Franco's legacy is still particularly poorly perceived in Catalonia and the Basque Provinces. The Basque Provinces and Catalonia were among the regions that offered the strongest resistance to Franco in the Civil War, as well as during his regime."

Oh, and by the way, that W. H Auden quote is from his poem Spain. Auden actually fought in the Spanish Civil War on the side of the Republicans. The poem is long, but it's beautiful. I really encourage you to read it.

I hope I haven't misunderstood the situation, and I hope everything is historically accurate. I apologise deeply if you spot any errors or inconsistencies, and I do hope you won't take offence.

Thank you for reading. Please review!