I love how people incorporate historical events in Hetalia, its one of my favorite parts of the fandom, but one thing that I've almost never seen that people always seem to forget is the fact that Spain was fascist up until about the 1970s.
Anyway, this is based on the assassination of famed Spanish poet/playwright Federico García Lorca during the Spanish Civil War, who happens to be one of my favorite Spanish language writers.
Apologies if my Spanish is a bit rusty or awkward, its been awhile since I've had to speak/write it regularly. I'd rather not type out a whole translation cuz its pretty easy to see what they're talking about, but if you want one then just let me know.
June 20, 1929.
"Bellísima, Federico."
He hands the scrap of paper back to the man reclined in the chair next to him.
"Gracias, Antonio."
"Cómo se llama éste?
"A qué?
"El poema."
"A, sí. Es Romance del la luna, luna."
"Claro. Bellísima, Fede. Soy verdadero."
The man hands the piece of paper back to the nation, who takes it with a slight tilt of the head, observing the quaint scrawl of the ink.
"Has visto la película de Buñuel y Dalí? He visto en Paris hace dos semanas. Es increíble."
His companion lets out a small grumble, making him smirk slightly. His friend believed the movie had been made to slight him. Despite that, he had found it fascinating.
He moves to return the poem to his companion but he is stayed by a hand.
"Quedátela contigo, Tonio. Es un regalo."
"Gracias, Fede."
Silence.
A sigh.
"España está cambiando, Antonio."
"Ya lo sé."
August 19, 1936.
The dust of the Andalusian mountains air coats his already strained lungs as his horse leaves pounding hoofbeats in the quiet air of the night.
Four men on the road ahead, men he had seen not moments before leaving the town of Viznar to traverse the winding mountain road. With them horseless, he had no problem catching up to them.
Still mounted, he slings the rifle from his shoulder before bringing his horse to a halt and leaping from the saddle.
He lands skillfully on his feet, pulling up the already loaded rifle and approaching the small group, giving no warning as he shoots, firing until three of the men are down. The last one is hit high on the thigh and staggers backwards, swinging about to face his assailant, expression one of shock.
"A-antonio-"
The armed man cuts him off by aiming the barrel at the man's chest, halting in his steps for a moment. The other man has his hands up, in a gesture meant to stop the other, to bring some sense into him and have him stop, because this isn't him and Antonio should know that its wrong, what's happening-
"Tonio, escúchame-"
Silence passes between the two as the armed man hesitates. He had already shot and killed the other men. Why should this one be any different?
He stares down the man before him and levels the rifle at his head. He grinds the cigarette between his teeth.
"Communista."
The man's body jerks as the bullet strikes him dead through the forehead. The assassin lowers his rifle, taking the spent cigarette out of his mouth and dropping it, grinding it into the dirt with the sole of his boot. He walks towards the four still bodies lying haphazardly about the path. He hears the deathly cry of an owl off in the distance.
He prods each of the first three men with the butt of the rifle to confirm the kills. His pace slows as he approaches the fourth dead man, observing the body with trepidation.
He nudges the dead man's face with the toe of a hard black boot, turning it over. A young face, just like the assassin's had been before the Civil War hardened his heart. His expression set, hard and emotionless, he speaks words already long committed to heart.
"Como canta la zumaya,
Ay, cómo canta en el árbol!
Por el cielo va la luna
Con un niño de la mano."
The moon hangs high in the sky, open like an eye of white above the expanse of mountains, the only audience to the bitter eulogy.
"Dentro de la fragua lloran,
Dando gritos, los gitanos.
El aire la vela, vela.
El aire la está velando."
Obviously, I took liberties with Lorca's death, given how no one truly knows what happens. There's a lot of arguments over the motives behind his murder, but I decided to go with him being killed because of leftist beliefs. Also I poeticized the hell out of his death, forgive me.
The last lines of poetry are from Lorca's "Romance de la luna, luna"which is also the poem they are talking about in the beginning. Also, the movie by Buñuel and Dalí is the famous "Un chien andalou," (you know, the one with the squeamish scene when the chick's eye gets cut open…ugh) one of the foremost movies in the early Surrealist movement. Apparently, Lorca thought it to be somewhat of a slight against him…
Also, the owl? Symbolizes death in a lot of Spanish lit. Yeah, I know, subtle.
This is not intended to offend in the slightest! I know the Spanish Civil War can still be a touchy subject, and this is merely a fanfiction.