I know, I know. What the heck am I doing writing a third story when I already have two going? Well, the plot bunnies got me, so blame them. Ahaha. This isn't the story I meant to write tracing Spain's long, long life. I'm going to write that once I finish my Naruto fanfic. Which will take a little while, since I'm getting busier. At least I'll have a lot more time to study up on Spanish history, si?

This is probably going to be 3 to 4 chapters long. I just really wanted to write a story with Conquistador!Spain.

Spain couldn't remember the last time he felt this bad.

The brunette nation groaned, screwing his eyes shut as a wave of nausea passed over him. His economy was definitely going down the drain. It was probably his current boss's fault, who loved to spend money on frivolous things, and he hated it. Normally, Spain wouldn't care much about it—after all, he loved expensive things as well—but the fact was, his boss was spending money the country didn't have.

There was a small knock on the door before it was pushed open. Spain turned his head to squint at whoever came into the room, irritated that he had to deal with company when he felt so sick.

That irritation quickly evaporated when he saw his little henchman, waddling awkwardly into the room so as not to disturb the unnecessarily large bowl of steaming soup he was carrying. The soup was obviously heavy, and Romano's thin arms trembled under its weight.

"Ah, Romano~!" Spain exclaimed, struggling to sit up. He suppressed a groan when the movement upset his stomach.

The tiny Italian took a couple steps forward, then stopped to regain his balance. "I made you some tomato soup, because you're sick and all," Romano mumbled, so that Spain had to strain to hear the words.

Spain gave a weak smile. He couldn't see his henchman's face behind the large bowl (did he always have such a large dish at his house?), but he imagined it was bright red with embarrassment. "Aw, you cooked something for me? Que linda~!" he said, touched by the offering.

Romano had stopped again to regain his balance. The soup tipped precariously in his arms, and a couple drops of the red soup spilled out to the ground. "Sh—shut up, dammit! It's not because I care about you, bastard! It's just that…" He paused as he tried to come up with an excuse. "It's just because there's no one to clean my room if you're being lazy!"

"Ahaha, isn't that something you should do by yourself anyway, Romano?" Spain pointed out, amused.

"J—just get better, dammit! Stupid bastard!" the Italian exclaimed, sounding more flustered after Spain's gentle teasing.

The bedridden nation gave another weak laugh. "Watch your language, Roma," he scolded lightly, the effect diminished by Spain's upbeat (and sickly) tone.

Before Romano could retort, his feet managed to discover whatever tiny, nonexistent crack there was in the smooth floors. He crashed to the ground, dropping the bowl to catch himself before he fell hard. By some miracle, the monstrous bowl itself remained upright and unbroken, and only skidded across the floor, leaving a trail of steaming red liquid in its wake.

Spain quickly got out of bed, fighting the dizziness that attacked him for his efforts. Romano cried out in pain from the burning soup that spilled down his front. As Spain went to inspect his injured henchman, he noted some light burns on Romano's skin and stains covering the maid costume the Italian wore.

The maid outfit was forced on poor Romano, in some futile hope that it would make him more like his capable brother. Unlike Austria, though, Spain was very aware that Romano was a boy, and not a girl. His henchman had made it very very clear that he was a boy. So Spain made silent fun of Austria as soon as the painful bruises on his shins healed.

"Are you ok, Romano?" Spain asked.

He saw Romano's lip tremble, eyes filled with tears, before the Italian hid his face behind tiny fists.

"Damn it, I'm fine!" Romano said, his voice shaking with the effort it took to hold back his sobs.

Spain froze, his hands hovering over Romano, as if afraid to touch him and injure his henchman worse than he already war.

"Romano? What's wrong? Are you hurt? Why are you crying?" he asked, breathlessly, his own woes momentarily forgotten, replaced by concern for the upset Italian.

"Nothing!" Romano wailed. "I'm just angry! I worked so hard on that damn soup for you and it's all ruined now!"

The older nation visibly relaxed. So that was it. Romano was just frustrated that his little act of kindness would go unnoticed. Relieved that Romano wasn't hurt, Spain stroked his head gently.

"Don't worry about it, Roma," he reassured the Italian gently. "There's still plenty of soup in the bowl. I'll eat that, and clean up this mess."

Romano looked up at him, pouting. His eyes still shone with unshed tears. "But you're sick, and I'm the one who's supposed to take care of you, bastard," he said stubbornly.

Spain laughed and pressed a comforting kiss to Romano's forehead. "Don't worry about it! I'm not too sick to do something as simple as wiping the floor! You go clean yourself up, ok?" he insisted brightly.

The personification of South Italy looked unsure. "I guess…" he said in a low voice, sounding like a petulant child.

"Yes, go! I'll have it cleaned up soon, so I can eat some of this delicious soup~!" Spain told him with a smile.

Romano flushed a little at the look on Spain's face. He looked away, embarrassed. "I—idiot! You don't have to say it's delicious if you haven't even tried it!" Realizing what he said, Romano quickly corrected himself. "I mean, not that it's bad! I made it, so of course it's very awesome!"

"Ahaha, of course~!" Spain agreed with a nod. "Now go, and send Belgium in with some towels, ok?"

The command caused Romano to look at him suspiciously. "You'll let her help you, but not me?" he asked, the hurt plain in his voice.

Spain jumped to remedy the situation. "No, I just need her to bring me a steady supply of towels! I need it to clean all this soup up, right?" He indicated the huge mess. Tears jumped to Romano's eyes as he was reminded of the problems he caused, so Spain hurried on. "You need to get yourself cleaned up while we do this, and I'm too sick to call Belgium in myself, so you're the only one who can do this! Got it?"

Romano thought about it for a moment. Then he gave a large grin that lit up his entire face and twisted Spain's heart from the cuteness of it all. "Got it! I can do this! Just watch me!" And with that, Romano dashed out of the room, calling for Belgium.

Spain chuckled softly. His henchman was such a kid. Sighing, he got up from the ground to collapse on the bed.

Belgium poked her head through the open door, knocking to get his attention. "Are you alright, Spain? Romano came into my room shouting about how you desperately need my assistance and a lot of towels." She giggled at the thought. "It was so cute how he was so excited about it."

"Yeah, he worked really hard to make me some soup, and spilled it all over the ground." Spain leaned over to pick up the bowl, now only half-filled with soup.

"Oh dear, that's a lot," Belgium said, half in awe over the sheer amount of liquid that covered the ground.

Spain laughed weakly. "It's nice that he tried so hard for my sake, though," he admitted. He sipped at the soup, grimacing at the taste. "Too much salt."

Belgium mopped up the mess. "I can make you some chicken soup instead, if you want," she offered, giving him a warm smile.

He shook his head. "No, I'll eat what Romano made me," he said, before tipping the bowl and partially chugging its contents.

"Ah, why? You don't like it," she said, watching as he fought to keep the soup in his stomach. "If you dump it out, Romano wouldn't know."

Spain shook his head again, panting from the exertion of lifting the heavy bowl. "I'd know. It wouldn't be fair to little Roma, after he spent so much time trying to make me feel better," he said.

Belgium smiled. "He's a cute little nation, isn't he?" She giggled. "Except he's a little hopeless. Not like his younger brother."

"Don't let him hear you say that. He has a huge inferiority complex when you compare him to Ita-chan. Romano just doesn't realize how amazing he is in his own way," Spain said, smiling fondly as he thought of his charge.

The blond nation only laughed softly and took the empty bowl from him. She piled the used towels inside so she'd only have to make one trip. "You talk about him so proudly, even though you always have to clean up after him," she said.

Spain nodded absently. "I'm really glad Austria gave him to me. He's special to me."

Belgium smiled sadly. "I can tell. I'm a little jealous," she admitted, mostly jokingly.

Spain looked at her guiltily. "Belgium, I'm really sorry," he said. He knew Belgium loved him dearly, and felt bad that he couldn't return her feelings.

She only shrugged it off with a breezy laugh. "No, it's fine. It's not your fault! Just take care of Roma-chan, ok?" With a wink, she turned and left the room.

When she was gone, Spain laid back to deal with the queasiness in his stomach. The too-salty soup didn't help it much, but at least the warmth had soothed his scratchy throat somewhat. He wished his boss would just sell some of his things already, or do something to improve the economy, so that he could get over his cold soon and stop burdening his henchmen.

He thought for a while about Romano's progress. When the Italian first arrived in Spain's house, he was bitter and argumentative. He took every opportunity to fight Spain, often getting pulled into conspiracies with the Netherlands. Spain had worried that he would have another dangerously disobedient colony on his hands, and for that reason begged Austria to trade Romano for sweet little Italy.

Afterward, he felt horrible about it. Although Romano claimed he was upset with Spain only because the house was too big to find the bathroom (which was true), Spain later found the rude South Italian persona sobbing into Belgium's skirts over the whole affair. From then on, Spain made extra efforts to make Romano feel more welcome: easing punishments he earned from the small rebellions he did with the Netherlands, making a point in choosing Romano to assist him in various chores (in which Romano took great pride in his performance), and teaching him how to make all sorts of Spanish dishes.

Gradually, the Spaniards work paid off. Romano began attempting to clean parts of the house (even though this usually involved the Italian creating an even bigger mess) and gave Spain small presents, while claiming it was just junk he had lying around (that antique sword was a beauty, and Spain prized it almost as much as his battle ax). Spain smiled warmly at the memories.

And now Romano was even making him soup to help him feel better!

Spain's bright laugh hung in the air and echoed throughout the large room. In the back of his mind, he hoped that the Netherlands hadn't heard it and thought Spain was going insane.

"Roma-chan!"

The scream, faint in the distance, froze the smile on his face. Was that Belgium? He tried to shake off the sudden anxiety that overcame him. It could just be that Romano did something and Belgium shouted out in surprise. That was something his little henchman would do. Even with that knowledge, Spain couldn't rid himself of the foreboding the scream left him with—it sounded as if Belgium was frightened.

"Spain!"

That scream was Romano's. Something was definitely terribly wrong.

In a flash, forgetting about his cold, Spain leapt out of bed. He bent down and snatched his trusty battle ax from beneath his bed in one fluid motion as he dashed from the room. The metallic blade shined in the light, lacking even the tiniest scratch or stain of blood on its meticulously cleaned surface. Glancing down at him, he set his mouth into a line of grim satisfaction. Soon, whoever was disturbing his precious colonies would help him paint the heavy ax a bright, festive red.

Red was such a beautiful, passionate color. Perfect for a beautiful, passionate country such as himself.

In his wild search for Romano and Belgium, he came across three men, huddled together in some discussion. They were common soldiers—but not his, or anyone's he knew not to kill. These were the soldiers of the mystery intruder, probably roaming the house in search of valuable loot.

Silently, he rushed forward, ax poised for a quick strike. Once close enough, he swung a deadly blow, using his own momentum to further the impact of the swing.

He hit true, sinking deep into the neck of the closest man, severing the spine and nearly decapitating the intruder. The new corpse fell, staining the once-cream colored carpet. Spain frowned at the sight.

"How inconsiderate of a guest," he murmured disapprovingly.

The other two men screamed in fright, immediately backing away. They stumbled over each other in their hurry to increase the distance between themselves and the ax-carrying nation.

"S—Spain!" one of them gasped, the blood rushing out of his face at the sight of him.

He gave them a frown of disapproval. "Yes, yes. Who else could be in my house? My house," he emphasized, as the frown transformed into a feral snarl.

"Y—y—you're supposed t—to be sick!" the other wailed. As a reward for his (obvious) observation, he received an ax thrust deep into his chest as Spain threw it.

Spain approached the final man, taking hold of the handle and pulling the ax effortlessly from the second corpse's chest. He gave a dark, child-like smile—one that put even Russia to shame. The terrified human stared at him, frozen with fear.

"Yes, I am sick. It's not polite to impose on someone who isn't feeling well," Spain chided, then made quick work of the soldier.

He regarded the blade, splashed with red, with a careful gaze. No, his three victims hadn't been enough. Spain was still able to see his reflection in the metal.

"Spain, you bastard, come rescue me already!" Romano's trusting voice carried to his ears, snapping him out of his thoughts. That's right, he thought, there was still Belgium and Romano to save.

Following the source of the call, he found his living room swarming with soldiers. Belgium was nowhere in sight, but Romano was held tightly by one soldier, who winced as the Italian's feet beat at his stomach.

"Damn kid! Stop moving!" Spain heard the captor command as he struggled with Romano.

"I'm not a kid, bastardo! Put me down! Spain!" Romano called out again. "You better save me, bastard, or I'll kill you!"

That was all Spain needed to hear as he made his dramatic appearance on the scene. He slashed a clear pathway until he reached his henchman, and cut away the nuisance with ease. Human soldiers were weak compared to a nation's strength.

Romano was dropped to the ground and half-crushed by his former captor's body. Spain pushed it off him hurriedly, spinning to defend himself from blows from various swords.

"Romano, where's Belgium?" he asked, no trace of his carefree nature left in his voice.

The Italian shivered, probably from fear. "S—she ran away. I think she's safe," Romano replied, more to reassure himself than anything.

Spain nodded. "When you see a clear path, make sure to run as fast as you can. If you can, find Belgium, but don't let yourself be caught. Got it?" As much as he wanted Romano to stay close, so he could keep an eye on him, he was well aware of the fleeing power of the Italies. Once Romano got going, he knew his henchman would never be caught.

Romano nodded in understanding. His face was dreadfully pale, and in any other situation, Spain would have hugged the Italian close and comforted him. But right now he had a house full of intruders who were currently after the South Italy personification and Spain's blood, so the comforting embrace would have to wait.

Instead, Spain gave a faint smile, only a ghost of his usual bright grin. "Good. Now go, and Boss will take care of the minor irritations."

Without checking to see if Romano followed orders, Spain turned his full attention to the soldiers. His ax was a deadly blur as he wielded it with the effectiveness of centuries' worth of practice. The soldiers—with no more than twenty years each—were no match for the nation when he developed a killing intent.

The carnage was horrifying. Not even the more capable North Italy would be able to free the carpet from the blood that dyed it. Spain stood in the center of it, feeling pleased with the work. His knuckles were white from the force he gripped the ax with as he tried to keep his hands from trembling.

Someone tugged at his sleeve. He spun around, ax high in the air in preparation to strike, his eyes wild as it searched the identity of the person.

It was Romano. Spain froze the ax immediately. It hovered by his henchman's head, who stared at him with wide eyes. Those green-brown eyes, full of innocence, wandered Spain's body, taking in his appearance—the clothes, soaked through with the blood of his enemies; the bloodied ax, which nearly killed the innocent Italian he was trying to protect; even the look of grim pleasure adorning his features.

Spain's face quickly adopted a grimace as he imagined the horrifying sight he made. "Romano—," he began, reaching a hand out to stroke Romano's face.

His hand left bloody fingerprints on Romano's pale skin. The Italian broke out of his trance at the contact and quickly jerked away. Without a sound, Romano rushed out of the room.

Spain watched him go, sadly. He couldn't blame little Romano for being so afraid. The half-nation was still so young, and had seen so little.

A wave of nausea attacked him. He groaned, covering his face with his hands. The ax clattered to the ground with a metallic clang. Slowly, he sunk to his knees. This damn cold, getting the better of him when he needed to find Belgium, and the Netherlands, and the nation who commanded this invasion, and the frightened Romano. There was so much to do, when all he could do was kneel among the bodies he cut down.

I hope you all enjoyed reading this chapter as I enjoyed writing it. I love the darker side of Spain.