A/N: So, we were learning about the Spanish Inquisition in my European history class, and I thought: "hey, I should write an Inquisitor! Spain fanfic!". Thus, Fuego was born. A little history lesson for you: the Spanish Inquisition was a court set up by the Roman Catholic church where they tried heretics. Heretics, according to the hella Catholic Spaniards, was basically everyone that wasn't Catholic (Jews, Muslims, Protestants, etc). If you were accused of being a heretic, you were given a chance to confess and recant. If you didn't you were tortured into converting, and then put on trial. Most people put on trial for heresy were burned at the stake. In other words, 15-16th century Spain was not a good place to live if you weren't Catholic. Because the Iberian Peninsula- Spain and Portugal- was under Moorish- North African Islamic- control for a good deal of time, Spain today still has a lot of Islamic influence (like in its architecture). For that very reason, I decided to ake Spain- the character- an Islam convert turned Inquisitor. Romano, on the other hand, is canonically of distant Arabic descent, so... There you go. Read and review.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Fuego
A Lily By Any Other Name
It was almost noon, and everyone was gathered in the square.
He almost wished the townspeople weren't quite so nosy, but humans were experts at sticking their noses where they didn't belong. The barely hushed murmur of Castile's citizens was masked by the ringing of cathedral bells in the distance. Antonio decided there was something blasphemously ironic about the situation—attending mass after watching somebody burn at the stake—but couldn't quite place his finger on it. The smell of fresh firewood filled the air just as the curious citizens began to fill the plaza. A wooden stake already sat in its center. Yet another piece of sacrilegious irony; the stake resembled a cross from where he stood. A horse's hooves clicked on the pavement as the wheelbarrow wheeled into the plaza. Antonio wanted to leave.
So quiet was it that the rattle of the prisoner's chains echoed down the deserted streets. The guards prodded him towards the stake with their filed swords. Antonio wanted to cut the chains off and set him free. He couldn't help but admire his stance; his head held high, his shoulders set back as he defiantly stared at the people that wanted him dead. Antonio was almost scared to look up at his face—scared to see the bruises and cuts—but dreaded making eye contact with him. He couldn't. Not after getting him into this situation. Not after inflicting the mottled bruises marking his olive skin, or abandoning him in the torture chamber for the next Inquisitor to try his luck. He reached into the pocket of his robes, and pulled out the rosary they were made to carry at all times. The beads in his grip felt as foreign as they did when the nuns first taught him how to pray a dios te salve maria. A bitter taste crept into his mouth. He wasn't beaten or killed because he didn't refuse. He could have run his luck if he just hadn't been so stubborn.
The midday sun itself was hot enough to light the firewood on fire. People shielded their eyes from the brilliance as more firewood was piled at the foot of the stake. Antonio's fingers slipped on the glass beads of the rosary, but he wasn't praying. It was just a useless nervous habit. Sparks, like twinkling stars, jumped to life as the guard struck a match. The sudden roar of fire made him look up. The rosary threatened to fall from his trembling hands, but he clutched at it till his fingers turned white. A stagnant breeze threatened to blow out flames. He just glared; there was no emotion in his green eyes other than pure hatred. The chain of the rosary threatened to slip out of Antonio's sweaty hands as he scanned the crowd before him with a sneer. Yellow flames licked up the pyre like a hungry kitten with a saucer of milk; playful as a cat with a ball of yarn. But it was deceptive. It surged upwards, almost enveloping the pile of firewood at his feet, like a plume. Antonio saw him flinch, but he didn't scream like the others. Like an evil, red serpent, the flames entwined themselves around the pyre. The scent of burning flesh—burning hair, burning clothes—filled the air, but the townspeople still watched in awe as inferno raged on. Behind the flames, the stake could not be seen. Antonio gripped his rosary so hard, he was sure he broke the delicate gold chain. Suddenly, it was he who couldn't breathe as grey smoke billowed into the cloudless blue sky. Maybe he'd forgotten to breathe because he was praying under his breath. If he screamed, Antonio wouldn't have heard it; the toll of the bells and the rush of blood echoed in his head. There was no Mary Magdalene rushing forward, no mourning women at the foot of the cross. There was only a Judas—he was Judas—and he'd betrayed the he'd grown to love.
Lovino was right when he called him a coward for converting. For giving in. He was a coward, and a liar, and horrible person. His rosary dropped to the ground, later to be trampled by the now-bored spectators.
It was half past noon, and the square was now empty save for the discarded rosary.
He never went back for it.
A/N: Review