Have you ever wanted to relive a moment? What if, you could relive it all? You could see your life through the eyes of someone you'd never known: Yourself.


Halls of gold ornamented in tapestries depicting the bible. Silver thistle adorned the high ceiling, highlighting the faces of Moses, Jacob, and Ethel. Candles glittered from chandeliers like a thousand stars all gracing the alabaster walls.

I could feel the tapping at the back of my mind. Like a distant memory I was searching for. Something I knew. I followed the route of red carpet, marveling.

I was moved to stop, forced to, at a large door. I might sound like a little bitch for saying this, but I was afraid of it. That dumbass door scared the hell out of me. Ironic, being where I was. I reached out hesitantly. My fingertips grazed the smooth oak and the large double doors flung open. A whirlwind hit me, whipping my hair back and stinging my eyes. A choked sob split my ears and then, nothing.

It was dark. No, not dark but dim. A soft glow lit the room. It was just one candle now. A lone soldier fighting the ever pressing darkness. It surrounded it. The wick was low; he wouldn't survive much longer. Coffee colored locks licked awfully close to the dancing flame. One faulty movement and the crown of curls would ignite. He looked up and I was graced with a tan face. Green eyes lit the room far more than the pathetic excuse for a candle. His face was sharper than I remembered. His brow was furrowed and there was something in his eyes I couldn't place. I'd never seen it before. He looked worried, angry, young, but just as much a bastard as ever. Maybe more.

He placed his head in his palm, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly with the other. A heavy sigh fell from thin, downturned, lips. He sighed and rolled his neck, mumbling a complaint about the papers in front of him. I crossed my arms, already bored with him. Then, there was a knock on the door, scary huh?

"Señor España."

"Que es?" He answered in his equally as heavy accent.

"The front is on the move. They'll be within the walls by afternoon." I blinked at this. They were talking like they were in the middle of war.

"I know. Have the soldados prepared?" A nod. "Bien. I'll be out in a moment."

"Ay, Señor España." The Spaniard nodded and left. I turned back to Spain, confusion marring my face. I blushed a healthy red when he started undressing.

"What the hell are you doing bastard?!" I yelled, throwing a hand over my eyes. The clink of metal reopened my eyes. I spread my fingers in time to watch him drop his thin flannel shirt to the ground. I was presented with tan skin, gold by the candle. He looked over his shoulder at me and my breath hitched.

He turned back, replacing his clothes and donning armor. An obnoxious red cloak was tied to his shoulder braces. His feet padded over to the makeshift cot, soon covered in boots of the same metal. He stood and crossed to an axe, hanging on the wall, I hadn't noticed. It was his axe. I recognized it from all times I had seen him barring it at that perverted bastard. He gripped it, weighing it in his hand.

"Siento Roma."

"What are you talking about bastard?"

He swung it. The cold metal sliced through the air rapidly at my gut. I screamed and clamped my eyes shut, too shocked to move. But I didn't feel the cut. I re-opened my eyes, blinking rapidly in confusion. I felt my stomach, prodding it. I was fine.

"Bastard?" No answer. "Bastard? Spain? Spain?! Spain!" Why wasn't he answering me? Couldn't he hear me? He was standing right there!

But he couldn't. He couldn't hear me, or see me apparently. Tears pricked my eyes as I watched him turn away, pushing the cracked door open. I tried to move my feet after him, but I couldn't. I couldn't move until he was gone. My feet slapped the wooden floorboards and I pushed the door. It opened slowly, creaking.

I blinked, only to be greeted with that same blade hurtling at my face. Again, I didn't feel the impact, but there was blood. It sprayed onto his face, dyeing tan skin red. I turned my head, still very much attached, in time to see the poor bastard behind me sink to the ground, his head clinging to his neck by a thin, bloody stretch of skin. I ripped my eyes away from him, but the scenery was no better elsewhere.

I was no stranger to war, but this was hell.

The bodies weren't distinguishable, neither were those actually fighting. They were maiming each other. My head swung from side to side, trying to find Spain. I did, by that same obnoxious cloak. I watched him slice through man after man, not knowing which were his comrades or enemies. How could they tell? Then I realized they couldn't. Spain narrowly avoided lopping off the head of his own soldier, stopping only when the man started pleading with him in rapid fire Spanish.

It was disgusting, frightening, and…

I closed my eyes, sat down, and curled into a ball, waiting for it to be over.


Spain panted, his breath falling in short gasps as he peeled the bandages back, replacing them with cleaner ones. I sat in front of him, watching him work through bored hazel eyes. His eyes seemed greener from my point of view.

"Be more careful, idiot." I didn't know why I kept trying to talk to him, it was pointless.

When he was done, we just sat there together, staring through each other. Then, Spain started crying. The tears cut streaks over his dirty cheeks, cleaning them. He placed his face in his hands, mumbling hail Marys as if he had just murdered a priest. I'd never seen Spain cry. He cried and laughed, the two mingling into a confused sound of regret and horror.

I stayed up with him until he went to sleep; the bastard snored.