Swords had flashed, and collided with incredible force, but now the battle was over, of the two nations that had fought each other one was lying in the mud. The sun shined brightly in the back of the winner, creating a dramatic western effect.
"So, England, it would seem that your campaign ends here," Belgium said poking England's head with the sharp blade of her sword as if she wanted to pick it up like a community worker would pince a leaf.
England grunted, he couldn't believe that he had lost to Belgium, yet now she was standing, smiling brightly, above him, England wanted to grab his sword and stab it into that arrogant face of hers, the problem was, his sword was broken and Belgium had placed her foot on it. And that foot was in a heavy boot.
Knowing that it was completely over now.
"You know, Belgium," England began shielding his eyes with hand, "I don't understand you, you hate Spain, yet you defend him?"
This seemed to infuriate Belgium. She grabbed England and spat into his face: "You have no idea what it is to be me, you have no bloody idea, how I would like to be on my own, not depending on anyone, year after year, you come here to fight, you that basterd France, that idiot Prussia and jerk Spain. I hate you all with a passion, but I manipulated Spain enough to have a proper life, that's why I stay with him."
"You know, if you ally yourself with me, I could guarantee you…" England said, but before he could finish Belgium had planted her fist on his nose. England was thrown backwards by the force of the punch.
Belgium put her foot on England's chest and said: "Like I said, you have no idea what it is to be me! Now I suggest you go back home and tell your colony," she spat the last word into Englands face, "some fairytales."
England expected Belgium to break his ribs and closed his eyes waiting for the cracking noise of breaking bones, instead the weight of Belgium's foot vanished, and when he opened his eyes the female nation was walking towards Antwerp, where the bells of the cathedral already begun announcing her victory.
He heard her mutter while shaking her head: "This victory, although mine, will be remembered his." Instinctively England knew she cried. Never before he had seen a European nation so unhappy. So like her.
"Splendidly done, England," Prussia sneered. England, Prussia and Austria were in England camp planning their next move, to an outsider it actually looked like Prussia was shouting at England while Austria sat in his chair, drinking Italian wine and pointed out where England was still bleeding to a nurse, who, with all respect of course, would tell Austria to shut up and mind his own business. All this is out of the point of view of an outsider of course.
"I can't wait to hear what the soldiers will say once the whole army heard about it. Nation or not you still lost from a woman, which is for a man of honour a disgrace," Prussia smirked.
"Well, Prussia, why do you of all people have to say that, after all if I remember it right it was you who, as prospective nation, were thrown out by Hungary so you had to leave for Poland, who luckily invited you and gave you your home," Austria said pointing at Prussia with his glass like a schoolteacher would do with a pen.
"That was something completely different, she didn't wore a dress," Prussia said in his defence.
"Everybody knew that she was a she," Austria smirked sipping from his wine.
"Hang on weren't you the guy who thought Italy was a girl" Prussia replied. But before Austria could reply, England spoke up: "Guys, I'm getting tired of your constant arguing, I suggest that we finally get some work done here, I was able to capture Bonne, and force the enemy back to Antwerp…"
"Where you were stopped," Prussia interrupted.
"SHUT UP!" England yelled, "but you were supposed to protect the Holy Roman Empire, but the French are now trying to reach Bavaria where these two can join armies and attack Vienna."
"Then your vital regions wouldn't be seized Austria, but smashed," Prussia grinned.
"Let's hope that doesn't happen, Prussia," England said," because it you who is going to stop them.
"Him?" Austria said, "I wouldn't give him a dog to look after, let alone my capital."
"Do you want it to be smashed?" England inquired.
"No."
"Then stop arguing." England said and left the tent much to the dislike of the nurse.
"Ah, Spain, have you met my ally yet?" France asked, while dropping some captured flags down on a table which fell over.
"No who is he?" Spain asked genuinely interested.
"Bavaria, come in dear," France yelled ignoring the fallen flags.
The German man entered the room dragging a large bag with him. What would be in that bag? Spain wondered.
"Tag," the German said, while putting the bag carefully on the floor beside him.
"So how are you doing," Spain started the conversation.
"I'm fine, thanks, you must be Spain." Bavaria said.
"Indeed I am."
"And about these battle plans," Bavaria asked, ignoring Spain completely now.
"Well the idea is when I arrive at your place we join troops and next year we march on Vienna," France replied.
"Deal."
"Now that was easy," Spain said, "you didn't have to come all this way to discuss that here, you know. Besides what in that bag?"
"I… don't actually know, but it seems to be rather valuable," France replied after Bavaria left.
Alas, France started to feel the toll of defeat and the simple plan never was put into action, during the whole year of 1705, no real achievements were made nor by France, nor by England and his allies. Although England succeeded in breaking though the defence lines of Brabant, the campaign was no success. This situation was ended a year later, in 1706, when England launched a full scale attack on Belgium.
Belgium sat in her house her eyes fixed on her flag, the flag she had for so long now, this was actually the very first of its kind, it was white, with two red lines running form corner to corner and making a St Andries cross, with a few flaps sticking out of the lines, she didn't actually like the flag, but it was somehow a part of her, the only thing that was physically binding her to Spain.
"Miss?" the voice of a maid, no the maid, Belgium rolled her eyes, why didn't she just fire that maid? Out of one of France's Howitzers that would be very nice, and then betting with Romano where she would fall down, but then she would get problems with those 'Enlightened' jerks.
"What kind of hairstyle would you like?" the maid asked.
"You know I've got a strange sensation in my belly," Belgium began, she like to talk to her, at least she knew that she wouldn't understand, and perhaps for once shut up.
"Miss?" she inquired. Bagger, she talks, Belgium thought.
"It's the feeling I have when there is going to happen something, you know what?"
"You are going to fight today?" the maid responded carefully.
"You know about it then?" Belgium turned her head.
"Yes, miss, everybody does, the town is filled with soldiers and rumours."
"Then why the hell do you ask what kind of hairstyle I'd like, I go to a fight not a ball at France's place," Belgium sneered.
"Yes, miss," the maid ran away possibly in tears. Belgium smiled, she had the impression things would change today. Hopefully for the better.
France came in, great, every time he was here, no matter for what kind of businesses he would ask her…
"Care for a quickie, Bel-Bel?" France asked.
… care for a quickie, in the closet, he usually added, perhaps he noticed that that closet was removed because of old age ten years ago. Belgium knew that France could be a bit slow. On the other hand every time she went to Paris she had the impression that life passed so quickly there that they had to build monuments on every corner to show that there actually lived people before the current generation. And Belgium would always come with the same excuse.
"At Sint-Juttemis, France," Belgium replied. After all these years France had not yet realized that 'At Sint-Juttemis' meant: NEVER.
"Business now," France said, taking a map out of his pocket and spreading it out on Belgium's old oaken desk, "I dare say we have a problem."
"Do you?" Belgium smirked.
"Yes, and for once I beg you to think as a general, Belgium, the situation has changed now, I will need every…" France said but Belgium cut him off.
"Shut up, I have only one question why do you involve me into another war?"
"What has this to do with the current situation?"
"I don't care, I just want to know."
"I…, it is because who you are Belgium, accept that fact," France avoided the question.
"Born out of blood," Belgium said. France turned to Belgium. She held a knife in her right hand. That was wrong: Belgium was left handed. She held the knife up fascinated by a drop of blood that was balancing on the blade. It struck France as a lightning: born out of blood. Left handed. Left: sinistra in Latin, it also means misfortune.
The blood, France knew wasn't hers: it was his, it was England's, Prussia's, Austria's and Holland's, it was the blood of Rome, Germania and Francia.
Belgium wasn't crazy, she tried to protect herself, like a teen would. Once he, France would protect her.
Suddenly she stood next to him, the blood was gone, but she was poking him, not with a knife but whit her bare hands.
"Wake up, France, there is no need to stare at me like that, it's scary."
"Uh, how long did I stare at you then?" France asked but before Belgium even could open her mouth a man came in. He bowed for the two nations. France and Belgium greeted him politely: he was one of Frances generals.
"The enemy has arrived."
In the battle they went, the nations
Soldiers marching wave after wave.
Guns loaded cannons firing,
The Cavalery is ready, the infantry is charging
And the songs played over the battlefield
Tell a story of bravery and glory.
Glory for God and his minions.
Ready. Aim. Fire. Over and over again.
Men standing in colourful uniforms.
Fell in rows on the spot.
Muskets loaded? Keep one bullet.
We charge. Will they remember us?
There they rise the victors of the battle.
They were not the poor Allies but
The fierce British lion that roared
And chased the enemy from
The reddened battlefield.
She fell.
He fled.