Hello, guys, and welcome to The Fall of Nations. I'm sorry for the delay but I had to sketch the entire story and script all of it (haven't finished yet, but I'm getting there :D) and then I had to study military from various countries and all that.
Enjoy your reading! Longer A/N in the end.
OST: Thank You (by Ryan Huston); Empty (by The Click Five); Every Time We Touch [Slow] (by Cascada).
Reply to review in the end.
The Fall of Nations
Act I – The Players
Chapter III – Good Ol' Days
The meeting room was silent for a great deal of time after the departure of Portugal and the ex-pirate nation. Spain threw a dubious glance at the door they had both disappeared into, before clearing his throat with a loud noise. The noise came as a bucket of cold water for the other nations, who shifted their troubled stare to Spain.
The youngest Iberian nation cleared his throat again, as a nervous act, and then stood up straight, rotating his shoulders backwards.
"What had happened here was clearly a misunderstanding" He began, addressing everyone in the room "They went to solve their problem outside. That's fine" He paused unsurely, glancing at Romano's scowling face for some sort of security "We shall continue the meeting until they come back. I was talking about the problem of global warming and how it may affect our productions"
Switzerland stood up.
"It's fairly obvious that if the temperature rises even more, there will be problems with our agriculture. The crops will dry or they won't even bloom." He declared in his usual monotone "That would surely damage our economies, since you lot can't afford to buy rations to all of your cattle and then to produce vitamins when your children feel the effects of not eating vegetables"
Italy raised his hand and grinned at the trigger-happy nation.
"But children love candy!" He exclaimed enthusiastically "Can't we just focus on mass producing candy?"
"Italy, that is a completely ludicrous idea!" The German sitting next to him roared and some nations mumble din agreement "They would all suffer from bad dental health"
"Then we could buy more doctors!" The Mediterranean nation suggested happily. Germany sighed heavily and brought his hand to his face.
"That is even more ridiculous. And where would we get the money to do that?"
"That's easy! We could borrow it from Mr. Switzerland!" The Swiss bellowed a negative answer and some other countries got up, screaming at the smaller nation, only to be faced with a crying Italy and a beyond-pissed Germany, while Japan defended his friend just as fiercely as the Germanic nation.
Needless to say, chaos was blooming quickly among the nations as the recent quarrel between England and Russia was thrown to the back of their minds. Three countries, however, weren't participating in the discussion. They weren't even listening to it.
The first one was France. The nation of love was just sitting idly in his previous position, eyeing the discussion with disinterest. His mind was alight with questions, though.
He couldn't help but wonder. Afonso seemed so... down, when he had entered the room. Those around him had seen a man standing tall and proud, smiling kindly to the others around him – perhaps even acting a little bit shy, standing besides Antonio. They had seen yet another country. Nothing too special about him.
But France had faced this man in battle and had stood beside him in war. He had laughed with him, laughed at him. He had smiled and scowled at the Iberian nation. However, no matter how great the disadvantage in war was, or how fearsome the tales of seas yet to sail, not even once had he seen Portugal flinch back or tremble in the face of danger.
Not even when he had faced his brother Spain, with an army far inferior to Antonio's, had he seen – from afar, of course; he was merely passing by – the slightest hint of fear tint those deep green eyes, so similar to his brother's, yet darker.
And very rarely – it had happened only on extremely selective occasions – had he seen Afonso look defeated.
Now, the man didn't hold half the spark, half the light that he used to. He didn't look half the man Francis knew he was. His shoulders were partially hunched, in what could be considered like a 'normal stance' to other people, to other countries. Portugal, however, always walked with the straightest of backs. Francis and Antonio had often mocked the older country about it – in other times, happier times.
So that single gesture, the involuntary shrug of shoulders, the slight hunch, the way his eyes sometimes diverged to the ground... He looked defeated. Not the 'slightly annoyed' defeated that he sometimes looked when he lost an important football match – Mon Dieu, the man could be such a football hooligan, sometimes! – or that 'ok-you-won' defeated look that he wore when he lost a friendly match – Again, everything about the man seemed to revolve around football!
This was involuntary, true defeat.
Francis' scowl deepened as he eyed the door wearily. He didn't seem awfully out-of-character, though. He might bear the stance of defeat, now, but his eyes still held a twinkle of light, that little spark that France had witnessed when they had told Afonso that he couldn't travel by sea.
It was a spark of defiance, of sheer determination. It was a sparkle that told them that they couldn't tell him how to live his life! Turns out the man had built a small fleet and set sail. And what do you know? He had actually managed to carve his own way to India through the sea.
Nobody else seemed to pay attention to him, even being unusually quiet. The discussion had escalated into a large-scale fight with countries picking sides and screaming at each other. Even Germany seemed to have given up on trying maintaining order and instead was protecting a white-flag-waving North Italy with a fierceness that rivaled that of a lion.
Francis laughed his French laugh. Oh, young love... How wonderful. He would have to tease them about it later. Speaking of which... His eyes trailed to where Romano was trying to shake a clingy Spain off of him. He chuckled again. Young love indeed.
His mind wandered back to Afonso. It had to be the economy, he concluded. His government, forcing him to give up some of his national holidays – some, even, of great importance. A failing economy, even when slowly regaining balance, weighted greatly on a nation's shoulders. But, truth to be told, Portugal had always been in an economical crisis.
France snickered quietly to himself. Each of Portugal's rulers had been greedier than the previous one and each rule ended up in an economical crisis – except that one with Salazar, but he didn't think too much about it. For those only watching, it was rather amusing, comical even. And even Afonso himself, between a glass of alcohol and other, sometimes shared a laugh with his companions.
But, as of lately – for a century, give or take a few decades – Afonso had kept to himself, confined to the comfort of his own country. Few nations had seen him since his self-imposed imprisonment. France had had a glass of wine with him now and then – a fine, rich Porto – and he knew for sure that Arthur had shared a cup of tea with the copper-haired man once or twice.
But nations began to partially forget him, even nations he had previously been a friend of. The image they had of Afonso, even his name, had faded from their minds. France found it quite amusing that he was thinking of the nations as if he was separate from them. He, too, had let the memories fade from his mind, occupied with two world wars of epic proportions.
He knew Afonso had joined them in the first one – terribly tragic, that one was – forced by Arthur to take a side, forced out of his neutrality by the same person he called 'best friend'. Germany had not been amused when ships transporting important provisions and personnel were apprehended and he found a chocolate-haired man staring dreamily into the starry sky, from the top of his ship.
He could do nothing about it, though, as a smile was offered in his general direction and the Portuguese army began flooding into the ship, screaming at Germany and clutching at their weapons. The Arian had to flee in a fit of rage, cursing Afonso to Hell and back. After that, it was war for the small Iberian nation.
"Big Brother France?" He jumped in his chair, startled, and began looking around wildly for the source of his scare.
His blue, blue eyes met the perpetually closed ones of Feliciano Vargas, personification of North Italy. His auburn hair was as messy as always, his curl still hanging from the side of his head and he still wore his big, goofy grin.
"I'm sorry!" He promptly yelled, backing off while waving his hands in front of him at the speed of light "I didn't mean to scare you!"
And, like it or not, France just couldn't stay mad at his little brother. Then again, very few resisted the juvenile charms of Italy Veneziano.
"You did not scare me" He reassured, winking "No one can scare Big Brother France!"
"Ve~! Really? Not even Mr. Russia?" The younger nation asked, his voice loud with excitement. France promptly covered his big mouth with his hand and shushed the smaller nation while he looked around nervously.
"Shhhh! Don't say that too loud" He berated "He might actually hear you" He let go of Italy and wiped his hand on his pants' leg.
"Oh, ok" Italy's voice dropped to a whisper "What were you doing when I called your name?"
"I was merely thinking, Italy. Never believe in England when he tells you that I can't think"
"I never believed him in the first place" The Italian assured the French Republic excitedly "Britain is so scary!" He trembled slightly, looking over his shoulder to where Germany was being poked repeatedly for the heck of it by Russia. The Arian was the only nation who didn't seem to be particularly scared of Russia. Well, Ludwig and...
"What were you thinking about?"
"Oh, nothing special" France laughed his French laugh "I was thinking that my little Italy finally found a boyfriend" He chuckled to himself when Feliciano turned bright red.
"I do not have a boyfriend!" He complained loudly, to which Francis merely chuckled.
"Then what do you call Germany?"
"Ve~ Ludwig is my friend" His face lit up with joy as he looked back to the Germanic nation once more. France hummed in sarcastic agreement.
"I'm sure he is"
"What else were you thinking about?" France lightly wondered if he should tell Italy about his musings of Portugal. It felt like he was burdening a child with an adult's worries. It was so easy to forget that Italy was hundreds upon hundreds of years old, just like him. He was far too naïve to be treated like an adult.
"I was just thinking about Afonso" He silently cursed his mouth for talking without his permission. Feliciano got a thoughtful expression on his face.
"Oh, you mean Mr. Portugal?" He nodded to himself "I almost didn't recognize him! He's so different! Last time he visited me was so long ago..." He stared off into the distance – or just the core of the fight – as France watched him, bemused. Then, his face lit up again "And he has that cool new scar too! I wonder how he got it!"
France's eyes darkened considerably and he shot a long, dirty look at Spain. He knew the origin of that scar – he knew who had slashed the man's face in half.
"Ve~ Big Brother France? Why are you looking at Antonio like that?" Francis shook his head to clear his thoughts of such dark matters.
"It's nothing, Italy. And yes, Afonso is a really nice person, even if he acts a bit tough sometimes"
"Are you a close friend of Mr. Portugal?" The Italian asked in a light tone. France merely smiled.
"I was once very close to him. Now, I can't be sure. It would seem as if he even resents the black sheep of Europe" At Italy's now confused gaze, he shook his head and clarified "I mean Britain"
"Oh! What has Britain done to Afonso?"
"Let's just say Arthur did some pretty bad things to Portugal and leave it at that" Now Italy might be hyperactive and naïve, and bear the mentality of a ten-year-old, but he knew when a certain subject was still as sore one.
With a small frown, he stepped away from France and waved his goodbye.
"Well, I gotta go, Big Brother France! I gotta go see Germany!" And he sprinted away, digging into the mess of limbs that was the center of the fight.
France watched him leave with a small sigh before re-centering his attentions back on the door. Hurry up! He commanded silently I need to talk to you before I go mad.
Just as always, he didn't participate in the fight that seemed to be a common ending for the world meetings nowadays. He sat back, staring at the shouting nations with a childish yet dangerous smile gracing his lips.
Such petty arguments... how they could turn into something dangerously close to war. His smile broadened at the thought of war. Oh, how he despised the thing. It made him giggle.
War didn't scare him – of course not. He was Ivan Braginsky, the Russian Federation, after all. Not much scared him, with the exception of Belarus, of course. He was one of the world's superpowers, a once powerful empire, so he had no reason to be scared at all.
But, along with all of that – with his people, his buildings, his monuments, his history, and his landmass – he felt something else entirely different. Beneath all those layers of ice that covered not only his land but his heart, he felt... almost human.
After all, loneliness was a human emotion, and he felt lonely – lonelier than when his subordinates had left him, along with his sisters. He didn't know what was happening as of late. His eyes were always downcast, no longer shadowed by insanity, even when he strived to bring the upwards. His dark aura seemed a little bit less effective and often escaped his control, seeping out when he least expected it to. His pipe seemed heavier than ever.
He cursed inwardly. He often lost control of his temper, allowing the beast to come out and scare the living shit out of the other nations. It wasn't right.
His eyes narrowed as they passed through a journal someone had left at the table. The titles read 'Russia is discontent with Putin" in big, fat words, printed in neat black ink. It wasn't him that was discontent with his prime-minister – his people were. Everyday people went out and organized big manifestations against the current government.
Perhaps that was what was making him weaker than usual. His heart clenched as a sudden thought trespassed his mind. It wouldn't be long before they started coming for him, threatening with rebellion and yelling that it was all his fault.
It had always been his fault. He worked daily, throughout the centuries, to make Russia the respected, feared, nation it was today, yet it all his fault. He didn't want to be guilty of crimes he hadn't committed.
Russia blinked a few times to disperse some unwanted tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. This wasn't the time for crying. Crying was what he had done when the Mongols had invaded Russia, breaking his recently formed and still sore borders, and imprisoning him. Crying was what he had done when his own children had turned against him, rebelling and yelling.
He had promised himself he wouldn't cry anymore.
He swiftly avoided a shoe thrown at him. The nation who had thrown it looked fearful for a second, before disappearing back into the tangle of limbs that was the very core of the monumental fight that had started not so long ago.
He smiled again. All nations were fearful again. Well, all except Germany, who seemed to be only annoyed by him – he had even had the gall to try and invade him. His childish laugh, soft yet harsh, filled his own hears for a second. Foolish man. No one invaded Mother Russia. One time had been enough, and the Mongols had learnt their lesson when he bathed in their blood.
But yes, generally, everyone feared him – aside from Germany, Belarus and Ukraine.
Except Portugal – the stray thought popped into his head so suddenly that Ivan could do nothing but blink in surprise and let the smile slide from his face. Violet eyes narrowed again.
In truth, he had never seen the Iberian nation in person, and he didn't remember any time when any of the others had mentioned the small country. Such a small country... and yet he had stopped his pipe without even looking at it. The feat was not without effort, of course, he had seen the slight tremble of Portugal's shoulder. Had he pressed on, he could have dislocated the bone.
But at that time he had regained conscience of himself, as human and nation, and had been able to stop the attack.
What had followed had been chaos, with Britain suddenly attacking him. It wasn't his fault – he had wanted to say – he had just lost control. It wouldn't happen again. But all that passed through his lips was a mumbled apology. It hadn't soothed Arthur's anger, though, and he really thought that the ex-pirate was going to hit him.
But then Portugal had stepped in, defending him calmly and Arthur had actually stopped his rage attack.
And now both nations had gone outside. His gaze diverged again to the door. He felt the smallest flicker of hope light his spirit.
Portugal hadn't feared him, right? So that meant he could try and befriend him... right? The small spark evolved, growing and spreading rapidly like wildfire, but he forced himself to regain control of his emotions. Too much hope for a friend had been what had crushed him before, even before he had learned the cruel truth that was the impossibility of him making friends.
No one wanted to befriend him and that was final. But he would ask – he vowed to himself – and he wouldn't even allow himself to be too disappointed when Afonso refused his offer.
He noticed Latvia slowly rising from his chair and set a heavy hand on top of his head, feeling the little boy shake.
"Where are you going, Latvia?" He asked with that childish smile of his. Latvia stared at him wide-eyed.
"Nowhere, Mr. Russia!" He answered quickly, shaking his head erratically "I was going to stay right here!"
Inside, Russia frowned and then sighed. They always behaved like this. He hadn't forbidden the young nation of going anywhere; he was just asking his destination. But he said nothing as Latvia promptly sat back down.
His eyes trailed to the door. Come out, I have a question for you.
America let out a feral yell as he charged into the fight once again, jumping over a fallen chair. He sent his fist forward blindly, hoping to hit something. Nothing. His fist collided with the table and he retracted his hand with a yelp, before he ducked, barely escaping a punch from Denmark, who was almost as enthusiastic about this fight as himself.
What they were fighting about, he had no idea. It had something to do with the environment... he thought. Either that or Switzerland was pissed about something. Yeah, one of those.
He pivoted and kicked at Denmark, who blocked the attack. America laughed and used his hero strength, sending the Nordic flying into a nearby wall.
He could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins. No one could block his attacks. They were pretty much unstoppable when he used all of his strength. They were pretty much like Russia's. Except someone had blocked Russia's attack.
He avoided a well-aimed kick to his crotch and backed off, raising his fists to defend himself from any possible attack. His mind wandered, leaving his body to fend for himself.
What an intriguing little country. He knew him from afar, having used one of his air bases during World War II, but had never had any real interaction with the man. He had heard England mention him once or twice, so the Iberian nation must be really old.
But how did someone that old – he wrinkled up his nose – block an attack from one of the world's greatest superpowers? Well, next to him, of course, because he was the hero and, as so, he was always number one.
He didn't underestimate Russia's power, though, and he knew that blow was meant to kill. He avoided one punch and threw another right back. He felt the satisfying sound of bones protesting beneath the skin had just hit.
He evaluated Portugal critically. He wasn't too tall, nor was he overly muscular. His current situation suggested a bad leadership, disastrous even, and yet he stood tall and proud, with a slight tint of amusement to his eyes.
He punched someone and yelled "God bless America!", only to break down laughing afterwards. He sobered up quick enough, though, when he was punched in the face by someone.
And he had never seen Britain lose his temper like that. He had never even seen him look as remorseful as he did when he had looked Portugal in the eyes. Yes, the nation was a mystery. A mystery he intended on revealing.
He would speak to Japan about it later.
"So, I guess this year's Olympics are going to be held in London, right? How awesome is that?"
They had been like this for a while. Portugal was just talking randomly, addressing every problem and subject in the world but the one at hand, while Arthur had his eyes glued to the Iberian nation and his mouth shut.
Portugal spared him a thoughtful look. Apparently, he must have showed some sort of emotion in his face because the Portuguese man changed subjects again, talking rapidly. About the rain, the sun, the wind, the ocean, France, the latest movies he had seen... Everything and anything except for one thing. The thing Arthur really wanted to know.
"Do you hate me?" He finally blurted out, interrupting Portugal in the middle of his monologue.
The copper-haired nation heaved a sigh and ran a tanned hand through his hair, setting his fringe aside so it would get into his eyes. He spared another glance at Arthur and sighed again. Minutes ticked by as he remained silent, sighing occasionally.
Finally, the Republic of Portugal spoke.
"I do not hate you, Arthur" He said slowly, finally meeting England's green eyes "I have never hated you"
"Oh, thank you..." The United Kingdom said, a true look of relief lightening his face.
"But" Portugal cut off with a determined look in his eyes, setting them ablaze with the accusation of a thousand betrayals "Do not make the mistake of thinking that I trust you completely. You have to understand... I have been betrayed one too many times"
The ex-pirate sucked in a raspy breath and massaged the bridge of his nose.
"I understand" He said, after a while "I wouldn't trust you either, had it been me" Oh, but it was me, he thought bitterly, allowing the sour thoughts to seep into his mind, it's because of your actions that he doesn't trust you.
Portugal nodded with a calm smile gracing his lips.
"I'm glad we have an understanding." He turned to leave, but Arthur raised his voice again.
"But... I don't get it. Why don't you hate me? I've betrayed your trust so many times... I forced you into a war when I knew you weren't ready and I stopped you from adopting those kids. Not only that but I forced an Ultimatum on you on top of that! I took your last kid away, your prized kid, the one who stayed with you until the very end! I took Macau from you! You have every reason to hate me, Afonso" His voice raised into a shout "Then why is it that you offer me... this sort of forgiveness?"
During his little rant, all Portugal had done was stare at him calmly, occasionally scratching his scar to calm the itch.
"Because it was with you that I shared not one, but many cups of tea. Not only tea but also stronger drinks. I shared tears with you, as I shared many laughs. I shared almost my entire life with you and you did the same for me. All of the best moments in my life..." He shook his head fervently as he gazed at Arthur with a crooked smile "They were all lived with you!"
He straightened up, throwing his shoulders back and shaking his head to straighten his ponytail.
"And also because we are still bound together" He offered Britain a sad smile "The Treaty of Windsor is still active. Remember? The oldest treaty of the entire world and it's still active. Our treaty is almost three times older than America" His smile turned nostalgic "And because of this. This is still active and, for me, it will be active until the day that Portugal is no more"
He reached into the small bag he had brought with him and shuffled with his hands inside for a while until he took out a small folder. He untied the folder, took its contents out and handed them out to Britain.
He offered Arthur another smile.
"The original is safe back at my place. Think about it" And then he left, re-entering the conference room and leaving Arthur alone while the sun set.
His eyes scanned over the document before widening comically. There, in a perfect copy of the original, was the Treaty he and Portugal had signed, with their names and their blood.
His heart clenched and his sight became blurry with tears.
No, all the profit he had made with his betrayals wasn't worth it. All the money in the world wouldn't suffice. This was his best friend he had betrayed, and yet, the other man had kept their original treaty.
Arthur looked at the setting sun as one single crystal tear slid down his face.
Ok, this was heavy. And really hard to write. I guess all I want to say is thank you guys, for you reviews, for you support and for sticking with this story until now. I work every day to make the story better for you guys!
Ok, now the poll:
Option 1 – 1/ Option 2 – 3/ Option 3 – 1 - I'm really tempted to go with Option 2...
And to answer to a review made by Cod9:
This is to Cod9, I'm going to reply in English so other people can read as well in case they have the same doubts as you. The Flashbacks weren't in historical order, they were meant to represent the confusion and doubt England felt – like random flashes of things he regretted.
And regarding Angola and Mozambique, I will explain it later, but basically what happened was that Portugal wanted to adopt those two children (keep them as colonies) and Arthur was against it (the rejection of the map). He took them away to their own countries again, to be raised by his people.
Portugal insisted in keeping them – the event in itself, I will explain later in the story – and England had no choice but to make the Ultimatum.
Thank you :D You're very kind.
I just think that France is uke-ish, I mean, come on! He had 'uke' written all over his face! But no worries, whoever ends up with Portugal won't suddenly be a school girl in the body of a man XD
Thanks :D
PS: I'm a girl XD
Alright, now I have to go back to studying the Armed Forces of all the countries I'm planning on using XD And studying maps... Good thing this is all for Hetalia, otherwise I wouldn't be able to do it -.-
Ok, until next time :D
See ya~
I am proud to announce that I've already sketched the entire first Act and I'm beginning to sketch the second Arc ;)
