When they opened the vault, Spain didn't know what to think, if the ingots before him were a big quantity or not, taking into account he had been alive for like two millenniums. Because that was what that gold represented: his fortune. The money he had made in all of those years, what he had amassed with his sweat and blood—and the sweat and blood of others.

He had to be witness, so no one could say it was some kind of trickery. Thus, he saw how the minister's men emptied the space. 510 tons of gold, which would be moved to Cartagena instantly.

Following the Republic's orders, Spain had had a meeting with America, France and England to ask for weapons to be used against the rebels. France seemed to be collaborative, he promised to deliver. But then he changed his mind all of a sudden. Things were complicated in Europe. Fascism and communism were spreading and the nations often found themselves forced to take a side. Democracies and dictatorships were on the verge of war. Supporting openly any side in that issue would bring an imbalance which would affect all of Europe negatively. England agreed and formed a committee which managed to convince the continent not to get involved. That was Spain's matter. Not theirs.

Spain couldn't say he was surprised. After centuries, he expected no sympathy from those two...

But there were nations who signed the document but didn't just look away.

The Axis Powers had made the promise to be there for Spain if he needed them and were men of their word. Portugal managed to convince his boss, Salazar, that Spain had to be freed from the government that was killing him.

And the Republic found a friend in Soviet Russia and Mexico.

The Committee was boycotting their provision of weapons, but did nothing to stop Germany's and Italy's troops. They had to find support, and it came from where Spain would have never suspected.

"I have not forgotten what you did, but...I don't want you to become a fascist pig like them" hearing Mexico's voice again thanks to the telephone, the tone of her voice, brought chills to Spain's body. "I will send you anything you need. I am with you, Spain. If you want me to go there..."

"No...No, mi niña...You stay in America. It will be better if you stay..."

He didn't want her to see how bad he looked after so many days barely sleeping...

As for Russia...

"They are cowards. I expected much more from England, to be honest" at the port, Russia looked at the sky as if he was surprised not to see snow coming from it. "He thinks this way he will not anger Germany and things will be better...As if Germany needed any excuse...They will let you die. They will let you rot and go mad and they will do nothing to stop it. Well, if you think about it, it is better that they don't intervene—they tried to suffocate the revolution and all they did was to give the Bolsheviks more arguments in their favor."

Spain was not looking at him, but at the numerous wooden boxes which were taken inside of the four ships Russia had brought. The giant leaned towards him and opened his shirt a bit. He then clicked his tongue.

"How long have you been having this?"

"Two months..."

"Hm."

Russia looked at his ships too.

"I can give you part of the weapons and some tanks now, the rest should come in a few months. As for the receipt...I will do the inventory at home and send you the document, okay?"

"Okay...Thanks, Russia..."

"My pleasure. Everything will be alright, you will see."

"And...the children..."

"I am already on it. You can start sending them to my house."

"Thank you..."

Later that month, his boss Stalin published that Russia's wealth was increased and it was all thanks to the success of communism. Spain never received the receipt.


Right the next day, he was covering his mouth in order to repress a retching.

The man by his side lit a cigarette. Expelling the smoke, he smirked and pointed at the scene with a nod.

"Do you see, Mr. Spain? This is what happens when those reds get the power..."

That nun had probably been dead for one or two years, seeing her state. Her eyes were gone and her mouth with no lips was open. Someone had dug her out to place her against a wall. Only God knew what they had done to her...

"Those bastards respect nothing..." the man grunted, and the smoke of his cigarette was all Spain needed to run away from the scene and vomit among some bushes.

Luciana walked to him and placed a hand on his back.

"Are you alright, Antonio?" she asked with sweet voice.

Spain panted. No. But he nodded.

"Come on, I can't stand looking at this either..."

Also, Pablo was waiting. He was probably worried about their delay.

Spain knew him since he was thirty-six, when he had the honor to serve Alfonso XIII, Spain and the royal family as their cook. Spain missed his confectionery so, so much. But, as he used to say, 'the oven was not ready for buns'—he was not there to taste his delicious meals and Pablo was not in the mood for cooking. When he lost his job due to Alfonso's abdication, he went back to his native town, Cereixo. Spain had been told by the Republican government it was not wise to leave their protection, but seeing how Madrid was getting ready for the bombings, Spain felt there was no safe place at all. He wanted to see his old friend. He needed to see him. At that moment...perhaps it was all he needed. The atmosphere in Madrid made him so nervous. All those «Madrid's bear will destroy fascism», «Rise against Italian invasion in Spain!», «The only party of the proletariat will crush fascism», «They shall not pass»—it felt so unnerving.

"The bad thing is the priest has to be lucky he was out of town when that happened" Pablo explained to him while his sister Luciana served him a cup of coffee. "In Vilar they raped five nuns, then killed them..."

"You can't be serious..." Spain muttered.

"You know when things are wrong, what are your feelings telling you?"

"...I don't know...All I want is to scream, lately..."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm glad to know you're alright. I'm trying to get in touch with old friends, see if...check on them, you know. Martina is safe, Martín sailed to Argentina. Juan...Poor Juan was drafted forcefully and they killed him in Badajoz...Honorato too, in the siege of Toledo—that boy was, what? Eighteen?"

"Yes...I am fine, but it is just a matter of time. One of these days these bastards will come and, do you know what they will do? They will dig a grave for the two of us. They will rape Luciana here and shoot her in the head. And I'm not going to let those sons of bitches hurt her. I won't let them get you, either. They banished our king, they have ruined you, and, fuck, I've had enough. I am going to join Mola's troops. Luciana here wants me to go to France with her, but I was born in this country and if I have to die, I will die here."

"Pablo, I don't want you to die for me...Please, listen to your sister."

"No, Antonio. I made up my mind seeing that they don't even respect the dead, what is the most sacred thing, even more sacred than any church or ideology. They are animals who should be exterminated. I won't let them control you any longer. You deserve happiness, Antonio, and if I have to die trying, at least I will die for something worth it. I hope my blood will make you stronger."

That was the last time Spain saw Pablo. Eleven weeks later, he got a letter from Luciana, in Niza, in which he told him Pablo had fallen fighting the republican troops in Vigo. Pablo's sacrifice didn't make him feel greater—but weaker.


«Spain: One, Great, Free». «Long live the rescue army; for God and for Spain; glory to martyrs and heroes». «Communism sows death; Franco defeats it in the battlefield!». «First Crusade; Spain, spiritual guiding of the world». «After this, how fine Spain will turn out!».

Spain, in the bathtub, closed his eyes and focused. In the silence of the room, only the drops falling from his soaked hair to the water could be heard. He could read their minds, feel that they were feeling. There was hope. This revolution was the light at the end of the tunnel. The Republic had failed them, had left them unprotected, had damaged their dear Antonio; the rebels would bring back all the good things lost. They would give back to Spain the honor they had taken away from him.

But if he kept looking into himself, he found even more voices. He found fear for what was happening and what was going to come.

They were so intense, so contradictory, so...indescribable...The bath didn't help him feel better.

When he got up and, naked, walked to the mirror, he saw the mark on his neck, barely a freckle when he first saw it, was not the size of his fist. But there was more. When he grabbed a towel and glanced at his stomach, he saw the same thing where humans had their navel. A dark spot, the size of a cigarette pack.

Was it an ulcer? Lupus?—Or something worse?


Lleida was on the republican side for the moment, so Spain had no trouble going there. In any case, he had been fighting for enough centuries to know how to sneak into a city without being detected. And if something happened, he was the nation. Nobody would do any harm to him. Still, he tried to make his entry as discreet as he could. He was not in the mood for military tactics. He...hadn't felt decently good in a long time. Migraines made him want to go back to smoking. He was taking pills, instead. His doctor said they would help him. But he still felt unable to think much.

He had Paulino's address written in a paper. He hoped he hadn't moved in all these years. As he had been told in his letters, he had not gotten married and still cared for his widow mother, just like when he was young. He had a stable job repairing cars. He had to be there, in Lleida.

"Paulino?"

When he arrived, there was no light inside of the house.

"Paulino? Mrs. Gómez?" he knocked again with his fists.

A lady stopped her bicycle a few meters away from him.

"¡Ay, hijo! Don't waste your time. Nobody will answer!" she said.

"Do you know where Paulino Gómez is?" Spain walked to her.

"Who knows! My son sent me a letter the other day from the front. Paulino was in the same regiment. His mother was sick, you see? Apparently, he tried to escape to see her. He was talking often about her. His superiors caught him and shoot him dead for deserting."

Spain felt his throat burning upon hearing the worst news possible. Paulino...He survived the war in Africa to be killed by his own folks...

"What about his mother? Maybe I could..."

"Ah! Poor Antonia! What do you expect an old lady like her, sick, bound to her bed, with her son fighting in the front, to do but die? At least she passed before her son was killed. She would have died of pain..."

She squinted suddenly, approaching him.

"Would you mind coming to the light? You...look familiar..."

Spain ran away instead.


The relative calm of the morning was broken when the siren started wailing.

"Come on, come on!"

"Hurry up!"

Around him, everybody was running, carrying their children in their arms, helping the elders who inevitably were left behind, not bothering to grab anything, because nothing was that valuable as their lives at that moment.

"Run! There they are!"

Spain was still running down the steps to the subway station when the first bomb exploded.

Two. Two people dead.

In front of him a little girl was bawling and her father couldn't say anything comforting to her because he was terrified too.

Two more bombs. Seven.

Spain's legs failed him and he tripped. A man with a long, white beard helped him stand up.

"Come on, son, you're safe now!"

Yes, all those people were safe, but every time a bomb fell, the ceiling shook and dust and small rubble fell on their heads.

Spain was not safe there.

"We are leaving to Valencia, pack your things, Antonio. These savages are going to destroy Madrid if it's necessary to find and get you!" his President would tell him next time he saw him.

He was safe nowhere.

Fourteen. Twenty-one. Thirty...He could not count them all!


1937


He was told he was in no condition to travel, but he wanted to. He needed to see what was going on.

Back in Valencia, the republican army had intercepted messages from the enemy. They talked about destroying a certain nation. They were after Catalonia and there was someone else who threatened Spain's unity. Basque Country.

He had one more brother or sister. He had to see them. He had to make sure they were alright.

He arrived to the town of Guernica the morning of April 26th.

He was observing what they called Gernikako Arbola, Basque's symbolic tree, trying to imagine his sibling taking care of it with love, when someone approached him.

"Mr. Spain?"

Spain turned around to find a familiar face.

"Marianita..."

It was her. Twenty five years had passed and she was not a young girl anymore, but it was still her. She was a full woman, pushing a baby carriage, with four more children of different ages around her. Her smile was starting to show wrinkles, but she still had that pretty smile...

"Oh! It's been so long!"

Her smile faded when Spain approached her having to support himself on a cane, and still walking with difficulty, as if his muscles were too rigid to move. His hug felt so weak...

"Indeed" Spain smiled. Not even the smile looked like it used to. "Wow, you still got it..."

Marianita giggled bashfully.

"I see you married that guy in the end...What was his name? Imanol?"

"No. He was a jerk. But thanks to him I met Salvador and..." she turned her head to her children with a smile.

"Congrats."

"Thanks...What are you doing in here?"

"Family matters."

"Ah, I see..."

She didn't think it was appropriate to ask the question, but he looked so bad she couldn't resist. She still cared for him, just like when she was his maid.

"How are you, Mr. Spain? Are they...hurting you too much?"

Spain tried to laugh.

"Who is they, I wonder..." he sighed.

"Who's this, mother?" a girl, barely eight, asked.

"This is the Republic of Spain. Oh, children, aren't you going to say hello to him? He is a very important person."

"Hello, Mr. Spain" those children immediately said, even the two year-old.

"It's a pleasure meeting you. Wow, Marianita, you made something really beautiful..." Spain smiled.

"If what you are doing is not very urgent, can I ask you to stay for lunch?" Marianita asked.

"It'd love to. I am dying to meet the lucky guy who won your heart."

"Andrés, help Mr. Spain."

"No, it's alright, the cane does the trick."

They walked, and Marianita had the chance to see he could barely move, but he tried. God, did he try...

"...Do you know, by chance, Basque Country? The...nation, I mean."

"I don't believe he exists. It is just..."

"So you've heard of him..."

"...I haven't seen him personally, if that's what you're asking, but...I've seen pictures of him. I don't know if those were recreations or...But..."

"Do you know where I can find him?"

"I don't know. As I've told you, I am not even sure he exists."

"He does. I can feel it. That's why I need to see him. They say they are an obstacle, a mistake...I just want to talk to him and tell him..."

Tell him what? Spain wasn't very sure. But that was not the reason why he didn't finish the sentence.

That cursed sound made the whole population freeze and Spain's heart stop.

"Oh, no..." Marianita muttered. "Children, now we have to run, okay? Amelia, grab your siblings, Mr. Spain...!"

Spain was already feeling it, the terror...

People around them dropped everything in their hands and started running to the refuges. Some tried to make their animals move, but they were braying, terrified by the sirens. The bells of the church started ringing frenetically. 'Everyone to the refuges!', a policeman cried.

It was then when the first bomb dropped.

One woman blown into pieces. Spain didn't see it. He felt it like if it had been him.

They were in mortal danger. That was why it was the moment to pray. Many people tried to find the words while running to the church, to the town hall...Spain felt his rosary around his neck, but couldn't grab it.

He raised his head to the sky and saw five planes flying above them, dropping the projectiles...

The cane slipped from his hand. New explosions. Three. One of them was a baby, which couldn't be taken from his crib on time.

"Here! Here, come on!" Marianita grabbed him, practically pushed him, because he barely moved, under a carriage. It was the only place they could go. Buildings were crumbling around them.

Bombs kept falling like a rain of fire. A young man, around twenty, stopped his track to turn around and look at the planes with his face red with fury.

"¡CABRONES! ¡MALPARIDOS HIJOS DE PUTA! ¡CABRONEES!" he shouted at them as loud as his lungs allowed him.

One of those planes flew lower and started to strafe the fleeing people. They got a woman who was running along with her elder father and then the boy's chest was filled with bullets, silencing him.

"Mommy! Mommyyy!" one of Marianita's children, a chubby six-year old, howled.

"Close your eyes and cover your head with your hands, Fabián!" she instructed him. She was crying out of fear. If one of those bombs fell near them, the carriage wouldn't protect them. She couldn't assure him everything would be alright.

Not that being inside of a building guaranteed anything. Marianita was seeing it: the planes flew closer to the ground to shoot at the people, they forced them to go into the buildings, and there...they bombed.

Some were flying so low a neighbor called Saturnino Amor would declare many decades later that he was capable of seeing a man with white hair and red eyes controlling one of them.

The facade of the church was falling apart. Inside, the priest wanted to scream too, but he started praying for everyone inside instead. God, have mercy on us, greet us in your infinite glory...

Many people were running to the fields, trying to escape from the town, and the planes followed them. They were an easy target for their machine guns. Three. Six. Eight.

"Help me! Help me!" someone cried.

After one bomb fell, nobody cried anymore.

They waited. Several minutes passed. The zooming of the planes, the bombs, were not heard anymore. But they couldn't be sure. They waited a bit more. It wasn't until they heard people outside and saw their feet moving slowly that they were convinced it was over.

"It's over...It's over, children...It's okay, it's over..." Marianita wept, kissing the heads of her children.

They got out from their hideout. Marianita helped Spain get up.

She saw him look around him. At the rubble at their feet. At the blood staining it. At the skeletons of the buildings. At the people looking around, some of them in shock, others filled with blood, not only theirs, calling someone they knew. The corpses, human and animal, buried in the debris, lying in all sorts of postures, crushed, shot.

She saw him drop on his knees, grabbing the sides of his head to scratch them until blood started to come out.

Everyone around heard his scream, which faded, faded, faded, as air left his lungs until it simply ceased, and no more sounds came out from his throat.


«The worldwide Jewish and Masonic press and Valencia's hypocrite mourners threw their arms up in horror before the leader, whose name as clean as our sky they tried to smear with the drool of their libelous information. The photographic camera which cannot lie to you tells it clearly that such destruction was the deed of incendiaries and dynamiters.»

Spain was there. Dear God, Spain was there.

However, the Francoist side couldn't have gotten better propaganda. The Republicans had destroyed one of their own towns and almost got their own nation killed. Spain had suffered terribly, he was traumatized by the event.

«We will destroy the Republic before they destroy our dear Antonio»

Veneciano turned his head to Romano. He avoided looking at him.

"...We only did what we had to do..." he said.

It was not his fault Spain was in the wrong place...Stupid Spain...It was his fault...There was no one to blame but him...


1939


He was the one who opened the door. Before coming in, he stared at the figure sitting on a wheelchair, near the window. As if a bit of fresh air and the views could break him out of that state. He was aware of what the republican doctors had tried in order to bring him back, all therapies possible, including electroshock.

Franco approached him and crouched down to touch his chin. Spain didn't move. He didn't blink, or even look at him.

"Look what they did to you..."

He sighed, afflicted by that sight.

"My poor Spain...Don't worry. I am here. And I am going to help you. You will feel better, and I am going to make you big again."


Germany stopped in front of that big painting in gray. His bright blue eyes inspected every inch of the canvas, studied every line like an art critic would. The Führer despised modern art, he said it was decadent, Jewish, but he was also formed in arts, maybe in a deeper way than him, and found this piece interesting.

The author was near him. His officer had recognized and approached him.

"Did you do this?"

France turned his head to that man, of big nose and wide forehead. The way he looked at the German and glanced for a second at his nation, before answering:

"No. You did."

France then observed his work.

Some attendants called it a mess. There were figures mixed with no harmony, a style too modern for the taste of many. A woman grieving the corpse of her child in her arms. A dismembered soldier, sword still in hand, at the feet of a braying horse, ran through by a sort of spear. A man with his hands raised to the sky. A house on fire. A seemingly impassible bull. A wounded woman who was bleeding and dragging her leg. An eye, with a light bulb replacing the pupil, contemplating everything from above...

It was then when France couldn't gaze at it any longer and walked away, feeling tears coming out.


If there is something one cannot talk about in Spain nowadays is the Civil War. Everybody has lost someone in that war, there are still people alive who went through it. The gal writing these lines had a great-grandfather whose fate inspired what happened to Spain's fictional friend Paulino. There are tons of people whose body are still in common graves, whose descendants are still looking for. And the bad thing is that, even if the general opinion is that it was a good republicans being slaughtered by the mean nationalists, the republicans also committed atrocities, the best known being against members of the church and people related to them. What is depicted here comes from documentaries but also stories I have heard from people around me, happening to relatives of theirs. Take a side, just speak about it and someone will hate you. A very controversial and recent law is erasing all memory of the regime in the streets, the names of the heroes of Franco's side in the signs, the statues and symbols, and last year Franco's corpse was moved out of the mausoleum of the Valley of the Fallen, constructed to celebrate their victory, alleging that we can't keep honoring a dictator.

Foreign countries intervened, more or less in the conflict. Russia and Mexico were supporters of the republicans. On the other hand, the Axis and Portugal supported the rebels, Italy and Germany participating directly in the war with troops.

The sad thing, knowing Spain's closeness to Romano in canon and Prussia with the Bad Touch Trio, to know it was them the ones who bombed the town of Guernica. Mostly the Germans. Why did they bomb a town which was not worth it? The Germans wanted to try their weapons for the upcoming world war. The town has the symbol of the Basque Country (my reference is Los-Ticos' design on DeviantArt), the Tree of Guernica. Also, the destruction was used as propaganda, because Franco claimed the Republic bombed the city and blamed them. Anyway, it was the first time a town was bombed in such a way (80% of the buildings were destroyed, around 130-300 people were killed) in History. It inspired our famous painter Pablo Picasso to paint Guernica, a commission by the Republic to call international attention on the war. And it seems they did it, because it made a tour all around the war and today it is considered an icon which depicts the horrors of war, no matter the time period (did you know the figure of the man with his hands to the sky inspired the symbol of peace?). If you ever go to Madrid, it is exhibited in the Reina Sofía Museum. It is really impressive. And what Picasso says to the German officer at the International Exposition of Art and Technology in Modern Life is apparently real.

I chose fanart related to this picture because I also think it is a great representation of Spain's ghosts: the slaughter caused all around the world, the constant wars against allies, the repression, the civil wars...The author, MoonyLoony, has in their profile two versions, both of them are great.

About Russia's intervention, it was also very controversial. It is said that the Republic gave the gold of the country to the Soviet to keep it safe, and used part of it to buy weapons, but apparently Russia kept it and played dumb. It is what we call Moscow's Gold. There is also the Children of Russia. Of course, thousands of Spaniards left the country, some to France, where they were trapped in World War II (some of them fought), some to Mexico and other countries of South America, and many children were taken to Russia. The sad thing is that there the authorities forgot about many of them and they had to survive on their own. Some came back after the war, others, after Franco's death; some stayed there forever.

As for what happens to Spain here, my headcanon is that civil wars are the worst thing that can ever happen to a nation. It is like an aggressive cancer, something which eats you inside out, because the cells of your body are fighting, and your head goes crazy due to the contradictions, until you are left vegetative, until there is a winner.