1997
Miguel Ángel Blanco was born in Ermua, Biscay, from Galician parents. Eager to make a change in his community, he became a member of the town's council for People's Party; an activity he combined with his work at a consultancy. He was twenty nine years old.
The 10th of July, the client he was supposed to meet called warning that Miguel Ángel never showed up. This was not typical of him, he was always extremely punctual and would have never deserted a client.
It wasn't until radio station Egin Irratia received that call when Spain knew this was serious.
«We demand our prisoners to be moved to Basque territory. If by 4 p.m of Sunday 12th the government has not met our demands, Miguel Ángel Blanco will be executed and his blood will be on your hands.»
This was not the first time they abducted someone. It was one of their main ways of financing their activities...But this was evidently an act of revenge. The Spanish forces had freed prison officer Ortega Lara from a 532-day imprisonment just nine days before...
Spain was hugging himself, standing under the door, while President José María Aznar remained sat at his desk.
"We made a pact, Antonio, we will not negotiate with terrorists." He told his nation firmly. One had to be when dealing with terrorists trying to kill the nation.
"But...they will kill him...I'm sure they will..." Spain muttered.
"Our security forces are looking for him. We won't let that happen...Go home, Antonio. Try to rest."
Rest...Aznar didn't really understand what being a nation meant. Millions of people were holding their breath, so he felt a great pressure inside of his chest, a lump in his throat. On his mind was the message running in all of his territory, in every street, in every corner: 'Miguel, we are waiting for you'.
Spain sat on the sofa, after trying to sleep for a long time, and eventually picked up the phone.
"...Basque?"
"...You couldn't sleep either, huh?" His brother said at the other side. His voice sounded flat, like he was tired nevertheless.
"Are you okay?"
"No...I'm scared, Spain...For that boy..."
"...Everything will be alright, Basque, don't you worry."
"Those aren't men, they're demons...Do you think they'll let him go, even if you do what they say?"
Spain didn't know what to reply.
The hours passed so slowly. Spain was told to calm down, distract himself, but all he did was watch the news, stare at the phone. The waiting hurt him as if every minute cut like a knife. In his mind was that photography of a young man and that desperate cry: 'Miguel, we are waiting for you'.
One hundred hours—and when Spain realized, the deadline expired.
That night, as in anticipation, he didn't sleep at all.
He got the dire call at five in the morning.
A hunter found Miguel Ángel in the open field, in Lasarte-Oria. He had been shot twice in the back of the head. When he was found, he was still alive...But there was nothing that could be done for him...
"We have just been confirmed...that Miguel Ángel has been killed."
The crowd gathered around the balcony let out a collective, dismayed exclamation.
Inside of the town hall, Basque felt he couldn't go out there and say something to them, hug the family and friends. Spain saw him rush out of the room, lean on a wall at the corridor and start bawling like a child. Spain approached to place a hand on his shoulder, tears running down his face. Feeling Spain's touch, Basque turned around and embraced him. In his arms, Spain felt free let out all of his pain, the anguish he had been holding inside of his chest for three days.
"They are...they are...They are not my people! I have nothing to do with those murderers! I'm not..."
"I know...I know, Basque, I know..." Spain sobbed.
Basque's words became an outcry like Spain had never seen before, in the streets of Guipúzcoa, of all of the country.
"THEY ARE NOT BASQUE! THEY ARE MURDERERS!"
People who had to leave their home. People who had to have a look under their cars before going to work in the mornings. People who were afraid to open the mailbox. People who had to see others getting killed and maimed and couldn't rush to help or call the police because it was better not to show any interest. Now were not afraid to shout to their faces:
"DEATH TO E.T.A!"
"SONS OF BITCHES!"
It was something which concerned Spain and his siblings. There were no divisions this time. He, Basque and Catalonia shared their tears, stuck together.
"NOT TO E.T.A., YES TO THE BASQUE!"
The three of them were there to console the family, to receive Miguel Ángel's remains and bury them with the dignity he deserved. They wore the blue ribbons they had been wearing during the kidnapping, they wouldn't take it off.
"MIGUEL! MIGUEL! MIGUEL! MIGUEL!"
The members of Herri Batasuna, E.T.A.'s political branch, were almost lynched by the crowd, but Spain managed to ease society, take all of that hate and do something good with it. He was in the head of the protests which filled his streets, along with his brother, because he was not to blame for what those people did in his name. He and his people became one single voice, which looked at E.T.A. to the face and shouted:
"ETA! HERE YOU HAVE MY HEAD!"
For a long time, all Spain was concerned about was chasing down those creatures (not men, but creatures). His people were getting killed, all because of a conflict him and Basque Country had. France and him worked hard on finding them and bringing them to justice. Also, his beloved neighbor visited his house frequently to cheer him up. "2000 is coming. The world is going to hell", he would often say, and the way he said it made Spain smile. Thanks to him, and Prussia's contribution, he didn't let himself fall into despair.
The new millennium came and Spain had the resolution of never losing sight of what was really important.
But it didn't start very well indeed...
2001
Spain was playing guitar, playing a song from the 16th century, remembering the good old times...When he got the call. He got up quite lazily and answered.
"¿Diga?"
"Are you watching the T.V?" That was Prussia, and he sounded so excited he barely couldn't breathe.
"Nah, I spent the whole night hooked on this show, I-"
"Turn on the news!"
Spain gazed at the handset with an eyebrow raised. So he left it on the table for a second, walked to the remote and turned on the television.
«...against the World Trace Center of New York, causing great damage, as we can see, in the last stories of the building, in flames—attention! We have seen one of the impacts, we are receiving live from the American television broadcasting...»
"Shiiit!" Spain exclaimed, wide-eyed. Now he knew Prussia was not excited, but disturbed.
"Did you see?! Did you see?!" He was exclaiming when Spain picked up the phone.
"Yes, I am watching it! What the fuck was that?!"
"I don't know, but...Verdammter Mist! Are you watching it?! One of the towers is crumbling!"
Spain spent the whole afternoon glued to the television and with the phone in his hand. He tried to call England, but he didn't answer. He didn't bother calling America, he knew it would be useless. He did keep in touch with Prussia. It was him the one who finally gave him news.
"Germany has just spoken to England. America's in intensive care. His heart...just stopped beating."
Nobody minded Canada, not even having him there, near the door, with his arms crossed, evidently needing a sympathy he was too polite to ask for. Spain didn't even remember America had a brother. All of his attention was on England. He was pretty bad, obviously. As much as he complained about America being an ingrate and an idiot, as much as he held grudge about the way he left him after all he had done for him, he was still his little brother. Spain was convinced with little fear to be mistaken that America was once that one thing he loved more than he loved himself; and there were things in life which never disappeared completely.
Sat by his side, he offered his shoulder for him to rest. Not to cry, that was something England had evidently done in private—just so he knew he was there for him.
England never opened his mouth to lament or voice his pain. He didn't move his lips in all of this time. He just sat in there and waited without raising his head or saying a word. He accepted Spain's shoulder without even looking at him.
America was not a human, and he was strong, so strong, maybe stronger than many of them, he would make it. Still, such a big blow would have him in the hospital for some time.
What would happen when he came out? Spain wondered. He had heard one of the reporters from his house say that it was the beginning of a war; it was uncertain against who, but this would start a war, definitely. At that moment, he thought that the man was scarily right.
2002
"What...the...FUCK?!"
They had told him at first the situation was under control, then they admitted to him it was bad, but he couldn't have imagined it was that bad. When Spain got out of the car and walked to the shore, he placed his hands on his head.
"Oh, no, no, no, no, no! My beach! My beautiful beach! Fuck!"
He cursed a little bit more. The Prestige, that big ship full of crude oil no one liked having near their beaches, entered the worst place possible, the Costa da Morte, which wasn't called the Coast of Death for nothing. It's hull cracked in two, and its content spilled. Thousands of tons of oil were blackening kilometers of littoral. Didn't he have a reason to curse like a sailor?
But there was a moment to curse, then he had to work. His people had already mobilize, it was his turn.
Since Portugal's and even France's coasts had been affected too, he was not alone. Wearing those white suits which soon turned black and masks, the three of them worked hard to get as much oil as possible.
"So." Portugal spoke, trying to make the task more bearable with a little conversation. "Do you guys know how euros work?"
"Nope. I still need someone to tell me how much everything is in francs." France admitted.
"I've had so many different systems and it never fails: once I get used to one, they change it." Spain commented. "Everything seems so expensive now..."
"Yeah. Oops!" France slipped and almost fell. "Galère..."
"I don't know about you guys, but I miss the times when we used wood and whale grease, and not this crap." Portugal complained, putting a good load of oil inside of the container.
His two partners agreed.
"By the way." Portugal said after a little pause. "How is America doing? After...you know."
"He's not okay, of course." France replied. "There is just one thing which prevents him from staying in his bed all day long: revenge."
"Sure..." Portugal nodded.
"He wants to make those terrorists pay. All he talks about lately is Al-Qaeda. I definitely prefer when he talked about movies and hamburgers...I don't know, but he's starting to scare me, how he's seeing enemies everywhere..."
"If they attacked you just like those people did, you'd get your tanks too, right?" Spain said to him.
"I'm just warning you guys to be careful with him. Our little boy just has no measure. He's young and acts like a child in many senses."
At that moment Spain's focus was on the black beaches and the dead birds, but years later he would think of France's words very often...
2003
"Chema...I'm...not really sure about this."
"Antonio, let me remind you something: allies help each other. You gave your word, now you have to do what you have to do."
Still, Spain traveled to the Azores unsure of what he was going to do. Portugal noted it as soon as he welcomed him.
"Did you eat something past the expiration date or what?"
"After what I saw in Bosnia I've had enough wars for the rest of my life...I really don't want to get involved in another one." Spain said to him. Portugal was once his husband and in a sense he was his brother. He knew he could share his worries with him.
"I have it understood that your boss had great interest in this meeting..."
"Well, him and I are having...discrepancies..."
"Sorry to hear that."
"Why is it so hard to find a boss who understands you...?"
"America and England are already here. Don't keep them waiting. Let's go."
He was taken to a room where said nations and their presidents were waiting. Some photos were taken, then the press followed their bosses while him, England, Portugal and America talked privately.
"Spain, you are a very helpful guy." America started saying. "You are very generous and like to make people happy."
"Where are you going with all of that flattery?" Spain interrupted him.
"You know Iraq is behind what he did to me and my people..." America's expression turned serious.
"Well, her boss—maybe. But she...I don't think she's got something against you." Spain said.
"Oh, I assure you: she does. She wasn't sad at all when the World Trade Center crumbled, my people died and I was in the hospital for months. And I'd even say it's because I'm friends with Israel, but that's another story. Saddam, Iraq...It's the same. Nations and bosses are like dogs and their owners: one is shaped by the other. The thing is, she has weapons of mass destruction at home, and she doesn't want to admit it. Such weapons, in the hands of Iraq...That's a bit of a scary thought to me."
"...What do you think about this, England?" Spain turned his head to England.
England clasped his hands.
"It seems that Iraq does possess those weapons, and I don't think that's something any nation should have. We must make her understand the dire consequences they could have."
"And what if she doesn't understand?" Portugal wanted to know.
"We will have to convince her..." America intervened, crossing his legs.
"She has violated the pacts, that's the way I see it..." England argued.
"And you want me to join you..." Spain muttered.
"Portugal has already accepted. We thought you would too." England said, and Portugal nodded.
"The UN will not support us publicly, but I've talked to Japan..." He said, "and he told me—confidentially, of course— that we have the support of some of their members, him included."
"These are not times to be neutral, Spain." America said. "So if you have doubts..."
"I'm just tired of getting involved in war and death..." Spain said.
"Yeah, sure, you want to go back to your house, where the sun shines all the time, to drink sangría and sleep siesta in a hammock. Well, sorry if I interrupted your placid life, I just thought we were friends and stuff, I thought you'd help me chase the people who hurt me, but, oh, well..."
"America" England interrupted his younger brother with a frown.
He got up from the sofa and crouched in front of Spain, to look at him to the eyes.
"Honestly? I don't want to do this, either." He said to him, in lower voice, almost as if he wanted to speak to him confidentially. "But if we do nothing, something catastrophic might happen...This is not just a matter of vengeance. We just want to make sure that what happened on September 11th won't happen to anyone else."
Spain gazed at him, one of his best friends in the whole world. Then, he glanced at Portugal, who was sat with his arms crossed. And finally, America, who didn't even blink.
"...Okay..." Spain sighed.
Much was said and written about that meeting. Spain read in a newspaper that his president was called a traitor, and it was said that he had been forced to join America's group against Iraq, even people were demonstrating massively in the streets. But Spain felt he had made a mistake and there was no one else to blame but himself.
2004
There was an exposition about Roman art in Seville, and Romano traveled to the city because he had contributed with a mosaic from his grandfather's treasures. Actually, Spain thought it was just an excuse to get out of his house a little and visit him, as much as Romano assured he only wanted to make sure 'his idiots' didn't ruin his nonno's legacy.
"You can't even make pasta right...This is tasteless and you've boiled it for too long!" He said that night, when Spain cooked dinner for him. Still, he stayed in his house during those days and slept in his bedroom.
That Thursday, a sudden noise, of something shattering, made him jump.
"Coglioni..." He grunted, burying his face in the pillow. "Spain! What the fuck! Are you juggling with the mugs or what?"
He tried to go back to sleep, but was unable to, so he eventually got up, grumbling.
"You clumsy idiot...Next time you come to my house I'll drill the wall while you're sleeping..."
But when he walked into the kitchen, he found Spain on the floor, with pieces of a mug around him, and his anger just evaporated.
"Spagna!"
07:37 a.m.
«E.T.A. has committed a massacre in Madrid, the bloodiest attack the group has ever done, to this moment it has caused one hundred and seventy three casualties and nine hundred injured. Five minutes have been enough for the terrorists to stain Madrid's morning with blood.»
Veneciano started his day with music in the radio. Following the tune whistling, he arranged all ingredients on the counter to prepare banana pancakes. It was then when the phone rang.
"Pronto? Ah, Romano, w-What? ...Romano, what's the matter, you..." His smile faded. "...What happened to big brother Spain?..."
«Basque Nationalism does not consider, even as a mere hypothesis, that E.T.A. is behind what happened today in Madrid.»
America sipped from a glass of water before clearing his throat and addressing the cameras, the Spanish people watching him.
"Spain is a good nation. A good friend. He doesn't deserve what happened to him. No one does. The attack on innocent people, workers, students, was horrible...Brutal...I am with you, Spain. I promise: I will help you find whoever did this and receive the punishment they deserve."
At that time in the morning, the trains from the city of Alcalá de Henares to Madrid were filled with sleepy workers who had bills to pay, students who were on their way to college, groomed men and women excited about a promising job interview. Death was traveling in those trains too, in the form of several backpacks filled with explosives.
Kilometers away from Madrid, in his home in Seville, the first explosion made Spain drop what he had in his hands. The second and third, one minute later, made him fall to the floor. A simultaneous explosion in another convoy in El Pozo made his heart stop.
"My specialists are available for Spain's government to...identify the corpses and find clues." Israel declared on television, almost by the time Ireland, president of the European Parliament, spoke:
"The European Union would like to condemn this disgusting act against our friend Spain..."
"It was...horrible...there was blood everywhere...some people fell to the tracks...Oh, God..."
"We have seen limbs a hundred meters away from the station, we have had to dodge them on the way here..."
"I want to go home...I want to go home!"
"The cell phones are ringing on the tracks, they're ringing all the time, all around the place, and I can't stand it..."
"In solidarity with Spain" Poland declared on the radio, "I declare tomorrow, March 12th, a day of mourning. And wish Spain he gets well soon..."
Portugal, on the other hand, chose to address his people and Spain's on the television.
"...A day of mourning, starting today..."
They indicated him that they had finished. It was now when he allowed himself to close his eyes and swallow.
"Mr. President, I'm going to Seville."
"...Of course..."
That was the medium Romania chose too to deliver his message.
"This is an incredibly sad day for me too because my children have died in those trains too. For them and our good friend Spain, all flags will be lowered to half-staff and March 14th will be declared a day of mourning in all my territory."
"What about our nation, Iker? Is he alright?"
"For what we know, he is still under intensive care. The last information we have is that his heart stopped and he is being stabilized."
The television cameras filmed how the Royal Guard started playing the anthem under England and his queen's supervision. Not his anthem, but Spain's.
The Queen turned her head to her nation and saw him covering his mouth.
"Is he still unconscious?"
France also wanted to make sure his orders were followed. He was given information from Lyon, Marseille, Niza and Toulouse, and he was seeing that all buildings in Paris had their flags half-mast. As soon as all arrondisements showed their respect for their neighbor, France got in the long distance train.
"...Sure, I know he can't die, but...Jesus, I am still trembling..." He admitted to Basque Country over the phone.
He knew it was unlikely but...Wasn't that Cuba's voice? Well, voice—yelling? But it was true. Spain opened his eyes at the same moment his little brother kicked the president out of the room.
"Alright, alright, calm down, Cuba." Another familiar voice said.
"Calm down? Look at him! How can you tell me to calm down! That man is a liar, he cares more about votes than his own nation!"
"I know, I am angry too, but, please..."
"Cu...ba?"
Both Cuba and Germany turned their heads to the bed. Portugal, by his side, leaned on him.
"Bro..." He smiled.
Spain slowly glanced around him, at the people who filled the room in spite of the orders of the nurses.
"How are you, Spain?" Prussia asked, taking his hand.
This was a stupid, empty question, obviously.
As it was natural, Spain closed his eyes again and started to weep.
Everyone tried to save him as much pain as possible, hiding the news from him, the horrible pictures of people running in the streets, filled with blood splatters and dust, the pieces of metal and flesh in the tracks, the smoke, the tears. They tried to make him see the bright side, all the anonymous people who jumped in to help the injured, to donate blood, the Muslim community calling to action and condemning the terrorists. Catalonia and Basque Country had come to stay with him. Sweden and Morocco traveled to Spain's house to join the protests.
But a new scar appeared on Spain's chest, right in the heart. It looked like the train network map of Madrid—Spain would have laughed if tears didn't come to his eyes every five minutes.
It took him time to leave the hospital. His heart recovered from the attack, but his mind took some more time. Romano prolonged his stay in the house, his brother joined too. Basque Country and Catalonia visited often, they would have stayed if the flat was big enough for the five of them. Spain didn't need to watch the news to know how many lives had been lost, how many dreams exploded that morning. He didn't need anything to burst into tears at any chance. Sometimes, he felt he was running out of air, he had sudden panic attacks, and the Italy twins had to hold him in their hands to calm him down. The sight of a train brought him flashes and he'd be damned if he wanted to get on one again...
Voters punished Aznar for what he did to their nation, and one of the first things the next president, José Luis Rodriguez Zapatero, did after he was elected was to promise Spain he would be out of Iraq, whatever it took. When it was publicly announced that Spain would no longer intervene in Iraq's house, no one was surprised.
"France..."
France considered Italy had been taking care of Spain enough time, so he told them to go back home and offered himself to take care of him. Months after the attack, it seemed Spain was making a bit of progress, taking long walks with him around Seville, enjoying the displays of affection of his people, who stopped to pat his back and kiss his cheek.
"I want to do this alone this time."
France furrowed his eyebrows. "Are you sure you...?"
"Yes."
Prince Philip was going to marry Letizia (the news anchor!) and he wanted to get over this before the wedding. He didn't want to be a shy, grieving mess at the wedding. He wanted to be splendid, he wanted to make his usual jokes, raise his voice to bless the couple, show them that they wouldn't be the king and queen of a puny nation who dwelled in tragedy.
France could just step aside and nod. Spain breathed deep and validated the ticket. The train was coming.
The doors opened and he swallowed before stepping in. From inside, he waved his hand at France. They would see each other in a while. He had his cell number in case he didn't make it. But he did his best. He didn't want to recur to that.
The beeping warning that the doors were closing made his heart bounce. Seeing them close brought him goosebumps, made him remember...
He closed his eyes and muttered a prayer to ask Virgin Mary to be a mother to him and stay with him.
The train moved and he felt much better.
Nothing was going to happen.
For the first time in months, he laughed.
When the following year it was England's turn to be sent to the hospital, after Al-Qaida made him pay what he and his partners had been doing to Iraq, Spain made sure his Royal Guard played God save the queen. He would make sure England had a hand to squeeze and a shoulder to cry on. Love was all that mattered...
2010
"I...didn't know you were interested in...you know."
Emirates took his eyes off Reccared's cross for a second to chuckle.
"My museums are thirsty for art from all around the world. And Christian too, yes. This" he said, pointing at the crucifix, "is a fine example of Visigoth goldsmithing. The amount you asked for it is fair. I will make you a check right now."
And so he did, right in front of Spain. The Iberian nation saw a generous amount of zeros in the paper.
"I'm just wondering..." Emirates said, giving it to him. "Isn't it a pity for you, having to get rid of it, after so long?"
Spain smiled, caressing the paper with the tip of his fingers.
"Not that I'll forget Reccared without it. These things...they are just objects, after all." He replied.
"Debatable. But I respect your decision. I am very pleased about our deal. I hope it helped you improve your situation..."
Spain wasn't sure if Emirates said that mockingly. Everybody knew he was not in his best moment, and he, one of the richest guys in the world, one of the few who had not been affected by that worldwide crisis...No. Probably he was imagining things.
"Yeah, it was a pleasure." Spain smiled, shaking his hand.
So he returned home, in the cheapest flight he was able to find, with a good amount of money in his pockets, and the first thing he did after cashing it was making a few visits.
First, a priest who fed the hungry in Vigo. Then, a free school for hairdressers in Granada. Later, an association for the unemployed in Madrid. And after that, a daycare center for families with no resources in Cáceres. The last stop was in Tarragona, where a neighborhood association was gathering food for those who needed it.
"But Mr. Spain!" Its president exclaimed when Spain showed up with all those shopping trolleys filled with non-perishable and varied food and hygiene products.
"Please, no mister." Spain smiled.
"S-Sir, this is too much, why..."
"It's the least I can do...I have failed you too many times, I'm afraid, and I hope this can make up for it."
Yes, with actions like those he was honoring God too, there was no need for a golden cross...
Those were being tough months, being penniless, but at least he had little moments of peace and fun. Like the World Cup.
"..."
The man sat by his side in the plane was staring at him for so, so long Spain turned his head to him and smiled.
"Hola."
"...Aren't you the nation?" The man asked in Spanish, removing his reading glasses.
"Yep."
"I always wanted to tell you something."
"Oh, yeah? What is it?"
"Why did you let faggots get married? You should be ashamed."
And with that, and after shaking his head with disappointment, he kept reading his newspaper. Spain kept smiling, nevertheless.
"...Huh." He just muttered. Yep, one met the best people in tourist class.
It was the final match against Holland. He had made it. He was so proud no one and nothing could spoil it.
"Wow! Your boys are good!" He said to his little brother, as they ran.
"I know." Holland replied, almost offended that he had questioned it.
It was then when he saw the ball coming to Spain, and he stopped chattering and tried to stop it. The kick he delivered wasn't high enough and instead of hitting the ball, he impacted against Spain's chest. Spain fell on his back, breathless for a second.
But the referee only saw something worth a yellow card.
"Yellow?! Are you kidding me?! Yellow?! That was an attempted murder!" Xabi Alonso was so outraged he faced the referee.
"I didn't mean it." Holland calmly said.
"It was an accident." De Jong supported his nation.
"Sure you defend him!" Capdevila complained, helping Spain stand up. "You okay?"
Spain nodded, although it would take him a little bit more time to be able to breathe properly. Ouch! The cleats had left a mark!
Holland went on like nothing had happened. This was a trifle, of course. Spain took his personally and did his best to play harder. The game was being really exciting. When the time ended, they were in a 0-0 tie. They had to wait for the overtime for a result.
"Come on, Iniesta! Come on, Iniesta! Come on, Iniesta!" Spain yelled, shaking his hands unconsciously with every Iniesta he pronounced, as the player ran to the rival goal. Holland also tried to run faster to stop him, yelled orders at his teammates orders.
And then...
"¡GOOOOOOOOOOOOL!" Spain shouted even more than the announcer. Forgetting about Holland, who just placed his hands on his hips with a frown, ran to the field to hug the one who gave him the victory and kiss his bald head.
"Iniesta of my life!" He filled his face with kisses.
Just for a moment, he forgot about his financial straits...
2015
«You and I have unfinished business, you can't keep ignoring me like-»
Spain stopped the video and left it aside, opening the video recording app. Mexico's and Venezuela's words about him, about what he did to their lands, to their mothers, to them, was still in his head—ah, Venezuela! he hoped she was eating well!—, and wondered if this would change things. He wondered if those people would forget what he did to their ancestors, if the hate passed on from generation to generation and he would always be the ogre, the Big Bad Spanish Empire.
He shook his head and pressed the record button.
"I know I have made mistakes in the past and I want to make up for it. Or at least try. Things have changed in five hundred years...I have changed. That is why all Sephardic Jews descendants of the millions that were expelled from our home are welcome back and will be able to acquire citizenship. I know this will not repair the damage I caused, but I want you to know...I am very sorry."
Spain stopped recording and sent the video to his press bureau, which would make sure this reached the right people.
After that, he checked the time ad saw it was time to get moving. He didn't want to be late for his meeting with the producers.
Oh, a new text from Catalonia.
«Spain, I saw you've opened the text, you desvirgagallines de los coll-»
Spain again ignored it to write one for Juan Carlos.
«So, where are you, bribón, hunting in Africa or in the bed of some blondie?» He allowed himself to be this direct because he had met many kings in his life and knew all of them had had their little affairs. He was not judging, though. He supposed they couldn't help themselves. «Asking you in case you're free to have a beer with me or something.»
Then another one for Philip.
«Happy first year of reign! Rate your experience. 5=I love Antonio / 4=He's a good guy / 3=I would rather be Holland's king / 2=Oh, God, why / 1=One of these days I'll jump out a window.»
He answered almost immediately. He surely caught him in one of this moments of inactivity.
«5/5. Would repeat. :-P»
Spain chuckled. After that, he put music on to make his way to the studios more lively.
I used to roll the dice / Feel the fear in my enemy's eyes / Listened as the crowd would sing, /"Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!" / One minute I held the key / Next the walls were closed on me / And I discovered that my castles stand / Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand
"It is an immense honor to have you." The lady who greeted him, a young lady who introduced herself as Alicia, said to him with a great smile. "We couldn't have found a better consultant."
"I am so honored to help! I really like the idea. And it brings back so many memories..." Spain smiled.
"So, about the script..."
"I gave my correction to your partner. There were mostly mistakes about the language which was used those days. But it was mostly excellent! Well done!"
"We are carrying out some characterization tests on Philip II. Since you lived with him, would you mind if..."
"It'll be a pleasure."
He was taken to the make-up room, where he faced a ghost.
"Do I look like him?" the actor asked.
Spain smiled after a short pause.
"May I hug you?" He asked, and his eyes were a bit watery when he made that question.
2018
«ETA releases statement announcing its complete dissolution. Historic declaration puts an end to the organization 59 years after it first launched its violent campaign for Basque independence.»
Clink!
Spain and France clinked their glasses and took a sip.
"We did it, man...We did it..." Spain sighed.
"Aren't we the best? Not going to lie, we are the best." France smiled.
"Mmmh!" Spain licked his lips. "I don't want to admit it, but your champagne might be slightly better than mine."
"I mean, isn't it obvious?"
France caressed the lip of the cup with a finger.
"That reminds me...I did not ask you sooner because I supposed you'd still be recovering from what happened in Barcelona and Cambrils, but...how are things with your sister Catalonia?"
"She's...been acting like a brat lately. That mock referendum and...Wanna hear the last idea? She's declared herself independent and doesn't want to hear my opinion on the matter. She's like 'I am an adult and a real nation and you treat me like a maid!'. As if I didn't have enough with my little siblings in Latin America opening up the can of worms and threwing them at my face...Did Canada do these things to you?"
"Canada? Oh, no. Absolutely. Mon petit bijou didn't go through that phase, luckily...That I remember. And if he did, England had to put up with it...He deserved it. He stole him from me."
"She's been sneaking into our meetings, trying to be recognized by you guys, right? Someone told me the other day."
"Okay, it's been a mistake bringing up the topic and giving you alcohol. This was supposed to be a celebration, and if I know you well, which I do, you will soon start with the 'buaaah, my siblings don't love me' and all of that, and I don't want you to spoil my Vuitton shirt with your tears and snot..."
"Yes, that's what I'm saying, why did you bring it up, you asshole? You're always putting your finger on the sore spot and twisting it..."
"I'm not going to lie, I kind of miss it, fighting you. It became as natural as breathing. Now that we have nothing to face together, what are we going to do?"
France left his cup on the table and joined his fingers.
"This is the way I see it: we either make war or we make love. There is no in-between."
Spain stirred his glass in thought. Then, he placed his glass on the table too and looked at France, opening his arms.
"...Good try, but I'm going to need more alcohol to do it with you, nation de l'amour."
France filled his cup a little more.
"You know, there is a reason why it's called French kiss..." He said, waving his eyebrows.