1812

Life in Spain was not life for young soldier Émile Delacour. The emperor had said that taming Spain would be easy as pie. The former monarchs, aristocracy, bourgeoisie, high clergy and army were on their side; Spain only had peasants fighting for his cause. Perhaps some rebellious military men had joined him, but their enemy was widely inexperienced, untrained, uncoordinated. It should have been so easy to put out the fire of revolution which spread like wildfire from Madrid to the rest of the country.

But it turned out the Spaniards were not human, but demons incarnated.

They hated them so, so much that even the prostitutes were cold to them. It was impossible to find a spy willing to betray the rebels, the sole proposition was taken as an insult and not few candidates spat in their face. Those who first greeted them into the peninsula and really believed that France had much to teach Spain were being lynched, or willingly switched sides, patriotism winning over their ideals.

"War is not easy, just like life is not easy. Get over it, soldier." Captain Martin said to him, riding his horse by his side. After that, he handed Émile a sheet of paper. "Take a look at this."

Émile didn't know any Spanish, but recognized the man who was caricatured, praying on his knees inside of a bottle of wine, the liquid reaching his neck.

"What does it say?" He asked his superior.

"Translated roughly: «Each of us has their luck, till death yours is being a drunk»."

"Oh, dear..."

"They call him Pepe Botella. Bottle Pepe. He came here to give these imbeciles a better life and how do they thank him? Wasting no chance to call him a drunk. Absurd! The king is an abstemic."

"Maybe Spain just needs time to get used to us...So many centuries fighting...He surely holds so much grudge..."

"Bah! If it was for me, I would kill the entire population and hang that savage like the dog he is. It would do this land a favor, like pulling up the weed. Even the children are vermin. I should have returned home two months ago, but instead I have to be in this filthy hole and-"

Words and something else died when shadows fell on them.

"Are you sure we will find him here?"

"I am."

"How?"

"I just know."

Portugal and England brought no men with them. It was better to handle this issue personally—also, there was a high chance that the men they brought ended up dead or wounded, and they didn't want to lose soldiers for nothing. They made their horses walk slowly, so they could listen to each sound and watch every shadow, every movement in that...Even the shake of a leaf made them stop.

They had heard stories of what happened to the French at the range, the forests and roads. They disappeared suddenly, only to reappear naked, dead or both—if they were even seen again.

"Spain loves being in the wilderness, I see." England commented with a frown. "First in the New World, here...He would be happy running with the boars, naked and covered in mud, that's for sure..."

"We should have found him by now..." Portugal muttered, looking around.

"All we have found in our way were French soldiers. I am starting to wonder if it's not too late. If he's not being taken as a prisoner or dead."

"Absolutely."

"How do you know?"

"I've told you: I know him."

"I know him too. I've been fighting him for centuries. Admit it, Portugal: it is very likely that France fulfilled his promise and killed him. All Spain has on his side are villains. The army is on France's side. He just can't win. We probably came too late."

"Trust me, I am sure we will find him in any moment. This Fernández fellow probably knows where he is. If we find him, we will find Spain."

Portugal had no idea of how accurate his prediction was until he felt a great blow and when he realized he was lying on the grass, knocked out from his horse, and all he could see were lots of hands grabbing him, dragging him through the ground. He heard England scream some curses, probably suffering the same situation, but he couldn't see him, with all those faces in the way.

And then, a familiar one.

"Well, well, I can't see I'm surprised. When a whale starts to bleed, sharks approach..."

It was him. Spain. He had his hands on his hips and looked at them with a smirk. He was not dressed in the courtier fashion, but had fused with the common people even in the way he dressed, wearing a bandana on his head and growing his sideburns. He had a cigarette between his smiling lips.

Portugal chuckled and turned his head to England. "What did I tell you?"

A man with a beard stopped by Spain's side and gazed at the two nations with a smile too.

"So these are nations too?" He asked Spain in Spanish.

"Yep. Inglaterra y Portugal."

"They don't look like tough guys. Not even special."

"Don't underestimate them. If they are here, that is bad news for us."

"We came here to help." Portugal said.

"Excuse me, I didn't hear anybody here give you permission to talk." The man said to him.

"We came here following the trace of someone called Antonio Fernández." Portugal continued anyway. "Your right hand? We've intercepted some letters saying that he had to be protected, him giving orders-"

"You didn't listen or what? You are not in-" The man was interrupted by Spain, who placed his hand on his shoulder.

"No, no, Juanito, let him speak. I haven't spoken to my dear brother in so long, I was starting to miss his sweet voice." Spain smiled, throwing away what little remained of his cigarette. "I am Antonio Fernández. A codename, you see. France is looking for me, in every village, in every house."

"We came here to help you fight France." Portugal repeated, standing up, and helping England do so.

"Oh, you are so generous...Now seriously, what do you want?"

"You and us want the same thing." England intervened, shaking the dust off his clothes. "To make France bite the dust. You can't do it alone."

"We can manage perfectly on our own."

"You can't. Look at you. Fighting like a bandit because you can't win in open battle. Sure, you are resisting now, but for how long?"

"We have intercepted newspapers." Spain said. "Our resistance is taking effect. This wasn't the walk in the park he thought it would be. We know France is starting to show signs of tiredness. Napoleon himself has come to stay in Chamartín to take care of everything he can't do and guide his next steps. He is having a hard time with Russia, too. He forgot to pack good coats apparently and now his balls are frozen. He is growing weaker, has too many fronts to fight in, and Joseph Bonaparte doesn't know that. He doesn't know because by the time any Frenchman here hears any news, we know it in advance, and if we don't want them to know something, they will never find out."

"It is true Russia got to stop France and that man, Bonaparte." Portugal said, "That is why it is time to attack, now that he is vulnerable."

"Perhaps you don't remember that just a few years ago I declared war on the two of you."

"Did you want to fight us?"

"Not really. But I refuse to believe you forgot about it."

"We can overlook it. For the moment." England said. "The situation is really exceptional. That man, Bonaparte, has made himself an emperor and will stop at nothing till all of Europe is in his hands. And the three of us know how corrupted France's soul is. He was your family, Spain, and betrayed you. Don't be ashamed. He did the same to me. We also made a deal long time ago, to fight against you before you became too powerful. And he did the same to me. France should not be in control of Europe. We cannot consent this any longer. He will come to our houses and take over our governments, overthrown and kill our kings. This is our chance to stop him."

That man by Spain's side, called Juan, crossed his arms and glanced at his nation, not understanding anything they talked in English but getting that they came to negotiate. Spain folded his arms too and closed his eyes, deep in thought.

"...You came alone." He finally said.

"But our men are already in the peninsula, waiting for instructions." England replied.

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"You can trust us...Come on, Espanha. Let us help you. We do it, and we leave." Portugal said to him.

Spain opened his eyes and they met Portugal's. The man who was once more like a neighbor to him, more than a husband. Like they were parts of one single soul. Why did they have to see each other war after war? ...Why did Portugal have to leave?, Spain asked himself once more.

Spain looked away, then turned around.

"This man here is Juan Martínez, but everybody calls him El Empecinado. That means Stubborn, in case you didn't know. I guess he needs no further introduction. Him and me will go tomorrow to Torija to blow up the castle, before the French use it as a fortification. The other guys in the group will tell you all details. They don't know a single word of English or Portuguese, so you I hope your Spanish is good."

Portugal smirked and said to him aloud, before Spain walked away:

"I'm glad to see you again!"

Spain stopped and turned to him.

"Sim, é um prazer vê-lo novamente, querido." He replied, smiling too.

He left England and Portugal with those bandits and walked along with The Empecinado.

"Are you sure we can trust them?" The man asked him.

"Right now I would even trust the Devil himself..." Spain replied.

He did not complain about living in the forests, always moving, following, spying, but the people were tired, had to resist sieges, hunger, repression...and he felt all of that even more than what could happen to his carnal body. The sieges of Zaragoza and Gerona had been particularly tiring. He was getting energy from the most remote corners of his soul.

"Your Greatness!" Friar Miguel ran to his encounter with those waddling steps of his.

"How many times I have to tell you, my dear friar, that you don't have to call me that?" Spain smiled at him.

"Sorry, uh, señor Spain, but it is important. A mailman has been intercepted in Brihuega. He was following your steps with a message for you from the Central Junta."

He tended him a few envelopes at which Spain gazed for long before grabbing.

"Thank you." He finally said, and read the first letter while resuming his walk. But he soon stopped to read with closer attention. "Oh."

"What has Pepe Botella done now?" The Empecinado asked him.

"Nothing. They want me to go to Cádiz. Sorry, Juanito, I can't go with you."

"It's alright. I understand it is important."

"...It is."

"Don't worry, then. There are fights you must fight alone. Leave this to us."

"May God help you."

Spain then read the other letter. This was not from any government. Just reading that handwriting, that name made his expression change. It was from his boy, Paraguay.

«Spain,

You haven't replied to any of the letters I have been sending you these last four years. I thought you were ignoring me, and was angry at you, honestly. It is now that I have been told that you are not living in palace anymore, but fighting in the hills and the forests against France. I am very sorry about thinking that you didn't love me any more and were giving me the silent treatment. You are just too busy defending your freedom to sit down and reply to letters which never reach you. I am not even sure this one will find its addressee, but I must try. No. I know you and I know you could not be ignoring something so important. I am sure that what has been happening lately in our continent is just a misunderstanding, people in the government not following your orders, probably France's evil hand. They are being cruel to us, silencing us with violent methods, and I am sure you wouldn't order such a thing personally.

Freedom is precisely what I want to talk to you about. Not your own—but I sincerely wish you escape the claws of that filthy France—but mine. I am not a little boy anymore. The facts are the facts. I am grown up now and it is time that I make my own decisions. I could manage my own finances well and bring prosperity to my home if you gave me the chance to make decisions on my own.

It is very hard to say this, brother, but I am sure you will understand. I need something more. I need to be my own person.

I have declared myself independent.

Please, don't think we are comparing you to France. Here in America your siblings are very inspired by what you are doing. We know you love us. You have been a severe brother, you made us work, but I know you love us. The matter is, Spain, we are grown up now, and it is time we make our own decisions and are owners of our own lives. I am a man and I have to start acting like one. I would be a failure if after all you have done to raise me I was still dependent from you.

I wish you the best in this war, but, please, I ask you to consider my words. Nothing would make me happier than your blessing. May God protect you, my dear big brother.»

Domingo Carriedo, one of his new friends, approached. He was about to offer him some wine when he stopped, seeing his grave face.

"Who's that from? ...Bad news?"

Spain, after a moment of silence, chuckled and turned the paper into a ball.

"My baby boy Paraguay. You humans are lucky that your teenage years are so brief. To us nations it can be an eternity." He replied, and threw the paper away.

He traveled to Cádiz failing to disguise his worry. If it wasn't for the war that had him busy there and consumed all of his resources, he would have crossed the ocean with troops, to give Paraguay a corrective for even suggesting to do something so dangerous and stupid...

The composition of the Parliament was quite...special, to say the least. Since there was no way the Latin American representatives could attend, men from the New World who were in the city were chosen instead; there were writers, lawyers, doctors, but their numbers were so insignificant in comparison to priests, prestigious men, mayors and high ranks. Some were progressive, others supported the Ancient Regime. And not all noblemen supported absolutism, just like not all bourgeois were liberal. But they agreed on something: the situation of things made it impossible to go back to how they were before France's invasion.

"Bonaparte's intervention in Bayonne was completely illegal. Violence was used and there was no consent from the nation, here present."

Spain felt all those eyes on him, and he, the most powerful nation in the world (at least once), felt shy like a little boy.

"No king should get the crown without the explicit consent of his nation. We need a regulation which protects us from rascals like Bonaparte."

"You are our real sovereign."

Spain turned his head to the mariscal who had said that.

"You are this land. It is you who should decide what is best for you, and us." The man said firmly. And Spain heard mutters of approval around.

"You shouldn't be subject to any family or person, but they should just stay as a mere collaborator. They don't own you. Nobody should. You are the representation of something divine, something pure, which should not be corrupted by the ambition of men." A journalist stood up to say.

"You know what people want. You are the people." A doctor intervened. "So it is you the one we will follow."

Spain sighed. He stood up to speak to his audience.

"...Thank you, gentlemen, but I am not sure I could do this..."

"Don't be afraid, Your Greatness." A count said. "You will always have our support and our guide."

"...For so long...I have seen men involving me and you in their personal whims...Sacrificing lives like it was nothing...So much injustice..." Spain raised his voice and his head. "But that is over. From now on, whoever holds the crown, will have to listen to me. No. To you. It is you who will tell me what needs to be done, because you represent my people's will. It is you who will legislate. The king shall only execute it, and justice...Justice is only a tribunal's competence. It is not my place to judge anybody. And you...you should be chosen by all men in this kingdom. Yes, all men, no matter their age or condition. I shall not intervene, because what I am, after all? It is too complicated. I am everyone and no one. My will is the general will..."

"But what about religion?" A priest interrupted the nation. "You must make a decision about this! France apostatized, and I hope you didn't..."

"I shall always be faithful to the Roman Catholic Church. No other faith will be professed in my house. I mean, if you liberals agree."

"We think it is fair." One writer replied, nodding slightly.

"In order to defend these rules, we need to have a special police." Spain said, his hands on the tribune and eyes wide open, enthusiasm heating him. "But we also need a permanent army— see the consequences of not having one! I legitimize the king, so the king must do what I say, and what I want from the king is that he accepts these laws. Ferdinand is a reasonable man, I am sure he will be glad to. If he doesn't, I will never let him touch the crown. Now that I am thinking about it, how can my people obey the laws and know their rights if they don't know how to read? We must change that! All populations will have an education system. I will make sure of it, even if I have to teach them everything I know myself. And since they will get more interesting ideas, we should be able to get to know of them, help them share them, even if they may seem challenging. They shall not be censored!"

"What about the old privileges from our ancestors?" A marquis asked.

"To hell with them! There will be no more lords and no more vassals! All men were created equal! Everybody should be free to work and associate as they please! Do not look at me like that, gentlemen, your properties will still be yours. No one will touch them. Just, you won't have any more subjects, but workers. Understand the difference?"

"And the Inquisition?" An old bishop asked.

Oh, the Inquisition...Spain hadn't assisted to one execution in ages, because he had been so busy, but he didn't find them particularly entertaining anymore. In fact, they made him cringe so bad...After the Jewish and the Moors were expelled and Protestants were taken out of the country with the sword, what sense did the Inquisition have? To chase the unfaithful and old ladies who thought they could summon the Devil? To be a tool for the king to control his people?

"There will be no more Inquisition!" Spain declared, and more than one person in the room sighed in relief. "Scribe, did you take notes of everything?"

"Yes, sir!" The little man exclaimed, moving his quill frenetically.

"So...Do you all agree?" The president asked the people in the room.

"Yes!"

"Aye!"

"Long live Spain!"

"Then, it is decided! Our Constitution is approved!"

"Gentlemen, this is an historical day, March 19th..." The bishop stood up, satisfied.

"Saint Joseph..." A man near Spain commented. "José...Pepe...No. Constitution is a feminine word...Pepa..."

"This little beauty here" The nation jumped to the scribe and placed a hand on the pile of papers in his hand. "I love her so much she'll be my lovely Pepa!"

¡Viva la Pepa! was the cry which echoed in the Parliament, and in the streets Spain was cheered by the people of Cadiz, who carried him shoulder-high through the streets, crying, laughing, waving the flags like if Spain was drifting in a golden and red sea. And in all Spain the cheer spread: "¡Viva la Pepa!"

1813

Wellington wasn't such a great tactician in Spain's opinion but he seemed to learn from his own mistakes and the result was there, in front of his eyes.

Joseph Bonaparte, seeing the little troops remaining in the country were being crushed by the Spanish, the English and the Portuguese, fled, left his own nation behind. But France wasn't allowed to leave with him yet.

"Look at him."

France was tied up, on his knees, in front of his standing enemies. He shook his hair out of his face and kept looking at them defiantly, not opening his lips.

"How cute." Portugal continued, his head tilted.

"He looks so pretty when he's all beaten up." England smiled, watching the French with a hand on his chin.

"He's so pretty it makes me want to cry...I will miss you so, so much, mon amour..." Spain crouched down to his level. "I think...the only way I could bear being apart from you is taking what you call a souvenir from you..."

Spain took his knife and France flinched a bit, thinking for a second that he was going to cut his ear off. Maybe his tongue or his nose, or the most preciated part of his body. But what Spain cut was one of his golden locks.

"Good idea, Spain. If you allow me, I've had so much fun kicking this man's behind that I want a memento of this too." England stepped forward, took the knife Spain offered him and cut another lock. "Oh, and another one for my king, so he sees I haven't forgotten him."

"I want one too." Portugal took the knife and cut a few locks more. "And this one is for my king too, and for my queen, and my little princes, and my good friend Manoel, and Luiz, and Joaquim, and my good friend the baker will be so glad I remembered him..."

When they were done, France didn't even look like himself, with barely any hair left. Even then he kept glaring at each one of them.

"When you see your emperor again." England said to him, approaching so much he was almost kissing his cheek, "tell him this is just the beginning..."

He stood up and demanded the French soldiers' attention snapping his fingers.

"We're done. You can take him away."

And so they did, so intimidated they didn't even raise their gaze from the ground. France, on the contrary, didn't stop glaring at them silently until he disappeared, mounted on the horse.

"Well, I think we earned ourselves a bottle of liquor or two." Portugal smiled, rubbing his hands.

"You have it without me. I have a home to rebuild. England will take care of it. He's got all my finest liquor. And my works of art. And my artillery." Spain replied, turning his back on them and walking away.

Portugal turned his head toward England.

"So you took the chance, didn't you?"

"It was something preventive. Nothing personal." England said, proudly raising his chin. "Well, I am still up for that drink. Forget that ingrate. Let's have fun, you and I, and then we go home. Finally!"

England went home, indeed, carrying what he had stolen from France—things France had previously stolen from Spain and not having to worry about a few fortifications and artillery parks.

1814

Spain was so excited it made the people around him smile. He looked like the dog which had been waiting for its master to return from a long journey.

He bit his under lip when he finally saw the carriage, cheered by everyone in its path, to which people tossed flowers. He was the first to come to its encounter. He wanted to be the first to say hello to Ferdinand.

He came alone. Spain would never hear from his parents again: Charles made a deal with his son to renounce to the throne in exchange of enough money to live comfortably in Naples. But at that moment Spain didn't care about them. Ferdinand, his true king, was back. As soon as he descended from the carriage, Spain embraced him tightly.

"You're home..."

"I'm finally home..." Ferdinand whispered.

Ferdinand looked at him for long, the bandages, the scars, the scratches, on their way into the palace and Spain smiled at him.

"It's nothing. I mean, I've lost so much, but it was worth it. France is back to his swamp and you are here. And they may have told you already, but we got a Constitution!"

"A Constitution..." Ferdinand repeated in lower voice.

"Yes! I mean, France was only right about thing: it is time to change things. This whole experience has opened my eyes. I need to make my own decisions. I have so many ideas I want to put into practice, with your support...Uhm, if you want to get the crown officially, you'll have to sign it, but you come from so far away, you'd better rest first."

"Yes, of course...Just give me some time."

He kept watching his wounds, how tired he looked. Spain was fool enough to believe it was concern and not calculation what was in his eyes...

Until those words were promulgated.

«...my royal spirit is not only not swearing nor accepting said Constitution, nor any decree from the Parliament, but declaring that Constitution and said decrees invalid and with no value or effect, nor now nor ever, as if those acts had never happened and moved out of the way in time, and with no obligation in my nations and subjects of any class and condition to keep and guard them...»

"...What is this?"

Spain was standing, while Ferdinand was sitting, reading a book. The king was so calm, he turned the page without looking away from his reading, as if Spain wasn't there.

"You promised..."

Spain smacked the book and made it fall from Ferdinand's hands.

"You promised!"

Ferdinand finally looked at him, and Spain saw something in those dark eyes he didn't like.

"I never promised anything." He said firmly.

"Ferdinand, the Constitution is going to bring so many good things for my-!"

"I know what is going to bring: misery, confusion. You nations are like wild horses. You need someone to tame you and take care of you. That is the way it was agreed millenniums ago. And now you want to break this ancient deal? You want to steal my birth right?"

"That's not true, you are still the king..."

"You are setting limits with me."

"It's for the common good. Look what's happened. A tyrant may come and..."

"What happened will not happen again. Now I am the king. God put me where I am. Are you going against God's design?"

"God didn't do it. It was me. And your people. Which is the same. They gave their lives, their blood, everything they had for you...And this is how you reward them?!"

"I am warning you, Spain, get that stupid idea out of your head."

"It is stupid for you! Not for me! That paper means I am finally not merchandise, or the puppet of the monarch on call! Why can't you see?!"

"What I am seeing" Ferdinand glared at him, "is that those liberals France brought with him managed to rot your brains. They put those ideas in your head and now you're acting crazy, against all order. Perhaps you need some time to get back on track...and remember who is in charge."

"You're only in charge if I say so!" Spain screamed at him.

They were not alone. The servants were still present, even if they had to be discreet and pretend they were part of the decoration. They couldn't believe what they had to witness.

And when Ferdinand slapped Spain, several of them couldn't repress a gasp.

The king had just smacked the nation!

"Guards!"

A couple of soldiers approached.

"Our friend Spain needs some time in the dungeon to remember what the order of things is..." Ferdinand said, shaking his hand dismissively and turning around.

Spain shook his head in disbelief. His body tensed and resisted the guards, who ended up taking him away anyway.

"Son of a whore..."

Ferdinand picked up the book, sat again and resumed his reading.