The Chosen Ones, False King

Lots of OCs, but then to make up for it is one of my favourite action sequences.

Lombardy-Venezia

Two of Three

Why go to Venice? That had been the question that started him on this path. Why go to Venice? He'd only have two months there and then he'd have to go back to Austria's house again. What was the point of spending two short little months in his city if he wasn't going to be able to do anything with that time?

It was like breaking fingers to convinced himself of that however, and it really, really hurt. Because in Venice he'd be with his people, he could sing the old songs and he could dance the old dances. He could paint and cook and laugh again, he could talk philosophy and theology, he could pray in his favourite cathedrals and visit the statues and graves of his patron saints. There was so much he could do in Venice and two months was enough time for all of it- if just barely.

Why go to Venice? Where else would he go? Feliciano only had enough food to take him to Venice- or some other small town in Veneto, he didn't have the provisions to travel too far out of his way... Except...

He waited until he changed from the Austrian carriage to the Venetian one, savouring the experience of crossing from Austria's territory into his own. He'd said goodbye to Lombardy on the road two days earlier, and he was still a long way from Venice, but he was home... It felt so wonderful! It would be even better when he arrived in Venice!

But he wasn't going to Venice...

"Sir." Was all he said to the driver of the second carriage, the winged lion of Venice emblazoned on the side of the vehicle. The Venetian had looked at the gold in Feliciano's hand and then stared him boldly in the eye. The man had orders, probably from Austrian officials in Venice, but here was Venice himself offering, asking, pleading, for something else.

Humans understood more than they were truly aware of. The man took the gold but he probably would have changed their route even if Feliciano hadn't offered it. Instead of veering east towards Venice, they continued south towards... Ferrara. He flinched when they passed over the border, fighting the urge to cry again as Venice came so close only to pass by beyond the horizon.

"What're you doing here?" Ferrara had bright brown eyes and soft blonde hair, but Feliciano almost passed the laid-back boy on the road where he was laying on his back under an olive tree. Ferrara had a straw hat hanging behind his head and a loose-knit white shirt covering his chest, grey britches hugging his thin legs to the knees. No shoes, he didn't need them, he barely looked up when Feliciano's carriage rattled to a halt.

"Oh, um, just touring..." The carriage was drawn to the side of the road, the driver taking the horses to water while Feliciano awkwardly conversed with his little sibling. Ferrara was so tiny... "Is Ravenna-?"

"Don't talk about that jerk." Ferrara's quick reaction almost made Feliciano smile, especially when Ferrara decided it wasn't a worthwhile argument and dropped onto his back again, watching the sky. Those two had lived together during the fifteenth century, they still didn't like each other, and yet the Congress of Vienna... no, don't think about that. "Ve, I'm hungry, you want lunch?"

"Thank you..."

They didn't say very much to each other, but they talked. It was tense, awkward and not exactly friendly. But they talked. It was easier when they discussed art- but not easy. It was okay when they considered religion- but not by a lot. And when it unexpectedly came to politics-

"I hate that stupid congress." Ferrara's comment surprised him, so did the harsh, accusing look Feliciano was hit with. Ferrara was usually more inclined to nap than talk politics! "I know you really like Austria but-"

"I don't like Austria!" Oh! That was so rude! Feliciano wanted the words back as soon as he said them, his face heating up as he stuffed another olive in his mouth. Ferrara looked confused but then gave up the conversation, like a goat that had run too far to chase after. The subject seemed dealt with after that, the two of them resuming their silence, going back to chewing. Olives, bread and cheese, it was simple fare but good enough for them right now.

"You were the Kingdom of Italy with Lombardy," Oh, Ferrara still wanted to talk? Okay... "So nothing's changed with you guys becoming Lombardy-Venetia." It seemed he really would have to explain this to everybody:

"Big Brother France was being a jerk when he did that. We both hated it but he thought it was funny."

"So why do you still call him big brother?" Um... Force of habit? "Whatever..." And then there was more awkward silence... Maybe Feliciano should think about leav- "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Um, sure. What is it?" Ferrara was watching him again, a curious, sleepy look in his gold eyes as they moved up and down Feliciano's seated form. It was harmless, but still uncomfortable.

"How'd you get so big?" Huh? "Last I saw you, you were still shorter than I was. Your Republic was so big-" Feliciano flinched "-I mean really big, but you were so tiny. What did Austria do to you?"

"I..." Answer truthfully, or make up something? He got along well enough with Ferrara that maybe it wouldn't matter if he was honest, so why not? "I really don't know. I mean, he took away my trade and my government, I'm not allowed to paint very often and he hits me all the time when he's not happy." And after Holy Rome... well, wait, what if...?

"So... that's it? He just treated you badly and suddenly you grew up?" Ferrara seemed confused, but too sleepy to really argue with him. Feliciano corrected him instead.

"No." No it wasn't Austria that had caused this change in him. Funny how he hadn't thought of this before, but Ferrara was watching him curiously from his spot on the ground, clearly still expecting an answer. Feliciano didn't know why, but he smiled. "Ferrara, have you ever... Have you ever lost someone?"

"Huh? Like a patriot?" No, not like that. Not someone human, someone like... them. "You mean like when Nonno Roma died?"

"Ah... not quite like Nonno... I guess not... that's okay." Ferrara was watching him curiously, his gaze not quiet as sleepy as it had been a few minutes ago. Smiling again, Feliciano reached over and was surprised when Ferrara let him set a hand on the boy's light coloured hair. "Thank you for lunch, Ferrara, but I should be going now. Say hello to Ravenna for me, please?"

"Sure, fine, whatever." And then quiet, several moments where Feliciano removed his hand and stood up slowly, brushing the grass off his coat and britches, waving over in his carriage's direction so the driver would know to start getting ready. It was quiet, just the sound of a summer breeze brushing through the tree branches over their head, the remains of their meal dappled with sunlight.

"Arrivederci, fratello."

He didn't keep going south, he wanted to but if he strayed too close to the Papal States he might get in trouble with Austria: Papa would tattle on him for sure. But a few days later he saw Bologna, and Modena was visiting him so it was like two birds with one stone. They both demanded to know why he was there however, Bologna in particular since they were in his territory and it must have looked suspiciously like an attack...

Bologna was very, very skinny, not starved, just without a lot of weight to him. That was sort of how everyone treated him too: like he weighed nothing, like you could just push him aside or hold him down and he wouldn't do anything. He'd always been a bit taller than everyone else, but Feliciano was confused when he found himself looking down at his suddenly-so-much-smaller little brother. Bologna's hair was a bit darker than Feliciano's but had more flip and flare to it, his eyes looked almost blue sometimes but they were actually grey: the more blue they became, the harder it was to push him around.

Modena looked very similar but he was shorter and and darker and rounder than Bologna, so you noticed Modena more than the other, but he still wasn't very strong. Feliciano usually ignored them both unless they encouraged Ferrara to do something stupid around his southern border. Each of his brothers had curls that looked like little triangles hovering next to their heads. Feliciano still towered over them both...

While he was there, and it wasn't for very long, Feliciano had to ask: had either of them ever lost someone they truly loved? They both asked if he meant something like Nonno Roma and Feliciano tried to explain that no, Nonno didn't count, it had to be a different kind of love.

"Is that why you're so tall, Veneziano?" Bologna caught on faster than Modena, but he didn't seem particularly convinced. Embarrassed, all Feliciano could do was wave his hands and try to explain.

"I think so. Someone... someone very important to me died. I cried worse than I did when Nonno died, and it hurt a lot more than when my Republic fell."

"Seriously?" The shorter, rounder brother was far more willing to believe him... "More than what all those bullies did?"

"Liar. I bet he's lying, Modena, don't listen to him!" Despite Bologna's protests, Feliciano was still allowed to clean up, eat and spend the night at his house. In the morning he was even given fresh horses in exchange for the tired ones Austria had given him.

He didn't know if he'd see Sardinia as he moved east across the peninsula, but he was eating up more and more of his two months by travelling around and couldn't afford to go all the way down to Turin looking for his sister.

Feliciano had been gone from Austria for almost four weeks when, suffering with the July heat in the back of his carriage, the entire thing suddenly lurched up onto the side of the road. He wasn't near Sardinia yet; to reach his sister's territory he had to cross Tuscany first, a particularly bratty little brother. The Kingdom cursed as he heard the horses shrieking and the voice of his driver. Still safe inside with the drapes pinned shut, he quickly dropped off his seat and started tearing through the compartments inside the coach.

Austria had given him a pistol before he left: the only thing worse than sea pirates were land bandits. Feliciano swore again when he heard a loud gun-shot and the sound of something heavy hitting the ground outside. Many voices were whooping outside now, horses' hooves beating the dry earth as the carriage itself came to a complete, dead stop. Of course they'd steal the horses, these were bandits, not romantic highway men.

If he'd still been in Austria then Feliciano would have been screaming and crying and shaking in his boots begging them not to hurt him. If he'd been in Veneto then he would have been livid with the men outside, the false patriots who thought they could rob their own nation because they felt like it. But he was in Tuscany, and Feliciano was surprised by how disappointed he was instead.

'I should be scared.' What made Tuscany any different from Austria? Feliciano should have been scared out of his wits to be held by foreign men, it didn't matter where they were from. 'I am scared, but I should be showing it.' Instead he wasn't crying, and he wasn't screaming. Feliciano didn't want to fling open the door and flop on his belly with his arms up, and he didn't feel like begging them to take everything he owned so long as they didn't shoot him and leave him bleeding in agony in a pool of his own blood-! No.

Instead his hand shook a little around the smooth handle of the pistol, the gun tucked in his lap while he took back his seat and crossed one leg over the other, leaning his elbow on the seat rest. He wanted to bounce his leg a little but kept from doing that, resting his chin on his curled fingers while he caressed the trigger in his lap gently. He was disappointed that they were attacking, he was distressed over what had happened to his driver- he knew the man was dead, there were no groans or muffled words fluttering past the drawn curtain protecting Feliciano from the sunlight. And he was a little bit scared, but-

"Aha- Huh? Where's the girl?" The door on the far side of the carriage was whipped open so hard it almost came off its hinges, Feliciano glancing out of the corner of his eyes to see a scruffy, unwashed Tuscan man standing there with his dirty clothes and a look of sheer disappointment painted across his tanned face.

"What girl?" Had they attacked the wrong coach? Well! This was a good thing then! Feliciano was alright with that; he'd rather deal with men like these than let them harass a good family, and the urge to point the gun at the Tuscan faded with this information. He was pretty relieved, actually: the pistol only had one barrel and Feliciano hadn't found the additional powder or bullets in his frenzied search. He only had one shot, so if he used it it would have to count for something.

"This is a wedding coach!" Oh, he didn't want to hear that. The Tuscan looked mad now. "But you're nothing but a boy! Where's your bride and the gifts?" Gifts? Feliciano was wearing most of them but he didn't say as much. He might as well answer the question though, maybe talk some sense into his attackers- at least this one had bothered to open the carriage and take a look inside instead of just shooting.

"My spouse went home, I'm going to visit my brother in Florence." He really didn't want to go all the way to Florence, but it was better than explaining-

"A Venetian in Florence?" The Venetian city crest was probably still visible on the side of the coach, and even if it wasn't, Feliciano's accent would have given it away. "Hah! You Habsburgs are all-"

BANG.

Well, at least the shot counted. Smoke bloomed out the back of the pistol and stained his white glove, but it served Tuscany right for attacking him: he was not a Habsburg.

It all came together very quickly in Feliciano's mind: there was no one to call for help and he couldn't run if his enemies were on horseback. Surrender wouldn't help since he'd just killed one of them- he probably could have handled that better... But if he didn't defend himself then-

He could hear them.

Whipping the carriage door on his side open, it collided with a heavy body before he slammed it shut again. Dropping out of his seat, an arm speared through the window with a knife and impaled the side of the carriage where his neck had just been. Feliciano grabbed the offending wrist before it could pull back, jerking down and wrestling for the knife until his attacker was half-way through the window from all the fighting.

The empty pistol split the man's brow when Feliciano whipped him with the butt-end, finally wresting the knife free and trading it for the gun. The bandit was dazed and his own gun belt was exposed where he was tangled in the velvet curtains, Feliciano relieving him of the double-barrel pistol and pointing it through the open door on the other side of the carriage.

Bang!

There was so much smoke from two gunshots, but he still saw the man he'd aimed for crumple on the ground clutching his chest. When he had to shoot, his aim was good.

'I'm sick of this!' The thought struck him out of nowhere, ill-timed and useless as Feliciano jumped up and slammed his hand through the closed sun-roof over his head. 'I'm so sick of us fighting all the time!'

Hoisting himself up into the sunlight with both arms, the open air was buzzing with heat and hoof-beats as the Venetian kept his head down and quickly dropped off the top of the coach- avoiding at least one loud gunshot as he landed on the dry grass. He should have asked Austria for a sword-!

There were five- six? Damn it he couldn't tell and as soon as his eyes adjusted to the bright light Feliciano twisted away from an incoming sword-blade. His attacker over-reached and lost his balance as the nation grabbed the human's wrist, holding the forearm before his fist mashed the outside of the elbow and broke the limb. The knife found its way into the screaming man's throat and was left there, the Venetian going for the dropped sword instead.

Old, notched, and badly cared for; the sabre still did its job as he turned toward the sound of hoof-beats and ducked. He slashed the animal's underbelly trying to sever the saddle and knock off the rider whose gunshot missed, wounding the animal as the horse shrieked and only ran a few more yards before refusing to obey its rider. He didn't see where they went as he turned to deal with another bandit running straight for him.

The swords collided in mid-swing, Feliciano parrying the other blade and keeping the stolen pistol in his left hand, quickly advancing three, four, five steps after his retreating opponent. The man had no style, he'd probably taken the sword off a dead soldier rather than earned it himself through the Tuscan army. When the bandit struck out again Feliciano let the tip glide down his own sword until the large medallion over his hand protected his fingers, knocking the weapon aside and thrusting with one powerful step.

"Shit!" His strike only missed because someone else shot him in the back. Pain erupted in his chest like a net cast around his lungs and gut, the fierce sensation white hot and burning straight through his fear. Furious, Feliciano let his swear carry him into another attack, slashing twice and chasing the coward who was too stunned to fight back and too horrified by Feliciano's endurance to stand there: the bastard turned away to run and the Venetian pointed the pistol after him.

Bang!

He watched the bandit go down but felt another blast of pain rip through his back and side, his flesh ripping away from the bones. He dropped the empty pistol and stumbled slightly as the blood came spilling down his back, staining his ruined jacket and running hot and red down his leg. His new clothes...!

"Fall already! Stubborn Habsburg!" His chest was on fire, Feliciano certainly wanted to just lay down and let the pain go away. He'd let himself just slip into the dreamless abyss, the almost-death that their kind escaped to whenever the pain became too much for these flesh-like bodies. He could already taste the thick copper welling up in the back of his throat from his shredded lungs...

"I... I am not-" He was not a Habsburg, he was not Austrian, and Feliciano was getting sick and tired of having to say so. When he turned around and saw the man he'd tried to unhorse fumbling to reload the rifle that had already hit him twice, Feliciano fixed his grip on the sabre clutched in his right hand. The blade was red with horse's blood, but that didn't seem fair after the trouble these men had caused him.

"I am not a Habsburg-!" A human could not run with his injuries, but he was half of Lombardy-Venetia and Feliciano Vargas could make his body charge one more time. The stolen weapon was pulled back behind him as he pounded the dry grass under his feet and flew fast enough to stun the predator who was still re-loading his rifle.

"Iam Italian!" And he was so sick of fighting-!

BANG!

To quote from TVTropes: "Italy isn't physically weak, but the enemy is scary and pasta is delicious, and there's a pretty girl over there." So if you take away the pasta and give him nowhere to run when there are no pretty girls around, you get a lot of dead bandits on the side of a Tuscan road.

If you read it, review it? What did you think of the fight?