1621

"Ah, Spain, if I hadn't been so weak to fall in the pleasures this world offers and had been of any help to you...You wouldn't be in this situation...You deserved a much better king..."

It seemed that Philip realized about his wrongdoings in his deathbed. He had been looking grim for some time now, and when fever came, Spain feared the worst. Philip should have stayed in bed, but wanted to pray at the Convent of Incarnation, near the palace, and Spain couldn't say no to him. He even kept him company, hoping the Lord would have mercy on his child, because he was undergoing a very painful penitence of the mind and the spirit. But Philip died not much after that. He was only forty-two.

Following the line of succession, his son, another Philip that would be crowned the Fourth, became Spain's king. He was sixteen and, although he had received the finest education Spain and Austria could afford, he had barely any experience in all the matters with affected them.

"I will do it the best I can. I too have suffered seeing my father's mistakes and I promise you things will be different." He assured him the same morning they buried Philip.

But it seemed it ran in the family. If the second Philip thought his child was unfit to rule the world, Spain was glad he was dead so he didn't have to witness what his grandson was doing. He acted like a very pious man, but Spain knew very well he had as many secret children as the night sky has stars. If only his duties worried him as much as the skirts of women! But he too let another man take care of his nation while he sneaked into convents, turned widows into mothers and sought the company of actresses. It was not that Spain was prudish: he also liked to dress like a commoner and go to the bars and lie with ladies as much as he could; Philip's sins were between him and the Lord—but he was in so much trouble he could have used help.

Perhaps he turned to wine, tobacco and women because was tired. So, so tired. Lerma's plan to make peace with his enemies had proven to be a temporary fix. He was powerful and there were people around him who just couldn't stand it, and did everything they could to destroy him. God knew how tired he was, how little he wanted to fight...He was so tired of fighting, all the time, every year of his long life...He couldn't afford it anyway. He was ruined. He could afford all those pleasures because his people loved him and forgave his debts, but banks and noblemen were not that nice. All money he had was for his workers, his soldiers, and there were times when he couldn't even pay for their salary—then riots happened and all of Europe talked about the Spanish brutality. He couldn't ask his provinces to produce more because it was impossible, so the ships from America everyone expected like a breath of fresh air, though enthusiastically waited for, was not enough...They were compromised before they even reached the port...

He couldn't talk to anyone. Romano avoided him. Austria wouldn't understand. New Spain, Cuba, Peru, all of his children were too young and he didn't want to worry them. Belgium had her own problems. And Portugal seemed so absent-minded...

"Your enemies know. That you are weak and tired."

The Duke of Uceda had tried to keep his profitable position, but Philip had been firm and named his trusted gentleman the new favorite. He trusted him so much he had numerous tasks which required Olivares to follow him everywhere he went, hunting and even sleeping in the same room. He was a very energetic man who seemed to know what needed to be done and did it as soon as possible without any kind of delay. The first thing he did when he got the power was purge all the vultures around Spain, those people he appreciated but, in his opinion, were only enriching themselves at his expenses.

Both of them were smoking in his office, Olivares looking at him gravely.

"The ceasefire with Holland is over and he has immediately pounced on America. Every day I get a letter from your little siblings crying dead scared because there is a pirate trying to steal them. Your husband Austria needs your help against the invaders, and now France has that cardinal Richelieu whispering terrible deeds into his ear like a devil on his shoulder. The time for peace is over. Perhaps it was a mistake to try to bury the hatchet in the first place. Peace does not last when you are negotiating with snakes."

"...I want to do everything possible to keep the peace." Spain replied after a pause. "I am not in the proper situation to waste my energies on lost causes. And I want to believe that those who gave me their word will keep it."

Olivares expelled smoke through his nose and shook his head.

"Ah, Your Greatness! Words are like dust in the wind!"

1640

"Be cautious, Spain. Don't get too excited."

That was what Austria advised him in a letter, but Spain galloped to Barcelona with his heart filled with a feeling he could not express but had him restless.

He had been called to intervene because the insurgents had murdered the viceroy, count of Saint Coloma, the man who represented him in Catalonia. Why, he had been told: apparently his soldiers, who were supposed to make sure France did not do anything strange at Roussillon, were fairly unkind to the Catalonians. They had committed sacrilege in some of the churches and raped women, they said. And the peasants could have taken this chance to kill and steal the nobility. Once again, he feared his men were angry for not getting paid for their services and used their bravery and force the wrong way. Spain had to go there to speak to them.

But there were more astonishing news: their nation had revolted, they said.

A nation...A new sibling?

Spain tried to be there as quick as possible, barely eating, barely resting. He had a sibling and he had to meet them...

"Long live the faith of Christ! Long live the land, death to bad government!"

He was met by peasants armed with reapers and clubs, who shouted and sang.

Catalonia triumphant
Shall again be rich and abundant.
Drive away these folks
Who are so gall and arrogant.

But Catalonia, where were they? Spain was not well received. He was yelled at when he approached. Some tried to grab him and would have done so if it wasn't for his guards.

"Where is Catalonia?" He asked.

It took him long, but managed to find someone loyal to him who could answer. Catalonia was a little girl. She was at the Palau de la Generalitat, kept safe and sound. Spain made his way without delay, hopped off his horse and ran inside.

"Catalonia?"

He found her upstairs, looking at him from the balustrade. She had golden eyes, his hair—he even had the impression that their features were the same. He could hold no grudge. He had just met her and recognized her as a little sister already. He removed his hat and approached cautiously.

"I'm Spain. I came here to talk to you. It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Won't you, really?"

Catalonia had not opened her lips to speak. Those words came from a man who appeared behind her. Spain heard the clip clop of his heels while walking. His fur coat had a long tail that he was dragging behind him. His hands were covered with white gloves. France's blue eyes were so shiny.

"...What are you doing here...?" Spain growled, his expression and voice changing.

"The little girl asked me for help, and she knows she can always count on me." France replied, placing a hand on Catalonia's shoulder.

"...This is family business. You've got no business to be here."

"I think I do. It is my duty to make sure that no one suffers in the hands of a tyrant."

"A tyrant? Is that what you think I am? Don't listen to him, Catalonia. I know him well. He's getting profit from the situation, as always. He will use you and then throw you away."

"Oh, but isn't that what you have been doing all of these centuries? You are always telling people what to do, what to think, what god they must pray to..."

"I only want the best for them."

"At what cost? Murdering them if they don't obey you?" France raised an eyebrow. "We all know what you have done. You lied to the Indians and when you got their trust you murdered them and enslaved their people. You have been using God as an excuse to conquer and dominate."

"Don't act like you know me, France. You don't."

"I do. I know the likes of you. You can fool everyone but not me. You are rotten inside. You are selfish, self-righteous and an opportunist. You disguise your ambitions with good will. That is why everyone is fed up with you. We are not going to let you keep oppressing us."

Spain turned his eyes to Catalonia.

"...You don't think I...Do you?"

Catalonia stared, just stared.

"...If I asked you all for money...If I made you work...It's because I can't sustain all this alone, don't you see? I...We all have to contribute...Like in a big house...Don't you understand? You understand, do you?"

Catalonia did not open her mouth. She just drew back and embraced France, her eyes still on Spain.

That hurt him more than any word could.

"As you can see, she has already made a decision." France said, satisfied, as he gave her protection under his cape. "Now the question is...will you respect it or will you do your thing and attack your friends, your own blood even?"

Incapable of looking at those fearful but determined golden eyes, or answer to France, Spain drew back, and back, until he was out of the palace.

Portugal walked into the office, closing the door behind him.

"Where were you?" Austria asked him, his eyebrows furrowed.

"That is none of your concern." Portugal replied with no less severity, approaching the table him and Spain were around.

"It is, because we need you. Our business is y-"

"Austria." Spain grunted, and Austria hushed instantly. He was so irritated he was smoking all day long, like a chimney. He was not in the mood for silly arguments. He then turned to his husband. "Catalonia has opened her ports to France. We need to send men to the place. That meaning, we need money."

"More money?" Portugal frowned.

"And if you could speak to your nobility and get their support..."

"I can't make money grow from the trees, Spain." Portugal interrupted him.

"Just a little effort, brother."

"I am already doing a big effort; you've got no idea. You don't let me trade with Holland, you don't let me see England, I must pay for your ventures..."

"Our vows said for richer and poorer, for as long as we shall live!" Spain shouted then, bumping his fist against the table, raising his head to look at Portugal with rage.

Silence followed. Portugal held his stare for some moments until he turned around and left the room.

Spain turned his head to Austria and he held his stare for some seconds, not showing any kind of emotion. Spain then let out a long sigh, closing his eyes.

"...Portu?"

He was not inside that room, either. Where could he be? Where? He hadn't seen him leave the palace...He had to find him...He had to tell him...tell him...

He entered Philip's office, where he and his counselors were discussing some official matters.

"Have you seen Portugal? He's...been avoiding me for many days..."

One of the men opened his mouth but no sound came out of it.

"...I haven't been feeling good lately...And I made him pay for it. I was quite rude to him...I need to tell him I'm sorry..."

It was then when his king, nervously touching his own mustache, stood up, dismissed the counselors and closed the door. Much to Spain's confusion, he placed both his hands on his shoulders.

"...You didn't do anything wrong. He's just...he likes having things his way..."

Spain gave him a confused look.

"...He's not here...He went back home...He left at some point at night, two days ago, leaving a note in his chamber." Philip continued.

"He did? ...Back to Lisbon, right?" Spain asked. "I'll go there, then. Prepare me a horse and-"

"No, Spain. I don't think you should go right now."

"...Why? ...Philip, what's going on?" Philip did not reply, and Spain was getting increasingly nervous. "What's going on? What happened? Please, tell me, don't torture me like this!"

"...A messenger has come this morning. A messenger from Portugal...He has crowned the Duke of Braganza as his own king...He gives you this."

Philip opened a drawer in his desk and gave Spain something—the wedding ring that once belonged to Portugal.

Spain went so pale, squeezed that ring in such a way that the king started to get worried.

"...We will find a solution...We will send ambassadors to try to make Portugal come back to his sens-"

"Bring him back." Spain said then with a raspy voice. Philip was about to reply, but Spain rose his eyes to him—eyes like green flames. "Bring him back using all means necessary, by the hair if he resists! And if this matter leaves these walls, I want the responsible beheaded! Did you hear me?!"

Spain threw the ring with all of his strength against the wall and kicked the door open to leave.

1643

France would pay for all the pain he was suffering. Spain convinced himself that it was all his fault. The venom in his tongue, which he had spilled to everyone he loved.

He stole his sister, he provoked him into battles everyone disapproved, and in his mind he was also responsible that Portugal left.

With 27,000 men and eighteen cannons, he was determined to crush France, make him learn once and for all that no one touched what he loved.

Commander Francisco de Melo turned his head to the troops.

"¡SANTIAGO Y CIERRA, ESPAÑA!"

And after that war cry, the Spanish attacked.

"Fire!" Someone shouted, and the arquebusiers mowed the French cavalry down. Spain's own horsemen charged at that moment, Spain leading them. They captured some cannons.

But France got wise. He shouted some orders and his horsemen changed their direction. Killing an infantry soldier, Spain could not dodge the sword of one of them, and was knocked down from his horse. He got up quickly, finding France, in a shining armor with blood stains, and advanced towards him, resisting stoically the shots he got and answering them with hits and orders. Spain's blood boiled a the sight of him. He looked for his rapier and got up from the ground as quickly as he could, to run towards him. In the way, one of his men received a cannon shot that blew his head off. Just by his side, another one was stabbed in the chest.

Letting out a scream, he pounced on France. He dodged elegantly. While Spain charged with fury and roughly, his movements were fluid, suave, like he could anticipate each one of his blows. Their swords clashed. Spain tried to push France to the ground. He pushed even harder and managed to make him stumble. And then started to deliver blow after blow. Spain managed to block the first five, but the sixth cut his hand, the next knocked the sword out of his hand, and the following pierced his chest.

France kicked him, forcing him on his knees. He laid a foot on Spain's rapier before he had the chance to grab it.

A smile grew on his face.

"This is the day when it all ends for you." He said.

And he used his sword to give him the coup de grace, the way bullfighters put an end to the show: stabbing him in the back.

It made Spain fall on his stomach to the ground, blood gushing out from his mouth. When he raised his eyes, dizzy, hurt, he saw the last of his soldiers, spears down, defending their lives desperately, his flag on the ground and so many men irrigating the soil of Rocroi with their blood.

1647

The promising prince, Balthasar Charles, son of Philip and the late Elizabeth of France, someone both his father and Spain had high hopes about, highly educated, handsome, strong, lively, was dead. He was just sixteen, he hadn't had the chance to live. Smallpox. Once again, terrible, cursed smallpox...

Spain hated illnesses, that invisible enemy that took the lives of so many promising, beloved people.

In his own way, he also suffered those.

"Guess you think I am an old lion who can't take care of the pride, right, Romano? It is time you escape the sinking ship and join someone stronger, like...I don't know, France, maybe? Well, you are wrong. You are all wrong. You haven't won. All your lies and schemes can't hurt me. I'm not through yet."

His words lost their power when he had a bout of coughing. Romano kept gazing at him with a frown.

How did his boy change! He was not a child anymore. He had changed so long before, but it was at that moment that Spain was actually aware that Romano had changed so much in these centuries. He was a man. His voice had changed completely, and he was as tall as Spain was. There was nothing childish about him. Not even the tantrums, or the expressions.

The way he looked at him was not something a child would have done.

"I am not leaving you because you are getting weaker." Romano replied. "You're not in your best moment, that's for sure, but that's not the reason."

"Why, then? I always treated you well. I've always loved you." Spain replied, taking deep breath.

"You have a funny way of showing it. You have been far more concerned about the money I could give to you than my own well-being." Romano's frown was remarked.

"You too think I am sucking your blood? We all have to make sacrifices, Romano..." Spain said, with the handkerchief stained with blood still in his hand, because he knew he would cough again in any moment. "If I didn't ask you do work for me, everyone will demand not to-"

"I wouldn't mind working for you if that left me something. But you keep asking me for more and the only thing I have left to give you is my damned soul. If I had chosen this I would be alright with it, but I didn't. I was just a trophy given to you. And I am tired of it."

Spain approached his underling—no, his little brother, extending an arm to him, and Romano threatened him with the kitchen knife he had in his hand.

"Don't touch me. I am not getting your plague. Every time you touch me, you contaminate me..."

Contaminated...That was what he always was to Romano. Contaminated with Moorish and Jewish blood...

"Romano, all I want is to talk..."

"There is nothing to talk about. I am leaving, Spain. Tomorrow morning I won't be here. My people have come to bring me back to where I should be. Not here, serving you, for nothing."

"For nothing? All this time I protected you, I gave you all luxury I could afford..." Spain grunted.

"You also buy your American friends, New Spain, Cuba, Peru, Panama, all sorts of things so you don't feel guilty for what you do to them..."

Spain swallowed. His chest hurt, but it was not his lungs aching...No, it wasn't that...

"You want to leave, like Portugal did? Very well. Go! Leave! You and Holland are the same! Ingrates! Liars! Get out of my sight! Get out of this palace right this instant! I don't even want to see you!"

Romano, without dropping the knife or turning his back on Spain, walked to the door.

"Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror? It's a fantastic experience, I'm telling you. Very revealing."

That was the last thing he said before leaving. There was a second when Spain wanted to scream 'don't go'. Gritting his teeth, he kicked a stool near him and touched his forehead with sorrow.

He needed fresh air. He needed to breathe.

Out in the gallery, sheltered from the rain, he barely felt any improvement. He filled his lungs with as much air as he could get and closed his eyes, to cry to no one:

"I see now, Joanna! Now I see what you meant, my love! Now I see you were not crazy! I understand you now, my dear, and I'm sorry I thought you lost your mind, too! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

He had no strength left...He couldn't do this anymore...It was stupid to think that he could unite all nations of the word under the same god...Some people...didn't want to be saved...Some...didn't need to be saved and protected...

So he sat to negotiate with the Europeans the new order of Europe, the end of hostilities with Holy Roman Empire and Holland.

The treaty signed at Westfalia made it very clear that no nation was legitimized to meddle in another nation's business. And with that, Holland found no reason to keep supporting France in his war against Spain. That meaning, Catalonia was useless now.

Taking advantage of this, Spain used everything he had to recover Barcelona.

"...John Joseph is a good man. I have him in great esteem. He will be a good viceroy. He will make sure you always have what you need."

Catalonia didn't look at Spain.

"...I heard France was not that good to you...He used you too, huh? To expand his products, make you pay costs...It's alright...He wasn't good to me, either."

Catalonia still did not answer or turn her head to him. Spain placed both her hands on her shoulders and the child cringed.

"I am not that bad, sister...I'm not..." He muttered.

But who believed those words at this point?

1656

With no heir and no wife, Philip had to be practical. Had Balthasar lived, he would have married Mariana, of Austria's house, his cousin, but since she was young and fertile and Philip needed an heir to the throne, he decided to marry his niece and continue the Habsburg bloodline.

It was not going very well, frankly. Just some days before, a girl had been born dead. The year before, a infanta had not reached her first year of life. Margaret Theresa seemed to be going well, but it was a male they needed. They needed a boy.

"Please, don't move."

Spain loved children, the purest creation of God, and hated that they died so young, exposed to so many dangers...

Dwarf Mari Bárbola scratched her butt and the chaperone shushed her to call her attention.

"Is it going to take much longer? I need to pee..." Spain muttered.

"Your Greatness!" The chaperone exclaimed, scandalized.

"What?"

"I need to go to pee, too." Little Margaret Theresa said.

"No, no, Your Highness, that is not a proper vocabulary for an infanta!" His lady-in-waiting, Isabel de Velasco, told her.

The chaperone gave Spain a reprimanding look and he couldn't help smiling in a naughty manner.

The painter gave the canvas a few brushstrokes and contemplated it for long.

"It is ready." He finally said.

Spain rushed towards his side to look at the product over his shoulder.

"Not bad. Not bad at all!" He judged with a smile.

"Let me see, let me see!" Margaret Theresa said, and Spain lifted her so she could admire the picture.

"Just one thing, Mr. Velázquez...That Jacob's cross in your chest?"

Velázquez turned his head to Spain and the nation caught a tiny smile on his face, similar to his own when the old hag reprimanded him.

"A little artistic license, Your Highness." He replied in low voice.

"I see...Perhaps I can do something with that..." Spain smiled, and kept staring at the picture of the little princess surrounded by her maids of honor, her chaperone and bodyguard, the two dwarfs that entertained the family, one of them bothering her dog, Mr. Velázquez, of course, working on a portrait of the King and Queen, reflected in a mirror at the background, and at the door, looking at them all, their nation, Spain.

The male heir was no in the picture, so he was still to come...

1665

The king had dysentery. It was too late to do something about it when it was discovered that his feces had blood on them. On September 17th, the monarch breathed his last breath. And a problem all of the court had overlooked now was there for everyone to face. His death meant his son, Charles II, three years old, would become king when he reached the age of sixteen. In the meantime, the Queen would take care of Spain.

...But would Charles be crowned?

From the very moment Spain saw him, he knew there was something wrong with the boy. He was...strange. His face was not harmonious in any way. He talked to him, played with him and acted like he didn't understand. He talked to Austria about it, and he shook his head with a sigh.

"Remember what I told you about inbreeding? We should have stopped them..." He commented.

Spain felt enormous pity for that child who wouldn't start walking until he was six, and talking, reading or writing until he was eleven. Everybody was making bets about how long he would live and Spain didn't even want to hear about it. He made the cooks serve him better food, so he grew strong, but his problem couldn't be solved with a good diet. He was as weak as his grandfather and father were. As much as his portraits showed him as a future great and powerful monarch, as much as he stayed away from the eyes of the peasants, Charles was not called to be a great king.

"An...An..."

"Come on, you can do it."

"...Anto...nio..."

"Well done, Charles. Great job." Spain smiled at him and embraced him.

Yes, they were already deciding what to do when he died, being still so young, and that irritated Spain.

Perhaps it was better to find another king. Philip had had another son. He was a bastard, yes, son of a mere actress, but John Joseph was a very experienced man. Spain could have trusted his life to him. Charles was too small. Perhaps John Joseph could teach him...The two of them could make a great king out of him. But the widow Queen did not have a good impression of him.

"I am not letting a bastard steal my legitimate son's throne." She said to Spain.

Despite her opposition, John Joseph led a revolt that achieved his pretensions. But his leading resulted to be disappointing, like he had lost that sparkle that had dazzled Spain. It was disappointing and short-lived—Spain always had the feeling that someone had poisoned him; why not? He had seen poison being used to solve all quarrels at court.

Still, Spain was determined to help Charles. He surrounded him by the best counselors and ministers he could find, and taught him what he had learned in his centuries of life. Charles was not as retarded as everyone thought he was. He knew of his physical limitations and surrounded himself with the best counselors and favorites he could find. He knew what had to be done and did it was well as possible. He tried to cut expenses and improve the economy, so Spain could have good health again. He tried to make peace with the other nations. Again they used marriage in their favor. This time, an union between Charles and France's princess would help the relationship between both nations improve.

But Spain was watching France during the ceremony. How he whispered into that nobleman's ear. How he looked at Charles. How he pointed at Marie Louise's contained disgust. How he snickered. He wanted to stop the ceremony, get Charles out of there and cut France's tongue. But they had to do this. Charles had to leave a son in this world before he...

Oh, but Marie Louise died too soon—and Spain couldn't say he was sorry about it, because she had said nasty things about Charles' impotency in bed—,and Holy Roman Empire took care of the situation, choosing Maria Anna of Neuburg for him. But there were still no children, as much as the couple tried. And Maria Anna seemed much more interested in giving Spain's artistic patrimony to her brother than in procreating.

Charles was a sweet man, and he had his limit. He came to cry in Spain's arms. A king shouldn't cry. He shouldn't appear as weak. But Spain was a friend, maybe the only one he had in that world full of vultures flying in circles over his head.

"I'm so sorry I can't...I can't..."

"Hey, it's alright, Carlos...It's alright...You're not the only one with these kind of problems...Don't listen to them...Don't listen to those vipers...They just want to bring you down...I love you still...You're doing what you can and that's enough..."

The poor boy...

1700

"Antonio? Antonio?" Charles exclaimed, looking around him desperately, with his eyes wide open. The fever had him delirious.

"I'm here. I'm here." Spain comforted him, grabbing his hand.

"The whole world is looking at me and I'm scared..."

"Don't be scared. The Lord will greet you soon, and you will see, how beautiful the other life is, how sweet it will be to mingle with the angels..."

"I...I wrote...I wrote..."

"Ssssh, don't force yourself."

"I wrote my last will...I want to make sure...you will be well taken care of...I...I chose...I chose...Philip of Anjou..."

Even near his death, Charles apparently noticed the expression in Spain's face.

"He is Margaret's grandson...He...I know you don't like France...But he will be good, I promise..."

"You don't know about that, you have never left Burgos..." Spain couldn't help saying.

"Do you trust me, Antonio?"

Spain could barely look into those sick eyes.

"...Sure..."

"So please..."

"Of course..."

"Thank you...I'm sorry I...I didn't..."

"It's not your fault, my boy..."

Charles was thirty-eight years old when he died, surpassing by far what was expected from him. His autopsy, which Spain read, stated: 'his body did not contain a single drop of blood; his heart was the size of a peppercorn; his lungs corroded; his intestines rotten and gangrenous; he had a single testicle, black as coal, and his head was full of water.' Spain never thought he was that bad.

He left this world with no heirs, and caused a big problem. Because Spain was reluctant to let a French monarch rule his house, but Austria would defend the Habsburg's rights to death.

He departed the palace to fight France for his dynasty's rights. He had England, Holland and Holy Roman Empire on his side, because they would not let France be one with the biggest empire of the time.

That time, Spain witnessed how the European powers fought for his control, like a prize to win.

All he could do was wait and see who the winner was.

Everything seemed to be going in Austria's favor until emperor Joseph I of Holy Roman Empire died. Then, his candidate, Charles, inherited his titles, and England realized he was helping merge two big empires who most possibly would go against him at some point. He left Austria alone and he had no choice but to make peace. He was tired, everyone else was.

Among the conditions to his surrender was that he had to break his marriage with Spain.

1714

The ring had left a funny mark on Austria's finger. Spain watched it with a small smile, then shook his head.

"...I'm sorry, Austria."

Austria turned his head to Spain.

"...It is quite alright. Just...be sure you wear an armor everywhere you go, specially in bed. France has proven to be quite good at backstabbing."

He looked around, at his room. Everything his had been already packed. He was going back to his country, and Spain didn't know if he would see him again. Maybe if a prince or princess had to be married...

"Well...It is time to say goodbye." Austria said.

"I never thought this day would come." Spain sighed.

"You don't have to act like you will miss me. We didn't get along that well."

"We have been married for centuries. You were a good husband. I will sincerely miss you."

Austria looked away.

"...Yes, it will take some time for me to get used not to see you around, acting like a fool..."

"You got to make a gentleman out of me."

"Oh, I am sorry to say I failed on that. You are wild, and no king or consort will ever change that."

Austria distractedly scratched his jaw acting like he did not care this was their last conversation. Spain smiled. He approached Austria, wrapped his arms around him and, after a second of hesitation, left a long kiss on his cheek and the tip of his nose grazed his skin softly when he pulled away.

"Goodbye, Austria..." He whispered.

Austria sighed silently and just left the room like he was in a hurry.

Spain was left alone looking around it, thinking it seemed so unbearably empty...

But, as if they had heard his thoughts, they came to fill the emptiness Austria had left.

"Bonjour."

Was it to late to run away with Austria? Spain remained motionless right where he was, just staring at France with no apparent emotion.

"We had a good journey, thank you for your concern." France ironically said, removing his cape. "I suppose you are still getting used to the idea that we are going to live together for some time. I understand. But don't worry, we will work this out. I promise I will do everything possible to change my ways and convince my kings to leave you alone from now on. You are part of the family, after all. Talking about family, here is someone I'd like you to know."

A man with a long, white curled wig stepped forward with a smile. The words he uttered, he spoke them in French:

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Spain. I am Philip. The fifth you will know. You don't know me, but I know you raised my grandmother when she lived here. She told me lots of stories about you. I am sure we are going to get along very well."

He didn't doubt that. The fifth Philip seemed like a decent fellow.

As for France...