A thousand unanswered questions lingered on the topic, yet one thing was for certain;
It would scar everyone permanently.
Did the humans realise that? Naturally, no.
So far, there had been no direct attacks on the personifications, yet only an imbecile would let their guard down. Spain was not one, but it is as the saying goes, bad things occur to good people.
By now, it had become an everyday occurrence for the nations to feel ill, in great pain, or any sensation of the sort, yet that did not prepare Spain to collapse to his knees, coughing up blood in the middle of the street. It did not prepare him to have a bullet embedded in his shoulder. It did not prepare him for a group of humans to ambush and attack him in broad daylight.
As he fell, it was almost ironic how many memories flashed through his mind.
He was seven, and he was running. From who, he no longer knew or cared. He tripped over a stray branch and fell, but he got back up.
He was fifteen, and he was arguing back and forth with his own brother, Portugal. The younger had pushed him, and he fell, but he got back up.
He was still young, and the dance of duels he and England were in had become more serious. A sword pierced his abdomen, and he fell, but he got back up.
He was older now, and his queen screamed at him, as though every problem that plagued them was his fault. As he was leaving, she purposefully tripped him, and he fell, but he got back up.
Not too long after, he was clutching a five-year old, terrified, South Italy in his arms, trying to protect him from the attacks, taking all the damage for himself. Something large and metal hit him on the head, but he got back up.
It was not too long ago now, he was strolling the streets of Italy with Romano by his side, and it was raining. He slipped on a puddle and fell, and for the first time in a while, he heard the latter laugh. Grinning, he got back up.
A smile made it's way to Spain's lips and stayed there. All his life, he had always gotten back up, yet this one time, he wanted to stay down. Maybe... Maybe he would finally get some sleep, even if it was eternal. If he could sleep with that last memory in mind, then it would be blissful.
He was tired, so tired...
If he could finally just succumb to the drooping of his eyelids...
If he could surrender to those shadows, for they called out to him like long lost friends...
Friends...
A funny term, really...
It was said they would always be there for you...
He had friends...
France and Prussia...
Had they not made a promise to always get back up, if only to have another drink together? Ah well, he supposed they could survive being one person short...
Romano was his friend too, no matter how much he cussed him out, he always came through in the end.
Spain's smile widened.
If he was going to die, he would never give his killer the pleasure of seeing him suffer, as a final screw you. He would be sent off to whatever afterlife with a smile.
He would die happy.
For people do not fall because they are weak, but simply because they are tired of being strong for so long.
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Another one of the chapters I liked writing very much, one of my favorites from dis book if not my favorite. I actually can't pick, but whatever-
So, erm...
I did not do Spain dirty here, okay?
I acknowledge that he is an amazing military leader and had one of the best navies (Too bad not better than Britain's but oh well).
But here, y'know, he's had enough. Everyone's got a point where they just want to give up. I think I've shown that in here. Or at least I hope so.
Anyway.
The cursed three words.
You know what they are.
C o m m e n t s. R e a d s. V o t e s.
Appreciated more than...
Sushi.
Maybe.
Ciao till the day after tomorrow~!