L'Amour de Soi, L'Amour-Propre(BFT)

[Spain]

Francis appeared displeased, his voice dropping as he said, “I think you’re wrong about that, Antonio. Very wrong.”

There were times when Antonio had fun hanging around Francis; the man was smart, cultured and knew how to have a good time. Unfortunately for the Spaniard, this was one of the few times when Francis, in his opinion, made him question whether or not these were attributes that he associated with the Frenchman at all. With every verbal exchange, Antonio found himself shaking, shaking with enough anger and passion to scorch his insides. The entire exchange, Francis did not hear a thing that he had just said, the bastard was way too absorbed in himself even when they were fighting (relatively) evenly during a sword fight. To imagine that he had actually been worried about Francis's well-bring during the revolution; it seemed that the effects of the revolution had only made his sense of superiority even worse!

But regardless of what Francis thought, there was definitely a limit to this arrogance and sense of nationalism. After all, not like everyone wanted to dress in French fashion, conduct their affairs the French way or even speak French. Antonio loved the way his language sounded, the food that his people ate and the way his people danced. These were all things that France could not have claim over... hell, France would not have been able to indulge in his philosophy if his rulers had destroyed the ancient texts after recovering the Iberian plain from the Moors.

Pausing for a moment, in the midst of the fighting, Antonio wiped his cheek as his olive green eyes remained fixed on the man who stood before him.

"Sure, whatever, Francis. You just don't seem to get it, do you?" he said off-handedly, purposely showing his displeasure.

Taking a step back, Antonio barely dodged certain injury as the blade caught his shirt, leaving a thin red trail across his chest. It was not nearly a forceful enough swipe to break flesh and draw blood, but one that was enough to leave a welt. He did his best to resist the urge to rub his chest to ease the itching, but instead prepared to raise his sword to parry. He could feel the dust of the day sticking to his skin as he moved and the back of his shirt stuck to him as he took a step forward to try to crowd his opponent.

To his frustration, every exchange that followed was evenly countered, efficiently parried and reposted when he thought that he would have the upperhand. Granted, it was no surprise as Francis had a reputation for being a great swordsman while Antonio only really resorted to sword fighting when the range fell within the length of an axe.

But in the next moment, no clash of swords came, no pain and no gloating. Instead, he heard the Frenchmen cursing, which caused him to raise his eyebrows in surprise. One of Francis's men, possibly someone inexperienced with hand to hand combat, had managed to put himself into the fight between Francis and himself.However, a distraction is a distraction and it would have been rude to just let it slip by. Raising his blade, Antonio shifted his weight in hopes that the extra weight would add extra force and brought the blade down as hard as he could, hoping that Francis would happen to fall right into the path of his lethal swing.

That is, if things had gone the way that he had intended.

Suddenly, a force nailed him across the shoulder blades, throwing him off balance. Breath escaping his lips as he absorbed the impact, his arm wavered as he tried to catch himself, though he tried to hold out the edge of his sword to try to clip Francis. Catching himself as he planted his left leg on the ground, hard, Antonio took a quick glance to meet his assailant. Though it was not uncommon for people to run into each other when fighting in such a close proximity, he could not help but feel like his opportunity was botched.

Damn it. Responding primarily on instinct, Antonio turned his attention on the man, swinging his blade as the sounds of clashing metal and screams of dying men served to drown out reason in the moment.

---

Notes:
- Okay, so I think this is the conclusion of the fighting... I'm leaving it up to you as to how you wanna capture him. The end is near!
- Goodness, I'm sorry that this post seems to be all over the place and lacking in substance, it's getting a bit hard to kind of cycle through what else I can say without sounding a bit redundant.

[France]

"Sure, whatever, Francis. You just don't seem to get it, do you?"

Francis had inwardly scoffed at the remark. Of course he got it. He fancied that he understood the situation better than anyone, including the impassioned Spaniard. The fact that Spain would think otherwise was annoying. A part of him had expected such remarks from his old friend and ally though. Spain was surely too enraged and impassioned against France and his people to see things clearly. In this case more than ever, the nation reflected his people, who were blinded by their unreasonable emotions.

In the moments immediately following the distraction by Francis’ countryman, Spain had raised his blade before France was prepared to defend. It was too late to counter the Spaniard’s own steel weapon, and he would have surely been dealt a critical blow had another man not suddenly been jostled into Spain. It was surely more than a stroke of good luck. Such a favorable occurrence was clearly an act of God! Relief washed over France as he realized-not for the first time- that the Almighty Himself was on his side.

Apparently God did not want it to be too easy and painless of a victory for Francis however, as Antonio’s blade suddenly clipped his arm. Taking a few quick and awkward steps back, Francis frowned at the rip in his beautiful uniform, and the cut underneath it that was now oozing blood. The pain was not so bad as to cause anymore than mild annoyance, and Francis quickly refocused on his opponent, preparing to block any other attacks that the Spaniard might try and catch him off guard with.

There was another bit of what Francis took to be divine luck, as Antonio had turned to slash for the Frenchman who had knocked into him. He had left himself open on Francis’ side, and the blonde fully intended to take advantage of the golden opportunity. Readying himself, Frances gathered his strength and charged, lashing out from the side at Antonio’s sword hand with his saber, in hopes of striking him hard enough to cause his grip to slacken. At the same time her attempted to knock into the Spanish nation full force with his shoulder, wanting to mess up his footing and send him to the ground.

The maneuver worked beautifully on his part, and his forceful bump sent Antonio to the dusty ground. A wave of triumph washing over the overly cocky Frenchman, he put his sword to Antonio’s throat and pushed down on him with a boot in an attempt to hold him somewhat still. “Are you ready to admit defeat now my old friend?” He asked the Spaniard with a smug smile playing across his dusty lips. “I’ve won. My soldiers have won. If you insist we can continue this ridiculous fighting and kill more of your people, or, you can admit defeat now and we’ll go from there.” He pressed the blade a bit firmer against the other man’s throat.

It was unbelievably hot, and he was hoping that his foe would admit defeat and come with him quietly. Fighting in these conditions was awful, and Francis just knew his hair had gotten out of place and his outfit was dirty from all the dust and blood. To top it off, he was sweating to death in his overly elaborate uniform.

Even if the fighting was well on it’s way to being put under control, there was still a lot to do before he left. But hopefully Murat would take care of most of the executions and such. Francis was eager to get back to Bayonne, and take Spain back with him. The other should have never ran off to begin with.
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((Short post is epically short. Apologies. I just did not want to move Antonio more than I had to. And of course, thank you for giving me permission to knock him down like that.))

[Spain]

The next few minutes went by like a blur as Antonio fell to the ground, grimacing not at the fact that he landed hard on his left side, but on the fact that he had only managed to cut a part of Francis's uniform. Though he should have been annoyed at himself for letting rage take over as he turned his back to the Frenchman, he soon regretted his grave mistake as the weight of another full grown man knocked into him and took him off balance. Dust kicked up as he landed, causing him to cough as he tried to spit the dust out. Squinting his eyes as they burned, he placed his non-dominant hand on the ground and began to get up before a heavy foot met his chest and pushed him back to the ground. He struggled as he grabbed the ankle and squeezed, only to stop when he felt the cool, metallic blade dyed crimson from the day's bloodshed, pressed against his throat.

Though the spirit of a nation allowed him to heal quickly and survive fatal wounds, it was never pleasant to be laying and watching one's own blood at it slowly pooled. So instead, he decided to lay and glare at the Frenchman with murderous eyes.

“Are you ready to admit defeat now my old friend? I’ve won. My soldiers have won. If you insist we can continue this ridiculous fighting and kill more of your people, or, you can admit defeat now and we’ll go from there,” Francis declared. The words stabbed at Antonio's heart, though he refused to acknowledge it as such.

Thoroughly humiliated as he laid on the ground, staring hard at Francis, Antonio sneered as the desire for defiance returned. Why did he even bother to ask the question? Given the two options, it was pretty obvious as to which one the Spaniard would pick. Without hesitation, he grabbed onto Francis's sword, gripping it tightly as he jabbed it at the Frenchman's arm as hard as he can. He could care less that his hand was going to get slashed up or the fact that the repercussions would be severe. The pressure from Francis's foot on his chest caused him to grimace, gritting his teeth at the discomfort. Instead, he rammed then rammed the pommel into his ankle, hoping that it would be enough to case the man to either crumple in pain or give him some sort of opening and turn the tables.

"Old friend?" he said, almost snorting as he hit Francis again, "I never bowed to you, not once, not ever. And I don't plan to do it soon!"

His words were bold, perhaps even optimistic considering his position. His hand was red, partly from the pressure from holding onto the sword, but also because blood started to slowly flow from the wounds. But at the moment, he could hardly care as he tried to push off from the ground to get up, as his muscles screamed in pain, causing him to fall on his elbows again. "Ugh," the momentary shock caused his eyes to widen as he tried to get up, unaware of the fact that fatigue had long set in and his body had started to give up half an hour ago. His mind screamed desperation as he struggled to get up, refusing to acknowledge the fact that he was defeated and that France had managed to crush the rebellion.

To think that he had lived this long without ever falling under the rule of the French crown.

Self-awareness caused Antonio to finally notice that he was breathing hard, he had put in all his energy, all his strength and his soul into this fight. He loved his freedom just as much as he loved his people. And though losing to France hurt is pride a lot, losing to France and knowing that the man could do whatever he wanted with him made it even worse. "Admit defeat?" he repeated dumbly, wiping his brow with the back of his hand as he looked up at the Frenchman, "admit defeat to you?"

Slowly, the Spaniard started to drag himself back, doing what he can to back away, flexing his legs as he tried to get up again in hope that he could at least go for one more round against Francis. Though common sense told him that there was no way that his people could hold off the trained French troops, the stubborn streak in him urged him to keep going. After all, he hated surrendering, even during all those times that he fought with England and Netherlands. Not to mention, there was some lingering hope that there would be some resurgance, that there was a mass of people who were still energetic, still able to fight.

But uttimately, he did not care about what the reality of the situation was at this point, he secretly hoped that sometime in the next few minutes, he would open his eyes and realize that Francis decided to leave for some reason.

That was, until he realized that hew as getting his hopes a little too high. Frustrated, though also exhausted, Antonio began to renewed his struggles again as he tried to force Francis off of his chest. "You can threaten to kill my people, but they're all proud to die as Spaniards! It would be better to die than to live under the rule of the French any day!" he said it loudly, though the delivery indicated that he was more thinking outloud as oppose to directing the statement at the Frenchman.

[France]

The look in Antonio’s eyes was simply murderous. Such a strange contrast to the cheery demeanor that he usually gave off. It looked as though the other nation would have liked nothing more than to gut Francis with his own sword, so fierce was the glare and so strong was the pressure Spain was exerting on his ankle. Not that France was afraid. He had won. As far as he was concerned it was over and all would be well the moment his old friend and ally had accepted his fate.

Then Antonio did something Francis had not been expecting. Before he could process what was happening, the Spaniard had grabbed onto the blade of the sword and jabbed the handle back and into his arm painfully. The Frenchman gave a surprised cry of pain, even as his ankle was suddenly assaulted as well. Instantly, he pushed down all the harder on Antonio’s chest, trying not to allow the other man the ability to break free and gain any sort of control, It was hard, with the throbbing pain in his arm and ankle, but he made an attempt to keep the Spaniard pinned.

"Old friend? I never bowed to you, not once, not ever. And I don't plan to do it soon!"

The words-along with the blow- sent an indignant wave of fury through the blonde. Such defiance! And all for nothing! He had lost, and Francis figured he would bow to him and soon, if he knew what was good for his people. There was absolutely no need to be so unreasonable when this whole mess could have been avoided by the Spanish just calmly standing by while Francis’ men did what they needed to. It was their fault that things had gotten so brutal. Their fault that so many of their comrades had died. Francis’ soldiers were just doing what they needed to by killing the troublesome Spaniards.

France’s foothold on Spain had weakened with his injuries, and suddenly the downed Spanish nation was able to move slightly, rising up a bit only to collapse back onto his elbows. The Frenchman struggled to push back down on his former ally, trying to put enough pressure on his chest to force him still.

“You know what they say, Antonio… there is a first time for everything. Spare yourself the headache and just admit your defeat.” He doubted his words would do anything to calm the other nation down, but it was worth a shot. Maybe in the face of such hopelessness Antonio would accept his fate and submit.

"Admit defeat? Admit defeat to you?"

His ankle was in a world of pain, and France momentarily took his foot off Antonio as the other started to scoot back and away from him. Sword at the ready, Francis merely watched as the other man attempted to drag himself to his feet. He can’t be serious. There is no way he can fight me now! Blue eyes fastened onto the Spaniard in a mixture of wonder and annoyance. “Who else would you admit defeat to, mon ami?” Francis questioned, moving closer to the other nation.

His foot came down once more on the other man’s chest, pushing him down into the dust with a renewed vigor. The tip of his bloodied blade rested once more up and under Antonio’s chin.

"You can threaten to kill my people, but they're all proud to die as Spaniards! It would be better to die than to live under the rule of the French any day!"

“You are being unreasonable, Antonio. But if you keep this up, then your people will continue to die.” He narrowed his blue eyes as he examined the trapped nation. “You have no choice but to live under my rule and accept that I am in charge, and that I have beaten you. Your rebellion has been crushed.” Hesitantly, he removed his foot from the other man’s chest. Moving the sword away from Antonio’s throat once more, he backed up a step.

“Listen to reason, Spain. You have nothing more to gain from fighting with me.” He readied his sword just in case, as he studied the other nation. An impassioned Spaniard was a dangerous thing, and he did not want to be caught off guard by the other suddenly rising up and lunging for him. France may have been vain and selfish, but he was not stupid by any means. He knew that Spain was still an enemy here, and that to simply trust that the other would listen this time was foolish.

His gaze shifted momentarily as a few French soldiers made their way past the two of them. They were sweaty, dirty, bloodied and tired looking, but they wore triumphant smiles. “We’ve got them, Francis!” One of the soldiers he recognized informed him happily. “We’re getting everything under control now.” He seemed so certain and relieved.

France shifted his eyes back to Antonio hopefully. Maybe hearing that from another source would help convince him that it was truth. Then he could take Spain with to go see Murat, and see what the plans were from there.

[Spain]

“You are being unreasonable, Antonio. But if you keep this up, then your people will continue to die. You have no choice but to live under my rule and accept that I am in charge, and that I have beaten you. Your rebellion has been crushed.”

Pinned to the ground once again, Antonio could only keep his defiant attitude -- his pride would only allow him to do such. At the moment, with Francis's foot firmly planted on his chest, there would be no way he could even try to get up, let alone push the Frenchmen off of him. Part of him felt pathetic, pathetic as his inaction was inherently acknowledging the fact that Francis had won this one. But to think that all the efforts his people had put in hiding him from the French, overcoming differences to stand up against a common enemy had ultimately come to nothing. No, they did; with this, the sense of national pride would mean that they would fight again.

“Listen to reason, Spain. You have nothing more to gain from fighting with me.”

Yes, there was – if the fighting would cause the sense of Spanish pride in his people, who would be willing to wait until the moment was right to fight the French, no, if this meant one less Frenchmen in Spain, it was completely worth it. But for once in the centuries that he had existed, Antonio could not find any more words to say to Francis – for the most part, he had said them all. As for what the Frenchmen had done that had eventually sparked into this event, he was certain that he would not forgive him for a very long time. And as he thought about that, he managed to muster a “You are one of the most despicable person that I know, Francis.”

“We’ve got them, Francis! We’re getting everything under control now.”

Jerking his head towards the direction of the voices, Antonio looked alarmed as the French soldiers, though a lot more worn out from the fighting, approached them with a victorious look at their face. Quickly, his olive green eyes darted to the other parts of the city in disbelief. They had been fighting for a few hours, there was no way that it could end so suddenly! he thought to himself as he searched frantically. While there were plenty of dead French soldiers and a handful of dead Spanish civilians, the scene was much more subdued. He could see that some of the men were getting rounded up by the Frenchmen, possibly to be held as prisoners… or worse. He fixed his gaze on the men, a new sentiment building in him as he came to a slow realization of what was to come.

Suddenly, Francis took his foot off his chest, taking a step back as the men approached him. If he was not in the shape that he was in, Antonio would have gotten up and tried to run away. At some point in time, he had convinced himself that getting shot to death and playing dead while he slowly healed would be a lot better than to just let them do what they wanted to do. When they grabbed him, he struggled a bit, twisting his body to try to get them to give up until one of them hit him in the jaw and kneed him. Air escaped his lips as the sharp pain cut through him, aggravating the wounds that he did sustain during the fight.

“Let go of me! I can walk on my own,” Antonio said sternly, miffed at the fact that the men continued to drag him along. His feet had started to feel sore from all the running that he had done, his legs protesting as he was pulled relentlessly along with the other captives. Though he most likely had the strength to break out of their hold and run for it, he knew better – at this point, no one knew that he was a personification of a nation and assumed that he was the mastermind in orchestrating the rebellion, especially after witnessing Francis’s attitude towards him.

Soon, they approached Puerta del Sol, though Antonio’s attention was focused on the Iglesia del Buen Suceso, where he was certain some of the wounded were taken. If he survived his ordeal, or at least managed to escape from Bayonne again, he told himself that he would return here to make sure that his comrades, his people, would be all right. That is, after he escaped with the infant and the infanta.

When they stopped, Antonio looked at the French with slight confusion and annoyance, though the look on his face still oozed with contempt in spite of the fact that his pitiful form screamed defeat.

“What’s the point of bringing me here?” he asked Francis, the question masked out of annoyance as oppose to curiosity.

[France]

“You are one of the most despicable person that I know, Francis.”

The words still rung in his ears, drawing his lips into a frown. He wasn’t despicable! Who was Spain to call him such a thing when he was the one being so unreasonable and vicious! Francis was just restoring order here. How did that earn him the title of despicable? The answer came to him instantly as he watched his men approach. These words had came from Spain, who was obviously not thinking clearly and was overly emotional about everything right now. He would surely realize that France was anything but despicable when he came to his proper senses.

The look of alarm decorating his adversary’s features was enough to make Francis smile again- his expression once more glowing with triumph. Was Antonio now realizing that fighting was useless and that France had won? The blonde certainly hoped so, although he had his doubts that it would make the bitter Spaniard much easier to deal with.

Re-sheathing his saber, Francis ran his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to push some of the sweaty blonde locks back into place. He didn’t much care for fighting, especially not in the blistering heat. Since the riot had began, his usually neatly brushed hair had became a tangled, dirty mess. His uniform was no better for wear, and dusting him self off as best as he could, he still flinched at the amount of dirt clinging to the garment. Then there was the blood splattered on areas of it-some of it his, some of it belonging to his foes. More than anything he wanted to get everything straightened out and go home to take a nice bath and get on some more presentable attire.

At the sounds of scuffling, France turned his bright blue eyes back to Antonio, who was struggling in the grasp of the French soldiers who had grabbed onto him. He watched passively as one of his men hit the Spanish nation in the jaw before kneeing him to get him under control. Even though Antonio had been what he had considered a friend at some points, he was all too quick to justify his soldier’s acts of violence, thinking of it as necessity to put Spain back in line.

“This way.” Francis ordered his men, once he figured they had a decent grip on the defeated Spaniard. There were other captives being herded along by French troops, and Francis knew roughly where they should go. They would go to Puerta del Sol, and see what was to be done with those murderous Spaniards who bore arms against and killed Francis’ fine men.

“Let go of me! I can walk on my own.”

Francis glanced back at the men dragging the other nation along. It served Spain right for causing so much trouble today. There was a twisted sort of satisfaction to be had from watching the disobedient Spaniard be dragged and pulled along through his own streets in such a fashion. Still, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to give the other man a chance to walk on his own if he was agreeing to do so. “Keep on guard, but you can let him walk on his own if he insists.” He informed his troops. “You have served your country well today, and deserve the right to reserve what strength you have left, non?”

The Frenchmen appeared to be in silent agreement, even though they seemed hesitant to loosen their grip at all on their captive. With looks of distaste written all over their dirty, yet youthful faces, they allowed the Spaniard to walk if he insisted, keeping a grip on him on either side.

Having taken the lead, France was the first to stop upon entering their destination. Casting a look around, he saw other rebellious Spaniards being grouped together by their captors, awaiting their fates. As noble as their actions might have been, Francis refused to see them as just people who were merely fighting for what they believed to be right and just. All he saw as he looked around were troublesome rebels who had caused problems for him and his men and had murdered many of his own people. It was easy for him to block out the other sides to the situation.

“What’s the point of bringing me here?”

His cast the other man an almost sympathetic look. It was after all, easier to feel some sort of sympathy for Antonio than it was his people. Spain was another country, and though he had opposed Francis in all of this, the other had still thought highly of him once. “To teach you a lesson, Antonio.” he stated simply.

The other Frenchmen released Spain, and France himself was quick to grab onto the other country and pull him along to stand on the outskirts of the group of Madrileños who had been captured and disarmed. Spain himself would not meet the same fate as his people- he couldn’t really, being a country and all-but he surely needed to be present to see and hear the fates of his men for their actions against France. Knowing Murat like he did, Francis already fancied he knew what the sentence would be for all the men who took up arms against his soldiers. He had known since the fighting had started really, and he had to wonder if Antonio knew deep down as well what was to befall his rebels.

Even Francis wasn’t sure when they would be killed however. It made sense that it would be soon, as he was sure Murat wanted to establish order quickly without messing around. Curios, hot and physically tired, Francis looked around for the general in charge of these decisions. “As I am sure you suspect, Espagne, we are here to hear the decision concerning the fate of your people. Those who fought and killed my people, anyways. I am sure you know that this can not go unpunished.” He searched the other nation’s expression carefully. “I also suspect that you already know what the commission will decide for your rebellious Madrileños too.”
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((Fail! Post is full of fail this time around. Sorry. >< I was trying to look up facts to make it somewhat true to form for the event, but it took me ages and the post ended up choppy I think. Let me know if you need me to alter anything too. I surely lack your superior knowledge on the event and details.))

[Spain]

Warily looking around the square, Antonio looked up, taking in the whole scene as he stood restrained by the French guards. By this point, he could see several of his people rounded up in the square, some seriously injured while others appeared only battered, but all carrying the same defiant air about them as they were pushed and shoved around. At one point, one of the men fought back, yelling in rapid Spanish and protesting before his captors shoved his head into the ground and beat him continuously. A young boy, no sooner having approached young adulthood gripped his musket avidly as one of the Frenchmen pulled him along, dragging him by the arm after he had tripped and fallen. He opened his mouth to protest, fury in his olive green eyes as he witnessed the ill-treatment that they received. At this point, they were not people to France, not even the oppressed would be treated this poorly by their oppressors.

The entire time he watched, the Spaniard wanted to break free of his captors (which he could still do so long as Francis was not the one going after him), but reason continued to restrict him, holding him firmly on the ground he stood. After all, chances were that he would get shot for trying anything at this point – once he stepped onto the stage, it was imperative for him to remain bound by human law. In this case, getting shot would mean that he would have to stay down, disappearing after “dying.” In which case, it was not something that he was willing to do, after all, his people needed him to come back and drive the French out when they become stronger.

Yet sitting back when he was watching all of this made it hard for Antonio to bear, he did not want to see this, he just wanted the French to leave them alone!

Finally looking away, Antonio turned and looked at the ground, grimacing as he shifted his body weight to his other leg. He could feel the dried blood crusting at his wounds, leaving them open. It stung each time it reopened, a result of each step he took. It was a constant reminder of the struggle that he had gone through, the bitter futility the whole effort was. The Spaniard smiled, though his lips were curved with misery, in spite of the fact that he held his posture proudly. His shoulders were square and pulled back, his soiled clothes clinging to his proud back as he finally looked at his captors in the eye. In spite of the fact that Francis had gloated earlier, claiming the fight as his to have won, he was having a hard enough time accepting the fact that Francis had him right where he wanted: under his foot.

Then finally, the Spaniard turned to the Madridistas, doing his best to convey the behavior of a Spaniard who was proud of what he had done and was fearless of what was to come. Though they should have recognized the look of a beaten, yet defiant captive, he felt it necessary to make his displeasure noticed. That and there was a silent hope that if he acted difficult enough, the French may perhaps just give up and leave him alone. Wiping the dust and sweat that had collected at his brow, the cool dampness sent a sudden shiver up his arm though he was not afraid. The man next to him muttered a quiet prayer as they stood and waited for the French commander to enter the square. Naturally, he would love to run at the man and hit him so hard that he’d land back in Bayonne.

The sounds of gravel crunching under heavy footed soldiers grabbed the attention of everyone who occupied the empty square as a new squadron entered into the open area. His eyes narrowed slightly as he tried to pick out who it may be, though with the accompanying procession, it could only be Murat himself. Antonio almost clicked his tongue in annoyance, though it seemed as if his companions seemed warier of him. But when one of the men told him who the man was, Antonio laughed, saying, “Seems appropriate that he would show up after all the fighting had taken place.”

Just then, one of the men approached him, striking him in the temple with the butt of the gun. “Be quiet!” he barked, or so he assumed because his head was ringing as he held his head in his hands, doubled over. The sharp pain throbbed and he felt as if he was bleeding. One of the captives knelt by him, putting his hands on his shoulders in comfort, only to be told to stand up again. Olive eye half open as he looked up at his countrymen, the Spaniard could see that in spite of how the men were standing up defiantly, the underlying sense of death lingered in the air.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice steady as he continued to look with a hard expression, “God has not left us.”

---

- Yeah, this is late. But here it is~
- I don't know how quickly you wanna move through the executions
- I was going to ask you how ou wanted to deal with Murat entering, but figured this post was late, so let me know if you want things changed.

[France]

Ignoring the ill treatment of the Spanish rebels, Francis tore his gaze away from Antonio and scanned his soldiers. Murat should be along anytime now. Although France was far from bloodthirsty, he wanted to hurry the executions along as quickly as possible. In his sweaty, dirty condition, all he wanted was to be done in this city and go home. With his rank and status however, he knew his boss would want him to remain there to see justice carried out against those who would rebel against him.

The blonde remained close to Antonio, knowing that the other could easily throw his human captors at any time and make a break for it. He would be shot of course if he did try such a foolish thing, and he suspected that might have been why he had not done so already. Still, he liked being close enough to the other man to do something if he did decide to try and escape. He didn’t really want to see Antonio shot, for as much as he was disappointed in the other nation.

Waiting for Murat with growing impatience, Francis spared a glance at his captive nation out of curiosity. Antonio had a sad air to him, despite the smile he was wearing. The dark-haired nation was looking to the dusty ground, and seemed to understandably be in some pain. Spain’s posture screamed pride however, which Francis found to be bizarre, since he was so obviously the loser in this little fight. How could anyone hold such a position after such a defeat? It was both strange to him and in a way admirable, though he was not about to tell Spain that.

The sounds of new people marching into the area drew Francis’ attention away from Spain and his fellow Spaniards. His blue eyes were greeted with the sight of a procession of fine French soldiers accompanying none other than Murat himself, dressed in fancy golden embroidery and with his usual feather plume swaying in the slight breeze. If there was anyone who could give Francis a run for his money with vanity, it was surely Marshal Murat. Though France was a nation, nobody but his boss actually knew this, and he never had the grand processions that marshals as high up as Murat had. He would like to have such a grand entrance for himself, but his leaders never really placed him in positions that high for one reason or another. Which was sad to him, since he was the most nationalistic and French thing in his lands. He represented the land and people, so was it too much to ask for him to be just as high up as someone like Murat? Maybe his boss would allow him such a title later on though.

Francis ventured from Antonio’s side momentarily to go speak with Murat, leaving the Spaniards in the company of the French soldiers. Murat stood by the others of the commission, speaking in a low French. Wandering over to join them, France caught the last part of what was being said. It was just as he had thought it would be: Murat wanted to execute the prisoners, beginning as soon as possible. Anyone who had raised a weapon against his men was to be shot. No exceptions. Francis agreed that since French blood had flown there should be vengeance. There was nothing at all barbaric or cruel about having murderers shot, right?

“Move them, and then line them up.” The marshal said, his eyes sweeping over the forms of the Spanish rebels.

After a series of polite “Oui”s from the commission, the higher ranking soldiers turned their attentions back to the rebels. Francis himself returned to Antonio’s side to assure that he wasn’t one of the ones they tried to lead off and line up for the executions. All around him, the French Grenadiers were leading their Spanish prisoners out of Puerta del Sol, forcing them along in lines at gunpoint. “Come along Antonio.” the blonde stated as he and the few Frenchmen who had originally drug Spain along attempted to move him again. “Your rebels are to meet their fates elsewhere.”

Francis and his men followed the other processions of prisoners and French guards as they approached the designated area. By the time they had got there, some unfortunate Spaniard troublemakers were already being lined up against a backdrop of dusty stone. There was a fire to their dark eyes, that was very similar to the one Antonio had had before. Many of them looked so proud, even though they were about to be shot. Grabbing Antonio by the shoulder, Francis lead him away from the main group of Spaniards and over to the side to watch the event.

The executioners loaded their rifles and took aim, waiting obediently for the command to fire. Francis turned his eyes as the command was shouted from one of the leading generals. He didn’t care much for watching such displays, and instead studied Antonio’s expression. There were a few loud reports from the rifles, followed by the sounds of bodies hitting the ground and a few shouts and sobs from those lined up awaiting execution. A thick smoke filled the air from the rifles as the French soldiers made to line more people up.
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((Sorry for being vague in places here. I was not sure where they were to be killed, only that it was not that far off. And I based the backdrop and scene off that painting by Goya, even though it took place on the third. XD))

[Spain]

Like the quiet solemnness, the typical quietness that gathered before the tempest struck hard, scattering all that laid in its path, Antonio erupted into a collection of flailing limbs as soon as the French soldiers grabbed onto him. He twisted his shoulders in an attempt to throw their grips off his arms as he dug his heels in, taking a step back for every step they took forward. as he pushed back on the men who pushed him along, he gritted his teeth, looking at them with stubborn olive green eyes. His chocolate brown hair, little too long to be formal and no longer loose and curled, laid matted against his forehead and obscured his glare. During his struggles, he could see the French general, a man who he had learned to despise more during the day, look on as if he was pleased with the turn of events. Though the man was not the only one who was ornately dressed, there was something about the fabric of his uniform, the ornate decorations that shined upon his sleeves and shoulders, the way that he held himself that made the Spaniard feel like retching. The man hardly participated in the fight, he did not even feel the anger of the people, the oppressed sentiments and feelings of betrayal they felt since the beginning.

There could not be any room in that man's heart to understand that Antonio and his people were doing precisely what they had done nearly two decades ago. How ironic that such feelings that were so richly felt by the French could be quickly forgotten as they fought to suppress the Spaniards and stamp out their own desire for freedom?

As he struggled, Antonio could only chuckle weakly at the contrast between the two events, feeling the tightness that knotted his muscles. With one last shove, he stumbled forward, strong grips pulling him along, away from the rest of the captives as they were pulled along, some defiant to the end, refusing to struggle as they were led to certain fate while others who were more perceptive caved into the fear of death. Those that were affected started to struggle,crying out to the Savior as they were pulled roughly, some falling to their knees. Pressed along the wall, the men watched as the Frenchmen stood before them, turning their bayonets in order to load the powder, packing it down to ensure that there would be no misfire. The mechanical movements of the soldiers allowed the realization of their fates to sink in as a man fell to his knees, sobbing as he prayed, asking God for final penance and muttering questions about how could such a thing befall the fallen city. Others started protesting in rapid Spanish, gesturing as they protested the punishment, while others called out to the French soldiers, shouting insults to the bitter end and demanding that they go back to where they came from.

Though the number of reactions were plentiful, Antonio could sense the passion that drove them to to act today was still there, though some were obscured by fear and a touch of panic, strongly ignited. It was a feeling that bound them tightly and made them feel united not by the borders of where they lived, but by the blood that ran through their veins and by the ancestry that brought them here today.

And suddenly, his thoughts were shattered with the discharge of gunfire, followed by the cries of pain as men fell, though the cloud of discharge and dust obscured the image of the men clutching their wounds as blood, Spanish blood colored the streets crimson. Though the initial reaction would be to cringe and avert one's eyes at the execution of who appeared to be the wrongly executed, but Antonio forced himself to continue to watch, though with every fallen man, he felt his own heart bleeding. The silent mourning soon begot anger as though the Spaniards started the fight, it was the French who had originally given the reason to do so, it was the French who continued to oppress, driven by their greed for more power and the desire to tap into the meager Spanish treasury (though Antonio hated to admit that it was running awfully low). Cries filled the air as some of the observers ran forward to claim their loved ones, though held back as some of those who were left wounded, but still alive were taken elsewhere to their fate.

Antonio ran forward as well, shouting angrily as he was grabbed, fighting more violently as the men held him back, disciplined and refined as they maintained their poise. He continued to yell recognizing a couple of the men to be the once who were with him at the Plaza de Oriente. "Sergio!" he cried, straining out of his restrainers, though he was far enough that the Spaniard did not look in his general direction. Though his posture was that of resignation to his fate and nervousness was written across his face, no regret lining his expression as he looked at his executors in the eyes. Antonio soon found himself disliking the fact that he could not act beyond what was humanly possible at the moment. Though the results would have been somewhat satisfying for the moment, the consequences to follow would only mean that his people would suffer even more.

These were martyrs, he told himself, every single one.

Then turning, Antonio looked until he met Francis's own sky blue eyes, his gaze flaring as he channeled his anger at him. The gunfire continued upon order, and his determination to find a way to drive out France grew with each crack; he could crawl on his knees and beg Arthur for help if he needed to (or at least have his sibling to it for them, the English hold up for a bit longer for their amusement). And there he swore to himself that if he found a chance to forgive him in some way, somehow, it would not be tomorrow, or next week, not even a couple years from now. It would not happen, not until he saw Francis crawling on his knees in defeat, after driven out from these lands.

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- I think that this is probably a good stopping point for Spain unless France says something or does something to extend the scene, I foresee him still feeling the same feelings as he did here.
- The actions here are merely a reflection of the event and is by no means a way to transfer into sentiments between the players.
- Despite the fact that the fight lasted a mere few hours of the day, the repercussions were bloody -- any Spaniard who was caught with a weapon was executed. The executions started sometime in the early evening on May 2nd and continued on into May 3rd, inspiring a number of Spanish propaganda, including Goya's painting Trés de Mayo. Executions took place at Puerta del Sol, outside the Iglesia del Buen Suceso, the Church of the Great Event, Iglesia de San Ginés, Monte de Principe Pio, though most took place at Paseo del Prado, where a monument commemorating the event stands.
- This, along with Portuguese uprisings encourage the British force to answer to Portugal's aid and land on the Iberian Peninsula, starting the Peninsular War.
- This is considered the first expression of sentimiento nacional, grass-roots Spanish patriotism. This sentiment would drive Spanish politics for the next two centuries.

[France]

Francis kept his eyes away from the gruesome scene of his soldiers and their targets. Even staring intently at Antonio though, he could still hear the condemned crying and praying in their mother tongue. Any pangs of guilt the blonde might have felt awakening in his chest were quickly pushed aside by the pride of victory. He wasn’t a bloodthirsty nation, but at the same time, France was certain that these actions were needed for both he and Spain. If there was one thing he was good at, it was ignoring the less than noble things that he needed to do on occasion and focusing only on the glorious end result. He also reasoned that the men had to have known what would be in store for them from the start, so surely there was no real loss in killing them. They must have been ready for it and surely had made their peace with God in advance, no matter how much praying they were insisting on now.

Staring at Spain intently, he noticed that the other nation’s olive green eyes were focused straight ahead and onto the scene of death. Whereas the men waiting their turn for execution were praying and crying still, the only sounds from the area where Spain was looking were choking and a sickening sputtering noise that France decided not to think about. Guns killed fast, but even they were not perfect all the time for instant deaths.

The sight seemed to empower and drive the Madrileños around them from sorrow to anger. Francis’ blue eyes turned from Antonio for a moment as some of his soldiers stepped forward to move the dying and dead out of the way. The Spanish cries out outrage were so very loud as those being held back fought against their French captors in an attempt to get to their dying comrades. What they thought they could do for the condemned men was beyond Francis’ understanding, but he instinctively shoved a man back when he attempted to push past him.

A familiar cry from nearby made him turn his sights from the desperate observer off to where Spain had been positioned. The nation had went from merely watching the execution with a sort of pained expression, to fighting against some French troops that were attempting to hold him back.

"Sergio!"

Punching the random struggling man near him in the face hard enough to knock his head back and disorient him, Francis followed Antonio’s gaze to a man being lead up and into position for execution. “Take my place.” The French nation called to one of his soldiers, waiting for the man to take his position in holding the people back before shoving his way back to Spain’s side. If the Spanish nation wasn’t thinking and decided to, he could easily throw the Frenchmen off and charge forward. France wanted to be sure that if he decided to go that route, then he would be there to grab onto him.

There was another round of shots being fired, and then the hauntingly familiar sound of bodies hitting the ground again. This time, Francis couldn’t help but let his eyes wander over the bloody sight. Some of them looked like they had been killed quickly, and he wondered if Sergio had been one of those fortunate ones. He averted his eyes once more from the twitching, sputtering, injured Spaniards, and instead met Spain’s gaze. There was such fierceness behind those eyes. The other still did not appear to understand that this was all for the best.

“Come along. I think you’ve learned all there is to learn from this.” Francis stated calmly, holding the other man’s gaze without cringing from the anger that the other nation seemed to emit. He grabbed onto Antonio’s arm, and pulled the other man along with him past the Spaniards who still awaited death, past the French guards, who let him pass without question. They were going to return to Bayonne, and hopefully things would run much more smoothly now. Hopefully after all the blood that had been spilt, both the people of Madrid and their nation would now know better than to fight against France and his forces. But with as passionate of a nation as Spain, he couldn't shake the feeling that that would not be the case for long.
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((Small ending post, but I think it ads some closure to the thread. I felt like such an ass writing it too. Poor Spaniards.))