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“Stop trading with him,” France’s voice was sharp and scathing. He had charged into Portugal’s study and started making demands, like his success in the recent wars really meant that he was the emperor of Europe.
Portugal leaned back in his chair. He did not care what Francis ranted and demanded from him. Promises and vows did not bend because of one angry Frenchman who had military success for now. He would not give France the luxury of bending to his orders.
France slammed his hands on the table and demanded again, “Stop trading with England.”
Portugal looked up and met his eyes and said simply, “No.”
There was no discussion in Portugal’s mind. His trade relationship with England was the strongest tie between the two of them, and there was nothing that could convince him to end it. He knew that France’s strategy was to cut off England from all trade, but he would take no part in it, not while he still had his own government.
France recoiled, rage clear in his eyes. He said, anger in every syllable, “You will do it or I will make you.”
Portugal stood, slowly. He knew a threat when he heard one, and he wanted France to know that he was not backing down. He fought down the urge to bluntly tell France where he could shove his ultimatum.
He would not be cut off from his oldest ally and lover. But this went beyond his own personal affection for England. He was the last one standing against France now, and letting himself be bullied was the worst thing he could possibly do. He said, matching France’s determination, “I will not break my treaty with England for you. I will trade with him if I please.”
France stepped backwards and an almost cruel smile appeared on his face. He spoke, letting a kind of sick joy slip into his tone, “You are going to regret that. Prepare yourself if you want to. There really is no point. I will destroy you either way.”
France turned with his usual flair, though it was colored by a dangerous ambition that was quite unbecoming.
As the door slammed behind him, Portugal let out a breath that he had barely realized he was holding. He knew that France had the most powerful army in Europe at the moment, so he could not disregard the threat.
If Prussia could not defeat France on land, then what chance did he have? Portugal was a sea power first and foremost, and a war on land already placed him at a disadvantage.
He sat back and pulled open one of the drawers of his writing desk, ink and a pen. He had limited time to communicate a letter to his oldest ally, but it was the only hope he had for help. The rest of the continent had effectively fallen to Napoleon or was too effectively cowed to aid him against France.
He did not mince words in his letter. The lack of pomp, manner, or sweetness would make it clear to England that he was desperately in need of help. He hastily signed his name at the bottom of the parchment before waving his hand over it in an attempt to get the ink to dry.
He tried to calculate it in his head: It would take time for his letter to reach London, even more time if the channel was rough. After that, England would need to muster an army. It would take a couple months at least. That was enough time for France to march his army through Spain and into Portugal. Portugal would have to put up as much fight as he could before aid arrived from England. He would have to hold them off as well as possible.
He folded all of his hopes into the letter and said a quiet prayer that his plans would come to fruition.
The rain poured down around Portugal as he stood on the shore, clutching a letter to his chest. The water was permeating through the parchment of the letter, but it didn’t matter. Portugal had read the words so many times already that he knew what it said.
England had written back to him promising him ships and men as soon as possible. He had also said that he loved him, and that he would hold no grudge if Portugal chose to cooperate with French occupation for now. He said that he understood that with Lisbon captured, Portugal had little choice for now.
England had never been anything less than a gentleman and a righteous knight to him, and Portugal believed in the promises. But, nothing could force him to cooperate with France. No threat or coercion would make him side with an occupying army instead of his people.
He knew that France was searching for him now, but the guerrilla war that had broken out in Spain was keeping him busy. Portugal was loyal to his people and his monarch, and no power on Earth could change that.
His prince and queen had fled to Brazil, and he had no doubt that his dearest colony would be capable of keeping them safe. He didn’t need to worry about Brazil or his monarchy. At least he only had to worry about himself, but that was worry enough. He lived on edge, knowing that one day France would launch another campaign against him and force him to accept occupation instead of rebelling with his people.
But, he had a promise of aid now, from a man who he trusted with all of his heart. This was the day that England had promised him that he would arrive with as much aid as he could muster. It was impossible to know when exactly he would arrive though, and this blowing storm could have pushed him off course.
Portugal cursed this unseasonal storm. Of all the days for pouring rain, this was one of the worst. There were two officers behind him watching the horizon as well. They both knew the risk as well. He could tell that they were both uneasy with waiting on the shore for English aid that might not come. But, if he could not have faith in England, Portugal had nothing.
He waited as the rain ran down his hair and soaked through all the clothing he was wearing. He could not think that England might not appear, that would lead to complete despair. He drew in a painful breath as deep frustration built in his chest. At least, he thought, if angry tears came out, no one would see them in the rain.
He raised his spyglass again and scanned the horizon. His heart sunk as he saw nothing but a churning expanse of water. But, just as he was about to lower it, he noticed a flag, barely visible against the darkness of the storm.
No man could have been happier to see St. George’s cross. Portugal let out a cry of relief before clapping his own hand over his mouth to maintain some dignity.
As he watched, mast after mast emerged from the rain. England had done as he promised and brought a fleet with him. The rain did not relent as Portugal watched the ships come in, but somehow it no longer felt as cold or as damp. Hope was warm.
As soon as the fleet was in the harbor, Portugal saw boats starting to row out from the flagship. He knew, without having to see him, that England was in one of them personally.
He felt a distinct longing at the thought of how long it had been since he had last seen England. The war had interrupted their precious meetings when their ships happened to cross paths. Portugal hadn’t realized how much he missed their easy regular contact until this moment. He ached to pull England into his arms and hold him there forever.
The boats rowed closer to shore, hindered by the winds and rain. As soon as England’s boat reached the shore, the blonde stepped from it, threw his hat away and took several running steps. His feet sunk into the wet sand, but he continued to stumble towards Portugal.
As soon as they reached each other, England threw his arms around Portugal. England said in his ear, “I’m so sorry that I took so long.” Portugal could feel his heart pounding. He finally had his best friend, his lover, and his constant partner in his arms again. After the stress of the last year, he felt like his knees might give out right here, in the pounding rain and wet sand. He balled his hand in the back of England’s jacket and pulled himself even closer.
England kissed Portugal’s cheek and then quickly, almost desperately, left a trail of kisses across his face until he reached his lips. The kiss felt like an eternity. It was deep and Portugal could feel every ounce of regret and frustration in the desperate way their lips connected.
Portugal pulled away only far enough so that he could say, “You came to help. That is what important.” England’s arms tightened around him protectively and when Portugal met England’s eyes, he could see a burning frustration at how long it had taken to mobilize aid. The rain ran down his face, but he refused to let go, even to wipe rainwater from his eyes.
England said, his voice choked with emotion, “If Francis hurt you, I will make him pay.” There was no way to doubt his sincerity, or the pain in every word. Portugal could see how deeply it had hurt him to think that he had failed as an ally failed in the promise of protection he had made so long ago.
Portugal was reminded of when they had met, and how much it mattered to England that he could be a knight. It hadn’t been so different then; England had been coming to liberate Lisbon from a different occupying force.
Portugal said, trying to calm his partner, “I am not hurt.” But, even as he said it, he felt terrible frustration that even after all this time, he was still needed this support.
England responded, “I was so worried about you. I thought I had failed.”
He kissed Portugal again, holding onto him like he would never let go. When he pulled away, England said, “Come to my ship. I want you to meet Admiral Nelson.”
He glanced down and seemed to realize for the first time that they were both soaked from the continual downpour. Portugal couldn’t help but feel flattered that he was so important to England that the weather had faded into the background.
England added quickly, “We can both get dry clothing too.”
Portugal said, meeting England’s green eyes, “We need to plan, too. Now that you are here, we can challenge France.”
England finally used one hand to sweep back his wet hair as he said, “And we will.”
Portugal could hear the rain continuing to pound against the deck above as he sat in the cabin aboard England’s beautiful flagship. The weather felt much further away now that he was wearing dry clothing and had a cup of tea in his hands.
England sat across from him, and looked at him with nothing less than the deepest love in his eyes. Portugal asked, “What is your plan, Arthur?”
England was still running a cloth towel over his hair in an attempt to dry it. He said, “You and I will liberate you from the French, and then we will push towards Paris.”
Once he finished toweling his hair, the short blonde hair stuck up in places. It might have been comical in a different setting, and even with the seriousness of the moment, Portugal couldn’t help but find it cute.
But, he had something more important to say, and he already knew that England would not like it. He said, as bluntly as he could muster, “We need to help my brother, too.”
He was not surprised at the way England’s eyebrows pinched together. He already knew that Spain and England had enough bad blood between them that England would not mind leaving Spain for dead. But Portugal said, “He is my brother, Arthur. I know he is your enemy, and I know better than anyone that he will hurt people for his ambition. But, he is still my family.”
Portugal was thinking about the brother who had been by his side during the reconquista, not the ambitious empire Spain had become. He wanted to hope that there was still some good within Spain, beneath what power had brought him.
England slowly nodded and said, “I will do it out of love for you, not for him. We will defeat Francis.” Portugal nodded, secure in the idea that the war was about to shift. It might take time, but the love between them would help them hold strong against France. Whatever came next, Portugal knew he had a man at his side who would love and support him. And that love was enough for England to help a man who had called him a pirate, a bandit, and a heretic. Portugal knew that he could ask for no deeper love than that.