Work Text:
1809
There was a time when Spain slept in a huge, comfortable bed, ate the best feasts, wore the best suits…But those were French inspired fashion, and he spat on everything French now. France was a dirty traitor and a vulture, and wanted nothing from him. Spain did not mind switching his bed for the hard ground, the fine china for whatever the peasant ladies prepared for him and his traditional clothes, which, by the way, he didn't change or wash much, being too busy shooting between the eyes of all frogs he spotted, in hopes one day France himself would be in range.
He smoked a cigarette while looking around him. The mountains of La Sagra, in Granada, all filled with people who camped in there, waiting for the French messengers to pass, so they could slit their throats and steal their information. There were people from all of the province, mostly the nearby town of Huéscar, some renegade soldiers and also quite a few volunteers they had gotten out of jail. Anyone who wanted to protect Spain and avenge all the villainies France and his men had committed in their beloved land.
Juanito, one of Spain's most trusted men, appeared, along with some others who had gone to the city of Granada a week before. The first thing most did was sit down to drink something and smoke, to rest after the trip. Juanito did as well, though he did it next to Spain so he could tell him the news.
"Bad news, Spain. Remember all those thousands of men who should have come back to help you against France?"
They had parted back when France and he were still allies. At that time, he was willing to fight his battles, even against Russia and his own ex-spouse Austria…
"Well…They're not coming back."
"What happened?" Spain asked.
"It seems Denmark has captured them."
"I thought Denmark was neutral!"
"Yeah, until England tried to destroy his fleet. After that, he wants to see him gutted like a pig. Now he's siding with France—understandably so, if you don't mind me saying."
Spain threw what little remained of his cigarette at his feet, furiously.
"Fucking asshole…I don't know one damned thing about him, but this tells much about his moral quality…He wants to join the frog army and benefit from the pillaging? Fine. Then I'll give him the same treatment we are giving the French and his goons…"
He walked to a spot from which everyone in the camp could see and hear him and shouted:
"Everyone, listen up! We've just gotten news that Denmark is keeping our fellows captive!" Exclamations of dismay and outrage. "Yeah, you know what that means, right?"
"Kill him, kill him!" Someone roared, and his cry was replicated all around.
"Exactly! Whenever and wherever you spot a Danish, kill 'em! We are making him regret that insult!"
That furious group roared in ecstasy. More blood to shed! More enemies to kill! Yeah! Kill them! Kill them all!
...What was Denmark like? All Nordics looked the same...Where could they find a Danish to kill? Because they were not sure they ever saw one in the peninsula, and if they did...
Maybe they got a little carried away, by the development of events, the new geopolitical map, but the thing is, neither Spain nor Denmark actually got to see one another in all years the war lasted...
1981
Spain hadn't been to Huéscar in quite some time. He had ended up there because he needed a few days to relax, from...well, a failed coup d'etat, ETA killing and abducting people, his boss' resignation, not having a job, not having any money...Pfft! So much to distract himself from, in a solo trip all around Andalusia, the perfect place to relax, where time seemed to go slower. Due to the recent events, everyone he came across was very nice to him and did everything they could to please him, from the shop owners to the waiters at the bars. Even the local authorities, having heard that he was around, came to see him. It was an honor for them to have him in their town, they still celebrated his stay almost two centuries before, during the Independence War. They even kept the declaration of war against Denmark, signed in presence of the mayor of that time, as a treasure.
Spain was allowed to take it out of its special container and read it. He smiled at it. Ah, France! Some things never change: he was still a jerk.
He kept on enjoying the simple, pleasant life Huéscar had to offer— at least for a while, because he had this feeling...He didn't know what...Something which was bothering him greatly...As much as he racked his brains, he just couldn't put his finger on it...
He was packing his things when it hit him so hard he slapped himself in the forehead.
Crap! That's right!
He quickly asked the owner of the hostel where they had the phone. He sat and opened his contact list. D...D...There! And dialed.
Thousands of kilometers away, Denmark was reading Out of Africa sitting on his comfy armchair, a blanket on his lap, in front of a fire, taking butter biscuits with milk, when the phone rang. He lazily picked up.
"Hello?"
"Denmark? It's Spain."
"Ah, hi, Spain."
"Were you in bed? Am I bothering you?"
"Absolutely! What is it?"
"Do you remember that time when I promised I would break every one of your bones? During Napoleon's time?"
"Mmm, ah, yeah! Why?" Denmark took another biscuit and dipped it in the glass of milk.
"Uhm...My memory's a little weak lately...I don't recall us signing the peace when it was all over...When and where was it?"
The cookie stopped right when Denmark was about to close his mouth and swallow it. He stared into space, eyebrows furrowed in thought. The aftermath was very confusing indeed...
"...I'm gonna check. I'll call you back in a sec."
He hanged up and quickly walked to his office, a vast room where he kept all of his records, quite a few, after thousands of years of life, of wars, of trading with nations all around the war, of doing things. He headed for the War section. He opened a drawer. S for Spanien. Okay. Yeah, he had the declaration of war with his answer («And I'm gonna make a necklace with your teeth»). Nothing more? Nothing more. There were declarations of peace, but not the one he was looking for: the Italian war of 1542 and the Thirty Year's War. Hm? What if he had put it in the wrong folder? Storbritannien, Sverige...No, the documents in there concerned England and Sweden...He searched the whole archive, unsuccessfully.
Hmm...
Spain got the call almost an hour later.
"Um, ah...I...don't think we ever signed peace." He told him.
"So...all these years we have been at war...Great." Spain placed his hand on his face and rubbed it.
"This is kinda embarrassing..."
"I was too focused on kicking France out of my house to remember he had allies, and..."
"Yeah, you get distracted, procrastinate..."
"I'll go to Copenhagen as soon as I can. I was the one who started this."
"Nah, it's okay, I'll go. I'll take the chance to do some tourism: Sweden says your house is pretty and your food is nice."
His coming to the little town caused a great commotion. Finally they saw the one their ancestors forgot to beat up in person! But nobody wanted to lay a hand on Denmark, unless to pat his back, and hug him, and take pictures of him, and offer him locally produced wine and treats—maybe they were wrong about him, he looked like someone really nice! The ceremony of the signing of the peace was carried out at the town hall, and newspapers from all around the world talked about the issue. When Denmark told Norway about it, his friend would just roll his eyes and shake his head, while Romano would say to Spain that him and Denmark were Dumb and Dumber. As if nobody ever made mistakes like these!
In fact, why should they be ashamed? After talking about it with Denmark, Spain sent a bottle of wine made by himself to America and Russia, in hopes they would follow their example and put an end to their Cold War. They would talk about many other issues from then on, resulting in trading deals and cultural exchanges.
Sometimes, we meet interesting people in the most unsuspected ways.
THE END