Chapter Text
England was excited, despite the awful weather. It was his first time sailing to the Holy Land. Seventy cogs floated placidly above the waters of that terrible rainy morning. Thankfully, the seas weren’t against them, and the rain wasn’t too heavy, resigning itself to merely soak whatever fools decided to remain outside without a cover. His people hurriedly readied the ships at the docks, so that they could soon leave to fight the Moors.
He could feel the hesitant gaze of the crusaders on him. He looked very young. He felt young as well, sometimes, but really, he wasn’t a child. He’d seen war before, even against his own family. He had to admit, it was hard, but he could manage. Some were worried for him and his lack of strength, others worried for themselves for the same reason and some more were apprehensive to follow the orders of a mere kid, but he wanted to fight, just as much, if not more than all others present and he was a country, with many more years of experience on his shoulders than any of the young men accompanying him in this fight. So really, they all had nothing to be worried about.
A shout from one of his companions told him it was time to go. As they set sail, England looked back at the city they left behind. There was a certain magic in seeing the houses and people get smaller as they got farther away from them. He took notice of the old mothers and fathers crying as they shouted their goodbyes and wishes of good health to their departing sons, the waving sisters and wives with hope of getting to see their brothers again and the confused younger children wondering where their fathers were going and what all the fuss was about. Suddenly, he felt a pang of sorrow. Some of these men wouldn’t survive the war and return. War was cruel and unforgiving and there were always deaths, even on the side of the victorious. He pushed the grim thoughts away as he waved back to those seeing him off, a small group of strange creatures, ghosts, fairies, goblins and trolls from the nearby forests and settlement smiled and waved their own goodbyes at him. His brothers were nowhere to be seen, though that was expected, and England tried to not let that bring him down.
They stopped for a while in Normandy. More people aboard, more food for the trip, more goodbyes to be had. All that required a few more hours before definite departure. England looked around almost hopefully as he left the ship. He swept the surroundings with his eyes looking for a dumb bob of blonde hair and a stupid long tunic, but France was nowhere to be seen and his stupid laugh nowhere to be heard in the busy harbour. It seemed he wasn’t free enough to come by. England wondered what the damn twat was doing, he seemed to go any lengths to annoy him. He tried to convince himself he was happy about this predicament and ignored the small sadness deep inside. France was just an annoying prick, after all. Not a friend, England had no friends. He had his brothers, even if they were fighting most of the time, and that was enough. France was his eternal arch-nemesis. Forever. For the rest of time. Never a friend. And what need for friends did he have anyways? None! He didn’t need anyone. His brothers and the strange creatures around his house were more than enough.
He laughed a laugh heard only by the wind, the rain and the earth in the stupid little piece of empty land he went to under the guise of catching some fresh hair. He really was alone. Cold, soaking wet, and pathetically alone.
When he came back, soaked to the bone, his fellow knights hurried to cover him in blankets, in worries he caught a cold. He failed to make them stop worrying, he guessed for good reason, since sickness was almost a death sentence in the open sea. But goddammit he was a country, he couldn’t get sick. Unless the economy was in dire straits but the economy was doing well enough right now. And he couldn’t infect anyone. However, the blankets were nice, and they were refusing to listen anyways. England ended up accepting the blankets and the worry and fell asleep in a corner, in a nest of wool between boxes, only to wake up hours later, already outside of the rain.
Thankfully, the rain didn’t hinder their travels and all England could see was azure skies, blue oceans, the other cogs and distant coastline on the port side. England took to observing the clouds and the birds during their travels, and occasionally helping around the ship, when needed. Everything was going great for a few days. Some might say a little too great, but England wanted to be positive for once because surely his life couldn’t just permanently suck. He loved the sea and the rocking of the ship beneath his feet. He looked beyond the horizon line thinking of everything beyond it that he just couldn’t yet see. Maybe one day. But the sea is treacherous and unpredictable, something England learnt very well in that trip. One moment, the winds guided them gently, the sky was painted only by a couple of fluffy white clouds and the waves hit the bow of the cog lazily and the next the same gentle winds whipped around fiercely, dark clouds clashed together in a furiously loud war in the sky, lightening falling down from the heavens with terrific rumbling and the placid waves reached almost unbelievable heights, sending the cogs crashing against each other. A few men might’ve fallen off in their struggle against Nature itself, screams heard from all directions over the howling wind. Panic. England himself was almost thrown overboard in the mess, trying to steer the ships back to the coast, orders barked by those in higher positions barely heard over the chaos and then passed around incorrectly amongst the others. But eventually, the struggle paid off as they reached the closest harbour. England assumed someone must have sent a carrier pigeon to alert whoever lived in this place, for half the city was out, helping the ships dock until they finally put down their anchors and all had both feet in land. All knights either cheered and hugged each other in relief alongside everyone in town or vomited to the sea. England fit into the second category and spent several minutes bent over a bucket emptying his stomach. This resulted in multiple famished people, including England himself heading in flocks to whatever taverns they could find nearby.
They were all warmly welcomed by the people of what they learnt was the portuguese city of Porto. It would take a while before all ships were fixed after that disaster and they needed to stock up on more food anyways, so England decided to get used to life here for at least a few days. Maybe actually relax for a little while again. The rest of that day went on well enough and England had time to eat and steal some alcohol and explore a little bit of the city before night fell.
“Umm… Mister England?” He had just sat down in front of his dinner when a voice came from behind him, with a tap on the shoulder. England twisted his body and found himself staring at a well dressed man, holding a piece of paper in his gloved hands. He had quite a thick accent that sounded vaguely like the language spoken by the people around here, probably an interpreter, and England wondered why in hell he was needed.
“Yes?”
“His Majesty, D. Afonso I of Portugal invites you to meet this country’s representative tomorrow. You won’t have to leave the city, we ask only that you show up at a meeting point at the right time.”
In a way, this surprised England. He knew the country was having its own problems with their expansion and retaking of territory, so he assumed that was the topic at hand, but he wasn’t quite expecting an invitation, and especially not this soon. Anyways, an “invitation” by a king was hardly ever optional, so he decided to hear them out. If anything, he could just refuse to help them. That was optional.
“So, where do I have to be?”
“In front of the Porto Cathedral at around noon. Our king and our country thank you for your time”, with a bow, the man left his presence and exited the tavern, leaving England with his food, wondering how his meeting was about to go.
The next morning, he left relatively early. He assumed it wasn’t yet even close to noon, and took his time taking in the sights and eating fresh fruits sold to him by nice ladies standing on the sides of the roads. Eventually he reached his destination and spaced out, staring at his sword. He was tired. The past few days were exhausting. He sat still with the wind and the birds as company and finally felt a true sense of peace wash over himself.
“Bom dia!” With those simple words, England’s peace was over for quite a long time.
A small child fighting in a bloody battle would be strange, were it not for the fact that the child was a country. Strange creatures, countries, born from the individuality of the nations to which they belonged, life bound to them. Portugal was one of those countries. He had always been one of the most restless as well, in a relentless pursuit of more territory and tireless effort to fight the infidels in the name of God. More territory, but Portugal maintained the conviction that God preferred that the land remain with him. It had already seen and led some battles before, even before being an independent country and just a county in León, some of them recent as well, but even so, there were those who found it strange that a child who appeared to be around 4 or 5 years old, with long hair tied back and a bloodied weapon in his hands, would lead a large group of strong adult men in battle, even if it was a country. Not that Portugal was expecting much from people. They worried a lot. It was one of their best characteristics. But with him they didn't need to worry, he was one of the strongest present.
But even though it was one of the strongest, sieges weren't exactly its best area. It lacked numbers. Many numbers. And recently, Afonso had decided to reconquer Lisbon. Which was a great idea, but they also paid them precisely not to do that, and they seemed to have enough food to last for centuries. Or that was just his impression. Portugal wasn't in there; it was possible that everyone was already half-starved. With luck. If God wanted that, and of course God wanted that. Portugal knew it wouldn't, but he could always dream.
Portugal walked through the narrow streets of Guimarães, barely able to hear the sound of his footsteps echoing off the walls and pavement over the sounds of the people in the street, going about their lives like the normal people they were. Portugal liked hearing those sounds. They made him feel like he was doing a good job, even if most of the work wasn't his. Besides, they made the memories of war seem distant, death and suffering just bad dreams on a beautiful night. Portugal liked to fight, but seeing their people taken away by Salqiu, captured by the enemy, or deformed by war beyond any possible salvation was hard and the worst part of the battle. Even worse if they lost and it all came to nothing. Lives lost without even seeing victory.
He finally stopped in front of the castle, pushing away worse thoughts. Today really wasn't his day. The guards made way and invited him in with a nod and a smile, which Portugal returned before hurrying down the corridors. He must already be late. Afonso Henriques wasn't going to like this at all. He braced himself for a scolding as he pushed open the heavy doors of the throne room. His first king, and first leader as an independent nation, looked tired but determined.
“We're going to conquer Lisbon,” Portugal nodded. He already knew. Afonso had already told him. More than once. Portugal had also already agreed (not that it mattered. The king had the final say). Where on earth did the renewed affirmation come from? “We're short on numbers. Of course, you already know that too,” Portugal felt increasingly confused.
“Then why say it again?”
“Patience. I need you to go to Porto. Bad weather at sea has forced English crusaders to dock in the city. I need you to convince them to help.”
Portugal looked perplexed at the king. Diplomatic missions weren't exactly his strong suit. He’d never exactly convinced anyone to do anything peacefully. Not that he remembered.
“Please, Portugal. We need them. For Lisbon.”
Portugal hesitated. Afonso did not.
“It's an order.”
Countries cannot refuse orders from their leader, for better or for worse. Whether they want to or not. Portugal had never wanted to refuse before. Not until now. But he knew now that there was nothing he could do, so off went Portugal, on an epic journey to the city of Porto, filled with adventures such as making his horse jump a (clearly enormous) stream, stealing two apples from a cart going in the opposite direction, fighting to the death (in a card game) for a room in an inn, and trying to sleep in the hay with his horse because the card game went badly. Portugal really should start using its authority as a country. At least he had extra free food (totally not given out of pity). Always looking on the bright side was important.
Eventually, he got to the place Afonso convinced the leader of the crusaders to meet with him. He found only a child with light blond hair, hideous bushy eyebrows, and emerald eyes, much older than his appearance indicated. A country, for sure. Portugal had never seen countries outside the peninsula before. At least, he didn't remember it. Part of him was excited. Maybe, for the first time, he'd make a friend. Maybe… It wasn't the time for that. He had to convince the other to help with Lisbon first. Everything else could wait. He smiled calmly and summoned all the charisma someone who looks his age can have.
“Bom dia” the boy looked up from the sword in his lap.
“Oh, hello” the language was completely unknown to Portugal. It sounded fancy” You must be Portugal.”
“No need to be so formal. “’m Portugal. Who are you?”
The boy raised an eyebrow.
“England. Didn't anyone tell you?”
Suspicion. A lot of suspicion. Portugal would also be suspicious in his place. Probably. The king had also told him something about the nationality of the crusaders, but Portugal was upset and, honestly, didn't really care, so the information disappeared into the mist of memory. Of course, he couldn't tell England that; he was trying to get an ally, not a lifelong enemy. Which meant he needed an excuse. A good one.
"Of course they did. It was… a test. To make sure you had the right person."
A few seconds passed. Portugal almost thought England knew he was lying and would refuse to help, turn his back and continue his journey. Afonso wouldn't like that. Afonso wouldn’t like that at all.
“It wasn't necessary” England suspected nothing. Crisis averted. 10/10 Portugal was incredible “And what about the reason for calling me here?”
Portugal cleared his throat.
“Recently, our Reconquista journey has reached a… stalemate” England looked at him inquisitively “By that I mean the only Moorish cities around us pay us a fee not to attack them. But of course, nothing pays for the Christian faith, so we are planning an attack on Lisbon. But we don't have enough men.”
“Is that where we come in?”
Portugal nodded affirmatively.
“Seventy armed ships should be enough. Probably. By sea, obviously. Please. Then you can continue on your way.”
England frowned thoughtfully. A few moments. An eternity.
“Okay. Tell King Afonso I that he can count on all the English soldiers in Portuguese territory.”
Portugal let out a breath he didn't remember holding back as he grinned from ear to ear, revealing a slightly chipped tooth.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he threw himself at England, enveloping him into an iron embrace. England kicked the air, in a futile attempt to escape the almost suffocating grip of the darker-haired boy.
“Ah, ger'off me!”
"Afonso would kill me if this went wrong, you're the greatest! We're going to be the best team this world has ever seen!"
He finally released the flushed Englishman (who said something that Portugal thought sounded very much like “lunatic”) and smiled at him again. Now all that was left was to destroy the Moors in the city. Or surround them until they surrender.
If only it were that easy.
Maybe this was a bad idea. England thought that many times since agreeing to help that strange olive skinned boy. What were they even supposed to do? And who could guarantee their win? That boy looked like he was all bark and no bite. Maybe he really was. England really hoped he wasn’t.
A part of him yearned for a friend, though. Portugal may well be it. His first ever friend. England’s heart beat slightly faster in excitement at the thought and a big smile in the sun flashed before his mind’s eye.
He made his way through the crowded streets of Porto absentmindedly after that first meeting between them, feeling the fresh wind in his face, carrying the salty sea breeze, slightly different to the one he was accustomed to. The weather around here in general was nicer than back home, from what he’d seen, warm sun lighting up a bright sky and warming up the land nicely most summer days, never too hot or too cold. But the grass was always greener on the other side. His own country had its own good things. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be jealous of Portugal’s perfect weather and lack of almost daily rain.
He didn’t have more time to think, though, as he finally reached the port after traversing the many streets and alleys separating it from their meeting point. He just had to explain to the knights what they were planning to do. Not that there was much of a plan for now, but he still had to inform them.
The reactions varied a lot. Some weren’t happy at all, some were even quite excited about spreading their mission of faith to more lands, but the vast majority remained supportive without being too overly invested in another’s affairs. They had their own lives to tend to, after all.
They spent the rest of their day making arrangements to set sail to the city of Lisbon and sieging it. The ships hadn’t been too damaged, so it was an easy enough fix with their numbers. After that, England would meet up with Portugal the next morning and finish the plans, and they would leave the port as soon as he was back. Unless their meeting changed anything. England sure as hell hoped it didn’t, because changing all this last minute would be the bane of his miserable existence.
At night, the knights were finally allowed to relax. Most banded together and invaded a local pub, deciding getting drunk out of their minds was a good idea before a fight (“It’s only a siege Capt’n. And we’ll sober up by the time we get there”). England wasn’t at all jealous, obviously, even if the ale and beer in this damned place were actually really good and all their expanses were being paid for by the king for now, apparently after Portugal’s insistence. But England had promised himself he’d stay sober before this. He had to set an example.
“Bom dia, Inglaterra!” Portugal was the one arriving early this time. His long brown hair wasn’t tied back as usual and fell a bit all over the place. Maybe he noticed him staring, because not even England was sure how, he found himself tying it for him after a small bit of back and forth.
“There. You glad now?” The ponytail was a little lopsided and probably not England’s best work, but that wasn’t the point. They had serious business to discuss, not ponytails. Portugal turned back to face him and nodded with a laid back smile. “Great, so we can actually get down to business now.”
Portugal nodded again.
“Our current plan is to let you keep the siege by sea and our people keep it on land. Not very hard. You should get there in a little over a day. Our army’s already on the way. So you better not back down now, too” Portugal looked dead serious at that last part and England almost thought the boy didn’t trust him. Almost.
“Pffft, as if. You’d probably back down before us.”
“No we wouldn’t!” but despite the annoyed tone they were both smiling, without even realising it. “Anyways, this way if we leave now we should get there in the middle of the night.”
“Exactly! When they least expect it!” Portugal was back to the excited state England originally found him in and England wondered if he’d been thinking back on the plans before he got there.
They continued “planning”, even if most of the talk was just banter and idle chatter.
“I think I heard them this way.”
Voices came from the other side of the cathedral. Both countries raised their heads towards the sound. Portugal looked confused so England assumed he hadn’t really learnt the language before this.
“I think they’re looking for us. And we should probably go too” Portugal nodded at him as he got up and they got moving, almost bumping into the two knights looking for them.
“Oh Lord, Capt’n we finally found you” one of the knights stepped forward "You've been gone for a while more than we thought, we were wondering if something happened” he eyed the other country “Were you done?”
“Rob, let ‘em breathe”
“No, there's no problem. We were… just about to leave. Is everything ready on your end?”
“Yes, Capt’n” England couldn’t help but notice “Rob”’s friend kicking his shins. Okay, so maybe not completely ready.
“They were close enough when we left,” Rob corrected himself, “so most likely ready.”
England let out a long sigh. “Let’s hope it’s actually ready when we get there. Portugal, I’ll see you in Lisbon. Maybe.”
A final nod towards his new friend was his goodbye, Portugal’s own a wave and a smile before heading in his own direction. As he walked across the city with the two older men, he wondered when exactly it was that he started to think of the other boy as a friend.
Thankfully, everything was actually ready by the time the three arrived (“See?” “Shut it, Rob”) and all 70 ships could immediately set sail towards the city to siege.
The trip there was, in fact, relatively short and the only eventful thing was a couple of letters containing only very crudely drawn smiling faces that England assumed were sent by Portugal for whatever reason. They arrived at the actual city in the middle of the night as predicted and set up the siege. And after this all they had to do was wait.
Portugal was excited. Really excited. He mentally thanked Afonso for forcing upon him the horrible task of convincing England. Now he had a real chance of winning, which he honestly hadn't felt before, and an ally. Maybe even a friend. Of course, he would never say that aloud, much less to Afonso. He was too proud to admit that the idea he had so vehemently opposed was actually a good one.
The journey from Porto to Lisbon was frankly boring. You couldn't stop often, or for very long, because you had to get to the city as quickly as possible, and nothing really hindered his stupid journey, and a journey without obstacles is bound to be tedious. However, he had his opportunities.
After hours of galloping and trotting, both Portugal and the horse needed water and food, and Portugal was tired enough to stop at some river along the way. He tied a rope to the horse and to a tree close enough to the water praying that the branch would hold if the horse got scared, and sat down on a rock himself.
He opened the bag he carried around his neck and rummaged through his belongings looking for a piece of bread. And a little honey, if he was lucky. Finally, he found half a loaf of bread and a small piece of ham that he didn't remember putting in the bag, but the ham lasted a long time anyway, and it didn't seem bad. Yet. Portugal decided he didn't care about the state of the stupid meat and put his entire meal in his mouth. It tasted good, however meager it was. He got up and went to the river to drink water before getting back on his horse and galloping off, but not without noticing some pieces of paper on the ground. They must have fallen while he was looking for food. He decided to pick them up after filling up on fresh water.
He shuffled the papers in his still-wet hands after a few sips of water. They were small and he wasn't going to use them anyway. Maybe he could just leave them here. Or he could just use them later for… Portugal wasn't really sure either, maybe some silly drawings when he was bored.
He put the papers away again and continued on his way. It was better not to stand still for too long.
He stopped for the second time in a small village. He just needed a little bread for the trip, and the horse couldn't take much more. Portugal didn't want to mistreat the poor animal; they could rest for an hour. He entertained himself by drawing with mud on the small pieces of paper for a while. He didn't quite know what he was doing, he just drew the first thing that the random lines he started reminded him of. Small scribbles quickly filled the paper fragments one by one, leaving only a few for later. Some resembled England, others himself, others various creatures, and many other things. The local villagers passed by him and looked curiously. Surprisingly, Portugal enjoyed the stupidity of the activity, but sooner or later he had to leave, and of course he did. He dropped some coins into the baker's hands and stuffed some dark bread into his bag. He regretted not buying honey further from the village, but the opportunity was already lost, and Afonso wouldn't be very happy if he knew of a delay caused by something as stupid and frivolous as honey to eat with bread.
He finally arrived, not long after nightfall, at the field where the troops were preparing for the siege of the city.
“Portugal! I thought you'd never come,” D. Afonso Henriques gently tapped him, a friendly punch on the arm, accompanied by a smile.
“Is everything ready?”
“Yes, this way. And I heard the English are almost here, so we'll move on shortly. We were actually waiting for you to finish the preparations.”
“Do I help too?” the king laughed. Perhaps the question was a little stupid. Of course he helped too. That didn't mean it was the best part of his day. Sieges in general were incredibly boring, in his humble opinion (which clearly was always correct.)
In the end, both king and nation ended up as helpers and began the conquest efforts (also known as waiting for surrender with the occasional attack).
He decided that waiting alone was worse than being accompanied and, with the king's permission, of course, he took a boat and went to England's ship.
“Bom dia, Inglaterra” Portugal could swear he could hear the other kingdom's eyes rolling.
“Portugal, it's the middle of the day.”
“Bom dia works the whole day” England sighed. Seriously, England loved him. Portugal continued “I have a gift!”
He held out his hands, holding some of the papers. England's gaze wandered from the papers to his face a few times.
“You want me to keep… this?” He raised a bushy eyebrow as Portugal nodded affirmatively. A few seconds. “Maybe I have some extra space in a drawer.”
With a single movement, he snatched all the torn sheets from the other's hands and disappeared somewhere on the ship. He returned later empty-handed, and Portugal wondered if his stupid drawings were now disintegrating at sea. Considering he wasn't even expecting England to accept them, it was better than a rejection in the face. Probably.
“Anyway, that wasn't the only reason I came here.”
“Then why?”
“I'm bored. Do you want to… go for a walk?”
For better or worse, England accepted, and during the following weeks it became a daily habit between the two. Portugal would board the ship, pester England until the other agreed to go out with him, and they would end up spending hours talking about their stories and creatures and gossiping about their brothers. These meetings usually ended with lunch in the field before returning to their positions and duties.
“...Then Edward the Elder and Æthelstan continued the unification of the Anglo-Saxon countries, and I was born around that time. At least that's what I've been told. And from 927 onwards, I became part of the Kingdom of England. And you?”
“It's not very interesting. Vímara Peres conquered Portucale. That’s Porto” he clarified “in 868? I think that's it. Yes. I was around a little before that, but that's when I got my name. Did you know your father or mother?”
England shook his head.
“Both Britannia and whoever represented the Anglo Saxons died long before I came around. Only the guys that joined together to become me were around at the time and that was before they disappeared.”
“Me too. Did you know I'm not even really a brother to those stupid guys? I'm like, a cousin. I was born from the remnants of Lusitania, not other parts of Hispania. Not sure which parts for the others. But they were apparently close and daughters of Iberia, so we look alike, and I was raised with them, so we treat each other like brothers” he shrugged “not that I care much.”
They continued walking, now in silence. The weather was getting colder every day, and the leaves on the trees were already starting to yellow, but Lisbon hadn't yet fallen.
“Want to climb the belfry?” Portugal pointed to the large wooden tower “You can see the city up there.”
England nodded, and the two boys quickly climbed up. Lisbon was already awake, people were already out of their houses, walking the streets and going about their daily tasks without much complication. Which exactly was the strange part. They shouldn't be so carefree, or cheerful, or even remotely normal.
The countries exchanged glances. The siege wasn't working, and that was cause for concern. Or maybe it was just a strategy to deceive them, but it was better not to be too optimistic. It was with these thoughts that they descended the bell tower and went to where they normally ate.
“This is… less than normal” Portugal noted. Not that normal was much before, but now it was even less.
“Now that I think about it, we don't have much left on the boats either. We've only been eating fish for the last few days” England also commented.
“Portugal! The King said he needs you.”
The two turned to find a young man, only a part of his armor on. Not that he really needed it. Portugal quickly said goodbye with a “Gotta go” as he ran after the newcomer and hoped that England wouldn't be too upset by the situation.
The king looked tired, hunched over papers and more papers inside one of the tents. He looked small, bent over like that. It was strange.
“Portugal, let's retreat” Portugal was clearly hearing poorly.
“What?”
“They have a support route through Santarém that we can't cover. We'll have to give up and come back after the route is destroyed. Go tell the English they can retire and continue their journey.”
“But then they'll think we're useless cowards. They'll never want anything to do with us again” Portugal didn't want to lose England like that. Not over something so stupid.
“So be it. Portugal,” the king finally looked up “I didn't want that either.”
The conversation with England itself went as well as expected.
“When I said you gave up before us, I wasn't serious, Portugal.”
“I know, but I can't do anything about the situation. It's impossible. Let's try again, just not now.”
England huffed a humorless laugh.
“For what? To give up again?”
Portugal couldn't find the will to counter that comment. Maybe he was just proving his point now.
“Just go away.”
Later that day, Portugal watched the cogs sail away at sea. Little did he know that he would see them again sooner rather than later.