❝still alive but i'm barely breathing; just praying to a god that i don't believe in❞
lord over heretics | axis powers hetalia | 1500 words | holland ; spain | pg-13 |
in which holland is condemned by spain's council of blood.
lord over heretics.
He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d been caught. He had thought that he’d been subtle with his plans, and his identity-most of his soldiers, for instance, knew him as Willem, and not Holland. But someone had seen his face one too many times, or perhaps one of his men was just too fed up with subtlety and planning. A bag of gold on earth was worth more to some men than the riches to be gained in heaven.
Holland didn’t blame those men. After all, he was one of them.
But Holland didn’t have time to dwell on that now. Because his back ached from being tied to the chair too long, and his head was spinning from the wound inflicted there when he’d been knocked unconscious. It was a sharp cut across his forehead, leaking blood over his eye; he would never forget the face who had given him that wound. It was impossible to now, at any rate, since the man was standing right in front of him.
“Spanje,” Holland grunts, “You bastard.”
- - -
He preferred loving to fighting. If Spain had had his way, his empire would have remained strong forever, with all of his loved ones staying under his roof with him. He knew that they all didn’t necessarily appreciate being controlled, but he assured himself that he knew what was best for them. He was protecting them-his friends, his loves, his children-from the horrors of the world. If he wasn’t there to act as their knight, surely someone much worse would prey upon them.
That didn’t make this any easier.
“Don’t go easy on them,” his king had hissed as Spain prepared to set sail with the Duke of Alba. “They deserve everything they have coming to them, and don’t you forget it.”
“But, Filipe,” Spain had murmured softly, “whatever their crimes, are they not still our kinsmen?”
Filipe II’s eyes grew cold at Spain’s words. He shook his head as he stroked his neatly-trimmed beard, his garments of black velvet stark against his pale skin. “No. Mark me when I say this, Don Antonio-I would rather lose all of my dominions, and a thousand lives if I had them, than be lord over heretics.”
So now, with Holland tied to the chair in front of him, Spain tried to assure himself that’d he’d done his best, that Holland was the one creating all of the problems. And he tried to tell himself that the man before him was not his best friend, merely a heretic.
- - -
He is blinking in and out of consciousness when he feels a strong touch against his chin, pulling his face upwards into the light. Holland jerks in his seat, which sends the heavy wooden chair screeching eerily across the floor. The effort is in vain, however; he moves barely more than an inch, and Spain still has him in a smooth grip.
“It’s funny,” Spain laughs, “I’ve never been taller than you before.”
“You’re not taller than me,” Holland mumbles. “I’m sitting down.”
Spain throws back his head, his delirious laughter filling the small, dark chamber. “But of course, I know that. I merely meant that know there is the illusion than I am taller than you.”
“You know all about illusions, don’t you?” Holland asks blandly. He’s beyond the point of trying to save himself. If Spain has brought him here, it is only for one purpose; this isn’t an inquisition so much as an affirmation.
Spain’s green eyes are hard when he looks back down. “I know about loyalty, Holanda. That seems to be something you’ve forgotten.”
“I know about freedom, Spanje. That’s something you love for yourself but are loathe to give anyone else.”
- - -
He wishes he could turn back the clock, to a time when he was happy and oblivious to the trouble brewing in the far reaches of his empire. He knows, now, that he never should have allowed Holland to go visit back home, to live amongst his people again. Because that was the start of this blasphemy.
Damn him, damn him, damn him a thousand times, Spain thinks. Because of him, the colonies are restless. Belgium spends her days looking at intervals forlorn and upset. Even Romano has been shaken by these events. All because Holland couldn’t keep his own people in line.
“Tell me,” Spain says with deadly calm, forcing Holland’s chin up higher as one finger of his other hand gently traces the bleeding cut. Holland winces, and Spain continues, “Tell me: are you a heretic?”
Holland glances up at Spain with dark eyes, laughs once, harshly, and spits in his face. “Fuck you,” he says amiably.
- - -
He’s tired of this. He knows that Spain will never let him go, which is the reason he hasn’t blown this up into a rebellion. But his people were pleading with him, begging him to find a way for them to practice their new faith. And why did he exist, if not to serve them?
As he spits the words at Spain, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a manic grin, Spain’s face goes dark. Holland is so used to reading his boss’s expressions, so good at telling what’s on the other nation’s mind. Now, he fully expects Spain to pout, to feign injury. But for the first time, Spain surprises him.
“You,” he says icily, wiping off his cheek with one sleeve, “will regret that, Holanda.”
Holland raises his eyebrows, daring Spain to make good on that threat. His head feels light, and it is as though he’s becoming disconnected from his body, but still he manages to keep his expression tight, his features opaque.
“You doubt it?” Spain asks. He laughs again, that familiar, gentle laugh. “Oh, my poor, foolish friend. I know your limits. You’ve been in this room for five days, with no food or water. I wonder that you even had the moisture left to spit.”
As though a curse is brought on by Spain’s words, Holland licks his lips in vain. His tongue, mouth, and throat are impossibly dry, his entire body aching with hunger and fatigue.
“Never forget the power I have over you,” Spain warns. And then he leans in close, and runs his tongue along Holland’s lips, enough to give them a glimpse at moistness but not nearly enough to satisfy. Holland could scream; Spain merely laughs.
- - -
He wanted to touch Holland again. He wanted to simply gather his friend in his arms, and hold on until there was nothing left between them-not animosity or religion or skin. He wants them to be as one again, and he cannot stand the fact that they cannot be. He can tell, from the look in Holland’s eyes, that the other man probably hates him, now.
“I was willing,” Holland says dryly, “to stay by your side. But not as a Catholic.”
“I would rather lose all my subordinates, and a thousand lives if I had them, than be boss to heretics,” Spain replies ironically.
Holland raises one eyebrow at him in question. “I never knew you were so devout,” he coughs.
Spain smiles, a smile that does not reach that sadness in eyes. “Holland-I refuse to rule you if you are a heretic. So I’ll ask you again-are you?”
Spain can tell that Holland doesn’t quite understand, yet. But it’s alright, he will. He’s smart enough, Spain decides. Because his weary eyes blink open a bit wider and his chest heaves with dying laughter when he speaks again.
“Damn straight, I am.”
- - -
He doesn’t know what Spain’s hoping to gain, but slowly the pieces are falling together. Maybe his old boss didn’t want to hurt him, didn’t want to control him. Because as the words leave Holland’s mouth, Spain leans in close and grabs his wrists. At first, Holland thinks he is being embraced, and he stiffens. Then he sees the glint of steel that is the knife in Spain’s hands, and winces as the blade moves towards him.
An instant later, the ropes have fallen from his wrists, and Holland is free. Spain gets up casually, sheaths the knife, and turns his back to Holland.
“I cannot rule a heretic,” Spain says again, his voice low and somewhat ironic. The words dawn on Holland, as cloudy as his mind is, and he shakes his head slowly.
“Then I guess you can’t rule me.”
Spain says nothing, and Holland sighs, before leaving the room. Spain makes no move to stop him, and as Holland steps out onto the snowy streets of his capital, he realizes something-he’s been invited to start a rebellion.
And he tries desperately not to think of Spain, who remains in that cold room, and will have to face not only the Duke of Alba’s consternation, but also his king’s wrath.
notes;
--> The Council of Troubles (usual English translation of Dutch: Raad van Beroerten, or Spanish: Tribunal de los Tumultos, or French: Conseil des Troubles) was the special tribunal instituted on September 9, 1567 by Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, 3rd Duke of Alba, governor-general of the Habsburg Netherlands on the orders of Philip II of Spain to punish the ringleaders of the recent political and religious "troubles" in the Netherlands. Because of the many death sentences pronounced by the tribunal, it also became known as the Council of Blood (Bloedraad in Dutch and Conseil de Sang in French). The tribunal would be abolished by Alba's successor Luis de Zúñiga y Requesens on June 7, 1574 in exchange for a subsidy from the States-General of the Netherlands, but in practice it remained in session until the popular revolution in Brussels of the summer of 1576.
--> Philip II of Spain, also known as Filipe, actually said the line about being a lord over heretics. It is one of the most recognizable quotes from a Hapsburg monarch, and decidedly opposite to his father's sentiment of avoiding issues of religion in order to maintain the empire.
in which holland is condemned by spain's council of blood.
lord over heretics.
He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d been caught. He had thought that he’d been subtle with his plans, and his identity-most of his soldiers, for instance, knew him as Willem, and not Holland. But someone had seen his face one too many times, or perhaps one of his men was just too fed up with subtlety and planning. A bag of gold on earth was worth more to some men than the riches to be gained in heaven.
Holland didn’t blame those men. After all, he was one of them.
But Holland didn’t have time to dwell on that now. Because his back ached from being tied to the chair too long, and his head was spinning from the wound inflicted there when he’d been knocked unconscious. It was a sharp cut across his forehead, leaking blood over his eye; he would never forget the face who had given him that wound. It was impossible to now, at any rate, since the man was standing right in front of him.
“Spanje,” Holland grunts, “You bastard.”
- - -
He preferred loving to fighting. If Spain had had his way, his empire would have remained strong forever, with all of his loved ones staying under his roof with him. He knew that they all didn’t necessarily appreciate being controlled, but he assured himself that he knew what was best for them. He was protecting them-his friends, his loves, his children-from the horrors of the world. If he wasn’t there to act as their knight, surely someone much worse would prey upon them.
That didn’t make this any easier.
“Don’t go easy on them,” his king had hissed as Spain prepared to set sail with the Duke of Alba. “They deserve everything they have coming to them, and don’t you forget it.”
“But, Filipe,” Spain had murmured softly, “whatever their crimes, are they not still our kinsmen?”
Filipe II’s eyes grew cold at Spain’s words. He shook his head as he stroked his neatly-trimmed beard, his garments of black velvet stark against his pale skin. “No. Mark me when I say this, Don Antonio-I would rather lose all of my dominions, and a thousand lives if I had them, than be lord over heretics.”
So now, with Holland tied to the chair in front of him, Spain tried to assure himself that’d he’d done his best, that Holland was the one creating all of the problems. And he tried to tell himself that the man before him was not his best friend, merely a heretic.
- - -
He is blinking in and out of consciousness when he feels a strong touch against his chin, pulling his face upwards into the light. Holland jerks in his seat, which sends the heavy wooden chair screeching eerily across the floor. The effort is in vain, however; he moves barely more than an inch, and Spain still has him in a smooth grip.
“It’s funny,” Spain laughs, “I’ve never been taller than you before.”
“You’re not taller than me,” Holland mumbles. “I’m sitting down.”
Spain throws back his head, his delirious laughter filling the small, dark chamber. “But of course, I know that. I merely meant that know there is the illusion than I am taller than you.”
“You know all about illusions, don’t you?” Holland asks blandly. He’s beyond the point of trying to save himself. If Spain has brought him here, it is only for one purpose; this isn’t an inquisition so much as an affirmation.
Spain’s green eyes are hard when he looks back down. “I know about loyalty, Holanda. That seems to be something you’ve forgotten.”
“I know about freedom, Spanje. That’s something you love for yourself but are loathe to give anyone else.”
- - -
He wishes he could turn back the clock, to a time when he was happy and oblivious to the trouble brewing in the far reaches of his empire. He knows, now, that he never should have allowed Holland to go visit back home, to live amongst his people again. Because that was the start of this blasphemy.
Damn him, damn him, damn him a thousand times, Spain thinks. Because of him, the colonies are restless. Belgium spends her days looking at intervals forlorn and upset. Even Romano has been shaken by these events. All because Holland couldn’t keep his own people in line.
“Tell me,” Spain says with deadly calm, forcing Holland’s chin up higher as one finger of his other hand gently traces the bleeding cut. Holland winces, and Spain continues, “Tell me: are you a heretic?”
Holland glances up at Spain with dark eyes, laughs once, harshly, and spits in his face. “Fuck you,” he says amiably.
- - -
He’s tired of this. He knows that Spain will never let him go, which is the reason he hasn’t blown this up into a rebellion. But his people were pleading with him, begging him to find a way for them to practice their new faith. And why did he exist, if not to serve them?
As he spits the words at Spain, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a manic grin, Spain’s face goes dark. Holland is so used to reading his boss’s expressions, so good at telling what’s on the other nation’s mind. Now, he fully expects Spain to pout, to feign injury. But for the first time, Spain surprises him.
“You,” he says icily, wiping off his cheek with one sleeve, “will regret that, Holanda.”
Holland raises his eyebrows, daring Spain to make good on that threat. His head feels light, and it is as though he’s becoming disconnected from his body, but still he manages to keep his expression tight, his features opaque.
“You doubt it?” Spain asks. He laughs again, that familiar, gentle laugh. “Oh, my poor, foolish friend. I know your limits. You’ve been in this room for five days, with no food or water. I wonder that you even had the moisture left to spit.”
As though a curse is brought on by Spain’s words, Holland licks his lips in vain. His tongue, mouth, and throat are impossibly dry, his entire body aching with hunger and fatigue.
“Never forget the power I have over you,” Spain warns. And then he leans in close, and runs his tongue along Holland’s lips, enough to give them a glimpse at moistness but not nearly enough to satisfy. Holland could scream; Spain merely laughs.
- - -
He wanted to touch Holland again. He wanted to simply gather his friend in his arms, and hold on until there was nothing left between them-not animosity or religion or skin. He wants them to be as one again, and he cannot stand the fact that they cannot be. He can tell, from the look in Holland’s eyes, that the other man probably hates him, now.
“I was willing,” Holland says dryly, “to stay by your side. But not as a Catholic.”
“I would rather lose all my subordinates, and a thousand lives if I had them, than be boss to heretics,” Spain replies ironically.
Holland raises one eyebrow at him in question. “I never knew you were so devout,” he coughs.
Spain smiles, a smile that does not reach that sadness in eyes. “Holland-I refuse to rule you if you are a heretic. So I’ll ask you again-are you?”
Spain can tell that Holland doesn’t quite understand, yet. But it’s alright, he will. He’s smart enough, Spain decides. Because his weary eyes blink open a bit wider and his chest heaves with dying laughter when he speaks again.
“Damn straight, I am.”
- - -
He doesn’t know what Spain’s hoping to gain, but slowly the pieces are falling together. Maybe his old boss didn’t want to hurt him, didn’t want to control him. Because as the words leave Holland’s mouth, Spain leans in close and grabs his wrists. At first, Holland thinks he is being embraced, and he stiffens. Then he sees the glint of steel that is the knife in Spain’s hands, and winces as the blade moves towards him.
An instant later, the ropes have fallen from his wrists, and Holland is free. Spain gets up casually, sheaths the knife, and turns his back to Holland.
“I cannot rule a heretic,” Spain says again, his voice low and somewhat ironic. The words dawn on Holland, as cloudy as his mind is, and he shakes his head slowly.
“Then I guess you can’t rule me.”
Spain says nothing, and Holland sighs, before leaving the room. Spain makes no move to stop him, and as Holland steps out onto the snowy streets of his capital, he realizes something-he’s been invited to start a rebellion.
And he tries desperately not to think of Spain, who remains in that cold room, and will have to face not only the Duke of Alba’s consternation, but also his king’s wrath.
notes;
--> The Council of Troubles (usual English translation of Dutch: Raad van Beroerten, or Spanish: Tribunal de los Tumultos, or French: Conseil des Troubles) was the special tribunal instituted on September 9, 1567 by Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, 3rd Duke of Alba, governor-general of the Habsburg Netherlands on the orders of Philip II of Spain to punish the ringleaders of the recent political and religious "troubles" in the Netherlands. Because of the many death sentences pronounced by the tribunal, it also became known as the Council of Blood (Bloedraad in Dutch and Conseil de Sang in French). The tribunal would be abolished by Alba's successor Luis de Zúñiga y Requesens on June 7, 1574 in exchange for a subsidy from the States-General of the Netherlands, but in practice it remained in session until the popular revolution in Brussels of the summer of 1576.
--> Philip II of Spain, also known as Filipe, actually said the line about being a lord over heretics. It is one of the most recognizable quotes from a Hapsburg monarch, and decidedly opposite to his father's sentiment of avoiding issues of religion in order to maintain the empire.