Countryhumans Nonsense

Her Spoils of War

The Napoleonic invasion of Portugal, featuring France (who's got 99 things wrong with her and only 1 of them is daddy issues) and the Kingdom of Portugal (who's about to have a Really Bad Time).

A one-shot companion to something I'll definitely get to writing in By Your Side.

Thanks all for your support in the writing process, would not be here without you.

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He'd stopped thrashing the moment a guard tapped a rifle to the side of his head. Portugal wasn't sure he could die, even now, but he also wasn't sure that he couldn't. The French have a way of doing the unthinkable, and having his hands tied (unnecessarily tightly, he might add) behind him really doesn't raise his odds.

A harsh prod to the back makes him stumble, then a heavy force on his shoulders shoves the empire to his knees. Cursing under his breath as his joints protest the hard impact, Portugal glares up at the young upstart lounging on his king's throne, in his royal throne room. A heavy, gloved hand pushes his head down.

Absolutely not. Portugal bows for no one but his king, his father and his God, none of which are present in front of him. He'd made up his mind to be brave, when he'd first insisted on staying behind that rainy morning, and he wasn't about to go back on his promise, not now. And certainly not because of the little lady making herself comfortable on his imperial throne.

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France, the second one, the usurper, smirks as the empire is forced to his knees. Personally conquering each kingdom's personification has been a pleasure she hadn't expected when she'd first decided to expand her country, but now it's her favourite part of it all.

She has to admit, she wasn't sure what to expect with this one. Spain was an amusing show of uncharacteristic hesitation when he told her all he knew about his brother, and England's pet kingdom could be just about any type of man, knowing the teabag. And, of course, the Portuguese Empire had been rather famous and rich at some point, hadn't it? If France knows countries at all, then Portugal's bound to have some of that insufferable, unfounded pride still left in him. She can't wait to stamp it out.

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France's daughter gets off the throne with a playful leap, striding imperiously down the steps until she stands right in front of the kneeling empire. Portugal hates to look up at anyone, especially not this woman, but anything might be better than staring at the floor or, God bless, looking straight ahead. He glares up at the young country, holding his head high just as his father taught him, all those years ago. The presence of the rifle hovers menacingly in the corner of his vision, but Portugal yanks his gaze away from his oncoming execution. He'd rather be shot than face whatever devious plans France seems to have in store behind her shining eyes.

"Good morning," the woman greets brightly, smiling down at him, "I'm France. You must be.. Portugal, is that right?" As if the blue and white flag isn't brazen across his face. "I've heard a lot about you, if you can believe that." Portugal only half hears her goading, too distracted by the striking similarities between this France and her father. He was a pain, always, of course, but Portugal can't explain the stabbing pangs of grief that rush over him in the moment. The Kingdom of France has been dead for a few decades, now, but it's only when seeing his God-awful replacement that Portugal really does miss the old bastard.

"You're even prettier in real life," France remarks suddenly, and Portugal freezes as a smooth hand glides across his jaw. No, no, absolutely not- not least because he'd been approximately eight hundred and fifteen years old when she was first conceived- anything but this humiliation. "Maybe that's why the others let you stick around for so long. Too handsome to die, was that it?"