APH: Conquest
Title: Conquest
Characters/Pairings: Al-Andalus/Portugal/Spain, Spain + Portugal bromance <3
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Hard sex, shota-esque nations and allusions to Reconquista battles \o/
Summary: They gave up their bodies for a taste of freedom, and they are not ashamed. For being shamed means having nothing left worth fighting for.
--------------------------------------------------
Note: Castile is Spain, and Portugale is obviously Portugal. But this is what they were referred to as pre - 11th century. Which is when this takes place.
When they're in bed Al-Andalus takes his brother from behind, and his strong, weathered hands grasp at Castile's boyish hips because Castile can't hold himself up on his trembling arms any more; his legs are shaking like they are going to dissolve into water and Portugale knows the feeling all too well. He crosses his legs together, sat on the opposite end of the bed while his heart pounds somewhere up in his ears and Castile is keening, clawing at the silk patterned sheets with his fingernails and panting with the Islamic Empire balls deep inside him and it's been hundreds of years now; Portugale had long been desensitized against embarrassment in this nation's bed, against shame and for all that it matters, he no longer fears saying it was worth it.
"Al-Sharq," the empire rumbles, low and deep in his chest like an animal, a Moorish beast and something hot and entirely unaccounted for curls in Portugale's stomach at the sound of it.
There is something else too, and it thunders inside him like an entire cavalry, a ray of hope and when he closes his eyes he can just see the banners, the wrought-iron crucifix held above the heads of the mounted knights like a standard -
Castile's voice is little more than a moan now, green eyes hazy and raw and he bites down on his arm to muffle the whimpers, cries "Oh oh oh oh" every time in a soft breathy voice, completely in tandem to the sharp rhythmic thrusts, the slap of skin on skin. His lithe form arches into a perfect bow when Al-Andalus lowers lips and teeth to the back of his neck, and he laves his tongue without question over the empire's probing fingers, allows him to pet his mouth and fuck it like he's fucking him. He looks over his shoulder with half-lidded (wild) eyes at Portugale, curls his tongue around Al-Andalus's fingers and raises his eyebrows -
The Caliph waits on the opposite bank, and his mouth is smiling but his face is hard. The great city walls tower behind them and the task is oppressive, the Moors drawing their wickedly curved blades and riding out to meet them and oh how they long for that city -
Portugale's braided hair swings back over his shoulder when he drops his clothes to crawl across the length of the bed, and all he has to do is shove the empire in the side with his foot to grab his attention. Al-Andalus turns his head and the old scar cutting across his mouth only seems to deepen his frown. So when Portugale settles himself on his knees to grab at his face and kiss him in the way he taught them how, he doesn't regret, he doesn't feel shamed, he only laments that they had been too young under Rome's rule to have benefitted from such teachings earlier. There was no doubt that they would have been useful.
The empire makes that deep sound again, and the way he drags his tongue over Portugale's lips is rough, makes his knees buckle just a little and his spine tingle when he lifts himself up off his brother to ghost fingers down his back. Castile doesn't complain, but he sits up to watch, sweat rolling in beads down his jaw as he catches his breath in the reprieve -
They would later remember this as they days of chivalry, as time has blurred between battles by this stage but that had made the knights no less gallant, foot soldiers and horsemen alike leaping into the fray with their weapons drawn, chanting their praises to their lords, their God and their nations. "Glory!" they chant, over the clashing of swords like a faint buzz in his ear, "Glory to God in the highest- "
"Al-Gharb," Al-Andalus calls him, runs the hand still slick with Castile's spit through his curls and Portugale doesn't cringe away, lifts his chin stubbornly as strong fingers card through his hair, picking out the braid until it comes loose and tumbles across his back. He spreads his knees out over the bed and wraps his arms around the empire’s neck, kisses across the bridge of his nose and bruising against his mouth and tries not to tremble himself when the thick muscles bunch together, rippling under his younger, inexperienced hands.
“Harun,” he whispers back, and the name is like sweet poison to his tongue. He moves his palms over his chest, forms the words with his lips again, “Oh Harun…”
“Always so impatient,” the empire croons, his arousal nudging against Portugale’s belly now, it tightens as his gut twists, and he digs his nails into the older nation’s shoulders when he crawls into his lap and his own erection butts against it. The heat is almost unbearably good and he hates himself for admitting to it; Al-Andalus cups the back of his head when he kisses him proper, and he doesn’t regret even as the air rushes out of him and Castile comes around the back, still hard, still unsatisfied; moulding himself against the empire’s strong back and mouthing down his neck, rutting against him, pleading and -
The city walls hold firm even as the rest of it crumbles around them, and it is an impenetrable citadel but they have learnt, they are still learning and he can feel their determination like an itching under his skin where the fires don’t reach and the roar in his ears is heady now as it licks the javelins, reflecting the crucified Christ in the shadows of gold and glory -”
And Portugale will never tire of having this nation, this oppressor under him, and it would be a lie to say that the control was absolute but it was something, and he would take whatever he could get wherever he could find it. He presses his knees against the empire’s sides, his hands flat on his taut stomach and he rides him, teeth gritted together in a wide, tremulous grin as the bed shudders beneath them and Al-Andalus thrusts up to meet him halfway. He tugs at the ends of Portugale’s long hair sometimes, where the sweat has made the ends curl and sometimes he thinks he will cut it but he doesn’t, enjoys far too much the distinction it gives him against Castile.
“Come on,” he chants, leans forward a little to push him deeper, good lord, “Come on you old bastard, come on.”
Castile is a little in front of him now, his own hands further up on the empire’s body as he straddles his face and his brother is open-mouthed and moaning nonsense words now, dragging his nails across Al-Andalus’s skin as he fucks his mouth and Portugale can see him from where he is positioned, grinning dangerously with the fingers of one hand splayed somewhere near Castile’s entrance, stroking his sweet spot from behind as his mouth moves over his erection. A mouth so full of lies and deceit and yet so capable of sweetness; he is as talented with his words as he is with his tongue and Portugale knows this from personal experience, not just the way Castile’s brows are drawing together as he bites his lip against another “Oh” -
The Caliph grins wildly, banners of green and white streaming out behind him as the horses throw themselves into the shallows of the river and everywhere there is crying, people praying and the urge to just burn it to the ground so neither one of them can have it is -”
Al-Andalus’s hand is bruising his bottom now, what with the way he is gripping and clawing at it as Portugale rides him faster and faster, and he slaps the firm flesh again until he cries out and glares at him with dark eyes, eyes that say he is so close to winning, to coming out of this on top. He squeezes around him in that way he knows he always asks of them, the way he knows he likes. His hair is sticking to his skin and his rump has been smacked raw, as something deep inside Portugale tingles, tightens into a white-hot knot.
Castile looks up at him in desperation, pleading to his older brother for something that Portugale is not sure he can give, and he lowers himself almost flat against the empire now, pressing his forehead against Castile’s and trying, trying so hard not to come but Al-Andalus is older, and though they too have grown they are still children in comparison, still inexperienced. Castile’s cheeks burn hotly against his own; he can feel it radiating in waves and he bites the inside of his cheek as the empire’s fingers tighten even harder, he slaps him again and rolls his hips and presses up inside him and it’s too much, what had they been thinking -
“Please,” Castile whimpers, and butts his forehead against his, presses his face against his brother’s shoulder and Portugale can feel his eyes squeezed shut, the lashes fluttering over his skin and he is so young and he is not ashamed, “Please, please, please, oh hermano - ”
And he can’t take it, he knows he is not the only one, because before anyone can stop him one knight has taken up a burning torch and hurled it at the gates, and behind his closed eyelids the city burns and the flames are high, there is blood on his hands and the river turns red, mud underfoot and they had been so close this time, so close -”
Through some unforseen unfairness of the situation Portugale comes first, and his cry is one of frustration, an almost sob to his own ears as he collapses against his brother, legs giving out underneath him as Al-Andalus continues to fuck his thoroughly abused arse. He grits his teeth so hard he feels they might crack and digs welts into his skin until blood starts to bead, but he knows he will only laugh later. “Flesh wounds,” he will say in amusement and Portugale will want to punch him again, “Mere flesh wounds.”
Castile follows not long after, holding his brother’s hands tight in his own and pressing his mouth hard to his sweaty hair. His cry is even louder, shoving his hips down over the empire’s mouth and somewhere in the haze of his mind Portugale always hopes that he will end up choking him to death through some twist of fate but he never does. They hold each other close in the aftermath, and they are not shamed, even though they are filthy and sweaty and it had to be done. The throes of orgasm still tremble through them and Portugale cringes slightly as Al-Andalus continues rocking up into him at a leisurely pace.
“Is that all?” he says to them, and his voice is darkly amusing, almost condescending. His grip on Portugale’s hip is almost painful now that the pleasure has started to subside. “Ah, but you are still so young…it is natural.”
Something cracks inside his heart as he watches the smoke, and still they raise their banners high, torn now, though the symbol of Christ remains untarnished above the carnage and as they shout his ears bleed and the sky goes white - ”
The wildness had broken in Castile’s eyes first, even as Portugale saw red, and they are on their hands and knees now in front of this man, this damned oppressor as he curls his fingers in their hair and smirks down at them, eyebrows raised and god almighty does he ever just want to bite him. But Castile squeezes his hand hard and so Portugale doesn’t, looks up at Al-Andalus with lidded, hateful eyes as he licks a long, broad stroke over his erection with the flat of his tongue. He sucks the head as Castile looks up at him imploringly in what surely must be equal loathing, and he fondles his balls in his free hand, trails his mouth up over the sides and rakes his teeth over the skin, the tip of his tongue over the thick vein. Portugale licks the slit as he does so, pumps what is not occupied by his brother’s mouth in his fist and this is all that is left.
It is not much, it is petty revenge and they are not shamed. It is worth it.
It is worth everything, even as they feel Al-Andalus tighten under their hands, muscles cording and he pulls hard at their hair when he comes in their mouths, on their chins and over their cheeks. Castile cries out at the pain and tears prick at the corners of Portugale’s eyes as he spits to the side. He holds his brother’s hand tight as Castile starts to tremble all over again, and his shakes have transferred over and he can’t stand it, almost as much as he can’t stand this; this losing.
Al-Andalus sighs in satisfaction and “I hate you” is hot on Portugale’s tongue, but he doesn’t say it, his eyes speak enough. The empire pets them now, strokes their cheeks and pushes their sweaty hair away from their faces. He looks almost proud.
“Better,” he says, and they wonder if at all that this was something to be proud of. But they are proud yes, they have to be, because not being proud would mean being ashamed and they are many things, Portugale tells Castile constantly, when it is just the two of them, but they should never have to be ashamed -
It is over, and even though they retreat back to Asturias he feels the satisfaction in their hearts, that though they have not taken the city they have left the Moors with a husk, and empty shell by the river and the Caliph did not laugh, at least this time he did not laugh, and for a second he might have looked almost worried. And they tell themselves that, over and over, even though the satisfaction is accompanied by guilt, and many of the knights look like young boys to his eyes, with their soot-streaked faces as they return home to lick their wounds -
Al-Andalus leaves them in bed after awhile, because there had been news of an uprising in the north, and the look he shoots them as he leaves is half-exasperated and half-challenging. He shakes his head as he dresses and leaves them there, sweat cooling in the evening breeze as he follows his advisors out the door, and they babble at him in their strange language, they are getting stronger my lord, we can’t… their voices fade.
Portugale feels content for that alone. He sits up on his elbow and rakes the tangles out of his hair. It is enough, but then there is a small sob from somewhere near his right and he turns his head to find Castile pressing his face hard into his pillow, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. He presses his lips together and sighs .
“Oh irmão don’t,” he says quietly and pats his brother on the head. “It’s alright. You’ll see, everything will be alright. You did very well. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” But that only makes Castile sob harder, press his fist against his mouth to stop the sounds and Portugale runs his fingers through his hair because he knows, he knows and it is… it is, even if they never say it out loud.
“Hermano…” he hiccups and Portugale tugs gently at his curls, runs soothing fingers across his spine and pats him on the back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t think he would…”
“Don’t cry Antonio. Please don't,” he tells him firmly. “It’s not your fault. It will get better, I promise. It will get better.”
The Moors have seen their strength now, they have seen what they can do, and that alone is worth it. Someone starts singing then, and at first it is just one voice in the wilderness, but then it catches on and soon there is song amongst the whole cavalry and the tune is as uplifting as a “Gloria”. Pride swells in his heart for them and still freedom exists, they have not yet taken that from them and that alone makes the shame melt away.
It flows like the current in a river and there is peace, there is God and there is always salvation. Their spirits fill him and it is enough, he thinks, to know what you are fighting for…
…and that alone makes all the shame you will encounter worth it.
Portugale sings the words softly, cradles the colours and images and music in his head and rocks his brother close to him. He clasps his hands close to his heart, presses kisses to the knuckles and holds him; Castile’s cheek pressed up against his heartbeat and he is not ashamed, no, never ashamed. (He, too, knows what he is fighting for.)
Not so long as he has this.
-
-
-
A/N:
Al-Gharb (West) - Portugal
Al-Sharq (East) - Spain
Harun - Al-Andalus (Moorish Iberia)
So smutty I don't even orz. Anyway because of that there aren't really any historical notes for this except the Reconquista in which Spain and Portugal spent about 800 years combined trying to get their Islamic oppressors off and out of the Peninsula. It was a very taxing time period as you can imagine, one that shaped them as nations.
Portugale was a county and Castile was a duchy, both in the Kingdoms of León, Galicia and Asturias, the Christian Kingdoms against the Islamic Caliphate of Cordoba (Al-Andalus).
One idea that I had was that they used sex as a distraction against Al-Andalus; winning meant distracting him sufficiently enough for their Christians to win against the Moors. Losing meant going home and trying another day. And seriously...it wasn't meant to be this angsty but...letting yourself be used as a sex-object? It has repurcussions.
Especially when you're as young as these guys here. Well...I don't know how YOUNG they are exactly, but they are still jailbait. So please note that and I'm sorry if this offends you. I KNOW IT'S NOT FOR EVERYONE orz.
Characters/Pairings: Al-Andalus/Portugal/Spain, Spain + Portugal bromance <3
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Hard sex, shota-esque nations and allusions to Reconquista battles \o/
Summary: They gave up their bodies for a taste of freedom, and they are not ashamed. For being shamed means having nothing left worth fighting for.
--------------------------------------------------
Note: Castile is Spain, and Portugale is obviously Portugal. But this is what they were referred to as pre - 11th century. Which is when this takes place.
When they're in bed Al-Andalus takes his brother from behind, and his strong, weathered hands grasp at Castile's boyish hips because Castile can't hold himself up on his trembling arms any more; his legs are shaking like they are going to dissolve into water and Portugale knows the feeling all too well. He crosses his legs together, sat on the opposite end of the bed while his heart pounds somewhere up in his ears and Castile is keening, clawing at the silk patterned sheets with his fingernails and panting with the Islamic Empire balls deep inside him and it's been hundreds of years now; Portugale had long been desensitized against embarrassment in this nation's bed, against shame and for all that it matters, he no longer fears saying it was worth it.
"Al-Sharq," the empire rumbles, low and deep in his chest like an animal, a Moorish beast and something hot and entirely unaccounted for curls in Portugale's stomach at the sound of it.
There is something else too, and it thunders inside him like an entire cavalry, a ray of hope and when he closes his eyes he can just see the banners, the wrought-iron crucifix held above the heads of the mounted knights like a standard -
Castile's voice is little more than a moan now, green eyes hazy and raw and he bites down on his arm to muffle the whimpers, cries "Oh oh oh oh" every time in a soft breathy voice, completely in tandem to the sharp rhythmic thrusts, the slap of skin on skin. His lithe form arches into a perfect bow when Al-Andalus lowers lips and teeth to the back of his neck, and he laves his tongue without question over the empire's probing fingers, allows him to pet his mouth and fuck it like he's fucking him. He looks over his shoulder with half-lidded (wild) eyes at Portugale, curls his tongue around Al-Andalus's fingers and raises his eyebrows -
The Caliph waits on the opposite bank, and his mouth is smiling but his face is hard. The great city walls tower behind them and the task is oppressive, the Moors drawing their wickedly curved blades and riding out to meet them and oh how they long for that city -
Portugale's braided hair swings back over his shoulder when he drops his clothes to crawl across the length of the bed, and all he has to do is shove the empire in the side with his foot to grab his attention. Al-Andalus turns his head and the old scar cutting across his mouth only seems to deepen his frown. So when Portugale settles himself on his knees to grab at his face and kiss him in the way he taught them how, he doesn't regret, he doesn't feel shamed, he only laments that they had been too young under Rome's rule to have benefitted from such teachings earlier. There was no doubt that they would have been useful.
The empire makes that deep sound again, and the way he drags his tongue over Portugale's lips is rough, makes his knees buckle just a little and his spine tingle when he lifts himself up off his brother to ghost fingers down his back. Castile doesn't complain, but he sits up to watch, sweat rolling in beads down his jaw as he catches his breath in the reprieve -
They would later remember this as they days of chivalry, as time has blurred between battles by this stage but that had made the knights no less gallant, foot soldiers and horsemen alike leaping into the fray with their weapons drawn, chanting their praises to their lords, their God and their nations. "Glory!" they chant, over the clashing of swords like a faint buzz in his ear, "Glory to God in the highest- "
"Al-Gharb," Al-Andalus calls him, runs the hand still slick with Castile's spit through his curls and Portugale doesn't cringe away, lifts his chin stubbornly as strong fingers card through his hair, picking out the braid until it comes loose and tumbles across his back. He spreads his knees out over the bed and wraps his arms around the empire’s neck, kisses across the bridge of his nose and bruising against his mouth and tries not to tremble himself when the thick muscles bunch together, rippling under his younger, inexperienced hands.
“Harun,” he whispers back, and the name is like sweet poison to his tongue. He moves his palms over his chest, forms the words with his lips again, “Oh Harun…”
“Always so impatient,” the empire croons, his arousal nudging against Portugale’s belly now, it tightens as his gut twists, and he digs his nails into the older nation’s shoulders when he crawls into his lap and his own erection butts against it. The heat is almost unbearably good and he hates himself for admitting to it; Al-Andalus cups the back of his head when he kisses him proper, and he doesn’t regret even as the air rushes out of him and Castile comes around the back, still hard, still unsatisfied; moulding himself against the empire’s strong back and mouthing down his neck, rutting against him, pleading and -
The city walls hold firm even as the rest of it crumbles around them, and it is an impenetrable citadel but they have learnt, they are still learning and he can feel their determination like an itching under his skin where the fires don’t reach and the roar in his ears is heady now as it licks the javelins, reflecting the crucified Christ in the shadows of gold and glory -”
And Portugale will never tire of having this nation, this oppressor under him, and it would be a lie to say that the control was absolute but it was something, and he would take whatever he could get wherever he could find it. He presses his knees against the empire’s sides, his hands flat on his taut stomach and he rides him, teeth gritted together in a wide, tremulous grin as the bed shudders beneath them and Al-Andalus thrusts up to meet him halfway. He tugs at the ends of Portugale’s long hair sometimes, where the sweat has made the ends curl and sometimes he thinks he will cut it but he doesn’t, enjoys far too much the distinction it gives him against Castile.
“Come on,” he chants, leans forward a little to push him deeper, good lord, “Come on you old bastard, come on.”
Castile is a little in front of him now, his own hands further up on the empire’s body as he straddles his face and his brother is open-mouthed and moaning nonsense words now, dragging his nails across Al-Andalus’s skin as he fucks his mouth and Portugale can see him from where he is positioned, grinning dangerously with the fingers of one hand splayed somewhere near Castile’s entrance, stroking his sweet spot from behind as his mouth moves over his erection. A mouth so full of lies and deceit and yet so capable of sweetness; he is as talented with his words as he is with his tongue and Portugale knows this from personal experience, not just the way Castile’s brows are drawing together as he bites his lip against another “Oh” -
The Caliph grins wildly, banners of green and white streaming out behind him as the horses throw themselves into the shallows of the river and everywhere there is crying, people praying and the urge to just burn it to the ground so neither one of them can have it is -”
Al-Andalus’s hand is bruising his bottom now, what with the way he is gripping and clawing at it as Portugale rides him faster and faster, and he slaps the firm flesh again until he cries out and glares at him with dark eyes, eyes that say he is so close to winning, to coming out of this on top. He squeezes around him in that way he knows he always asks of them, the way he knows he likes. His hair is sticking to his skin and his rump has been smacked raw, as something deep inside Portugale tingles, tightens into a white-hot knot.
Castile looks up at him in desperation, pleading to his older brother for something that Portugale is not sure he can give, and he lowers himself almost flat against the empire now, pressing his forehead against Castile’s and trying, trying so hard not to come but Al-Andalus is older, and though they too have grown they are still children in comparison, still inexperienced. Castile’s cheeks burn hotly against his own; he can feel it radiating in waves and he bites the inside of his cheek as the empire’s fingers tighten even harder, he slaps him again and rolls his hips and presses up inside him and it’s too much, what had they been thinking -
“Please,” Castile whimpers, and butts his forehead against his, presses his face against his brother’s shoulder and Portugale can feel his eyes squeezed shut, the lashes fluttering over his skin and he is so young and he is not ashamed, “Please, please, please, oh hermano - ”
And he can’t take it, he knows he is not the only one, because before anyone can stop him one knight has taken up a burning torch and hurled it at the gates, and behind his closed eyelids the city burns and the flames are high, there is blood on his hands and the river turns red, mud underfoot and they had been so close this time, so close -”
Through some unforseen unfairness of the situation Portugale comes first, and his cry is one of frustration, an almost sob to his own ears as he collapses against his brother, legs giving out underneath him as Al-Andalus continues to fuck his thoroughly abused arse. He grits his teeth so hard he feels they might crack and digs welts into his skin until blood starts to bead, but he knows he will only laugh later. “Flesh wounds,” he will say in amusement and Portugale will want to punch him again, “Mere flesh wounds.”
Castile follows not long after, holding his brother’s hands tight in his own and pressing his mouth hard to his sweaty hair. His cry is even louder, shoving his hips down over the empire’s mouth and somewhere in the haze of his mind Portugale always hopes that he will end up choking him to death through some twist of fate but he never does. They hold each other close in the aftermath, and they are not shamed, even though they are filthy and sweaty and it had to be done. The throes of orgasm still tremble through them and Portugale cringes slightly as Al-Andalus continues rocking up into him at a leisurely pace.
“Is that all?” he says to them, and his voice is darkly amusing, almost condescending. His grip on Portugale’s hip is almost painful now that the pleasure has started to subside. “Ah, but you are still so young…it is natural.”
Something cracks inside his heart as he watches the smoke, and still they raise their banners high, torn now, though the symbol of Christ remains untarnished above the carnage and as they shout his ears bleed and the sky goes white - ”
The wildness had broken in Castile’s eyes first, even as Portugale saw red, and they are on their hands and knees now in front of this man, this damned oppressor as he curls his fingers in their hair and smirks down at them, eyebrows raised and god almighty does he ever just want to bite him. But Castile squeezes his hand hard and so Portugale doesn’t, looks up at Al-Andalus with lidded, hateful eyes as he licks a long, broad stroke over his erection with the flat of his tongue. He sucks the head as Castile looks up at him imploringly in what surely must be equal loathing, and he fondles his balls in his free hand, trails his mouth up over the sides and rakes his teeth over the skin, the tip of his tongue over the thick vein. Portugale licks the slit as he does so, pumps what is not occupied by his brother’s mouth in his fist and this is all that is left.
It is not much, it is petty revenge and they are not shamed. It is worth it.
It is worth everything, even as they feel Al-Andalus tighten under their hands, muscles cording and he pulls hard at their hair when he comes in their mouths, on their chins and over their cheeks. Castile cries out at the pain and tears prick at the corners of Portugale’s eyes as he spits to the side. He holds his brother’s hand tight as Castile starts to tremble all over again, and his shakes have transferred over and he can’t stand it, almost as much as he can’t stand this; this losing.
Al-Andalus sighs in satisfaction and “I hate you” is hot on Portugale’s tongue, but he doesn’t say it, his eyes speak enough. The empire pets them now, strokes their cheeks and pushes their sweaty hair away from their faces. He looks almost proud.
“Better,” he says, and they wonder if at all that this was something to be proud of. But they are proud yes, they have to be, because not being proud would mean being ashamed and they are many things, Portugale tells Castile constantly, when it is just the two of them, but they should never have to be ashamed -
It is over, and even though they retreat back to Asturias he feels the satisfaction in their hearts, that though they have not taken the city they have left the Moors with a husk, and empty shell by the river and the Caliph did not laugh, at least this time he did not laugh, and for a second he might have looked almost worried. And they tell themselves that, over and over, even though the satisfaction is accompanied by guilt, and many of the knights look like young boys to his eyes, with their soot-streaked faces as they return home to lick their wounds -
Al-Andalus leaves them in bed after awhile, because there had been news of an uprising in the north, and the look he shoots them as he leaves is half-exasperated and half-challenging. He shakes his head as he dresses and leaves them there, sweat cooling in the evening breeze as he follows his advisors out the door, and they babble at him in their strange language, they are getting stronger my lord, we can’t… their voices fade.
Portugale feels content for that alone. He sits up on his elbow and rakes the tangles out of his hair. It is enough, but then there is a small sob from somewhere near his right and he turns his head to find Castile pressing his face hard into his pillow, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. He presses his lips together and sighs .
“Oh irmão don’t,” he says quietly and pats his brother on the head. “It’s alright. You’ll see, everything will be alright. You did very well. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” But that only makes Castile sob harder, press his fist against his mouth to stop the sounds and Portugale runs his fingers through his hair because he knows, he knows and it is… it is, even if they never say it out loud.
“Hermano…” he hiccups and Portugale tugs gently at his curls, runs soothing fingers across his spine and pats him on the back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t think he would…”
“Don’t cry Antonio. Please don't,” he tells him firmly. “It’s not your fault. It will get better, I promise. It will get better.”
The Moors have seen their strength now, they have seen what they can do, and that alone is worth it. Someone starts singing then, and at first it is just one voice in the wilderness, but then it catches on and soon there is song amongst the whole cavalry and the tune is as uplifting as a “Gloria”. Pride swells in his heart for them and still freedom exists, they have not yet taken that from them and that alone makes the shame melt away.
It flows like the current in a river and there is peace, there is God and there is always salvation. Their spirits fill him and it is enough, he thinks, to know what you are fighting for…
…and that alone makes all the shame you will encounter worth it.
Portugale sings the words softly, cradles the colours and images and music in his head and rocks his brother close to him. He clasps his hands close to his heart, presses kisses to the knuckles and holds him; Castile’s cheek pressed up against his heartbeat and he is not ashamed, no, never ashamed. (He, too, knows what he is fighting for.)
Not so long as he has this.
-
-
-
A/N:
Al-Gharb (West) - Portugal
Al-Sharq (East) - Spain
Harun - Al-Andalus (Moorish Iberia)
So smutty I don't even orz. Anyway because of that there aren't really any historical notes for this except the Reconquista in which Spain and Portugal spent about 800 years combined trying to get their Islamic oppressors off and out of the Peninsula. It was a very taxing time period as you can imagine, one that shaped them as nations.
Portugale was a county and Castile was a duchy, both in the Kingdoms of León, Galicia and Asturias, the Christian Kingdoms against the Islamic Caliphate of Cordoba (Al-Andalus).
One idea that I had was that they used sex as a distraction against Al-Andalus; winning meant distracting him sufficiently enough for their Christians to win against the Moors. Losing meant going home and trying another day. And seriously...it wasn't meant to be this angsty but...letting yourself be used as a sex-object? It has repurcussions.
Especially when you're as young as these guys here. Well...I don't know how YOUNG they are exactly, but they are still jailbait. So please note that and I'm sorry if this offends you. I KNOW IT'S NOT FOR EVERYONE orz.