AND WE ARE CALLED OZYMANDIAS

"Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
-- Percy Blythe Shelley

Spain

He had been the first, the first to lay claim to the New World. Even now, years after, he can still remember the soft sand shifting beneath his shoes and the smell of the tropics, hints of the scent of exotic plants, that wafted through the air, smells that mixed with the sea breeze that welcomed his visit. The feelings of excitement, the sheer wonder he felt at the mere sight of this untouched land, still grips him, the emotions still as strong as they were when his ships had first beached themselves upon the shores of the western hemisphere.

He remembers the things he discovered there. The new plants, things that he brought back to his home, the ones that his people turned into the cuisine that would continue to feed generations after. The new people he met, with cultures so foreign to his own that he could only label their behavior as "savage," but still could not help but stand in awe at the achievements they had accomplished without the modern ways of his continent. The new terrain he had never explored, earth that hid mountains of treasure beneath its surface. He remembers the gold, the underlying reason behind his expedition across the Atlantic.

And he remembers what he took.

He remembers the battles he fought, clearly in his favor, and he remembers the screams of the barbarians as his muskets fired upon their defenseless bodies. He watched as the lands he had discovered were burned beneath him, raped for their resources and left fallow. And he remembers how he never had a ounce of regret and never felt the ramifications of his actions (It is for God, glory, and gold, he assured himself), even if he wants to forget.

He remembers the stranglehold he had on those lands.

The stranglehold that was torn from his grasp.

These days, Antonio finds himself drifting back to these memories, reveling in the nostalgia on quiet summer afternoons. He lays upon a grassy hill sometimes, arms spread wide and eyes closed to block his senses, and lets the sun's rays bathe him in warmth, lets the breeze play with his hair and clothes, only to immerse himself in the memories of things he once held so firmly.

Antonio opens his eyes slowly, tracking the paths of the cumbersome white clouds that trail above his home. He turns his head to stare at the item in his hand, and he smiles at the sight of a tomato, bright crimson against the green grass that surrounds him.

It is a gift from the New World, that is what he remembers.

He props himself up on his elbow, staring at the glossy vegetable for a moment he holds delicately in his hand, and he chuckles to himself.

France

Lately, he had been idle. Francis spent his days letting the matters of modern time pass him by, gracefully bowing out of the workings of the world that he had once been such an integral part of.

That he had once controlled.

He remembers that man, the one who brought his country out of ruin and anarchy after the Revolution. The country of France could not be idle under a man like Napoleon Bonaparte, and Francis can remember the zeal his people once had for their leader, a man they would follow to the ends of the Earth with passion only his citizens could muster.

And they did follow him.

He remembers how much land they took in the early nineteenth century, farther than he could have imagined, and the time in which it was done. He does not think anything could have grown so quickly. He remembers the utmost joy he felt that his nation, one that was scorned at for its weakness, for its delicacy, could rise above as the greatest power in Europe. He remembers the sounds of cannons firing, horses hooves like drums against the earth, and the ring of swords unsheathed as Napoleon's armies marched, galloped, into enemy terrain, and the looks of horror upon the faces of the conquered as they still, even then, attempted to fight.

He remembers his victories, glorious victories.

But he also remembers the defeats.

The chill of Moscow that punctured through his uniform, the way his hands would go numb, pained and useless, and the cries of his soldiers as their supplies dwindled and they succumbed to the frost. He remembers his bewilderment, his shock when he found the city in flames, the bitter taste left in his mouth when he was forced to retreat from the land of Russia, forced to forfeit a victory for his own survival. Many retreats followed, and he lost his claim of Germany, of Spain.

And Waterloo. He remembers, though he hates to, the campaign of Wellington, the man's plans for the battle, ones that he had been fashioning since he set his eyes upon the rolling landscape. Francis remembers how unprepared his troops were to see the enemy armies hidden behind the hills, how Napoleon had finally found his rival in a man equally undefeated.

He remembers watching the man who ruled his country captured by the British, taken to Saint Helena to never return to France. He remembers how his people's frenzy, the vehemence, depleted so quickly, as they returned to idleness.

Francis laughs softly, barely audible, as he slowly leaves the memories of his reverie. As he gazes outside his window, the gray sky illuminated behind la tour Eiffel, the gossamer curtains gently dancing in the breeze, he can't help but remember the pinnacle of his country's achievement.

The passion that once gripped his nation, that is what he remembers.

England

He paces about his study, perturbed by the latest economic news that has befallen his country. He's restless these days, but he's confined to the cramped space of his working place.

Arthur sighs heavily as he plops into his chair, head buried in his hands as he feels a headache begin its resonating in the back of his head. The stillness of his position only agitates him more, and he can't help but allow some movement to overtake his body. He reaches for an hourglass upon his desk and turns it over, the sands in the top bulb filtering down with a gentle tinkling.

The sound is calming, and he eases his anxious mind by bringing up the memories of his days of utmost glory, the era marked by the superiority of the British Empire across the world.

He remembers how he had stretched his claim farther than his predecessors Spain and France, how he was able to steal their land from under them and call them his own. He remembers the pride that swelled within him at the sight of his Union Flag flying over faraway lands, the pride he had knowing that he was unique from the empires before his. He did not conquer his claims, razing the lands to an ashen heap like they did, something that would only have shamed him. He sought instead to cultivate the lands to their highest potential, to give a part of himself to them so that they may sustain his legacy.

He smiles, jaded, as he remembers how his colonies indeed grew strong.

And he remembers how his empire fell.

Mostly, he remembers his unique circumstances, how its decadence was unlike any seen before in history. He remembers that his empire was not attacked by a rival country that found him at his weakest, nor was it caused by political unrest within his own infrastructure.

Rather it dissipated, dissipated and crumbled upon itself.

He remembers how his far-reaching grasp across the globe was severed, how his colonies slowly weaned themselves from the nourishment he tried to provide, or that he perhaps provided too much. He remembers how they revolted against his authority, how like a domino effect, the rebellion of one mere colony, his most precious, precious colony, had begun the unraveling of his great empire.

Arthur opens his eyes again, forcing himself out of his nostalgia, and he finds that all the sand in the hourglass has reached the bottom. He pauses, letting the time pass as he stares around the dimly-lit room that isolates him for that moment from the panic that pervades his country, and hesitantly, he turns the hourglass over again.

As the sand continues to trickle with its soft melody, he realizes how much he has crumbled, that is what he remembers.

---

A/N: I was doing the lights for a show recently, and it seems that in between waiting for cues and cussing at the computer, I get a surge of creative ideas for fanfics.

The poem "Ozymandias" is Percy Blythe Shelley's claim to fame, besides being the husband of Mary Shelley, author of the classic Frankenstein. Literally, it tells of the discovery of the ruins of a once great empire and the remains of a statue of the king that ruled it. The poem represents the inevitable decline of the power of man as time wears it down, blah blah. I'll stop quoting my English teacher now.

The history may be off, by the way, mostly for France. It's been two years since I took AP Euro, and yes, I know Moscow wasn't an actual defeat. (That's what they say about Vietnam too, so whatever, same difference.) And yeah, the whole Hundred Days thing wasn't included.

Anyway, this was supposed to be... not as angsty in the end. I totally had Spain's part planned, then I didn't really plan France's, and then I completely winged it on England's, hence the stupid ending that makes him so ronery. ;_; By the way, I'm totally proud of Spain's part; just ignore the fail of the last two though. In the end, it's basically England's like, "Bloody hell," France is like, "Ah, c'est la vie!", and Spain's like, "Tehe... Tomato."

So, yeah, it's in-character. Sure.

Alternate Ending for My Own Enjoyment

And then Arthur flings the hourglass at a wall, laughing victoriously as it shatters. "Fuck 'em all! I don't need those colonies! I'm the United Fuckin' Kingdom!" He tears off his restrictive suit, effectively leaving his wondrous Union Jack boxers in place, and jumps out the window, whooping as he dashes into the night for some hardcore drinking at a pub.

OOC, but completely satisfying.

---

[Edit] Ms. Usui was kind enough to point out that the quote I originally had was not from Shelley's poem (which is why it didn't make sense pffft), so I changed it to something more fitting. Thank you very much, Ms. Usui!