Background to this one-shot: Semi-historical AU-ish story. Prussia is in his Kingdom years and England's in his Pirate/Empire years.
Arthur and Gilbert have been friends since their childhood days; they've grown up almost alongside each other and become powerful empires in their own right. Both have been close to each other almost like siblings and sometimes view each other as a complementary half of a whole. But what if one of them went insane with power and forced the other to a duel? Fight scene is based on the epic duel from Revenge of the Sith, Obi-Wan and Anakin. (Thats why it seems to start from the middle of nowhere. But I hope you readers will enjoy reading it.)
I DO NOT OWN HETALIA OR ITS CHARACTERS.
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Gilbert brought out his own sword and angled it before him, unable to believe that his friend—no his lover had turned into a monster lusting after power. With a long sigh, "I will do what I must. The real Arthur; nein, the true King of the Seven Seas would never do this." Crimson orbs gazed at the sandy blonde sadly; a mixture of regret, heartache and a tinge of grief on his face. Never had the Prussian imagined that their relationship would end up in this way at all; neither did the albino ever want to point his blade at the pirate.
"You will try," Arthur taunted and leapt.
Metal crossed, and the waves around them echoed their sparks with a roar.
Blade-to-blade, they were identical. After hundreds of years sparring and dueling, they knew each other better than brothers, more intimately than lovers; they were the complementary halves of a single warrior. In every exchange, Gilbert tried to give ground—it was his way; and he knew that to strike the Brit down would burn his own heart to ash, Exchanges were given, leaps were sidestepped or met with flying kicks; ankle sweeps skipped over and slashes parried, The albino tried to distract the pirate by tipping over a few barrels: a move made in desperation to slow the latter down as he fought against the maelstrom of emotions within him.
Easily, contemptuously, Arthur avoided the objects flung his way and carried on to battle the Prussian. "Don't make me destroy you, Gil." The sandy blonde's voice had gone deeper than a well and as bleak as a past with no future. "You are no match against the power that I wield now."
"I've heard that before," Gilbert muttered through his teeth, parrying madly, "But I never thought I'd hear it from you." There was a growl and a boot slammed him back into a mast; the impact smashing breath away from his lungs, leaving him swaying, half stunned. Emerald irises burned with triumph and the sandy blonde lifted his blade for the kill, It was only a reflexive spasm in his lungs and sheer luck along with centuries of experience in combat that the Prussian evaded the blow, knocked Arthur's own sword from its owner's grasp and poised both blades in a cross before the pirate. "The flaw of great power is arrogance."
"You hesitate," Arthur mocked. "You dare not kill me. A embodiment of War that fears—weak." The last word rolled on the Brit's tongue, his lips curved in a deranged smile. "The flaw of compassion—"
"It is not compassion," Gilbert answered mournfully. "It is reverence for life. Even the simplest of creatures." A short pause, "Your life as well. The respect for the man you were." Letting out a sorrowful sigh, "It is regret for the man you were and should have been."
The pirate screamed and flew at him, using his body to crash the albino back into the wood once more. His hands seized Gilbert's wrists with impossible strength, forcing his arms wide. "WAR OR NOT, ONLY I WILL RULE THE SEAS!" Dark power bore down with his grip and the Prussian felt the bones of his forearms bending, beginning to feather towards the greenstick fractures that would come before the final breaks, 'Oh,' the albino thought. 'This is going to hurt quite a bit.' With Arthur's grip on his wrists bending his arms near to breaking, forcing both their swords down in a slow but unstoppable arc, Gilbert let go.
Of everything.
His hopes. His fears. His obligations, his promise to Allistair to try and bring his brother back from the madness that had plagued him. His failure with Arthur.
And their swords.
Startled, Arthur instinctively shifted his grip, releasing one wrist to reach for his cutlass; in that instant, Gilbert twisted free of his other hand and caught his own broadsword, reversing it along his forearm so that the swift parry of the Brit's thundering overhand not only blocked the strike but directed both blades to slice through the wood on the opposite side, guiding both blades again up and over his head in a circular sweep so that he could use the power of the Brit's next chop to drive himself away from the mast and back to the open space on the deck.
The sandy blonde followed, constantly attacking; the albino again gave ground, retreating slowly along the poop deck high above the raging waters. The sea crashed with death behind his back, only a moment away, somewhere out there among the watery depths. Gilbert allowed himself to be driven towards it. It was a place; the Prussian decided they should reach there together. Arthur forced him back and back, slamming his sword down with strength that seemed to come from the ocean itself. The Brit spun and whirled, slicing splinters off wood, which rained around the albino. Green light danced on the sandy blonde's fingertips and the wood turned into shards of steel that shot towards the Prussian with the full heat of his fury. The seas turned rough and the weather around them changed to that of a storm. Skies turned a deep murky grey with lightning flashing across the gloomy atmosphere. Cold, biting wind made the masts creak, as if threatening to blow them over like straw.
Gilbert backed to the edge of the balcony and grabbed a loose hanging rope, slicing off the other end of it, the albino shot up to the top gallant yard and parried chop after chop when Arthur brought their duel up to the sails; both their balance perfect despite the small and curved surface area they fought on. Out on the tightrope of the sails yards, their blades blurred even faster than before. They chopped, slashed, parried and blocked—never mind the wind and rain.
This was not good against evil; it had nothing to do with morals, beliefs, duty, religion or philosophy.
It was Gilbert against Arthur.
Personally.
Just the two of them and the damage they had done to each other.
The Prussian back flipped from the yard into the cow's nest; when the pirate flew in pursuit, Gilbert leapt again. They spun and whirled along the sails; battled out onto the main topsail yard over which the thunderstorm poured, and the albino, out on the edge of the wooden beam, deflected blows and countered strikes from the creature of rage that had been his friend and more.
The man he faced was everything that he had devoted his life to destroying: murderer, traitor…and yet despite it all, at this moment and now…
Gilbert still loved him.
"Arthur," Gilbert implored, slight desperation and plea in his voice. "I don't want to fight you. Arthur, bitte—"
Arthur sprang at him, screaming without words; he could not know if the Brit had heard him. The albino could not know if language still had meaning for the other.
The Prussian backpedaled, parrying frantically, absorbing the shock of the pirate's attacks with bent arms and a two-handed grip. He was taller than the Brit, with more reach and weight, and more muscle in his upper body than the latter, but Arthur drove him back as though he were a child. The cutlass finally struck through his guard, and only a frantic jerk of his head turned what would have been a deadly thrust into a line of red along his cheekbone.
Still he did not strike back.
"I do not wish to kill you," Gilbert said, his crimson eyes narrowed with determination and trying to see through the rain.
His answer was a scream louder and more savage and an onslaught to match. The Brit broke through his guard again and almost severed off his hand. Another stroke cut through his pants leg just above the knee. With each slash and thrust, Gilbert could feel himself slipping into the welcoming darkness that brought out his warring nature. He had to as much as he loathed it; Arthur was coming in too strong, too fast, and too aggressive. If the Prussian was to survive, he had to give more of himself to his lust for war and battle—to give all of himself.
To sink into his dreams of a blood drenched field littered with the bodies of his enemies.
The pounding of his heart thudded like war drums in his ears, turning into canons as the fight drew on. The drums turned to canons, as loud and brutal as any of the weapons of his artillery.
He felt it: he had reached his own limit and he was breaking.
It was the worsening storm raining down on them that distracted the two; skidding, desperately scrabbling for handholds as the wooden beams they once stood on steadily became dangerous, slippery cliffs; they hung from the ropes that attached the man topsail to the yard that held it in place. Arthur kicked off from the mast, swinging through a wide arc over the stormy seas. Gilbert shoved out and clashed against the Brit there, holding the rope with one hand, he angled his sword high. The pirate flicked a slash at the Prussian's knees—the latter responded in kind by yanking his legs high and slashed through the rope above Arthur's hand, and the sandy blonde fell.
The broiling waves gouted sprays of salty water, like arms reaching to pull the Brit into the murky depths. However, Arthur's momentum had already swung back towards the mast, and using a bit of magic, carried himself within reach of another length of rope. Gilbert whipped his legs around his rope, altering its arc to bring him closer to the one from which Arthur now dangled. But the pirate was on to this game now, and he swung rope-to-rope ahead of the Prussian's advance, carrying himself higher and higher, forcing Gilbert to do the same; on this terrain height was everything.
Then, by simultaneous leaps of their own; the two of them spun up and off the ropes to the slant of the spanker sail yard. The albino barely got to his balance on the tilted platform when Arthur pounced on him and they stood almost toe-to-toe, blades whirling and crashing on all sides, while around them Nature's forces whipped and lashed at them with cold droplets of ice-cold water. A resounding howl of the wind damaged several sails and the ship groaned like a strong beast brought to its knees. It keeled sharply on its side, as if threatening to capsize.
Gilbert decided to bring the duel back to the decks; he turned Arthur's blade aside with a two-handed block and landed a solid kick that knocked them both apart. Before the Brit could recover his balance, the Prussian took a running leap that became a half suicidal and yet graceful dive headlong off the spanker sail yard. He hurtled down towards the hard wooden floorboards; it was only a few meters above the poop deck that he grasped a rope and turned his dive into a swing that carried him high and far, to the very limit of the thick cord and let it go.
As if jumping from a branch of a tall tree in the forests he grew up in; his velocity sent him flying up and out over a catenary arc that shot him towards the forecastle. Gilbert flipped in t the air and landed like a cat on the flooring. Turning, he lifted his head in time to see Arthur hurtling towards him: the pirate's cutlass poised to stab right through the other's heart from the back—
Half a second too slow.
The Prussian's whirl to parry did not meet the sandy blonde's blade. It met the latter's knee. Then his other knee as well.
And while Arthur was still in the air, slashed off limbs only starting their topple down the wooden floor that Gilbert stood on, the Prussian's recovery to guard brought his blade though the pirate's left arm above the elbow. He stepped back as the other fell.
Arthur dropped his sword and screamed, "I hate you swine of a man!" His voice dripping with venom, the Brit spat murderously.
Gilbert looked down. It would be a mercy to kill him.
He was not feeling particularly merciful at the moment; as nations, they could easily heal from any fatal injury. What was more, Arthur was an empire at its height; even with the loss of his limbs, he would be able to regenerate them in a day at most.
Death would give his friend and lover a second chance; a clean slate to start from.
With that thought in mind, the albino stabbed Arthur's heart, piercing through cloth, flesh and bone. "I…I do not ask for my redemption. Or your forgiveness." Swallowing, forcing himself to remain impassive, "all I want, is for you to come back…"
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A/N: Well, leave a review or PM. Favourites and Follows would be most appreciated and flames will be used for a 'Skywalker' moment on England. (*coughs* I was joking. I'm not going to burn Captain Arthur Kirkland and then stuff his remains in some cybernetic life support suit it would be screwed.) But yes, I would really prefer to get constructive criticism and honest opinion than rude comments. Do check out my other Fics if you want to!
The background is actually loosely based on history. Where before the formation of Germany in 1871, Britain was often allied in wartime with Prussia; examples like the Seven Years War, Dutch Crisis in 1787 and the last Napoleonic war (Battle of Waterloo being the most prominent). That and most importantly, the Anglo-Prussian convention which was a pact to stall any kind of continental war and also maintain the European Balance of Power. Basically, Britain would pay Prussia an amount to build their economy and country. But Prussia would face the brunt of European warfare while Britain focused on their colonies.
