Who wants to hear a story? Specifically, one about pirates, magic, the faintest whiff of a mystery, love, and a fair amount of adventure?
…No? Not really?
Well, what if I told you that we had a pirate! Spain and England? Hm? Regency AU? Doing anything for you?
No?
…Spamano?
…
Well, screw it, I tried.
The H.M.S Buttercup bobbed and floated amiably in place on the vast blue surface. The only break in the panorama surrounding the ship was the island about 20 meters of the port side, a perfect ring of white sand surrounding the impossibly thick mass of impossibly tall trees and other fauna, growing so close together as to be impenetrable. The small crew had taken all but one of the jollyboats, and the small crafts were littered about the beach like a child's blocks in a sloppy row.
The only members of the crew not scouring the edge of the trees for a way pass the veritable wall of vegetation was the captain and first mate poring over a map together, still close to the shore.
The captain was in mid-point when he suddenly tipped over and fell without another word, lying completely still. The mate soon joined him, the arm with the map in hand thrown over his head in repose. The crew swarmed to the bodies, all abuzz as they examined the pulses no longer present and the suddenness in which the deaths had come. In the hubbub, three more fell in a similar fashion within the minute, and in their turn had the hubbub come to them, and soon two or three fell upon examination. Thus it went for about eight minutes, until all fifteen of the uniformed blue, sunburned carcasses lay on the white sand.
Not half an hour later, the last jollyboat left behind was rowed out as close to the shore as it could get without beaching, close to the mate's outstretched hand, still clasping the map. The rower's free hand (the other occupied in holding her nose against the stink of death), as smooth and nut-brown as the mate's was burned and peeling, pried the precious paper out of the death grip and placed the damp parchment in the bag on her lap, always careful to keep within the boat, never touching the sand.
She rowed until she was about forty meters away from the lonely Buttercup, counting the strokes she took with the oars, and then sat to wait, rubbing her chafed wrists and ankles, eyeing for the sails that would come within the hour. They knew where to come by now, she thought as she spat into the water, once for every stroke she'd taken away from the island. This whole business had happened before, and God knew it would probably happen again.
Lars didn't understand why the Captain didn't just let Lottie go alone on this mission. His sister was the only person in the world who could wear thirty pounds of jewelry and silk and still legitimately flit across the marble floor like she belonged in that iridescent, wealthy, inbred mass. Lars only felt heavy and stiff in his absurd suit and the stupid pomade Lottie had smeared across his hair. He had protested; his part in this escapade was to be played in the shadows, thus rendering any real use he could play in this charade completely obsolete.
But Lottie had some very persuasive methods, and he had very fragile kneecaps. She also claimed greater knowledge of how grand plots and intrigues should be carried out at Princesses engagement balls. So there he was, smelling and looking like an unloved penguin.
He supposed the explanation for the ball was pretty enough—the Spectacular and Shocking Betrothal, as the newspapers were calling it, was between this small country's princess, Alicia Felicita Vargas, and the prince of it's mighty northern neighbor, Ludwig Martin Beilshmidt, "the brute" among his many monikers.
This "brute" had long ago jokingly made a specific arrangement for his marriage in a public comment about the law that the brother to marry first in his family would inherit the throne. It looked very clear the crown and its responsibilities would fall to him, especially when one looked at his elder (and only) brother's… let us say "poor" behavior. The "brute" had firmly stated that there was only so much his brother could get away with, and he was rather determined that his brother would do his share of work, and in comparison to Ludwig's load thus far, that equated the role of "king."
"A very smart reply, your Highness," said the fortunate interviewer, a now infamous lady by name ofHéderváry. "But, aren't you more prepared for marriage than he?"
"She'll have to strike me dumbfounded, first," replied the unfortunate Ludwig with the vaguest chortle and smirk.
Now, almost two years later, Héderváry had bought the newspaper company she used to slave for, and turned the paper into one of the more successful publishers of, shall we say, surprising fiction magazines. The fortune had earned her more money, it was rumored, than the Archduke and Czar's lovechild.
Ludwig, however, waged battle with the soon tiresome horde of young women, all certain they could astound him, with beauty, with wit, with wisdom, etc.
It became a diplomatic game—the girl in question would have three days to astound him more times than he had fingers on his hands (ten). He had been accosted by the Archduke's, the Czar's, the butcher's-baker's-and-candlestick-maker's daughters and sisters, and none could accomplish the task and grey hairs were threatening to sprout on his head, and he had been full of piss and vinegar when the little princess from the little southern country of hardly any consequence announced her arrival.
Said little princess, already and unknowingly the assumed vicim of three days worth of his ire, completed the task before the first day was out. And by the time her time was up, the prince had reportedly lost years off his face, and very eager to propose. No one really knew just how the little creature had done it, but here was Lars in 'appropriate' attire, and there was that tip of the upper crust crowd on that marble floor, and there was Lottie signaling him to take his position outside meaning that the plan was REALLY happening, so something rather noteworthy must have resulted from those few days.
Lars wasn't sure how keen he was on the plan. It was too simplistic. The Captain liked to say that arranging for everything jinxed the whole enterprise, and Lars normally agreed. But that was alright for ordinary business. This was a royal abduction, for crap's sake. This plan had Lars excuse himself (if he had been talking to anyone, thank God he wasn't) for a smoke on the veranda ("but captain, someone might offer to join me." "Nonsense, bichito! It's posh-speak for 'I need to take a piss, maybe a nice wank…" "Shut up, really?" "That's what it meant at Naval Academy"). But he wouldn't be off for the veranda, for neither a smoke nor a piss/wank. He would be at the greenhouse, and Lottie would approach one of the Ladies in Waiting with a message from the royal debutante's fiancé that he wanted to speak privately in the greenhouse (the "brute" would be out for an errand at this point. Probably a "smoke on the veranda" or… well, an actual smoke on an actual veranda). And one-two-three, she'd come to the greenhouse discreetly as possible while Lars waited with his cravat and a bottle of chloroform, then he would escape through the drain in the greenhouse floor, get her into the canvas bag waiting for him below the meeting point for Roderich, and away they'd go.
The greenhouse had very standard fare—magnificent red roses, enormous frilly peonies, hanging orchids—Sweet Saint Elmo, were those tulips? He bit his knuckle to stifle a cry of glee at the sight. Sweet little tulips, pink and yellow and oh hang him with a soaped rope there were painted ones too? Well, he knew where he would be lying in wait.
His timing couldn't have been more perfect. As soon as he settled behind the long flowerpot the door creaked open and the soft padding sounds of footsteps were accompanied by the swish of silk. The steps were a ways away from him, that he could hear, all the way over by the roses. With great care, he raised his head so his eyes could peer between the stems.
Her figure was vague (well, that was silly; the shapeless dresses these days did that to everyone's figure), but her dress' fabric was a richly-dyed pink silk, her dark hair clean and glossy and piled on her head, and on her left hand a brilliant red ruby the size of a robin's egg gleamed, surrounded by little diamonds.
If she wasn't the princess, he was a good God-fearing nun with a flying wimple. A good God-fearing nun with a flying wimple who certainly didn't have a chloroform-soaked cravat and the full intention of using it.
It would only be a few more steps, carefully done and perfectly soundless, until it was pressed against her (still-unseen) face, and—
"HRAGH!" Wham-slam-thank-you-ma'am, he felt that egg-sized ruby indent his cheek and crash against his teeth, cutting his tongue. He sprang back, though, faster than if he'd been filled with helium, and grabbed the decorative bow on the back of her dress as she turned to run away, pulled, and pressed the chloroformed cravat into her face. She got a few more hits in, and some claws, too, before going limp in his arms.
A little bloodier than anticipated, but successful all the same, he worked the drain open and just like that, they were gone.
If you were one of the few looking out a window or wandering about in solitude the night of Princess Alicia's betrothal ball to Ludwig Martin "the brute" Beilschmidt instead of drinking to Fairy Tales Come True, Love, and Their Good Health in any of the cantinas, you'd have seen a horse and cab come to a halt, the cab directly over a manhole. And if you'd been ground-level and looking, you'd have noticed said manhole's cover pushed aside and a canvas sack pushed/lifted through the bottom of the cab. Then, a man with badly pomaded hair and disheveled evening dress minus the cravat would have lifted himself in under your watchful and curious eye. Then the cab would have gone on its way.
But the next day, if you were Signor DiGiulio, the cabbie who owned the horse and vehicle, you would raise your eyebrow at the sight of a noticeable hole in the floor of your cab.
Hours before Signor diGiulio even awoke before the rest of town to see something was amiss, though, Captain Antonio F. Carriedo and hid None Too Legitimate crew of the Mite Too Jolly Ship "El Cuco" would have a rather sizable shit storm on their hands.
AN: Funfacts abound!
Lottie, or Charlotte, is what I will be referring to Belgium as. Lars is Netherlands.
Yes, Roderich (Austria) will be a pirate. Erszi (as I like to call Hungary) will be the legitimate (?) businesswoman, because of reasons.
This is probably the greatest taste of GerITa as I'm going to give in this here beauty. Because it's. Freaking. Spamano. And I said so, and I'm the one with the cutlass—er, computer.
I put in a lot of genderbend, because I am rather partial to these guys. So many fics that I've read have just had the same characters, only with opposing genitals and sex traits. I am quite fond of how different this remodeling of the characters look. And… hm. I could go on about that, but I'd only embarrass myself.
Look up "El Cuco," because it be scary.
And I just do regency over Victorian or whenever the hell "POC" takes place because shh.
Know what? A lot of things that I do here just oughtn't be questioned, ok? Just roll with it. I'm having fun here. And I've got a plan for once. A wonderful, wonderful Grinchy plan.
If you want to leave commentary and critique, don't be whining to me about "teh no yaois" because I will write a very unflattering limerick dedicated to you. You can nag me about iffy characterizations, and I wouldn't mind discussing personal interpretations AT ALL. I'd find it great fun, actually. You can give pointers for clarifying my writing style, ANYTHING related to actual writing improvement and paying homage to the work I'm shamelessly ripping off.
Now that that's that, happy reading, and night 'all.