Hello Ya'll! Got inspired for another story! I'm not 100% sure where I am going with this, but I thought of a two part universe for it involving my two favorite versions of England; the pirate and 'King Arthur'.

This is not a slash fic for UKUS, despite me using a fem!America OC, Anne, again. This is actually a father/daughter fic. Just another perspective for me to try. Reviews and constructive criticism is welcome as always. Again, not specific direction for this story, other than the basic bones, but I figured I should write while the inspiration is flowing.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or its characters, I do not own Disney or Jack Sparrow.

Historical Notes: I don't know 17th century pirate speak, nor do I have the patience to write it. 17th century piracy was building to its height, I think, in the late 1650s to the 1700s-ish. And while the Americas had been found earlier than that, I took some liberties in that Arthur, despite knowing of the New World, did not actually find baby Anne until perhaps the late 1600s to early 1700s, when the colonies were finally building up larger than simple forts. So when Anne appears here, it is just before Arthur retires from piracy to become more gentlemanly and finds a toddler Anne roaming the American wilderness. Having said that, there will be some historical inaccuracies...probably.

Ch. 1:

The sky was overcast and the air comfortable with a promise of approaching rain; perfect for afternoon tea in a garden to relax. But Anne couldn't relax; not now. Though if she were honest, it was always hard to relax around her father, Arthur. Had been that way for centuries. Anne can't even remember what it was they were arguing over, only that it was something trivial, and then they'd devolved into hurling insults of times long since passed. Now, Anne was fuming in the small garden conservatory, wanting to leave, but she can't because of nation business where Arthur had invited her over to discuss during tea. Really, she should've expected this by now. Why did she bother to still try? It was the same exhausting battle of them shouting back and forth until one finally storms off to fume. Or cry.

It wasn't as if she wanted to keep fighting him, she thought, dabbing the corners of her eyes to keep from allowing the tears to fall. To let them go would mean falling apart at his garden table and that would just be embarrassing. And it would ruin her makeup. Anne sighed in her spot contemplating simply leaving. Her boss would be disappointed with her, but it wouldn't stop business from happening. Both she and Arthur were nothing if not efficient. Father and daughter were more alike than either cared to admit; stubborn and willful. They were good and bad traits really, she knew. They could help a person win a war or they could keep a war never-ending. The thought was very tiring and only made her feel worse. She sagged a little in her chair, picking threads in her jeans, blinking hard at the pain in her chest, and eyeballing the strange bubbling potions perched hazard on a rickety table, and markings Arthur carved into the side of the room for his magic practice. Just another thing she could never understand about him. Just another thing they couldn't see eye-to-eye on. It was so stupid, she thought. They bring out the worst in each other, and it really wasn't fair. Because despite their history, there was no lost love on her part.

He was her father, he always would be. He would always be her beacon of comfort, of wisdom, and of joy. That was a father's power. But since the revolution she wasn't welcome anymore, and it hurt so much. She understood why, of course. She chose her independence over him and he would never truly forgive her for it. This decayed and frayed stasis of their relationship was her fault. She didn't know what to do to fix it. Anne sniffed in her place, mentally berating herself. 'Get it together, hero! Before you fall apart!' She heard the clinking of a tea set, signaling Arthur's approach, and hurried to compose herself.

Arthur placed the tray down rather roughly and sat heavily in his seat. So he was still angry, she thought tiredly. Neither uttered a word as the Englishman robotically maneuvered through the afternoon tea ritual and pouring for guests. He stiffly passed her the delicate teacup and she stiffly accepted. It was like waiting for a bomb to explode and she knew she should've just left because he clearly hadn't enough time to cool off; he wanted to say more and he would the moment the time for speaking overpowered the rudeness of silence. She sipped her tea, noting he still remembered how she took hers, and didn't dare touch the biscuits. She barely moved an inch and simply waited for the battle to continue and prayed that it wouldn't. She'd have been happy to be silent the rest of the day.

Arthur kept his eyes stern as he glared about the space. He was still angry, despite the breathing exercises Wales insisted he try to employ. It didn't work, he thought cursing his elder brother. Who knew what they were fighting over anymore? In fact, he felt that sometimes they fought simply for the sake of fighting. He glanced down at his teacup; he'd forgotten to add the sugar in his distraction. Blast it all. He glanced at his daughter who kept her eyes down and carefully placed the teacup on the table, sighing. Arthur felt his anger spike again, thinking about the insults she'd tossed today. Such impudence!

"Look," she began quietly, "The interest rates are the lowest we've ever offered any other nation. Their height is calculated with the rising costs of fossil fuels—"

"Suppose it would be prudent to look into other fuel options to lower costs then." He interrupted.

"Which we have. But until then, the rates are mostly set the same for everyone. You getting a lower rate because you didn't want to accept the initial offer and—"

"And what, I should be grateful?" he was baiting her, he knew it. He did, but often times his temper flared and rationality left too. He wouldn't notice such things until he calmed and had time to finally regret his actions.

"That's not what I am saying." She sighed thinking that it certainly wouldn't hurt either. "I am simply just—"

"What are you saying? Hmm?"

"If you would allow me to finish." Her voice raised only slightly.

And from there the battle ensued. More insults were thrown; of her calling him on his temper and he her maturity. Both would usually say something they regretted every time. But Anne was tired; her people were arguing, the capital was arguing, and now she was arguing. It was exhausting constantly having to fight everyone.

But she was stopped short this time. His finishing words, already jumbled and scorched in her memory, had torn through her heart as a bullet from a rifle. She stood wide-eyed and the air left her lungs in a painful huff and her eyes blurred her vision of her father's equally shocked expression. What was there to say to such a thing? What comeback would be appropriate? She had been right all along; he hadn't forgiven her anything. She tried to inhale but it was as if trying to take in water.

Arthur's mouth hung open and he clenched the table cloth in a death grip. Why, he thought. Why had he said that? He certainly didn't feel that way. Of course he didn't. Damnation! He let his mouth run and now he'd said something truly hurtful. He could see it in her stance, in the way her eyes watered, and her hands trembled. His heart clenched in regret and sadness. Damn it! He'd hurt her feelings.

"Anne," he hesitated, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that." Anne gasped, finally able to breathe again, and tried to stifle a sob.

"Yes, you did. That's how you've always felt, isn't it?" Anne moved fast to step away. She needed to get out. She needed to run. She just couldn't be here anymore.

"No, poppet! Listen!"

"Excuse me," her voice wavered, "I need to leave." Quickly turning to quite literally run, but Arthur moved fast to grasp her arm. She tried to evade but the room was small, leaving no space to side step and Arthur was quick. When she moved, her hip bumped the rickety antiquated table, knocking several concoctions over, eliciting a squeak from her and sent them smashing to the floor. They popped and fizzled over the intricate carvings on the floor.

"Are you alright, dear? Here, carefully step away." Arthur tried to reach for her, but she kept evading his hold, "Anne, look at me! I need you to step away, those are quite dangerous and they're mixing!" Arthur moved to pull her away from his potions table, there was no telling the reactions this accident could cause; it was dangerous and they both needed to leave before something exploded, but she was already bending forward, apologizing, and attempting to start cleaning. His casting circle on the floor flashed brightly and Arthur cursed, but in those few seconds, the flash dissipated and with a small cry that Arthur was certain sounded like 'Dad!', so had Anne.

Arthur let out a long string of curses and a small sob. She was gone! His magic had displaced her…or disintegrated her. His daughter. His baby girl.

She was gone.