The fog was thick, too thick to see through. But every sound seemed amplified. Every single movement that was sent off into the fog, into the unknown, was distant and unforgiving. Antonio, the captain of the Spanish Armada, stepped foot off of his ship and onto the nearby English dock. The creaking of the wood aged by seawater and thousands of boot, leather shoes and dangerous storms unnerved him. Each board seemed to bow dangerously under his feet, yet did not break.

He pulled his sword from its sheath and held it before him with both hands firmly gripping the hilt. He glared straight ahead through the fog to try and see anyone or anything, but it was far too thick for him to see much. He took in a few shaky breaths and held the blade higher before his face. His entire body tensed and his heart raced in anticipation.

The ghost of the wind wafted through, teasing his hair and stinging his face but not relieving the heat of the air nor refreshing his body. He stood strong and brave, but could not shake the feeling of being far less than confident. He felt threatened. He felt vexed. But the greatest feeling of stress came with the soft click of a pistol cocking behind his head.

He flinched sharply and stood deathly still. He recognized that sound. That menacing and horrifying sound. He held his breath and let his arms fall slightly, but his tight grip on his weapon never loosened for a second. Long, drawn out minutes passed slowly and tortuously before Antonio slowly began to turn to look at his enemy face-to-face.

"Arthur," he whispered.

"Antonio," the English captain purred back as he tipped the gun forward, pressing the muzzle against his forehead, index finger held firm to the trigger. The longer the seconds ticked on, the more tempting it grew for him as he stood there to simply pull the trigger and watch the mess of blood and brain spray into the air as they covered the boards long drenched but still stained. Even as a breeze managed to pick up the tails of his coat, his hand held steady. A mocking sneer curled his lips up as he prepared himself to pull back on the metallic trigger at any moment.

Antonio's emerald eyes flicked each and every way. His adrenaline ran mad through his veins. The fog seemed to grow ever denser around them, though the enemy lines never once blurred in with the scenery. The torture of having to stand still and await death patiently horrified and made the Spanish leader distressingly anxious. Why would Arthur wait like this, he wondered? Did he enjoy seeing him in this state of fear and unnerve? His mind began to race faster and faster, tormenting himself more and more, until he lost every ounce of servility in his body. He threw his arms up high, his hands never leaving his sword, and hit Arthur's arms as hard as he could with the hilt of the blade, hoping during every small movement he made that it would be enough to at least spare him another second of life if nothing more.

It was that movement that saved the Spaniard's life.

The suddenness of Antonio's actions startled the Brit, who lost his tight grip only to regain it a split second too late, firing the weapon uselessly into the air beside his head.

The Spaniard flinched sharply away as soon as he heard the gun fire near his ear. He closed his eyes tightly for a second until he realized that he was alive.

With a snarled curse, Arthur withdrew; it would take too long to prepare the weapon for firing again. He turned just enough to throw it along the long end of the dock, back toward the shore. It skidded into the fog, which enveloped it like a hungry beast, losing it to either's use. Stepping around Antonio almost with a deranged sort of grace, he unsheathed his own sword, swinging it in the same fluid motion toward the other's body.

Amidst the relief he was feeling for his life being spared, Antonio almost didn't notice Arthur moving around him and swinging his sword at him. He gasped loudly and moved out of the way of the blade, barely avoiding it. He lifted his own weapon high once more and released a tense hand from it. He lunged forward and swung back at the Brit unsteadily.

A sharp bark of laughter cut through the fog, followed by a loud clang of metal as the blond all but swatted the other's blade away with his own. Was this it, he wondered? Was this all he had now that it was just the two of them, face to face? True, he had just fired a gun next to the Spaniard's head, but, really, he should have been able to recover a bit more quickly than that. Or maybe he was overestimating him.

Antonio's breath caught sharply in his throat as he stared at his only weapon lying far from him on the wharf. He gazed down at it in shock for no longer than a split second before snapping his head back in Arthur's direction. He swallowed dryly and, once again, waited for a fatal blow to end him.

"Come on, then," Arthur barked out, stepping back a bit to give the other a moment. "This won't be any fun for me if I run you through straight off."

The brunette's eyes widened just slightly and his rage peaked. He was positive now that Arthur was simply tormenting him. Not wasting a single moment, he dashed for his blade, scooped it back into his hand, and held onto it tighter. He took in a deep breathand let it out quickly before lunging once again at Arthur. He moved with much more confidence and focus, but still fought poorly.

Arthur sidestepped the first lunge, parrying the other's attacks as if he were hardly attempting to battle. Better, but still not something worthwhile. "Are you really even trying?" he taunted. he swept his arms out for a moment, only to backpedal and skip to the side to avoid any sort of forward attempt, "Think of it, dear Antonio. What is my head worth in gold?"

"Only the dirt beneath my shoe!" he retaliated. His whole body quaked in anger and his blood boiled with rage. He could see only the color red all around him. He screamed loudly and pivoted his sword, managing to hit the bottom of Arthur's chin just barely with the hilt. He stepped away in a hurry to assess the damage he had dealt. He held his sword before him once more and prepared to end this almost 20 year-long feud once and for all.

Chin smarting, Arthur shook his head, stepping forward to close the distance between them. One hand grasped the other's wrist, twisting it, and the blade, away from him, until both were held uselessly above his head as he touched the tip of his weapon to the Spaniard's stomach. A sharp, quick forward movement from his arm, and he twisted the blade now buried halfway into the other man.

Antonio convulsed violently and hung limp beneath the Brit's grip. He gasped desperately as his vision began to fade around him. He managed to choke out one last despondent sentence before he fell into a heap on the boardwalk and Arthur walked away the victor of the war:

"Never forget this day, Arthur Kirkland."

((Author's Note: I apologize for the shortness of this story and the definite historical inaccuracy of it. I just thought it would be a nice idea to put down on paper. I really hope you enjoyed it, though! A big thank you goes out to my friend Rory for helping me to write this and for the most part providing Arthur's lines for me! I couldn't have done this without you! 3))