Author's note: I find this to be an overused concept, but an interesting one. I could not resist. A multi-chapter historical story, based in Spain's height of power as a pirate. I may not finish this; God knows I lack the dedication to do so, but if I get enough reviews and I see that people do in fact enjoy it, I may get the motivation from you to continue. So, really, it's up to you. I won't know unless you tell me. Please excuse the title; I'm trying to find one that doesn't sound like a ridiculous teen paperback love novel and this was the best I could summon. While part of me wishes to request a better title from your creative minds, the other part is quite fond of what I have, misleading as it may be! On a final note, please enjoy the story!

Spain's life began again with the clatter of metal against metal. He could not truly fathom the reason why, but the light sound of his silver fork dropping to the ground seemed an echo of his past power. Of course, every nation had moments of nostalgia; and as he shook it off, he was certain it was nothing more. And yet, the memory held him captive. Antonio was greatly wearied by it. The very words he chose to speak of it left a bitter taste in his mouth. One would never find him so regretful or angry until after they had spoken of it with him.

Spain's eyes darted around the busy Chinese conference room, searching for any object that could provide a temporary sanctuary from his maddening thoughts. He looked out the open window to the light-frosted lake; his tempest of emotions was not calmed. His eyes skimmed over the paintings and sculptures that adorned the walls. They would not do. Antonio observed the people; France and England were nearest to him. His bitter feelings were fueled by his friends. At last, he allowed the siren call of the moonlit pond to beckon him. Spain stood amidst the chaos of the world conference, a still rock in a sickening sea of ignorance, before walking briskly through the sliding doors at the side of the room. He shut the previously open doors behind him, in hopes that no one would follow and walked down the hall. Across from the branching hall to the right that lead to the bathroom were the doors that lead outside. He forced himself out of the dark hall and into the night, only half-closing the portal behind him.

Now that he was left in solitude with his thoughts, Antonio felt almost awkward. He looked up to the Pagoda roof then down to the floor, where wood was laid in neat rows. He stumbled forward on unsteady feet to the edge of the platform on which he stood. There was a simple yet fine railing in line with the edge of the roof. The architecture made Spain feel trapped in his mind. He plowed onward so to lean on the railing; and as he used it for support, he found that he was staring down, directly into the bottomless, watery grave of his memories. He had forgotten that this part of the back porch was suspended over the lake on China's property. He thought he heard the sound of the door he had exited the building from slide open; but as he glanced back to see what had caused the disturbance, Antonio remembered that he never closed them. Then from behind him he heard the doors slide open once more. He felt the trace of a blast of warm air, scented with musty sweat. He had forgotten that there was a door leading out to the porch from the meeting room. It closed once more and footsteps gradually grew in volume as someone came to stand beside Antonio.

"Quite the beautiful night, ain't it, old chap?" England commented mildly, a foot on the railing and a gaze looking to the dark horizon. A breeze stirred his blond hair; he looked content and optimistic. Spain was glad that Arthur had found peace while retaining his power, yet still, he envied him. "It's by far better than that hot meeting room," Arthur continued after a brief silence. "I didn't come out for air, however," he finally admitted, a bit red-faced when the Spaniard again refused to reply. "In truth, I just wanted to make sure you were all right." England looked at him, concerned. Spain felt a hand pat him lightly on the back, though he looked not away from the pond. "You seemed almost ill when you stood and said you needed some air." Antonio had not even been aware that he'd spoken; subconsciously he wondered if he'd made anyone else worry. It took them standing there awhile before Arthur's eyes flickered to the spot in the water where Spain stared obsessively with half-lidded eyes. The reflection of the moonlight and the water turned the barely visible slits of jade into sea green, like waves climbing upon the shore at night. The color glowed like phosphorescence; it was almost unnerving.

"Have you ever wished..." Spain began, his curiosity shadowed by regret, "that the old times had not ended?" His voice was tranquil, yet as the sound faded into the night, there was an edge that lacked harshness, like a smooth, weatherworn boulder peaking through a low-tide ocean. Antonio was weary; it seemed that he had privately experienced that emotion as well. England had not seen him in such a tired and dark mood; he wondered how Spain would cope. God knew the Brit fell into such phases himself - he usually drank it off. For when one had seen as much for as long as a nation has, they would understand how beaten they all truly were. And in a way, that was the problem; no one knew nor would they ever know. If they had sympathy from others aside from themselves, it would be easier, yet from birth, they were doomed to live such a solitary life. There was once a time it was not so; and to this time, Spain was referring.

"No, of course not." England's late reply was guarded and slow; he chose each word with care. As he seemed to gain confidence in himself, he went on, "How could anyone ever miss such a bloody, ruthless time? Citizens divided, raiding, killing, raping at will?" Each word stung Spain slightly, as the thought came to the conscious forefront of his mind that he was in fact being selfish. But still, it persisted.

"At least you remained powerful. I lost all my power. I watched my friends go beyond me and succeed - you and France are two of the five most powerful of us all. I was once, too. But it was taken from me. I am hardly even respected by you all now." Antonio tasted the bitter flavor in his mouth now; he could tell that Britain could feel it, as he shifted uncomfortably at the end. The silence lingered; England did not know what he could say as he had along with many others called Antonio such things as fool after his fall from power. At last he decided on the truth.

"Ah, bollocks, I miss it too." His shoulders shrugged in defeat. "We were freer then, weren't we?" He took to staring at the water, into his memories, like Spain.

"Sí," Antonio agreed, "we were. We focused on only defeating each other. We did not care about anything else - not even our citizens. It was easier to live with no regrets." There was much Spain rued about his time in power; the person he had been, the suffering that happened at his hand, and the empty promises made for the sake of it all. His hand snaked into his pocket and rubbed a small band. Empty promises indeed, he remarked to himself silently.

"I never spoke with anyone about those times much. I know there's plenty I regret. I did not care enough for America in his early life, nor did I Canada. I often wonder, if I had stepped down, would things have been different in the end?" The sadness in Britain's voice was deep, though it did not seem so at first. It was rather like a small spill of water onto rocks that gradually built to become a waterfall of remorse. "Anything you wish you could take back?" He asked, fishing for a change in subject, which like a disease spread the sorrow to Spain.

"Sí," he muttered with a thick voice. He rubbed the band with his fingers before pulling it out and toying with it in the moonlight. It was worn and the gold had faded to silver over time, but to Spain, it looked the same as when he had first received it. England eyed it curiously, clearly wishing for Spain to continue. "I was bound to someone; I swore it was a truer love and passion than had ever existed before. I regret that it ever happened." He closed his hand around the ring delicately, shielding it from view. England left a moment of silence before asking,

"A human?" It was dangerous for a nation to love a mortal. It happened, however, and every time it did, the others wondered with sickening torment when it would happen to them. Spain spoke not and England knew he had his answer. "If you wish, you may talk about it; I know what you must have been feeling these past centuries." There was a deep chasm in his heart still from when his dearest Elizabeth left his world for the next. He felt that he had to assist the other man in any way he could; and in doing so he perhaps could aid himself. For a moment, there was none but silence; then a small plop sounded. Spain and England together watched ripples flow toward them. As each petite wave made their way in his direction, Spain felt nausea come upon him. It was a reminder, he knew, of the love he had tried and failed to forget. He no longer had the ring in his grasp; how could it be that without it, the pain in his heart had increased? He opened his mouth, convinced he was about to vomit, when instead words poured out.

Translations:

Sí – Spanish – "Yes"

Thank you for reading, and again, if you enjoyed and wish for me to post more, please tell me so or I'm likely to not do it.