This was a request from my fic prompt on tumblr. I hope you enjoy it. Please feel free to pop over there and make a fanfic request at fanficprompt on tumblr. (It won't let me put a url here.)

Quick History: England loses the battle against Spain's Armada. For this fic I shifted one point of history:

The commander of the Spanish Armada had been High Admiral Santa Cruz. However while he and the military commander wanted to go after victory on the sea first, then invade England second, King Phillip wanted to ignore the sea troops and go straight to the British shores. Fighting both their enemies, and their king, Santa Cruz was worn out by work and worry and died just as the Armada was about to be sent out.

He was replaced by a military leader who had never been to sea before.

In this story, Phillip listened to his Admiral's advice and Santa Cruz lived.

I apologize for any butchered Spanish. Please feel free to correct me.

A Victorious Armada

The loud explosive roar of gun fire crashed through the air. Men scurried like ants atop the deck of The Ark Royal, calling out orders, shouting information and waiting for their instructions.

"Bring a spring upon her cable-30 degrees to port! Overhaul 'im! Whatever you do, do not give them a chance to board! Give them the run around! Let them exhaust their ammunition!"

It was a good, sound plan. Executing it would be another matter entirely.

England was hopelessly out numbered. It didn't take tactical brilliance or military prowess to see that. Spain had more ships. Better armed and better manned. And at the head of the attacking fleet stood High Admiral Santa Cruz, the height of the Spanish navy. The most England could do was to disrupt as many of their plans as he could and hope to anyone who might be listening that the winds be in their favour.

If God has any mercy, may he not let a single Spanish foot land upon British shore unless it has been wrenched from the rest of its body.

Their plan was risky. Ducking in and out of Spain's range, trying to taunt and tease him into breaking formation. Any sign of wavering that they could take advantage of. But Admiral Cruz was not easy to fluster. And held under his trust, his men refused to break.

England could see Sir Francis Drake's ship. They did not fight together. They needed to split their forces, spread out the strong command throughout the fleet. News of his instructions filtered down from the crows nest, but for the most part, England didn't need to hear it. They had plotted the battle together. England could read his commander almost as well as the sea hardened privateer could read him.

England's ship came swooping through the water, lining up its side with Spain as they opened fire. Each explosion sending a crashing jolt through the ship.

England waited with baited breath, praying some shot would strike true and take a chunk out of the opposing fleet. He knew they didn't have long. There was a limit to how much ammunition one could cram into a ship as small as theirs. Spain didn't have that problem.

"Pull out!" England shouted, turning from his view of the battle to command his men. "Take her around the edge, let them come to u—"

In all the chaos you could hardly hear the sound of one shot. But England felt the crashing deep, hot pain lance through the side of his body. His shoulder met with the hard, wooden support with a rough crash, his hands scrambling to grasp it, but his fingers refused to close. His legs sank down beneath him despite his best efforts to keep himself upright. Blindly his hand found its way to his side. The sticky warmth found a way to sink into even his numbed palm. When he looked he could see red bubbling up through his fingers and trickling down to spatter against the deck. The roar of gun fire seemed to be sucked away into a vacuum through which England could just hear the faint calling and distant hum of canon fire.

Someone was grabbing at him. England tried to shrug them off.

"Let me be! Focus on the battle you fool!" Only half of the words seemed to pass his lips, the rest screaming in his head.

The was a loud crash, a roar—the world seemed to be dancing around England as he sat like a stone tossed in its mad, turbulent throes. England tried to steady himself. Tried to orient his head, tried to remind himself it was nothing more than the sway of the ship.

It wasn't until he forced his eyes into focus to find the lapping mass of deep blue racing toward him that he realized his head was not playing tricks on him.

The water seemed to reach up into the ship to grab England and whisk away the very ground beneath his legs. It enveloped his entire body, moulding perfectly to his skin, slipping between his fingers and setting itself deep into the open wound on his side. The pain of the salt tore through England's limbs and before he could stop himself he had opened his mouth to cry out, water rushing into his throat and gagging him. He flailed desperately, clawing at the water, but his hands could find no purchase in her slippery depths. The tipping ship's weight rippled through the water above him, pushing him further and further from the fading light of surface.

England remained caught. He spun in the smooth rush of the sea until she drew the last kicking attempt at life out of his frozen body. And he was left floating with a stony, serene stillness. His hair fanning out through the water like spun gold while a swirling path of blood trailed off behind him.

Elizabeth stood outside the palace, sun's gleam glinting of red streaks in her orange hair, her skin silky white. England knelt before her, stone cutting in against his knee as he took her hand gently in his and pressed his lips against her fingers. Slowly his eyes drifted open and he turned his face up to see her. Green eyes glinting with razor sharp focus. The warm hint of a smile to her lips.

"Bring me back something lovely."

Somewhere far beyond the horizon Spain's ships drew closer. This time they were laden with an entirely new treasure for England to pillage.

Victory. Triumph.

Spain's head on a golden platter.

A smile curved England's lips to mirror her own.

"I will."

Thwunk—

England shocked awake to the feeling of a boot where his ribs should have been. He choked and rolled onto his stomach, retching up lungful after lungful of water onto the wooden deck beneath him. It stung his throat, burning in his lungs but neither of those even processed in his mind compared to the pain that pounded through his ribcage with every heave. His arms collapsed beneath his weight as he lay writhing on the deck, his body dragging air into his lungs.

The boot landed again, digging firmly into his side. England choked back a cry of pain as it ground into the open flesh where he'd been hit. But at least it hadn't decided to add anymore injuries to his collection.

"Oi. Rata del mar."

England let out a hissing breath through his teeth and tried to jerk away. Pain grabbed him back and pinned him there, gasping and hissing against its sharp cut. Spain hummed disapprovingly and rolled England back and forth beneath the toe of his boot, like a cat playing with the small pest it had just killed.

"Rata del mar," Spain said in a cool, pondering tone. "Sea rat. Stowing away in the chambers of the ocean, uninvited and unwanted. Growing fat off the riches of men's honest labour. Filthy. Repulsive. Vermin." He jeered, jamming his foot against England's side to punctuate each word. "You should know the fate that awaits a pirate."

"I am not a pirate. I am a privateer," England snarled back. "Do not make me out to be lawless. I have laws. Those laws simply state you as fair ga—"

England's voice broke off in his throat as Spain dug his heel into the Brit's open wound, snarling.

"Your corrupt government betrays you for the blasphemous heretic you are. You and all your lot. I will stamp you out of the Netherlands, and I will stamp you out of the seas. I will wipe the blemish of your Protestant life off God's clean earth, Inglaterra. Piracy sanctioned by a tyrannical, mad, heretic of a harlot is still piracy."

England twisted, adrenaline pushing away any pain he might have felt as he grabbed at Spain's boot, managing to yank the cocky conquistador off balance, accepting a blow to the chin as the Spaniard kicked sharply to shake England's grasp. England caught a glimpse of the empire's face, olive skin framed against the sun and those wide, cutting green eyes gleaming with the thrill of the fight.

"Don't you—dare speak of her!" he spat, the words straining to push through his raw throat. He could taste blood bubbling up at his lips. "Fight as you will! Your false crusade will never triumph!"

In the glinting light of the sun England caught the sight of Spain's grin just before he was wrenched to his feet, pain tearing horribly through England's side as his broken ribs scraped against the shredding tissues of muscle around them. A strangled cry escaped him, each shift of his chest paralyzing him with the shooting agony.

England couldn't breathe.

Spain had him by the arm, forcing him against the railing of the ship to watch out over the crashing waters. The scene blurred and tilted before England's eyes. A hand grabbed his hair and sharply tugged his head up, forcing him to watch the small, scurrying force of England's fleet.

"Look well, Inglaterra. Emblaze this image in your mind," Spain said, his breath ghosting against England's ear. They were close. No one else would hear their words. Spain slipped an arm beneath England's shoulders, supporting the collapsed nation against himself. Smiling as he watched those glittering green eyes fade in and out of focus while all the while the golden red of his burning ships flickered across their crystal surface. The white skin of his face set ashen pale from blood loss, a streak of red smeared across his face like war paint on his delicate, ivory features. "For this is the last time you will look out upon an English Britain.

"From this moment, you are mine, muñequita*."

*Supposed to be little doll- Ie, a play on poppet