Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia

Warning: this chapter contains character death! You have been warned~

Chapter 10

Nine long years passed, and Arthur had kept true to his word. Not once had he returned to Calais, and he had no idea how Francis was. But he made sure that Antonio did not return to Calais because he guarded the French waters religiously, rarely straying from them so he would not let The Esmerelda slip past him.

The Englishman was now thirty-two years old, but still as agile and skilled as he had always been, and he made sure to fight Antonio mercilessly every time they met. He would never give the Spaniard a chance to repent for what he did, having already sworn to take his life for trying to take Francis from him.

In nine years he had not been able to kill Antonio, but as the years passed, he noticed the Spaniard was becoming less willing to raise his sword in defence of Arthur's blows. However, Arthur had only one goal now, and if Antonio wanted to make it easier for him then he was not going to concern himself over the reasons behind it.

Now, The Esmerelda and The Bloody Rose clashed once more, and Arthur had lost count of the number of times he had engaged in a dangerous swordfight with Antonio by now. But this time, something was different. When Antonio swung over onto the deck of The Bloody Rose, he stumbled. Usually he would land perfectly, but this time he swayed more than the ship he sailed, and it was very clear that he was intoxicated.

Arthur only smirked, as at least the Spanish bastard had the decency to make the job easier for him. But Antonio did not draw his sword, instead just standing before the man who strived to kill him.

"Do it." The Spaniard whispered.

Arthur paused, raising an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said do it, amigo. Finish it. It is only what I deserve…" there was no playful lilt in Antonio's voice anymore, and his green eyes were dark with depression and grief.

"Why couldn't you finish it yourself? Why did you seek me out?" Arthur queried, pointing his sword at Antonio's throat.

Antonio only smiled weakly. "Because I knew you would revel in the satisfaction of taking my life. After all, it is what you have spent the past nine years trying to do, si?"

When Arthur still hesitated, the Spanish Captain stepped towards him.

"We have both sinned – we have too much blood on our hands, Arthur. Let us end this, once and for all." Arthur barely had time to register Antonio's words, before the Spaniard moved far too quickly, revealing a dagger he had hidden up his sleeve, and he plunged it into Arthur's belly.

The English Captain let out a gasp, widening his eyes as he felt the pain, and as the blood seeped into his crisp, white shirt, he made one final move, thrusting his sword up through Antonio's throat.

The Spanish Captain made a strange gurgling sound, but his eyes sparkled with the final hope that he would be reunited with Lovino, and as he fell to his knees, his last thought was of the Italian's soft lips against his own, before the light left his eyes.

Antonio's body fell to the deck, blood trickling from his open throat.

Arthur took shallow breaths, slowly pulling the dagger out of his chest with trembling fingers, before leaning heavily against the side of the ship. His crew shouted, seeing that their Captain was dying, but Arthur managed to stay on his feet, his hand pressed firmly against his side.

"S-Set sail…for…Calais…" he managed to say, and his crew obediently threw Antonio's body overboard, lifting the anchor and setting rapid course for the port they had not visited in nine years.

XxX

The past nine years Francis had kept busy. He was now thirty-five and still had his youthful good looks, but now it was paired with the wisdom that fatherhood brought. He had rebuilt his beloved tavern, doing his best to replicate the old one as closely as he could, and business was booming. He had met a nice young woman while still in his grief over Arthur and had hastily bedded her. When she fell pregnant, Francis had no choice but to marry her, for he would not condemn the poor lady to a life of shunning. She had unfortunately passed away giving birth to their son, but now Francis had Matthew, his eight-year-old, who helped him run the tavern.

Matthew was the only thing he had left in the world, and he spent his time devoted to raising his son as best he could on his own. The Frenchman never allowed himself to think of Arthur, and he had never said a word to his late wife or to Matthew about him.

On this particular day, the tavern was closed as Francis promised Matthew they would spend time together, and so the two of them were sat at the bar, and Francis was teaching Matthew English. The child was bright and whenever he understood something, his violet eyes would light up and his little unruly curl would bounce atop his head of blonde curls. He looked a lot like Francis, and there was no mistaking their shared blood.

Francis ruffled Matthew's hair as the boy was catching on quickly, and the Frenchman was so proud of how perceptive his son was. No one else in the town spoke English all that well, but Matthew was becoming even better than Francis, and he was only eight.

Time ran away from them quickly, and Francis blinked as Matthew's stomach rumbled. "Oh my, we have forgotten to eat lunch!" he beamed, standing. "What would you like, mon petit? Pancakes?"

Matthew's eyes lit up as pancakes were his favourite thing in the whole world. "Yes please, Papa…" he answered politely.

"Alright, Matthew~ I shall be one moment." Francis smiled brightly, kissing the top of his head before disappearing into the little kitchen at the back of the tavern.

Matthew stayed in the front, still pondering over the books he was studying English from. He became engrossed quite quickly, and jumped when there was a knock at the front door. He felt nervous, but he knew his Papa could not hear from the kitchen, and so he knew it was up to him to answer it.

Taking a breath, the shy boy hopped off the barstool, venturing over to the door and unlocking it, before pulling it open. Standing there was a man he did not recognise, who wore a scarlet coat and a large hat with a pure, white feather. Matthew looked up at him nervously.

"Um, s-sorry but the tavern is c-closed today, sir…" he began meekly.

Arthur looked down at the boy, unable to hide his surprise. "Ah – I was looking for a man named Francis, actually. Do you know him, lad?"

Matthew nodded shyly. "Oui, he is my Papa…"

Arthur was stunned. Francis had a son? He knew it had been nine years, but he had no idea Francis would ever have a family. If he had a son, it must mean he has a wife, too. This thought sparked jealousy deep in his heart, but he forced a smile. The boy noticed he was leaning somewhat heavily against the doorframe, and he had always been taught to be polite.

"W-Would you like to come in? I will fetch my P-Papa for you…" Matthew stood aside, and Arthur gratefully entered, sitting in a chair and pulling his coat around him slightly, as if he was trying to conceal something.

"Thank you, my boy." He said simply, and when Matthew ran to fetch Francis, Arthur's smile dropped. The pain he was in was tremendous, and he had barely managed to make it to the tavern.

He froze, suddenly nervous as he heard Francis' voice from the back of the tavern.

"You must never let strangers in, mon petit, you never know who they could – "

Francis appeared, in the midst of chastising Matthew, but as soon as he saw Arthur the words died in his throat.

He widened his eyes, rooted to the spot much as he had been nine years ago when he watched Arthur leave.

And now he was back...

A/N: …I love making a lot happen in one chapter haha XD So, Arthur's dying, and he came to see Francis one last time.

Please review and let me know what you think is going to happen – is Francis going to turn him away, or is he going to admit he still loves him?

And what about Matthew?

Love you all x