A/N: HOLY CRAP I FINISHED THIS WITHIN A YEAR! I still can't believe I actually did it... Thank you so, so much to everyone who read, reviewed, faved and followed! You are all amazing and wonderful. Je vous aimerai toujours, mes amis, toujours :D THANK YOU ALL FOR EVERYTHING AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

And remember, the end is not really the end, if you think about it - it can always be a new beginning. :)

I should probably sleep even though I can't. Finishing this story made me a little sad, ahah.

12/24/14: IggyTheMonster (I like your name XD) suggested a song for this story and I loved it so much so I thought I'd mention it here. :D If you've heard of Two Steps from Hell, check out their song "El Dorado." It doesn't have words but it sounds so beautiful! Thanks to IggyTheMonster for finding it!

I also got the name for Ch. 19 from "Per Sognare Ancora" by Neffa.

I feel like there was way too much skewed common sense in this story, especially in the beginning, and I still need to check the historical accuracy of some parts. So I might make edits every now and then (if I'm not too lazy).

Anyway, happy reading! :D

EPILOGUE

Three Months Later

Almost everyone was at peace in the city of Madrid. For one, there was much less to worry about at sea, ever since two of its most feared men had vanished. According to local records the English pirate Arthur Kirkland and Spaniard Antonio Fernandez Carriedo had perished off the Italian coast, their men having fought each other viciously before being ambushed by a small Italian fleet.

Most in Europe were happy to believe this, and indeed the Atlantic was remarkably undisturbed afterwards, but some had their doubts. It was the firm belief of the wiser men that the two pirate captains had managed to escape and were still at large, building up new crews and preparing to return. The fact that neither of their bodies had ever been found seemed to support this point, although of course no one ever discovered the truth.

And in Spain new things were happening.

In Madrid, in the year 16—, a Spaniard rose from obscurity to introduce a delectable new tomato variety, which he sold at good prices to inns and restaurants, but mostly commoners. For this he became well-known and loved by many of the populace. His official name was never determined, but he did not mind being called Angelo.

No one in the city knew much about him—nothing about his past ever made its way into the public eye. He was still young, possessed good strength and a handsome face, and was by all appearances unmarried. This attracted several families' attention, but he never accepted their proposals. His only known interest seemed to be serving the poor around him, for which he was often seen paying visits to the needy and giving alms.

In short, the public could find no fault with Angelo, and he soon became a respected, if not revered, member of their society. Everyone who knew of him dubbed him a good man.

Three Years Later

If anyone had taken to loitering near a certain sturdy, shaded stall in the city marketplace, he would have noticed, most afternoons, a man hurrying away from the back. He was fairly tall, wore a hat pulled low over his face despite the July heat, and on closer inspection had the familiar build of Angelo the benefactor.

No one followed him, but if they had they would have seen him head towards the wealthiest quarter of the city, looking somewhat out of place in his coarse cotton garb. He stopped at the farthest house, a high pillared white one, and knocked at the polished double doors as if he knew them personally. He had only to wait a minute before the doors were flung open and he was pulled inside.

It was a good thing that no one was nearby, because the Italian holding onto his arm must not have been calling his name.

"Antonio," he said, before closing the doors behind them.

Of course this was Antonio, Antonio who had disappeared in name off the face of the earth for three years. He had been living a double life ever since then—Angelo when out of doors, Antonio in this house. And even though it gave him satisfaction to help the poor, it was always being Antonio that made him happiest.

Lovino, too, seemed to think the same way.

"What took you so damn long?" he demanded, sweeping off Antonio's hat with one hand and with the other rubbing the Spaniard's cheek disapprovingly. "Just look at you—all burned from the sun. You won't look like my Antonio anymore if you keep staying out there like that—"

"But at least you'll still be my Lovino!" Antonio stopped his tirade with a kiss. "And my Lovino always knows when it's me." He grinned, sneaking one arm around Lovino's waist, before suddenly yanking him close and leaning in. "I'm right, aren't I?"

The Italian hurriedly clapped his hand over Antonio's mouth. "Not in front of Lucia, you idiot!"

"She's here?" Antonio peeked around his shoulder into the parlor, and spied a tiny brown-haired girl in a frilly white dress, arranging the flowers in their vases with all the gravity of a young lady. But Chiara and Stefano were nowhere in sight. "Where did her parents go?"

"Out," said Lovino simply, rolling his eyes. "They left her for me to look after. I didn't think I looked like a kind motherly old woman, but maybe they had their doubts."

"I can see why."

Lovino smacked him and went into the parlor, Antonio following at a distance and rubbing ruefully at his arm. No sooner had the Italian entered than the girl jumped up and ran to him, red roses overflowing from pale arms and curly hair.

"Uncle Lovi, look at me!" She twirled, scattering rose petals everywhere. "Don't I look pretty—hey!"

Lovino pursed his lips and kept her firmly seated on his shoulder so she couldn't run away. "If your Mamma and Papa see you playing around like this, they won't let you in here anymore."

"But I like flowers!"

"These are for display," said Lovino with a groan, and scooped up the roses she had dropped before replacing them. He did, however, spare the ones in Lucia's hair. "If you want I'll take you to pick flowers later, okay?"

"Okay!" The tiny girl laughed, a high cheerful sound. "Do you want flowers too, Uncle Lovi? I have a lot, they're starting to fall out."

"No, that will be perfectly unnecessary—hey, stop that!" Flowers showered down on him as he shouted, shaking his head wildly to dislodge them. But Lucia kept on with her fun. Desperately he turned to Antonio, his hair already strewn with rose petals. "Antonio, help me!"

But the Spaniard had fallen onto the nearest couch in a fit of laughter.

"Oh—Dios mio, Lovi—you look wonderful! Lucia, you need to make it a wreath, it looks better that way—"

"I am going to kill you, Antonio, I swear—"

"Not kiss?"

"All right then, let me stick horrible-smelling flowers in your hair, see how you like that!"

And with roses in hand, he began chasing Antonio around the room, Lucia bouncing on his shoulder and shrieking in glee the whole while. It was a full ten minutes before Antonio was appropriately doused in rose water and petals, and before Lovino had successfully cleaned the flowers out of his hair. Lucia was allowed to go wash her hands in the basin while her uncles attended to the mess in the parlor.

"I smell so nice now," Antonio sighed, sticking a damp petal on Lovino's nose for good measure.

"You're becoming more like a child every day, did you know that?"

"Maybe... but so are you."

Lovino glared. "At least I'm more grown-up than you are."

And as if to prove his point, he caught Antonio's lips swiftly with his own, and didn't let go until Lucia came running back downstairs to check on them.

The Italian always looked so peacefully handsome when he was working, or focused on things—usually it was both. Now was one of those times. He had not given up his recent penchant for cooking, and so strongly refused to hire a servant that Antonio and the others had at last relented. The kitchen was his own little realm in the house, and he ruled it admirably, turning out the most golden creations every so often.

This time Antonio had returned early enough to help him, and so they stood together near the ovens, quieter without Lucia who had gone to take a nap. The sun shone in through the open window and warmed their hands as they worked in comforting silence.

"You know, maybe it would be better if we moved out," said Lovino suddenly.

Antonio stopped stirring the tomato sauce to look over at him. "What makes you say that?"

"I feel like... everyone's been watching us. And not in the best way." Lovino's hands were still busy at the rolling pin, and he did not look up. He appeared somewhat lost in thought. "You remember how Feli and Chiara were so eager for me to stay. But Feli's had sense enough to move out with his German bast—I mean friend." Antonio hid his smile behind his inspection of a bowl. "I think it's time for us to do that too."

"Where do you want to go? We could just find a house nearby and come back to visit now and then, like your brother does. Besides, Lucia's a cute little thing."

"No," said Lovino, his voice almost strained. "I want to—move out. Leave this city. Sail somewhere, maybe."

Antonio stopped short and gazed at him for a long moment. He remembered suddenly—one day long ago when the Italian had been standing by the pots as he was now, hands and apron dusted with flour, watching the food as it cooked. It was all too easy to imagine the walls around them gone, to be replaced by stout wooden ones, and the window to their right a porthole, opening out to the blue, blue sky...

"Shit, Antonio—I'm sorry," he heard Lovino say, and felt arms around him and the Italian's head resting against his shoulder. "I didn't mean to..."

"We'll do it." The firmness in Antonio's voice surprised even himself. "We'll go. This city is too cramped as it is. We're too far away from the sea. What do you say to Barcelona?"

Lovino stepped back and stared. "You don't really—"

"But why not?" A strange thrill had begun to run through Antonio's veins, as if an instinct suppressed for years had finally reasserted itself. "I rather miss the sea," he said, more softly this time.

For a second Lovino did not reply. Then, impossibly, he smiled.

"We'll tell the others then. How long do you think the voyage would be?"

Valencia's sea breeze was like a balm in the early mornings, with just a hint of the warmth and freedom he had felt so long ago. There were no clouds in the sky today, and seagulls whirled overhead, making spirals around the mast and settling in among the crow's nest like little children. Their calls echoed across the calm cerulean of the ocean, louder than any man could ever shout.

Lovino was the first to speak.

"I know what you mean now... I'd forgotten about this."

Facing the horizon and the gentle wind, Antonio took a long breath and let it out slowly before opening his eyes. His smile seemed to come more naturally, words more readily in this lighter air, empty of the noisy oppressive heat of the city they had just left. "I used to dream about being able to do this," he said. "Sailing freely and not having to worry about the consequences."

"Now's not too late to travel around the world." Lovino's voice was light. "You're twenty-nine. There's nothing stopping you anymore."

"I might just do that, now that you mention it. And bring you along too."

The sound of sailors yelling excitedly to each other broke their conversation, and Antonio turned to look. They had just readied the sails; the captain was announcing their intent to set out. In high spirits the men lifted the anchor, the wooden dock and surrounding ships growing smaller, smaller.

The familiar rocking of the ship, set free in the sea, mirrored the beating of Antonio's heart and suddenly he shouted:

"Let's go!"

"What?" Lovino frowned and then raced after him as Antonio darted towards the mast. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Climbing!" The rope ladder leading up to the crow's nest was still leaning against the tall spar. In no time Antonio had reached it. "I'm going up there!" he exclaimed, pointing straight up. "Want to come with me? It'll be great!"

"You're mad!"

Antonio had already taken hold of the ladder and begun climbing, one foot after the other, the ropes rough and familiar on his hands. He had not even reached the fifth rung when he felt the ropes settle below him; Lovino was also following. He paused to allow the Italian to catch up. "Careful, Lovi!"

"Just make sure you don't send me falling to my death!" Lovino shot back, but his voice had lost all semblance of anger, becoming exhilaration. "You don't need to wait for me, go!"

And they climbed, up and up, higher and higher, the disturbed birds flying around them like dislodged pieces of cloud. The morning wind had turned sharp against Antonio's skin, exposed in his short sleeves, but he barely noticed—for there it was, getting closer and closer, the small circle of the crow's nest. His fingers remembered and welcomed the rope clenched between them, the sensation of the tough, solid strands buoying him towards the top. He had done this hundreds of times; he could do it again. Below he could hear people yelling for them to come down, but they were so far down and did not, could not understand.

He was free, free, free.

The thin wooden surface was just as flimsy as the others he had known, but he had never felt steadier as he stood upon it now. Everything seemed so small, so far away from up here—the sailors and captain like dolls, the sails billowing like little flags, his own worries dissipating with the breeze. And then there was Lovino, appearing right underneath the crow's nest, fingers clutching at the last bit of rope. He accepted Antonio's outstretched hand and before long they were standing together, gazing breathlessly out at the blue, blue sea.

"That was amazing," were the first words out of the Italian's mouth, when he could speak. Antonio grinned.

"I told you."

Lovino looked back in the direction they had come, at the rapidly fading land in the distance.

"And there goes Spain—"

"Look, Lovi!" Antonio was leaning forward, towards some faraway spot ahead of them on the horizon. "Look!"

"What? Where?"

"There!" There was nothing where the Spaniard was pointing, but Lovino did as he was told, with an excitement Antonio had never before seen on his face.

"What is it?"

"It's us!"

"I can't see," Lovino shouted. "Tell me about it!"

"It's us, I know for sure." Antonio peered at the distant sea, at the spot where the water met sky, where the waves met clouds. "It's us, ten years in the future. We're still together and still sailing, and we're old. But happy. You still look the same, can you see it, Lovi?"

Lovino laughed, a wild free laugh. "I can now!"

Somehow, from where they stood, the ship did seem to be heading towards that one place Antonio had seen, moving forward, parting the waves, leaving the past for the future. But in the crow's nest was the present, the blessed present, and Antonio reached for Lovino's hand and held it tight, their fingers intertwining as they watched the time fly.

There was only one word that could be said, and he shouted it, to the world that lay beyond.

"ONWARD!"

And onward they went, knowing that in that moment, with each other, the future could never be brighter.

fin