Hey guys, I finished up chapter two! This one has significantly less humor and/or UST, but I figure more of that will be in later chapters.

"I see…" Arthur shifted minutely in the oak chair with fine silk upholstery, across the heavy study desk from the tired old man. "I'm afraid, though, that I am not the man to retrieve your grandson."

There was a long pause in which the old man removed his pipe from his mouth, exhaling smoke into the space between them. Finally, he spoke flatly in heavily accented English. "It is good to know that the Royal Navy still turns out spineless bitches. And here they tell us, that the only things guaranteed in life are death and taxes. It appears you can always count on the English to be cowards as well." He returned the pipe to his wizened lips.

"Well, you see sir," Arthur silently counted to ten and clenched and unclenched his fists behind the desk, reminding himself that he was not Alastair, and that he must not behave like him. "I can no longer speak for His Majesty's Navy. However, I can certainly reassure you I am in full possession of a spine, as well as a sound capacity for judgement." He stood, placing his tricorn firmly upon his head and continued sharply, "It is for this reason that I will not retrieve your grandson. Good day to you, sir."

The old man grimaced, placing his pipe in its brass, eagle-shaped holder. His gravelly voice cut through the dusty silence of the study. "Do you have children, Captain Kirkland?"

He paused at the door, steeling himself for the sermon. "I am fully aware of what you're trying to do. And no, I don't have children, so it won't—"

Felix ignored him and continued on solemnly. "He is only seventeen. Only an innocent child…" He shook his head mournfully, and Arthur turned back towards him with a capitulatory sigh. Felix's rough, low tones belied the plea in his rheumy eyes, furrowed in wrinkles, as he spoke.

"You should know very well what immoral men such as Carriedo will do. How can you sail under the name of your king, while you lack the moral fortitude to protect the innocent?"

"Your grandson is not a subject of the crown."

"And you are either the priest or the Levite! Which? I would say that you are the priest, because you dare to put up the façade of morality, but you care little for mercy!" He spat out the last word as he lapsed into a fit of dry coughing, clutching the arms of his chair. Arthur clenched his jaw and observed the frail figure behind the desk. Finally, when the coughing seemed to be turning towards retching and the goddamn guilt-tripping geezer's face was turning an unhealthily dark shade of red, Arthur shuffled hastily to the pitcher of clear water on the desk and shoved a glass under Felix's nose, austere black hat tumbling off his head in the process.

"By God! Drink, man!"

Felix slurped the water clumsily out of the rim of the cup like a child, spilling some down the front of his shirt. Finally he gasped and hacked, pounding on his chest. "Huuuurrgh!"

"Are you quite alright?"

Felix coughed wetly before answering weakly. "Just fine…but…"

"…But?" Arthur mentally cursed himself as he mopped up the old man's front with his handkerchief, leaning in a rather undignified manner across the desk.

"If only there was someone to save my poor child… "

Arthur surrendered.

"Oh Christ, fine, I'll do it!"

The old man shakily brought the simple wooden cross that hung around his neck to his pale, thin lips, and kissed it. "Praise the Lord." Then Felix picked up his pipe and contentedly resumed smoking. He addressed Arthur jovially, the latter of which had seated himself once again in the chair opposite the desk, massaging his temples. "And now for the matter of payment. What sum do you require?"

"Well, normally I receive a percentage of the loot from the captured ship, but this is a slightly different case than what I usually handle, in which I am not under the employ of the crown. This is a very costly venture..." He groaned as he collapsed back into the chair, still rubbing his forehead. "I'd have to chase the Devil all the way across the Atlantic…and he's extremely dangerous. No one wants to suffer a run in with the Chiara…"

Felix nodded, leaning forward across the desk.

"We also don't know exactly where he's gone, only that he's somewhere in the Caribbean…he's got a significant head start on me, so that's another factor that decreases the likelihood we find your grandson before Carriedo kills him, if the ransom is not paid…" Arthur hummed contemplatively, frowning at the ageing map spread over the desk. "When is the ransom due?"

"I have to have someone, with the ransom, in Port Royal in three months." Felix replied crisply.

Arthur softened. "Oh, Christ. When did you get the letter?"

"About a week ago…I don't know how long he's had Romano though, he must have sent it before he captured him."

"Is there anyone in Barbados that Romano might have contacted before he was seized? Someone with concrete information? A tutor, or a relative?"

Felix shook his head. "I don't think so, Romano was too prideful; he wanted to make it on his own."

Arthur rested his cheek against his palm, arm propped on the armrest, brow furrowed. "I will require full possession of the Chiara and her contents, once Carriedo is disposed of and your grandson is returned to you. We recently captured a sea dog who scuttled his ship before we could even engage his crew, so I will also require your aid in funding the voyage, almost in full. That is the extent of my demands."

Felix reached over the desk and shook Arthur's hand earnestly.

"Arthur, I think we'd better return to port."

"What? We can't turn around! We are seventy miles from shore!"

"And so are two extra people."

"Two extra—? The lads." Arthur gripped his compass unnecessarily tightly and exhaled sharply through his nose.

His first mate nodded nonchalantly leaning against the railing. "They were hiding in a couple of extra barrels."

Arthur fumed, marching down the worn but well-washed stairs from the quarter deck, roaring, "How did we miss that?" Paulo pinched the bridge of his nose as he followed Arthur down into the hold.

"Alright yeh wee bastards! Yer old jakey's comin' down 'ere any minute, so on the count o' three—"

Arthur stuck his head into the hold as he wrested open the hatch. "Alastair! By God, watch your language!"

Alastair cocked his head at Arthur's rage as he stomped down the stairs into the dim hold. Paulo rubbed the back of his neck as he descended, boots falling much more softly than Arthur's. "I'm sorry Alley, but I had to tell Arthur, you know." Alastair responded cheekily, clapping a hand on Paulo's head and roughly mussing his hair.

"Aye, I know, yeh numpty bugger."

As Paulo readjusted his ponytail and Alastair curled on the floor, cradling his crotch, Arthur marched briskly into the hold and announced pointedly, "Alright lads, the fun's over, so come out from wherever you are."

Nothing moved.

Arthur threw a sideways glance at Paulo and Alastair. "Alright, I suppose our only choice is to leave them down here…it's a shame though…I do hope the rats don't chew on 'em too much, poor lads." And all three men tramped up the stairs, snickering. Alastair closed the hatch, chortling under his breath.

"Holy shit, Mattie! The fuckin' rats are gonna eat us!" Alfred whispered frantically, grabbing Matthew's arm, tugging it back and forth.

"Well what the hell are we gonna do? They closed the hatch!" Matthew hissed, a note of fear audible.

Alfred took a deep breath. "I know! Okay, okay, I gotta think…"

'After a few minutes of such thinking, a shaft of bright light cut into the darkness of the hold.

"Fuck! Fuck, Mattie, go to the light! Go to the light!"

Matthew sneezed.

"I'm not leaving you behind Matt! Grab onto my hand!"

As the two brothers clambered desperately up the stairs, they were met with the sight of the captain, the first mate, and the master gunner laughing hysterically. They blinked in the harsh sunlight as Alastair and Paulo pulled them up onto the main deck. Alfred was furious.

"Dad! What the fuck?"

"Young man! You watch your language!"

Alfred snorted. "Mum would've let us."

"I know for a fact that she does not! And speaking of your mother, can you imagine how worried she must be right now? I cannot believe—"

"I can't believe you're being such an arse about this! How else am I supposed to learn to privateer!"

"This ship is no place for children!"

"I am not a child! I can fight, and drink, and go to brothels!"

"You went to a brothel?!"

Alfred scratched his head guiltily, face turning red as he shrunk back. "Only once or twice…we were curious is all! We didn't, you know…do anything."

"I should hope not! As for the drinking and the fighting, I at least hope you've kept that to moderation!"

Matthew nodded quickly, nudging Alfred forcefully. At this point, Alastair chimed in, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. "Aw, Artie, give the wee lad a break, s'got a face like a skelped erse."

Arthur ground his teeth and ran a calloused hand through his short, choppy hair. "Alright. C'mon lads, we need to have a serious talk."

"Normally, I would not be opposed to you learning a bit by sailing with me, however—" Arthur raised a hand to silence Alfred. "This is certainly not the job in which to do so. It's a very dangerous mission—"

"I know! You're going after the Devil Carriedo!"

"Well, yes, and there's a chance that I will be killed, so—"

"Dad, there's no way Carriedo can kill you; you're the better captain."

Arthur lowered his head, silent for a moment. "Matthew, do you understand the gravity of the situation?" Matthew contemplated the question. "I'm not completely sure. What is the chance that Carriedo will...kill you? Though his voice wavered at the last words, he was resolute.

Arthur nodded in approval, smoothing down a corner of his map and gazing out of the window in the captain's quarters at the open ocean. "I would say…approximately three in ten, if it comes down to close quarters combat. He is well known for his swordsmanship, though if he is the victor, he might choose not to kill me. If we face him in open water, he'd definitely have the advantage, sailing a frigate as opposed to a brigantine."

Alfred cut in stubbornly. "But you're a great swordsman too. You were in the Royal Navy!"

Matthew sighed.

Arthur picked up the thread. "Alfred, you might as well learn a bit before we return to Portsmouth. If you like, Alastair can teach you sailor's knots."

Alfred seemed to understand the implication of this suggestion, and left the cabin in a huff, arms crossed and pouting. Arthur groaned and raked his hands through his hair, slouching over the table. "Matthew, why did you come with Alfred? I thought you wanted to be a blacksmith…Elizabeth told me you've been taking a great interest in her work."

Matthew shrugged. "I couldn't let him go by himself, and I figured we'd get caught pretty quickly."

"Fair enough."

There was a long pause in which the dust swirled in the early afternoon light pouring through the large, spotless window and Arthur and Matthew sat in silence. Arthur chewed on his lip. "Say, lad, has she…?"

"Yeah, his name's O'Donohue."

Arthur snorted. "An Irishman, for Christ's sake. What's an Irishman even doing in Portsmouth?"

"A traveling writer. You know—" Matthew rubbed his forehead, hesitating. "If you would just come back, and stay in Portsmouth, we could all probably…"

Arthur shut him down with a placating gesture."Oh lad, you know I can't ask Elizabeth to just drop everything and take me back. I wish I could fix everything, but I'm afraid I've patched it up the best I can, at this point."

Matthew was silent.

"But you know lad, I—I'm very grateful to her, for being such a good mother…especially when I haven't been such a good father. And there's no ill will between us, just so you and Alfred know."

"I know."

"C'mon lad, don't be so inscrutable."

Matthew stood abruptly, anger suddenly shaking every word. "Fine! You know what I wanna know? I wanna know if you left mum because you were buggering someone you liked better than her! I know why you had to resign from the Royal Navy! Or was it because you didn't even care at all about me and Al?!"

Arthur was taken aback, shocked into silence by the uncharacteristic display of anger. Matthew stared down his father, overwhelmed by the rage that had boiled underneath his skin, finally erupting to the surface. He pounded his fist on the table, disrupting Arthur's inkpot and navigational tools. "Tell me!"

Arthur took a shaky breath and looked his son sternly in the eyes, answering carefully. "You are incorrect on several counts. I loved your mother very much, but when you and your brother were born, we were kids, and we had nothing. She didn't inherit the smithy until a few years after that, and we thought we were going to starve, so the best option seemed to join the Navy." He pursed his lips, reluctant, before continuing. "And no, I am not 'buggering someone I like better than her'."

Matthew sat back down quietly; mouth scrunched up and eyes red and puffy. "You barely even talk to us. Sure as hell seems like you don't give a fuck."

"Do you really believe that?"

Matthew exhaled forcefully. "No."

Arthur sighed in relief. "Well, at least there's that. Are you hungry? I nearly forgot, you and Alfred had been stowing away for nearly a full day. Doubtless Alfred's already gotten a five course dinner out of Sean—"

Matthew snickered.

"—so I reckon we'd better feed you too. Maybe afterwards we can test your swordsmanship, does that sound good to you?" Arthur ventured cautiously, rising and striding to the door. Matthew nodded.

"Okay. Let's go dad."

Yep, Matt and Al are Arthur's biological sons in this one, and to give you an age estimate, they're roughly 15/16. Also since there are several characters in this fic that Himaruya didn't name, here are my fanon names:

Alastair is Scotland, obviously.

Sean is Northern Ireland, doesn't have a major role though.

Paulo is Portugal.

O'Donohue (surname only) is Republic of Ireland, but also only briefly mentioned.

Elizabeth isn't anyone, just Matt & Al's mom. (I don't like OC's playing major roles.)

And Emma from the last chapter is Belgium.