This is set in ye olden pyrate tymes, has heavy fantasy use, and I'm going to guess that the little history I throw in there in inaccurate. Yamalla is an OC but has a very little section of the story to work in so don't be turned off by her! Unbeta'd

There was chaos on the beach. Mountains had never worked so hard against him, Spain thought in despair. England was around, he knew it, felt her poisonous form writhing through his mind, but he couldn't find her!

He hadn't seen her with his own eyes, true, but he was a Nation. He knew. Add that to the sudden disappearance of some crucial items and he was absolutely positive she was lurking somewhere close.

But he couldn't find her. Every tent had been searched, the shore, the sky, the trees, everything. All but the mountains that now stared at him menacingly. The massive rocks were left to search but how could they? How could they presume to search an entire mountain range for one girl and be successful?

He growled, knocking over some golden heirloom or something. He didn't care, there were thousands of such items lying around. What he cared about was not so shiny, not so obvious to the eyes of the uneducated, and it was stolen.

England had stolen his map.

"Mon ami," France danced his fingers up the side of his neck, "calm yourself. She is either traveling through the mountains, in which case, it is impossible to find her until she so choices," He paused, letting the tension linger in the air.

Spain was uncomfortably reminded of his friend and ally's penchant for playing with the emotions around him. France continued leisurely, playing with wisps of Spain's long curls, "Or…she is waiting along the coast. You must consider dear England's dislike of land, how much more she desires the ocean. It's far more likely of her to slither around the coast until she has an opportune moment to slip back to her no doubt waiting ship."

Spain took a deep breath, "And what exactly are you suggesting?"

France's sultry laugh curled into his mind, "Nothing darling. I suggest nothing, I simply exist to give what insight I can to glorious nations such as yourself."

And this is the exact moment Spain knew, with a doubt, that France was playing a game. France did not offer advice underscored with flattery unless he was after something. The fair haired nations were nothing if not cunning and devious, he thought with a surge of pain.

France took his sweet time feeding him information and arranging his feelings until Spain was fooled into making a move in France's favor, all the while truly thinking and believing it was best for his own interest.

And England…Dios Mios, Spain couldn't even begin to list the number of times that little island had played the fox with him. It was too painful to think about.

Sometimes, Spain swore he could feel his power slipping away. He shook off France's deceiving hands and looked out at the glorious sea stretched before him. No matter. It simply made him more determined to keep his position at the top.

"The ocean is beautiful, amigo." He commented carelessly, graciously accepting the ocean spray kisses on his heated face. "I cannot blame her for wanting to spend her days on it."

"Perhaps it would be better for all of us if she were to spend the rest of her days in it." France purred, coming up behind him again. Evidently, he could feel no shame and harbored no ill will, because he continued massaging Spain's tense muscles without a care in the world.

Spain laughed, happy to think of England at the bottom of the ocean where she so belonged. But wishing won't get him anywhere, he sternly reminded himself, and he needed to find her.

He sighed. It appeared even when he was aware of France's web he would walk right into it. But what else could he do? Look through the mountains? "Let's search the coast again." he said glumly, hyperaware of everything that could possibly go wrong. Spain growled to himself, he needed to put those thoughts from his mind and return to the powerful confidence of a top nation! This girl wouldn't beat him out in the end. He wouldn't allow it. "Go gather all my crew to search the sea edge again, except a small group to be sent to the mountains." He ordered in as strong of a voice as he could, "I won't leave my back completely undefended." For all Spain knew, the island was leading an army of mass proportions back to destroy him. Not that she could, he told himself fiercely.

"Of course, right away." France smiled as innocently as he could and left him. Spain looked at the ocean again, face twisting into disgust. Once upon a time, he thought it only shone for him. The ocean welcomed him in her arms, whispering declarations of love and devotion.

A shame that England seemed to hear the same whispers.

The water seemed more like a traitorous lover than anything now. Spain pulled himself together, turned to leave, and almost ran into France.

"I thought we could walk together. I've assigned the group to the mountains and the rest of the crew is assembling." He said, and Spain fell into step with him. "You are a good friend," Spain admitted reluctantly, "and I am thankful to have you as my ally."

"As I am to have you," France smiled. "I just wish I could erase that look on your face, I am unaccustomed to seeing you this way." "Well—" Spain was shushed immediately, France putting out a hand to stop him.

"Do you hire les femmes?" France asked breathlessly. "Of course not," Spain scoffed, looking at what France had stopped him to stare at. A young man dressed like all the others, covered in grime. He rolled his eyes, France would stop him to ask if some boy was female or not.

"Look, look!" France urged, "Do you see what I see?" Spain tried but all he saw was a dirty sailor following orders. "I do not think I am seeing whatever you are seeing." He answered doubtfully.

"¡Perdón!" France yelled, in Spanish oddly enough, startling Spain badly. The boy turned to face them and that's when France lunged, throwing himself at the young man. That's also when Spain realized that the little jolt of surprise he felt when France yelled was really no big deal compared to the near heart attack he had now.

France had just attacked one of his sailors! Spain started toward them to free the young man when he heard a sound that stopped his racing heart. "¡Socorro!" cried the young boy….in a surprisingly feminine voice.

So, he was really a she. Still, France had no right to attack one under Spain's control. He was too busy trying to understand the series of confusing events that had led him to this moment to hear the artificial Spanish tang in the girl's voice.

"France! Unhand her at once! You cannot attack my…." Spain trailed off, feeling the human part of him shrivel in fear when a pistol pointed itself between his eyes.

It wouldn't kill him, not permanently, but the idea of death was repulsive to every instinct he possessed nonetheless. "I suggest you have your crony unhand me at once," England proposed softly from under France's restraining arms. "before your pretty face is split in half."

France laughed as much as he could with such short breath, "You certainly have some nerve, chérie, you must know how entirely surrounded you are?" "Then let me go, Frog." She growled, "Since it is hopeless. It will be a cheerful game for you big strong men to let me believe I will escape while you lasso me in."

"It does sound like a beautiful game, though perhaps better suited to a bedroom." France purred, dragging his tongue along her neck with apparent relish. She sneered, breathless from her struggles, and cocked her gun, which, Spain did not fail to notice, had not wavered throughout this entire conversation.

"Make him release me now, Spain," She cautioned, "or feel the bite of my bullet. I can tell you from personal experience that it is not pleasant." Ah yes, Spain allowed his mind to wander for a moment, back to the particular victorious memory she was referencing.

A single shot and she had fallen, bloody and broken, back into the ocean where she belonged. It did indeed look painful and he had no desire to feel it. But he had made a conscious decision to act more like his old self. If he couldn't follow his own orders, how could he expect anyone else to?

"You make a valid point, England, however, I think I'll take my chances." He decided, lunging on her as well. She shrieked and pulled the trigger, missing Spain by a mere hair. He winced at the blast from her smoking gun and helped France curb her. England, leverage effectively gone, threw her head back and ignored the pain in favor of listening to the sweet crunch of the Frog's nose.

He yelled in pain, almost as loud as Spain when she clubbed him with the end of her pistol. She elbowed France desperately, hoping to loosen his hold. Goddamn, she thought, of course he would have a demon's grip! How else would he hold his nightly prey down?

Spain added to the squeeze around her, crushing her ribs far more than any corset had ever dared. She screamed into France's ear and latched onto his well bred cheekbones with her teeth, digging in as hard as she could. And then, suddenly, the pressure around her lessened.

Spain held fast, true, but France had gotten his priorities in order and was protecting his face against England's vengeful jaw. She kicked at Spain, aimed at hurting his ribs like he hurt hers and wheezed triumphantly when her heels connected solidly with his stomach. He let out a big gust of air and then, he too, let her go.

She had been waiting. The second Spain unclenched his fingers, she sprang up and sprinted through the gathering crew, ignoring the alarmed yells behind her as she dodged crew members, knocking over artifacts left and right.

There was a practiced ease to her sloppy run for the sea, this was not her first time nor would it be her last to make an escape such as this. Spain and France, however, were just as practiced at this point at chasing after England as she was at running away and were in hot pursuit.

England put her powerful legs to work and was far in front of them when she caught sight of the ocean and paused. She could still feel adrenaline rushing through her veins but it suddenly seemed unimportant in the face of the water. It had faded like the sound of shouting as you ran away. She was more captivated than she'd ever been by the waves. Walking slowly, she peered over the rock ledge. The ocean called to her powerfully.

She could hear Spain and France get closer, could sense with an animal instinct she'd never truly let go of that they were quickly gaining. Yet she couldn't tear herself away from the water.

It was lovely, she thought dazedly, so beautiful. So accepting and loving. France and Spain were roughly a second from the throwing themselves at England when a dark figure stepped in between them.

Had they been pressed, they would have realized that there were no trees around for this person to have stepped out of. Distracted as they were, they didn't notice anything suspicious about the figure other than its unfortunate blockage of England.

"Stop!" It ordered and, without meaning to, Spain and France stopping moving. They could tell by the voice that it was another woman. Where the hell were all these women coming from! England had not looked away from the ocean. She did not appear to notice anything happening around her.

"You shameful nations all battle with each other so much." The hooded woman grumbled. She had an accent. An accent from where, neither France nor Spain knew, but it was warm and crumbled together in an uncivilized way. It was from a savage land, that much was certain. "You must work together or you will fall." She warned.

France sneered at her, "I believe it is the other way around, madam." "You believe incorrectly." She snapped. "I know! I have seen it. It will happen."

Spain scoffed, "Nations cannot all work together. Especially not us." He gestured from himself and France to England. "The Fates will make you see their way." She smiled, teeth whiter than France expected for a savage. Or perhaps her teeth seemed so white in contrast to the shadow on her face.

"The Fates sound like Pagan Gods." Spain forced out between clenched teeth, "And as such cannot tamper with the lives of humans. Only the Almighty God may do that."

She waved her hand dismissively, "You may call them whatever you like. The fact remains, if you do not work together willingly, you will be compelled by them."

France opened his mouth to condemn her soul when a streak of light ran across the sky. The woman smiled at the beam, "Ah. They have spoken. It appears they wish to give you all you ever wanted." "What is that supposed to even mean?" France growled, fingers itching to be around England's neck.

England, who still hadn't turned from the blue. "Feel the power of the Fates rush through your immortal veins." The woman intoned, holding out her hands.

Spain then felt a very acute fear. Only a couple thousand years ago, his people had believed in such barbaric gods as well. He suddenly remembered how intensely he had believed in their power. "Put your hands down!" He ordered frantically. "Put them down right now! Stop!"

"Feel your every dream come true." Her voice rang darkly through the camp. "Stop!" Spain yelled. "Please!" France stood, staring at her with wide blue eyes. He hadn't seen Spain's faith waver in a very long time. France had always secretly thought he was a sinner; he enjoyed the perks of life too much for religion. Perhaps this was God's response to his loose life style? Light began to emerge from her outline. Soon, nothing but white filled their vision.

The ocean is so beautiful, England thought dreamily.