Hi all!

Thank you for your reviews. To answer the question posed by one reviewer, I am from the US. Born and raised. :)

Also, according to the internet (Yeah, I know), 'Dove' is a Russian endearment. I have no idea if that is true, but I am using it here.

I own nothing, this is to include characters that are the property of the creator of Hetalia. So. Yeah. Rated M.

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She was beginning to consider the idea that perhaps smiling at that dreadful beast the Netherlands, may have been an error. For, though she did not particularly want his presence about, it was still a sight better than being exiled into isolation on this undoubtedly plague-ridden vessel. That still felt as if it were being tossed about on the high seas! How he poor, dear, and beloved England could stomach such a terrifying ordeal America would never know.

However, it did all the more to uphold him in a place of honor in her heart. She would be far more gracious and forgiving now, when he was away for a prolonged period of time. How could she not? He had to endure all of this, just to see her. America was all the more humbled for the bit of experience she'd gained upon this ship from the bowels of the fiery inferno. Her heart still possessed a vast amount of affection for her sovereign nation.

So, for his sake and honor, she refused to fail him.

Yet, the Netherlands had not returned for several hours. America had busied herself in dutiful prayer to the heavenly lord for his grace, guidance, and blessings upon her people as well as England's. While kneeling to repent of her sins, the image of Belgium's face flashed across her thoughts, and though the other woman's people were heathens by comparison; America prayed for them too. However, she continued to place her faith in God and England.

Even though Belgium was the enemy, as was the Dutch nation, America knew that England would always choose the correct course of action. That thought she clung to tightly, and knew that what was to come from the successful completion of her mission would only do England proud. She rubbed her arms, feeling the chill in the confined and cramped quarters.

Salt was a precious commodity, and she had not often had much of it. Usually it was meant as a way to preserve meat against rot and weevils. The small insects and maggots that rotted food away. However, with every breath she could smell the salt air of the sea. When she had been permitted on the deck, it had clung to her hair and clothing. The salty spray that splashed up the sides as the sails filled with a good wind.

America was rather tired of the salt. It made her skin sting, and it forever felt as if she were crying when she licked her lips. Not her lips, but then again they were her lips, just transformed by England's holy ritual.

However, as sometimes happens when one has nothing to occupy their boredom, America had spent a few minutes going through Belgium's trunk. Perhaps, if she were lucky, there would be some sort of missive or information hat would allow her to return to England sooner. Yet, only the fine dresses, with silks and taffetas were present. America touched them reverently. They were so fine! So gorgeous, and America had never seen the like before.

Yes, England had brought her trinkets and baubles, but nothing like this. With a wistful expression, she gazed at the deep amber cloth. The wood groaned above her head, and she stilled. The colony was convinced that at any moment the whole of the ship would disintegrate and she would go tumbling into the sea. It had not occurred as of yet, but it might. With a slight look of disappointment, America settled the gown back in the trunk.

The possessions were not hers, and therefore, it would have been akin to the sin of stealing to take them.

She had just affixed the latch, when she was flung to the other end of the room. The loud splintering of large timbers sounded below her. America jolted at the way the ship pitched sharply. Her hands scrabbled for purchase as she shakily stood. Her heart thundered in her ears.

The shouts of men in a forgiven and throaty language were echoing all around.

"Piraten!"

America stumbled toward the door, and flung it open with ease. She peeked out to see that water men were running to the deck. Climbing up the ladders quickly, as another blow rocked the ship. What in the name of heaven's light was going on?

She grabbed the hem of her skirt in her hand and followed after them.

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"We worden aangevallen!"

Men shouted. America reeled out of the way as a man fell before her. His features were twisted in agony.

What... what was happening?

She spied The Netherlands at the other end, trying to hold back the attackers. Her heart leapt, and she hoped that he would be alright.

America, clad in the appearance of Belgium walked forward stiffly. Her eyes were wide and she was trembling, but she would not be deterred from putting an end to this ruckus. They had been attacked. She knew that much, though she did not know as to why or how. There were things England never spoke about, however, her people had called them... Pirates.

Dingy men, unwashed and foul smelling, were fighting with the Dutch soldiers. Crimson blood had been spilt upon the previously clean deck. America held in her urge to be sic, and though she felt light headed she swore to herself that she would not swoon.

"здравствуйте, где." A deep voice rumbled from behind her.

America turned, her eyes wide, as she backed away from the source of the strange language. The Netherlands with his Dutch had been hard enough, yet this man that towered over her with a roguish smirk and violet eyes, spoke in a language far too strange to identify.

His gaze seemed dangerous, the way his eyes glinted at her. America felt draw to the man, though he clearly was not someone to be kept in good company. It was on the tip of her tongue to say something. A warning for him to stay away.

However, to utter anything would only alert the Netherlands and give her away. That she was a British colony, and not a European nation. America swallowed back a scream as the unknown male, drew closer to her.

There was the strong scent of the sea and the bitter sting of alcohol that wafted around him. America tried to step back again, as the man stalked toward her. The lines of his body spoke of confidence and power.

He grabbed her wrists, and America let out a shout of distress. The Pirate seized her roughly and though she struggled, she could not break free of his hold. Without grace or delay, he hoisted her over his shoulder. Her eyes widened, as she realized that if she could not escape him, she would be taken by him. America thrashed and kicked wildly.

The giant brute only laughed deeply at her struggles. The sound was not unpleasant, but as a colony, she was keenly aware of why she could not break the hold of this human. The pirate was not human. His ashen blonde hair and violet eyes were striking, even despite the unpleasant fragrance of sea and alcohol.

America tried to bite him, attacking the only area she could get to. His cotton shirt did not provide enough protection from her sharp teeth. England would be horrified if he saw her attacking someone with her teeth. For a single heartbeat she worried that the influence of the Netherlands had already rubbed off on her.

However, the thought died swiftly, as the male growled something, before giving her bottom a heavy smack.

"немного вредителями," the nation said and gave her another swat to her bottom.

She needed assistance! What the blazes did the men call him? What had they called him? Neder...

"Nederland!" America screamed in outrage.

Her cry was heard by the very heathen she was sent to garner information on.

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A woman screamed his name. The Netherlands turned and he knew instantly that it had been Belgium who had called for him. The first word she had uttered since he'd found her and it was his name.

Green eyes narrowed harshly.

Russia.

That bastard. He was supposed to be helping them. That is what the Netherlands had agreed upon. However, it seemed he had been double crossed. His green gaze narrowed at the sight of Belgium slung over his shoulder.

Cold fury etched into his very heart at the sight of his sister nation trying to break free, but being unable to do so. She was still weakened from that Bastard England. Blood trickled from his hand, not his own, as he moved around those that continued to fight against the pirates. The groans and gasps of dying men filled the air, but the Netherlands would not be dettered.

He had to get to Belgium.

He had already come to her rescue once, but part of him felt even more compelled to get to her. There was real terror in the scream she released that pierced the Netherlands to the core.

"Belgium!" He bellowed.

Russia gave him a mocking salute. The Netherlands barely had time to leap out of the way, as a cannon ball hurtled toward the very spot he had been occupying. Distracted by the choas and the damage to the ship, the Netherlands was unable to stop the larger nation from absconding with Belgium.

Her wide eyes haunted the Netherlands, as he was forced to watch her go. Her hand out stretched toward him, as if she was pleading with him to save her.

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The pirate did not put her down until he had managed to get her into his cabin. She raised cane the whole way there. Her screams were nothing short of blood curdling. Even as he kicked the door closed and set her feet upon the ground.

America glanced around for a few moments, taking in where she was. A bed was in the corner, by the window. A chest sat innocently upon the floor. There was a desk piled with papers and some strange sailing equipment that she had glimpsed on the Dutch vessel.

She kicked him soundly in the shin, which did not bother the giant at all.

America was out of breath, her face was flushed, and her hair was mussed. Her eyes blazed fire, though they were green instead of their normal blue. Yet, the unknown pirate male nation loomed closer to her.

"You have pretty eyes," He said with a sultry grin that was bordering upon condescending.

She was about to retort, words filled to the brim with spite and venom, when she realized that he had spoken English. Accented, to be certain, but English all the same.

Her gaze widened, and America strove for a breath. She had to remain calm. He could not have figured her out. She stared at him stonily, trying to figure a way out of this terrible predicament.

With a steel resolve, she did not flinch away when his hand brushed across the skin of her cheek. His violet eyes still seemed dangerous and she felt a distinct uncomfortable sensation settle in her chest.

"England had mentioned as much, but I had not believed him."

America's lips parted in a silent gasp as she could not comprehend what she was hearing. England? He knew England? Her sovereign nation? Had he been sent to help her? Was such a thing possible?

She flushed slightly as she registered that England had told this man that she had 'pretty' eyes.

"You..." America said, her first English words since becoming Belgium, "you are acquainted with England?"

He threw back his head and laughed.

"Acquainted? You could say as much." There was a sinister curve to his lips as his face drew closer toward hers. "He wanted to be certain that his... transformation... was holding fast."

America nodded thoughtfully.

"Pray tell good Sir, who are you?" She asked with a reserved politeness.

He flashed teeth then, straight and white, and his violet eyes swirled with heavy amusement. He inclined his head, still smiling.

"Russia."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance," America responded demurely, curtseying deeply, as England had always taught her to do in the presence of her betters. Her betters being nations, specifically those England associated with.

He chuckled deeply, and America had no idea what the source of his merriment was.

"Now tell me... Amerika," he said sensually, as if testing her name on his tongue. "Have you been discovered?"

She shook her head to the negative, as she straightened. Something flickered across his eyes, and the dying sunlight painted him in a mysterious light.

"Excellent."

"Are you returning me to England?" She questioned, very hopeful. Was her ordeal already over? Had England, in his brilliance, discovered another way to win?

"You are that eager to return?" He deflected, not properly answering her question.

America blinked, as if he did not possess the wits to understand even the very simple.

"He is my sovereign nation," she replied with conviction, "of course I wish to return to his side with all possible haste."

Russia's eyes became half-hooded as he stared at her. Silence pressed between the pair, and America would have believed that he was contemplating one of life's great mysteries.

"Are you returning me to England?"

"No," Russia said slowly. "I was only sent to check upon you. And to make a decision."

America was nearly bursting with pride and happiness, that England cared about her so greatly. She smiled brightly, and clearly she was a bit sad that she would not be returning as of yet.

"I think I know what my answer will be now," the Pirate nation half-muttered as he watched America.

The colony could only wonder what sort of intrigue England was getting into with this nation, and she knew she would need to pray for him again tonight.

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Translations.

Piraten: Pirates

We worden aangevallen: We are under attack!

здравствуйте, где : (Formal) Hello, dove.

немного вредителями : Little Pest