A/N: It's finally doooone! I'm really sorry for the late update. -cries- This took forever. Anyways, I'd like to thank everyone who gave me feedback ;-; They helped me a lot~

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England thought back to what had happened two days earlier during his interrogation of the man. All the threats, the severe torture… No amount of either seemed to be enough to get Spain to open his mouth. With his broken pride and shattered hopes that day, England had at least thought he learned a thing or two about the Spaniard. But for Spain to simply put his gold all at stake without even batting an eye, meant that he probably didn't value it as much as England had assumed. But that thought alone was absurd. For the very empire that was built upon circumnavigating the globe in search of gold just to give it all the way like that, didn't make any sense.

'Is he that confident he's going to win? That bloody idiot! Nevertheless. He might be willing to sacrifice his wealth, but something tells me… he wouldn't be so willing to gamble with his pride.'

England smirked as he looked at Spain's horrified expression, watching as the other slowly got to his feet.

'After all, what kind of captain, what kind of man… what kind of NATION in his right mind would risk himself for the sake of a handful of humans?'

England furrowed his brow and leaned closer, his lips drawing in a sharp breath. His eyes met the other's cool, composed gaze as a shiver shot up his spine.

"Si. I accept your challenge, Arthur."

Spain's expression was that of utter seriousness, his voice cold and smooth; rolling from his tongue like ice.

"If I win, you let my men go back to Espana; unharmed and on a boat with supplies to last them for the journey. And if you win…" Spain nearly choked on his words, but he managed to get them out without once tearing his gaze from the flecked green orbs that looked at him with utter contempt.

"My— my body is all yours for the taking."

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Things weren't going according to plan.

Nope, no not at all. Not for the Brit. The fact that things weren't going according to what he'd thought, England was—simply put, at a loss. He had brought Spain there and challenged him simply to prove a point. But with that quick turn of events, he felt like a fool more than anything.

'Hasn't he lost enough of his dignity already?'

In truth, England had no interest in challenging Spain in the state he was in at all. What fun was it to duel an injured bloody mess, anyway? He was the Arthur Kirkland, the man who had turned his nation singlehandedly into the empire that it was. He wasn't a coward. He wouldn't purposely engage Spain, or anyone for that matter after having tortured and beaten him up just prior. Not for the simple sake of his gold or defiling him in front of his people (as much as he would enjoy every minute of it), but no!

One look at the Spaniard and you could tell how much of a handicap he was in. There was obviously no way he could win a fight, or at least—that's what England reassured himself.

"So, what will it be, Arthur? Will you lend me a sword, or do I have to get one from my own cabin? I wouldn't be surprised if you've taken them all, already." Spain smiled as he looked straight into England's eyes, trying to prepare himself for the duel. His entire back throbbed, and his body felt worn; but he wasn't just about to give England the satisfaction of having him surrender. Especially not when it was the lives of the men he held most dear were at stake.

England looked around as he was met with expecting stares, all of them waiting for his next move.

'Bastard.'

He had no choice but to push through with the duel, despite the sudden surge of fear and discomfort that washed through him. He had no one to blame for this predicament, but himself.

'Unbelievable. What does he have left? I'd taken his clothes, and given him rags. I'd taken away his cross and given him a collar to wear, demeaning him in front of his own men. I'd conquered his ships and sent them to Davy Jones' locker, or God knows where! After all that, he still hasn't fallen. Where does this man draw his strength? The sun?!'

Without a word, England walked over to two of his men, taking identical swords. He threw one at Spain, which the other quickly caught. "We'll be using the same kind of weapon. Fair enough, Antonio?" He raised an eyebrow and swished his sword in the air, practicing his swing. His crew quickly cleared the area, bringing along Spain's men further to the edge of the ship. He turned his head up— his eyes cast upon the thick, layered clouds that darkened the sky overhead.

'That's impossible. The sun barely shines here, at all.'

England took a deep breath and stood before the Spaniard, planting his feet firmly on the ground. The chill breeze caused his fingers to tremble slightly as he strengthened his grip around the sword's hilt.

Meanwhile, Spain took his own fighting stance as he studied the make and the edge of his blade. He saw his own reflection for the first time against the shiny surface, noticing the bruises and cuts that littered his olive skin.

Instead of being disheartened, he smiled.

'As long as Romano will still be able to recognize me when I get home, I'll be fine.'

He swished the sword around, taking note of the weapon's balance. It was a crude English sabre, but he didn't complain. After all, it wasn't the weapon that made the swordsman, but the other way around.

"En guardia."

All was quiet on deck, save for the howling of the sea breeze and the swishing of the sails overhead. Breaths were held in utter silence, waiting until one of the two made a move. Spain pointed his blade up to England, keeping his gaze locked onto the other's own eyes, when—

"Capitán!"

The stillness was broken with a single cry that rang through the entire deck, coming from among Spain's men. All eyes darted to the edge of the ship where one of the bound Spaniards wriggled his way to the front lines in a desperate attempt to talk to his master.

"Capitán Por favor, detente. No hagas esto!" (Capitan! Please, stop. Don't do this!)

Spain slowly lowered his weapon as he opened his mouth to speak.

"Si? Todos ustedes se queden atrás y ver. Deja que yo me ocupe de esto. Por favor." (Yes? All of you just stand back and watch. Let me handle this. Please.) He twisted the sword in his palms, trying to reaffirm his resolve. It weighed heavy on his heart looking his men bound and on their knees, all awaiting their fate. After all, if he failed—their lives would be the ones compromised.

- "No, por favor, capitán. No hagas esto. Nosotros preferimos morir, lo que ven en las manos de ese hijo de puta." (No, please captain. Don't do this. We would rather die, than see you in the hands of that bastard.)

- "Si, el capitán no es necesario!" (Yes captain, there is no need!)

- "Capitán, por favor no me hagas esto! No dejes que se salga con lo que quiere!" (Captain, please don't do this! Don't let him get away with what he wants!)

A chorus of voices rang from Spain's detained men, and he looked up at England asking him to spare him a moment. He walked over to his crew and crouched down, meeting them all eye-to-eye.

"Mi hermanos, por favor... (My brothers, please…)" Spain cleared his throat to keep his voice from breaking. It wasn't easy, but he knew he had to put up a brave face for the rest of them. He smiled warmly—his chapped and bruised lips curving the way it always did, like nothing was the matter. "You have fought bravely for me upon this ship. Now please, let me fight for you in the same manner. The least you can do now is have faith in me. That is all I ask."

"Pero el capitán—"

"Shh. I will hear no more. I do not want to hear anything from any of you unless it's to cheer us on, ok? Viva Espana, mi hombres. Viva El Cristo Rey. (Long live Spain, long live Jesus Christ.)" He chuckled slightly and reached out to one of his men, taking the cross around his neck into the palm of his hand. He kissed it tenderly and let it slip through his fingers before he straightened up, looking at his adversary with a renewed fervor.

England watched the entire thing with a scowl on his face, fighting the urge to launch an underhanded attack on the Spaniard.

"Are you quite done yet, Antonio? My patience is dwindling by the minute. Make me wait any more and I'll kill your men, one by one." The Brit spoke through gritted teeth and shifted his gaze from Spain and his men, as a dull ache blossomed beneath his own chest.

'I don't understand.'

Though he could not comprehend most of the Spanish, no language was needed to be able to tell the closeness between Spain and his men. The soft-spoken words, the gentle gestures… It was something he couldn't say he shared with his own crew—even before they had to go out and declare war on Spain's armada. How Spain could be so personal and gentle to them, and still have their respect was beyond him. Seeing it before his eyes was irritating, to say the least.

"My apologies. I am ready when you are."

"About bloody time. And perhaps I should make a new rule forbidding anyone from speaking anything but English on this ship. It's incredibly rude."

"My men will speak whatever they want. This ship belongs to Espana, and it will remain that way."

"Well, this is practically bathed in your men's blood. Is that your definition of ownership, …'tonio?"

With that last statement, both men touched swords—signaling for the duel to finally commence. All but immediately, England launched into an offensive maneuver, in the hopes of catching his opponent off guard.

Spain countered the attack with a defensive technique, parrying skillfully as their blades became a flurry of silver. For one reason or another, he was thrilled—almost to the point that the sensation of pain had escaped him. It had been long since he'd found an opponent with such a strong offensive, taking all his defensive attacks in perfect stride. The sound of the ringing metal was music to his ears, and he danced to it with every step and every swing of his sword. He carefully studied the way England's body moved and the techniques he used, as he himself retreated backwards into the foremast.

England smirked as he watched the wooden beam slowly close in on both of them. He didn't know whether or not Spain noticed that he had purposely led him there to corner him against the railings. He was anxious to see how well Spain would be able to counter his attacks when quarters were close, and there was not enough space to parry, nor thrust in complete freedom.

He continued to force Spain towards the foremast until the other was only a few feet from hitting the wood. The other's technique remained constant—a steady solid defense, despite being slowly denied of space. England's eyes closely watched Spain's footwork for any signs of panic to change direction; and he waited for the perfect moment to make his next move. He lunged at Spain with full force, aiming his sword at his opponent's side.

Thock!

The tip of England's sword dug into the wood, but not without grazing Spain with its cutting edge. A thin line of blood was visible on the sleeve of Spain's upper arm, and the Spaniard's face twisted slightly from the pain.

England grunted and wrenched his sword free from the wood, watching as the crimson liquid slid down its shiny surface; dripping down onto the floorboard.

'First blood.'

England smirked and followed up with quick, small movements to prevent Spain from recovering from the hit.

"Is that all you've got, Antonio? I'm sure by now you know that y-you're a fool to oppose me."

"…"

"And all for what? Them?"

England laughed as he jerked his head towards the direction of Spain's men, without once taking his eyes off his opponent.

Spain let England advance as he waited for the right moment to switch techniques. The sword felt heavier in his wounded arm, but he paid it no mind. All he kept his mind on was finishing the duel as soon as possible, because he wasn't too sure how long he would be able to hold out.

Heh. I know what you're trying to bloody fucking do. England sensed the shift in the other's movements though subtle that it was, alerting him of the other's plan. He used that split-second in Spain's shift from defensive to attack as an opening, quickly aiming to hit the Spaniard's shoulder.

To his dismay and shock, Spain blocked it without even flinching. England drew his blade back and repeated the attack, only to be intercepted once again. Nothing seemed to work.

'El Diablo moves fast.' Spain quickly stepped to the side and crouched down, raising his own weapon up. The two blades clashed forcefully as he pushed with all his might, throwing England off-balance. He then swiftly drew his sword back and swung down at England's legs, sweeping him off his feet.

'But clearly, not fast enough.'

"Nggh!" A sharp pain rippled through England's leg, causing him to lose his footing. Spain's sword sliced clean through his skin—blood quickly spurting from the laceration. 'The bastard fucking got me'! England bit his lip as he felt the warm liquid trickle down his calf, staining the cuff of his trousers a deep, rusty red hue.

It had been the first he had witnessed the sight of his own blood in a long while, and for a moment, he just looked at it in disbelief. After all, nothing made him feel more human than bleeding straight from his own veins.

Spain didn't waste any moment and swung down again, this time barely missing England's other leg. The Brit moved away and met Spain's blade with his own, before moving backwards to regain his momentum. The pain in his leg caused him to move clumsily, and before he knew it, he found himself at the receiving end of an assault.

The turn in the tide came all too suddenly for England. Spain's attacks came one after the other with frightening intensity and speed, leaving England frantically trying to block or counter them. He was barely able to keep up as Spain's blade swished through the air again and again, forcing him to retreat. England checked a couple of blows before falling back a couple of steps, nearly tripping over his own boots. Another exchange of blows, and he fell back again. Despite his efforts, he couldn't seem to get past Spain's impermeable technique—and slowly he had begun to walk backwards towards the edge of his ship.

'This can't be.' England took a moment to look back and see just how far he was from falling straight into the water. The sound of the crashing waves got louder and louder, and all of a sudden, a sense of urgency took over his entire being.

'I'm going to be made to walk the plank on my own bloody ship!'

The threat of falling to his death was as real as could be, and the fierce determination in Spain's eyes told England that he wasn't going to be allowed an easy escape. He had to put in all his efforts if he wanted to at least get himself out of the obvious danger. If he were cornered around the bend with nothing but the ocean beneath him, he'd be forced to surrender—something that was clearly not an option. He'd thought that he would much rather die than to ever surrender to his own prisoner, but the closer he got to the brink, the more he seemed to value his own life. But of course, he couldn't let Spain know that.

"'tonio, it must be exciting what you do, right?" England struggled to talk as he continued to push the Spaniard back, parrying against his blows. "You travel around the globe; looting smaller countries of all their gold and s-simply taking them as your own…"

Again and again Spain's blade came down on England's mercilessly, and again and again England retaliated, trying to change their course of direction. Despite all that, however, he was still being slowly forced backwards onto the very edge. It puzzled England because there didn't seem to be much force in the blows, and yet he was being pushed back quite easily. There he was, close to tiring out from simply meeting the other's steel with his own but Spain looked like he was just sparring. His entire body moved effortlessly and flawlessly as if it were something he'd choreographed and practiced countless times before.

With such pure speed and technique, all England could do, really was to step back and fend them off mindlessly. He knew that he wasn't going to get through to Spain with his sword at that rate, and he was going to die before he could find a way to best him. If he had any chance of winning he was going to have to be creative.

"It's not as despicable as how you put it." Spain replied, a bit irritated at the way England had described his conquests. It was never as simple as that, and he never simply "took" from the countries that had become his colony. He made sure to take care of them, and teach them all he knew to help them grow and prosper as a nation. They became a part of him.

"That's not what I heard. As a matter of fact, I wanted to take pointers—"

"If I am not mistaken, Arthur, you are using all this talk to distract me." Spain gritted his teeth as he continued the attack. The edge of the ship was close and he knew that if he could force England to it, he would surrender. However, it was undeniable that the fight was already taking a toll on his body. He felt the beginnings of exhaustion and the pain caused by the all the damage he had endured wearing him down. If he was going to end it, he had to make it quick.

"Of course not. When I beat you—and I will beat you, isn't it ironic that I'll be doing what you've been doing all this time?" England sensed Spain's face twitch and his attacks become more barbaric. The holes in Spain's technique were now more evident, as his movements became less precise. England mused that all it would take was a little more taunting to get his enemy to lose control and then finally, he would have the upper hand.

"You make them bow down to you and then you fuck them from behind…"

"…"

"Isn't that how you've earned your name… el conquistador?"

"You bastard!"

Spain had had enough. His entire body shook with rage as he went after England one swing after another, setting aside all his calculated maneuvers and techniques. It had come to the point wherein he actually wanted the hijo de puta dead as soon as possible—or at least, take with him an eye, or an entire limb. But little did he know that his opponent was a master of brutish combat. With a few more exchanges, Spain's leg bled, and then his side. Through his rage he was unable to feel them—as all he was set on was taking down the British demon.

"Don't… Compare me… to you."

"Heh." England narrowed his eyes and countered the blows more easily, taking minor damage. The strong, unrefined attacks were something he found easier to handle; and all it took was pushing a few of the Spaniard's buttons. But he wasn't stopping there.

"And— a-and that annoying little Italian you're so fond of Antonio, why do you even keep him?"

The two sabres met forcefully as either man pushed with all his might. Their faces were mere inches from each other, eyes staring each into each other's oblivion. Spain winced at the mention of the Italian, and England's lips curved into a smirk murmuring under his breath.

"Tell me… is he any good?"

A deadly rage colored Spain's expression as he drew his sword back as far as his arm would allow him. A loud scream escaped his throat as he hacked violently, sending his blade down at England. The Brit was prepared and quickly shielded himself—but the force was so strong that his blade shattered on contact. The shiny metal burst into tiny little pieces in the air, exploding like glitter sprinkled upon the unpolished wood. England's emerald-green eyes opened wide in shock and utter terror. Without a weapon he had no way to win.

Before Spain could attack, he stepped back and raised his leg, quickly whirling to knock the weapon out of Spain's grip.

CLINK!

The sword flew from Spain's hand to a couple of meters behind him, back at the center of the deck. Instead of immediately running after the weapon, Spain drew his fist and punched England squarely in the face. The sound of England's nose breaking underneath his knuckles was the most satisfying thing he'd heard all day, and he watched as the other captain fell back—the Brit's face bloodied almost immediately.

"AUGGHHH—!"

England screamed in agony as he felt the cartilage in his nose smash against his face, the pain sharp and excruciating. Blood gushed from his nostrils, and his eyes burned with tears of pain and rage. He watched the Spaniard turn to retrieve the weapon, as he got to his knees. There was no time to spare.

The Brit didn't take the time to compose himself and quickly lunged himself at the Spaniard. He grabbed a hold of the other's leg, dragging him down to the floor. England crawled on top of his opponent and landed a punch, only for Spain to quickly roll him over in a reversal.

"Get off me you bloody git!" England screamed as he pulled Spain by the collar and kneed him hard in the gut, causing the other to roll over to the side. Spain clutched his stomach as he fell from on top of England, reeling from the pain.

England took the chance and scrambled to his feet, hastily heading for the weapon. It was right there in front of him; only a couple of steps away when he was tackled from the side, his shoulder hitting the wood with a loud thud. "Don't you dare talk about Romano… that way…" Spain was now panting hard, his lungs burning in exhaustion. He dragged himself to the weapon when the Brit reached up and pulled him down again.

The two men struggled against each other for what seemed like hours. They exchanged punches, pushing and pulling each other; desperately trying to get at the sword first. Both men were injured and exhausted as they poured their remaining strength to what seemed like a fistfight to the death.

The match ended when finally, one of them managed to wrap his fingers around the handle—quickly getting to his feet and pointing the sharp tip at his opponent's neck.

"Like I said earlier, you were a fool to oppose me, Antonio." England dragged Spain from the ground by the hair, smiling triumphantly as he threw the sword to the ground. "But I'm sure you already knew that."

England tossed the Spaniard to his men, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve.

"Tie the bastard up.

A/N: And, that's it! Were you guys satisfied with the result of the fight? :D Again I'm really really sorry for the late update, it's just that I'd never written a sword fight scene before and I literally spent days and nights just trying to write and rewrite this. Please tell me what you think, ok? :3 and I'll try to get one out as soon as possible. xD

CREDITS: I would never have done this without inspiration from George R.R. Martin, William Goldman, and David Gemmel. They've written some of the greatest action scenes ever, and reading them really helped me with this. Also, I would like to thank my brother, who isn't a yaoi fan but whom I'd managed to read all the drafts I'd written for this entire chapter. Ehehe. And of course to all of you who waited for this after 3 whole months -hangs head in shame-