Title: Cannon's Call

Author: Eveliens

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't Hetalia. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only.

Warnings: yaoi, lime-ishy-lemonishy, AU, um, possibly shoutaesque? Not beta-ed because my beta was eaten by malnourished polar bears or something. The other beta drove me off with excessive whining about college apps. And the third... is lazy or not interested.

A/N: A fic for the wonderful reviewer Inuyoukai-san. The original request being: AU, Pirate!UkxCanada. This is set back when America and Canada were still colonies, but the vikings actually settled Canada long before France or England came along. So Canada is actually older than America and a land of Sweden's. There is no real historical time line for this fic, as it was written without internet resources.

Canada stared ahead across the chilly sea. His spirit animal, a pure white bear with a black nose and eyes, sat silently at his side. Neither of them seemed to notice the cold night or the way their breath frosted in the air.

He wasn't nervous. He wasn't upset. He wasn't excited.

He simply was ready to embark at dawn.

This trip held no joy for him. He truly had no wish to visit his father's home so far away across the sea. He'd rather stay with his father's people, who had become one with his own, rather than dabble in the politics and intrigues of those nations that existed in Europe.

He knew of them of course. Some he had met, some he had only been told about. While he adored and looked up to his father, he thought little of the way Europeans acted. If you wanted land, simply take it. Or barter for it. The convoluted mind games and ploys he observed between his father and the other Europeans bored him. And he had no desire for more land in any case nor did he wish for a captor or owner.

His father had been to his land first in any case.

And his father had driven off the other European settlers and explorers with relative ease. And he had brought many new and interesting items and ideas for Canada to see and use. There was certainly enough land to support Canada's native population and his father's settlers, and the settlers had long since made permanent homesteads after decades of occupation.

It was a profitable arrangement.

His father was kind and fair. His people did not abuse the land or slaughter Canada's people. He was not an affectionate sort of man, but Canada could feel his pride and acceptance in the few words that he spoke. He raised Canada with a firm hand that was neither too harsh nor too lenient, punishing him when he must and rewarding him when he did well.

It was a stable relationship.

And Canada did not envy his Southern neighbor. America was also a young nation the same age as Canada, although he seemed to have grown slower and was smaller than Canada. They spoke in passing at the borders of the lands, especially as children, but less so now that they were older. America's older brother was, in Canada's opinion, unpleasant, so he rarely strayed so close as to be spotted. He was more than content to occasionally peek over the invisible border that separated their lands to keep up to date on his neighbor's developments.

He had seen England a few times and found the man to be abrasive and arrogant. He spoke too often about proper manners and too little about things that were truly important. It was no wonder his first few settlements failed so miserably. If young America had not taken pity on him, then England might have given up and gone away.

Canada wondered if America wished he had.

As a child he had looked exceedingly pleased to have his own 'father.' But as he grew older, and he grew at an alarming rate in Canada's mind, and England grew more restrictive, America started looking unhappy. Canada wondered if he wished he had chosen the tanned man with the smiles to the south for his older brother. Or the other nation with the blue eyes and wavy hair. There were many greedy Europeans who wish for coveted lands within America and Canada's territories.

And this was part of the reason he must visit his father and endure the company of the European nations instead of staying in his lands. Although it was a known that he was not a free land, that he had a master, it was a matter of power and allegiance. Canada had been adamant that he would accept no other filthy European on his lands, but his father said that would not matter. At the moment, his father held a lot of sway over a good portion of this faraway land he came from, but tides and power both shifted with time.

This trip was to solidify before the other nations what he and his father already knew: he would never belong to another. He would serve his father as a good son or he would stand independent, but he would never be the slave that America was. He would fight to ensure his freedom because the blood of the people that gave him life demanded no less.

His was a land of warriors.

And it had been a long time since he had seen his father. He must have grown at least a quarter of a meter in his absence. Of course, he would never be as tall as his father was, and by nation's standards, he was still quite young. But by human standards, he was a man. And that was enough for him.

He spoke softly to the bear. It turned its head to look at him and made a small noise of acquiesce back. He knew he could not take the bear with him, but he wished that he did not have to leave the animal behind. They were rarely separated and the bear seemed to grow with him. As long as there had been Canada there had been his bear; as baby and cub to young man to young bear. It was impossible to separate their two souls, and he hoped there never would be because the bear was the one thing in the world he held closer and cherished more than his father.

Canada got up and shook off the clinging snow with a practiced motion. His footsteps crunched over the thin crust of ice over the snow. It was the best kind of weather in his opinion. It was cold and crisp. Even the wolves seemed to agree as they howled around him. He caught a few glimpses of the local pack running effortlessly over the snow and flitting through the woods wildly with joyful abandonment.

A small, content smile tugged at his lips and momentarily he forgot his displeasure with the future. Wolves knew little of the futures. They didn't ponder what the next day would bring, if they would have to go far from home. Instead, they enjoyed good weather as it came, playing and hunting, and endured the bad with heads down and backs up.

Canada resolved that he should do the same.

He would simply board the ship tomorrow and take each day as it came for it was no use trying to change things with his thoughts. He would be on a ship to Europe, whether he wanted to or not, and he merely had to endure it.

Canada finished his carving with a single, masterful stroke and set the ivory down gently. It had taken him most of the voyage to create the delicate, intricate story that wove across the ivory in great detail, and he did not want to damage it on accident. It was a present for his father when they met again.

The captain had assured him that they were within a few weeks of their destination. The trip had been blessed. The seas had been calm and the winds had been in their favor. They were making almost unheard of time, and Canada was glad for it. His father was an excellent sailor, as were his men, but Canada preferred to foray into the sea only for hunting or fishing. The long voyage made him antsy and while he had been too shy to speak the first month, he eventually asked for tasks to keep his hands busy.

Over time he grew more comfortable with the ship and crew and started to enjoy their interactions. He learned more than he expected and couldn't wait to speak to his father about what he learned and impress him.

Two more weeks. Maybe three if storms rolled in.

Canada was content for the rest of the afternoon until he sensed the crew's uneasiness. They bustled purposefully, but there was a tension in the air, and Canada didn't know enough to understand it. When he asked he was ignored. Eventually he decided it was best to remain invisible and stay out of the way.

Approximately a candlemark later, as dusk painted the sky, he understood their urgency. Black storm clouds rolled in from the north, angry and furious. A sharp wind churned the waves and rocked the ship violently. Canada made sure to anchor himself with some ropes but made no move to leave the deck. He enjoyed storms and he could feel excitement stirring in him as he watched the lightning arc across the velvet purple sky.

As the storm became more violent and the ship rolled further and further to the side, Canada realized that this could be disastrous. If the ship capsized, he would no crew, no guide, and no direction. Surely all the men would drown in the frothing, uncompromising seas below. As a nation, he had no fear of dying. It would be an unpleasant experience, but he would survive even with lungs full of water and a body numb with cold.

Unfortunately, he could not control nature; it was foolish to think a mere nation could control a storm. Nor could he keep the boat even keeled and steady. He could only hope that the storm passed quickly with the less amount of damage possible. A leaky ship was still better than one at the bottom of the ocean.

After a long time of thrashing and fighting, the storm seemed to be abating. Canada carefully unlashed himself, noticing several of the crew doing the same, and he looked for the captain. He had only cross half of the deck when a loud snap sounded behind him. It ran out like a gunshot, sharp and angry, across the ship, and he turned to see the mast falling like a rotten old oak. He tried to run, but there was nowhere to escape.

"Where in bloody blazes are we?" a voice snarled somewhere to the side of Canada.

He slowly blinked, lamplight flooding his vision, and winced. His whole body screamed in pain. He tried to sit up and bit back a gasp at the lightening hot flash of pain that tore through his chest. He waited for his seized muscles to relax and the pain to recede. He had several broken ribs and possibly a broken collar bone but his spine seemed intact. Even as a nation it would be hard to recover from a severed spine.

Gingerly, he tried to turn his head towards the source of the voice. He hadn't understood most of the words, although the speaker sounded angry. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a man dressed in rich cloth and a three point hat shouting at an apologetic looking man.

"Leave! Do not disturb me. I shall deduce where we are; we are much too far off course due to that storm!"

Again, Canada only understood a few words, but he heard enough to realize the man was speaking English. Canada knew only a smattering of words in English from America. The language was similar to his father's language, but of course, the words were different.

The man paced, his black leather boots clicking impatiently against the wooden floor. He was muttering under his breath and occasionally pausing to lean over a table. His fingers traced against the top of it and Canada assumed there was a map on the surface that he was consulting.

After watching the man for a few moments longer, Canada took stock of his situation. His body was wrapped in blankets and there was a bed of some sort beneath him. It wasn't particularly soft or smooth, but Canada assumed it was an improvement over the floor. The air was heavy with the sickly sweet scent of smoke and the area was almost too warm and stuffy. The walls were plan, but they were obviously well made; the work of a master craftsmen. There was not much else in the room besides where he lay, the man, a chest to the side, and the table. There didn't need to be, he supposed.

"Who are you?"

Canada's eyes snapped towards the man. He was still bent over his map. Canada stared, waiting to see if his savior spoke again.

"What country are you?"

Canada tried his voice and found it to be passable. His throat was scratchy and raw from sea water and salt and his lips were crusted together. After working his tongue free, he responded in the language of nations.

"I do not understand English."

The man strode over and loomed over Canada. Canada peered nervously in his face. Bright green eyes flashed with a dangerous temper and overly large eyebrows were furrowed in a furious scowl. He immediately recognized him despite having never met face-to-face. It was the personification of the nation of England.

Canada's eyes wandered down England; now that he was up close he was fascinated to see another nation. England was much different than his father. Although they both had light hair, England's was shaggy and darker. His eyes were emerald green and his nose was slightly flattened instead of sharp and defined. His body was lean with muscles and he was perhaps Canada's height but his frame was sturdier. Overall, physically, he seemed ordinary. But Canada could sense his impatience and ferocity and arrogance. His was the sort of personality that demanded the best, not only from himself, but from all others as well. He was relentless and remorseless and ambitious.

England's sharp eyes raked over Canada in return and his mouth pinched further before he sneered in distaste.

"Of course a barbarian would not know English. I hardly expect such." His voice was scornful and he almost looked vaguely bored with the exchange. "Who are you? Judging by your size, you are a colony. Are you once of France's little slaves?"

Canada shook his head.

"Well, I suppose the resemblance is fleeting at best in any case. It is for the better. If you had replied to me in that vile frog's tongue, I would have to throw you back into the sea. It is best to dispose of trash as quickly as possible." England clucked his tongue and added, "Spain's spawn then? I know he owns the land beneath my little America."

Canada shook his head again. Was Spain the one with the carefree smiles and the bloody axe or the man that enjoyed beauty and trade?

"Not Spain then? I don't suppose you belong to Russia."

England scrutinized him closer.

"No, I suppose not. Well, lad, tell me. I despise guessing games, and you are under my hospitality until we return to England. You will want to encourage my good humor." His voice was warmer now that he established that Canada did not belong to France or Spain.

"Sverige." Canada responded simply watching England's face.

The other nation's smirk turned into a frown. He glared at Canada and readjusted his fancy collar in thought.

"Sweden? I do not recall that he possessed colonies. I believe him to be too busy terrorizing the north and Denmark to have time to lay claim to far off lands." England clicked his tongue again in amusement and his smirk was back, "Oh, what a great prize the sea has given me. You, lad, are the best treasure this pirate could ask for."

Canada had broken five ribs and dislocated his shoulder as well as fractured his right arm. But his homeland was in good shape, so he was healing rapidly and well. It didn't take long for him to leave the bed. He felt uncomfortable being in such a vulnerable position. He had seen the calculating looks England gave him every so often.

As a nation he was a boy, but as a human he was a man, and as a man, he understood that kind look quite well. It frightened him, not because he was unwilling but because he had sworn he would never give his land away to another. And he was certain that if he gave into the promising looks, he would be in a position of helplessness.

So instead he did his best to concentrate on healing, watching his host only when England was unaware. Watching the way his lean body fit perfectly in his rich tailor clothes and his pants hugged the back of him. Red suited him, Canada thought with appreciation. It matched his temper and his brilliance and complimented his eyes perfectly. He was a kaleidoscope of gold, crimson, and emerald. Watching him snap and command with assurance and arrogance that fit him like a second skin. Canada could tell his men respected and feared him.

But he truly didn't appreciate England as he should have until the seventh day.

England's ship was definitely that of a pirate. It was sleek and large, built with the purpose of carrying heavy loads and taking damage, but doing so with speed and grace. It was much narrower than Canada's ship had been, with a pinched bow reinforced with iron plates for ramming. Cannons lined the sides, anchored to the deck loosely, with balls and gunpowder neatly nearby. Grappling hooks and swords and knives were common items on the ship and the men practiced under the unyielding eye of England. Canada could tell these men knew their business; they were seasoned warriors of the sea.

A merchant's ship had been spotted. England had set a course back for his home nation and this ship was flying the wrong flag.

It was a long chase to corner their quarry. The merchant ship fled in fear, but eventually England's frigate got close enough to fire the cannons. The weapons roared to life, spitting out smoke and acid and shooting destructive balls into the air. The first cannon ball clipped the back of their target, splintering the rail before falling back into the sea with a mighty splash. The second, close behind the first, smashed into the deck with a nasty crack, sending wood and splinters flying.

Once the barrage of cannonballs had immobilized their prey, the grappling hooks were implemented. The crew moved with practiced ease, swarming the merchant ship like deadly insects. England himself grabbed a line and threw himself into the fray. The merchants fought like cornered animals out of fear and desperation. Blood ran across the ship's deck making the footing slippery and the fighting harder.

Eventually England's crew succeeded.

England had the remaining men brought over to his ship. They were bound and frightened. They had the dark skin and curly hair of the man to the south, although they wore grim expressions instead of sunny smiles of pearly white teeth.

"You lot are trespassers." England chided in a stern tone, "These are England's waters, yet you dare to sail in them? Perhaps my last lesson to Spain was not harsh enough. Spain is not known for the ability to retain vital information without many harsh lessons."

One of the men started babbling in frantic sentences. He was cut off abruptly by England's polish boot to his jaw. His lip broke and started gushing blood. England stared down in disgust and flicked the blood off his boot with a few quick jerks of his foot. He then wiped the rest of the blood off into the man's hair before saying, "Excuses. I do not like excuses. You men have committed a grave crime, and it is only fitting you receive just punishment."

England's methods of punishments were just as exacting as everything else he did. He carried the executions out without blinking and gave a perfunctory motion before retiring to his cabin. It seemed he cared for politics and contortions as little as Canada did. And Canada approved. He had granted the men a swift, clean death, but he gave them no pity or scorn.

"What do you want?"

Canada shrugged silently and sat in the single chair in the room. He didn't talk very much. He preferred to watch others and let them do the talking. He especially enjoyed listening to England's gruff voice. When they were alone, England spoke in the language of nations, but Canada even liked to listen to him when he shouted at his crew in English. Already he could understand several dozen words in English and he practiced them when he was alone.

"You aren't going to retch are you lad?" England asked with concern, studying Canada's face.

Despite their rocky beginning, Canada was learning exactly why America adored his big brother so much. And perhaps why the two didn't get along quite as well as they should. England's temper was fearsome and he was upright, but he was also a gentleman. He was concerned for Canada's comfort, even going to far as to beg his pardon for the rough accommodations and promising better in London. But he was very ridged with his rules, and Canada quietly respected them.

"You are… good." Canada replied softly in English. He fumbled with the words shyly. He knew the general meaning of the word 'good' and it wasn't what he had wanted to say, but it was the only word he knew to say. He hoped it would be enough.

"Good?" England inquired curiously, "Good at what?"

"Killing." Canada responded simply, this time not in English. "Your motions were very concise. It was interesting to watch."

England quirked an eyebrow, "Sweden has raised quite the bloody little heathen, hasn't he? I suppose you enjoy killing and painting yourself in blood or whatever it is your people do in celebration. America used to do such uncivilized things before I taught him better."

Canada blinked and blushed slightly as England's bald words sunk in. He bit his lip, suddenly feeling awkward. It was clear that England was much more experienced than he was. They were not equals; England was his superior. And that embarrassed him. He wished he had never brought it up.

England studied his face, a feral smirk curling around his lips as if he could read Canada's thoughts. Canada's body stirred in response.

England closed the distance between him and pressed forward abruptly. His velvet clothes brushed against Canada's bare skin and the feather in his hat dangled down teasingly. He had dressed up full regalia today for the capture and execution. His face hovered above Canada's; his hot breath puffing out in a slow rhythm. His thigh brushed lightly against Canada's pelvis and his fingers were running along Canada's lips naughtily.

"I am quite good—experienced in fact- in other things as well." England purred, his voice heavy and thick with promise, "I am a hard task master, but I swear you will learn more than you ever imagined."

He punctuated this statement with a harder rub of his thigh and Canada choked back a soft groan. England, encouraged, grabbed Canada's earlobe in between his teeth. He tugged and nibbled and licked while his hand busily worked on Canada's trousers.

Canada squirmed and moaned again. He tried to keep his head through the haze of feelings washing over him. He tried to imagine what his father would think. He tried to consider his land, his people. He thought of his bear, who was undoubtedly staring out to sea, waiting for his return. But all that mattered to him at this moment was the hot hands caressing his flesh and the moist lips suckling and teasing the soft skin at his jawline.

England was as good as his promise. He was a demanding teacher; his movements were abrupt and shocking. The way his snapped his hips send jolts of pain up Canada's spine and his fingers dug into Canada's hips so hard Canada was sure there would be bruises on his fair skin for the next week. His teeth found ways to mark Canada's shoulders and sides. But with each snap of his hips, he hit that spot hard, so the pain and pleasure mixed into a cocktail of sensation. And to sooth the bite of his teeth, a tender, warm tongue lapped and licked at his sensitive spots in apology.

By the end of it they were tangled into a sweaty heap of limbs and half discarded clothing. England untangled himself first. He hadn't even bothered to fully remove his pants and yet they were nearly spotless. He stripped his sweaty shirt and replaced it before donning his jacket again.

His emerald eyes locked onto Canada, who at the point was spread across the bed breathless and naked and sticky. He made a tutting noise, probably at the mess on his usually tidy bed, or maybe at the sight Canada made spread out covered in blood and semen and still only half-sensible.

He turned on his heel.

"I will have one of the men clean the sheets. I recommend you get dressed within five minutes, unless you wish to broadcast what a wanton whore you are." England advised coolly, putting his hat on and striding out the door.

England seemed to think Canada needed more than one lesson. Each lesson was different from the last, although all of them left Canada in a boneless heap, sprawled out in bliss and agony. He had barely recognized himself when he found himself bent over the desk, rump in the air, howling out a mixture of both their languages as England's switch created welts across the delicate skin and England's other hand pumped and twisted relentlessly. He was quite glad he was far too old for his father to switch him or that might have caused some humiliating questions when the first strike aroused him.

His favorite lesson had him blindfold and bound. England was silent when he discarded his boots and Canada felt exposed without his eyes to guide him. A soft tickle drifted down his side and he squirm and gasped as it traced down the junction of his hips and traced his shaft, circling the base mercilessly. The tickling worked tortuously slow, dipping into all the crevices and dimples of Canada's body until he was writhing and begging for it to end. And suddenly it did, throwing his body upward with pain, shock, and pleasure. He had fought back against his bonds as the torture continued. Soft, sweet tickling followed by unexpected pain and pleasure. Eventually England seemed to lose interest in his game, for Canada was sure that's what he thought of it, and finished in a hard, swift rhythm that left Canada exhausted and daze while England merely smirked. He realized a long time after that the tickle had been the plumy feather from England's hat, which caused some awkward thoughts when the other nation wore it from then on.

So when the lessons abruptly stopped, Canada felt confused and unhappy. Had he done something to displease the prickly nation? He had followed all the rules. He never called out England's name; he never protested or asked questions; he never placed his hands on England when he was not directed to.

England actually seemed to be avoiding him. As much as one could on a ship. He constantly prowled the ship, snapping at anyone unlucky enough to earn his ire. He let Canada have his cabin, only coming in to consult maps or paperwork. He even ate in the mess hall with the crew, leaving Canada to eat his food alone in isolation.

He started looking forward to the day they returned to London. England had promised to contact Sweden then and return Canada. Canada had wondered what it would cost Sweden to have him returned and if Sweden would be willing to pay it. If Canada had been asked about England owning him a day ago, he would have agreed easily and quickly, if only to bed England more, learn more, enjoy England more. But now he was confused and slightly angry at the abrupt withdrawal.

So he sulked in the cabin, taking care of his need himself, as England only had to walk in the room to create an erection for Canada. His smell, his body, his looks. Canada missed them all.

The day they reached England, Canada was missing his homeland and his father. It ached in his chest. He was tired of sea voyages. And he was tired of only hearing English. He wanted to be where he could hear his language. He wanted his bear and his food and his forests.

He wondered if he would miss England as much.

The days he spent in London were alternately fascinating and overwhelming. England sent a message to Sweden, but of course, it would take time to reach him. And it would take time for Sweden to come to London, for England refused to leave. He would frequently return to his ship to patrol the waters around England's coast, but he never strayed too far.

Canada for his part took advantage of his impromptu trip to England. He explored London, with an escort of course, and purchased several items he liked. His English grew rapidly and soon he was visiting craftsmen, asking questions and sampling goods. His sharp mind considered and stored away the knowledge for when he returned home. Anything that could make life easier or better was an invaluable asset in his mind.

Sweden came much faster than England expect. England was out on his ship when Sweden arrived. Sweden seemed to know his way around though because he had no problem gaining entry or finding Canada. His sharp blue eyes and stony expression flicked over Canada and he grunted. Canada's escort shrunk back in fear and Canada ran forward to give the strong nation a hug. Sweden patted him gently on the shoulder and gave a small smile that had Canada's escort fainting in distress.

"Y'kay?" Sweden mumbled and Canada told him that England had treated him courteously. He left out exactly how England had treated him, and all the bruises and welts were long gone, since England hadn't touched him since they were on the ship.

Sweden merely raised a silent brow but said nothing.

They spend several days enjoying England's hospitality in his absence, speaking of sailing and trading and building in their tongue. It was nice to hear it instead of English, Canada realized, another wave of homesickness washing over him.

The two nations could have left, no one would be able to stop them, but Sweden was a patient nation. While he was powerful enough to withstand England's wrath, he was first a diplomat and second a warrior. When Canada protested, Sweden just gave him a stern look. His look said leave my business to me. Canada felt like a child again.

England returned the next day. He was furious that he had missed welcoming Sweden. No doubt he had planned to humiliate and humble the northern nation, much in the way he had first scorned and shamed Canada.

He made a good show at trying to do it anyway. Sweden simply stared and England looked slightly uncomfortable. Eventually Sweden spoke in a slow, clear speech, thanking England for his generous care of Canada and would he like in return. England clearly wasn't expecting this and his face closed up, expecting a trap or a trick.

Canada held his original opinion of European negotiations.

Eventually the two came to an agreement. Canada was bored and restless after hours of talks and paperwork. He was tired of London's dreary weather and he hoped they would leave tomorrow. Then he wouldn't have to keep looking at England and lusting.

That night he was in bed reading a book he had borrowed from England's library. It was in English, but he gathered the gist of it with a little effort. A sharp knock on the door gained his attention and he peered from under his lashes as England let himself in.

He had abandoned his sea uniform for a court outfit. It looked ridiculous and extravagant on him. He wore it with the same fiery temper and dignity though.

Shuffling his feet, he walked over to where Canada sat in bed. The two stared in an uncomfortable silence.

"I suppose you will leave in the morning then." England finally offered in a low, gravelly voice.

"Yes, we will. I am going to stay in Sweden's house for a while before I go home." Canada responded in English. He stumbled over a few words, but most of his pronunciation was correct. He felt proud and he saw something flash in England's eyes.

"Hmm, if only America were so dedicated to his studying." England replied, "As it stands, I need to make a trip back to America. I promised him I would return soon. My ship is needed here, so part of the negotiations with Sweden was that I will sail back across the sea with you."

Canada's heart froze and his eyes opened wide at the implications.

England dipped down and pressed their lips together. He licked and pushed his tongue into Canada's mouth, pushing him back down against the bed so he was straddling him and had a handful of hair holding Canada's head in place. Canada eagerly responded, his tongue answering and his hands clutching the blankets beneath him desperately.

England pulled away and looked at Canada. Canada looked back up at him and he looked away. He could feel the need between them, stretched and ready to snap into a nasty backlash.

"I shouldn't do this to you. It's not right, and I keep seeing Alfred's face." England admitted his hand still twisted in Canada's hair although his other rough hand absentmindedly stroked Canada's face, "And if I wouldn't do that to my boy, I have no right to do it to someone else's boy."

"I… want… you… to…" Canada panted, momentarily forgetting his English.

England gave him a twisted, sardonic smile with dark eyes, "Precisely. That was the point."

Canada felt confused.

"Lad, you are decades too young to be at my level, and pirates rarely play fair. I was conditioning your body to get your land." England ground down with a negligent motion and Canada whimpered slightly, "I am quite good at it, if I do say so myself, conditioning that is."

Canada already knew that.

England stared at him searchingly. His brows furrowed when he didn't find what he was looking for in Canada's face.

"You cannot have my land. I'm sorry, but I am not for sale. I am not leaving my father or my pride or my people. This is bigger than me. Perhaps you have command over my body, but I have to give you my heart. And you have to earn that." Canada replied softly and relaxed trustingly under England.

England's mouth turned into the first true smile Canada had seen, "Well said lad. I look forward to the challenge."