Title: Waves of Red

Pairing: UK/SPN/UK

Rating: R-18 (PG-13 for this chapter)

Warning (overall): Angst, religious themes, some violent imagery, slow updates, and (of course, since I'm the one writing it) future sexual situations.

Warning (in this chapter): Angst, some violent imagery, more angst.

Summary: Pirate!AU. He lost his family, his crew, and his eye. He despaired, not for his loss, but for his desire for the man who took them all.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters.

Notes:

My knowledge of the time period, ships, and pirate jargon is quite limited. I am researching for this, but there are still bound to be some mistakes, please feel free to correct me.

This, like all of my other stories, does not have a beta. If you notice any mistakes with spelling or grammar, please let me know so that I can fix them. I re-read everything I write several times before posting, but I am certainly no English major.

This will probably have slow updates (to give you an idea of just how long, it took me about a month to finish this chapter and I have a one-shot that I've been working on for nearly two years. I have everything planned out, but motivating myself to actually sit down and type is rather difficult).

The chapter lengths will vary, but will be short for the most part. I've found that I write quicker when I'm posting shorter chapters…well, I suppose that's a given, what with them being shorter, but also the more chapters there are the more reviews there tend to be, and those are quite motivating.

There won't this many notes in future chapters. You can expect to see most of them at the end of the chapters.

Chapter One: Bloody Trails

Crashing. Everything was crashing around him. Like a storm that destroys towns, uplifting homes from their very foundation.

He'd watched helplessly as the bodies of his mother and sisters were pulled from the wreckage of their old home by the farm, listened listlessly as the tale was told to him by one of the other villagers; a tale of woe, of how the pirates had ransacked their homes and burned those of all who resisted. He knew his mother, knew how stubborn she could be. She would never have allowed the men to their small fortune left behind by his father, nor would she ever allow them the chastity of her daughters. She'd rather they all die than have to suffer the touches of thieves and killers.

Looking on as the small forms of his family were buried, he could not even bring himself to shed tears for them. He had never before felt a pain so intense, a hatred so stinging. He left the village the next morning, taking what food he could he carry on his boat, donated by the gentleman who lived down the road, and a handful of men, set on vengeance for their own lost wives, mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters. He would find the ship of the men who slew his family and the families of his fellow crew, and once he did, he would kill them all.

It did not take long to find them; his men who had been at the village at the time of the attack knew right away, the ship and the curs on it burned deeply into their minds. From the village they sailed to the closest town, asking if they knew of Kirkland's ship, a gasp and weeping followed. Village to village, town to town, all they had to do was follow the wreckage and the blood that stained the sea. They found his ship, resting in open waters not a fortnight later, laughter flowing from it.

Kirkland's ship bested his own in both size and artillery, he could not bring himself to care or to fear, anger filling him too deeply. His men must have felt the same; none argued his command to board their ship. He watched, helpless once more, as his crew, his fellow village men, were slaughtered, mutilated, shot through their chests and bleeding to death, he watched it all as he himself fought against a burly man, ashamed of his inability to save his men. A hand rose, the man that he had clashed swords with, that had skillfully divested him of his own and was moving to strike the finishing blow, stopped, looking up at the pirate whose hand was raised; a silent command.

His coat was regal, a deep red trimmed in black, gold glittering from its unsnapped buttons. His tricorne sat upon his wheat hair, short and choppy, a large red plume curving at one side. He drank in the sight, memorizing the details. Black trousers, covered by black boots, hemmed in gold trim, a blood sash around his waist, and a blouse done only half way up, showing off an impressive scar on his chest and the golden medallion that hung around his neck, matching the length of gold and emerald gem that hung from the lobe of his left ear. More enticing than any of his wear, were his smile and his eyes. One orb a striking green, similar in color to his own, the second was covered, perhaps not even there at all, by a fancy eye patch, black with crimson seams, a red tether holding it in its place on his face, and his smile was a smirk befitting of a Captain, cold, calculating, and full of arrogance.

His voice caught in his throat as the risen hand lowered, a single finger arching. The burly man who had bested him in battle grabbed him by the arms, he struggled as he was carried, pulled at, forced forward and down to his knees in front of the Captain. His lids shuttered closed in shame, shame at his loss, at the loss of his men, at his desire to stare once more at the Captain's gaze. He had a new reason to be shamed when the Captain spoke, his voice both like honey and like ice as the accented words fell from his lips, though oddly enough, it did not sound the way he would imagine a pirate would speak, the way the words flitted out through his throat was more akin to that of a condescending English noble, "You may call me Arthur, I am Captain of this ship. You'd perhaps know me as Captain Kirkland. And to whom am I speaking?"

A chill ran down his spine, a warm coil in the pit of his stomach at the sound of the man's voice. Was this one of the trials his mother had spoken of in his childhood? He glowered, auburn strands blocking his vision only slightly as he looked up from his down turned head, retorting in his own accented English, his Spanish origin would be clear to anyone who looked at him, but to the blind who could not see his tanned skin and dark hair, his voice more than gave him away, a spy he could not be indeed, "My name is of no concern of yours, Captain." The title was rolled off of his tongue with venom dripping from each letter; he would not falter, no. Not for the fear of his life, not for the warmth in his body, this was the man whose command had slew his mother and his sisters, his friends, his crew, he would not submit to him.

Through the gaps in his matted bangs he saw the tilt of the Captain's mouth, the smirk ever present, "Such a shame." He watched as the Captain's arm arched, another command, he expected to be beheaded, but found himself being shackled and dragged away; to where, of course he did not know.

As he was lead across the deck and towards a passage leading to the bowels of the ship, his gaze washed over his fallen crew, bloodied and maimed, he watched with rage and sadness as what bodies remained were tossed overboard, both the dead and the living, soon to be drown. Why was he not among them?

He felt like such a fool.

If he had not been so hot-headed, not been so blinded by rage and hate, he would have had the sense to realize that they, his small boat and even smaller crew, were no match for the veteran pirates. Their lives, the lives of the fathers, uncles, brothers, and sons who had departed with him in hopes of gaining vengeance for lost loved ones back at the village, would not have been lost so quickly and brutally.

The feeling that washed over him as he was lead down the stairs and into a cell, dank and shadowed in the bowels of the ship, was neither fear nor anger; it was shame, but worse and more crippling than the shame at his incompetence, his rashness, was the guilt of knowing that it could have all been easily avoided had he just put more thought and preparation into the process.

His head hung low as the large man leading him pushed him lightly against the wall, the dampness staining his shirt, the coldness sending a shiver down his spine. He lamely allowed his shackled arms to be chained to the wall. His shame only intensified as the large man huffed, a scarred, calloused hand resting itself on his shoulder in what may have been a comforting way if it were not coming from a man who had a sword pointed at him not too long ago. Lost in his own numb thoughts, he barely caught what the contradictory man was saying to him, only the words "Captain," "Kirkland," and "soon," making their way past his eardrums before the hand was removed from his shoulder and he saw the feet that had been placed in front of him moving away and back up the stairs they had come down.

He allowed his eyes to close, gnawing his lip and willing himself not to cry. He didn't give any thought to what was awaiting him; he knew was going to be killed. The sadistic bastard probably wanted to give him special treatment and draw it out since he was the 'captain' that had been foolish enough to challenge pirates with years more battle experience and a ship at least double the size of his own.

He grit his teeth. He deserved whatever he got. He would keep a stiff upper lip and take it, he'd already let his crew and himself down once this night, he would not succumb to the other man, no matter what he had in store for him.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed (hours, days, minutes, everything was distorted and there was no sense of time to be provided by the sun so far beneath the ship's main deck) before he finally heard the echo of footsteps descending the stairs. He forced his head up, his own dirty bangs and the blackness of the cell masking the man's features, but he knew…he could tell by the confident way the man held himself, the blurry smirk gracing those lips, the pendant that shined even in the darkness…the Captain was here. He glowered at him. His green gaze narrowing further at the distinct chuckle that he received, he refused to acknowledge the familiar heat that knotted in his abdomen at the sound.

"Are you comfortable?" The Captain could not hold back his grin as the captive sneered at him. Even after losing so horribly, shackled to a wall, and at the mercy of the ship's Captain, this man still had the nerve, the guts, to look so defiant. "I'll take that as a 'yes.'" He scoffed turning his back to the chained man and making is way the opposite wall.

The Spaniard listened as the footsteps retreated slightly, stopping not much further away, he jumped in surprise at a clatter and a light filling the room. He blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the slowly dimming light coming from the other side of the cell, quickly concluding that the blond had lit a lantern. He watched the now illuminated form as it moved toward him once more, stopping short and setting the lantern on a stool he had carried over. He had seen neither the lantern nor the stool in the room before, perhaps because of the darkness, perhaps because this was the first time he's looked up from the floor since being escorted down. He eyed the man warily as he unsheathed his sword, a sharp, amused look flashing over forest irises.

He braced himself for it, but did not allow his head to fall, keeping his gaze against the other's, not permitting it to drop to the weapon. This was it.

"You know what's coming, but you're not afraid?" The pitch of the Captain's voice audibly changed from amusedly mocking to amusedly inquisitive. The Spaniard fought between feeling annoyed and confused. This was not the tone of voice a man made before striking another dead…but perhaps the Captain was just that experienced, to the point where questioning a captive about his impending death would come across no differently than if he were an old friend curiously asking if he had a wife or children yet.

The captive didn't answer. He continued to glare. He would not give the Englishman the satisfaction.

He saw two broad shoulders, perhaps broader than they really were as a result of the coat he wore, shrug upward, "No matter. You can relax. I have no intention of ending your life. You were imprudent enough to challenge me; you've lost your ship and your crew. Death would only be a blessing. I'll give you a scar, one that will remain until your end of days, forever a reminder of why you were a fool to even think of crossing Captain Kirkland." He felt a hand on his forehead, forcing his head to continue staring up at the other man, a thumb pulling at one of his eyelids, prying it open. His heart raced as he watched the sword's tip slowly inching closer to his face, unwillingly looking down the length of it.

His vision blurred. He could feel the blade clearly, he wasn't sure if it was cutting or gouging, all he knew was that it hurt. He barely registered the warmth of the crimson liquid dripping over his cheeks, his screams which he somehow knew he was failing to hold in, nor the depth that the blade cut; he couldn't even feel the dig of the chains against his flesh as he reflexively struggled.

His body had decided that enduring the pain was an impossible feat, and he felt himself slip into darkness.

End Notes: Again, I don't really know anything about ships…but for those who may be wondering about Antonio's and Arthur's ships these were the ones that I had in mind.

For Antonio's ship, I was thinking of something like a caravel. Since he borrowed the ship from someone in the village it was unlikely to have been a warship, and was probably something like a merchant ship. It's my understanding that caravels were used as merchant ships (as well as for exploration) before being replaced by the larger Nau ships.

Of course, for Arthur's ship I was thinking of an English "Man of War." A typical caravel may have had a crew of only about 20 or 30 and have only an upper and lower deck (and be roughly 80 feet in length), so the size would really pale in comparison to Arthur's ship which may have had six decks and a hold (these were as large as 200 feet in length. Arthur's is not that big).

I learned something new when researching for this…the word "blond" apparently comes from the French. In English, I've noticed a lot of confusion regarding "blond" and "blonde," I am more prone to using "blonde," but I seem to have been using it incorrectly as "blonde" is strictly for women while "blond" is for males, but can be used for both genders when it's an adjective.

Points and virtual cookies to anyone who can correctly guess the identity of the larger man that Antonio was fighting against. He'll be showing up more.

Remember, as loved and appreciated as 'alerts' and 'favorites' are, there is nothing more motivating than seeing a new review!