I Belong to You
Alternate Summary: Blaine is taken prisoner when his ship is attacked by pirates. Kurt is haunted by his past and by the knowledge that he'll never have a chance at a normal life. Both need to be saved, each in his own way.
Rated: NC-17
Disclaimer: I know you know how much I wish they were mine, but they are not.
Warnings: 18th century AU. UST. Implied non-con & suicide (not Kurt or Blaine). Mentions of familiar characters, some with name changes to protect the guilty. See if you can identify them all.
2017 Update: I'd like to thank AncientGleek, who betaed Chapter 1 for me with the thoroughness and frankness I needed, and inspired me to proofread the rest again. All remaining errors are my own. This story will also be posted on AO3 under the same author name.
Ch 1: Supreme Excellence
Blaine Anderson had always been uncommonly lucky. He was clever, handsome and talented. "Leading a charmed life," people would tell him. Not only was he born into an affluent and influential family, but he was thoughtful, considerate and well liked, and, well, things just had a tendency to go his way.
None of these things ever went to his head, of course. His father saw to that. "Luck is for fools and beggars," Mr. Anderson would lecture at the dinner table, never bothered about failing to get a response from his son. It wasn't needed. Honestly, Blaine wasn't sure his father knew he was there, as the sharp, brown eyes, so different from his own, never looked directly at him. He'd grown used to it over time, he supposed. As used to it as one could be when made to feel slightly invisible.
"Nothing will be handed to you. You must seize every opportunity. Do what is necessary to improve your standing. Socialize with the right people, marry into the right family, behave with dignity at all times," his father would list the requirements for success that Blaine had had memorized before he'd fully understood the definition of dignity. "You certainly cannot depend on luck."
Blaine really hated it when his father was right.
Several jumbled images were featured in his slow return to consciousness, swimming hazily behind Blaine's closed lids. Alongside thoughts of his father were memories of the attack; the deafening noise, the adrenalin and fear. The chain-shot that tumbled through the air in a wildly spinning arc, as beautiful as it was terrifying, until its short flight ended in a great and crippling tangle of canvas and rope.
A pirate attack! It was too unbelievable. Things like that only happened to other people, or in stories told to naïve children. But it had happened. The merchant ship he'd been traveling on had been overtaken and boarded, the crew outmatched, and Blaine had leapt into the fray. He'd expected to die, but he wasn't going down without a fight. That was the last thing he remembered.
"Ow," he groaned, summing his day up nicely.
From somewhere nearby, he could hear people muttering and whispering, and someone crying. A hand tapped his shoulder. "All right there?"
Blaine cracked open a squinty eye, lifting a hand to the back of his head. Thad, a crew member he'd met during the voyage, was looking down at him from where he sat next to Blaine on a hard, wooden floor. "Yeah, I'm fine," he answered. Whether that was true or not was anyone's guess. The lump under his fingers suggested that someone might have tried to crack his skull with a blunt object. "Where are we?"
A short, humorless laugh came from Blaine's other side. "The Blackbird," said a sailor Blaine didn't know. The man reached out to rap a knuckle against a black, iron bar. It rang with a dull thunk, thunk. "Welcome aboard."
Eyes slowly widening, Blaine took in the horrifying sight of the interior of a prison cell. He sat up gingerly, pressing a palm uselessly to his aching head and looking around. Flickering light from hanging lanterns revealed a long, narrow room with cells along both sides, currently housing what looked to be the full ship's complement from the Iron Fist.
At one end of the room were steps leading to the only visible exit, guarded by two fearsome looking pirates, and the crying from earlier could still be heard coming from a cell on the opposite wall. It was one of the other passengers. She was a petite, attractive brunette, as expensively attired as the many simpering young ladies his mother was forever dragging him into the company of. The tears that leaked from her dark, frightened eyes were being delicately dabbed from her cheeks by a distraught companion, a lady several years her senior, who instantly – and perhaps unfairly – would have been labeled 'the spinster' by Blaine's friends back home. Her hair was the sort of bright, flaming red that he'd heard other ladies sneer at in disparaging undertones, as if it would somehow make themselves more attractive to ridicule the appearance of another. It had made him wonder what they would say about him if his own differences from conventional social mores were outwardly visible.
This particular redhead had likely been made to feel inferior her entire adult life for the sin of being different. She struck Blaine as extremely jittery, seemingly unable to focus her distress on any specific one of the problems currently heaped upon her tiny shoulders. How he wished he could do something to help.
At odds with the behavior of both women was the presence of a serene, if somewhat bewildered looking blonde standing behind them. She was slim and beautiful, like the others, but quite tall by comparison and possessing an obvious physical strength that they lacked. It made sense, really, because the blonde's simple, gray uniform clearly identified her status as a ladies' maid, and Blaine had spent enough time with the servants of his father's house to know how incredibly and unceasingly hard they worked.
"Is everyone here?" Blaine asked, turning toward his cellmates. Thad gave a hesitant shake of the head, saying nothing.
It was the other sailor who once again bluntly spoke up. "Cap'n's dead. Refused to hand over his ship and fought like a demon from what I hear." The man shot a contemptuous glare toward their silent guards while others nearby nodded and muttered bitter insults against the attackers. "Sent half a dozen of the bastards to the depths before they cut him down."
"I'm sorry." Although he'd barely known Captain Clarington, having spoken to him only once or twice since they'd left port, Blaine was genuinely saddened. He couldn't hear of anyone's death without feeling a deep sympathy for the person's friends and family, and was therefore startled by the sailor's unconcerned shrug.
The man sat cross-legged, leaning tiredly against a wall of bars. Dark blond hair stuck out from his head in different directions as if it couldn't make up its mind and, like most of the sailors Blaine had seen in the last few weeks, his beard was wildly overgrown and not doing his face any favors. As much as it helped to disguise the gauntness of his cheeks, it also enhanced the dark shadows under his eyes. The battle couldn't account entirely for his haggard appearance, and Blaine guessed there was no love lost between him and the deceased captain. Still, the sailor seemed conflicted, as though he wouldn't have wished the captain dead, but couldn't dredge up any true regret. Or perhaps he was simply too concerned about his own fate at the moment to mourn someone else's. Maybe they all should be.
In any case, they were stuck there for the time being. "Blaine," he introduced himself, holding out a hand.
"Johnny." The reply was accompanied by a firm handshake.
"Nice to meet you, Johnny. How long did you serve on the Iron Fist?" The small talk that came naturally to Blaine after a lifetime of training was cut short by the sound of approaching footsteps. The room went quiet, all eyes turned toward the door, some angry and others nervous, and the prisoners slowly got to their feet.
Blaine stood as well, with a helping hand from Thad, and watched the door bang open. Leading the way down the short flight of stairs was a large man, barrel-chested and outweighing Blaine by a good four or five stone. He looked intense and angry from the outset, with a tightly restrained bearing that declared his readiness to do violence if someone would please just give him a reason. The second person through the door was very tall, yet much less intimidating. Unlike the first one, this man didn't fit Blaine's idea of a pirate at all. He wore a guileless expression and exuded an endearing sort of awkwardness at seeing them all behind bars. Under other circumstances, Blaine might have liked him on sight. And lastly, striding noiselessly down the wooden steps in highly polished black leather boots, came a man who made the others fade into insignificance. At least for Blaine.
As the pirates came to a halt in the middle of the room, the silence grew eerie; nervous. Blaine's hands curled at his sides, and Thad's took on a subtle twitch. Johnny only leaned his forehead against the bars, looking resigned to whatever fate might befall them.
Blaine preferred to not think about that. Considering their circumstances, nothing good came to mind. If the pirates had no use for them, or worse, if they did have a use for them… He stopped that futile line of thought immediately and set his attention instead on a very interesting pair of legs. Slightly parted against the ever-present pitch and sway to which Blaine was still adjusting, the pirate's legs looked svelte and strong. The thigh muscles that shifted subtly under his close-fitting trousers were much more pleasant to dwell on than morbid ponderings of the most painful ways to die. Being shot, stabbed, or drowned all appeared to be viable options for his near future – or near end, as the case may be. If he were forced to choose one, which would it be?
Stop it, he scolded himself. Assuming the worst will get me nowhere. Be calm and objective. The tall one looks as though he wouldn't hurt a fly, and the angry one – well, if it were up to him we'd probably be dead already. No. The smallest of them is clearly in charge. It's just a pleasant coincidence that he's also one of the most striking men I've ever seen.
Despite knowing that he was treading dangerously, Blaine couldn't tear his eyes away. There was something about the way the man carried himself, confident and composed, without an ounce of deference to anyone else. Blaine's first impression was that, although he obviously was a leader among the pirates, there was nothing at all terrifying about his appearance. Then Blaine saw his eyes, as cold as a lake in winter, and his first impression fell by the wayside.
"I am Captain Kurt Black." He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. The hold was as silent as a tomb but for the gentle creaking of the ship.
Blaine was surprised by their captor's identity. Even he had heard of the infamous Gentleman Pirate, if this truly was Captain Black. The disparities between Black's WANTED posters near the docks back home had been confusing at best, with each one seeming to portray a different man. One drawing showed him with long, black hair and equally dark eyes. Another had shorter, lighter hair and a scar down one cheek. And a third depicted someone older, with deep frown lines accentuating a firm sneer. Only one thing was certain: none of them bore any resemblance to the truth.
The prisoners shifted and turned uncomfortably, or their eyes dropped to the floor when the captain's icy gaze began to pass over them. Blaine had never seen anything like it and found himself reluctantly intrigued by the uncommon criminal.
The captain's perusal soon stopped on one man, who glared fearlessly – foolishly? – back. "As you know, your captain is not here," Black said without any of the smugness or contempt Blaine might have expected; in fact, he could detect no emotion at all. Some of the men's angry looks returned, however, at the easy mention of Captain Clarington's death by the one who'd caused it. "Who was his second in command?" he asked the daring captive, apparently guessing the answer.
"I am First Mate Smythe," was the furious, cutting response. "I speak for this crew now."
"Excellent, Mr. Smythe," said the captain in his frighteningly detached tone, his eyes seeming to look through the sailor instead of at him. "Perhaps you'll be more cooperative than your predecessor."
Smythe gnashed his teeth. "Do you plan to murder me too if I don't bow and scrape? Just try it. I'll kill you with my bare hands!" he snarled.
Blaine was skeptical of the wisdom in throwing empty threats at a man who, by all accounts, would as soon shoot you as look at you. He also suspected that antagonizing the pirate wouldn't improve their situation, gentleman or not.
But Captain Black didn't give Smythe even the small satisfaction of a flash of temper. "Your captain's death was unnecessary," he calmly replied, plainly stating what the crew of the Iron Fist would not acknowledge. "Had he accepted the inevitable, he would be with you now. He chose his pride over his life. I hope none of you will make the same mistake."
Smythe said nothing to the thinly veiled, casually delivered threat, his eyes full of hatred and his fists clenched in impotent rage. The barrel-chested pirate growled low in his throat until Captain Black patted him on the shoulder, causing Blaine to blink in confusion at the friendly act. "Never mind. There's always one, isn't there, Davidson?"
Davidson's non-committal grunt seemed to be answer enough.
"As for the rest of you, I've come to explain your situation and see that any questions you might have are answered to your satisfaction." The room went very quiet again at this astonishing offer, and Blaine began to see how the pirate might have earned his nickname.
"First," he continued, "as long as you cooperate, none of you will be harmed." Again, Blaine was caught off-guard, stunned by such an assurance. Not that the word of a pirate was worth anything. So why did he find himself believing this one?
"Second, you will be released when we make port at a suitable location in a few months." A renewed furor of whispers arose at that. Blaine could sense the anxiety of his fellow captives, the spike of fervent hope, quickly smothered under fear and distrust. "And third, those of you who do not wish to spend the entirety of your journey exclusively in this hold may be allowed certain liberties after a time, in return for earning your keep."
Throughout this speech, Smythe's snarl had become, if anything, more pronounced. "We're not interested in being your slave labor!"
Slowly, Captain Black turned to face the hostile former first mate once more. Blaine watched those standing nearest Smythe edge cautiously away from the target he made. "I'm afraid I won't be able to extend the offer to you, Mr. Smythe." The captain's voice grew colder, exhibiting his first hint of annoyance. "I do not permit disruptions aboard my ship. However, you will be released with the others when the time comes. Unless you would prefer to depart the ship now, of course. I'd be happy to have you escorted to the rail if that is your wish," he said. Beside him, Mr. Davidson curled his lip in a silent, deadly promise that this was not an idle offer. Blaine knew they were very far from the nearest land.
"Now," the captain resumed his previous, emotionless tone of voice, dismissing the furious first mate as unimportant, "are there any questions?"
The jittery lady stepped forward, drawing a loud gasp from her tear-stained traveling companion, who had been staring in awe at the pirates from the moment they had entered the room. "I… I have one, um, Sir, Captain Black," she stammered. It was difficult to judge from her soft, frightened voice whether or not she actually wanted to be heard.
"Yes, madam." Black moved closer and the lady took several hurried steps back. "How may I be of service?"
The absence of any kind of warmth in his tone made his politeness sound odd and a little scary. Nevertheless, the lady seemed to gain some confidence at the respectful words, and her chin rose fractionally, though her clasped hands trembled before her. "Do you plan to leave the women and menfolk together like this?" she demanded tremulously, causing more than one sailor's brows to shoot upward at her boldness. "It is highly improper. My young charge and I cannot be expected to sleep in the same cell as grown men," she continued more firmly against what, to her, might have constituted a more outrageous set of circumstances than being imprisoned at all. "Not to mention other, more personal matters," she added, her voice little more than a humiliated whisper. The bright pink of her cheeks and intense red of her hair combined to give the appearance that she could burst into flames at any moment.
The captain did not smirk, as some men in his position might have done, or in any way give the impression that he enjoyed her discomfort. "Of course, madam," was all he said. "Naturally, the ladies cannot be expected to share their living quarters with the men. I will have it attended to immediately." He gave a small, polite nod, ignoring the shocked faces and disbelieving murmurs of the other prisoners, and turned to Davidson. "Mr. Davidson, please see that the ladies are afforded some privacy right away."
"Aye, sir," Davidson replied briskly and headed for the stairs without batting an eye.
"She's dead. She'll be thrown in the drink for sure," Johnny mumbled quietly, shaking his head. "Damn shame, a fine woman like that. Got some bollocks on her, don't she?" He nudged Blaine with an elbow, chuckling in admiration.
"If there are no other questions," the captain gestured lightly toward the tall pirate, who had yet to utter a sound, "this is Mr. Finley, the first mate. He will be responsible for you during your stay here and will keep me informed of any issues requiring my personal attention," he concluded in that strangely distant voice.
"Our stay here," someone sneered quietly.
Captain Black scanned the prisoners again, not deigning to pause on Smythe. Blaine thought his eyes might have flickered for an instant when they came to rest on him, but it was probably his imagination. Then the captain turned sharply on his heel and left without another word, and Blaine could only stare bemusedly at the unusual pirate. A moment later, the soft snick of the closing door broke the spell that had settled over the prisoners. It triggered a sudden cacophony of voices, everyone trying to speak at once, yelling over one another to make demands of Mr. Finley, and cursing him roundly for all that they had suffered that day.
Unfortunately for Mr. Finley, he didn't have the captain's ability to silence a room merely by being in it. Or perhaps the prisoners had taken courage from the unexpected success of the lady. Either way, the voices soon blended together into an incoherent shouting match. After several minutes of failed attempts to reassert control, Mr. Finley stopped trying and simply ignored the lot of them. He gave them his back and went to assist one of his shipmates, who was armed with a huge pile of blankets stacked well above his chin and was feeling his way into the brig, a foot stretched out ahead of him on the stairs to locate one step at a time. Together they brought down enough for everyone, causing the shouting to slowly die out. They had managed to surprise the prisoners again.
Meanwhile, Mr. Davidson had returned with a dozen armed guards and he went about reorganizing the placement of the captives, emptying a cell on the end for the women. Then they proceeded to string rope across the middle and front, so the ladies could hang blankets to act as thick curtains, effectively blocking half of their cell from the view of everyone else.
The redhead, Miss Pillsbury, as she informed the first mate in a tone that reminded Blaine very much of his last governess, seemed quite pleased that her request had been granted so quickly and thoroughly. Head held high, she courteously thanked the pirates for locking her in a prison cell with blankets for walls. Blaine's involuntary snicker turned into an awkward cough at a look from Johnny, and Blaine decided it would be a good idea to try to sleep off his headache.
TBC
"To capture the enemy's entire army is better than to destroy it; to take intact a regiment, a company, or a squad is better than to destroy them. For to win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the supreme of excellence. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the supreme excellence."
- Sun Tzu
