Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.

More Than a Little Crazy

Ch. 2 Ocean Eyes

Ever since he was little, Kurt wondered what it would feel like to be so famous, so important, that he had his own personal bodyguards. One thing was certain – it would be awesome.

Granted, this wasn't exactly what he had in mind.

A heavily armed man stood to his left, right, front, and behind, escorting him through the streets like he actually posed a threat (something Kurt seriously doubted, seeing as his thigh was about half the size of each of his guards' necks). Civilians came out of their houses, clutching spouses and children, crying and jeering as he passed under the pouring rain. The urge to shout a mass apology to the night weighed upon his lungs, heavy, but he forced it to lighten with every ounce of sheer willpower he possessed. He was innocent, this was all an accident – nothing to apologize for.

Still, he couldn't help casting a sorry look at a mother and her four quivering children. Soon, the record was going to be set straight. Soon, they would understand.

Kurt was loaded into a horse drawn carriage with a roof and tinted black windows. It was stifling, uncomfortable as the guards squeezed next to him – not at all romantic, like he'd once imagined. The carriage took off, jiggling down the bumpy road. Kurt allowed his eyes to drift closed, picturing the beaches and wild forests of Glee; his house, his room, his few friends, his stepmom; his dad.

His dad. How would his dad possibly cope at the loss of his son? Would it make him sick again, make him lose hope like he had when he first lost his wife? What if –?

No, Kurt scorned. He hasn't lost you yet – and he's not going to.

The carriage slowed to a stop. The men pushed him out onto a grassy field and Kurt was left gaping up at a magnificent castle. Blue marble, and red wood, and gorgeous oak accented it; turrets reached like insatiable fingers into the clouds; stained-glass windows filtered candlelight in glorious rainbow patterns. It sure gave the aged, scruffy castle of Glee a run for its money.

But even though Dalton's castle was beautiful, pristine, and pretty much a boy like Kurt's dream home – it was different than Glee in more ways than one. Whereas King Schuster's abode always felt lived in, visited, loved – this place had a distinctly impersonal aura.

Someone shoved him between the shoulder blades and Kurt stumbled up the granite path to the castle doors, looking remarkably like monsters awaiting their feast.

-X-

The doors to the hospital wing burst open and in stormed Knight David; tall, black, strong. His dark eyes shone with pure compassion. "How is he?"

Blaine glanced at Wes, lying shirtless on the cot as a nurse tended to his mangled shoulder. A light sheen of sweat coated his forehead and his face was contorted in pain.

"He's holding on," said Blaine. He turned to his other best friend. "What happened?"

"There was an attack from three ships. Cannons, and then a bit of gunfire. Wes got hit in the shoulder with a bullet," David explained.

Blaine shook his head in disgust. "Are they still out there?"

"Nah." David sneered. "We capsized one of their ships and they took off as fast as they could."

Cowards, Blaine thought darkly.

"We managed to capture one of their men, though. That's actually why I'm here. They've brought the kid in for questioning and the king wants you there." David lowered his voice a smidgen. "I think it's a test of some sort, just to warn you."

Blaine nodded, standing tiredly. It was a testament to their friendship that Blaine allowed David to see him at anything less than his utter best. "Thanks a lot, David. Look after him for me?"

"Always."

The prince exited the infirmary and headed toward the Great Ballroom, where he knew the prisoner would be prosecuted. That was usually part of the punishment: the humiliation of being tried in a public setting. This tactic sometimes bothered Blaine – sure, what these criminals did was disgusting . . . but weren't the good people of Dalton above stooping to their level?

Walking into the ballroom was much different the second time around. Gone was the happy air, the excitement bubbling like water in a witch's cauldron. Now, unnerved whispers rippled through the room and the partygoers kept to the perimeter.

Blaine approached the head table once again and took his usual seat for council meetings, between his father and mother. He stared cautiously down to the center of the room, where a man . . . boy . . . was flanked by guards. He was very slim and looked to be almost – though not quite – as short as Blaine, with wet brown hair obscuring his face from view. In an overlarge sailor uniform and soaked to the bone, he didn't look like a cruel hearted villain who would ambush an unsuspecting nation, but rather a trembling little boy, scared out of his mind – much like Blaine himself often felt.

"One thing first, son," Blaine's father murmured.

"Hmm?" Blaine hummed.

"Today you will be leading the trial."

Still focused on the boy, it took a moment the king's words to process. But when they did, Blaine was outraged. "I – what!" He whirled around to protest; King Charles cocked his head subtly, indicating their audience. And a noble man never lost composure in front of an audience.

Blaine forced himself to relax. This wasn't the first time he had led a trial, or spoken publicly. The only real differences were that, now, he had to rely on knowledge and intuition without the guidance of a script, and there was a bit more at stake.

No big deal. Right.

Clearing his throat, Blaine began in his most authoritative tone, "Prisoner, state your name."

The boy murmured something; Blaine could just make out the dent of his lower lip drop and lift.

Blaine didn't even spare the king a nervous glance. He could do this; it was what he was brought up to do: to lead, to judge – it was in his blood. "Speak up, prisoner!"

"Kurt Hummel. My name is Kurt Hummel." His voice was like a male, commoner version of Princess Quinn's: lilting and creamy, proud, but a bit more vulnerable and a smidge less snotty.

"Let us see your face, Kurt Hummel. Raise your eyes," Blaine ordered. For a moment, he thought the boy would refuse, continue to stare determinedly at his shoes – but then he tilted his head so his bangs fell back from his face, exposing his cold eyes for the first time. And Blaine felt his resolve quiver.

Those eyes, poring with unadulterated venom into Blaine's, were fascinating – blue, some green, a little gray. The colors seemed to swirl over one another, fighting for acknowledgement and dominance, ebbing and flowing furiously just like the ocean. After years of gazing hard at alluring princesses, trying to feel something – anything – Blaine could easily admit that this young, prison boy possessed the most gripping pair of eyes he had ever set sights on.

It was quite embarrassing, to tell the truth, but Blaine could feel himself drinking in Kurt Hummel's face, almost hungrily – the smooth lines, alabaster skin, rose red lips. To be ridiculously frank, he was . . . beautiful. Absolutely stunning. Which was odd, since never before had Blaine applied either of those adjectives to another man. But there was simply no other way to put it.

Kurt Hummel stared at him, a bemused crease between his arched eyebrows, a tiny frown twisting his lips. What was he seeing? Did he feel an intense, electric connection, too?

Blaine wasn't aware of the uncomfortable murmurings of the Council and crowd, until his father pointedly cleared his throat. Blaine started, troubled at how easily he had allowed himself to succumb to distractions. Focus, Blaine. Focus.

"How old are you, Kurt Hummel?" he continued, relieved when his voice only slightly cracked.

"Sixteen," said Kurt. "And a half. Soon to be seventeen."

Oh my god. He was sixteen. Sixteen! That was younger than Blaine . . . he was just a kid . . .

"Where do you come from, sir?" Blaine forced from abruptly chapped lips.

Kurt seemed to hesitate, glancing around as if searching for escape routes. Apparently, he found none. "I come from the kingdom of Glee."

Blaine exchanged a glance with King Charles; he was certain that there were very few, if any, nobles from Glee attending the ball tonight. Though it held its own, the relatively small nation was far from prestigious. Was that why they attacked?

As if he knew exactly what the prince was thinking, Kurt blurted, "We didn't attack you, though. I mean, not entirely."

"Oh?" Blaine asked, eyebrows climbing.

Uncle Edgar, who had been on the Council almost as long as the king himself, spoke. "We have it on good authority that the ships attacking Dalton were Glee originals. And at the site of the wreckage, these were found." He carefully produced a stack of mottled papers from an envelope; through the streams of ink and salt, Blaine could make out the words, Hudson and Berry for King and Queen. He knew enough about politics to quickly catch his uncle's drift.

"Finn Hudson is a respected knight and Rachel Berry a well-known countess of Glee," Blaine said. "They are also strong contenders for King and Queen, are they not?"

"Well, yes . . ." Kurt sputtered, "but that doesn't mean –!"

"Did they order the attack? Was it some sort of twisted campaigning mechanism?"

"No!" Kurt snapped harshly. "Now if you'll please let go of all that egotistical testosterone and listen to me . . ." Blaine blinked; how could anyone of Kurt Hummel's position speak before the Council in such a rude manner? "I have good reason to believe that my nation was tricked into co-initiating an attack on Dalton by Queen Sylvester of McKinley."

The uproar was instantaneous. A good percentage of the noble men's wives must have once been part of Queen Sylvester's cult – er, family – and, thus, they took great offense to this notion. Princess Quinn stepped forward, olive eyes flashing.

"I have lived under the care of Queen Sylvester for the last fourteen years of my life," she said with remarkable grace and power for a woman, "and, therefore, I know she would never commit such a heinous act." There was a murmur of agreement and Blaine glanced briefly to the girls flanking Quinn. He saw it then. It wasn't much and it was probably a trick of the light, but he could have sworn Santana's lips quirked devilishly – like she was hiding a secret – as she exchanged a loaded glance with Brittany. But just when his mind was able to process the actions, the two girls were staring straightforward again, faces as somber and outraged as everyone else's.

Hmm. Curious.

For the first time since the hearing began, King Charles spoke: "SILENCE!" The effect was immediate; every sound seemed to quiet, even the rain pattering the rooftop and the winds howling outside. He nodded for his son to continue.

"That is a very serious accusation, sir," said Blaine. Kurt looked a little frightened by the chaos he had just caused, but at the sound of the prince's gentle voice, he stiffened his shoulders again. "As you probably just concluded, such an accusation affects many people."

"That doesn't stop it from being true." Kurt's voice was a mere whisper, and yet Blaine imagined he could hear every single carefully pronounced syllable, measured breath, emotion veiled behind each word.

He didn't know how to answer.

"It seems to me, that it is too soon to draw a verdict at this time," the queen cut in, radiating tranquil authority. "Emotions are too high and there is simply not enough evidence for either possible conviction. I suggest we set our best detectives onto the case and lay it to rest, for now." She moved her eyes to stare at her son; something Blaine felt was immeasurably eerie. For the most part, Blaine and his mother were complete opposites physically: Queen Anastasia was tall and willowy, while he was short and well built; she had flowing golden hair, as opposed to his shock of a dark mess; her skin shone like the luminous moonlight, whereas his was distinctly olive in tone. But their eyes – that hazel blend of brown and green and gold – were startlingly identical. "Don't you agree, Prince?"

"Uh – yes, yes I do." He knew better than to go against his mother. "This case will be put on an indefinite hiatus as the investigation about the ambush continues. Kurt Hummel will be kept here in the safety of Dalton Castle. Council dismissed."

The guards rushed Kurt away and conversation gradually started to pick up again. Queen Anastasia stood gracefully and began to fuss (or as much as she could fuss) over the guests' living accommodations during the rowdy storm, and moving the unfinished ball to a later date. The adrenaline rush of the trial crashing to an abrupt halt, Blaine slumped back in his seat.

"Come, son," King Charles murmured. "Into the hallway. The Council still has things to discuss."

Blaine refused to run a hand over his face in frustration. He was going to be a king, and such a life was taxing; he'd always known it would be.

Following the eleven older men (the queen was the only woman on the Council) into the hallway, he watched as chaos immediately broke out.

"I demand we sentence the varmint to the death penalty at once!" Uncle Edgar exclaimed. "He's unsafe to the public, or to any of us – there's only one way to guarantee our well-being –,"

"The death of a single teenage boy does not guarantee our well-being, brother," King Charles placated. "Plus, we have no right to decide upon such a fate yet. He can't be proven guilty –,"

"He can't be proven innocent, either, Charles. And what's the life of one little commoner where countries are at stake –,"

"I was once a commoner," Lord David II – Knight David's father – said in his deep, rumbling roar. "And trust me when I say that to the right person, one commoner's life could be more valuable than any country, no matter how grand."

Uncle Edgar sneered. "Yes, and I have very well made no secret of what I think about your position on this once sacred Council, Lord –,"

"What's worse, Edgar?" Duke Wesley VIII – Wes' father – asked, pure contempt evident in his hiss. "Inheriting your spot in the Council or earning it?"

"ENOUGH!" Blaine's father boomed, before this could escalate into a full brawl: the men who had not yet spoken looked on edge, ready to jump to the defense of their opinion. "You are losing sight of the real matter at hand: there is a boy – who may or may not have been involved in the first major attack on Dalton's homeland in nearly a century – and needs adequate housing, until his case can be brought up again. Any suggestions, gentlemen?"

"It seems obvious to me," said Duke Wesley. "Keep him in the dungeons, feed him three square meals a day, bathe him once a week or so – he's cared for, and yet unable to pose a serious threat to anyone. Perfect, no?"

The other ten men made noises of varying degrees of assent.

Blaine had planned on sticking to the sidelines while the more experienced, capable men did the work, like he always did – but he remembered visiting the dungeons once, in his youth. They were disgusting, barely cleaned, filled with the stench of death and torture and madness – and oh so lonely. He wasn't sure why, but he knew, deep in his core, that he could hardly allow the boy with the ocean eyes such a monstrosity. At least, not without a fight.

"No," he said, causing eleven heads to whip around to him in tandem. Like they'd forgotten that, being the king's son, he was technically a part of this Council, too, and could do more than recite lines and look pretty. "I don't think the Dungeons are appropriate for the prisoner."

"And why is that, son?" asked King Charles, frowning. "As you just said, the Hummel boy is a prisoner. And prisoners belong in the dungeons."

"The dungeons are revolting, Father," Blaine stated matter-of-factly. "I've been down there before – there's fungi, mold, disease ridden rats – it's hardly sanitary."

"You have never questioned the dungeons' propriety before."

"And I'm not doing so now," he insisted. "That type of environment is perfectly appropriate for thirty-year-old convicted murderers, but a sixteen-year-old boy who might not even be guilty of a crime? It doesn't seem . . . humane."

Blaine noticed Lord David beginning to bristle; like his son, he always was the most benevolent of his comrades.

"Besides," Blaine tried slowly, looking into each Council member's eyes for emphasis, "just think: plenty of prisoners die from diseases each year in the dungeons. Do you really want to risk that of Sir Kurt? It is my professional opinion that he could still be of use to us yet."

Finally, he saw his words dent the Council's armor. The nobles stroked their beards in consideration, as Uncle Edgar scowled and the king arched an eyebrow.

"And what do you suppose we do with him instead?" King Charles asked.

It didn't take long for Blaine to draw on an idea: a stupid, probably reckless idea, but an idea nonetheless. "I will bear the full responsibility of taking him on as my personal servant."

"And get yourself killed?" the king barked. "Preposterous!"

"I don't believe Kurt Hummel will hurt me. He might not even be physically capable of doing so. With an army is one thing, but have you seen his size? I doubt he held a position higher than deckhand on his ship," Blaine pointed out. His eyes sharpened on his father's. "Besides, like you've stressed to me so often, I am going to be King soon. And part of being a good leader means taking risks, especially for the benefit of the whole. You taught me that."

Now, several people were nodding, impassioned. Hook, line, and sinker, Blaine thought smugly.

"Well . . ." King Charles tried not to look too proud at the thought of having taught such an invaluable life lesson to his son. "I suppose you have a valid point . . ."

Blaine waited with baited breath.

"Fine then," the king agreed. He drew himself up to his full height, which didn't even reach Blaine's. "The prison boy can be your servant. But he is your full responsibility. And if I ever see him wandering the castle halls on his own, even once – the deal is off. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Blaine nodded eagerly. "Of course, sir."

King Charles nodded once more, before leading the Council members back into the ballroom, one by one, until it was only Blaine and his uncle left alone in the hallway. Blaine shifted awkwardly; he never felt entirely comfortable being alone in the presence of Edgar – an angry Edgar was a whole different story.

"To use your own words," Uncle Edgar hissed, "that was a very humane gesture of you."

Blaine acknowledged the (sort of) compliment stiffly. "Thank you."

"Oh, please – do not mistake me." Uncle Edgar smiled, but there was no trace of humor or warmth, or even familial bond – simply bitter malice. "Humanity has no place in the ruler of a nation."

-X-

Footsteps echoed off the stone floor, eerily reverberating around them. Dust and a suffocating humidity hung low in the air, much to Kurt's chagrin – his complexion was already tarnished enough, as it was.

Behind the bars of the cells they passed, Kurt caught sight of a gray-bearded elderly man, hunched in a corner and muttering to himself about "Mother" and "tomato soup"; a stark naked woman, whose body was badly scarred, performing some sort of tribal dance around a rotting animal carcass; a feral looking creature that bared its jagged fangs, but possessed unnervingly human eyes . . . Was this really where the Dalton Council saw fit to store Kurt? Call him old fashioned, but he always had a soft spot for the "innocent until proven guilty" theory.

They reached an empty cell; one of Kurt's guards stepped forward with a large, rusted key and unlocked the barred door. Another guard shoved Kurt into the dank holding pen and slammed the door shut behind him.

"Hey!" Kurt snapped, but the guards were already leaving him.

Alone. Again. Typical.

Exhaling heavily, Kurt collapsed to the floor, back against a wall. He was cold, tired, and no one could see him – so, for the first time since his arrest, he permitted blistering tears to drip down his cheeks.

Were the ships back home yet? Had his dad, or perhaps Mercedes, realized he was missing by now?

Had anyone?

Maybe Karofsky would guess what happened. Then he could tell someone . . .

Kurt tiredly shook his head. Who was he kidding? If his dimwitted brain could even possibly figure out the truth, Karofsky wouldn't tell a soul; he'd be glad to be rid of Kurt, of the reminder Kurt posed, of the constant fear that his dirty secret would get out . . .

A light rattling drifted to his ears and Kurt buried his face in his hands. Was he going mad already?

But then, peeking between his fingers, he saw it. The single diamond shaped head, and black and yellow body that was wriggling through a slim crack between the wall and the floor. A rattler on the end its tail beat back and forth rapidly. Eyes were black and ravenous.

Kurt's breath caught. He made a move to scoot away, but the snake was so close. It perched on his shoe, slithered up his knee, his thigh, wound around his torso until its head perched precariously on his shoulder. Tongue darted out, flickered against his neck, moistening the salty skin there, course with goose bumps.

Kurt closed his eyes as the snake prepared to strike.

-X-

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day!

Thank you SO much for the reviews, along with favorites and alerts! It means the world to me that people would be so kind and helpful:)

NEXT CHAPTER: Blaine plays hero, Brittany gets lost, and Kurt meets someone to give him a run for his money in bitchiness.

Squid