The next day, Mike called Kurt out of his room just after sunrise, insisting he meet the rest of the servants for breakfast. They went to the kitchens, where a small woman with red hair and big brown eyes that Mike introduced as Emma nervously shooed them through with an order to touch nothing. Mike quickly lead Kurt out the far side and into a wide room on the other side that held a long, beaten table with rickety wooden benches lined up along its sides.

“Everyone,” he called as they walked through, and the several people seated at the table looked up at them, “this is Kurt, the new court minstrel.”

“But he doesn’t look like a girl,” a pretty blonde girl sitting next to Tina said, staring at him blankly, “and it’s not due for another two weeks.”

Kurt tilted his head, trying to figure out what she was saying, but when he turned to Mike to ask the man shook his head minutely. Kurt made a note to ask later.

“You know Tina,” Mike said, “and that’s Brittany sitting next to her. They’re his Majesty’s maids.”

Kurt nodded hello at the blonde girl, who was quietly whispering something to Tina, who was shaking her head and whispering back.

“You know Wes and David—“ the two nodded at Kurt, smiling around their plates of food “—and that’s Mercedes, she’s head of the household. She keeps Tina and Brittany busy cleaning what they can manage.”

Kurt smiled at the curved, dark-skinned woman smiling a wide, white grin at him. She waved them over, and Mike slipped onto the bench near Tina. Kurt sat next to Mercedes.

“You have no idea how nice is to have someone new around here,” she said, her eyes bright and friendly. “These idiots get boring after a while.”

“Oh, come on, Mercedes, we’re not that bad,” said a man sitting across from them that Mike hadn’t named. His hair was shaved very close but for a stripe down the center of his head, and Kurt recognized it from stories his father brought back from markets—the mark of a warrior of some nomadic people that occasionally came into the kingdom on raids or trade caravans. Rachel claimed to be descended from them somewhere back, but Kurt had never been sure if she was lying to garner attention or if it were true, her mother having disappeared shortly after her birth.

“That’s Puck,” Mercedes said. She pointed at a blonde man next to him, “That’s Sam. They used to be the Prince’s guards, when he actually needed guarding against anything but bats.”

“Welcome to Dalton,” Sam said, smiling hopefully. “So are you going to be helping in the fields, or what?”

Mike cut in then, laughing.

“He’s got to talk to Santana later, but I don’t think he will, Sam,” he said, and Sam looked disappointed. “I don’t think he’ll be able to play the lute very well if his hands get cut up with those tools you use.”

“You make a good point,” Sam said, returning to his meal. Puck snorted, and Mercedes immediately glared over at him.

“What can you do?” Mercedes asked Kurt kindly, waving off Puck when he started to make faces at her. “Besides play the lute and sing pretty songs. We don’t have a lot of room for luxury around here, unfortunately, so we’ve all got to chip in where we can. The castle would fall apart otherwise.”

“I can sew,” Kurt said, “and cook a little.”

“Well, you won’t be putting that skill to work,” Mercedes said. “Emma won’t let anyone near the kitchens.”

“She’s a tyrant,” Wes agreed suddenly, looking up from his plate. “Good luck if you want to eat anything without her permission.”

“She just likes to have order, guys,” Mike said, ever the diplomat.

“Anyway,” Mercedes said loudly, taking control of the conversation again, “that leaves sewing. How good are you?”

“He made that outfit he’s wearing now,” Tina said, leaning over like she was imparting some juicy secret. “And you should’ve seen the one he wore last night. It was gorgeous.”

“I have to see it,” Mercedes insisted, laying a hand on Kurt’s arm.

“You should come by my rooms later,” Kurt said delightedly. “I can show you what I have.”

Mercedes clapped and nodded enthusiastically, smiling.

“We have time before Santana gets back, right Mike?”

Mike muttered something in the affirmative just as Emma came sweeping in with two plates in her hands.

“Okay, boys, eat up,” she said, placing them in front of Mike and Kurt before scurrying out again.

“Don’t mind her,” Mercedes said as Kurt started to eat his meal. “She’s just convinced we’re all going to make her sick or dirty or something. She doesn’t mean anything by it. Now I’m going to get things settled for the day, and I’ll drop by your room later, okay?”

Kurt nodded, waving and smiling as she left. 

A couple hours later Kurt was sitting in his room, playing his lute. He ran through as many songs as he could think of, practicing them for the Prince and picking out ahead of time what he would play, choosing a few simple lute songs and a few where he would sing.

“You play really well, Kurt.”

Mercedes was peeking her head around his door, which he’d left open in anticipation of her visit.

“Thank you,” he said, placing the lute down.

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “Now, show me these wonderful clothes of yours.”

They spent quite a while going through Kurt’s things, Mercedes cooing over pieces she liked particularly well. She’d adored the vest he’d worn for the Prince, running her hands over it and admiring it for several minutes.

“You know, these are really great,” she said. “We should have Mike show some of them to the Prince.”

“We can’t show him ourselves?”

Mercedes looked at Kurt like he’d grown a second head.

“The Prince doesn’t really talk to any of us, Kurt,” she explained, as though to a child. “He keeps to himself. If you want to talk to him or ask him anything, you have to go through Mike or Santana. Even Wes and David don’t talk to him much, and they were his grooms—no one gets closer to a Prince, except for someone in Mike’s position.”

Kurt almost mentioned that Blaine had spoken to him the previous night, and more than a few words at that, but he wasn’t sure if it was because it was his first night. He decided it’d be better not to say anything, though—he didn’t want to seem like he was bragging, especially if it was a fluke and the Prince had nothing further to say to him.

“Well, maybe I will have Mike show him,” Kurt said instead. “I could probably make him something better than what he was wearing last night—nothing fit.”

“We haven’t had someone who could sew in years,” Mercedes admitted. “I mean, for our clothes, what we can do is fine—we don’t need to look good with nobody but each other to impress. But a Prince shouldn’t be walking around in his brother’s old clothes.”

So Kurt’s suspicions had been correct. Blaine was walking around in Cooper’s clothes. He wondered if there was some deliberate, bitter symbolism about that—trying to fit in his brother’s place, but being just a bit too small.

Or maybe it was just because Blaine didn’t care. Who could tell?

“I only hope the Prince decides he should have better clothes,” Mercedes continued in a loud whisper, as though imparting juicy information that she hoped someone would overhear. “I mean…nobody knows if he’s going to shape up before next month, but we can all hope, right?”

“I doubt some new clothes are going to make the Halfling into a proper Prince.”

Mercedes gasped and spun around at the same time as Kurt, who had startled at the new voice. Standing before him, in the open doorway, was a beautiful woman with a body most would kill for—Kurt could just see Finn drooling on himself over her. But her voice was harsh and her eyes sharp, and Kurt immediately felt defensive, despite the fact that he could see Mike standing behind her.

“You can’t call him that, Santana!” she berated. “What if—“

“What if what?” Santana challenged, stepping into the room. “No one here talks to the Prince but me and Mike here, and neither of us are going to say anything.”

She turned her eyes on Kurt.

“So this is the Prince’s new toy, huh?” She smirked. “I don’t know why—maybe if Blaine did anything but sulk around all day, but what do I know. Maybe lady lips here will suck him right out of his rut.”

“Santana, enough,” Mike said. “The Prince wants you to work with Kurt on what he can do when he’s not performing. As you can see, Kurt is skilled with a needle—“

“—I bet he is—“

“—and can provide clothing for the Prince.”

“Why?” she shot back. “Not like he’s worn anything worth seeing since he was a kid. No one’s been around to see it.”

“And we’re all hoping that will change,” Mike said, stepping between Kurt and Santana. “I’m sure there are supplies for clothing a Prince somewhere in storage? Or perhaps we can pick some up at the next trip into town?”

Santana eyed Mike suspiciously.

“Whatever,” she said. “Not like Porcelain here could even do hard labor. I’m surprised he can even lift his lute.”

“Ignore her,” Mercedes said, turning to Kurt with a wry smirk. “She’s just upset that no one consulted her when you were sent for.”

“I’m the chamberlain!” Santana cut in. “I get the say on who gets hired here, and it’s not like we can afford another mouth around here.”

“The Prince gets the say, doesn’t he?” Kurt snapped. “And if I recall, he requested me himself.”

“Yeah, and you came just in time to leave again.” Santana stared down at him. “Fine. You’ll get your fabric and thread or whatever. And you can play for the Prince all you want. But I’m pretty sure Sebastian’s already got a clothier and despises minstrels, so you’ll be out on your ass soon enough.”

Kurt blanched, and couldn’t bring himself to correct the smug smile Santana threw him as she abruptly left. She thought he feared being thrown out—if only.

“Well,” Mike said, “that went better than I expected.”

Kurt eyed him incredulously.

“No, he’s right,” Mercedes said, giggling. “In Santana-speak, she basically gave you a welcome hug.”

“Is there anyone else I have to worry about meeting?” Kurt asked. “I’m not sure I can handle another first encounter like that.”

“You’ve met everyone but Beiste, the Armsmaster,” Mike said, “and you won’t meet her unless you go to the practice grounds or visit the fields when she’s working. But she’s not bad.”

Kurt nodded, feeling a little overwhelmed, and, for the first time, homesick, even though it had only been a day.

“We’ll leave you alone for a bit,” Mike said, obviously reading Kurt’s mood, gesturing for Mercedes to join him. “You can practice for tonight or relax or wander if you want—just be at the dining hall for supper, same time as last night.”

“I’ll be there,” Kurt said.

“See you then."

Mike left, and Mercedes followed, waving and calling out a soft goodbye. Kurt turned and folded up his clothes before settling again, picking up his lute and playing with it while he tried to process everything. 

“Do you know any stories?”

It was a few nights later. Each night, Kurt had played for the Prince, though he hadn’t been asked to sing again, nor had they had another conversation, so Kurt was caught a bit off guard at Blaine’s request. He continued to pluck out random notes on his lute, playing simply for the noise as Blaine shoved away his half-eaten meal and sipped at his wine.

“Many, my lord,” Kurt replied, nodding. “Would you like to hear one?”

Blaine simply nodded, humming in the affirmative. Kurt nodded in return, playing a few more notes on his lute while he thought of what story to tell.

He had plenty of stories to choose from, ones that he had been told all his life, ones that he had read in the small collection of books his mother had left behind, ones that he had created as a lonely child with no friends to play with. But his father’s words rang in his ears.

“Those songs you sing, those tales you tell—they have the potential to get the Prince thinking.”

“There is an old tale my mother used to tell me as I fell asleep at night, my lord,” Kurt said, preparing to head off any suspicions the Prince could have ahead of time. “One of my favorites.”

The Prince waved his hand for Kurt to proceed, settling in his chair. Behind him, Mike refilled his wine and stood back, nodding encouragingly at Kurt.

“Have you ever heard of the kingdom of Sylvester, my lord?”

Blaine shook his head, and Kurt had the impression that he was smiling.

“It is a far away kingdom, my lord,” he continued, “and very, very old. Its queen was just as old as it was, and her name was Doris. She had two daughters, and her daughters were as different as could be. The elder was named Jean, and she was the sweetest lady that the kingdom had ever seen. She was kind, and loved her people more than life itself, and the people loved her, too. And everyone was happy she was the elder, because her younger sister Sue was evil and cruel and no one wanted her to rule.

“The day came when Doris passed, and the kingdom fell to Jean. All the kingdom celebrated, because they could not have asked for a better queen. But one person was not celebrating.”

“Sue,” Blaine said, startling Kurt. Kurt beamed and nodded—it was always a pleasure when someone enjoyed a story enough to participate.

“Sue,” Kurt agreed. “She ran away to plot in secret and raise an army to steal the kingdom from Jean.”

Kurt took a deep breath. Time for the plunge.

“Jean was so sad at the disappearance of her sister that she stopped going out to see her people,” he said, hoping his voice was steady. “She withdrew from court and pined for her beloved sister, never knowing that all that time, Sue plotted to take the kingdom away from her.”

Kurt paused for a moment, trying to read the room. Blaine was impossible to read, but behind him, Mike was wide-eyed. Kurt scolded himself internally, wishing that perhaps he should have consulted Mike beforehand or come on a bit less strong, but there was no turning back now.

“The kingdom mourned the loss of their dear queen, praying for her return every day, and every day hoping that Sue would not act on her nefarious plot. But the time came when Sue stormed the castle, convinced she would be queen by nightfall.

“Jean stayed hidden away, and her love for her sister was so great that she was going to let her take over the kingdom, never realizing just how wicked Sue really was. She was convinced that it was best for her sister and her people. So Jean planned to surrender.

“But the people would not have it,” Kurt continued, his voice strong with conviction as he neared the end of his tale. “They loved Jean too much, and they rose up to defend her. Sue’s regiments could not defeat them, and when Jean saw what their love for her was accomplishing, she emerged from hiding and stepped forward to rule her people once more.”

Kurt fell silent. Behind Blaine, Mike looked particularly pale. Kurt felt himself blanching—had he erred that badly?

“Would you like to know how the story really ends?”

Kurt snapped his attention back to Blaine, who had gone rigid.

“My lord?”

“I asked you if you want to know how the story really ends.”

Kurt felt a cold dread form in the pit of his stomach, strengthened by the chill in Blaine’s voice. Kurt swallowed nervously and bowed his head.

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Sue wins,” Blaine snapped, smacking his goblet off the table as he stood. It flew across the room and clattered to the floor, spilling wine everywhere. “The people never rise for Jean, because the people do not care. They would never defend a ruler that had abandoned them.”

“My lord—“

“Leave us,” Blaine said, cutting Mike off sharply. Mike looked uncertainly between them, but he turned and left the room quickly. Kurt felt a cold sweat starting on the back of his neck.

“Do you think me an idiot?” Blaine asked, his hands clenching by his sides.

“No, my lord,” Kurt replied, his hands feelings heavy and awkward where they rested on his lute, holding it dead in his lap like it could somehow protect him. “I assure you this tale has been around for centuries—“

“I never questioned that,” Blaine growled, advancing a step. “But you cannot expect me to believe that you chose it arbitrarily.”

“Perhaps not, my lord,” Kurt admitted, raising his eyes to stare at where he hoped Blaine’s eyes were, hidden in darkness. If he was going to be in trouble for the story, he might as well earn it. “Perhaps I hoped that you were not an idiot and would take the story as it was meant.”

Blaine visibly froze, and Kurt stared back at him unwaveringly.

“You would dare—you would…”

“Yes, my lord,” Kurt said, nodding. “I would dare, if it would make a difference.”

“You are excused from my presence,” Blaine snapped, turning his back on Kurt pointedly. “Get out.”

Kurt paused, staring at the Prince’s back for a moment. Was that it? He wasn’t going to be put to death or banished?

There’s still time for that if you anger him further.

“Yes, my lord,” Kurt said, bowing at Blaine’s back before leaving the room as quickly as he could without sacrificing his dignity.

“What the hell was that?”

Kurt stopped, turning. Mike was waiting for him, arms crossed, eyebrows drawn down in anger.

“That was stupid, Kurt,” Mike scolded. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“I didn’t expect anything to happen, Mike,” Kurt replied, feeling weary. “But I couldn’t just sit there.”

“You don’t have any idea how to handle Blaine—“

“No,” Kurt snapped, “but maybe he doesn’t need to be handled. Maybe he needs to be told the truth.”

With that, he stalked away. 

Blaine returned to the dining hall as quietly as possible so as not to alert Mike that he had been eavesdropping. He’d intended to find his manservant in the first place, but what Kurt said was ricocheting around his head.

Maybe he doesn’t need to be handled.

Was that all Mike had been doing all these years? Just coddling him, hoping he’d come to his senses one day?

Maybe he needs to be told the truth.

What had been kept from him? He had always trusted his servants, and he was sure they never lied to him, but why would Kurt say that? Were they withholding from him, or toning down the reality so that he would not become upset?

Blaine prowled to the mantle and reached up, grasping the heavy sheet above. He ripped it down and stepped back out of the way of the cloud of dust that fell with it. He turned and grabbed the wineskin, drinking from it directly.

“Were you right all along, father?” Blaine asked, staring up at painting. It was a portrait of a severe looking man with a strong face and piercing blue eyes—eyes he had passed to Cooper but not to Blaine. “Am I as weak as you always told me?”

He drank again, deeply, wiping his lips on his sleeve when he spilled.

“You’d be so pleased to be right!” he shouted, spreading his hands, as though inviting the painting to come to life and attack. “I have spent seven years proving you correct. I could not step up and be a man, I have never been a man to you. And I have not been a man to anyone else either. They treat me like a child.”

He drained the remainder of the wine and threw the skin to the ground, pacing in front of the fire, casting his eyes up angrily at his father’s face.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Blaine snarled, shaking his head. “Mike has told me everything about Kurt—how he was told his whole life that he wasn’t a man. But he’s certainly acting like one, and despite the fact that anyone else would have had him flogged for his impertinence, he’s the only one treating me like one as well.”

He stopped directly in front of the portrait, hands on hips, legs spread, shoulders back. He hadn’t stood so tall in years. He stared up, throwing back his hood and feeling as though, even through death, his father was staring directly at him.

“I can’t believe he spoke to me like that,” he said. “I only wish I had had the nerve to speak to you like that. I only wish I had that courage. Maybe then Cooper would still be here and I would be gone instead.”

He wiped his eyes quickly and looked up again, as though for an answer.

“Isn’t that what you would’ve wanted?”