Supper was a disaster, to say the least.

Blaine had arrived before Wes and David could set the table, so he and Kurt sat in silence, Kurt on his stool and Blaine at the table, waiting for them to finish scrambling about in efforts to put the night back on track. Mike stood stoically by his master’s side, and Kurt noticed a certain…tension between them. He tried to catch Mike’s eye for even a clue as to what had happened since he’d left the Prince’s chambers earlier that day, but Mike kept his eyes resolutely fixed on some spot above Kurt’s head.

Once the Prince actually had his food in front of him, Kurt noticed he didn’t actually eat. He stabbed the food, and cut it, and pushed it around his plate, but Kurt didn’t see him lift the food to his mouth once. And Blaine kept shooting what he felt were annoyed glances in his direction—hard to tell, based on the fact that Kurt had never seen his face and could only base his assumptions on body language and intuition. He tried to keep his playing light and slow—not too happy, though, for he felt that would seem contrary and obnoxious. He improvised much, but he didn’t have his heart in it, so for the most part the playing was mediocre at best.

However, Blaine drank heavily. Mike hadn’t touched the wineskin once—Blaine had refilled his own drink several times now, and Kurt felt the tension in the room rising with every gulp he took.

Finally, Blaine shoved his plate away and sat back, more forcefully than he had previously. It was his universal sign that he was finished. And a few times over the past week, he’d requested something more from Kurt by this point—first a song, then a story. Kurt wondered if the Prince would follow the pattern, and what he could expect next.

“I would request a tale,” Blaine said, and Kurt flinched at his chilly tone, “but I’m not sure that’s wise.”

Kurt continued picking at the lute, biting his lip and keeping his head low. He kept silent.

“Perhaps a song? One…without words, I think.”

Kurt stopped his idle playing and sighed, thinking on what to play.

“Yes, my lord.”

He had never heard himself sound so defeated. After his visit to the Prince earlier, he had gone back to his rooms and berated himself for the majority of the day. He had skipped lunch, and was consequently feeling somewhat lightheaded, and he was depressed at the prospect of serving this man with whom there appeared to be no hope. He had all but resigned himself already to facing Sebastian within the next month.

He started up a plaintive tune, the first thing he could think of that wasn’t a funeral dirge or a love song, either of which would have been inappropriate. Normally, this song did have words—an old village ditty about keeping a flame alight to guide a lost lover—but Kurt kept his mouth shut.

“Enough,” Blaine said about halfway through the song, waving his hand dismissively. His voice sounded curiously thick, but Kurt wasn’t surprised given the amount of alcohol he had consumed over the past hour. “If I wanted below average twangling I would have Wes or David play.”

Kurt fought the rising boil in his gut. It would do no good to snap back at Blaine now. He could only hold his tongue and hope this sour mood passed. He had hoped to escape this sort of abuse when he left Lima, but it had only been a day, after all. Hopefully Blaine would not sustain his obvious dislike, and the best way to foster that was to remain obedient and demure.

“Well, let us return to my chambers to get you your measurements,” Blaine said suddenly, rising from his seat. “Let not the entire night be a waste. Mike, take Kurt to my chambers—I will join you there shortly.”

Kurt bowed his head and rose, falling into step beside Mike, who still would not look at him, as he lead the way out.

Why is everyone avoiding my gaze? Have I truly damaged things this deeply? 

Blaine was drunk.

That was probably the reason he thought it was a good idea to slip through the concealed door and into the darkened nook by the metal spiral staircase that ran up to the King’s office above. He shifted into the corner and leant into the joining of the two walls, holding himself up as best he could with his head swimming.

A moment later Kurt and Mike entered. Blaine remained perfectly still, hoping that the darkness and about twenty feet of distance would keep him concealed as he watched.

“Why is the Prince doing this?”

Mike turned and faced Kurt, shaking his head and sighing.

“What part?”

“All of it,” Kurt said. “I know I overstepped my bounds, and I am sorry, but I thought…I suppose that when Santana told me he planned no action against me, I thought that meant he would drop the matter, or approach it civilly. But I have faced nothing but his ire all day, and I have no idea how to make it better.”

“Give him time,” Mike advised. “Blaine is a good man; a reasonable man. He just…this is a trying time for us all.”

“I just don’t understand why it needs to stay trying,” Kurt said, his exasperation clear. “Why is he so…so afraid?”

“Kurt, it’s complicated, and it’s not my place to tell you. If the Prince should decide to tell you himself one day, he will.” Blaine nodded in the shadows. Mike was a good friend and servant to keep his secrets—it would have been only too easy to tell Kurt everything.

“I doubt that,” Kurt scoffed. “I’ve lost his trust before I even had it.”

“Well, you did act rather rashly.”

“What else am I supposed to do, Mike?” Kurt paced, keeping an eye on the door. Blaine realized he was making sure Blaine wouldn’t walk in. Ha. “Anything I can do to make him see. Sebastian is the worst thing that can happen to anyone in this castle, not to mention the entire kingdom.”

“You say that like you’ve had personal experience with him.”

Kurt turned to look at Mike, his face draining of color, and Blaine watched closely. What was that about?

“I have,” Kurt said, “but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“My point is that something needs to happen!” Kurt burst out. “He just sits there and lets everything happen to him instead of making any kind of decision! I mean, even actively stepping down would be better than this, this—passivity. And as much as it pains me to say, at least Sebastian is a man of action.”

Blaine’s temper abruptly snapped. Kurt understood nothing, but he stood there like he knew everything and—

“And the maddening part is that he very well might be getting ready to do something. I would be thrilled if he did. But I just wish I knew, so I could stop being terrified of what’s to come. I mean…why would he want this outfit if not to be seen in it?”

Blaine stepped out of the shadows and moved toward the two where they stood. Kurt had his back to him, but Mike saw him, his eyes widening and his mouth drawing into a tight line. Blaine felt himself sobering by the second—no alcohol could quell the rage that was and had always been fuelled by misunderstanding.

Blaine stared at the back of Kurt’s head, his dying inebriation offering him some reluctant honesty. If he were less beautiful, less of everything I’d ever dreamed of, would I have taken any of his words so hard?

“I would like to look my best,” he said, his voice harsh, “when Sebastian comes to kill me. I wouldn’t want to seem ungrateful for his help.”

Kurt spun around, mesmerizing eyes wide with sudden terror.

“Do you think my dear cousin would appreciate the gesture?” he continued. “Maybe he’d even grant me a quick death, what do you think? Since you know him?”

“My lord, that’s not what I meant, I—“

“Perhaps we could send him a message when the garment is ready, so we don’t waste any more time.” Blaine advanced closer. “I wouldn’t want him to go against nature and wait around. Would you like to deliver the message yourself? I’m sure he’d be thrilled to see you.”

Kurt looked abruptly sick, and Blaine paused, his anger cooling after his outburst. He stopped moving, unclenching his fists.

“You’ll excuse me, my lord.”

Kurt sounded like he was choking, but before Blaine or Mike could comment he plucked up a candle and was all but running out the door.

“Kurt did not deserve that.”

Blaine rounded on Mike, but he couldn’t seem to summon the fiery wrath that Kurt had elicited. You know what they say about passion and anger…

Blaine sighed heavily. He was feeling very heavy—weary as though he’d been traveling for days without rest.

“I cannot seem to control myself around him,” he admitted quietly, tired of fighting the truth. “He makes me feel things…so strongly. And after so many years feeling nothing, it is overwhelming.”

Blaine didn’t look at Mike, but the air was awkward, as though Mike had no idea what to reply. Blaine spared him.

“I will be in my office,” he said, heading to the spiral staircase he hid behind not ten minutes prior. “I need…to think.”

And as he walked up the stairs and into the office, settling in the large leather chair that Cooper had favored, he did. Kurt had been swirling in his head since he first heard of the man, his presence growing stronger with each day despite the fact that Blaine had had to resist all his instincts in order to keep the man at a distance. Kurt was like some mysterious god, some seductive specter of divinity that beckoned him to pray, to make pilgrimage and beg for grace. He was so distant to Blaine, so far out of his reach, and so temptingly flesh before him. And Blaine knew the stories of men who dared to love the gods—it never ended well.

But Kurt isn’t actually a god, you dolt.

No, Kurt wasn’t a god, and it was all the more frustrating. Blaine had no idea what to do with the feelings slowly spreading from his heart, his uncontrollable heart, seeping in his bloodstream until they reached every inch of him. He had no clue how to proceed, how to act, how to do anything. Kurt was right—Blaine was not a man of action. As children, Cooper had always been the one to start the games, to take charge, to lead. Blaine, so much younger and so prone to idolizing his older brother, had been only too happy to follow, desperate to please his hero. And when they had grown older, it was clear that Blaine was not nearly as openly charismatic as Cooper. Those close to him loved him fiercely—the loyalty of those who had remained with him was proof of that. But Blaine had never been granted opportunity to learn how to lead. It had been thrust, so unwelcome, upon him, and in his trauma and his fear he had hidden from it.

Blaine wasn’t entirely certain he could force himself to be that leader. He knew some people saw it in him—they would have run long ago had they not. It was just unlocking that potential and defeating his indecision that was proving difficult.

If only he could learn from Kurt. Kurt was a force. Kurt was fierce and passionate and so, so strong. His character was only strengthened by his previous adversity, not beaten down like Blaine’s. And Blaine hadn’t even seen that much empirical evidence of it—it was just so present in everything Kurt did, everything he was, every move he made. He didn’t have to prove it. It was part of what made Blaine admire him so much.

And then there was Sebastian to contend with. The sword over his head; the noose awaiting his neck. He was a leader, though not of the kind that commanded love—no, people respected Sebastian out of fear. He was ruthless and cruel. Blaine had only met the man a few times as children, and he had always been the one to knock down the other children when he wanted a toy. And from all Blaine had heard, he was still that way, only now his toys were people rather than wooden swords or a leather ball.

How do he and Kurt know each other?

Blaine supposed Kurt may have come across Sebastian naturally—Sebastian was lord of Lima, and it was from where Kurt hailed. But Kurt’s reactions whenever Lord Smythe was mentioned told a different story, one that Blaine could not quite figure out. Had Kurt met him in the tavern? Sebastian did go out drinking with his men sometimes, after successful raids. Or had he come across Kurt at a market? Had they spoken?

And a scared, vicious corner of his soul quietly whispered to him, How intimately do they know each other?

Had they been lovers, once? Sebastian took many lovers; it would not be surprising if he had noticed beautiful, luminous Kurt. Sebastian would leap at the opportunity to have someone so precious, so fine. And it would explain Kurt’s reactions to any mention of Sebastian—was he truly a jilted former lover? Blaine burned with jealousy. His mind twisted with images of Kurt writhing beneath Sebastian, their hands all over each other, Sebastian coaxing moans and whimpers from Kurt’s reddened lips, thrusting into him with Kurt’s white legs wrapped around his back, all the while staring at Blaine, daring him to do better, be more of a man…

Blaine felt his stomach turn to acid, and he didn’t know if he felt more desire to know exactly what had occurred between Kurt and Sebastian or to plug his ears and never learn the truth. If Kurt had been a notch on Sebastian’s bed post, Blaine didn’t know if he could handle that, if he could compare—and if he were totally honest with himself, he yearned for the opportunity to compare, to feel Kurt beneath him, to draw out his voice and his heart through the touches of his body—

Crash.

Blaine started, head whipping around. Such a loud noise, from close by. It had sounded like something breaking.

It had come from the next room .

Kurt found himself in the middle of the court after running out, standing directly beneath the wrecked chandelier. He was trembling, nauseous and scared, the movements of his hand flickering the candle alarmingly. He shouldn’t be having this reaction every time someone even mentioned Sebastian’s name—he should be stronger than this. But whenever he was reminded of the Lord of Lima, he could feel the man’s hands groping him and his hot breath seeping down his collar. He heard Sebastian again and again in his head; you will continue to allow me to do with you what I like for as long as I wish it.

And he was coming soon. His father couldn’t protect him now. And when he came, and he found Kurt here, already part of the household he was taking over, he would be so pleased to find Kurt already installed for him.

Unless he becomes jealous, Kurt thought, sending a fresh wave of sickness through him. In which case he’ll either throw you away or find a way to mark you as his own…

And it was all because of Blaine. Blaine, who would not rule. Who perhaps did not want to rule, and was too scared or indecisive to just step down. Kurt’s only protection now. A man whom he had offended, and who subsequently had, in his temper, taken what appeared to be every effort to make him miserable.

Kurt looked up, studying what he could of the court in the faint light of the candle. It really could be so beautiful, here. It had been, once.

Something caught his eye when he looked up. The colonnade at the head of the staircases that ran on either side of the room. He remembered his first day here, gods, was it only less than a week ago, and how he had imagined something moving there—

—had he imagined it? Or had it been Blaine?

Had Blaine been watching him?

Kurt placed a careful foot on the large steps. The dust was thick—no one had gone up these stairs for a long time.

Because it’s forbidden.

Well, only the western side, anyway. So it couldn’t hurt to go up and see just what Blaine had seen that first day, assuming it had been him that Kurt had spied moving around.

He reached the head of the stairs and turned around. Yes, from up here, the entire court was easily viewed, and Blaine would have had a great view of Kurt and Mike entering and walking through. Had he just spent the day in the colonnade, with the dusty paintings and half-cracked statues of the gallery, looming in darkness and waiting for his new minstrel to arrive?

Kurt looked around a bit. There were large doors on either end of the hallway, much like the one below. The one on the eastern side was closed, but he noticed the western one opened just a crack.

Damn it all.

Kurt moved forward, his curiosity overcoming his wariness of the rules the Prince had set down. It didn’t help that Kurt felt like doing Blaine no favors after his treatment over the past twenty-four hours.

He moved through the door, slipping in without disturbing it too much. The dust on the floor here was disturbed in many places. Kurt looked around in the faint candlelight, holding it up by the little brass handle on the side of the holder. He appeared to be in a library, shelves and shelves of books rotting away beneath years of grime.

He paced about the room, noting the windows that looked down on the castle entrance below—so Blaine saw when I was coming. The room had a damp, musty smell, and Kurt found it unpleasant, especially given his love of stories and reading; it felt like a ruined temple to him, desecrated and sacrilegious.

He came upon another door, just to the right of the one he came through, and throwing caution to the wind, he pulled it open. He was faced with another colonnade looking down on the court. Instead of being open but for a low railing, like in the upper gallery, there was open latticework. One would be able to move around up here without much notice from below, shielded by the thick, ornate wood carved in decorated circles and chevrons. Peering across the court, Kurt could not see the eastern side, so he did not know if there was a matching wall, but he was certain there was at least the appearance of one. It was probably that only the king—and this was the king’s wing of the castle, Kurt now knew—that was allowed a secret way to look down on his court.

He walked down the hallway, careful to step lightly. The dust was run down here, as though it was walked on often, so he didn’t fear leaving footprints, but he was wearing his boots, and they were heavy enough to make noise should he be careless. About halfway down, he came to a door.

Kurt faced it, the candlelight flickering. He was almost out of candle—he’d have to be quick, or find a replacement soon, or he’d be walking through the castle in the dark.

Do I go in, Kurt asked himself, and defy my orders, and risk the Prince finding out and punishing me further? Or do I leave now?

Kurt thought back to the last day, and of what was to come. Blaine wasn’t going to be around much longer, by the looks of things—so who cared if he was angered? Maybe if Blaine was angry enough, he’d send Kurt home and Kurt would have his father’s protection again.

Or maybe he’ll have you punished…

He opened the door.

He found himself in a long room, all marble floors and walls. It was a gallery, full of paintings and sculptures. Most of the sculptures were knocked over, a few of them broken here and there. However, most of the pictures seemed untouched. Kurt looked at the nearest one and gasped.

It was the old King.

He had never seen him in person, but he had seen paintings of the man before. He was an intimidating man, and Cooper had looked a bit like him, though much friendlier in demeanor. The man in the picture before him was cold and stern. Kurt shivered and moved on.

He found paintings of the queen, an exotic beauty with dense ringlets of ebony hair and large golden eyes, and what were probably other family members around the room, given their resemblance to the king. He didn’t pause at them for too long, very much aware of how little time he had left. But he was curious—why was he forbidden from coming up here? What was Blaine hiding with a bunch of paintings and half-ruined sculptures?

He reached the end of the room and looked up. A large portrait of Cooper, his head and shoulders, just to the left of the center of the wall. It was huge, and Kurt smiled up at it. Cooper really had been so handsome, and he looked, in the portrait, only too happy to pose and be admired. He had so loved the adoration of the people, and the people had been so willing to give it to him.

But to the right of center there was a bare patch of wall. A frame was below where it was obviously supposed to be hung, toppled on its side where it rested against the wall. There was a painting in it, but a large chunk was torn, just across the face of whoever was in the portrait. The ripped piece hung over the edge of the frame, still attached by a few inches at the bottom, flopped over so Kurt could only see the back.

He carefully reached forward and lifted the canvas. In it was a young man posed identically to Cooper in his portrait, but reversed, his body angled to the left. He was devastatingly handsome—different from Cooper, but no less stunning. The resemblance to the portrait of the queen was uncanny. Black hair, tanned skin, and large, golden eyes, almost yellow on the canvas. This boy’s eyes were magnetic, and Kurt found himself unable to look away.

Was this…Blaine?

Kurt righted the frame and smoothed up the canvas, propping it up and temporarily mending it so that he could step back and view it as a whole. He stood and walked backwards, staring into the lively amber eyes that pierced him even as only paint—

—and he backed right into something heavy.

He turned and watched as a vase fell off a heavy sculpted column that had been used as a base. The vase shattered with a wild smash, the cacophony reverberating painfully off the wide marble walls.

Kurt jumped, instantly turning to look for a way out. He was certain that if anyone were to check on him, they would come through the door he had, and he could certainly be caught—

It was too late.

The door slammed open, revealing Blaine standing before him, holding up a glass oil lamp burning brightly. Kurt froze, his breath stolen from his body.

“What are you doing here?”

Kurt shook his head, opening his mouth to try to explain, but nothing came out. There was nothing that could come out—he’d been caught doing exactly what he had been asked not to do.

“I doubt you’re lost,” Blaine snarled, stepping into the room slowly and setting his lamp down on the ground. Kurt was shaking—even as angry as he had already seen Blaine, it was nothing compared to how he sounded now. “Why. Are. You. Here.”

“My lord, I—I—“

“You were expressly forbid from coming here,” he shouted, and Kurt flinched, backing up as Blaine stepped forward. Kurt hadn’t been so afraid in his entire life. “And you did anyway. I want an explanation!”

“I’m sorry my lord!” Kurt cried, falling back. He stopped when he felt something on his heels.

The portrait.

Blaine’s head turned, and Kurt realized what he was looking at.

“My lord—“

“And what do you think?” Blaine asked, his voice cold. “I was once told I was a handsome boy. Is it true?”

Kurt kept his mouth shut. There was no answer he could safely give.

“Answer me!”

“Yes, my lord,” Kurt blurted out, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“Yes!” Blaine yelled. He stepped forward, lashing out and knocking over the column that Kurt had knocked into. The noise pierced Kurt’s ears, but not as much as Blaine’s voice. “Very handsome. Not quite as handsome as my brother, but then no one ever was. And wouldn’t they just love to compare us now!”

“My lord—“

“Go ahead!” Blaine roared, stepping close to Kurt and throwing back his hood. He grabbed Kurt’s wrist violently, lifting the hand that held the candle, throwing his face into sharp contrast. “What am I now!?”

Kurt cried out and dropped the candle, wrenching his wrist away and cringing at the shooting pain running up his arm. He cradled it close to him, shaking in pain.

Blaine was no longer the sweet-faced young man in the portrait. That much he had seen, though he had dropped the light too quickly to make out details. He had made out a patchy beard, uneven skin, and what had truly terrified him—golden eyes that were filled with the coldest rage.

Kurt did what every instinct begged him to do.

He ran. 

Blaine stood very still in the middle of the gallery, the shadows cast by the oil lamp dancing on the walls, mimicking the flames inside him licking at his heart, whispering terrible things from deep within.

He’s seen you now he’ll never love you he’s far too good for you you’ve shown him your face he knows you’re a monster you’ll never see him again he shouldn’t have to look on your hideousness what would your father say now—

“Blaine?”

—looks like it was the right choice to hide away no one would ever want to see a face like yours you’ve always been so worthless he told you so always the lesser son always smaller stupider weaker uglier stranger quieter less loved less seen less less less less—

“Blaine.”

—and now Kurt’s seen the real you are you happy now you’ve scared him away you don’t deserve him you don’t deserve anything but what should’ve happened to you seven years ago you deserve what Cooper got instead you worthless spineless piece of shit you never had the courage did you—

“Blaine!”

He was being shaken, shaken from the fiery grasp of his demons. He blinked away the darkness to see Mike standing in front of him, hands on his shoulders, literally shaking him out of his daze.

“Blaine, what happened? Why did Kurt leave?”

“Leave?” Blaine repeated dazedly. Then he laughed.

Mike stared at him. “Blaine. What the hell happened in here? Why is your hood down?”

 “Kurt saw me,” Blaine babbled. “He saw me, he saw my picture. I should have burned it. He never should have seen it, and I lost my temper and now he knows what I really am, he knows—“

Slap.

“I did that for your own good,” Mike spat, stepping back. Blaine clutched his cheek, eyes watering with the sting. “Did you hurt him?”

Blaine huffed, shaking his head.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I grabbed him, but—“

“Gods, Blaine.”

“He saw me and he ran,” Blaine whispered. “He saw me before and he saw me now and he ran.”

Saying it out loud made it real. Tears welled up and fell, uncontrolled and uncontrollable.

“I’m sorry, Blaine,” Mike said, “I really am. I know how hard that must be for you. But we don’t have time for this right now. Kurt just left.”

Blaine snapped to attention.

“Left? Left the castle?”

“Yes! I was tracking him down and he just blew past me out in the corridor. By the time I reached the court he was already out the front. Santana went after him but it’s too dangerous, she’s not armed.”

“Where’s my sword?”

“In your office.”

Blaine brushed past Mike, running as fast as he could out the door and down the hall. He flew through the open door and snatched up his sword belt, slinging it around his waist and buckling it on as he ran back down the corridor. Mike met him halfway and turned with him, one hand on the knife he kept at his hip.

“Where would Kurt have gone?”

Mike shook his head.

“Normally I’d say he’s too smart to go far, but I have no idea how upset he is. If he stayed within the castle walls he’d probably be safe, but if he’s scared enough to run out without a cloak or a torch—“

“We’ll catch him.”

They ran out the front doors and immediately headed down the main path toward the gate. There was a gibbous moon above, its light just strong enough to warp their surroundings rather than truly illuminating them. Blaine focused on the path a few feet ahead of himself, keeping an eye for debris. The last thing he needed was to trip.

“Look.”

Blaine looked ahead and saw what Mike was seeing. Torchlight, heading toward them.

“It’s Santana,” Mike huffed, trying to breathe evenly as he ran. Blaine sympathized—his own chest was burning for air. He hadn’t run in far too long. “She’s the only sensible one among us, bringing out a torch.”

They ran up to her, both hoping that she had Kurt, but they found her alone, jogging toward them.

“Where—“

“He went out the gate,” she said, breathing heavily as she halted before them. “That little fucker is fast.”

“Did you get near him, did he say anything—“

“No,” she sighed, holding out the torch. Blaine took it. “He was ahead of me, I couldn’t manage to catch him. What the hell—“

“Mike, take Santana back to the castle,” Blaine said, command strong in his voice. He missed the look of surprise on his servants’ faces. “She shouldn’t be out here alone. I’ll go after Kurt.”

“But Blaine—“

“It’s my fault he’s out here, I’ll get—“

He froze, cut off by a keening bay cutting through the clear night air.

It was the howl of a wolf.

Blaine broke into a run.