Kurt had never been to Dalton castle before. He’d seen it in the distance, and heard of it from his father and Mike, but he’d never even gone down the half-mile long path that was the only way to reach Dalton through the woods.

He had to admit, even in its current state, Dalton was a beautiful place. The stone exterior was a light cream color, though a great deal of it was covered with trails of ivy, some vines still green but most of it brown and shriveled in death. The castle looked empty—it felt empty, like a great echoing cave that swallowed all light and sound. The gardens out front were overgrown and wild, chaotic, though colorful with spring blooms left to their own devices. The fields on the western side were full of grass that looked tall enough to brush his waist, though the eastern fields looked at least partially tended, the ground tilled over much of what Kurt could see. 

Kurt wished he could’ve seen it up close when it had been in its prime. Tales were still told of its grandeur. Now, it just looked sad. Maybe Kurt could compose a ballad about its fall into wretchedness…

“Here we are,” Mike said, rather unnecessarily, but Kurt didn’t blame him. The whole situation felt awkward, and had since his father had returned and explained it to him.

“…so I asked what payment he wanted. And he asked for you.”

Kurt gaped.

“What, just like that?”

“Well,” Burt said, hedging. “He demanded a payment of service. He said he required one of my sons to render services to the castle in whatever capacity they could. So I could’ve sent Finn up to do manual labor, because we both know he’s not much good for anything else just yet, or I could send you.”

“So…you picked me?” Kurt asked, near tears. “Why? What did I do—“

“No, Kurt,” Burt said, grabbing Kurt’s hand across the table. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But I gotta tell ya—I couldn’t find anyone to take you at the market. The only bard running around was that Schuester fellow, and I wouldn’t trust him with you.”

“So you’re just pawning me off on the first person you can find?”

“Kurt,” Burt said, suddenly stern, “if that were the case I would’ve just foisted you off on Schuester and been done with it. This is an opportunity!”

“For what?”

“Kurt, you’ll be playing for the Prince of the entire kingdom,” Burt insisted, leaning forward and looking earnestly into his son’s eyes, trying to get his point across.

“Yes, a Prince who doesn’t even hold court!” Kurt cried in frustration. “A Prince who will be overthrown by the man I just basically told to get lost. What do you think Lord Smythe will do to me when he thinks I chose the man he wants to usurp over him? He’ll take over the whole castle, and he’ll probably keep the servants on, which means I’ll be in the exact position he wants me in anyway. You’re selling me out.”

“Enough, Kurt. You don’t know everything.”

“And what don’t I know? What could possibly have changed since you left?”

“Mike spoke to the Prince,” Burt said. Kurt stared. “He spoke to him about what the people are saying, what Sebastian wants. And if the Prince is commissioning new servants, that means he might not have given up hope yet.”

“Dad, one servant—“

“He took on Mike’s sweetheart as well. Tina. She’s a maid at the castle now.”

Kurt started to protest, but Burt cut him off.

“Kurt, what if the Prince is listening to Mike? What if he’s finally going to get his act together and resurrect the court?”

“We can’t know that for sure, Dad,” Kurt said. “He’s only got a couple of months left anyway before Sebastian loses patience, you’re the one who told me those rumors.”

“And if he starts it up, that’s all the people will need,” Burt replied. “He doesn’t need to accomplish all of it in that time—he just has to show he means to rule again. Sebastian can’t do a damn thing without the support of the people.”

Kurt grew quiet, considering.

“Kurt, there’s something else you need to know,” Burt said. “The position you’ll be in, you’ll probably end up being close to the Prince. Not as close as Mike, or any of his grooms, but you’ll be spending part of every day with him. You’ll have influence, even if you never speak to him directly. Those songs you sing, those tales you tell—they have the potential to get the Prince thinking. He was always a smart lad, and despite everything I don’t think that’s changed. Kurt, you have the chance to have the ear of the man who becomes King the day he marries. There’s only one or two people who get that privilege.”

“Dad, I’ll be a minstrel,” Kurt argued, “not an advisor.”

“You’re not listening. You realize that court minstrels throughout the ages have had influence over their rulers? All they have to do is make up a story and tell it, and that story stays with whoever hears it. If the story has a moral, a point that the minstrel is trying to get across, that sticks, too. You can’t tell me you don’t have a story about an evil king in that head of yours.”

“Of course I do—“

“Then tell it,” Burt said with finality. “Prince Blaine isn’t an idiot. He’ll know what you’re trying to say. He’ll make the connection.”

“But what if he doesn’t like what I have to hear? Won’t I be punished?”

“For a story? No,” Burt laughed. “All you have to do is insist the story’s been around for ages. No one can prove otherwise, even if you made it up on the spot.”

Kurt shook his head in wonder, staring at his father.

“Why aren’t you one of the council, Dad? You’ve got this whole political thing well in hand.”

Burt smiled.

“Who knows,” he said, “maybe when the Prince gets the court up and running again, and he makes that damn Sebastian heel, I’ll go for a spot. Wouldn’t be so bad, having a little influence, right?”

Kurt thought for a long moment, and Burt let him.

“I’ll do it,” he said finally. “I don’t think I have much of a choice. And I’ll do my best to make him see the light, as it were.”

Burt smiled and stood. “Mike’s sending a carriage tomorrow. You’ll have to get your things ready by the morning.”

“Are you sure I could do it?” Kurt asked, biting his lip and letting his father see just how afraid he really was. “Do you really think he’ll listen to me? Do you really think he’ll take up the court again?”

Burt smiled.

“If he isn’t at least considering it, I’d be surprised,” he said. “And if he isn’t now, he will be when you’re through with him.”

So he’d packed his things, and early the next morning Mike had shown up with a carriage and loaded everything up. The goodbyes had been short, though Burt had pulled Kurt aside last minute and promised him that should Sebastian make a march, he’d pull Kurt back home as soon as he heard. Thus reassured, Kurt had started his journey with what he had to admit was some excitement.

This was what he had always wanted. To go to court, and amaze the fine noblemen and women with his voice. Granted, there was only one noble likely to hear him, but his blood was the most noble of all, and Kurt was going to be his personal minstrel. And if he could pull it off, Kurt could help influence the return of the court and the running of the kingdom. Of course, once that was established, he’d be happy to just be a simple minstrel and play his songs and stories for the lords and ladies of the court. It’d be more than Rachel Berry could ever hope for, anyway.

Mike stopped the carriage directly in front of the castle, and Kurt stepped out to help him with the trunk of his clothes and the few personal items he’d brought with him.

“We’re going to put you up in the servants’ quarters for now,” Mike said, carrying one end of the large wooden chest, another inheritance from Kurt’s mother. “Normally a minstrel would actually get a court apartment, but those aren’t…ready, at the moment. We’ve certainly got the room with us, though, so you can have a private chamber.”

Kurt was surprised, and said so as they reached the front doors and Mike set down his side of the trunk.

“Well, not a lot of us stayed after…you know,” Mike replied, grimacing as he pulled open one of the great doors by himself.

Kurt lifted the trunk by himself and walked through. Straight ahead of him, hanging on a small stretch of wall that opened up in a great arch on either side, was a painting, but it had been torn mostly apart. Kurt could see a few painted feet at the bottom, the only part of the painting that remained untouched.

“Come through here,” Mike said, heading to one of the big arches. Kurt lifted the trunk by himself again and followed, noting that either end of the hallway ended in wooden doors. “This is the court…or it used to be.”

Kurt gasped as he stepped through the arch. The room was huge—two stories high, a high dome at the center of the ceiling, large panes of glass letting in very little light through the dust. At the very center hung a huge chandelier that was hung with cobwebs and very old wax drippings from candles long burned away. The floor was marble, though Kurt couldn’t quite tell what exact color it would be beneath dust, wear, and the lack of light. The room was empty, otherwise, and echoed every step loudly. He wondered just how well the acoustics would carry his voice.

“Mike,” he said, a tiny part of him wanting to speak just to hear how he would sound. His voice carried through the whole space, bouncing off the walls and throwing back to him pleasingly.

“Hmm?” Mike paused, turning back. Kurt stopped and looked at his friend seriously.

“Is the Prince really cursed?”

Kurt immediately regretted asking as he watched Mike’s jaw tense and his normally open expression shut down.

“I don’t really believe in that stuff, actually,” he babbled, trying to save the moment, “I just…he’s been gone so long, and I always heard such amazing things about him, and I’m going to be…and he’s—and—“

“This way,” Mike said, turning and walking away. Kurt swore at himself, sighing and moving to follow as Mike was passing by the large staircases that ended on either side of the room. Kurt took a moment to look at how they swept up to the upper floor, ending in what looked to be a colonnade overlooking the court.

There was someone up there.

“Mike, wait!”

Kurt turned and saw Mike stop and turn. He jogged to catch up and then turned and looked up at the colonnade.

“I just saw—“

But the colonnade was empty.

“What did you see, Kurt?”

Kurt shook his head. “I guess I was imagining things.”

“Well, come through here,” Mike said, and he headed toward a small door at the northeastern end of the room. “I’ll show you your room, and then you have to get ready." 

“For what?” Kurt asked.

“For your first performance."

Kurt Hummel was nothing like what he had imagined.

When the carriage pulled up, sent specifically for his new guest—servant, he was a servant—Blaine had been watching from the old library on the second floor, which was so uncared for that dust and cobwebs lay over every last surface, including all of the books, most of which were moldy themselves. What he had seen had sent him back, startled, his back accidentally bumping the shelf behind him and sending up a massive amount of dust.

Kurt Hummel was beautiful.

Of course, he’d expected that. From what Mike had told him, Kurt had taken after his mother—a woman Mike described as beautiful, delicate, and pale. In his mind, he had painted a picture of Kurt as slight, soft, perhaps even slightly feminine.

He couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Kurt was pale, pale enough that he seemed almost to glow in sunlight. His hair was chestnut, shot through with shades of gold and copper. It was artfully swept above his head, and Blaine wondered how he kept it in a shape that clearly defied gravity. It looked unusually thick and well cared for, which was unusual—most men kept their hair deliberately short, or wore it in a tail at the nape of their neck so as to have little to do with it as possible. But Kurt seemed to take particular care despite the fact that he was clearly placing himself out of the norm for men. His face was stunning—full lips and high cheekbones.

However, that was where the difference from other men ended. Kurt looked tall, his legs long and lean. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow. He had a strong jaw. His sleeves were loose, but Blaine could easily imagine his arms straining when he stretched and flexed carrying his trunk from the carriage.

Blaine wondered what he would look like up close.

He moved quietly into the colonnade that overlooked the court from above and acted as a main gallery, beautiful paintings commissioned by his forebears hung with sheets, though Blaine was never sure if he’d ordered them covered to protect them or to hide from them. He leaned against a column and looked over the railing just as Mike walked into the court.

“—it used to be.”

Mike’s voice carried up to where Blaine stood, hoping the shadows kept him well enough hidden. He watched Kurt follow behind, his back straining against the fabric of his tunic with the effort of carrying his things. Blaine tried not to pay the appealing curve of it too much attention.

And then he heard Kurt speak for the first time. High, clear as a bell. And asking the one thing Blaine had hoped he wouldn’t ask.

Cursed.

Blaine had honestly expected this moment, and hadn’t looked forward to it. But what else could he expect? He’d been hiding his face for seven years. The last time he’d left the castle, his brother had been killed. The people didn’t know the details, didn’t know the truth—they had to make up their own stories. It wasn’t uncommon in history for younger brothers to murder their elder siblings to claim titles, so at first everyone had suspected him of plotting Cooper’s death despite the fact that the two had always been close. But then Blaine hadn’t seized power. Not really. He’d squandered it, so the people were left to wonder just what he was hiding. And the fairy tales that had been told for generations had wormed their way through the channels of gossip, and people who normally didn’t believe in magic started to suspect a curse.  Those who left the castle after it became apparent Blaine wasn’t really ruling told others that the Prince never showed his face; that he kept himself hidden beneath a hood. So what was beneath the hood? What hideous monster had the Prince become to left him unable to perform his duties? Because surely something was preventing it, in a man who had always been a studious and dutiful boy.

So people speculated, and whenever he learned that someone had asked about him, he always felt either a desire to run or the urge to scream and rage at the asker and prove himself the beast they thought he was.

Never before had he had the urge to fall to his knees before someone and beg for them to see the truth.