Kurt tightened the simple black belt around his vest. He'd picked his finest clothing for his first performance for the Prince—first impressions were important, and he didn't want the Prince to be disappointed. He wore a simple white shirt beneath the vest, which was black, but Kurt had spent three weeks working intricate stitching into the design. He'd sacrificed months of market gifts from his father to procure real silver thread, and he was certain his father had had to learn some form of witchcraft to have gotten it so cheaply. He'd worked it through the thick fabric of the vest in patterns of vines and leaves, and it shone pleasingly. His breeches were simple grey cotton, tucked into black leather boots that came to his knee, another expensive addition to his wardrobe that he'd had to pay dearly for.

The last thing he did was pin his mother's brooch to his breast. It was heavy silver worked into the shape of a feather, and very old—passed down in her family. The weight of it felt reassuring, like she was with him, grounding him.

Thus dressed in the finest he could manage, Kurt picked up his lute, left his room, and walked down the hall to the room Mike had pointed out as his own. He lifted his hand to knock.

"Are you Kurt?"

Kurt turned and saw a small girl with dark hair and slanted eyes walking toward him. She was smiling widely, kindly.

"I am."

"I'm Tina," she said, holding out her hands. Kurt took them briefly in greeting and smiled back at her. Her cheerfulness was infectious.

"I've heard so much about you!" Kurt gushed. "Mike can hardly hold his tongue."

"I could say the same," she said. "He thinks so highly of your father."

"Everyone does." Kurt turned back to the door. "Is Mike here?"

"Of course." She opened the door and moved aside to let him in. "Come in."

The room was almost identical to his own—small, but not cramped. Kurt had expected to live in what amounted to a closet, but the servants' quarters were unusually generous. However, Kurt had never been to a castle, so perhaps things were different here than from the manors of Lords he had visited as a child.

Mike was seated at a small desk, scribbling away on a sheet of parchment. He looked up when they entered and smiled.

"You look very well, Kurt," he said. "I'm sure the Prince will be impressed. And possibly put out."

"Put out?" Kurt felt confused. Why on earth would his clothing affect the Prince in that way?

Mike laughed. "The Prince doesn't dress in the manner you're probably expecting. But you'll be fine—maybe he needs to be a little embarrassed. Come along, I'll explain what you're to do on our way to the dining hall."

Mike kissed Tina's cheek briefly before leading the way out of the room and down the hall toward the kitchens.

"Shouldn't the chamberlain be telling me my duties?" Kurt asked. "I thought you've mentioned one before."

"She's not in the castle at the moment. She went into Westerville for a few days to gather supplies for the castle."

Kurt laughed in surprise. "She? A female chamberlain? That's unusual."

Mike seemed hesitant about something, but he readily replied, "There is much unusual about this castle, I suppose. But given the circumstances, I don't think that's too surprising."

Kurt had to concede that.

"Now. You'll be in the hall before the Prince arrives," Mike explained, his voice echoing along the narrow corridor. "You'll be sitting on a stool off to one side, and you'll play your lute for the Prince while he sups. He'll come in not too long after you, he'll sit, and he'll eat—and that should be it. Just play softly, and if he asks you to sing or tell a tale, just do your best to oblige him."

They turned a few corners past the kitchen and pantries. Suddenly Mike stopped and turned to face Kurt.

"I need you to know something before we go in, Kurt," Mike said seriously. "The Prince is not what you think. I know the rumors and the gossip. It's not true. Keep in mind that Blaine is our age—he was just born to a different class. He's just like us. And he's a kind man, he's just had a hard life thrust upon him, and he has his reasons for…proceeding in the manner he has. Please don't judge him until you've gotten to know him for yourself."

Kurt blinked in surprise.

"I understand," he said, nodding. "Look, I'm sorry for asking earlier about a curse, it was stupid of me, and—"

"Don't worry about it." Mike put a friendly hand on Kurt's shoulder. "Anyone would have wondered, and I should have taken the time to explain. It's just a touchy subject. The Prince still struggles with…well, the situation. I was defensive on his behalf, and I should have known you meant nothing by it. You were just curious, as anyone would be."

"Thank you," Kurt replied, grateful for how reasonable and understanding Mike always was.

"Now," Mike said, "let's get you ready to play for the Prince."

Kurt tried not to fidget on his stool. The dining hall was grand, but not very well cared for—the dust that seemed to settle in the rest of the castle was, for the most part, missing, but the room was still dark and battered. The large wooden table wasn't polished, and wax drippings from the candles were built up over its surface. Across from where he sat was a dark staircase, and next to that a long, low fireplace, the flames crackling in a deceptively cheerful manner. Above the fireplace was what Kurt suspected was a painting, covered with a heavy sheet. Kurt stared at it, ignoring the other, uncovered paintings in the room—they weren't terribly interesting, and he was curious what was hiding behind the fabric.

He jumped when someone came into the room from the same door he'd entered by. He was faced with Mike again, who was accompanied by two other men. They were all carrying things to be placed on the table—plates of food, a goblet, a flask of wine, silverware, and the like. They set up the table quickly and efficiently, and Kurt marveled at how easy it seemed to them.

Then he noticed that the unfamiliar men were looking at him curiously. Kurt shifted uncomfortable, unsure of how to proceed.

"Kurt, these are Wes and David," Mike said casually, pointing to each as he said their names. "They're the Prince's grooms, though for the most part they actually run the crops and the beasts."

"Nice to meet you, Kurt," Wes said, nodding his head briefly. David smiled widely, waving a quick hand.

"The Prince will be in as soon as I go get him, so get ready," Mike said. "I'll be in here the whole time, attending the Prince, so you won't be alone. I'll cue you when to start, so keep an eye on me."

Kurt nodded, taking a deep breath and trying to take Mike's reassurance. He was just so nervous.

This would be the first time he performed for anyone other than his family and friends. His first real audience. And it was the man who not only had the most power in the entire kingdom, but hadn't been seen in seven years because of what most people thought was a curse.

It was terrifying.

Kurt checked the tuning of his lute quickly as Mike slipped out of the room and back in within the space of a few minutes. He took up a position of careful attention at the head of the table and smiled at Kurt, who quickly wiped his sweaty palms on a kerchief he'd stuffed in his pocket.

The moment he'd replaced the cloth and settled again, the Prince walked into the room from the door leading into the court.

Kurt studied the man as quickly as he could, keeping Mike carefully in his periphery to await his cue. The Prince was…different than he expected. He'd once seen Prince Cooper riding through town shortly after his coronation, a moment that had sent the whole of Lima into an uproar, which the late Prince had seemed to enjoy thoroughly. He had been an outrageously handsome man, tall and broad on his white stallion, waving and smiling a white smile to his people, his dark hair falling gracefully into piercing blue eyes. Eight-year-old Kurt had been entirely impressed, and maybe a little infatuated.

Blaine appeared to be built from a different stock altogether as he burst into the room and quickly marched to his seat. He was slight—he looked so small, though Kurt wasn't sure if it was an illusion brought on from the Prince's clothes. Mike was right—the Prince wasn't dressed like Kurt had expected from royalty. He was wearing a thick leather jerkin, the sleeves of his white undershirt billowing out until they gathered at his wrist. His breeches were also leather. All the clothes were slightly too large, as though made for someone larger—Cooper, perhaps?—and Kurt wondered who the hell had let Blaine dress in clothes so ill-fitting. He itched to tailor them to a proper size.

He wished he could see the Prince's face, but it was hidden in a deep hood attached to the jerkin. He could just barely see the outline of what appeared to be a bearded chin in the depths, but he was afraid to look too closely.

Kurt locked his eyes onto Mike as the Prince settled in his seat. After a moment, Mike stepped forward to pour the Prince's wine, and he looked up at Kurt with a quick nod.

Kurt immediately started to play his lute. He'd thought of what he would play ahead of time, and his fingers moved through the notes of a simple dance tune. It was quiet and sweet and easy to play, so Kurt could focus on other things while playing.

He looked carefully up at Mike, who nodded from his place beside the Prince. So far so good.

He watched the Prince as he ate. He'd been expecting some level of refinement, but again the Prince surprised him. He ate like a normal young man, which always, to Kurt, resembled a starving man being told he had a limited time to finish his plate, but Kurt supposed he wasn't being very generous with that assessment. He had been raised to assume manners at all times, and this habit had, unfortunately, contributed to his reputation as fussy and self-important. He'd always assumed that the boys he grew up with were just pigs, but apparently most their age were less careful with their manners.

Or maybe the Prince had just forgotten himself over seven years. Kurt was too smart to consider asking anyone.

He finished the first tune and started another one, similar enough to the first to be almost indistinguishable. He figured it was safer to just stick with the simple tunes until he could figure out what the Prince would like best.

By the end of the third song, the Prince had finished his meal and was sitting back in his chair, sipping at his recently refilled goblet of wine. His head faced directly ahead, though Kurt couldn't see where his eyes were pointed. He looked at Mike for any clues, but Mike was also staring at the Prince, his brow slightly furrowed.

Huh…that was strange.

Then, suddenly, the Prince turned his head directly toward Kurt.

Kurt flubbed a note in his surprise, but thankfully the panic that swept over him didn't stop him from regaining himself and continuing the song as though nothing had happened. In fact, he would have been very proud of his recovery, had his cheeks not still burned with embarrassment. He looked determinedly at a point just above and behind the Prince's head, trying to fight down the blush as he did his best to continue playing.

Don't look at him, don't look at him, don't look at him…

"You may leave us."

Kurt paused in his playing and looked down immediately, checking to make sure the Prince was talking to him.

He wasn't.

The Prince had turned to face Mike, and Kurt started to panic. It must have shown on his face, because after Mike bowed to the Prince and started to leave, he turned to Kurt. He nodded and mouthed, "You're okay," before heading out towards the kitchens.

Kurt sat on his stool, completely unsure of what to do. What on earth would the Prince want to be alone with him for? Was he going to be berated for stumbling in the song? Was the Prince going to yell at him, or tell him to get out of the castle? Should he keep playing, or just sit here and wait for the Prince? Should he say something?

Like what? Kurt asked himself, fighting off the urge to curse. Nice castle. Shame about the dust.

"You're nervous."

Kurt startled. The Prince was looking at him—well, he was facing him, and Kurt couldn't see in the hood, but he could feel it, even if he couldn't quite see the Prince's eyes. The Prince was leaning back in his chair, turned to face Kurt, his elbow propped on the arm of the chair and his chin resting on his hand. He lifted his goblet and took a sip of wine as he, ostensibly, waited for Kurt to respond.

Kurt was very much aware of how his initial reaction to being accused of nervousness was to flinch like a startled bird, so he smiled as best he could and said, his voice too high and breathy, "Why ever would you think that, my lord?"

And then the Prince laughed.

It wasn't a loud laugh, or particularly long. It was a short, quick huff, but Kurt clearly saw that the Prince was smiling when he turned his head toward the fire briefly. There was something strange about his mouth, though—

Before Kurt could study the Prince more closely, he turned away from the fire again, staring back at Kurt.

"You needn't be anxious," he said. "You play very well."

Kurt didn't know if he should respond or not. The Prince had told him not to be anxious, but had he meant about his playing in particular, or had that just been a segue? He was too much of an unknown. But then Kurt remembered Mike saying that the Prince was a good man, and that Kurt would have to get to know him.

"My lord is too generous," Kurt said, bowing his head respectfully. "These songs are simple village tunes, and nothing impressive. I could teach any lout to play them, given the time."

"Then you are holding out on me," Blaine replied quickly, and Kurt was again nervous until he realized that the Prince was teasing him. Maybe he is just like us…

"I may have been, my lord." If he wanted to tease, Kurt could tease right back. "I wasn't sure if I should play my more complicated pieces."

"Oh? You think me uncultured?"

Kurt couldn't tell for a moment if the Prince was serious or not, given the deadpan voice he'd used, but Kurt opted to risk it. If the Prince were truly displeased, wouldn't he sound displeased?

But he would sound pleased if he were pleased, too. Two sides to a coin, Kurt…

"I think nothing of the sort," Kurt said, throwing caution to the wind and feigning offense. "I merely wanted to save my better pieces for later. I could hardly spoil you my first night."

"I hardly think one song will spoil me. Unless you only have one in your repertoire?"

Kurt glared at the Prince for a moment before remembering that it was the Prince and he probably shouldn't be acting so familiar. He quickly schooled his face into a more neutral mask and bowed his head in acquiescence.

"I would be happy to prove you otherwise, my lord."

He checked the tuning on his lute again while he thought of a song to play. Considering, he quickly settled on a sweet, melancholy little number his father had introduced him to. He'd told Kurt that he had once tried to serenade Elizabeth with it, but he was dreadfully tone deaf and, thankfully, it had ended in laughter on both parts.

Kurt would just have to do better.

Come again, sweet love doth now invite…

As he sang, the Prince remained completely still, and Kurt wondered if he was enjoying the tune. He wasn't protesting, but then, he wasn't reacting at all. It was almost worse than rejection, because he didn't know what to think. He'd been rejected all his life, and loudly—feeling uncertain was nerve wracking, and Kurt hoped the Prince was just listening intently and not ignoring him.

Come again, that I may cease to mourn…

As he started the second verse, he fell into the rhythm of the song and was able to really think. Whenever he had sung this song before, in the privacy of his home, he had always changed the pronouns, singing not to a girl, but to a boy. His own propensities granted this, and as he had never had an audience beyond those that already knew and accepted his inclination towards his own sex, it had never been an issue. Now, however, he wondered if he should change it back and pretend.

No, he thought. I won't hide who I am. If Lord Sebastian Smythe can run around and lust after men, I have the same right, peasant or no.

He stroked his lute like a lover, sweeping the strings gently in his fingers as he began the final verse.

Gentle love, draw forth thy wounding dart:

Thou canst not pierce his heart;

For I that do approve.

By sighs and tears,

More hot than are thy shafts,

Did tempt while he for scanty triumphs laughs.

He repeated the last three lines of the song, his voice soaring sweetly on the high notes and falling gently to the final beat. He strummed the final chord on the lute and fell silent, settling on his stool and waiting in silence for a reaction.

"You will play for me at supper each night," Blaine said suddenly, pushing his chair back from the table. "You will play your lute and sing as requested. Speak to Santana when she returns about what you can do with the rest of your time."

He stood and moved to the door. There, he paused, facing out the door as though ready to step through it at any moment.

"My only command is that you refrain from visiting the upper West wing of the castle, and as I'm sure your father informed you, you are not to touch the roses in the northern gardens. Otherwise, you are free to go where you please when you are not performing your duties."

Then Blaine turned his head, and Kurt felt him staring from the darkness. He instantly suspected that the Prince was going to reprimand him for being inappropriate in his song. He waited with bated breath, expecting with each passing second of silence to be scolded and told to keep his perversions to himself. It would fit nicely with the rest of Kurt's life, if the Prince were to be disgusted with him as everyone else had been his entire life.

Except Sebastian, a treacherous voice said in the back of his mind. Though he's a noble. Nobles are allowed to feel what you feel. Too bad you're a peasant.

"You are very talented," said the Prince. Kurt waited for the "but."

The Prince left the room. It never came.

Kurt returned to his rooms to find Mike waiting for him.

"How did it go?" he asked, jumping up from where he had seated himself at Kurt's desk.

Kurt took in a deep breath and let it out in a loud sigh, setting his lute carefully down on his bed.

"It went well, I think," he replied. "He told me not to be nervous, and…and I think he joked with me. Then I played a song for him and…and he just…"

Kurt thought back on the end of his time with the Prince and shook his head in confusion.

"I'm not sure if he liked my song or not," Kurt said honestly. "He was so short when I finished. He just…gave orders for me to play when he sups, told me to stay away from his roses and the West wing. And then he called me talented and walked out."

"Why would you think he didn't like it if he called you talented?"

"Because I changed the pronouns," Kurt said. "I sang as though to a man, not a woman. I…didn't want to lie about that part of me, or hide it. And I thought the Prince might be displeased."

Mike laughed loudly and suddenly, as though startled, and Kurt jumped, staring at him.

"What's so funny?" he demanded, a little indignant at being laughed at.

"Oh, Kurt," Mike said, "the Prince would not be displeased with you for that."

"Then why was he so…churlish? He'd been friendly until I sang that song."

"What song did you sing?"

"I sang Come Again, Sweet Love. It was the first thing that popped into my head."

Mike was shaking his head, a fond smile on his face. He placed a gentle hand on Kurt's shoulder.

"You did well, my friend," he said. "I can assure you the Prince was not displeased."

"How do you know?"

Mike paused, looking down, his face contemplative. When he looked up, Kurt got the sense that he was being cautious in some way.

"I know the Prince well," he said slowly. He was choosing his words carefully; he always spoke slowly when he was trying to be tactful or discreet. "And I am certain that he enjoyed your performance. If he had not, I am certain you would not have been invited back to perform again."

Kurt nodded, biting his lip. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about everything.

"I'm just…concerned about how brusque he was at the end, considering how…warm he was just after you left."

Mike's eyes narrowed, but it was only for a moment. Then he was patting Kurt's shoulder before heading to the door.

"I know the Prince can be confusing at times," he said, his hand on the door, "but I wouldn't worry myself if I were you. You'll get to know him soon enough, and his behavior won't seem so strange."

"Wait, Mike," Kurt said as Mike made to leave, "he said I had to speak to Santana when she came back? Is that the chamberlain?"

Mike laughed again, and said, "Yes, that's her. I'll come get you when she gets back and is ready to speak to you; probably tomorrow afternoon."

Kurt nodded. They bade each other goodnight and Kurt settled in and readied for bed. His first night in a strange place that was his new home.

Blaine shut the door to his room behind him heavily, turning to lean his back against it when it was shut.

Kurt had been even more stunning up close. He sat perched on that uncomfortable stool with the utmost grace, balanced perfectly with his long legs crossed. His face was serene, beautiful and pale and so, so captivating as he played his lute with slender, skillful fingers. He'd been dressed impeccably, his vest accentuating the breadth of his shoulders.

He was perfect.

And his voice. He'd spoken softly, the sound sweet to Blaine's ears, but when he'd begun to sing. The voice of an angel, the voice of the gods, and singing only for him. He was glad he'd sent Mike away, though he'd only done it at first because he wanted to show Kurt that he needn't be afraid. No, it was best that he heard Kurt alone that first time, that he could hold that moment as a precious gift. He hadn't even been able to move for the effect Kurt had on him—he was still shocked he'd been able to compose himself enough to instruct Kurt afterwards, let alone leave when all he wanted was to stay.

He had never wanted to stay anywhere more. But what would he have said? Kurt did not know him, and since his accident Blaine had been so isolated, had isolated himself so much, that he felt he could only make a fool of himself. He had only had conversations, full conversations, with two people in the past seven years, and they were both his servants.

Kurt is your servant, too, a treacherous voice whispered in the back of his mind.

"My lord?"

Blaine looked up to see Mike slipping through the concealed door. Blaine lowered his hood—Mike was one of the few people whom he trusted to see him without it—and ran a hand through his curls, striding forward into the room and trying to gather some semblance of composure.

"What is it, Mike?"

"I just spoke with Kurt," he said. "Blaine, what are you doing?"

"I don't know what you mean," Blaine replied, perhaps a little too quickly. Mike knew him better than anyone.

"You like him."

Blaine paused, and then sat down heavily on the chest at the foot of his bed, his head falling into his hands.

"I have no idea what I'm doing."

Blaine shot up from the chest and started pacing.

"He's everything you said and more, Mike," he continued. "I had him sing when you left, and nothing could have prepared me."

"You sent for him for a reason, didn't you?" Mike asked. "Because of what I told you about him."

"It's not like I planned this!" Blaine burst out, gesticulating wildly. "Fine—I admit to being intrigued by your descriptions. And when I caught his father with my rose, yes, I acted on impulse. I knew he'd send Kurt rather than his brother. I thought perhaps…I don't know what I thought," he admitted. He sank back down onto the chest. "I wanted to meet him and I had no idea how to go about it. And now that I have, I am baffled as to how to proceed."

"With your permission, Blaine, I would like to be blunt." When Blaine waved his permission, Mike stepped forward and crossed his arms. "What the hell do you mean, proceed?"

Blaine stared up at Mike, completely shocked at the sharpness in Mike's tone.

"Kurt is your servant," Mike continued, "brought here without choice. Now, you should know he's not displeased—he's doing what he's always wanted to do, though I'm sure the state of the castle he's always wanted to perform at is somewhat lacking. But how long is this going to last? You know we're on borrowed time here. And who knows what Sebastian will do with you when he gets here; who knows what he'll do with any of us! What were you expecting to do? Court him for a month and then say your goodbyes?"

Blaine hung his head.

"I have no idea, Mike," he admitted again. "I have no idea what I'm doing. I just wanted to meet him and I acted rashly and I have no idea what to do next."

"You always have one option, Blaine," Mike said quietly. "You know you do."

"I don't know if I can," Blaine whispered, sighing and staring at the floor.

"Then figure out what you can do, and we'll do our best."

Mike turned to leave. Blaine called his name, stopping him.

"Thank you."

Mike nodded and left Blaine alone with his thoughts.

What was he doing? He certainly did want to know Kurt better, but it wasn't that simple. He didn't have a clue how to go about it, and Mike didn't seem to want to help. He certainly wasn't going to ask Santana. And Mike was right—how much time did he really have? His birthday was fast approaching, the unspoken deadline to his time here.

He walked to the windows of his chambers and looked out at the darkened grounds, recalling a time when they were well cared for and lush with care and not wild from neglect. He remembered servants and courtiers and nobles and his father and brother presiding over court. He remembered grand festivals and parties and banquets, and time spent hunting and fishing and practicing his weapons with Cooper and his friends. What if Cooper hadn't died? What if Kurt had come sooner? What if he'd never become this monster? Would Kurt have looked twice, would he have noticed Blaine? Would Blaine have approached him, the beautiful musician? Would they have bonded over music? Blaine had been a dutiful student of every subject, but he'd excelled in what little music he'd studied. Would he and Kurt have sung together, played together, lived together? Gotten to know each other and become friends, or lovers?

What am I thinking.

Kurt would never have looked his way. He probably would've fallen in love with Cooper—handsome, charming Cooper. He would never have known Blaine existed—he was far too beautiful, far too grand.

But still, Blaine drifted to sleep that night dreaming of what could have been.

That night, across the castle, Kurt dreamt of a man with smooth, blank flesh instead of a face asking him for a kiss. He awoke unsure of whether or not it was a nightmare.