Two wooden windowpanes slammed open, ricocheting off of the stone walls and causing a terrible crash. The bird jumped, a tiny squeak leaving his beak against his will, and he knew it was over. Then words sounded from behind him.

“Well I guess Pavarotti’s not hiding out here,” a high, euphonious voice sang, and the bird let out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t over, there was still time to hide, he could –

Long, lithe fingers curled around his body, tugging him out of his hiding place and into the brilliant sunlight, bringing the game to a definite end. Pavarotti sighed, fluffing his feathers out and squawking until he was set down onto the wooden sill below him.

“Gotcha! That’s twenty-two for me,” said the voice again, with a laughing ring to it. “How about twenty-three out of forty-five?”

The bird shook his feathers, a clear signal that he had opposing plans. His companion laughed. “Well Pav, what do you want to do?”

The bird turned with a hop, jerking his head towards the green area below them.

The other sighed. “I don’t think so. I like it in here, and so do you. You know we can’t go out there, Mother would kill us.” Then two legs swung back over the windowsill and landed on the tiled floor inside.

Kurt was a fairly normal boy. He was seventeen years old, with a pale complexion and dark blond hair. His eyes, two pools of crystal blue, sparkled in any light, as did his dazzling smile. He lived high up in a tower deep in a forest with his mother, Carole, cooking and cleaning and keeping himself otherwise occupied. It wasn’t a hard life, or a depressing one. It was normal, for him. It was all he knew.

As he walked through his home, he surveyed the walls and other spaces; the gallery of paintings that climbed the walls, telling stories of adventures and lives greater than his own. The candles, for when it stormed. The clay, coiled into functional and creative pieces of pottery but splattered in heaps in other spots, having become an object of frustration. It was all his creation, every inch of it, and he told himself that he was happy. He convinced his mind that this was all he needed, nothing more or less.

Even if it wasn’t really true.

He turned his head then, appraising the impressive heights of the walls around him. Above the large fireplace in the middle of the room, between two draped curtains, stood a piece of wood that was curved at the tip. He bit his lip and thought for a moment, before raising his hand. Using his thumb, he measured the space, first horizontally and then vertically. Then, slowly and almost subconsciously, he retreated to his paints and set to work.

Every year on his birthday, hundreds upon thousands of lights illuminated the night sky, floating up into the distance like magic. Unlike any stars, they were only visible once a year, and Kurt knew that every star he’d ever seen in the sky was always constant. The lights were unexplainable, and they were also the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. They illuminated the night sky like nothing else he could ever think to compare them to, more dazzling than stars or music or the world he could see outside his window. He had to paint them right, to capture their true mysterious beauty. It was almost as if he was connected to them, in a way that he couldn’t describe. They were the most enchanting, beautiful things he’d ever laid eyes on.

They were his dream.

First the blue paint went on, slathered thickly onto the stone surface. Then Kurt waited, baking and playing chess until it was relatively dry. He found a small brush, pulled himself up onto the mantel and set to work. Slowly, he circled the drawing utensil in tiny shapes, until there was a cascade of yellow flowing up into the sky of the painting, just like the spectacle that occurred every year. They extended above the landscape that he kept painting, loosely imitating the rolling hills at the farthest reach of his vision of the outdoors. Finally he retreated, slipping off the mantel and dropping to the floor to admire his work.

Purples and oranges and yellows mixed together to form his dream, the one thing that he had a hope for. The floating lights that filled his mind shone brightly on the stone, as if they were always there, forever calling him even during the days of the year that they did not appear in the air. Kurt sighed and nodded, pleased.

“It’s going to happen, Pav,” he said quietly. “I’m going to be there this time, to see them. I know it.”

He started to climb the stairs to his bedroom, in the hopes of getting some rest or reading. But not before he crept onto the mantel one more time, quickly adding one more embellishment to the piece; himself, perched in the corner, watching his dream float past his eyes like candles on the wind.

Blaine Anderson was on a mission.

He hooked his fingers into the bricks that loomed up before him, his feet scrambling on the limestone sheet that held his weight. He pushed, and launched himself into the air, barely holding back a loud yell as he tried to aim his landing for the safety of the stone turret he was flying very quickly towards. Head down, arms in, knees slightly apart –

He was perched on the surface seconds later, and two more thuds sounded on either side of him as his companions joined him. Steadying himself to run again, Blaine turned his head – and stopped cold.

The view was breathtaking. Rolling hills, quaint village homes, the sparkling ocean below them; this was his kind of place. He imagined himself living here, waking every morning to the sound of palace birds and the smell of freshly-cooked palace cuisine. A strange feeling warmed his heart, but whether it was from the thought of delicious food or something else, he couldn’t tell.

“Anderson,” whispered one of the men behind him. “Come on.”

“Hold it, Wes. I could get used to something like this.” Blaine thought for a moment. “Guys, I want a castle.”

Wes sneered. “We do this job, you can buy your own castle.” Then a large hand closed around the back of his collar and pulled.

Moments later, Blaine was being lowered into a large, tapestried room by way of a rope and harness. He kept his arms and legs out, balancing his weight, and let an open satchel dangle from his wrist. Lower, lower, lower he slowly fell, until he was gently swinging just above his prize.

The glittering, gem-encrusted crown sat on a violet pillow, casting different-colored shapes of light around the room. It was elegant and powerful, and was fit for a prince; even one who had been missing for almost eighteen years.

There were nine soldiers standing guard around it, keeping it safe from crooks and anyone who may want to steal or cause harm to its beauty. Their weapons stood straight beside them as they held their heads high and puffed their chests, attempting to look intimidating.

Whoever had installed a hatch in the ceiling was both Blaine’s savior and a complete idiot.

He quickly snatched the headpiece from its resting
place, placing it into the satchel on his arm and swinging it closed. Giving the signal, the two men above him started to pull the rope, swinging him up and out of the crown room. They scampered down the side of the palace, gripping shingles and bricks with practiced skill until they landed on the bridge that stretched out of the kingdom.

“This is a very big day,” Blaine shouted as they sprinted away with the crown. “The things we’ve seen, and it’s only eight in the morning!”

“This is a very big day, Pav! I’m finally going to do it – I’m going to ask her!”

Kurt packed his paint set away, tucking the small canary onto his shoulder and taking a deep breath. “She has to say yes, right? There’s no way she can refuse this. I’m almost eighteen. I’ve gotta go out sometime.”

“Kurt! Kurt, I’m home!”

Kurt gasped, and Pav flew off of his shoulder onto a perch high in the rafters. Kurt rushed to the window, quickly releasing a small clasp in the windowpane. A rope, almost a hundred feet long, swung out of the window and sped toward the ground. A sudden, heavy weight pulled on it, and Kurt set to work tugging it through the hole in the wall. A minute later, his mother’s body was visible as she was raised into the room, and she set her basket down as she climbed in.

“Darling!” she exclaimed, removing her cloak. “I’ll never understand how you manage to do that every day. It looks exhausting!”

“Oh,” he breathed, panting, “It’s really nothing, I’m used to it.”

His mother chuckled, patting him on the head. “Then I don’t know why it takes so long!”

She moved into the kitchen, laughing at her own joke and removing a plate from one of the cupboards. Kurt looked down at his feet, biting his lip. “Mother, I was –”

“Kurt, I’m feeling a little tired from my trip. Won’t you sing for me?” She looked into a mirror that hung on the wall, pulling at her slowly sagging skin. “We’ll talk after that.”

Kurt brightened immediately. “Of course! Let me pull out a chair for you.”

He ran to the fireplace, tugging a velvet-cushioned lounge
chair from the corner and placing it in front of him. Pushing his mother into it, he sat cross-legged on the floor, and began to sing as the woman slowly placed her hands atop his head.

Kurt was special in a way that was different from anyone else. His hair, when a nine-verse song was sung, had the power to heal any imperfection of the body. It could erase the effects of time on a person, or cure any illness. It glowed, and slowly a special magic stretched from it into anything that touched it. His mother had explained that before he was born, she had been given a drink of water that contained the magic of a special flower that had grown from a drop of sunlight. This flower had possessed the same magic that he now did, and had been transferred into him as a child when she consumed it. Now, his mother used it to rejuvenate herself, and it kept Kurt from contracting any illnesses.

It was the reason he had never been allowed to leave the tower. A gift like his, with enough power to heal anything and anyone, had to be protected with ferocity. If he ever left, he knew that he would be hunted, tracked down and used for his magic. So he stayed, protected and forever safe in the company of his mother and only friend, a small canary that had flown in through his window many years ago. He remained obedient and kind, alone in his tower, in his life that was all he knew.

His song floated from his mouth in the sweet, tinkling way it always did, like the sound of chimes on the wind. It wrapped around him, and he lost himself for a few moments as he released his power. He could hear his mother softly humming along behind him.

“Flower, gleam and glow,
Let your power shine,
Make the clock reverse,
Bring back what once was mine,
Heal what has been hurt,
Change the fate’s design,
Save what has been lost,
Bring back what once was mine,
What once was mine.”

A soft sigh emanated from behind him, and he turned, smiling. “Okay, now that that’s done, I have something to ask you and I tried to say if before, but you didn’t really say anything so I’m just going to say it and please pay attention, tomorrow’s a really big day and it’s my birthday! And I’m turning eighteen and –”

His mother laughed. “No, it can’t be your birthday tomorrow. I definitely remember, your birthday was last year.”

“Well that’s the funny thing about birthdays; they’re kind of an annual thing!” Kurt stopped, taking a breath. “I just…what I really want for this birthday, since I’m finally turning eighteen, is…well, I –”

“Oh please get to the point Kurt, I have things to do. You know how I hate it when you drag things out longer than you need to.” His mother started to get up, walking again to the kitchen and pulling out a fruit from her basket. Kurt looked desperately to the rafters, to Pavarotti, who hopped forward and pointed his beak in encouragement.

He steeled himself. “I want to see the floating lights!”

It was like time stopped, narrowing in on that very moment. His mother turned, staring at him with alert and almost frightened eyes. He was breathing heavily, frightened himself, and Pavarotti made no sound. They stared at each other, not communicating, but waiting on baited breath.

Kurt’s mother stood straight, exhaling softly. “You what?”

Kurt pursed his lips. “Oh, well I was hoping you’d take me to see the floating lights,” he tried to explain. On a sudden whim, he stood on a stool next to the fireplace and pulled back the curtain, exposing his painting. His mother surveyed it, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh,” she said condescendingly, as if talking to a toddler. “You mean the stars.”

“But that’s the thing,” Kurt intervened quickly, “I’ve charted stars, I’ve watched them, and they’re always constant. They never change, mother, only from season to season. But these lights…they appear every year on my birthday, and only on my birthday. And whenever I see them, I can’t help but feel like…well, like they’re meant for me. They’re…they’re my dream. And I have to see them, not just from my window or in a painting – I have to be with them, in person. I have to know what they are.”
She appraised him, shaking her head. “Kurt, look at you. You’re as fragile as a flower. You know exactly why we stay here, and you still expect me to let you go gallivanting around the kingdom? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“But I wouldn’t be gallivanting at all! You’d be with me, mother, the whole time, and –”

“You’re gullible, you’re na�ve – any ruffian, thug or creature would just eat you up alive. You can’t go outside, it’s just a fantasy. It’s a horrible world out there, Kurt.”

“But I –”

“We’re done talking about this, sweetheart.”

“No, you don’t get to –”

“I do get to, I’m your mother. And I love you. All I want is your safety, and you know as well as I do that it’ll be compromised if you leave. There are terrible things out there.”

“Oh, like what? What could possibly be so bad out there, that would put me in so much danger that I should just stay here?”

Kurt’s mother thought for a moment. “Oh, the usual things. Poison ivy quicksand, large bugs, the Plague. Men with pointy teeth. It’s all relative, dear, and it’s all bad. You’re not strong enough to handle yourself out there.”

“Mother, I – ”

“Kurt, enough.” Her voice was firm, pressing the issue down. “You are not leaving this tower to fulfill some whimsical fantasy of seeing lights in the sky. This discussion is over.”

Kurt looked at her, this woman that knew nothing about dreams or fantasies or what it was like to want something so badly you could almost taste it – he looked at her, and he judged her. He judged her for keeping him locked away from the world, for forcing him to be secluded and alone. But he stepped forward, and lowered his head.

“I’m sorry, mother,” he mumbled. “I won’t talk about it anymore.”

She sighed. “Thank you, dear. I don’t want to be the bad guy, not with you. I love you very much.”

Kurt smiled as she pulled him into a hug. “I love you more.”

She kissed his forehead. “I love you most.”

Blaine and his companions ran until they came across a small clearing in the forest, where two pieces of paper were tacked onto a tree trunk. Blaine stopped, heaving in air and pulling the sheet of parchment closer to his face. The cheaply-drawn outline of his face was printed onto it, his name in bold print underneath it and the word THIEF painted in red. He analyzed it quickly, eyes scanning back and forth until he raised his head and looked at the other two men. “This is bad. This is very bad.”

They stared at him, clueless.

“They just can’t get my nose right!”

Wes almost growled, his eyes narrowing and teeth bared. “Who cares,” he sneered, “Let’s go.”

The sound of clapping hooves and shouting reached their ears, and Blaine barely had time to turn his head and get a glimpse of the fleet of soldiers chasing after them before he was running, his legs pounding against the leafy ground in search of safety.

They reached another clearing, but this time they were trapped by a large rock basin. Blaine ran forward, thinking, before he turned back. “Give me a boost,” he ordered, “And I’ll pull you up.”

They stared at him, unmoving.

“Give us the satchel first,” growled Wes.

“Wha – I can’t believe that after everything we’ve been through together, you still don’t trust me. That hurts.” Blaine tossed the satchel to the other man, and soon he was climbing up his back, his hands finding purchase on the grass atop the rock. He hoisted himself up, and peered back over the edge.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Wes snapped, reaching as high as he could. “Pull us up, pretty boy.”

Blaine smirked, shaking his head. “Sorry boys,” he said, holding up a leather pouch he had hidden behind his back. “My hands are full.”

And then he ran for it.