It's dim, hazy at best. The only light to be seen from where his head lay, is the warm orange glow of an oil lamp that rests atop a nightstand beside the queen sized bed.

Slowly opening and closing his eyes, working out the muscles that kept his lids closed so tightly and for so long, Blaine starts to come back to full consciousness. Though his head is still swimming with confusion and sleep, he attempts to lift himself up into a sitting position — his joints and muscles popping and cracking with the motion — the cool silk of the bedsheets slide down his torso to rest into a heap on top of his stretched out thighs.

With a bend of his neck and a roll of his shoulders, Blaine looks around the room. His eyes scanning the four surrounding walls in curiosity and fear? No, not fear. Oddly enough Blaine feels calm. Calm and soothed? But why?

The room, a bedroom he has decided, is quite large. Not too large, but big enough to make a statement. The kind of room that shelters power and warms greatness.

Two of the four walls house decorations of oil paintings that depict people Blaine’s never seen before, though their piercing blue eyes reflect a familiarity that calls to him. What’s going on?

Running a hand through his hair, cringing when the dried up gel snags a curl, Blaine sighs and looks to his right. There he spots a wide wooden door, a wooden door with multiple locks lined up under the knob. Wait a damn minute!

Panic slowly creeping up his back, his wits coming back to him, Blaine swings his legs over the side of the bed in preparation to sprint.

“Knock Knock!” A black woman sings as she opens the door, peeking her head in before stepping through. “Oh good!” Smiling when she sees that Blaine was now awake, Mercedes Jones, bookkeeper extraordinaire, pushes the door the rest of the way open and flips the light switch that is stationed beside the doorframe.

Startled by the sudden intrusion, Blaine lets out a yelp as he attempts to cover himself up with the silk bedding. For the first time since waking up, he notices his nakedness, and to be quite honest it's a little unsettling. Why am I naked?!

Not realizing, or better yet, not caring, Mercedes ignores the man's eternal battle and walks over to him with her hand extended out. “Hi, there! I'm Mercedes Jones. Sleep well?”

Looking up at the bright face in front of him, eyeing her features swiftly yet not entirely sure what to do or say, Blaine reaches out to her with the hand that wasn’t currently holding his makeshift curtain. Giving her soft palm a quick shake as he mumbled, “um, yes. I guess?”

Stepping back and pulling a blue pen out from behind her ear, Mercedes looks down at the folder she had been holding under her arm. A thick leather folder that beautifully accented her form fitting, knee length, burgundy dress.

Scrolling for his name, she grins wide as she marks down the time and date beside the three glowing words. Looking back up to the naked gentleman before her, she smirks, "looks like someone’s late.”

“What?” Blaine asks with shake of his head, confusion flooding his features as the meaning of her words take form. His voice giving away his nerves as he rambles out, “Late? Late for what?!”

Full on grinning now, the short woman moves away from the bed, her black heels clicking against the hardwood flooring.

Stepping closer to an old oak dresser that sits flat against a portrait covered wall, she pulls out the top drawer, “Ah, but I can't tell you that.” Rummaging through the drawer’s contents, Mercedes pulls out a forest green polo shirt and holds it out to get a better look at it.

Satisfied with its look and feel, Mercedes turns her body back to Blaine, signaling him over with wave of her hand. “That's for me to know, and you to hopefully find out.”

Scooting himself further back on the bed, pulling the sheets closer to his body, Blaine shakes his head at the stranger. “I'm not going over there!”

Crossing her arms with a swing of her hip, “and why not?”

His cheeks warming up with a soft blush, the shy man stutters out a reply. “I'm naked...”

Rolling her eyes at the scene before her, Mercedes turns back to the dresser and bends down to open the bottom drawer.

“Oh for pete's sake,” reaching inside, tugging out a pair of dark wash jeans, looking at the size written in the inner tag, “honey, I have been happily married to the same man for 200 something years.”

Bending back up again to place the shirt and pants on top of the dresser, Mercedes continues her rant. "You ain't got nothing I want nor need,” turning back to face Blaine, putting both her hands on her hips, getting real tired of this back and forth. “So quit being a fussy butt and get your cute tush over here. Some of us have places we need to be.”

Getting annoyed with the demands and lack of answers, Blaine straightens his body in protest. “You can't tell me what to-”

Before he can even finish that statement, his body is lodged off the cream colored bed with a scream. An invisible force drags his body through the air then planting his feet firmly near Mercedes.

The sheets fully gone now, Blaine’s body bare, the man starts to shiver with anxiety.

Grabbing the clothes off the dresser, Mercedes hands them over to a shell shocked Blaine, laughing at his owl like eyes. “You were saying?”

Shaking his head rapidly, terrified of what might happen next if he disagrees, Blaine quickly starts to put on the clothes. The previous shyness long forgotten in favor of survival.

Stepping back to eye the man up and down, Mercedes asks, “spin for me?”

Raising an eyebrow at the request, tugging the front of the shirt out a bit so he can breathe, Blaine eyes the woman that stands across from him. “Ummm...”

Letting out a soft snort, Mercedes does a twirl of her hand and makes Blaine slowly spin. “Don't get cute, white boy. It ain't like that.”

Closing his eyes to prevent motion sickness, he mocks, “right…”

Stopping Blaine after two trips around, the bookkeeper nods her head and moves away from the dresser, heading back to the door from whence she came, scribbling down notes in her leather folder. “You're both similar in build. Though you’re a bit wider, while he's longer. Should work though. For now.”

Not sure what to do, Blaine lets out an awkward cough to alert Mercedes that he's still here and has no clue what to do next.

Stopping as she reaches the door, Mercedes turns back to Blaine with realization on her face. “Oh!” Walking back over to the man, pulling out a pamphlet from her folder, “sorry about that!”

Handing it over to him, then turning back around to make her leave once again, “I'm not used to signing in newcomers outside of the welcome office.”

Further confused with the situation, Blaine just stares at the bookkeeper’s retreating back.

Stopping at the entryway, Mercedes gives one final look at Blaine before taking her leave. “It's good to see you again Blaine.”

With that last word, she vanishes.

Rushing over to the door, too late to stop Mercedes and ask her what she meant by that, Blaine looks down at the now crumbled up pamphlet that sits in his fist. So You're Damned: Do’s and Dont’s when serving time in Hell

Reading the title out loud over and over again, hoping his eyes were deceiving him, Blaine stumbles as he slides into a slump on the side of the inner door frame.

Grabbing his forehead as memories of passion and pale skin flood his mind like a typhoon, hard touches and tender bites ghosting over his body with every flickering memory — leaving him no peace to deal or process.

Fighting to regain control over his mind, Blaine shakes his head out of it’s trance and looks up over at another portrait that hangs across from him on the hallway wall.

At the sight of the man that lives inside the bronze frame, Blaine’s spine goes ramrod as he remembers exactly who the blue eyes staring back at him belong to.

He remembers the taste and feel of those demanding lips that sealed his fate. He relives the words that were echoed from those exact succulent petals whom snatched his soul and held it captive.

Starting to shake with a brewing worry, sweat building up at the nape of his neck, Blaine's knees begin to twitch while his stomach pulls in every direction.

With a hitch of his breath, Blaine drops the pamphlet to the floor and makes a run for it.

“Where is he?!” A deep male voice booms down from the great hall, growing thicker and heavier as it’s owner gets closer and closer.

“Your highness, sir, please.” A softer male voice belonging to a man name Zeke, pleads out. The stress rolling off his tone in waves as his breathing comes out ragged while he tries to keep up pace. “Please calm down.”

The thunderous stomps of the Sir in question, heightens the tension in the air. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down! Where is my son?!”

Standing to the side of the family sitting room, a tucked away area covered in lavish builds of cherry wood and furniture draped in blue velvet, finds a fidgeting Kurt.

His lavender short sleeved button up wrinkling with every switch the man makes from from sitting, to leaning on the armrest of a corner loveseat.

Twisting his fingers together with raising nerves, Kurt let's out a shaky grumble. “I'm dead.” Moving again to sit on the arm rest, but deciding against it before his butt touches down, “I am so fucking dead.”

Resting off to the side near a roaring fireplace, a man by the name of Sebastian Smythe, smooths out his joy for the moment with a lick of his teeth. “Dead. As. A. Doornail.” his cheshire grin growing with each boom of the angry voice from the hall. “This is going to be so much fun.”

Turning his head to glare daggers across the room at the older man, Kurt ficks him off with a growl. “Shut it, Smythe!”

“KURT ELIZABETH HUMMEL!”

Standing to attention when his father enters the room, his head bowed in respect as he waits for what's to come next. “Dad, please don’t kill me.”

A muffled snicker is heard coming from Sebastian's direction. He too stands at attention with his head slightly bowed down, showing his king respect, even if it really is just for protocol.

Taking his eyes off his son, Burt, reigning king of fire and brimstone, turns his head to face Sebastian. Growing ever more agitated with each shake of the man's shoulders, Burt growls at the lanky brunette. “Leave us.”

Shooting his head up after being addressed, Sebastian Smythe narrows his eyes at his king. “You may be king, but I have centuries on you!”

His facial expression never wavering, Burt repeats himself with more vibrato, “I said leave us!”

Looking back and forth at the other three occupants who stand before him, Sebastian balls up his fists, the nails leaving indents on the palm of his hands.

Deciding to pick his battles and save it for another day, Sebastian takes an exaggerated bow to Burt and makes his way out of the room as he addresses the king with annoyance lacing his voice. “Yes, your Highness.”

Turning back to his son, Burt barks out one last order before Sebastian has completely left. “Close the door behind you.”

Grinding his teeth at the order, Sebastian does what is ask of him and slams the door shut with a click.

Zeke, Burts personal assistant, a round man barely standing 5 foot 5 with short salt and pepper hair, questions his lord. “Sir, do you want me to take care of that?”

His eyes flicking over to Zeke momentarily, Burt shakes his head. “Sebastian? Nah, he's harmless. Let him blow off some steam and he'll be fine.”

Nodding his head at the order, the assistant continues. “And our guest?”

At the mention of Blaine, Kurt pops his head up and softly pleads to his father with emotion in his eyes. “Please.”

Popping his jaw with thought as he stares into his son's eyes, eyes that match his very own, Burt turns to Zeke and nods. “Go to my sons room and bring him here. You are not to harm him, understood?” Moving his head to face Kurt, the glare from earlier forming back on his tired face. “After all, he is my future son-in-law.”

Shoulders relaxing at Burt's words, Kurt sends a tight lip smile to Zeke as the man rushes off to fetch Blaine.

“Dad?”

Moving over to sit at one of the black leather couches that stands in the center of the room, Burt points to the matching one that sat across from him. “Sit.”

Wiping his sweaty hands across the back of his gray slacks while sheepishly walking to the couch, Kurt pleads once more. “Dad I can explain.”

Leaning forward with his elbows resting on his jean covered knees, the King clasps his hands together and carefully questions his son. “When I granted you access to the mortals, after you begged and even had Sebastian pester me, what was the one thing I asked you to do?”

“But dad!” Kurt goes to stand but rethinks it when his father beats him to the punch.

Shooting up like a rocket, Burt towers over the conversation. “What was the one thing I specifically told you to not do?!”

Sitting further back, pressing his body firmly to the couch, Kurt answers with his head held down. “Go near Blaine.”

Tugging the fabric of his jeans up some, the older of the two men sits back down on the edge of the couch. “And what did you do?”

“I contacted Blaine.”

“You contacted Blaine.” Burt confirms, leaning back on the soft cushion underneath him. Looking up to the ceiling as he huffs out a puff of air, “do you have any idea what you almost caused.”

Rolling his eyes at the accusation, Kurt starts to pick at some lint that he spotted on his slacks. “It's really not that serious, dad.”

“Not that serious?! I have all three fates breathing down my neck, Kurt! Two wanting to send your ass straight to purgatory!”

Halting his picking, Kurt looks up at his father with wide eyes in worry. “Purgatory?! But I didn't change anything! Not really!”

Rubbing his face, exhaustion and aggravation radiating off the movement. “But you tried.”

Standing up and stomping towards the fireplace, kicking the stone side with his tan heeled boot, Kurt yells. “It's not fair, dad! None of this is fair!”

Turning in his seat to face his child,“I know that, son. And I wish things were different, but these are the rules.”

“He's mine!” The young man yells, turning his body back around to face his father. Crossing his arms and glaring with tears forming in his eyes. “He's my destined, and one of hell's rightful future kings!”

Fully agreeing with his child, Burt lets out a sad smile. “I know, kid.”

 Bringing both of his hands up to rub at his eyes, whispering with sorrow, “why must he suffer, why must you suffer?”

Letting his hands drop down from his face and folding his arms across his chest, Kurt walks over sit next to his dad.

“And all because of the actions of another? What justice is any of that?” Looking down at his knees, Kurts frustration finally getting the best of him, the pent up tears freely flowing now, “Why do the fates get to screw over everyone, but we can't even step a toe over their line!” Lifting his head up and looking over at his dad, reaching out to poke the man square in the chest, “It's bullshit and you know it!”

Pulling his distraught son into a side hug, Burt tries to make him see reason. “Kurt. When he fell, he changed everything. And you know the repercussions for screwing over fates design.”

“I know, Dad. Trust me I know.” The younger man mumbles, reaching up his left hand to wipe away his tears. “We're in this shitty mess because of them.”

Pulling back from the embrace, Burt rubs Kurt's back in comfort. “And regarding me, I will not lie to you and say everything is ok, because it's not.”

“Dad” Kurt responds with a wet hiccup.

"I have grown weaker every day since your mother left my side. My own time getting shorter and shorter with every passing tick of the clock.” Pulling his hand back and removing the baseball cap off the top of his balding head, Burt continues. “Soon I will have to passover and leave you behind, too.” Taking his cap and placing it on top of his sons head like he used to do when Kurt was little, “and yes. I hope that when I cross, you and your half will be the ones to take my crown.”

“Don't.” Kurt pleads out as he reaches over to hug his father close, his hands gripping the man's shirt tight with his fists. “I don't want to think of that. Please.”

“I wish that there was a way to go back and redo everything. But Kurt? I can't, and neither can you. We have to work with the cards that we have been dealt, and pray that everything ends how it’s supposed to.”

Rubbing the side of his faces into his dad's shirt, gripping the man harder with each of his words, Kurt rasps, “it's not fair, though. None of this is fucking fair. Why can't I just tell him?! He deserves to know!”

Pushing his son back so he can look him in the eye, the King reminds Kurt of the rules. “He may deserve to know, but you can not twist free will. He's mortal, son. He has to come back to you on his own accord, not by force. He has to remember his right on his own.”

Nodding his head in defeat, Kurt pulls out of his father's arms and leans back onto the couch. Gazing off at nothing, he lets out a half hearted laugh. “Whoever decided to give mortals free will was an idiot.”

Letting out his own chuckle at his son's words, Burt tugs down on the bill of the cap that is still resting on Kurt's head. “Maybe, so. But rules are rules.”

Pulling off the cap and tossing into onto the rectangle coffee table, Kurt leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, his chin sitting on top of his fists. “Ugh. I hate this. I hate this and it hurts.”

Moving to take the same position as his son, Burt speaks softly. “I remember when I first sensed your mother, my destin.” Turning his head slightly to look at Kurt, “when she was born my whole body shook. It felt like a piece of me that had been missing since the beginning, was finally found. I had no idea who she was, but I knew that angel of grace was for me. My other half.” Reaching his hand up to ruffles his son's hair, chuckling when Kurt bats it away, “he will find his way back to you. Stop forcing it. He will comeback.”

Leaning back to rest against the couch, Kurt whispers to his father with his head down, “I hope you're right, Dad. I really hope you're right.”