Stay calm, he chastened himself, exhaling shakily and trying to figure out which way was up. Breathe. Assess the situation. And remove the thorns from your ass, as soon as possible.

A moment or so of very careful wiggling and he was free, exceptionally rumpled and scratched up, but primarily unharmed. The sun was high in the sky by now -- Kurt instinctively reached up, probing around under his hair for a lump of some sort, because he must've been out for hours -- and there was an odd sound in the air. It took Kurt a couple moments to identify it for what it was: silence.

"Huh." Setting his hands on his hips and looking around, Kurt could see nothing but rolling hills and forest. Not a sign of life anywhere. And the background noise he was so used to, as a city person, the honking and chatter and clattering, was entirely absent. But that was probably because he'd rolled down the side of the hill opposite from Inverness. All the noise was muted by distance.

With a sigh, Kurt absently plucked a couple twigs out of his shirt and tossed them away, turning and examining the hill. The stones stood, as looming and unnerving as ever, at the very top, and he didn't much like the idea of scaling the imposing hill and trying to pick his way down the other, steeper side. Especially if he had some sort of concussion.

So, after a hopeless attempt to brush grime off his once-crimson kilt, Kurt set out to go around the hill and perhaps find an easier way back to town. He wasn't sure if Sebastian had missed him yet -- not likely, came the automatically disdainful thought -- so there wasn't much rush. Besides, if he went straight through the woods, he'd find a road sooner or later. He vaguely recalled driving past trees on the way into town.

Neater trees, though. The wood he was attempting to navigate was a good deal wilder and more overgrown than he recalled. Kurt stumbled more than once in his knee-high boots, over tree roots and boulders and, once, over something furry and brown that ran as soon as he stepped on it. Stumbling back, fumbling wildly for something to steady himself, Kurt crashed through a wall of foliage and landed hard on his back.

The wind entirely knocked out of him, adding to the array of bruises he'd already sustained from falling down the hill, Kurt lay still for a moment, moaning. Scotland had been a bad idea after all. Next vacation was goin to be somewhere absurdly developed, with modern conveniences never more than an arm's reach away.

And no bushes, Kurt mentally resolved, closing his eyes and ignoring the fact that he was probably getting all sorts of creepy-crawlies in his hair. Not a single damn bush anywhere.

After a couple moments, he became aware of the feeling of hard-packed earth underneath himself -- he'd stumbled upon a primitive sort of road, then, not the bumpy forest floor, good. He'd follow it as soon as his head stopped that awful pounding.

But the pounding didn't stop, not even when Kurt forced his eyes open and sat up, looking around, covered in reddish dust from the dirt road he was sprawled upon. It wound through the trees, curving around a bend a long way ahead, a bend around which was fast approaching a huge cloud of dust stirred up by --

Kurt gave a gasp, rolling off the road mere seconds before the thundering hooves of five or six fast-approaching horses trampled him. The sight of them -- majestic, wild-eyed, manes and tails full of brambles and tangles, nothing like the well-groomed, docile horses he'd seen pulling wagons along the smoothly paved roads in Inverness -- left Kurt dumbstruck.

Though, once he'd managed to glance up, no more so than the sight of their riders. Half a dozen men, burly and hulking, long-bearded giants straight out of a storybook, hooting and hollering, all of them wearing the traditional garb of --

"Highlanders," Kurt whispered, rising up on his elbows, jaw dropping a little, wondering wildly if he was witnessing some sort of historical reenactment. Heedless of his presence, the riders circled their horses, talking rapidly in Scottish accents so thick that Kurt could only understand a handful of words -- "Went tha'way" "Hurry up" "This way" "Find 'im".

Realizing suddenly that they were looking for someone (him, perhaps?), Kurt started to struggle out from the bush he'd rolled into, hoping that they could at least point him in the right direction, if not give him a ride home. But no sooner had he gotten up to his knees, than a pair of hands shot out of the brambles right behind him, muffling his startled yelp and yanking him back into the bushes.

Kurt instinctively tried to kick out, fighting against the hand over his mouth and the arm locked across his chest, giving an indignant and unintelligible series of insults. But whoever was holding him laughed suddenly -- and it was familiar, so familiar, that the sound of it froze Kurt stock still. He was so startled he was scarcely aware of the group of men riding off, until his captor gave a relieved sigh and loosened their grip.

"That was close. What were you trying to do anyways, get yourself speared?"

That voice. Kurt twisted away, scrambling back and staring at the speaker. "Bas?" he stammered, knowing he was wrong even as he said it. This man was tanner, a bit taller, with long hair that just hit the collar of his muddied red coat. But the smirk, the arched eyebrow was so much like Sebastian's that Kurt couldn't help but doubt himself.

"Have we met, then?" the man asked, voice accented -- British, that was a British accent, but Sebastian wasn't British. Pulling a handkerchief from some hidden pocket, he absently mopped grime off his face (Sebastian's face), giving Kurt a frankly appreciative gaze (also very much like Sebastian). "Hm. I feel like I would remember you. Was it that inn just past the border, the one run by the woman who smelt of onions?" When he was met with a blank, incredulous stare, he shrugged, tucking the handkerchief back into his sleeve. "No, no, the boy I paid for was taller. Thinner, too."

"Paid for?" Kurt repeated incredulously, instinctively crossing his legs, not liking the other man's bold gaze. "I'm not a prostitute." Then, because he couldn't help asking: "And what do you mean, thinner?"

The Sebastian look-alike gave a laugh, shaking his head in amusement. "Oh, don't be sour, my pretty." He moved, then, so suddenly that Kurt didn't have time to react before he was pinned on his back, with a frankly unwelcome man on top of him, and an equally unwanted hand creeping down his side. "I like a little something to grab onto," the man purred, squeezing at Kurt's side with another too-like-Sebastian-for-comfort smirk.

"Get off of m--" Kurt's indignant, red-faced demand was cut off suddenly by lips pressed against his, forceful, invading, unwanted -- and yet familiar, the same shape, the same taste, enough to make him instinctively relax. At least until the stranger tried to stick his tongue in Kurt's mouth.

Three seconds later the British man was groaning, doubled over from a knee to the groin and Kurt was up and running, wretching as did, tearing through the brambles and bushes without a thought to where he was going. He just wanted to get away, get out, to wake up from this nightmare where men in kilts rode wild stallions and British officers who looked like his husband tried to French kiss him.

Fortunately the Sebastian clone was too incapacitated to follow and, once he was certain he wasn't going to be groped unexpectedly anymore, Kurt slowed down to a walk, picking his way a bit more carefully through the trees. He'd made up his mind to try and head back towards the hill with the stones, which he could vaguely glimpse through the overgrown branches, willing to risk the steep climb. He was tired, hungry and absolutely filthy and he just wanted to sink into the claw-footed bath at the inn and soak away this bizarre morning.

The sun was sinking low in the sky by the time Kurt had found his way back through the dense forest and up the formidable hill. Only the vivid memory of what had happened the last time kept him from sitting on the overturned stone. Feet aching -- these boots were made to flatter his calves, not support him whilst hiking --, Kurt slowly trudged to the peak of the hill, wiping dirt off his face and looking down at Inverness.

What he saw, however, chased all the exhaustion away, replacing it with a deep, overwhelming, bone-chilling terror. Because all he saw was pitch blackness, the streetlights and headlights from the cars, the beacon of relative civilization that Inverness had been -- thoroughly extinguished.

"Oh my god..." Kurt instinctively whirled around, wondering wildly if he was just looking in the wrong direction. But nowhere he looked, no matter how he turned and strained his eyes, was the tell-tale light of a city. There weren't even the tiny pinpoints of lights streaming along the roads, showing the paths of evening cars. There was just the rolling emerald hills, turning smoky grey in the twilight and, if he strained his eyes, the dim outlines of small, crude, shack-like buildings where Inverness should be.

This was the point where Kurt would normally have a complete emotional breakdown. Fortunately he was momentarily distracted by a strange, familiar scent on the wind -- frying bacon and eggs. And by the time he stumbled to the westernmost side of the hill and pinpointed the tiny, flickering light several fields and a small copse of trees away, shock had thoroughly set in.

Right. So he was either caught in the midst of a nation-wide blackout, or he was in some sort of alternate universe. But there was breakfast food being made not too far away, and not even the thought of all the empty calories in bacon and eggs could keep his stomach from growling loudly. So, smoothing his clothes instinctively but unnecessarily, Kurt started to pick his way down the hill and towards the fire, mentally composing how he would introduce himself once he got there.

He made it through "Excuse me, I'm Ku--" before the half-dozen scraggly, filthy, somewhat scantily clad (more kilts, and not with leggings underneath) men leapt up and actually drew swords on him. Having expected maybe hobos, or perhaps some historically accurate performers, the big rough hands grabbing him and dragging him roughly into the circle of firelight prompted Kurt to let out an embarrassingly pitchy shriek.

One of the men actually had the audacity to laugh at that, which prompted the apparent ringleader -- a small, slight, unbelievably grimy individual, with the longest sword Kurt had ever seen -- to smack him across the back of the head. "Shut up, Sam! Don't make her mad, she looks like she bites."

"--her?" Kurt repeated, terror rapidly giving way to annoyance. He clearly was in no place to run anywhere, so the two massive and pungent gentlemen holding onto his arms didn't need to be so grabby.

The leader gave a cold, raspy laugh, standing and shrugging their cloak back from their face -- from her face; it was a woman, dark-eyed and tangle-haired, with a film of grime across her startlingly delicate features. "I dinnae know where ye come from, laddie," she purred, eyes narrowing, catlike. "But around these parts, only harlots wear colors like that." She reached out, snagging the hem of Kurt's kilt with the tip of her sword, making him shiver and squim away.

"L-Listen," Kurt stammered, trying to ignore the rising panic that threatened to choke his words and reduce him to a shivering mess. "I-I'm sorry I intruded. I'm lost a-and I was just wondering if you could point me towards the nearest to--"

"What sort of a voice is that?" It was the woman again, frowning and stepping forward, close enough so that Kurt could smell her, a wild, earthy, not strictly unpleasant scent, just strong. "Ye aren't a Highlander, are ye?"

Dumbstruck, Kurt slowly shook his head. The man holding his left arm frowned, turning a little and all but lifting the poor bewildered young man off his feet. "He don't look like a lobsterback either, Tana."

"I can see what he looks like!" The woman snapped, twirling her sword anxiously in one surprisingly delicate hand. Finally she sighed, sheathing the weapon and crossing her arms. "State your name and where ye're from, harlot."

Too frightened by the ominous glint in her eyes to protest the word, Kurt swallowed hard and managed, "K-Kurt...Hummel," something in him prompted him to forgo the "Smythe" part, "a-and I'm from...from New York."

"York," spat the man to his left -- literally spat; the gob of saliva hit the ground inches from the toe of Kurt's boot. "I knew it. Probably a spy for the good Captain himself."

The woman didn't seem convinced, though, hand resting on the handle of her sword, an unreadable expression on her face. "Hummel, though. That's German, innit?"

Was German good? It was better than British, Kurt knew that much, so he frantically nodded. With a sigh, the dark-haired woman turned, glancing absently across the makeshift camp, which drew Kurt's gaze the same way. He hadn't noticed the small stone building to one side of the fire, almost obscured by the trees, but she seemed particularly troubled by it. Finally she turned back, fixing him with the coldest, most humorless smile he'd ever seen.

"All right, then, Kurt Hummel from York," she said, somehow turning his name into an insult. "What is it ye do?"

Do? Do where? Do here in the woods? Do in general? After a moment of wordless, frantic thinking, a sudden rough shake of his arm from the Neanderthal to his left prompted Kurt to blurt out -- "Doctor! I'm...I'm a doctor. In...doctor. Yes."

That seemed to be the right thing to say, for the woman took a step back, eyes flickering towards the stone shed, and the rest of the Highlanders murmured among themselves. Kurt's captors even loosened their grip, like they were worried about somehow damaging his medical credibility. Finally, the man who'd first chuckled at Kurt -- Sam? Sean? Something like that -- stepped forward and said in a wheedling undertone, "Tana, he's a doctor. We're desperate --"

"Not that desperate," Tana interjected, eyes flashing with a look of near-disgust that was so intent that Kurt actually stumbled back.

Her companion was undeterred, continuing in that same soft voice -- "Ye know what will happen if he dies. Your brother will --"

Interrupting again (and mercifully laying Kurt's panic that he was the one being spoken about to rest), Tana gestured impatiently at the shed. "Fine, fine, bring him over here. Davey, ye bring the cleanest steel you can find, ye hear me? Stick it in the fire a spell."

"Steel?" Kurt repeated as the large man who'd bruised his arm black and blue nodded and stepped away, and the much gentler Sam took his place, tugging him towards the shed.

Tana gave a short laugh, stepping through the space where the door should be, and kneeling down by what looked like a bundle of furs. "Ye say you're a doctor, then you're a doctor. Doctors need their instruments clean, right?" Before Kurt could question further, she pulled away the top layer of fur.

"...dear god." Kurt was not a religious man. But the exclamation seemed to fit. For, lying there on the dirt floor, face ashen and gleaming with sweat that plastered his dark hair to his forehead, eyes closed, right shoulder a mess of clumsy bandages, torn flesh and blood (so, so much blood, dried along his arm, matting his ripped shirt to his skin, gushing up with every involuntary movement) was a young man, not much more than a boy, who looked half dead already. Yet, as Tana brushed his damp black curls away from his forehead, he shifted, opening his eyes (bright eyes, bright gold and bright with fever) the tiniest bit and curling his dry lips into a mockery of a smile.

"Hope I aren't in Heaven yet," the gravely wounded man whispered. "Cause ye aren't no angel, Tannie." Then his gaze slowly traveled around the shed, alighting finally on Kurt's stunned, wide-eyed face. The faint smile deepened, ever-so-slightly. "Tha's better."

Tana rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner, but her expression was stony when she glanced up at Kurt. "Here's the deal then, Kurt Hummel from York," she said, coldly, motioning for Sam to drag Kurt down to kneel next to her. "If ye are what ye say ye are, then prove it. Save this here bonny lad, and we'll let ye live. We'll even take ye to the Manor, clean ye up and send ye on your way."

Her gaze became sharper, if possible, as she leaned in and gripped Kurt's shoulder with a long-fingered, powerful hand. "But if he dies," she hissed, catching his gaze with her dark, menacing eyes. "You do too."

Kurt stared back at her for a moment, feeling cold all over, mind racing, heart thudding against his ribs. He was vaguely aware of someone shoving a small, slender dagger into his shaky hands, the tip still red from being crudely sterilized in the fire. Then, swallowing hard and turning back towards the wounded man -- who'd slipped once again into unconsciousness -- he took a deep breath.

Oh my god, what the hell have I gotten myself into?