It was midnight in mid-December when the heavy oak doors of the castle of Dalton flew open to reveal a thick crowd of rain-soaked, mud-caked soldiers. Through the grime, Kurt glimpsed the shining gold and deep green of their uniforms. He had been wandering the castle that day, feeling unusually restless, and he had just happened to be passing through the Grand Hall.

Kurt froze in place, watching as Duke Finn stormed into the hall at the same time the King was hurrying down a nearby staircase, shouting orders that Kurt could not hear.

He could not hear, could barely think, he could only see.

For in the arms of the Dukes Wes and David was a stretcher, upon which lay a small body with unruly dark curls that had grown out of control after months on the battlefield. A delicate face, turned to the side, showed no sign of life.

Kurt thought he had screamed. Maybe he had tried to, but all he was aware of was his legs carrying him towards the shouting, panicking throng of people that carried his love, his life, his Blaine up to his bedchamber. Breath coming in sharp wheezes, Kurt pushed his way through the mess of soldiers, yanking on Finn’s arm the second he was close enough.

Finn turned, a ghost of recognition in his haunted eyes. Kurt wanted to ask something, say anything, but all that came out was another scream. When the door to Blaine’s bedchamber slammed in his face, Finn’s trembling arms caught Kurt as he blacked out and slipped to the floor.

He awoke with a start when the light of dawn began creeping in through the window of his empty bedchamber. Cursing, a flood of memories from just hours ago poured into his head and Kurt practically leaped out of his bed. He darted to the South Wing of the castle, feet devoid of shoes.

When he reached Blaine’s bedchamber, he pounded on the door.

“Let me in, let me in, l-let me in, please,” gasped Kurt, choking down the sob that threatened to escape his throat.

The door swung open to reveal Blaine’s closest servant, William, and Kurt dashed past him into the room, which was occupied only by Blaine, laying on his bed on the crisp white sheets of his bed, the ones they had made love on what seemed like years ago.

“Oh, God, Blaine,” Kurt whispered, his voice and legs trembling as he took tentative steps toward his unmoving form. Kurt was vaguely aware of William closing the door and standing dutifully by the wall, watching the scene with serene eyes.

Around Blaine’s middle, a dozen bandages had been wrapped thickly, but a small circle of blood had still soaked through the many layers. Kurt dropped to his knees by Blaine’s bedside and grabbed one of his cold hands in both of his own.

“What-what happened?” Kurt breathed, mostly to Blaine’s unconscious form. The gentle rise and fall of his chest was barely noticeable and Kurt felt his heart ripping in two with every passing minute.

It was William who answered. “Prince Blaine and Duke Finn were completing a second mission on the border in order to free several captives that King St. James had managed to steal. Them and their quadrants were ambushed by numbers that far surpassed their own, and the young Prince Blaine was stabbed cleanly through the ribcage by an enemy’s sword.”

William’s voice was shaking very slightly as he recalled what Duke Finn had told him just hours ago.

Kurt just stared at the motionless form in front of him, yearning for more details but also begging for the chance to never have heard such a story.

William continued, knowing that what Kurt needed most was information, not vague answers, which is what he would surely receive if he asked any other servant. William cared for the boy. Both of them loved Blaine, in vastly different ways, but the kinship of caring for the same person so strongly was still there.

“The weapon went through several layers of muscle. His left lung is punctured. He has several broken ribs and a broken leg, caused by him falling off his horse after the attack. The other servants, those who are more well-versed in medicine, tell me that he suffers no head injuries, which is. . . good, I suppose.”

“What-what can we do? Is he going to. . .?”

Kurt trailed off, clutching Blaine’s limp hand tighter in his own and biting his lower lip so hard he tasted blood. 

“Prince Kurt, all we can do is make him as comfortable as possible, so that he may leave this world in peace.”

Kurt’s heart stopped and a strange wave of cold heat spread throughout his body as if his life was being sucked from his veins. A spinning sensation overwhelmed his mind.

He and I, he and I, he and I. He and I, we were supposed to go on forever.

I cannot live in a world where it is only I, and no he.

Without being aware of it, Kurt had jumped up from the cold marble floor and rushed over to William, slamming him against the wall. The old man did not flinch, but merely clenched his jaw in pity at the sight of the lost boy before him.

“There has to be something that can be done!” Kurt screamed, tears flowing down his reddened face with terrible insistence. His vision swam with the overflow and the spinning of his head.

“There is nothing, Prince Kurt, nothing,” replied the servant, sounding as if he had said it from very far away.

Kurt let out a strangled noise of anguish that William was unaware could come from a human being. These boys, thought William, neither of these lovers can live while the other has died. We will lose both of them shortly.

“Medicine! There has to be something! Something! Anything!” Kurt was hysterical, and the old servant had to fight to keep Kurt’s grip on him from causing him to lose circulation.

“Your highness, Dalton is very isolated. We do not have the medical technology that McKinley possesses.” 

“Oh, God,” Kurt sobbed, letting go of William at once and falling to the floor in a heap of rumpled clothing and shaking limbs. “Oh, no, no, no, no.”

Before Kurt blacked out again, he heard William whisper to him, “We will miss both of you terribly, the star-crossed lovers of Dalton and McKinley.”