Blaine stumbled down the stairs, not even aware of his footing or where it was taking him--he just needed to get to Daniel, to grab onto him, to make him stay.

Daniel did stop. He turned around, his face red and wet with tears. Blaine fell back; he hadn't expected Daniel to actually listen. His face lit up with hope for a split second, but then Daniel spoke and it all went away.

"I'm done with this, Blaine," Daniel said, his voice shaking. "I needed you today. I needed you to be here and you weren't, you never are--"

"Daniel, I was working--"

"Exactly!" Daniel cried, barking out a laugh. "You're always working, Blaine. You're always working when I need to talk, or want to go out, or need help around the house-- It makes perfect sense that you wouldn't be here the day my mother died, Blaine, because you were fucking working!"

"I'll try again," Blaine begged, taking the last step down so he could walk closer to Daniel. He began to panic in earnest, but it was at war with his guilt--because it was the truth, wasn't it? Everything Daniel said was the truth. "I'll drop this case, give it to someone else-- Please, Daniel. We're gonna get married, everything's gonna be okay..."

Daniel said nothing. He raised one hand, baring the engagement ring Blaine had put there, and quickly slipped it off. There was a moment of horrible realization, of complete devastatation in Blaine's eyes before Daniel threw the ring at his feet. It landed on the floor with a tiny clink.

"Fuck you, Blaine," Daniel said softly, almost a whisper, and he turned around and left Blaine standing there alone.

It was like the sort of split-second nightmare that makes you wake up screaming, Blaine thought wildly, but a split-second passed and it wouldn't end. Daniel was there, standing before him, and it occurred to Blaine somewhere in the still-logical part of his mind that he'd written down loved ones on that sheet of paper--

"Why?" was all he could say, his eyes locked on the horrible wound, ugly and gaping on Daniel's forehead. His ex-lover's ghost took a step before him, and Blaine felt his eyes heat up with tears. "Jesus, Daniel--"

"I shot myself the night I left you," said Daniel in a flat voice as he continued to walk forward. "I went home and I shot myself in the head."

"Oh, God..." Blaine fell back, bracing his hands on the floor as the tears escaped, rolling down his cheeks. "No, God, oh Jesus..."

"I was all alone," Daniel continued, drawing closer. "I needed you but you weren't there. No one was ever there."

The ghost knelt before Blaine, who was cowering on the floor, shaking his head over and over. Daniel reached out to take Blaine's hand in a parody of affection, resting it against his own cheek. It was so cold. Blaine felt like throwing up.

"You did this to me, Blaine," whispered Daniel.

Then he raised Blaine's hand, forced him to point his index finger, and pushed it into the bullet hole.

Blaine screamed. His mind shorted out as Daniel pushed the finger in deep, and it was so cold--oh Christ so cold, so wet-- He was screaming and sobbing and praying, trapped in the corner of a dark room as the walls closed in around him, nails and screws popping loose and falling, detaching--

--and then arms were around him, circling his shoulders from behind, and he heard Kurt's voice over all the scratching in his head. Susan's fingernails on the glass. Scratch scratch scratch.

"Let him go," Kurt's voice commanded, his tone harsh. "Let him go and leave, or I'll rip you apart and you can haunt the world in pieces."

Slowly Daniel's ghost pulled Blaine's finger from his forehead, releasing him. Blaine couldn't see anything--he was blinded by tears and horror and grief--but he could feel something curl in around him from behind, enclosing him, protecting him.

Daniel still lingered, looking at Kurt with contempt. Kurt merely tightened his arms around Blaine, raising his voice.

"Leave! Now!"

An ugly look formed on Daniel's face, skewing his features entirely, and he drew slowly back into the darkness. Kurt held onto Blaine, shielding him until the figure of Daniel had completely disappeared, and the apartment was silent.

The thing covering Blaine lifted, and he sagged in Kurt's arms. Frightened, Kurt looked down at him, only to feel him retch and twist to the side-- He vomited all over the floor.

Kurt stroked back Blaine's sweaty curls as he threw up, and gathered him close when he was done. Blaine couldn't do anything but sob, and he was shaking violently, occasionally making these terrified little whimpers that made Kurt's heart hurt. He held him close on the living room floor, ignoring the puddle of vomit that was rapidly begining to spread its stench over the room.

"He's gone, Blaine," he whispered, trying to calm Blaine down. "I told him to go away. He'll never, ever bother you again, okay? He wouldn't dare. I promise..."

It wasn't working. Blaine was still crying and shaking, and Kurt bit his lip as he continued to comb his fingers through the older man's hair. He sat there in silence for a while, just cradling Blaine in his arms and rocking him--and then he began to sing.

It was soft, barely there, and he picked the first song that he could think of. "In this proud land we grew up strong, we were wanted all along... I was taught to fight, taught to win--I never thought I could fail..."

His voice was sweet and high, clear and pure, all at once beautiful and haunting. As soon as he began to sing, he felt Blaine slowly relax in his arms, encouraging him to continue.

"No fight left, or so it seems, I am a man whose dreams have all deserted... I've changed my face, I've changed my name, but no one wants you when you lose..."

Blaine had stopped sobbing, but he continued to shake and weep silently against Kurt. Vaguely Kurt wondered if Blaine was really calming down or if there was something Kurt was doing, some other power he was just discovering that he had. Regardless, he never wanted to see Blaine in such a state ever again--so if this was what it took...

"Don't give up, 'cause you have friends... Don't give up, you're not beaten yet..."

It was a song he'd listen to when he was alive, when bullying at school got to be too much. He couldn't believe it now, looking back--how he'd hide in his room for long hours actually thinking about death, as if it were some pleasant release from life--something to look forward to.

It wasn't.

Blaine had stopped shaking, so Kurt fell silent, looking down at his companion worriedly. The older man straightened up somewhat, and it broke his heart to see how small and broken he looked. "Blaine," he said softly, frightened that his friend was lost forever.

They were friends, right?

"It's my fault," Blaine croaked, tearing Kurt away from his anxious thoughts. "He killed--he killed himself because of me, Kurt. Sh-shot himself--"

"Shh," said Kurt softly, and draped Blaine's arm over his shoulder so he could hoist them both up. He wasn't very strong, so it took a bit of maneuvering, but he managed to get them both to their feet before leading Blaine down the small hallway toward the bedroom.

Once inside he helped Blaine into bed, tucking the covers around him. He took the older man's glasses off his face and folded them up, setting them aside on the table next to his ashtray and the wallet that he knew contained a picture of Daniel. Kurt wanted to find it and set fire to it.

How dare you, he thought angrily as he remembered Daniel's face--that sick look of triumph as he'd tortured Blaine, as if it were some sort of retribution... You don't know Blaine at all. Blaine is good and strong and kind, he has nothing to do with your suicidal tendencies, you selfish idiot--

Blaine whimpered softly, and Kurt moved immediately to his side. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching Blaine anxiously. The older man was shivering, and Kurt tucked the covers more tightly around him.

"You can sleep," he said softly. "I'll stay here until you do."

"No," said Blaine suddenly, with surprising firmness. Kurt opened his mouth to reply, but Blaine silenced him by grabbing hold of his hand and squeezing it tightly.

"Don't leave," said Blaine, his eyes staring blankly ahead. "Stay with me."

Kurt blinked, then slowly relaxed, swallowing a lump in his throat. "Okay," he whispered, gripping Blaine's hand in return. "I'll stay."

"Sing for me again," Blaine murmured in reply, closing his eyes.

So Kurt did. Halfway through the song Blaine fell asleep, and Kurt reached over to turn off the bedside lamp and get to his feet. He wandered over to the window, looking down at the city outside, and the way the moon was creeping its way higher into the sky above it.

Hours passed, and he drifted.

--

When he returned, Blaine was sitting up in bed. Kurt turned from where he'd been standing at the window and walked back over to the bed, his steps cautious. Blaine's face, however, wasn't terrified anymore--it was set, serious, almost determined.

"Come here," he said, holding out his hand for Kurt. Kurt took it, and allowed himself to be guided onto the bed. Blaine didn't let it go, and Kurt was glad; Blaine's hand made him feel warm.

"Tomorrow you and I are going to St. Clemens," said Blaine, his voice firm and leaving no room for argument.

Kurt had to protest, though. "But Blaine, you're--"

"I'm fine," Blaine interjected. "You need to do this, and you're not going to do it alone. I'm going with you-- No possession. I'll speak for you. We're going to do this together." He turned his head, facing Kurt at last. "All right?"

There was silence, and Kurt just nodded.

Satisfied, Blaine lay back down; there were still a few hours before sunrise, after all. He lay there still for a moment, and Kurt got ready to walk over to the window again--but then he moved, inching over to the side a little and patting the space next to him.

Kurt hesitated for a long moment, then slowly moved to curl up in the bed beside Blaine. Blaine tugged the covers over both of them, and after a few minutes his breathing became slow and even. Kurt didn't sleep--he couldn't. Instead, he closed his eyes without fear for the first time, surrounded by warmth.

--

The sunset fell early as it did in the winter, painting the road orange and Blaine drove to St. Clemens with Kurt in tow. The boy sat in the passanger's seat and was utterly silent, watching the small neighborhoods pass by, spaced out between clusters of pine trees. Dark clouds gathered in the corner of the sky, promising something like rain or snow for the future--but right then, there was sunlight.

Everything was still bathed in gold-orange light when they made it to the church, and Blaine parked his car in the otherwise empty lot before stepping out into the cold air. He moved to open up the door for Kurt, but as soon as he put his hand on the door handle the boy was already there at his side.

Blaine smiled encouragingly, but his insides twisted with fear. "Are you ready for this?"

Kurt nodded, but his eyes weren't there. They were fixed on the church--a building that was quite old, but since refurnished and expanded--hard and unforgiving and shockingly blue. Blaine understood. He took the boy's hand and briefly squeezed it before leading the way into the church.

The inside was dark but for wide streams of orange sunlight pouring through the stained-glass windows, creating beautiful pictures on the walls and floor. Candles flickered everywhere, and a woman was moving around the benches and statues, putting them out one by one. The scent of the snuffed candles made Blaine instantly nostalgic.

Upon hearing Blaine's footsteps the woman paused, turning slightly to look at him. She was clearly a nun, though not in full habit--she wore instead a high-collared black dress, a sheer white veil draped over her grey-streaked auburn hair. A thick wooden cross was looped around her neck, and she touched it lightly as she offered Blaine a welcoming smile.

"Hello," she greeted, bowing her head. "I'm afraid Mass has ended. Have you come for Confession?"

"You could say that," said Blaine, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. "Are you Sister Lisbeth?"

"I am," the woman replied, brushing her hands on her skirt before folding them and stepping toward Blaine. "And you are...?"

"That's not important," Blaine replied. He didn't look at Kurt but he could feel the boy next to him, feel the anger and pain radiating from him. He wished he could reach out and hold his hand. "I'm not here to talk about me. I'm here to talk about Kurt, Lisbeth. Kurt Hummel."

Lisbeth's eyes narrowed in confusion, but she'd gone noticeably pale. "I don't know who that is," she said sharply. "If you aren't here for Confession or to pray, sir, I'm going to have to ask you to lea--"

"You're lying, Lisbeth." Blaine raised his voice. He thought about Kurt's body in those photos, twisted and mangled, and anger burned inside him. "Are you going to stand right there in front of the Lord and lie to me? You and three classmates tortured and murdered Kurt Hummel twenty years ago. Did you think that if you pretended it didn't happen you'd cheat your way into Heaven?"

'How dare you!" Lisbeth gasped, taking a step back, and Blaine noted that she looked more frightened than offended. "How dare you come in here and--and spout such filth, such lies--"

"He's here with me," said Blaine, speaking quietly. "He's standing here right next to me."

"What in God's name--"

She stopped mid-sentence, going white as chalk, her eyes fixed on the back wall of the church. Blaine followed them to where he could see Kurt's shadow in the rust-colored light, and he gasped softly. Two wide, dark shapes spread over the wall, slowly unfurling, crawling across the wood paneling and across the stained-glass windows.

Wings.

"Oh God..." Lisbeth whispered, clutching her cross. "Oh Lord, forgive me... Oh please have mercy..."

Blaine's eyes moved back to where Kurt had been standing beside him, but the boy was gone. There was nothing left but the shadow, looming dark and terrifying over the both of them. He tore his eyes away from it and turned back to look at Lisbeth, feeling vindicated. "I think you should talk now, Lisbeth," he said sternly. "If you want even a chance of getting to Heaven, I think you should take responsibility for what you did."

Lisbeth was still staring at the shadow in horror, and she shook her head, still clutching her cross. "I thought it had failed... I never thought-- I was against it from the start--"

"Against what?" said Blaine sharply, his stomach lurching.

"The ritual," Lisbeth whispered, her eyes falling onto Blaine at last. "The creation of an Avenging Angel."

His heart pounding, Blaine advanced on her, his expression urgent. "Tell me, Lisbeth. Tell me everything."

Lisbeth had started trembling, and she shook her head over and over as she talked. "It was foolish. Blasphemous. I was sure it would fail. But I was a fool, a--a foolish child."

"What did the ritual entail?" Blaine demanded, unwittingly drawing closer to the trembling woman. "What were you trying to do?"

"The corruption and death of an innocent," Lisbeth replied in a low whisper, closing her eyes and performing the sign of the cross. "Once defiled and slain, the innocent will return as an angel to do our bidding. To free us from our torment. To avenge us." She swallowed hard. "It seemed impossible from the start. But that--that pervert joined our group, that filthy sodomite--"

"David Karofsky?"

Lisbeth nodded. "I was firmly against letting him in, but it was necessary. He became what we needed. He led us to the boy, and he did what we were unwilling to do."

"You mean you let him rape Kurt," Blaine said viciously, relishing the shudder than ran through Lisbeth at his words.

"It had to be done," she continued, her voice shaking despite her attempts to keep it steady, authoritative. "Once he was finished, we had to perform the rite immediately. Each of us marked the boy, and--and invoked the spell. It was raining that night. We were rushed, frightened. We were only children."

Blaine gritted his teeth but let her continue.

"Once we buried the boy," she said carefully, "we cast the spell of Silencing upon Karofsky. He could not reveal what he'd seen that night to anyone, or else he'd suffer an agonizing death. It worked. We went on with our lives. No one was any the wiser. That half-wit took the blame for the murder, and it was as if it never happened."

"But you remember," said Blaine darkly, his chest tightening. "You remember every detail of that night. That's why you became a nun, isn't it? You thought it would absolve you from your sin, your sick crime--"

"I've done my penance!" Lisbeth cried, clutching her cross so hard her knuckles were white.

"What would your sister think, Lisbeth?" Blaine snapped, unable to stop himself. "Her death was what led you to St. Teresa's, wasn't it? And then you spit all over her memory, like she means nothing to you. Is that what you call penance?"

Lisbeth's eyes went wide. "How do you know about that?" she whispered. "Who are you?"

"Who helped you?" said Blaine, ignoring her question. "I need to know, Lisbeth. The names of the others. If you want absolution, if you want to do your penance-- Tell me their names."

There was a long, long pause, and Lisbeth closed her eyes again, clutching her cross, and began to pray. Silence fell over the church but for her whispering, and Blaine grew even more impatient. The sun had dropped low, the rust-colored light turning violet-blue as night drew closer. Blaine glanced around the church in search for Kurt, but his shadow had gone. He couldn't see the boy at all. He frowned, confused, then turned back to Lisbeth. She was still praying.

He sighed in irritation. "Now, Lisbeth--"

"Timothy Blake," she said suddenly, looking up at Blaine so suddenly it made him jump. "Ellen Ordesky. Robert Callahan."

Blaine's eyes widened and he scrambled to pull his notepad and pen from his coat pocket, jotting down the names as quickly as he could. When he looked back up at Lisbeth, tears were rolling down her face.

"Please, leave," she whispered, shaking her head. "Leave me in peace. I'm not a fool-- I know that I'll be punished for my sins in the next life. Let me use the rest of this one to atone. Please... Just go."

Shaking his head, Blaine slipped his notepad back into his pocket and took another step forward. "I need to know one more thing," he said softly. "Lisbeth... I need to know why you did it. What was the ritual for? Why did you need vengeance? Who were you trying to get back at?"

Lisbeth had stopped crying, and she looked up at Blaine with sharp, unblinking eyes. "I cannot tell."

Blaine frowned. "The hell you can't," he said bluntly. "What else do you have to hide?"

"I cannot say!" said Lisbeth shrilly. "I've revealed enough!"

"Yes you can!" shouted Blaine, advancing on her, and she cowered. "Tell me, goddamnit!"

"I cannot--"

Quite suddenly, like a switch being flipped, the remaining candles in the church went out. Blaine and Lisbeth were plunged into darkness, and the only light that remained was the silver glow from the steadily rising moon. Something was moving in the silvery panels of light that slipped through the windows, slowly drawing closer, and Blaine didn't need to look to see what it was.
He knew it was Kurt.

As the boy's dark shadow approached, Blaine felt something that Kurt had never made him feel before. He felt fear. He couldn't see any of the boy's features--only the outline of his slight body, and the spread of vast wings on either side, and it stopped something inside him. He felt crippled, knocked flat by Kurt's presence, and he could only stare as the boy slowly approached Lisbeth.

The woman was gripping her cross with both hands, shaking wildly and muttering prayers nonstop. Her terrified eyes were fixed on the back wall, where Blaine assumed she could see Kurt's shadow--and he started to feel sick, as if he ought not to watch anymore.

He couldn't tear his eyes away, however, as Lisbeth's cross was suddenly torn from around her neck and violently yanked from her hands. She cried out in horror as the beads from the necklace spilled upon the floor, and she made an attempt to gather them up before Blaine blinked his eyes and Kurt was just there. The boy stood before her from where she knelt on the ground, scrambling to retrieve the lost beads. There was silence.

Then Lisbeth began to bleed.

It was just like with Karofsky--but instead of the blood streaming from her eyes, it all came from her mouth. She coughed and sputtered, spitting out gobs of red over her flailing hands, which were still trying to gather up the fallen beads. After a while she couldn't move anymore, and she just doubled over, clutching at her chest. She clawed at the fabric of her dress as if trying to keep something inside, and Blaine had a moment of horrible realization before Lisbeth made a retching sound and--

He looked away.

It was a moment before the retching stopped, and Blaine slowly opened his eyes. A single candle had been lit, illuminating Lisbeth's dead body. It was sprawled on the floor, eyes wide, and--Blaine's stomach rolled--her heart lay next to her. She had thrown it up. She had thrown up her heart--

He tore his eyes away and looked for Kurt. The boy was standing over the single candle, his hands folded. The wings were gone. In the blink of an eye, he'd transformed back into the frail boy Blaine knew, and Blaine approached him tentatively.

Watching the candle flicker, he was silent for a long time. He stared into the flame, remembering how he'd light one for his parents for a few weeks after they'd died--before he'd lost his faith.

Kurt was the one to speak first. His voice was tiny, soft and frightened, and Blaine put an arm around him.

"Do you believe in God?" he asked.

Blaine replied, "No."