Walking out into the dark

Cutting out a different path
Lead by your beating heart
All the people of the town
Cast their eyes right to the ground
In matters of the heart

The forest is dark and cold.

It is the type darkness that creeps between crevices and hides beneath shadows. And tonight it is everywhere. The flickering flame of a torch is the only source of light apart from the haunted glow of the moon which paints bluish shadows on the forest floor, the tangled branches of the oak trees providing the perfect stencil.

It is a darkness that belongs to a wild land of changing seasons, with forests of tall, green trees swaying in the summer and with cold, icy winds in the winter. In this wild land, tall mountains scrape blue skies while a dark ocean smashes its waves against the kingdom's rainy shores. It is a time where the outlines of all things are more apparent, the contrast between joy and suffering, between adversity and happiness, between love and lust. It is a time where the lover wears the colors of his lady, where the beggar shuffles through the streets with downcast eyes, where the knight holds his sigil high, where the walls soar high but where the lofty castle towers soar even higher. The contrast between silence and sound, darkness and light, summer and winter, is more evident than in any other point in history. Today, we hardly know of the purity of silence or the profundity of darkness, or the effect of a single solitary light or a single distant cry. It is a time where these violent contrasts breathe excitement and passion into this wild land which seems to be locked in a perpetual oscillation between agitated despair and distracted joy.

And so the darkness here has more depth, more hopelessness. It settles into your bones and leaves you with a knotted stomach. It leaves you clenching your fists and struggling to fill your lungs.

A prince crouches in this darkness, with a trembling hand gripping the hilt of his sword. Blaine takes in a deep breath, trying to quiet his rapidly beating heart. There is nothing to fear, he tries to convince himself, it is only darkness.

He shakes his head, trying to focus his thoughts, and takes another step forward, wincing at the crackling of stiff, frosted branches beneath his feet, but he continues, walking through the trees. His worn leather boots make too much noise in this unfamiliar terrain.

The flickering of other torches can be seen through the trees. But soon, they disappear, and he is left in complete darkness.

Sharp hazel eyes look panicked for his companions but all that can be seen are the black silhouettes of the trees against the eerie light of the moon.

It is quiet except for his footfalls and the soft pants of his breath.

Then, a growl.

It is low, deep, and rumbling, reverberating through the silence. Sinister in its sound and its intent.

His heart stops and his blood runs colder than the hovering chill. Blaine spins around, looking for the source of the sound or for a fellow flickering torch.

Another growl resounds, but this time it is more like a purr. Blaine swallows and slowly slides out his sword from its sheath, the sharp metallic whisper slicing through the silence. The blade glints dully in the moonlight.

A snarl erupts from behind him and he spins so fast he almost trips. But he keeps his balance, and looks at the source with a gasp caught in the back of his throat.

The black leopard stalks in front of him, ensnaring him with its bright yellow eyes. It snarls again, its long fangs shining white in the darkness. It melts into the shadows before reemerging, dappled moonlight adorning its filthy fur.

Blaine draws in a shuddering breath and steps forward, on his toes, light and nimble. He holds the sword in front of him with shaking hands, but with another breath he lifts his chin to try and manufacture some type of courage.

But then it disappears back into the shadows.

Blaine looks around confused, eyes straining to see past the blanket of darkness.

The beast doesn't reemerge until it pounces on him from behind, knocking him to the forest floor.

He falls with a shout, trying to twist from underneath it, thrusting his sword upwards. He hears it roar as he slices into its shoulder, but soon the leopard inflicts a wound of its own as its claws rake across his side. He cries out in pain and squirms, trying to heave its weight off of him. The sword falls from his grip, and he struggles to push it off with his arms while reaching and drawing a small dagger from its sheath and stabbing upwards.

Then, the weight grows limp as Blaine sees the shaft of an arrow bury itself into the beast's chest.

He throws it off tiredly and crawls away from it, pushing it back with narrowed eyes, hands grasping for his sword.

"Blaine! Are you alright?" An archer emerges from the trees, strands of blonde hair falling free from beneath the hood of his cloak.

"I'm fine Sam," Blaine replies, breathless.

Sam runs to his friend's side and helps him to his feet. Suddenly there are more flickering torches that emerge from the trees.

Sam looks him up and down, before asking, concerned, "Are you hurt? Your side..."

"It's nothing. Just a scratch," he pants. "But excellent shot."

Sam laughs and claps him on the shoulder, "Thanks!"

Soldiers step out of the darkness, shivering flames illuminating their faces. Blaine turns to them, "See that the pelt of the beast is taken to my father."

They salute him and haul the limp body of the leopard, dragging it back into the shadows where their horses are waiting. One leads Blaine's white stallion into the clearing, handing the Prince the reigns. He thanks him softly before mounting with a small wince.

"Are you heading back to camp?" Sam asks.

"Actually, I'd like to take a quick ride first. I'm not ready to go back just yet."

"Should I come with you?"

"No, just make sure that the pelt reaches my father. He wants it presented to King Burt when we finally arrive for the celebrations." Taking the reins more securely in his hands, Blaine clicks his tongue, urging his horse forward. "I'll see you in camp," he calls behind him.

Blaine disappears quickly into the trees, the darkness concealing the flickering torches behind him. The night sky is speckled with glittering stars which peek through the foliage and watch the Prince ride through the night.

The stars turn their gaze to the town that rises out of a stony outcropping only a few leagues away. There, most of the inhabitants are still cradled in the arms of sleep, the peasants curled up in their rags and the nobles tangled in their silks. Only the guards are alert, walking across the walls and watching the dark forest below with sharp eyes, sharing steaming cups of broth in the cold night. A castle rises from the centre of the town, its towers reaching for the watchful stars which look down at a silent man in sympathy. He is a King who stands on a balcony high in the clouds, looking over the forest with longing.

The stars follow his sad gaze until they spy a small cottage concealed within tall oaks. There, a young man sleeps fitfully.

He dreams of fires that crackle sharply, echoing against the tall stone walls. He dreams of an arched ceiling that catches the smoke and sends a haze to settle over the crowded room. Despite the heat from the flames and warmth of the people, cold still permeates through the walls. The howling of winter winds can be heard faintly, the pale swirling of snow glimpsed through the stained glass windows.

He dreams of music and songs that echo through the cavernous halls and guests that dance gracefully, spinning and twirling about. The ladies' dresses flutter with every step, the soft silk frolicking with that of the vibrant cloaks of the men. Fairies hover in the corner, slender wings arched gracefully behind them, wearing colorful gowns and lovely smiles.

He dreams of a tall and slender Queen, with impossibly pale skin, with shining copper hair that falls braided down her back, and with bright eyes that are the bluest of blues. The Queen cradles a bundle of blankets with her gentle arms, looking across at the spectacle from a raised brow, her eyes twinkling. The bundle of blankets moves, and a little boy sits up in her grasp, blue eyes wide as he watches the magical scene before him attentively. She chuckles as he squirms for a better view and the young man dreams of a soft voice that whispers, "One day I'll teach you to dance. One day this will all be yours, my love."

The images and sounds seem to blur, like wet paint smudged across a canvas, suddenly returning to order when a loud crash silences the hall. The great doors swing open and a flurry of snow gusts inside. The onlookers watch with gasps trapped in their throats as white lightning crackles and flashes, and a green fire erupts, slowly fading into the shape of tall beautiful woman cloaked in black, features as if chiseled from ice. She stares at the shocked faces before her as a raven lands lightly on her scepter.

"Maleficent," the fairies breathe, stepping forward.

One looks upon the witch with unbridled hatred and snarls, "What do you want?"

The icy face just eases into a smile, ignoring the fairy. She looks up at the raised platform and says lightly, "Well...what a glittering assemblage King Burt: royalty, nobility, the gentry, and ah," she chuckles, "How quaint. Even the rabble. I really felt quite distressed at not receiving an invitation."

"You weren't wanted," the fairy replies flatly as the King stands frozen. For this sorceress was rumored to be dead, and as you can imagine, seeing someone who you thought to be dead can be quite the shock.

Unaware, Maleficent's eyes go wide, delicate eyebrows arching upward and she gasps, as if shocked, "Not wanted?" She laughs and strokes her raven, brushing the dark feathers with slender fingers, "Oh dear what an awkward situation. I had hoped it was just oversight. Well, at that event, I guess I must be on my way..."

The Queen watches surprised as Maleficent turns away, "So you aren't offended, Your Excellency?" she asks hesitantly.

"Why no, Your Majesty. And to show that I bear no ill will, I shall bestow a gift on the child." The hall darkens as Maleficent raises her high, powerful voice, letting it carry over the assembled crowd. "Listen well all! The prince shall grow in grace and beauty, beloved," she pauses to scoff shortly, voice dripping with ill intent, "by all who know him...But before the sun sets on his eighteenth birthday he shall prick his finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel, and die."

Maleficent laughs, delicate features twisted into a cruel sneer, her cackles echoing in the stunned silence.

King Burt stands quickly, "Seize her!" he orders. The young man dreams that his voice is loud and clear, deep and warm, a stark contrast to the sorceress, whose laugh is like swords grating against stone.

The guards surround the sorceress but she summons back the rippling green fire, the flames crackling around her billowing robes. "Stand back you fools!" she cries and the guards' eyes widen as the flames engulf her with a roar and she disappears, her laughter still lingering heavily in the newly chilled air.

A fairy cloaked in scarlet is the first to move, speaking quietly, "Don't fret your majesties, we still have a gift to give."

A fairy in sky blue robes rushes to the child, her feet brushing lightly over the floor. She looks down at the child and says softly, "Sweet Prince, if through this wicked witch's trick, a spindle should your finger prick, a ray of hope there still may be, this, the gift I give to thee. Not in death but in sleep for all the fateful prophecy will keep, and from this slumber all shall wake when true love's kiss the spell shall break."

A bright light blinds the audience and the paint runs again, the colors swirling and dripping into a mess, before everything falls into darkness, the floor slipping away-

-The young man awakes with a start, the sheets tangling about his feet. He sits up and pants heavily, running anxious fingers through his thick hair. After a moment, he catches his breath and lies back down, but his heart still thuds impatiently. Only little bits remain from his dream, or was it a nightmare? It seemed happy enough. Little flashes return to him, whispers of laughing voices and the soft caress of silk. Images of cavernous halls and dancing ladies robed in vibrant colors. And then screams and flashes of light, green fire crackling and then....nothing. He can remember no more.

It's the same dream. Always. But he can never make any sense of it.

Kurt sighs and pulls the threadbare sheet higher, wrapping himself in it, trying to ward off the stiff chill in the room. He cannot sleep. So he lies down and tilts his head back against the pillow, closing his eyes and trying to keep his mind blank. The titters of the birds outside accompanied by the ruffling of leaves in the wind are his only companions as dawn creeps over the forest, cradling the little cottage in thin rays of sunlight, while miles away, the towers of a sad castle scrape the clear blue sky.

When dawn finally arrives, it arrives with a birdsong, as it always does, and shines light through the thin curtains of Kurt's bedroom, filling the room with pale, lazy light. Kurt rises from his bed, rolling his shoulders back with a soft exhale and after stretching out his long, slender limbs, he trudges down the stairs of the cottage after yet another sleepless night. This little cottage had always been home to him, but now the days are passing agonizingly slow and for the first time in almost eighteen year Kurt begins to feel like a prisoner within the thin little walls. Loneliness creeps in as the three women who raise him are increasingly absent and the trees outside are no longer sufficient company. He shakes his head and slips into the kitchen.

Downstairs, the women who raised him, Flora, Fauna, and Meriwether, are busy setting the table for breakfast and don't notice the slender young man at the doorway. Kurt silently stands and watches them bustling about fondly. "Good morning!" he finally calls out.

"Oh good morning sweetheart," Fauna rushes over and rises on the tips on of her toes, pulling Kurt down to kiss his forehead. "My, my isn't somebody getting tall."

Kurt just smiles, "Maybe it's just you who is shrinking." Fauna laughs and hits his arm playfully, jumping up to ruffle his chestnut hair.

"Oh enough you two," Flora orders kindly, "We best be off. Kurt, you eat breakfast and then go chop some wood."

"But I just got some yesterday. And where are you always off to?"

"Kurt, just please go chop some more. We, uh, need to prepare for the winter, I hear it's going to be quite cold."

"But..."

"Goodbye sweetie! Don't forget to never talk to strangers and most importantly never tell anyone your name." And then the door shuts and Kurt is alone again.

He walks over to the small bird cage near the window, where a yellow warbler trills delightedly at the sun that shines through the dusty glass. Kurt whistles and the warbler, named Pavarotti, whistles in return.

Kurt sighs and grabs a roll of bread and throws some crumbs into Pavarotti's cage before nibbling at it while he dresses. Slipping on his soft leather boots, he steps outside and slings an axe over his shoulder.

The next hours are spent searching for sturdy trees, chopping them and neatly stacking them at the side of the cottage. The pile grows steadily, but Kurt enjoys the steady thump and repeated feel of the axe falling over and over and over again. Finally, once the wood teeters tall and Kurt is sure that Flora will be satisfied, he sets down the axe and walks into the forest to the stream to wash up.

The green grass crunches softly under his feet, a quick reminder that winter is approaching. It is almost December, but yet it still hasn't snowed and it is barely cold, just a gentle chill that is beginning to creep in. He rolls his shoulders, and cringes as his muscles begin to ache ever so slightly. That better be the last time I chop wood until springtime, he thinks to himself. The sweat sticks his loose white shirt to his back uncomfortably and he is relieved when the stream finally comes into view. He hums to himself as he splashes some cool water onto his face and scrubs his hands clean, the water cold against his pale skin.

Not far off, a horse is trotting gently through the forest, its rider breathing in the fresh air with a smile. He has traveled long and a little time alone with his horse in the peace and quiet of the greenery relaxes him, the forest utterly transformed from the night before, the sunlight dressing it in a kinder light. The rider closes his hazel eyes and listens to the birds chirp up in the branches, the bubbling of a stream, the gentle breeze as it passes through the leaves overhead, making them shiver softly, and a musical hum in the distance.

Wait.

A musical hum?

He opens his eyes and dismounts, his booted feet landing smoothly on the crisp grass and he readjusts his feathered cap onto his dark curls. The hum still permeates through the trees and he walks curiously toward the source, holding the reins loosely and guiding the white horse through the dappled light, his red cloak brushing lightly over the forest floor.

Back at the stream, Kurt dries his hands and steps away from the water, walking slowly back to the cottage. He looks up at the blue sky between the cracks of the tangled branches. The sun shines shyly through the foliage, providing a little bit of warmth that caresses Kurt's damp skin softly. It has been a while since Kurt had taken the time to appreciate the beauty of his home, so he decides to prolong the return, instead taking the long route to the glade.

He strolls through the forest and begins to sing to himself, something the lonely young man often does to keep himself company,

I know you,

I've walked with you once upon a dream

I know you,

The gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam

And I know it's true

That visions are seldom what they seem

But if I know you, I know what you'll do

You'll love me at once,

The way you did once upon a dream

He begins to waltz about, dancing with himself, loving the cool breeze on his skin as he spins, giggling at his own insanity. The buzz and hum of nature accompanies the scattered birdsong that orchestrates the music as he dances, the rattle of the leaves in the wind offering swelling applause. He twirls and suddenly there are warm arms that catch him.

Kurt jumps away, hands going instantly to his belt where his sword should be slinging but goddamn it he forgot it back at the cottage and he must stop doing that and oh...

Oh god.

Kurt swallows, stilling as his eyes finally take a good look at his apparent assailant, his hand falling from his belt and going limp at his side.

There are two types of perfect people.

One type is people who are unfathomably beautiful with perfect bodies and perfect features. They make perfection self conscious. But you cast these unfathomably beautiful people only a lingering glance, a glance not dissimilar to a painting or statue you see as you walk.

But then you see some people who are just unfathomably attractive. They may not be perfect in the literal, aesthetic sense, but they have something differing, a sort of spark. A twinkle in captivating eyes or a crooked smile or a glittering laugh. They make perfection swoon. These unfathomably attractive people are the center of worlds and the soft caress that starts a war and the breath that steals others away.

The man standing in front of Kurt is of the latter type, which is what makes him so unfathomably irritating.

Kurt curses his treacherous hormones as his eyes unashamedly trace up and down the man's near perfect figure, finally resting back on his face wearily.

His eyes are hazel, glinting playfully like liquid gold in the afternoon sunlight. Dark curls tangle adorably under a red feathered cap, and he is dressed plainly in a grey and black tunic with brown breeches and tall boots. At his waist is a black belt with a brass buckle, and attached is only a small dagger, which makes Kurt's relax a little. A vibrant scarlet cloak falls loosely from his shoulders, fluttering slightly in the breeze. The horse behind him is well groomed, its coat a grayish white, and it tosses its head, sending its black silky mane flashing in the sun. Everything about this man is so impossibly handsome (I mean, seriously? How is that even real?) and Kurt has no idea what else to do except stare.

The man raises thick eyebrows, and takes a hesitant step forward, "I'm awfully sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."

Kurt almost faints at that beautiful liquid voice, but manages to reply, his voice much higher than intended, "Oh it wasn't that. It's just that you're a..."

"A stranger?"

"I was going to say a random man in the middle of a forest who I know nothing about who may indeed be a murderer but stranger cuts it well enough," Kurt interrupts drily.

The man just laughs and Kurt suddenly feels the strange urge to make him laugh again, just to hear that sound once more. The man, oblivious of Kurt's inner battle, just replies, "But we've met before, don't you remember?"

"We have?"

"Why of course, you said so yourself, once upon a dream."

Kurt can't help but smile at how utterly and adorably cheesy that was, and is about to quip another of his signature snide remarks when suddenly the man begins to sing, and it's all Kurt can do stop his jaw from hitting the ground when his lovely voice fills the air.

I know you,

I've walked with you once upon a dream

I know you,

The gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam

Then the strange man is holding out a hand, and Kurt, romantic heart moving thousand times faster than his now pathetically useless head, takes it. The two waltz humorously down the stream which reflects their dancing bodies in its clear waters as the day hesitantly slips into twilight. The man's hands are warm and firm, and Kurt feels unexplainably safe. Then they are singing together, completing the song with clear voices.

And I know it's true

That visions are seldom what they seem

But if I know you, I know what you'll do

You'll love me at once,

The way you did once upon a dream

Kurt suddenly pulls back and leads the man away from the stream and into a clearing where the trees stop and open up into a ledge where one can see miles and miles rolling on as far as the eye can see. Where the castle can be seen sitting high, its towers glittering faintly in the fading light and where the blue skies roll endlessly into the horizon, broken by soft brushes of white. They stay for a while and enjoy the view, sneaking glances at each other, never letting go of the other's hand. Kurt feels the urge to pull the man closer and hold him tight, but regrettably does nothing of the sort.

After a while, the mysterious rider breaks the comfortable silence, asking softly, "Who are you? What's your name?"

"Oh. My name... Why it's, it's , oh no no I can't. "Kurt pulls away quickly, the warnings of the three women that raised him finally returning him back to his wits. He stumbles backward and moves back into the trees, "I have to go."

The man turns to look at him confusedly, "Wait, when will I see you again?"

"I don't know. Maybe someday."

Eyes desperate, the man takes a step forward, "Where can I find you? Where do you live?"

"The cottage in the glade. Just follow the river."

And with that Kurt is gone, vanished into the trees, leaving Prince Blaine standing alone with a thousand questions still needing to be asked.

This is your heart
Can you feel it? Can you feel it?
Pumps through your veins
Can you feel it? Can you feel it?