God and his priests and his kings
All were waiting
All will wait
As they go over

Maleficent's army approaches with the sound of marching feet. There is no pretense of drums or horns, no drama, no laughter, no sound. There is only the silence and the repetitive beating of thousands of marching feet on frosted grass.

The soldier beside Kurt fidgets, twiddling his bow nervously in his hands, shifting his weight from foot to foot. A soldier behind him coughs, another clears his throat although he has nothing to say. From the wall, he can see line upon line of soldiers emerge from the white horizon. They hold different variations of tattered flags, and wear different variations of worn armor. Mercenaries, thugs and criminals, all lured by the prospect of gold and the prospect of violence.

Beneath him, he can see the Riders of Arenor holding their horses steady. He remembers the man from the masquerade. Why are they fighting, why is that beautiful man fighting? Wouldn't he be happier safe and tucked away with someone to hold him when the sounds of a distant battle emerged? Pointless. A waste. For who? For him? Some nobody who hid for years.

Kurt's heart grows colder as the army nears. He just waits for them to stop. To sound a horn. To wait. To negotiate. To make time for an epic battle speech.

But they just keep coming.

Closer.

And closer.

The snow begins to swirl down heavier, gusts of wind sending it soaring across the tense field. Kurt blinks the snowflakes from his lashes, trying to control his breathing. The suspense makes him want to scream, to leap off the wall and charge, anything but this swollen silence. He tightens his grip on the curved bow in his fingers.

Somewhere from the midst of the approaching army, a horn blows, the high sound echoing across the battlefield.

Maleficent does not even offer terms before her army charges.

Kurt sucks in a deep breath of frosty air and in a seamless movement notches his bow and raises it high.

"Hold!" a commander shouts, his voice hard, unfazed.

Blue eyes narrow and focus on a little soldier below, to that narrow gap of armor at his neck. They really should design their armor better. A collar would be protective and look intimidating. The little soldier is running beside his comrades, his sword drawn, screaming at the defenders.

"Fire!"

Kurt looses his arrow. It arcs gracefully and falls with hundreds of other dark thorns that slip from the skies and smash into the charging army. The little soldier falls.

They really should design their armor better.

He draws another arrow, nocking it swiftly and raising the bow again. He pulls the string back until the little goose feathers brush against his jaw. As the commander shouts again, the string slides out of his fingers and the arrow joins the others that strike the approaching army, sending other little soldiers falling to the ground.

The wall gives them an advantage and the wind blows in their favor, carrying their arrows farther and faster. The snow is littered with enemy corpses before a single defender falls, but Kurt hardly notices. He keeps focusing on each individual arrow as it moves from the quiver and through the air. After a time, he doesn't even stop to see whether the arrows hit their targets. Long after the commander gives up on synchronizing the shots he maintains his pattern. Continuing to nock, draw, raise, and release over and over and over until the world around him slips into a blur. His blue eyes harden and he visualizes every arrow smashing into Maleficent's chest. He loses count of how many he has fired and ignores the ache that begins to grow in his shoulder and fingers. Just continue the pattern.

Nock.

Draw.

Raise.

Release.

Repeat.

He reaches to draw another arrow but his fingers grasp only air. He hardly has time to realize that the quiver is empty before he is being tugged back by another soldier who takes his place.

Kurt blinks, trying to clear the haze from his mind. It is almost like waking up from reading a long story and struggling to grasp reality again, except this time the story doesn't end.

Dimly, he recognizes a squire filling his quiver with more arrows. The sounds of battle crash around him. Cries, shouts, and the thrumming of bows join the clashing of metal and screams of horses

His hands sting so he pulls off his leather gloves with a wince. His fingers blister and bleed softly from the combination of the cold and repetitive firing of the bow. Despite the arm guard, he can feel his inner arms beginning to bruise. His shoulders and back ache but he shakes it off.

The soldier in his place only has two arrows left.

He closes his eyes for a minute, trying to compose himself. Breathe.

One more arrow left.

Kurt steps behind the soldier and slides into his place as the man releases his last shaft. The soldier claps him on the shoulder and disappears, rushing for water. Kurt quickly nocks his bow and fires. An enemy arrow appears and thumps into the body of the grocer with a suit of borrowed armor and he tumbles off the wall with a cry as another man scrambles to replace him.

Kurt struggles to find his focus. It slips away like sand between fingertips as the men around him become corpses covered by scarlet snow. The melted snow that coats Kurt's boots becomes tinted with red. Concentrate. Breathe.

As the world seems to crash around him with resounding booms, Kurt allows everything to fall into the background but the pattern, until there is nothing but nock, draw, raise, release, and repeat.

Held between heaven and hell
As they're dancing
As they dance
Over and over

The world has descended into chaos, spinning out of control while Blaine runs to keep up. Friend and foe surge around him in a seemingly interminable pulse of blood and steel.

A man rushes at him and Blaine sidesteps, slicing the blade across his throat. His next opponent is not so careless, and circles him, his eyes shining darkly from within the visor of his helmet. This time he charges, easily dodging his blade, and on the next attack their swords meet with a loud clash. He pushes down, his strength forcing him back. Blaine slips on the ground, which is now slippery with the melted snow and blood of the fallen, but regains his footing in time to block his strike. Jumping out of the way, he kicks at his knees and the man slips, Blaine instantly driving his blade through his chest.

Suddenly, a large force strikes the back of his head, denting his helmet. Dazed, he falls but instantly rolls out of the way as his attacker's blade plunges into the ground. He slides out his dagger from his boot and slides it up into the man's gut. He cries out and Blaine pushes him away, stumbling unsteadily to his feet.

Blaine blinks the sweat and spots from his eyes, ripping his damaged helmet off. His dark curls are plastered to his forehead, but the unruly strands blow in the winter wind. His bloody gloves brush away the hair from his face and he pants, rolling his shoulders backward. Blaine shivers as frozen air stutters in his throat.

The moment of rest is shattered when a soldier approaches him stealthily, Blaine blocking his strike just in time. But the surprise of it knocks Blaine's sword from his hands. He ducks to avoid the blade that whistles by his head and punches the opponent in the jaw. Startled, the soldier stumbles backward and Blaine punches again and again with well practiced accuracy. The man falls and Blaine draws his dagger and slices his throat.

Blaine bends down and grabs his sword from the filthy ground, spinning in search of another opponent on unsteady feet.

Blaine was once foolish enough to believe that battle was glorious. He had this idea of a hero standing tall amidst cheering soldiers, the villain cowering at his feet and begging for redemption to the sound of drums. And being oh so noble, the hero would acquiesce and ride off on his steed, a halo of golden sunlight atop his head. Fairytales are really quite lovely.

The reality is much different. This battle is a descent into madness, a hell of humanity's own creation. The only cheering is from the wind which sends gusts of snow swirling above the soldiers' heads to push them onward. The clash of swords and screams of the wounded are the only music, his hair, wet with snow and blood, the only halo atop his head. He had lost his noble steed early into the battle and he's not entirely sure he can stand tall when his arms feel like lead. It smells of blood, sweat, winter, and human excrement, a combination that makes Blaine want to vomit. There is no glory in this battle. No glory in this slaughter that turns the pure white snow to red and black slush.

Fairytales may be lovely.

But fairytale aren't real.

It is not clear how long the battle has been going, but now the sun climbs high into the sky, masked by white clouds. The pale light illuminates the bloody scene and his hazel eyes look around, watching as the archers from the wall continue to send wave after wave of arrows over him head to smash into the enemy to try and lessen the number of attackers that the cavalry has to fight. But the enemy keeps coming. They keep coming like guests at a masquerade, pulling steel over their faces and joining the dance with fluttering heartbeats and quick steps.

And so they dance.

Over and over.

Crimson and bare as I stand
Yours completely
Yours
As we go over

Somewhere between the steady strum of his bow and the sweat beading on his brow, Kurt feels something lurking in the corners of his mind, creeping in from the edges and slipping into the shadows. Something he cannot quite grasp. He tries to shove it aside, but it continues to wrap tendrils of iron around his consciousness. It is not something tangible, not something he can understand. But somehow he can feel it emanating a faint color.

Green.

Not the green you feel when you stand in the middle of a tall forest of oaks with the breeze sending ripples through the grass in the glade. A sickly, diseased ember glow flickering behind Kurt's eyes when he dares to close them.

Then suddenly, the steady thrum of his bow ceases.

His arms drop, the bow slipping from limp fingers.

Kurt blinks and reaches down to pick it up again, but finds that his body doesn't respond.

He looks down at his hands, trying to force them into a fist. But not a single finger twitches.

Panicking, Kurt spins around in his own mind, frantically trying to regain control of his body but it refuses. Instead he starts walking away from the battlements and off the wall.

The edges of his mind suddenly become tangible, materializing from nothing and ascending into a fortress with tall emerald walls, trapping him inside a room with no exits, no cracks, no windows, no doors, no locks. His body moves of its own accord, reality outside the room becoming disoriented and unfocused. Within his mind Kurt stumbles to stand before the wall and punches it. It's hard and solid and warm, like fire is flickering somewhere within the dark stone. Kurt punches it again. And again.

He starts beating against it, scraping his knuckles and arms but he doesn't stop. Kurt is dimly aware that he's shouting, screaming to be released until his voice grows hoarse. Somehow, the ache in his muscles and the scrapes on his skin feel impossibly substantial in a place where everything is an illusion constructed as the mind's defense to maintain sanity.

Kurt falls to his knees, trembling as he presses his forehead into the warm emerald stone. Wearily, he closes his eyes and suddenly he can see into reality.

His body is walking into a dimmed room through a hidden passage in the wall. Cobwebs drape across the corners and dust coats the granite floors. Then he sees it.

It's almost concealed in darkness and dust, but it's there. He's only seen sketches of one before, but upon seeing it in reality for the first time Kurt can't help but think how simple and harmless it seems.

After all, it's just a spinning wheel.

Faintly, Kurt recognizes its significance and feels his mind launch another assault on the emerald walls. He struggles to tear his arm away or halt the steady progress of his steps. There is distant laughter emerging from through walls, grating like a sword against stones.

Unperturbed, his body steps up to the spinning wheel.

And without even a deep breath in preparation or an expression on the face, Kurt pricks his finger.

God and his priests and his kings
Turn their faces
Even they feel the cold