He no longer remembers which angel he's supposed to be. The elements that pound across his face have worn his stone cheeks smooth and unremarkable. He thinks that he might have been holding something at one time, but whatever it was has been lost forever, and his hand with it. Unblinkingly, he stares at the rotted church door, and doesn't remember his name.

Mostly, he calls himself Blaine.

The boy with the nice clothes and pale skin had called him that. Blaine had liked it, so Blaine he was.

Sometimes, when the boy came with his books to read at Blaine's feet, Blaine could tilt his head a little bit, just enough to see him. The boy stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth when he read, and drew circles in the dirt at the base upon which Blaine stood. Once in awhile, he'd read aloud, his voice high and clear in the leaf-riddled churchyard.

The boy tells him stories, stories about himself, stories he made up about Blaine, stories about people he created in his head. Blaine thinks that the boy's name is Kurt, but he isn't sure because sometimes it's hard to tell who the hero is in the boy's stories. But Blaine calls him Kurt anyway, because Blaine really likes how it sounds in his head.

If it's been a bad day, Kurt will pick up a fallen branch and pretend to protect Blaine from enemies. The enemies have names that don't ever feature in Kurt's stories, but Blaine hears them a lot anyway. Some of them start to disappear after awhile and Blaine wonders why. Puck. Finn. Santana. Rachel. Schuester. Those names stop being enemies at some point, but Blaine doesn't hear them in the stories, either. Karofsky. Azimio. Sebastian. Eli. Those names are mentioned more often and though Blaine doesn't know who they are or what they'd done, he wishes that they would stop hurting Kurt.

Because Kurt can only slay so many imaginary foes with an imaginary sword before he falls, sweating and swearing to the ground.

It's after one of these intense battles that Kurt looks up at him, a fiery look in his eyes. Blaine wonders for one crazy moment if Kurt can sense him thinking. Kurt stands and climbs up the pedestal to sit at his feet.

"Once upon a time, there was a medieval land ruled by dragons," he says, tracing circles on Blaine's right foot. Blaine relaxes internally. It's another story. Kurt doesn't know about him.

"The dragons were all very different, no two exactly alike in their methods of murder. Some used poisons, some used flames, and some used ice. But there was one dragon that frightened even the others of its kind. This dragon was learned about through rumors, whispered through the cracks of doors and from the holes in floorboards. This dragon became known as the Medusa."

Kurt pauses and draws a shaky breath, running his fingers lightly over the smooth stone of Blaine's foot. "The Medusa wouldn't just kill its victims. The Medusa turned them to stone. An eternity of being trapped inside a shell, going mad and losing memory awaited those unfortunate enough to meet the Medusa's gaze. Death would have been preferable.

"In this land, the people weren't totally defenseless. There were always those mad enough to hunt the dragons. There were two boys in particular who had a vendetta against the beasts. A massacre of your family will do that to you, I suppose," he says, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He leans back, resting against Blaine's legs. Blaine was a little confused; Kurt had never spoken like this before. Never so sad or so quietly, like the words were breaking his heart.

"Anyway, these two boys were the best of friends, and a great team when it came to dragon slaying. They became rich off the thanks and gratitude of the common folk.

"But the boys had a secret. They were in love with each other. They knew that if the people found out, it wouldn't matter how many dragons they had slain. The people would slaughter them with their own swords. So they were careful, and their affections for each other were saved for nighttime, beside dying firelight and burning embers beneath the moon."

Kurt sighs, a tear dripping from his cheek onto the stone and washing away a perfect circle at Blaine's feet.

"The people suspected anyway, as people often do, but they had no evidence. They grew wary of the boys, and suspicious. The boy from the North, the Pale One, as the people liked to call him, came up with a plan. It was a plan that would endear them to the hearts of the land forever. They would kill the Medusa.

"Naturally, the other boy thought it madness. But he loved the Pale One with all his heart and would follow him anywhere, even into the gaping maw of death. It was his undoing." Kurt sniffles, wiping the cuff of his sleeve under his eyes.

"When they entered the Medusa's lair, they had no idea what they were facing. It was a fierce battle, the likes of which had never been seen before, but at the end, the Pale One found himself dying, looking into the stone face of his lover. As he lay bleeding, he wished with the remains of his aching, broken heart. He wished for a way to save them both, a way for them to live and live together in a place that they wouldn't have to fear.

"His vision was blinded by a bright light and he feared the end. But the light pulsed with a voice, light as a summer breeze in his ear. It spoke softly to him, cradling his weary mind with its words.

"It may take you many lifetimes to find him, young one," it said.

"I don't care," said the boy. "I love him." The light dimmed around him and he suddenly felt sleepy. He reached for his best friend, for his love, but found him gone. The wounds of battle had vanished, and the cave seemed older.

The voice echoed through his mind one last time. "Go and find him, young one. He's waiting."

"The boy searched and searched until he was very old. On his dying night, he knew he had failed. With that knowledge, he shut his eyes for what he thought was the last time.

"It was not so. When he opened his eyes, he was but a child again, a child with no memory of the dragons, no memory of his love. He grew as any child did until his seventeenth birthday. On the morning of that day, he awoke with both pleasant and unpleasant memories of his past life. He knew what he had to do.

"Again, he searched until he was very old. He realized that the cycle would continue until he accomplished his mission, and that he would once again waken with no memory. It saddened him, but it was out of his hands. And so the journey continued for centuries, the Pale One continuously failing to find his best friend and forgetting about it completely.

"Until one incarnation was different from the rest. This one was drawn to an old churchyard, and to a mossy, broken statue in particular. He made up stories about it, what seemed to be an angel, though he wondered why the angel had no wings."

Blaine nearly blinks. He didn't have wings?

"It wasn't until his seventeenth birthday that he knew. But he didn't know how to go about freeing his love. So he took a chance. And hopefully it works out happily ever after."

Kurt pulls himself to his feet, balancing precariously on the edge of the base and gripping Blaine's arm to steady himself. They're face to face for the first time ever and Blaine barely has time to wonder about the beauty of this boy up close before Kurt's warm lips are pressing against his own cold pair.

The effect is instantaneous. Blaine gasps, tumbling forward into Kurt's chest and knocking them both to the ground as memories smash through his brain. He breathes hard and keeps his eyes closed as they wash over him like a tidal wave, tucking himself under Kurt's chin and whimpering from the sheer overwhelming feeling of it all.

Hot tears drip onto his neck from Kurt's chin and he realizes that they mingle with his own. Kurt pulls him away just enough to look into his eyes. Blaine can see centuries lived inside them and wonders what Kurt can see in his own.

"Oh there you are," Kurt whispers. "I've been looking for you forever."