Glee 1. Chapter 1: This Is Your Heart

**Title:** Matters of the Heart

**Author:** aslytherinindistrict12

**Fandom:** Glee

**Rating:** T

**Pairing:** Blaine Anderson/ Kurt Hummel

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee or any of its characters. I also do not own Disney's _Sleeping Beauty_ or any of its characters. Void where prohibited.

**A/N:** I'm back! This is a little different, but very fun to write. I hope you like it! On a different note, I'm still saddened and shocked by the tragic passing of the lovely Cory Monteith. May he rest in peace. My prayers go out to his family, friends, and Lea. Hopefully people continue to respect their privacy in the days that come.

* * *

_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 atall 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 boysits 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 assembledcrowd. "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 shallprickhis 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?_

* * *

**A/N: **The lyrics at the beginning and at the end are from "Laura Palmer" by Bastille. The song Kurt and Blaine sing is "Once Upon A Dream" from Disney's _Sleeping Beauty_. A thank you to my sister, ladywarlock, for looking over the chapter for me and to you (yes you) for reading! Hope you stick around, you shouldn't have to wait very long for the next chapter. Any reviews/comments would be appreciated.

In another vein, I'm looking for a beta. So if anyone is interested, come talk to me! Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2: Don't Talk to Strangers

**Title:** Matters of the Heart.

**Author:** aslytherinindistrict12

**Fandom:** Glee

**Rating:** T

**Pairing:** Blaine Anderson/ Kurt Hummel

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee or any of its characters. I also do not own Disney's Sleeping Beauty or any of its characters. Void where prohibited.

**A/N: **Next chapter! It's a lengthy one, so bear with me.

* * *

_Don't talk to strangers._

_Oh, in the strangest dreams, walking by your side  
It is the hole that you impose upon your life  
When you're out, loneliness, it crawls up in the ground  
It's what you feel, but can't articulate out loud  
_

* * *

Blaine watches the silent trees long after the flawless man disappears, hoping that he would return just as magically as he had first appeared.

But he never does.

Blaine doesn't know why his heart clenches painfully, but it does, robbing him of breath. He inhales slowly, letting out a shuddering exhale. The day has grown colder and mist floats from his mouth, twisting and curling in the dimming light.

The trees seem to look down upon him in sympathy as he moves through them and remounts his horse, hands tightly fisting the hard leather of the reins. He clicks his tongue and the horse surges forward. Blaine just lets it run; only guiding it in the right direction.

The trees suddenly stop and the horse splashes through a narrow creek before bursting out into a clearing blanketed in tall, thin grasses. Wind blows through the clearing, sending the grasses rippling like water. In the distance, he can see the grey smoke from the camp tint the darkening white sky and is suddenly struck with the overwhelming need to just run away.

He doesn't want to go back to the camp.

He doesn't want to go back and see his father. He doesn't want to go back and pretend like he's comfortable commanding his friends and being superior. He doesn't want to go back and try to be like his brother because he can't. He can never be like Cooper, he's just not good enough.

He just wants to dance with that man in the forest and pretend to be oblivious of the world around him. Ignorance is bliss, isn't it? And anyhow, Blaine can't stop thinking about that man. Can't stop thinking about bright blue eyes and laughter like the ringing of bells. Can't stop thinking about how his own heart had fluttered at the man's smile.

This reaction may seem premature, but in this land of stark contrast and heightened emotion, you cannot simply fall into love. Love is a plummet. Love is a dangerous plummet only attempted by a few daring to betray tradition. And those willing are few, for love turns us all into fools. And Blaine will not be immune to that truth.

But more on that later.

For now, Blaine shoves these ridiculous thoughts aside because matters of the heart can be treacherous, especially to a prince betrothed to duty.

Banners flutter weakly above the sprawl of red tents. Smoke rises from amidst the encampment and settles above the camp like a thin grey haze. The clattering of metal mingles with the voices of the men and horses and fills the crisp air. The twilight cloaks the encampment in dimming light, the incoming darkness promising the end to yet another day on the road.

Soldiers on guard rise quickly, spears raised, but they relax when they recognize the Prince. They salute as he approached and move to take his horse but he just waves them off tiredly, leading his mount to the makeshift stables that have been set up.

He unsaddles the grey-white horse, brushes it over quickly, and secures it to a post before swiftly striding off into the camp.

As he walks, deep in thought, he almost runs into someone who stands in his way. He looks up annoyed and recognizes the soldier.

"Where are you going?" Sam asks, eyebrow raised.

"To get food?"

"No, you are off to the medical tent so they can clean your wound."

"But I'm fine-"

Sam interrupts, "Well, it's my job to make sure your royal person isn't harmed, Prince Blaine Anderson."

Blaine rolls his eyes at the addition of the title and opens his mouth to retort when his friend eyes him, "I…Fine."

"Well said," Sam replies with a smile, "Now go."

Blaine claps him on the shoulder and hurries off. The medical tent is large, and he ducks inside. The physician on duty calls a greeting from where he stands in the corner, looking through a chest of supplies. Blaine sits on a cot and carefully removes his shirt.

Upon seeing the ugly cut on the prince's side, the physician rushes over, kneeling in front of him. "Prince Blaine, you have to be more careful than this," he reprimands.

"I know, I know. But it's just a scratch."

"Well, next time make sure you come to me first, so I can make sure it doesn't get infected."

Blaine winces as the physician pokes at the long cut now scabbed over. "Of course."

"Good. I think you are right though, fortunately it is not very serious but I'm going to remove the scabbing anyways and clean it just in case. It'll heal faster that way and there will be less scarring."

Biting down on his lip, Blaine nods and looks away as the physician gently peels away the ragged scab. Blaine can feel a small trickle of blood as it traces down his side, warm and wet. The physician wipes some of it away with a damp cloth, dabbing at the cut softly.

Suddenly, the flap of the medical tent flies open and King Anderson strides in, brows furrowed. His hair is a steel grey, but no colder than his frigid hazel eyes.

"Where the hell were you?" he demands, stopping in front of Blaine, where he's seated on the edge of the cot. "The hunting party returned hours ago."

The physician looks up from his work, his face measured but his eyes betraying their shock. "My Lord, surely this can wait-"

The King ignores him, looking expectantly at Blaine.

Blaine draws in a breath, wincing slightly as the physician dabs again at the cut, stemming the small trickle of blood. "I just went for a ride after the hunt," he answers calmly, "I was not aware that you needed me, Father."

"I can't have you wandering off so close to King Burt's castle. We are but a day's ride away-"

"But the celebrations start in three days," Blaine can't help but protest.

"I have matters to discuss with King Burt so we must arrive early. And you have to be presentable."

Blaine opens his mouth, words on his tongue, but he thinks better of it and looks down at his feet. "Of course Father. I apologize for my foolishness."

"You will not partake in any other… _excursions_…No more scouting missions or hunts. You are to stay in camp and behave like a Prince unless ordered to do otherwise. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Father."

King Anderson looks his son up and down for a second before turning and striding out without another word, leaving Blaine wondering how in seven hells he'll manage to look for that mysterious young man in the forest again. Wait, no, forget about that man.

The physician releases a breath and turns back to his work, continuing to clean the jagged cut in silence before securely wrapping it with white cloth. He silently helps Blaine back into his shirt and Blaine rises shakily, doing up the remaining laces.

"I suggest you go sleep now. You will probably be able to remove the dressing by tomorrow, until then be careful," the physician instructs.

Blaine nods and mutters a quick thank you before heading out, leaving the physician alone in the tent, shaking his head sadly in the flickering torchlight.

Blaine picks his way through the temporary camp, looking forward to catching a little sleep before the last leg of their journey tomorrow. Most of the soldiers have already curled up in their blankets and fallen asleep, and the night is quiet. The moon glints off the blades of swords and knives clutched in tight hands, for no matter how safe, this land remains a stranger to the visitors. Those on watch pace the outskirts, sharp eyes trained on the still trees, and Blaine gives them a swift salute as he passes. The embers of the fires flicker and crackle softly, mingling with soft snores of men. He passes his tent with barely a glance and instead, as always, makes his way to his unit, where his friends have already fallen asleep. Picking his way through the blankets and sleeping forms, he sees Sam and Wes shuffling in their sleep and beside them an empty sleeping space, blankets already unfurled. Blaine smiles, they know him so well.

He lies down upon the course blankets, their roughness familiar to his skin. Unbuckling his sword belt and slipping off his cloak and jacket, the Prince settles down, making himself comfortable. Sleep already lurks on the edges of his mind and quickly, it carries him into darkness.

The next morning, dawn breaks over the trees and the camp rises from slumber. Blaine stretches out sore muscles and rubs the sleep from his eyes. He quickly washes and dresses into suitable clothes, removing the bandage from his wound, relieved to see it looking improved.

No words need to be said, and the men just nod to each other and roll up their blankets before setting out once again, packing up supplies and saddling their horses efficiently. To these horsemen, riding is easier than walking so there are no complaints or groans of discontent. It is simply ride. And ride. And ride.

Blaine's horse trots beside Sam's black mount. They ride silently, Blaine's eyes straying to the trees more often than not.

"What are you looking for?" Sam asks.

"Hmm… What?"

Sam sighs, "What are you looking for? You are staring at those trees as if you expect something to come out."

"Oh it's nothing. Um… It's just seeing so many trees in the same place is new."

"We've been riding in the forest for days, it's nothing new actually. But fine, don't tell me."

Blaine rolls his eyes but stays silent, trying to ward away the hope of seeing that mysterious man again.

The sun shines above, glittering upon armor and blades. Everyone is fully dressed because King Burt and his men would see them arriving from quite some distance and at King Anderson's orders they had to be presentable.

And quite a magnificent sight they were.

A castle eases into view, stones spires and towers rising out of the foliage. Those at the top shout excitedly as the visiting delegation appears, shining in the afternoon sun. Red flags and cloaks flutter in the wind, the vibrant color made brilliant in the light. They are instantly recognizable and messengers are sent down to King Burt to inform him that the horsemen of Arenor have finally arrived.

Tall doors lurch open and Blaine looks up at the guards standing high on imposing walls. There is a large expanse of field between the wall and the outlying houses of the town. There, tents have been assembled for the guests. Most of the men dismount and begin to settle into the camp, but Blaine remains mounted, following his father and his entourage to greet King Burt.

The dirt road melts into rock until the horses' hooves clatter noisily against cobble-stone. Residents of the houses step outside and open their windows to watch as the royals and their guards wind their way up increasingly cramped streets and almost too quickly, the castle looms overhead. The pale stone is bright in the winter sunlight and the towers reach their greedy fingers into the clouded mist overhead. The throne of Eleweth is housed in a relatively small castle in comparison to others that grace these lands. But it is perhaps the most beautiful. It seems to rise out of an outcropping of rock, its towers capped with dark shingles. However, one tower out-climbs them all, and there sentries stand day and night to keep careful eyes on the town and the surrounding land. Balconies adorned with blue flags make slender curves around the building, accessible through large, arched windows. In the summer, the castle would be cradled by flowers and greenery, but now most trees just stand bare against the stone except for the tangling ivy which provides splashes of color.

Guards in shining armor and sweeping blue cloaks dip their heads respectfully, approaching the group and taking their horses when they dismount. King Anderson does not even acknowledge them, and hands the reigns to a guard briskly before turning and walking to the front doors. Blaine dismounts swiftly and hands the reigns to a waiting attendant with murmured gratitude.

The front doors, laced with silver, swing open and Blaine steps into the chilled castle, blinking his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light of the hall. The only light that is offered comes streaming through large windows, those with stained glass sending kaleidoscopic patterns of color on the pale floors. Above, the arched ceiling rises high, painted with peeling illustrations of heroes long at peace.

Their footfalls clip on the polished floors as they are lead to the thrones where King Burt awaits. When the guests approach, surprisingly, he steps down from the platform and moves to greet the guests with a smile. He is dressed simply and he has a kind face. Kinder than that of Blaine's father. Blaine was beginning to think that a coronation leaves a permanent scowl on the face as well as a crown on the brow. Apparently that is only King Anderson. But King Burt looks older than his father, circles underneath his eyes and sorrow lines revealing what his smile attempts to conceal.

Blaine respectfully bows beside his father until the King beckons them to stand. "Welcome to Eleweth, honored guests."

"It is an honor to be here, King Burt. May I present my son, Prince Blaine," King Richard replies professionally, "I am afraid that my eldest son, Crown Prince Cooper, is unable to attend, seeing as I left him in charge of matters of state back in Arenor. He offers his apologies, as do I."

The King waves off the apology, "That is perfectly understandable." He turns to smile at the Prince Blaine, looking him up and down, "I am happy that you could attend."

"It is a pleasure," Blaine says carefully.

"If all is well, you shall finally meet my son on his eighteenth birthday, when we are sure he is free from Proditorem's prophecy."

King Anderson moves closer to the King Burt, asking in a quiet voice, "Is Prince Kurt well?"

"Yes. But he has remained hidden for years and has no idea who he is. I dare not risk any rumor of his whereabouts. I haven't seen him since he was a child. It is safer for him if he knows nothing."

"I understand. Now, there are matters I wish to discuss with you."

"Of course." King Burt turns to Blaine, "Feel free to explore the city. If there is anything at all you require, simply ask."

Blaine smiles, "You are most gracious my Lord."

"The castle is hosting the annual Winter Masquerade tonight. I would love it if you and your men could come. The delegation of Camelot has already arrived and King Arthur will be bringing his men to join in the dancing."

"It would be an honor my Lord. The Riders of Arenor will attend."

* * *

_All you want is someone onto whom you can cling_

_Your mother warned of strangers and the dangers they may bring_

_Your dreams and memories are blurring into one_

_The scenes which hold the waking world slowly come undone_

_You'll come undone_

* * *

Kurt runs through the trees, weaving through the trunks, leaves and branches crackling beneath him. His heart beats in his chest, flying faster than his feet. _Get away, get away, _he thinks, _get away, get far away before you turn back and do something stupid. _A variety of possibilities of "something stupid" flicker through his mind, and he finds himself imagining how the rider's lips would feel against his own…

_What the hell is happening to me? _Kurt thinks. The man looked nothing like a wizard or sorcerer. But if magic wasn't the explanation, why is Kurt feeling this? It shouldn't be possible for your soulmate to just appear from the trees. Love at first sight doesn't exist. True love doesn't exist. Both are concepts that are nothing but fairytales in Kurt's mind.

And fairytales aren't real.

Wait, soulmate? Where did that come from?

What was wrong with him?

He slows, breathing in small pants, and finds his way back to the cottage. The door swings open at his touch with a familiar creak. "Flora? Fauna? Meriwether?"

Only the silence replies and Kurt heads up to his room. His mind replays the scene over and over. _Maybe I fell and hit my head? Maybe I imagined the whole thing? Perhaps I'm going mad. That must be it. _

He sits on a rickety chair and kicks off his boots, and thinks. Recreating the image of the handsome man of the forest. Imagining impossible scenarios.

It seems as if his mind is just full of crazy ideas nowadays. Although the man was someone he had never seen before, Kurt can't help but realize that some of his characteristics were vaguely familiar. The confidence of his stance. The vibrant color of his cloak. The way he danced and the clear sound of his voice. Kurt knows nothing beyond this cottage, but still he is able to create magical scenes in his head and find similarities between them and the life he's living. He shouldn't be able to even to imagine them, let alone find them familiar. Your imagination and your memory feel different, and Kurt can distinguish between the two. So how come some parts of his imagination are blurring into his memory? He sits and thinks, rekindling the impossible scenes of dancing figures, roaring fires, and cavernous halls and gives them substance until they flit about like a permanent déjà vu in his mind.

Kurt collapses back onto his bed. Head cushioned by soft pillows, he lets his mind replay those vivid scenes over and over. Those moments seem so _real_. Could he really have only imagined them?

"Kurt! Are you here, dear?" Flora's voice emanates from below.

"Coming!" he calls back and bounds down the stairs, unable to shake the unease from his mind.

The fairies are bustling about with bags, filling up soft wood cabinets with items from the market.

"All the wood you could ever want is stacked outside."

"Thanks dear," Fauna says fondly, rushing up to Kurt and pulling him down to her height. Even then she has to go on her tip toes to kiss his forehead. "My my, isn't someone getting tall."

Kurt simply smiles and Fauna frowns. "What? No joke about me shrinking this time? What's the matter sweetheart?"

Kurt turns away and nervously runs his fingers through his hair. He chuckles humorlessly, "Oh nothing. Just silly. It's nothing."

All three women freeze and turn to their slender ward. Fauna takes another step closer to Kurt. "Kurt honey, you know you can tell us anything."

After a second Kurt spins around to face the three and chuckles again, looking at the floor, twiddling with his fingers nervously. When glances back at them, his confused blue eyes shine brightly, "Have you been lying to me?"

"What?"

"Have you been lying to me? It's just…" Kurt looks away again, studying the grains of wood on the ceiling intently, "It's just I keep getting these flashbacks, or whatever the hell they are and they don't make any sense and I'm just so confused _all the time_ and I…" His feet shuffle on the floor restlessly, and the women just watch frozen in place, "Am I really an orphan? Did you really just find me on the steps of the cottage when I was a baby with no memory of anything? Because those flashbacks are sure as hell memories of something."

"Kurt sweetie…"

He looks up at them, his gaze steady and only his voice trembling slightly betraying his anxiety, "If there is something I don't know, I need you to tell me right now."

Flora, always the strongest¸ goes back to unpacking the bags, "There's nothing Kurt."

"I don't believe that."

"You just haven't been getting enough sleep."

"BECAUSE OF THIS!" Kurt shouts. He unclenches his hands and breathes in deeply, regaining some sort of composure. He lowers his voice and pleads softly, "Please I _need_ to know." He fixes his eyes on the softest of the three, "Fauna?"

Fauna bites her lip nervously, "Sweetie I need you to understand that this all for your own good. We're just trying to keep you safe…"

"I am almost eighteen, I deserve to know. You have no right to keep anything from me."

Flora pushes past Fauna briskly and stands looking up at Kurt, addressing him firmly, "Fine. Yes, there is something we must tell you, but we will tell you on your birthday. Until then, we have to protect you—"

"I don't need you to protect me anymore!" he yells, "I can protect myself!"

Unfazed, Flora sets her shoulders, "Not from this you can't."

Meriwether, silent until now, steps between the two, "Enough of this. We have to tell him."

"Meriwether-"

"Stop this Flora. Kurt honey take a seat."

After a moment, Kurt wearily obeys and sits drumming his fingers against the table.

"Kurt, you are a prince."

The drumming stops. "You've got to be joking." Kurt chuckles, "You are joking? Right?"

"If only. Maleficent, curse that wretched bitch, cast a spell on you when you were only a child, and in order to protect you, we were ordered by your father to protect you, because of our… capabilities." Meriwether snaps her fingers, and Kurt's eyes widen as a wand appears in her hand, and the tattered peasant dress is replaced by a beautiful blue gown. Wings sprout from her back, and she hovers a few centimeters from the floor. "And so we hid our magic and kept you here, concealed from the world… and Maleficent."

Unable to decide whether to faint or simply just die of a stroke, Kurt instead chokes on his own air and Fauna rushes to fetch him a glass of water. He gulps and sets the glass down carefully, before his shaking hands drop it.

Fauna rushes over, and strokes his hair gently, "I know it's a lot to take in dear but we had no choice."

He swallows, "My father? My mother?"

"Your father, King Burt, lives in the castle on the hill where he is naturally, the King. Your mother died of the plague years ago, and so the King married the Lady Carole," Meriwether answers steadily. "I'm sorry, Kurt."

Kurt takes in deep breaths, calming himself. _Holy shit holy shit_, _not what I was expecting, _he thinks but manages to slow his heart rate. He rolls his shoulders back, sitting straighter.

"So I have a father and a stepmother."

"And a stepbrother, Lord Finn."

He nods his head, biting his lip. "I need to see them," he mutters.

Flora approaches in her now ruby red silks, saying firmly, "Out of the question. Not until your eighteenth birthday."

"I never said meet them, I just want to see them. Please." Kurt begs, "I have to see my family." He thinks for a minute, and blue eyes light up at a sudden epiphany, "What about the Annual Winter Masquerade held at the castle? No one would see my face and everyone is invited. I could see them but they wouldn't know me. I wouldn't even get close, I promise."

Flora sighs, "It's too dangerous Kurt. What if something happens? All of this would be for nothing."

"Please."

"No. Enough. Now you know. Do you have any more questions?"

He did. Hours were spent at the table and Kurt was reintroduced into a life he had no memory of as the daylight sank and darkness swept across the kingdom.

Kurt feigns a yawn and Fauna smiles fondly, "Okay enough for today. Off to bed with you." The boy nods sleepily and climbs up to his room, lying on his bed after completing an elementary moisturizing routine for his skin.

There he lies in silence, and after a bit he hears the unmistakable sound of a key sliding into the lock, and turning with a click, sealing him into the room.

They weren't going to take any chances.

But Kurt had already anticipated this. He was going to that ball, in some way or another.

Once everything is quiet, Kurt silently slips out of his bed. He looks down at his simple work clothes with a sigh, he would have to go like this and then somehow acquire a suit and a mask on his way to the ball. Stuffing his pillows under the thin sheets to recreate an albeit lumpy decoy, he steps across the wooden floorboards carefully, avoiding those he knew creaked. Kurt approaches the windowsill and slides it open with a wince as it grates softly. Once there is just enough room, he squeezes through, worn leather boots scrambling for purchase.

Slowly and carefully, he painstakingly picks his way down the side of the cottage. His foot slips and he suppresses a scream. Exhaling and swallowing nervously, he continues until the ground is but a few feet away. Peering down, he takes a deep breath and jumps, rolling to his feet gently on the moist grass.

"An impressive display of agility," a voice remarks from behind him.

Kurt spins with a gasp, heart caught in his throat. Before him stands Meriwether, dainty hands on her hips. "Meriwether…"

"Don't start. I know what you're doing."

"I'm sorry but I have to-"

"Of course you do," Meriwether interrupts, a mischievous twinkle in her eye, "Why do you think I insisted on telling you?"

"So you're going to let me go?"

"Looking like that? Absolutely not." And then, with a swish of her wand, Kurt is clad in a simple black suit, perfectly fitted. Even the silk undershirt is black, and the completely black outfit contrasts sharply against his pale skin. In his hand is a simple silver and black mask. His hair is perfectly coiffed and clean. "Now I know it's simple, but you don't want to draw too much attention to yourself."

Kurt looks down at himself in awe, jaw hanging open, "It's perfect," he breathes.

"Of course it is, it's a product of my magic," Meriwether sniffs, "Now close your mouth before a bug flies in." Kurt's mouth snaps shut and Meriwether continues amused, "I'm going to transport you to the ball because there's no way I'm letting you ride at night in the forest where dangers lurk in every shadow. At the stroke of midnight, you will be transported back here. Make sure you aren't in sight of anyone because it will look a little odd to see a person vanish. The stroke of midnight. No more. No less. Don't forget."

"Where are the glass slippers and the pumpkin?" Kurt jokes with a smile.

Meriwether smirks, "Off you go little Prince." She lifts her hand.

Kurt closes his eyes. He hears a clear snap breaking the silent evening and then there's a rushing sound and suddenly everything is still. Hesitantly he opens his eyes and finds himself in a darkened alley. Taking a deep breath, he steps out and walks into the cobble-stone streets. Horses' hooves clatter noisily against the stone and Kurt gasps as he looks up, where a giant castle looms overhead, so much larger than he had ever possibly imagined. He spins around and sees villages riddled at the base and the fluttering lights of fires glowing dimly in the distance. Beyond the lower town, giant stone walls surround the castle village, and he can see the faint figures of guards keeping their eyes on the horizon.

It's like a figment of his imagination.

Or is it his memory?

Turning back to the palace, he is swept into a stream of guests who hurry into the tall gates. All are dressed in cloaks, and Kurt finds a deep blue one on his shoulders. _Flora would have a fit_, Kurt thinks with a smile, _Going to the masquerade without her permission and wearing blue._ They approach tall doors which are shut. The crowd is crackling with anticipation and the people around him talk excitedly in hushed tones.

"This year's masquerade is supposed to be the best yet, with all the visiting delegations arriving for the Prince's eighteenth birthday celebration attending," a lady whispers to her friend in front of Kurt, who leans forward to catch their conversation.

"Do you know which have arrived?" her friend asks.

"Camelot arrived yesterday, and I heard that riders from Arenor arrived this morning."

The friend squeals in excitement and Kurt tunes them out and studies the crowd around him and the palace door, intricately designed with silver.

A large boom resounds. A hush falls over the crowd and Kurt can hear giant bolts sliding open. And then with a loud creak the doors are thrown wide and a golden glow shines from within.

Securing the mask on his face with a deep breath, Kurt steps forward into the cavernous hall, the heat from roaring fires chasing off the chill. In front of him, the ladies shed their cloaks and reveal brilliant dresses stitched with gold and embroidered with silver. He watches as they throw back their hoods, revealing shining curls that fall across bare shoulders and step delicately onto the dance floor where the other guests have already taken a partner and wait for the music to begin. Both are instantly coupled with masked gentlemen who take their hands with a bow and lead them off.

The sounds of a thousand violins fill his ears. White marble steps, covered in thick, red velvet carpet lead down to the grand ballroom. Assaulted with a wall of color and sound, he beholds dancers twirling below in elaborate costumes, their feathered headdresses waving around in a dizzying display of colors. Ivory white to deep crimson, gowns skim the ballroom floor, while violins sing softly, mingling with the operatic voices of the singers performing on the large wooden stage. But what holds his attention are the masks in every shape and size, some held daintily on long wooden rods, others tied with silk on hidden faces, displaying only small glimpses: a flash of shadowed eyes, rouged lips pulled in a small smile, a painted eyebrow. The identity is left to an excitable imagination.

He is so bewildered that he doesn't notice the lady approaching until she's in front of him. She wears a stunning scarlet gown with a daringly low neckline. Her gold mask is tied delicately around her face and crimson lips are twisted into a smirk. Long dark curls cascade down her tan shoulders and she stands with her chin high. A devil in a red dress. With a raised eyebrow she extends a gloved hand.

_Well, here goes nothing_. With a deep breath, he smiles and takes the hand delicately. Together they make their way to the dance floor where the music takes a rhythm and the couples begin to move. The song is beautiful and rises into the lofty heights of the hall. The scene, the music, the people, it is magical. Intoxicating.

Somewhere in the animated haze, Kurt notices a raised platform where thrones are set. Two taller ones are in the centre, and upon them two people with shining crowns. The King and Queen. Catching his breath, Kurt studies the King intently. He is widely built, with broad shoulders. A gold crown sits atop his balding head, and a smile never seems to leave his face for too long. A great longing seizes Kurt and he tears his eyes away from his father and they land on the Queen, the Lady Carole. But to the left and right of the royals are more unmasked people in magnificent finery, with crowns atop their heads.

Confused, Kurt turns to his dancing partner, "Who are those beside the King and Queen?"

The lady looks at the platform for a second before responding, "Where have you been? Under a rock?" Kurt still looks confused so she continues with a sigh, "To the right of the Lady Carole are King Arthur and Queen Guinevere of Camelot. And the man speaking with the King is King Anderson of Arenor. Now what business do you have with the royals? Just focus on the dance before you step on somebody's toes."

Kurt simply laughs and leads the lady into another twirl before she is caught up in the arms of a slender blonde and he falls into the arms of a tall man with green eyes. Soon, his partners meld together and he loses himself in the dance until the original purpose of his visit is forgotten. He has seen the father he lost.

But now, he wants to see the world he lost.

For what seems like hours, he is passed from one hand to the next, caught up in a whirlwind of music and laughter that leaves him breathless, a whirlwind that never stops. Propriety is left uninvited to stand in the cold air just outside the door. He feels infinitely powerful; beyond anything he could think or tell. Kurt isn't simply a peasant living in a forest miles from life. He isn't even a long lost Prince. In those precious moments he can be anyone and do anything, no questions, and no answers. He and those who spin around him, creatures better found in fairytales than in the harshness of reality. The moment is too exotic, too otherworldly, to warrant the reality of human emotion.

Maybe fairytales are real.

When the song finishes and the dancing pauses, cloaked attendants, their faces covered in white, offer wine, which slips down his throat like silk. Every taste, every moment, and every emotion impossibly magnified.

The hall quiets as everyone catches their breath. But before long, the figures move again in search of a new stranger to begin the dance at hand. Breathless, Kurt scans the crowd for a potential partner but then there is a tap on his shoulder and he spins to find a man in a black suit much like his own, most of his face hidden by an ivory mask with gold highlights, but he can see hazel eyes twinkling in the torchlight. A vibrant scarlet cloak is draped from his shoulders and it rustles as the man bows and extends a tan hand.

"May I have this dance?"

* * *

_Don't talk to strangers._

* * *

**A/N:** The song threaded throughout is the beautiful _Sleepsong_ by Bastille. Thank you to my sister, ladywarlock, for helping me introduce the masquerade. Thank you so very much for reading! Please, please, please take a moment to review. I'd really appreciate it. Reviews are oxygen.


	3. Chapter 3: The Rhythm of the Night

**Title:** Matters of the Heart.

**Author:** aslytherinindistrict12

**Fandom:** Glee

**Rating:** T

**Pairing:** Blaine Anderson/ Kurt Hummel

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee or any of its characters. I also do not own Disney's Sleeping Beauty or any of its characters. Void where prohibited.

**A/N: **I hope you enjoy this next chapter!

* * *

_Rhythm is a dancer,_

_It's a soul's companion,_

_People feel it everywhere,_

_Lift your hands and voices,_

_Free your mind and join us,_

_You can feel it in the air_

* * *

Stunned, Kurt freezes before stuttering, "Of course."

He stares at the man in front of him, watches the rosy lips curve into a smile. Hesitantly, he takes his hand and follows him to the dance floor.

There's a faint chatter about the room, masks of every shape and every color and every design mingling throughout the room, speaking in hushed whispers or boisterous laughs. The musicians are still settling in for the next number, and after hours of loud music, the naked air seems silent.

Taking a deep breath, Kurt grips his partner's hand tighter and leads him to the centre of the crowd. He's tempted to speak, but suddenly the long stroke of a violin fills the air as the musicians signal their readiness.

Masked faces spin to the orchestra, whose members now stand tall and ready, black masks covering their faces. The hall is silent as the dancers wait. Then the music starts. And it's a dance he's been taught as a child.

Thrilled at finally being able to have the superiority in a number, Kurt releases his partner's hand and sweeps into a graceful bow, signaling his intention to lead. His partner dips his head in acknowledgment, and they both raise their hands and bow, mirroring each other. Kurt stands tall, raising his arm high as his partner spins, their hands joining high above their heads. The dancers are all synchronized because it's a well known song, so it feels like the entire hall is elegantly lifting their hands towards the lofty heights of the palace.

Operatic voices seep into the air, echoing against the tall stone walls of the palace, the voices tangling with the smoke, curling and rising to stroke the painted ceilings. Reality starts to slip away again and the world falls into a haze of fantasy, the opera only contributing to the effect.

_Masquerade! Paper faces on parade  
Masquerade! Hide your face so the world will never find you  
Masquerade! Every face a different shade  
Masquerade! Look around, there's another mask behind you._

His partner moves away as the music picks up, the arms in the hall rising and falling sharply and then gently, like the crashing of waves on a silent shore. The two circle each other, stalking each other with light, quick feet that move swiftly over the marble floor, before they meet again together, holding each other lightly as they move down the hall in parallel to the other dancers.

The pace quickens and his partner falls into his arms before Kurt grips his waist and leads him through a swift series of steps. He stumbles a bit, but Kurt keeps a steady hand on his lower back, guiding him through the proper movements. Kurt hears the man chuckle softly as he misses another step, obviously new to this style of dancing, and Kurt just squeezes his waist.

The air is hot now, laden with the heat from the fires and the sweaty dancers, but as they move faster and faster he can feel a light breeze on his cheek. A lady's fan flicks beside him, ruffling his hair slightly but he pays it no notice. The music rises and falls in sweeping crescendos, his heart mimicking it. Kurt feels like he's flying as he spins in his partner's arms, their arms rising high and falling again before they fall back together.

_Masquerade! Grinning yellows, spinning reds  
Masquerade! Take your fill, let the spectacle astound you  
Masquerade! Burning glances, turning heads  
Masquerade! Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you  
_

Kurt looks down at his partner as he places one hand lightly on the shorter man's hip and the other arched in the air. His partner mirrors him and they spin, the longer they spend together the more synchronized they become.

The music changes again and the dancers line up in two lines opposite each other, switching places and stepping in and out of the lines. Sharp bows and quick flourishes of hand as the dancers move in and out of each other. Kurt can feel the silk of a lady's dress brush against him, the brush of another man on his elbow, but he keeps his eyes trained on his partner and the fluid movements of his body.

_Masquerade! Seething shadows breathing lies  
Masquerade! You can fool any friend who ever knew you  
Masquerade! Leering satyrs, peering eyes  
Masquerade! Run and hide, but a face will still pursue you._

The masks blur, their colors flashing past his eyes as he moves between the other dancers, trying to keep his eyes trained on his shorter partner. Drums thunder past the music, giving the hall a fluctuating heartbeat. The trumpets blare as the ladies stamp their heeled feet and snap their fans open, using them to further contribute to the illusion. The dancers peel off, and Kurt finds himself beside his partner once again, the pair meeting gracefully as they gently clasp hands, their bodies buoyed by the fantasy.

It's a time without inhibition, without the heartache and loneliness of the freezing world. They have all cast off their troubles like winter hoods, and instead are left with light capes that flutter and curl as they twist and spin. Kurt's heart quickens as these strangers move closer and closer, infringing on the personal boundaries he's so used to having. It's new and frightening but…

But.

Kurt has never felt so alive.

He pulls his partner even closer as they move across the floor, their feet stepping quickly across the polished floors. The man's breath is hot against his neck and Kurt can feel the slight pounding of his heartbeat through his chest. Impulsively, his partner leans in closer and sings a fragment of the song into Kurt's ear, "Masquerade, hide your face so the world will never find you."

His voice is breathless and a little rough from the dancing, but it's still like honey, deep and beautiful…. and a little familiar… But before Kurt can think on it further, blazing hazel eyes look up through the mask, stealing Kurt's breath and leaving his mouth dry. But then they disappear as his partner spins again, Kurt catching him before he moves too far away.

_Masquerade! Burning glances, turning heads  
Masquerade! Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you  
Masquerade! Grinning yellows, Spinning reds  
Masquerade! Take your fill, let the spectacle astound you._

The voices cease, their echoes leaking into the hall. The violins take their final notes and the drums take their final beats and the dancers take their final bows.

The two stand panting heavily for a second with the others, before everyone begins to disperse. A lighthearted tune is taken, and some other dancers take the opportunity to dance. But to Kurt, the room is much too hot and he's much too tired. But he doesn't want to say goodbye to his partner just yet.

"Thank you, that was…fun," the man says breathlessly.

Kurt lets out a laugh, "Want some air?" he asks.

"Yeah… sure," the man replies quickly.

Kurt makes his way toward doors that open to a huge stone balcony but doesn't release the man's hand, gently leading him along with their fingers laced together.

The music fades slightly as they step outside, getting lost in the cold winter breeze. Both look out over the edge at the village below with its twinkling lights trying to imitate the stars above.

It's beautiful.

But after a moment of silence, Kurt finds himself looking at the man beside him, looking at the curls that neatly sweep across his forehead, one or two sticking out in defiance. The tan skin that then disappears into the mask but then reveals the sensuous curve of his lips. Then down to the firm jaw that curves into his neck and runs into his shirt…

Kurt's heart quickens and he has a sudden urge to kiss him-

"It's almost December," the man says quietly, interrupting Kurt's sinful thoughts.

"Are you cold?" Kurt asks, voice higher than intended. "We can go inside if you want…"

"Oh no no, it's nice. And clean. Just different I guess. Arenor is much warmer."

_Arenor? He must be from the delegation. _Kurt thinks before asking, simply to hear the man speak more,"Was it a long trip?"

"To arrive here? Yes, but it wasn't terrible. The scenery was beautiful… The rolling hills, the tall trees, the bubbling streams, the snow in the mountains, the clean winds-"

Kurt can't handle it anymore. "Can I kiss you?" he blurts out.

The man is stunned into silence but Kurt moves closer to him. Wide hazel eyes look into his own and Kurt can feel the man's warm breath against his lips. They're so close. "But I don't know you. I don't even know who you are," the man whispers.

Kurt smirks, "Well of course, that's the entire point of a masquerade."

"I've never kissed anyone before," the man admits slowly.

"Neither have I," Kurt replies softly, and with a sudden rush of bravery moves closer, and waits.

The man hesitantly moves his hands to Kurt's cheeks, and then leans in, brushing his lips against Kurt's. Kurt pushes in closer, wrapping his arms around the man's shoulders. His lips are warm and soft, but slightly chapped because of the cold winter winds and as Kurt holds him tighter, they part instinctively and Kurt explores his mouth gently. And so they kiss in the cold silence on a castle balcony with the twinkling lights of a kingdom glittering below.

Kurt pulls away, studying the man's eyes intently. He's smiling and he can see a hint of a blush peeking out from underneath the mask and creeping up his neck, softly staining his tan skin. The man, who Kurt notices is shorter than him, reaches up to kiss him again, but then Kurt is grabbing his shoulders and shoving him against the wall and then kissing him passionately. The man gasps and Kurt takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, pressing against him, reveling in the feel of the strong, warm body against his own. They move closer and closer, Kurt pinning the man to the wall, their arms wrapped securely around each other. Kurt can feel the man's heart pounding in his chest, in sync to his own. It's gentle and fiery and everything in between.

Overwhelmed, Kurt can barely process thought. But he is suddenly struck by the desire to tear the man's mask off, rip away their biggest barrier. _I need to know who he is. I have to know- _

But then, the bells toll midnight.

* * *

_Won't you teach me how to love and learn,_

_There'll be nothing left for me to yearn,_

_Think of me and burn and let me hold your hand,_

_I don't want to face the world in tears,_

_Please think again,_

_I'm on my knees,_

_Sing that song to me_

* * *

For the second time in a matter of days, Prince Blaine is left alone.

All is silent as the midnight bells stop tolling. Only the sounds of laughter and music emanating from the castle behind him can be heard. He leans his back against the wall, closing his eyes tiredly.

The man had literally disappeared before his eyes. Literally. There were rushed apologies and then he had run away, down into the gardens below, and out of sight. Blaine had pursued him but he had vanished. Had to be some sort of sorcery, but the man certainly didn't seem like a sorcerer.

He returns to the castle with a sigh and sits the rest of the night in the corner, watching his friends, colleagues, and hosts, sweep across the dance floor, twirling and bowing in the warm hall. The Kings and Queens watch from their high place in the thrones above, the only people recognizable amidst the flurry of colorful silk, jewels and masks.

But the man he had spent the night with never returns.

Dawn approaches rapidly, and soon, everyone retires. The courtiers returning to their chambers in the palace. The villagers returning to their huts below. The delegations back to their guest chambers, with only those from Arenor staying encamped beside the walls to be close to their horses, since the stables in the palace weren't large enough to house them.

And the next day while he sweeps through his daily routine, exercising the horses and tuning out his father's long lectures and practicing the motions with the soldiers, Prince Blaine thinks about true love.

Love. Synonymous of to adore, to have affection for, to worship. But there isn't really a synonym of the term is there? Love is a concept that entails being so enamored with another human being that you would do anything for them. You would lay down your life, sacrifice everything, and even follow that person to the very ends of the land if that's what would keep you together.

Most people meet another person they are attracted to and choose to live together, and most often build a family. It is a relationship based upon respect, responsibility, and survival. And some do fall in actual love. Not all, but some. Mostly, they build the illusion of love and live with it so long and make it so elaborate that they begin to be fooled by it themselves. Simply a trick of the mind, nothing more. After all, most human beings cannot be alone. We crave the presence of another, affection, love, attention, just as a man in a desert craves water from an oasis he can see but cannot reach. We cannot stand the thought that we will live alone and die alone. We all are just silly romantics fooled by a mirage.

Now true love? That takes the root concept of love and elevates it to another possibility entirely. It is the concept that right now, there is someone who you are destined to be with. You are one half to a whole, and your other half is looking for you, just as you are looking for him or her. There is no question regarding the presence of "love". Love is automatic. Love for those two is not a fire that sparks, it is fire that has burned for years. Meeting your true love just makes you complete. Your missing puzzle piece, as it were. It is the concept that somehow, somewhere, is someone you were _meant _to be with.

It is a comforting thought.

But it doesn't exist.

Think about it, the concept of true love entails that two people were born to be together. They may have never met, but they are already in love, or will be. All they have to do is meet, and then everything will click and then you either have a happy ever after or a tragedy of enormous proportions. And even if such a thing exists, the probability that you would even meet that person is so remote that true love might as well be nonexistent. You don't have to be a mathematician to figure it out. There are thousands, maybe millions, of people in vast kingdoms that stretch to the very edges of the seas, and maybe even kingdoms beyond that. To find one in thousands, millions, and maybe in the future, billions, is impossible.

And whoever told you that nothing is impossible is deluded.

Only fictional characters find "true love". The rest of us are forever searching.

Love and true love. Both are concepts that are nothing but fairytales in Blaine's mind.

And fairytales aren't real.

But what could explain his feelings for the masked man at the ball? And then the man in the forest? _I must be going insane, _Blaine thinks with a shake of his head. He can't stop thinking about the dances, the music, the laugh….

The kiss.

_Just breathe Blaine, don't get too ahead of yourself. You're probably just tired… _Blaine reassures himself. But could-

"Blaine? Blaine!" His father's voice shakes him from his reverie.

Startled, Blaine lifts his head, "Yes father?"

King Anderson looks at his son carefully, "Pay attention and then go to sleep. You've looked exhausted all day."

"I'm fine, Father, really. What is it?" Blaine replies tiredly.

"Well…" King Anderson takes a deep breath, "Yesterday, I had the opportunity to speak with King Burt. We discussed our kingdoms, and how we could mutually benefit from one another…"

Confused, Blaine eyes his father suspiciously. "And?"

"So we also discussed how we could guarantee future success and friendship between the two kingdoms. And we felt the best way to ensure such a venture was joining the kingdoms through marriage. As you know, King Burt has a son, Prince Kurt, who will be returning to the castle in a matter of days and he'll be eighteen…"

"What are you saying?"

"Well, King Burt says that he has heard that his son is… attracted to men. Like yourself. And you will be eighteen in a matter of months, so naturally, we decided that you two would make the perfect match."

Blaine widens his eyes and chokes, "Wait… So I'm betrothed?"

King Anderson looks down for a second before meeting his son's eyes steadily, "Yes," he confirms.

"But I can't… I've already met someone…" Blaine blurts out before thinking.

The King narrows his eyes, "Where?"

"Once upon a dream-"

King Anderson stands taller, looking down at his son, "What is all this dream nonsense?"

"It wasn't a dream father, I really met him." Blaine stutters, improvising.

"Who?"

"I don't know who he was, a peasant I suppose."

It's King Anderson's turn to choke, "A… A peasant?" he laughs, "Why Blaine, you must be joking." Blaine shakes his head, and King Anderson responds angrily. "You can't do this to me. You can't give up the throne, the kingdom for some nobody. You can't marry a… a…_peasant_," he spits. "I won't have it! You are a prince, and you will marry a prince."

Blaine straightens, meeting his father's gaze, "Now father, you're living in the past. This is the fourteenth century and-"

"That doesn't matter I'm still the King! And I command you to come to your senses!"

"And marry for love!"

"What's all this about love? You are a Prince. And you have a duty to your kingdom and your people."

"So you're just going to sell me off to some man you've never met, to a kingdom you've only visited twice? I am not for sale!" Blaine raises his voice, but it cracks slightly.

"You are if I say you are. Enough of this folly. This is not up for discussion. You are my son and you will do as I command. You will marry Prince Kurt and finally be of use to me. I will hear no more. Now get out of my sight."

Swallowing, Blaine bows stiffly. "Goodnight father."

King Anderson nods and turns away, returning to his maps.

Blaine ducks outside the tent. The sky is grey and Blaine looks up. Snow is beginning to fall, fluttering about as it settles on the ground. Shivering, he rushes back to his tent and curls up in the blankets. He can't stand the soldier's questions now. His eyes sting sharply and he just wants to sleep. He just wants to be alone.

So we will leave the Prince to his thoughts and dreams of betrothal, masked men, and tolling bells and rise up into those grey skies where the snow falls heavily now, coating the ground in a downy layer of frozen white, until the lights of the kingdom are nothing but stars in a wreath of stone. Let us rise into the darkening skies, where tints of orange are splattered across the canvas of the atmosphere with reckless abandon. Let us fly through the winds and watch the vivid colors of the land slowly fade until all is colorless and dark, with jagged rocks and treacherous cliffs. And up at the peak of the tallest mountain a castle is carved from black stone. Its walls are beginning to crumble but its spires still pierce the very sky. Clouds and smoke swirl about the walls, the glow of emerald fires flickering from within. The castle of has stood for thousands of years, casting a shadow across the lands below it, every wall splashed with phantom grief and despair. It was built on tragedy, and it lingers now for the promise of vengeance. For this is Maleficent's domain, the Forbidden Mountains, and now, it thunders with her wrath and frustration.

Maleficent violently smashes her fist onto the table. Her fists clench and unclench, the muscles of her forearms tensing. She screams her frustration, her voice echoing through the dark room. Small licks of green fire leap from her skin, wrapping around her arms in slender strands, rising to brush against her cheek. She clenches her jaw and stalks away from the table, the little flames disappearing as she moves.

The witch paces in her throne room, her cloak fluttering about her, her olive face twisted into a mask of rage. A handful of generals stand below her, shivering slightly, but not of cold. "It's incredible!" she shouts, lightning crackling from her scepter, "Eighteen years! And not a trace of him! He couldn't have vanished into thin air!" Stalking towards her soldiers, which cower in fear, she screams, high, clear voice trembling with fury, slender eyebrow arched in accusation, "Are you sure you searched everywhere?!"

One man stutters, "Ye…Yeah everywhere. We all did."

"What about the town, the forest, the mountains?"

"We searched houses, uh forests, and all the cradles…" he stammers.

Maleficent's eyes widen, "Cradles?"

The man forces a smile on his face, and speaks with more confidence, "Yes, every cradle in the kingdom my lady."

"CRADLES!?" she exhales and turns to her raven, stroking its beak while her crimson lips twist into a smirk, "Did you hear that my pet? All these years they have been looking for a _baby_." She raises her hands to the sky and cackles, doubling over with laughter. Her laugh is high and piercing, and unlike most laughs, unpleasant to hear.

Her soldiers laugh forcedly with her, but their eyes betray their fear.

Maleficent stops her hideous laughter and rises to her full height, green light enveloping her slender form, "FOOLS! IDIOTS!" She waves her scepter at the now fleeing men and sends lightning snapping at their heels, sizzling their flesh. And she doesn't stop. She twists and turns, sending twisted beams of jagged lightning at her own men until they all disappear from sight.

Once she's alone in the carnage of her own creation, she exhales deeply, lowering her arms, the green fire fading until only wisps of smoke rise from her robes. "Oh they're hopeless…" she sighs. The witch sits on her stone throne resigned, almost as if in pain. Her raven flies over to her, and she strokes its ebony feathers gently. "Two days," she hisses. "Two days until Kurt turns eighteen, and my curse will be useless, my prophecy false. And all this waiting will be for nothing."

She moves away again, impatiently pacing around the great hall. Her cloaks sweep gracefully around her as she moves, contrasting sharply to her pale olive skin. She exhales in frustration, collapsing back onto her throne. "I have to make them suffer," she whispers, voice cracking, looking down at her fingers as she fiddles with them in her lap.

Her power has made her invincible to time, her face still smooth and unlined, but hardened by the years. Her eyes glow momentarily as she conjures a sphere of fire, cradling it in her palms, staring into the flames as they flicker and roil in her hands. Maleficent blows gently into the sphere and the fire breaks apart into the shapes of little emerald dragons which flutter in the dank air, every flap of their wings leaving behind sparks that sink to the filthy floors. She watches them until they eventually burn out, vanishing but for traces of pale smoke.

After a moment, the surviving generals hesitantly return, bowing deep before their queen. "My lady-"

"Enough," she sighs. "There is nothing that can be done to erase your foolishness and give us more time. There are only days left before the Prince turns eighteen and my curse will fail. And _I_," she spits, "Shall be made into a _fool_. I will not fail, never again. That kingdom will never get its happy ending as long as I draw breath."

Silent, the generals only deepen their bows.

"We have no time to look for him now..." Suddenly she is struck with an idea and her lips curl into a smile again. She rises and walks toward the men, her black robes billowing around her in the windless night. "Assemble the men and ready them for battle," Maleficent sneers, "If you cannot bring me our little Prince, then I guess I'll just have to draw him out myself."

Her men disappear and Maleficent is left alone. Laughing at her own insane impulsiveness, Maleficent walks out to assemble the men already in the castle, the cloaks around her reforming on her body, shaping and solidifying until the darkness is molded into layered, obsidian armor, and her hand, gloved in metal, closes tightly around a long sword that hardens from the shadows.

* * *

_This is the rhythm of the night _

_The rhythm of the night_

* * *

**A/N: **The lyrics at the beginning and at the end are from "Of the Night" by Bastille (whose music video has fantastic footage of Carnivale in Venice). The song threaded during the dance is "Masquerade_"_ from the Phantom of the Opera. The dance is based off of OneRepublic's fantastic music video for their song "All the Right Moves_"(_check it out, it's wicked)_. _Thank you for reading!

If you are liking this at all so far, please please please leave a review. If you want to see anything in future chapters or have any questions, just let me know. Reviews are oxygen and I would really really appreciate any sort of feedback. Make my day?


	4. Chapter 4: On the Precipice

**Title:** Matters of the Heart

**Author:** aslytherinindistrict12

**Fandom:** Glee

**Rating:** T

**Pairing:** Blaine Anderson/ Kurt Hummel

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee or any of its characters. I also do not own Disney's Sleeping Beauty or any of its characters. Void where prohibited.

**A/N: **Thank you for reviewing the past chapter! I hope you'll enjoy this next one.

* * *

_Holy water cannot help you now_

_A thousand armies couldn't keep me out_

_I don't want your money_

_I don't want your crown_

_See I've come to burn your kingdom down_

* * *

The cold wind brushes softly against Kurt's cheek and through the thin fabric of his clothes, the suit and cloak now replaced by their patched predecessors. He shivers but doesn't move. Up on the roof, he can see high above the tops of the trees and watch as the oaks seem to roll on endlessly, all standing tall and scratching the sky with their bare branches. Usually, he climbs up here to watch the stars, but today the night sky is veiled by clouds that deny the sky any sort of light.

In all honesty, this would be the perfect time for an angsty inner monologue regarding the utter cruelty of the universe and the injustice of life. The perfect time for contemplation of the irrationality of love and the inescapable truth that everything usually falls to shit.

Kurt doesn't do any of that though.

He resolves to keep his mind blank and his blue eyes fixed on the rolling horizon.

Last night was just a dream.

A very, _very_ good dream.

But just a dream, and now dawn approaches.

Kurt exhales and pulls his legs up to his chest. It's freezing. Even the birds have decided to stay curled up in their nests so the forest is silent. The quietness is like a blanket and Kurt revels in it, allowing himself to be lost in the still air until his fingers grow numb.

A snap breaks the silence and Kurt blinks, looking confusedly down below.

There is more snapping and rustling, and with narrowed eyes, Kurt carefully climbs down to the ground, landing lightly. He takes a couple hesitant steps forward and freezes when he recognizes the figures of two men in the trees.

"Hello? Who are you? What are you doing here?" he calls out, slowly moving towards them.

They are clad lightly, clearly intending to go unnoticed. Surprised at his voice, they spin and assess him carefully. They glance at each other and then in a slide of steel are charging at him.

Eyes widening, Kurt ducks one man's swing and barrels into him, pushing him to the ground. He swings his fist back and punches him in the jaw leaving the man dazed. He drops his sword and after hitting him again, Kurt scrambles for it, struggling to grasp it. When he finally gets a grip on the hilt, he stabs the blade downward into the man's thrashing chest.

He doesn't have time to fully comprehend what he's done before he hears the other man approaching from behind. Swiftly, he rises and sidesteps, turning to face his opponent. The stranger sword feels unusual in his hands, heavier than his own, but it's all he has.

He lifts it just in time to block the man's attack, the blades clashing together in a crack of ringing metal. Kurt swings down to cut through the man's defenses, but the attacker deflects the blow and pushes Kurt back. Adrenaline pulsing through his veins, Kurt charges in a flurry of cuts and jabs, deftly stepping in and out of his opponent's feeble thrusts, driving him back. The sword slips out of the man's hands and he stumbles backward. With a shout, Kurt slams the hilt of his sword into the man's head, leaving him disoriented.

Kurt shoves the man against a tree, pinning him against it with a strong elbow. Panting, he presses the blade against the man's throat.

"Who are you?" Kurt spits, blue eyes flashing.

The man looks up at him, "Please, please don't. I'm just a scout."

Kurt looks at him confused, but doesn't relax his grip, "A scout for who?"

"Maleficent," the man coughs. "Her army is marching on the castle. I don't know anything, I swear. I'm just checking to see if there are patrols that could warn Eleweth of her approach. I'm just a scout, please. Please, don't hurt me."

"Kurt!"

The prince sneaks a glance over his shoulder and sees the three fairies stumbling outside, running towards him with sacks slung over their narrow shoulders.

Flora rushes ahead of the others, her red gown trailing in the mud and clinging to the morning dew. Hair falls from her upswept bun, the wisps fluttering in the chill breeze. Her face hardens when she sees the helpless scout.

"Kurt, he'll tell her where we are. Who _you _are," she says coldly.

Biting his lip, Kurt nods his head quickly, the hand holding the sword against the man's throat shaking slightly. He steels himself and gives the man a necklace of scarlet rubies, stepping away and allowing the body to crumple to the ground and stain the roots with red.

Quickly, he turns and jogs over to the fairies. They watch him silently.

"Kurt…" Fauna begins.

He waves her off. "Stop. Please," he commands flatly.

Flora clears her throat, "We have to go up to the palace. Maleficent's men will be scattered in the woods. It isn't safe."

Meriwether nods and pushes Kurt's weapons into his hands. After slinging the quiver across his shoulder and buckling the sword to his hip, Kurt holds his bow tightly and looks down at the fairies.

"Can't you just zap us to the palace?" he asks.

Meriwether shakes her head, "Maleficent will be able to sense any use of magic. She's too close. We'll have to go on foot."

Kurt nods and follows the fairies into the trees, weaving through them with light feet.

After they disappear, another man concealed behind the thick trunk of an oak smiles before he slinks back into the shadows.

The army isn't hard to find. They're so noisy. The scout slips through the guards and silently sneaks into Maleficent's tent.

"My lady," he drops to his knees.

Maleficent looks down at him as she strokes the feathers of her raven absentmindedly. "What?"

The scout looks up at the sorceress, a grin breaking across his face. "I saw him, my Lady. Prince Kurt."

Eyes widening, Maleficent rises to her feet. "Where?"

"In the forest, in a cottage in the glade. He killed two other scouts but didn't see me. He's with the three fairies. But they're fleeing to the castle."

The sorceress smiles, hardly able to believe this stroke of luck. "That's alright. As long as he's within the walls, I'll be close enough to work my spell. You have done well." She strides over to a chest and pulls out a small stone, handing it to the man. "This will help me find you should I have to. Keep it on your person and don't you dare lose it. Take two dozen men and return to this cottage. If the little prince runs back there, we'll be ready."

The man nods and slips out of the tent.

Maleficent watches him leave and once alone, laughs shortly. Finally.

She's finally going to win.

* * *

_Holy water cannot help you now_

_See I've come to burn your kingdom down_

_And no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out_

_I'm gonna raise the stakes, I'm gonna smoke you out_

* * *

Time passes in a silence broken by boots crunching in the snow and breaths that summon little puffs of smoke. Kurt shivers, pulling his cloak tighter around him but he doesn't stop, continuing to follow the fairies into the darkness.

After what feels like hours, the darkness solidifies into an imposing wall of stone. Having memorized this route, the fairies instinctively scurry to the secret entrance especially designed for them. Kurt slips through behind them and instinctively pulls the cowl of the cloak to conceal his face as they suddenly step onto the cobble stoned streets.

The bells of Eleweth are ringing and soldiers run through the dark streets, banging on doors and waking the townsfolk. The city is startled awake and flickering torches are lighted, peasants and nobles alike stepping outside, wrapped in blankets, blinking the sleep from their eyes.

"Volunteers! We need any man who can wield a sword or shoot a bow at the walls! Help defend your city! Volunteers this way!" a soldier calls out. "Volunteers!"

Men of every age and every status rush out their doors in borrowed armor and hunting bows, running through the slick streets while the snow falls gently around them.

The three fairies are lost in their determination, their eyes fixed on the castle as they turn into a cramped alleyway. Kurt hesitates, watching as they march ahead. Ahead to his father, his stepmother and stepbrother, his _home_….Ahead to a locked room with guards posted at every entrance while men outside die for him.

Kurt turns around after a lingering look at the fairies. He runs through the streets and down to the man calling for volunteers.

"I'd like to volunteer," Kurt pants breathlessly once he reaches him.

The man looks him up and down with a smile. "You have the gratitude of the King, lad."

_Not likely_, Kurt thinks.

"Can you use that bow?"

Kurt glances down at the longbow in his hands, "Yes, sir."

"Then you go up to the archery units on the walls," the man says as he paints a blue spot on Kurt's shirt, "someone will give you armor and more arrows should you need." The man thrusts a quill and parchment into Kurt's hands, "Now, can you please write your name on the lists, lad?"

After a moment, Kurt scratches onto the parchment, _Truk Lemmuh. _

"Thank you. Hurry along now."

Kurt nods and follows a group of soldiers and innkeepers down to the wall.

There is a flurry of activity bustling about the wall and upon seeing the blue mark on his shirt, a soldier ushers Kurt to his assigned unit. Exhaling, Kurt looks at the stairs that lead to the top of the battlements. He climbs up without hesitation and takes his place between a soldier with a crossbow and a grocer with a suit of borrowed armor.

* * *

_And now all your love will be exorcised  
And we will find you saints to be cannonized  
And it's an even sum  
It's a melody  
It's a battle cry  
It's a symphony_

* * *

"Prince Blaine. Blaine. Wake up."

Blaine's eyes flash open and he's looking into the frantic face of a soldier.

"Prince Blaine. The King requires your presence."

Blaine sits up with a groan, rubbing his eyes sleepily, "What time is it?"

"Not yet dawn."

_Something must be wrong. _Blaine shoots out of his bed, and still in an untucked tunic and breeches, pulls on his boots and rushes out of his tent behind the soldier.

The camp is still asleep, the soldiers curled up in their blankets to ward off the chill. Blaine leaves the soldier behind and runs ahead, weaving through the slumbering bodies and the tents. A horse whinnies in the distance but other than that, the night is silent. Normal.

_What is happening? _Blaine thinks, as he finally reaches his father's tent, rushing inside.

King Anderson looks up from his position amidst his generals and sees his son rushing inside with his unruly curls, still in his sleep attire but hazel eyes alert. He still looks like a toddler and the King is surprised to feel a rush of affection for him.

"My Lord? What's wrong?" Blaine asks concerned.

"This kingdom is being attacked by some witch by the name of Maleficent. She will reach the castle in a matter of hours. And as allies, we have a duty to help King Burt fight this threat."

Blaine nods and straightens, running his fingers through his hair. Time to work. "What would you have me do my lord?"

"Get dressed and wake the soldiers. Prepare for battle. There is no room for our soldiers on the battlements, and we cannot leave the horses, so the cavalry will fight on the ground and Burt's archers will cover from above."

"I will be leading them of course, right?" Blaine affirms but the King is hesitant, so he moves closer and says softly, "Father, most of the cavalry are men from my unit."

Finally, the King nods and sets his jaw, "Of course. I'll be with King Burt. Traditional defensive for now, and we'll change the strategy once we find out more. Just keep them away from the walls."

Blaine bows sharply and turns to exit.

"Oh and Blaine?" The King calls.

"Yes my lord?"

King Anderson moves closer, and speaks quietly so that only Blaine can hear, "Be careful."

Surprised, Blaine smiles, "I will Father.

The King nods and steps back, clearing his throat. "Then you're dismissed."

Blaine bows again and ducks out of the tent. He shouts orders to soldiers on guard to wake the others, and soon the sounds of clanging bells can be heard amidst the camp.

Like any practiced soldier, he is washed and suited within minutes, a fellow soldier helping him secure the last bits of his dark armor. He clasps a scarlet cloak to his shoulders and buckles his sword belt, pulling on leather gloves beneath black arm guards as he steps outside the tent. Outside is a flurry of action as men prepare for battle. The bells of the Eleweth ring loudly and he sees their men, armored in silver, run down from the castle and take their place on the walls. Those rare units with horses gallop down and join Arenor's soldiers who are beginning to assemble beside the gate.

The sky is painted a pale shade of grey, the canvas splattered with light anywhere the young dawn shines through. The smell of cold creeps into his nostrils and he takes a deep breath before exhaling, his hot breath turning into frozen smoke as it floats in the brittle air.

Every soldier here is well trained, and most hurry to their duties. Whether it's packing up the camp or preparing the horses for battle, each goes about his work diligently and quickly. Fires are set up to provide light, and are increasingly required to be lit as the snow falls heavier and heavier. As Blaine approaches the gates where the men are lining up, his heart constricts. _This is really happening. _

A soldier jogs over to him, handing him the reins of his horse. He takes them from him gratefully, adjusting the saddle, tightening it to make sure it does not slip. The horse fidgets, sidestepping agitatedly, startled by the action all around. He shushes it quietly, gently stroking his gloved hand across its grey-white neck until it calms.

Blaine smoothly mounts his horse, sitting tall. He's always so much more comfortable on horseback.

Spurring his horse forward, Blaine gallops past the waiting soldiers who bow their heads in respect. He nods at his men and rides to the head of the column, where Sam is waiting, a quiver strapped to his back and another strapped to his saddle.

"Are you ready?" Blaine asks. Sam nods, and Blaine shouts, "Open the gates!"

The tall doors swing open, opening onto the world outside. The plain ahead of them is cold and bare, the snow gently coating it in a soft layer of frozen down. And still it falls, lingering on the plates of the soldiers' armor and hiding in the crevices of their helmets.

The generals ride forward, leading the cavalry outside the walls and onto the plain. The cold grass crunches between the horse hooves, but everything is quiet.

"Line up!" Blaine orders, his voice carrying over the assembled ranks.

He clicks his tongue and rides to the front of the centre unit, two generals on either side of him. With a nod at his friend, Sam turns to take the western side and Wes takes the east. The generals beside Blaine watch the two men leave, each flanked by two other generals to take command should they fall. But Blaine simply stares straight ahead. His heart thuds and the hands holding the reigns tremble slightly. Breathe. He shifts in his saddle and hazel eyes search the horizon for the first glimpse of an army emerging from the white.

Dawn blankets the waiting defense in stuttering rays of sunlight, illuminating the soldiers' frozen breath. Waiting is a terrifying anticipation, creeping inside the soldiers like poison and settling fear in their hearts, startling them at every interruption of the silence.

A shiver.

A breath rattling in a throat.

The creak of a bow string, pulled taunt by a shaking hand.

A horse snorting, pawing the ground with its hooves.

As minutes pass, Blaine scans the dark with impatient eyes. "What are you waiting for?" he murmurs under his breath. He looks up at the tall castle walls. "Do you see anything?" he shouts.

After a moment a reply echoes down, "Nothing," a voice calls from the battlements. Blaine relaxes when suddenly the voice speaks again, "Wait."

Heart constricting, Blaine looks up and sees a tall and slender silhouette lean over and peer into the night. The figure draws back as if burned and disappears from Blaine's sight, but he can still hear the yell, cracking across the silence, "They're here!"

* * *

_Seven devils all around you_

_Seven devils in your house_

_See I was dead when I woke up this morning_

_And I'll be dead before the day is done_

_Before the day is done_

* * *

**A/N: **The song threaded through this chapter is the epic "Seven Devils" by Florence and the Machine. No medieval story is complete without it.

I know this is a frustrating place to end the chapter, sorry about that. But I have more bad news. I'm actually moving (to another country) on Tuesday, so unfortunately I won't have time to update with settling in and all that. The minute I can shove past my inevitable jet lag and muster the motivation, I'll go search for an internet connection and update. But fear not, the wait shouldn't exceed two weeks. I apologize in advance for the wait!

Thank you for reading, and I would really really appreciate it if you could take a second and leave a review. They're great sources of motivation and honestly make my day. If you have any questions/comments/suggestions please let me know! Thanks again!


	5. Chapter 5: Cold

**Title:** Matters of the Heart

**Author:** aslytherinindistrict12

**Fandom:** Glee

**Rating:** T

**Pairing:** Blaine Anderson/ Kurt Hummel

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee or any of its characters. I also do not own Disney's Sleeping Beauty or any of its characters. Void where prohibited.

**A/N: **I know, I know. I am extraordinarily late. I am so so sorry. I truly am. Settling in was tougher than I imagined, school started right away, and it was actually my birthday yesterday so I've been busy. I will do my very best to get back on track.

To help your memory: Previously on Matters of the Heart, Maleficent and her army are marching towards the castle of King Burt in order to lure Prince Kurt close enough so that Maleficent can ensnare him. Prince Kurt, sick of being useless, runs away from the three fairies and takes his place as an archer on the city walls to help protect his people against the wicked sorceress, even though no one knows who he is. Prince Blaine and his Riders of Arenor are helping defend the city walls from the ground, where their cavalry can be employed effectively. And so Maleficent approaches…

* * *

_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_

* * *

**A/N: **Well, what do you think? I know this chapter was a little shorter than usual, but I thought this was a good place to end it.

The song I used was the absolutely stunning and haunting "Cold" by Aqualung and Lucy Schwartz. It really embodies the tone I was trying to create.

I am not entirely sure when the next chapter will be up. I will really try my hardest, but school is already beginning to beat me up and between college apps and standardized tests, I've got my work cut out for me. And I'm not seeing very much interest for this story? Is there anything you would like me to change? I always want to improve.

For those few who actually like the story (please exist), don't fret, I won't abandon it out of principle. I'll try my very very hardest to have the next chapter by next week.

If you do like this story, please please please leave a review. Send a message. Anything. I really am desperate here. I don't understand what I'm doing wrong and I'd really like to improve. Reviews are oxygen, literally, and this story is struggling to breathe.

Anyways, thank you so much for taking the time to read! Hugs!


End file.
