Disclaimer:

The title of this piece is taken from "How Soon is Now" by The Smiths from the album Meat is Murder. While I own a copy of the album, I don't have any rights to the song. Enough said about that, moving on…

I neither own, nor claim to own The Sandman or "Glee" or the characters thereof that appear in this piece of fiction. This work is for entertainment purposes only; I make no profit from it. I am not associated with either franchise in any way, shape, or form. This will be an AU, beginning with "Grilled Cheesus" in terms of Glee. In terms of Sandman, the events of the 10 core associated volumes will be considered as canon, but besides an alias, none of Thessaly's other comic appearances will be taken into consideration. While the dates of events in the Sandman comics may be shifted as to fit with the Glee time line, but all of the events of The Sandman did take place. Dialogue that appears in this story that was in "Grilled Cheesus" has either been copied from listening to the episode or from various online sources. For the sake of this story, Kurt's mom left the picture when Kurt was age eight. This story contains swearing, an openly gay character, references to sex and sexuality, magic, and a few other things that I've probably forgotten. If any of those offend you, I recommend that you stop reading NOW.

Without any further to do, I give you…

Son and Heir

…

Before Burt comes back from the garage, Larissa holds her son's hand. He is no more than four and he doesn't quite understand why his mother moves from corner to corner of the room, whispering things. He is fairly sure mommy is using words that daddy doesn't know. However a quick smile and the twinkling of her eyes behind her the large circular frames of her glasses is all it takes to make him quiet. This is a secret for the two of them, and on this Friday night, on the last day of April, his mother has told him that they will be able to light candles. His mommy looks so pretty in the firelight.

"What are we doing again mommy?" Kurt asks.

"We are making a sacred space. Do you remember what sacred means?" Larissa Hummel replies. Her long chestnut hair frames her face, making his mommy seem very wise.

"Something that is more important than everything else around it?" he's not quite sure of himself.

"That is what something sacred is, not what sacred means," she whispers back. She sinks into a crouch and presses one of her slender fingers against his nose, very gently.

"Sacred," she continues, "is like blessed. We are making this a blessed space, because tonight is a blessed night. Do you remember its name?"

"May Eve," he says proudly.

"Very good, but what's its older name?"

"Walpurgisnacht?" he doesn't quite get the pronunciation correctly and he has to look away from his mother's steel like gaze. She runs a hand softly through his hair and leans over him to kiss his head gently.

"Very good, you're such a smart little boy," she says, right next to his ear, and he can hear her smile. "Come on now, we have more work that needs to be done." He takes his mother's hand and follows her to the last corner of the room. This time, when she uses the words that he knowsdaddy won't understand, she says them slowly and loudly enough for him to repeat them. He does so, and his mother smiles at him, letting him know that he has done right.

…

The first thing that Kurt thought of when he heard of his father's heart attack was the old bureau, the one which still had the faint aroma of his mother's perfume. The brief flash of memory faded from his mind almost as soon as it had arisen, if not sooner. The rest of the day was spent in a daze like state. He almost didn't leave the hospital that day. However the doctors told him that the best thing would be for him to get some proper rest. As soon as he got back to the house, cold, lifeless, and all too tomb like for him to bare thinking about for a long time. Instead of staying put, he went straight the old bureau and opened its bottom drawer. On the day before his mother's accident, she had made him promise never to open it unless there was nothing else he could think of doing. She had made him promise that he would never open it unless he had nowhere else to go. She had made him promise that only in a situation where either his life or the life of a loved one was threatened, he wouldn't open it. He had been tempted to open it many times in the years since her death, but now was the only time that he knew to be right.

As soon as he opened it, a wave of not perfume, but spices and something metallic wafted into his nostrils. Looking down, he was shocked to see a collection of bottles, an ancient black-handled dagger, a leather bound book, and a plain white envelope with his mother's elegant hand-writing, stating only his name. With trembling hands, he picked up the envelope and tried to be as neat as he could while he opened it. It was far from an unqualified success, but the sheet of paper inside had a long message, written in his mother's flawless cursive. Before he read it, he lifted the sheet of paper to his nose and inhaled. His mother's perfume flooded in and he remembered.

…

He is five years old, and it is the new moon. It's a night in early summer and his father is off talking with his brother and sister-in-law. He is in mommy's lap and they are moving back and forth slowly on a rocking chair on the back porch. It's an early evening, and they are watching the flickering of fireflies. Besides the conversations from the three other Hummels, the evening is a quiet one. His mom's arm is across his midsection, and she is humming softly.

"May I go catch some fireflies?" he asks, turning his head to see his mother's face. She, in turn, looks to where her husband and her in-laws are talking. They are so absorbed in their conversation that they haven't even started the grill yet, so she knows dinner will be a long way off. She looks back at her son and raises a finger to her lips. Kurt can't help but smile and repeats the gesture. He loves the secrets he shares with her. It's not that he doesn't love his father, he does, but he has always been her son and he always will be.

His mother slowly lifts her finger from her lips and curls her hand into a fist. Her eyes are closed and her lips are still. Kurt turns his gaze between her hand and face, not sure which to watch, but wanting to do both at the same time. When his mother releases a breath he hadn't known she was holding, his eyes return fully to her hand. Each finger opens slowly, and he is reminded of the flowers which bloom in her garden. Where there had been nothing in the palm of her hand before, there was now something that glowed and moved like a firefly. With mute awe, he watches it lift from her hand and flit away, flashing brightly until he can no longer follow it as it disappears in the belt of trees that separates their yard from the Thomson's. His mother's eyes are open, and she is smiling, that sort of half smile that his father swears is the same one she wore on the day they got married.

Her hand now rests on his, and she lifts it up. She closes it, and whispers to him to close his eyes. He does so, eagerly, squinting his eyelids shut with all the force that he feels his face is capable of. He listens to everything she whispers in his ear, and listens hard. He's not sure if understands all of what his mom is saying, however, he tries. When she tells him to open his hand, slowly, it is a struggle to move in the same way she did. He opens his eyes and is pleased to see something like a firefly lift from his palm and fly away, but his disappears in the early evening much sooner than his mother's did.

"What are you two up to?" Burt calls across the distance. Both Kurt and his mom know that in this light, he can't quite see them distinctly, only their outlines. The two on the rocking chair share a secret smile as Larissa shouts back, "I'm teaching Kurt how to play with fireflies."

"Well, hurry on over here, dinner's almost ready," Burt says clearly.

"If by almost ready you mean you haven't started it yet," she says back. She lifts her son off of her lap and stands. Although she is far from the tallest of people, she seems mountain like in the best ways to her son. Before she takes his hand, she again raises a solitary finger to her lips, and Kurt quickly copies the gesture. Daddy wouldn't understand anyway, he thinks to himself.

…

No matter how many times Kurt read his mother's letter, and it seemed like many, he couldn't bring himself to believe what she had written. It spoke of things he knew couldn't be true. It was too much like the fairytales he had first listened to and then read on his own when he had been a child. Kurt doubted if his mother had written it at all. Most of his memories of her were of a woman that was nothing if not practical, a survivor. Those were the words his Aunt Chloe, Uncle Andy's wife, had used in Larissa Hummel's eulogy

Then again, there was a deeper part of him which remembered all the small things his mother did which could never be explained by science, logic, or reason. His mother had always said that the oldest stories were more than true, in their own way. When he had been younger, he hadn't understood what she had meant. As he had grown into adulthood, he came to believe she was speaking of the values, the lessons of the old stories. The contents of the letter blew that idea firmly out the window. Carefully, he laid the letter on top of the bureau and took the book from its resting place. Blowing off the thin film of dust across its surface, Kurt felt its weight in his hands for a long moment.

Gently, he opened the book and scanned the pages of text. Inside was not English, nor French, nor even German. Instead, it was Greek of the most classical variety. He stared a long moment at the words, not believing what he was seeing and inhaling the scent of the pages. His mother had insisted that he learn beginning at a young age. After her death, his father had insisted that he continue the three times weekly class, just to give him a sense of normalcy. He had stopped two years ago, and the skill was rusted, but still present. Page after page was filled with things he couldn't make heads or tails of. It read like a complicated instruction manual. The one thing that was repeated multiple times was the more you asked for, the more you had to give. Sacrifices were required, lots of them apparently, and not just the sort that lived and breathed (although those were needed in large numbers.)

By now, Kurt was sitting in a wingback chair. He couldn't say when exactly he had sat down, but as he laid the book on his lap and tilted his head towards the ceiling, he knew he wouldn't have been able to stand. His mother had either been insane or a thorough religious recreationist he decided. While Allen County, Ohio, was far from the most tolerant of all places, he knew many bookstores had shelves dedicated to new age or occult topics. The only time he had even browsed in that section (which was only two shelves from books which told you about the plan God had for your life,) he had been toying with Kabbalah for the Madonna assignment. No wonder his mother had made him promise to keep this drawer a secret, his father would have had a heart attack ages ago from finding out he had been married to a crazy person. There were those among his father's relatives that had never liked his mother, and for the first time in his life, he began to understand why.

Letting out a breath he turned back to the carefully written pages. Half-heartedly he turned one of them and then saw a set of relatively simple instructions. He would have dismissed it had it not been for the memories he had of being on the back porch in the summers. Just to prove to himself that the writings were nothing he followed the written instructions. Like he had when he had been a child, he extended his palm, slowly closed both his eyes and his fingers, and he focused. Despite himself, despite everything he had ever learned in school, he believed as the letter his mother had left him instructed him to. He visualized the heat running down his arm, he pictured a glow around his palm, and most importantly he felt his skin tingle and twitch as if from static charge. Opening his eyes and his palm, he expected nothing, but was shocked to find a faint glow, no more than a candle flame dancing in the center of his palm dancing in his palm before it faded out.

…

He is three, and the moon is full and heavy outside the window of his house. Save for the moonlight pouring in and lights from the lamps on the street outside, the room is dark. His mommy is sitting next to his bed, and she finishes adjusting the blanket under his chin. She smiles down at him, a smile he hasn't ever seen her use when she is with daddy. It is a smile that is just between the two of them, and most of it is in her eyes.

"Tell me a bedtime story, please?" he asks, his voice tired. It has been a very long day. He and Artie Abrams had spent all day at the zoo. The small stuffed lion his dad had got for him is tucked into the bed next to him. Larissa knows that their son has her husband wrapped around his little finger, but of course she'll never tell either of her men this. It wouldn't get her anything.

"Alright then, what sort of story would you like to hear?" she answers as she sits on the edge of the bed. Her fingers run across his forehead gently, and he turns his face towards hers. He is quiet as he thinks it over. His mommy is such a good story teller, but then again she told him she had met the prince of stories before she had known daddy. That story has always been his favorite.

"Will you tell me about the time you met the prince again?" he pleads, and Larissa Hummel tilts her head back gently and lets loose a soft chuckle.

"That one? Kurt, you've heard it so many times. Why don't you tell it to me?"

"I'm tired. Please mommy?"

"Alright my love, I will tell you the story," she begins. She tells him of the princess who had been put into an enchanted sleep, and of the birds that tried to stop the princess' four friends from saving her. She tells him of the ghost that had to tell the truth. She tells him of the three brave women who had to walk a great distance on a long forgotten road, and the one who stayed behind to guard the sleeping princess. She tells him of the princess, so beautiful, but scared of a part of herself. She tells him about the prince of stories, tall and with pale skin, and whose eyes were as dark as the night sky.

"Now remember, what this story is?" she whispers before she kisses his cheek.

"A secret," he mutters, more asleep than awake, nuzzling the stuffed lion.

"I have such a smart son," she says, "goodnight." She stands and leaves the room, leaving the door open a crack just so he knows he can come down the hallway to the master bedroom if he needs to.

…

When he got to school in the morning, he was only half-aware of his surroundings. Besides the glow that he was able to produce at will he had tried a few other small things from the book his mother had left him. Like the glow, they were nothing that could move mountains or change the stars of heaven, but they were enough. His mother had been…well what exactly she had been Kurt wasn't sure. All he knew is that each of the stories his mother had told him as a child, all of the times she had made him promise to keep a secret came back to his mind. These memories, combined with thoughts of his father, prevented him from really being aware of almost everything. Fortunately for him though, the faculty didn't seem to mind his mental absence too much, and even the usual Neanderthals that tormented him seemed to take a few steps back.

As he sat in the choir room, he wondered how much his father had known about the woman that he had married. Considering all the times his mom had raised a finger to her lips or otherwise told him to keep quiet, he doubted that his dad knew too much. Such thoughts were interrupted when the glee club entered. He mutely took a hug from Tina, a gentle pat from Quinn, Santana's offered sympathy, and even Brittany's brightly colored report on heart attacks, although no doctor would probably ever see it. When Finn stormed into the room, he reverted back to his most well developed defenses, retreating behind a wall of ice that even Sue Sylvester would have been proud of. Eventually though, Kurt sat down and moved his bag from the chair to his right. When Finn tried to offer a comforting caress, the paler teen just shook his finger in warning.

Eventually Mr. Schuester came in and tried to begin the class. He didn't get very far before Mercedes interjected and offered to sing her thoughts and concerns to Kurt. Quinn and Tina join her, and during the performance, although his eyes are on the forms of his friends his mind is back with the book his mother had painstakingly written. He wondered what the differences were between the psalm Mercedes was singing and the invocations his mother had described were. He wondered how the chants and rituals described by his mother could be so effective as compared to the words his friends sang. Silently, he asked himself how he had felt so much power from the little he had experimented with and yet he could only feel the emotions (albeit a stunning range of them) in the voices of his friends. When the song came to an end he locked eyes with Mercedes before he spoke

"Thank you Mercedes, your voice is stunning but…" Kurt paused. A day, no, a few hours earlier he would have confessed his Atheism. Now he didn't know what he believed. His mother's book and what he had seen and done in the privacy of his home couldn't be explained, at least not by any logical argument. He found himself searching for words, and unable to find them. In the choir room, everyone looked at him, waiting for him to speak up. "Right now, I'm not sure is the right place or time to be talking about a belief in god."

"Wait, what?" Tina said as she passed him, looking down at him with a puzzled look on her face.

"You've all professed your beliefs; I'm just stating one of mine. I think that there's a place and a time to talk about god, but right here and now isn't a good time. Right now I would much rather try to find a practical way to take care of my father than talk about a heavenly one," Kurt said. There were a few whispers, he couldn't tell who was saying what, but a part of him really didn't care. Out of the corner of his eye though, he thought he saw Artie give a small nod of understanding along with Mike and Puck.

"Kurt, we're just trying to…" Quinn began.

"I'm sorry, and the gesture is great. I would just rather not talk about it though," he said as he stood. He turned to face the group and inhaled, "I appreciate your thoughts, but prayer is not something for here. Rather, if you can think of anything besides or in addition to prayer that could help my father, let me know. Besides, if Coach Sylvester heard about this lesson, it would be very easy for her to rip us apart with no real effort." With that he turned and walked from the room, needing to be by himself at the moment.

…

It an early day in September, the sort of day that school children hate because the weather is as close to perfect as it gets in Ohio. Burt is driving back from picking up his lunch and he'll just manage to avoid being late if nothing slows him down. He passes an older pick-up truck on the side of the road and a few feet in front of it, walking calmly, a woman he hasn't seen before. Because his father raised him to be a gentleman, he pulls over and hops out of his car and walks towards the woman. She isn't the prettiest woman he's ever seen, but there's something about the way that she carries herself that is just entrancing. She moves as if she has all the time in the world, and then some.

"Excuse me, but I couldn't help but notice your car broke down," Burt says as professionally as he can. She smiles at him politely, a generic sort of smile that doesn't reach her eyes behind a circular set of glasses-frames.

"Yes, the passenger's side rear tire went out completely and I don't have a spare," she says in a measured voice. Wherever she's from, Burt doesn't know, but he's willing to bet it isn't Allen County, Ohio.

"Well, I work in a garage not too far from here, I would be happy to take you there, get a truck, and change your tire for you," Burt offers.

"That's very kind of you," she replies. They walk to his car, and he opens the door for her. She flashes another generic smile and Burt wonders what a genuine smile from her might look like as he circles back to his side of the car.

"I'm Burt, Burt Hummel," he introduces as he starts up the car.

"Larissa Hessal," she responds, her eyes are on the road, and the road alone.

"I'm guessing you're not from around here, are you?"

"No, I'm not. I lived in New York before I moved."

"Is that where you're from?"

"Hardly," she says, and there's a faint half smile that darts across her lips for a brief moment. It is in that moment that Burt decides being late is worth the tongue lashing he's going to get from his old man when he gets to the garage if it means he can spend more time with the woman with the mysterious half smile.

...

Going through the library of McKinley High School, Kurt was only a little surprised at the number of books he found related to medicinal therapies, Western and otherwise. Grabbing a book about acupuncture, he sat down in one of the stalls between shelves. The theories regarding qi sound far less arcane than the things in his mother's book, and right now he wanted a heavy dose of something approaching reality. Then he remembered once hearing from someone that what was called reality was only a thin layer of ice over a very deep pond. Perhaps it was his mother who had said it, he honestly couldn't remember at the moment. He almost jumped when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Turning his face up, he saw Mercedes looking down at him with concern.

"Look, Kurt, I can't claim to know what you're going through right now," Mercedes said gently, "I just want you to know that I'm going to try to be here for you the best way I can be. I know that this can't be easy to handle for you and I will try to be as understanding as I can of the way you choose to handle this."

"That means a lot to me Mercedes," he eventually said back, standing slowly, and pulling his friend into a tight embrace which she returned. When they parted, they looked at each other in the eye for a long moment.

"If it isn't too personal, would you mind telling me what you do believe?" she asked. It was a rather broad question, but Kurt knew what she was really asking about.

"If you had asked me that yesterday, I would have been able to answer you rather quickly. Now, I'm not so sure what I believe. With everything that's been happening, I'm questioning a lot of things I previously thought to be true. If and when I figure out what I believe and I'm able to explain it in a way that doesn't make me sound too crazy, you'll be the first one to know. I still think though that a public school isn't the right place to be talking about what may or may not be out there. There are lots of people who are probably in the same boat I am about their beliefs. I think that being in an environment where I will be free to weigh all options, no matter what those options might be, is the best thing."

Mercedes looked pensive for a long moment before giving a short nod of understanding and she pulled her friend into another hug. In the quiet, Kurt reflected on what he had just said. Each word of it had been true. While Mercedes might have disagreed with some of his personal opinions, she was willing to be silent and supportive.

"Well, I will extend an open invitation to join me at church any time you might want to. My church does this thing where we dedicate a service to people, and I would like to dedicate it to your father. I know you want more than prayer, but I figure prayer can't hurt. Besides, if you come, you get to wear a fabulous hat," she eventually offered both her hands still on his shoulders.

"You had me at fabulous hat," he replied with a small smile.

"Come on, Coach Sylvester is looking for you. You should know by now that it is not an intelligent move to keep that woman waiting."

…

Larissa finishes placing the small packet of white sage in the corner of her son's crib. He is sleeping, and so is her husband. She looks down at the tiny infant, the first one she has seen up close in a very long time. Much has gone into the making of him and she knows that the highest price is yet to come. She doesn't regret it though. There's a small half smile on her face when she feels a set of powerful arms wrap around her midsection and a head bury into the crook of her neck.

"I thought you were asleep," she whispers.

"Why don't you come back to bed?" Burt asks her in her ear, oh so softly. His stubble scratches her cheek and she playfully lifts a hand and turns his face a quarter of an inch.

"Papa Bear needs to shave," she chides.

"Mama Bear needs to get some rest. I swear Larissa, you're sleeping less now than when you were pregnant."

"He might need something."

"That's what the baby monitor is for. You won't be much good to him if you're bone tired."

"Alright, alright, I'll be come back in a few minutes. I just want to watch him sleep a little while longer."

"I love you," Burt whispers and kisses her cheek before he slinks to the master bedroom. She looks over her shoulder for a little whine and then down at her sleeping son who has balled one of his fists and moves fitfully, as if he is having the beginning of a nightmare. Placing one hand on his forehead, Larissa closes her eyes and whispers. Her son's movements stop, save for the rise and fall of his small chest as he soundly sleeps.

"Sleep, my child," she says to him, "sleep untroubled by Dream. Sleep until life wakes you."

…

"How's your father?" Coach Sylvester asked, looking out of her office window.

"They say his condition is critical, but stable. Good news, I guess," Kurt replied, wondering what on earth his former cheerleading coach could want him for.

"I'm sorry for what you're going through Lady. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. I guess I don't have to, Mary Lou Retton is an orphan or something," Coach Sylvester stated, looking down at her former head vocalist with a look he couldn't quite decipher, and if he was going to be honest with himself, he didn't know if he wanted to. "I don't like what Schuester is doing in that classroom, even more than usual, but I can't go the school board without an official complaint from a student."

Kurt tilted his head, ever so slightly as he asked "So you want me to be your scape goat?" He flashed to pages of his mother's book that had talked about the various forms of sacrifice one had to obtain certain ends. No matter how small the deed, there was always a cost, and Kurt wasn't quite sure what he was being asked to pay for in this case. Coach Sylvester shook her head softly and moved across the room.

"You don't understand, I know at times I mess around with you guys for fun. I admit it, it aids digestion, but I'm not joking here," she explained simply as she sat down, her whole focus on his face, "let me be your champion." Kurt looked at her face, seeing her earnestness. Had it been earlier, he would have taken her offer, no matter what it would have cost with him with the Glee club.

"Coach, you can be my champion by letting me back onto the Cheerios and not treating me any differently than you would Santana, Quinn, Brittany, or any of the others. What I need right now is a place where I can feel normal, and that's something you can offer me," Kurt eventually countered. His mother's book had told him that for the hardest of the works he would need to be in excellent physical and mental condition. By being on the Cheerios, he could get the conditioning that he needed for the hardest of what lay ahead.

"That sounds fair to me Elton, but if you want me to go to the school board about this, just say the word. In the meantime though, I'll see you in uniform at three-thirty, sharp."

"Thanks for everything, Coach."

"Don't mention it. Now get out of my office." Kurt stood, gave a quick nod, and left before Coach Sylverster could change her mind.

…

It is his wedding day, and Burt is still partly questioning why Larissa said yes when he popped the question. He shifts a little in the formal suit that he had saving for over the last three months. His oldest brother, the justice of the peace who's officiating, places a hand on his shoulder. Loosely Lutheran, the type of ceremony was the one thing that Burt had argued with Larissa about. No matter how many times he had tried, he had never been able to convince her to have a church service. Personally, Burt didn't care what faith Larissa was, he just wanted to do it to make his grandmother happy. However Larissa had won the argument. There was a part of her, most of her Burt had come to realize, that was harder than almost anything.

Then she enters, wearing a simple white dress with her long light brown hair framing her face, her eyes sparkling behind the glasses frames. On her lips is the same sort of half smile that Burt had first been taken by. She moves in the same way she did when he had first seen her on the side of the road. She has all the time in the world and she is not afraid to use it. After what seems a small life time, she joins him and looks directly at him, her unflinching gaze locked on him. The ceremony whirls by and before Burt is aware of it, he has slipped a ring on her finger and he hears his brother say "You may kiss the bride." He does so, quickly, gently, and in a way that won't cause a scene. He knows what waits for him tonight though, and that knowledge is part of his smile.

He shakes hands, first with his friends and family and then with hers. Her friends were a small bunch, a lesbian couple with their infant son, a pregnant woman with dyed hair and her younger brother, a man of no determinate age with red hair and a well groomed goatee, a blonde with an outfit that was obviously handmade, and blond man in a well-worn trench coat. They don't look too close with each other, but they all obviously seem to be wishing Larissa well. That's all that matters to Burt.

As they leave the courthouse headed to the restaurant in Columbus where they will be having their reception, Burt spots his wife looking up at a tree where the boughs are bare save for a large black bird, a crow or a raven, he isn't quite sure which. "Is that bad luck or something?" he asks as he opens the door of the rented limo for her.

"We were being watched over," she says with a mysterious grin on her lips.

"By what?"

"If I told you, what would I get out of it?"

"More of this," he says before he leans over and kisses her, deeply. She responds by fisting the edge of his jacket tightly and pressing her body closer to his. He hears the limo driver laugh and say something about 'newlyweds' but he honestly doesn't care.

…

When Kurt got to the hospital after Cheerios practice, he was aching in places that he hadn't felt in months. He regretted only doing the minimal conditioning of dance and yoga over the summer and not enrolling in cheer camp. Then again, he had no way of knowing that he would need it. At the hospital, he waited in his father's room, his hand resting over his father's. He spoke about everything and anything on his mind, hoping to get some kind of reaction. Nothing helped though. He left only when the hospital staff made him leave with their promise to call the second anything changed in anyway.

Back at home, in the wingback chair near the old bureau, he leafed through the pages of his mother's book. There were things in here that even the most talented of fantasy writers couldn't have dreamt of, Kurt thought. Each page was filled with more information that he could use in one life time, several lifetimes. How his mother had collected all of this knowledge was something that the letter hadn't talked about. All she had said was that she had lived through things too incredible to be believed, and this book was her legacy to him in a time of crisis. He wondered, not for the first time since her funeral, what his mother would do in this particular situation. The answer to that question was now rather different that he knew about the book and the letter. Another page and more information that was fascinating, but not useful for this situation. He wanted to save his father from death, not talk with his spirit after death. He would have invoked the spirit of his mother, but all of the spells he could find about talking to the dead were focused on the recently dead. Besides going to the cemetery to desecrate her grave and corpse didn't seem like very filial things to do.

It was a page talking about The Seven (whatever they were, Kurt wasn't sure) where he found something that brought back one of his earliest memories. It was of when he was a child and his mother had told him a story about meeting a prince. What the full story way, he could no longer remember. However it involved traveling 'the moon's road.' That would be closed to him, at least according to what his mother had written. However there would be a way to meet an old entity, one that had been since 'The Beginning.' Apparently, it was the 'Lord of Dreams and Sleepers' and as his father was in something approaching sleep he was willing to try anything.

He got out all of the supplies, half of them from the same shelf as the book, half of them from the spice rack which he used when he was stress baking. The time it took to set up was much less than he had anticipated, and with everything ready, he looked over what he had assembled and felt completely and totally foolish. He felt like he had when he had been cooking with his mother for the first time and he had made a mess so thorough that there was still a stain on one of the kitchen counters. He exhaled, and the image of his father on what might become his death bed flashed into Kurt's mind. Grabbing the last component from the bureau, the ancient black handled knife, he began going through the steps of the ritual. As it neared completion, he chanted. The words falling from his mouth felt heavy, awkward, and all too foreign to be something he would ever be comfortable with, but he continued despite it all. Then there was the moment that the whole ritual had been building towards, the offering of his blood.

Drawing the tip of the ancient dagger across the pad of his left thumb, he let out a small sound of pain. As the drops of his blood fell, the world seemed to freeze. When the blood hit the center of the ritual space, there was a terrible moment where the only sound was the flickering of the candle space, and in that moment, what filled Kurt's mind was doubt. However the space of the moment passed and from the center rose something that he could see, but he could feel filling every cell of his body, the walls of the room began to swim and he was aware of falling downwards and into a deep sleep.

…

The baby is only hours old, and Burt watches as his wife cradles the sleeping infants in her arms. It had been a hard labor, the result of a pregnancy which had been unplanned. However, his infant son is in his wife's arm, and Burt has never been more in love than he is right at this moment. The look on his wife's face could be described several ways: exhausted, haggard, triumphant, joyful, and harder than flint could all be used with varying degrees of accuracy. For Burt's part, he hasn't left the phone station of the hospital until this moment. All of his relatives had been informed that the baby was on the way, and now it is here. His son, small and defenseless, clutched in his wife's arms. He moves away from where he had been standing, leans over, and kisses Larissa's forehead gently.

"Look at what we made Burt," she whispers to him. She is smiling, a full smile, one of the few he has ever seen his wife wear and that makes his own smile grow all the brighter.

"He's so damned beautiful," he whispers back, looking down at the tiny, shifting bundle.

"Burt, language," she scolds, but he can tell she only half means it. They are silent, looking down at the newest member of their small family as the sounds of the hospital move around them. Neither of them notice though, they are in their own little world with their son.

"We're going to have to come up with a name soon, my parents will be here any moment," he says eventually, breaking the quiet spell that had been created by their son's breathing.

"Well, we can't have him being called 'Wanda' can we?"

"No we can't. I told you we should have thought of some boy's names, but…"

"Bertram Jonah Hummel, if you continue that sentence, I won't let you have any say in the naming of your son."

"You know I was just teasing."

"I know," she says and she kisses his nose, softly.

…

When Kurt came too, he knew intuitively that he wasn't in Lima anymore. Hell, he knew he wasn't in Allen County, or even Ohio. He was some place both familiar and alien, a place that was just beyond his ability to remember when he woke up, but was the last place he could remember before he fell deeply into sleep. It was a place that existed both outside and within himself, and it was older than worlds but constantly being recreated. He knew this in the same way he knew everything in his dreams, with a deep certainty that sprang from somewhere outside of himself. As he pulled himself up, he saw a man standing before him, dressed head to toe in white. If Coach Sylvester thought he was pale, he wondered what she would have called his man. His skin was like alabaster, his hair white marble, but his eyes were jet black with a flash of emerald fire somewhere deep.

The man seemed to glide over whatever surface they were standing on, closing the distance effortlessly. His hand raised gently, and fingers smooth and cool as glass ran down the side of Kurt's face. Kurt would have objected, would have said something, but he found his voice taken from him in the moment. He wondered if it was a side effect of the ritual he had used, but with the bottomless gaze of the tall man focused directly on him, Kurt found himself forgetting a lot of things.

"I have been waiting for this day, to see if her son would tread his mother's path," the man said eventually. His voice was soft, but was melodic and carried in the space between them. It was like every lullaby Kurt has ever heard. He wanted to speak, wanted to say something, but the cold fire in the man's obsidian eyes told him that he should remain silent. It was like this person knew everything he had every hoped for, everything he had ever wished for, everything he had ever dreamed.

"You are indeed your mother's son," the man said eventually, and his hand dropped from Kurt's face. In that simple gesture, Kurt found that he had the power of speech.

"Not the first time I've heard that," he quipped. The man in white let out a small chuckle, but said nothing. Kurt wasn't sure how to interpret that reaction.

"No, it wouldn't be. Why have you come to me, son of the Thessalian?"

"The Thessalian?"

"A title, I could tell you more, but that that's not why you have crossed into my realm. Why are you here?"

"My father, he's in a coma. My mother's book said that one of The Seven, the King of Dreams, might be able to help him."

"It is true that none come from the shores of this place without the blessing of Dream, however what would you give to make sure your father came back? What are you willing to sacrifice for your father?"

"Anything Dream would ask of me."

"You would give much, son of the Thessalian. You love your father that deeply?"

"He's been everything to me for almost nine years."

"And what are nine years to someone who might have centuries of life?"

"I don't want centuries. I didn't want my mother's book or whatever powers that came with it. I just want my father back."

"For that, you were willing to use rituals that even your mother feared?"

"Yes."

If at all possible, the tall man got closer. Kurt looked up without flinching. In the silence, Kurt wondered what the man might be thinking, but the better part of him knew that he really didn't want to know that. It was merely idle curiosity. Whatever this man, this being was thinking, it wasn't his place to know. It would be like being able to know Coach Sylvester's thoughts, it might be amusing for a little while, but it would be overwhelming far too quickly. The man's hand rose again, but this time it came to rest on his shoulder. Kurt knew he must have looked puzzled, but the man was smiling, a gentle sort of smile that reminded him of the smiles his mother had used when she had been cleaning his wounds.

"Heir of the Thessalian, here is the price you must pay for your father's return to the waking: you will come and talk with me again," he said, and the way it was said was as a decree. Nothing Kurt knew would have been able to change or challenge that. Even if he could have, he wouldn't. The price was more than fair. He found that he wanted to speak with this mysterious being again. He mutely nodded at first, but he knew that he words were necessary in this case. Clearing his throat, he looked straight into those dark eyes that were the night.

"I will pay that price," he stated and he knew that he had a bargain, the sort of which was the corner stone of Faust. He had a feeling Ms. Wisniewski who taught his section of AP English would be proud of the comparison, even if she wouldn't be proud of what he had just done. What he had done was nothing as crude as sell his soul. Until recently, he would have doubted the existence of a soul, now he was wondering just what truths there might be behind the old story of Faust. He remembered his mother having told him that all of the best stories take on a life of their own and often have their origin in some truth (if not the truth itself.)

"Very well, you will leave now," the tone of dismissal could not have been any clearer and the half familiar world with the man too tall and too skinny to be traditionally handsome began to oscillate back and forth, fading rapidly with each shake of his body.

…

He is eight years old and his father's hand is around his, squeezing in a way that is almost too tight as they watch the casket with his mother's remains slowly begin to descend. Tears are streaming down his face, but he has made no sound and he thinks that makes him more like his father. He knew he would be weeping uncontrollably if it were not for his father standing next to him, anchoring him. He wants to turn to see if his dad is crying, but he can't turn away. As the coffin slowly descends, he keeps on watching, he can't turn his face away. The priest is chanting some passage of the Bible talking about life everlasting, but Kurt doesn't believe him. His mother had told him that nothing lasted forever, and as her coffin falls out of sight, he knows it to be true.

His father's family comes up to them, member by member. They exchange words, first with his dad and then with him. The carousel of relations doesn't stop long enough for Kurt to remember who says exactly what. He does know that they are variations on a theme, and by the end of it he feels that if he hears 'We're so sorry for you Kurt' one more time he'll scream. 'Sorry' won't bring his mother back. 'Sorry' won't stop the ache he feels and the one he knows his father must be feeling. 'Sorry' changes nothing, he thinks bitterly as his father leads him away. They have remained quiet all through the funeral. Hardly a word has been said between the accident, so this silence is nothing new or interesting. Kurt would have tried to break the silence, if he had trusted his voice, which he doesn't.

They are in the cab of Burt's truck, driving to the sort of 24 hour diner that had been his mother's guilty pleasure when Burt turns on the radio. Santana's cover of "Black Magic Woman" fills the cab and Burt has to pull over to the side of the road as he begins weeping. Kurt looks up and sees his father, bent over the steering wheel, tears pouring down his face and sobs rack his body. It is something he knows he will remember, even if he doesn't want to. He had known his mother had been fond of the song, and he thinks that it must have been special to both of his parents. Without saying a word, Kurt's hand slowly moves out. His hand is still much smaller than his father's, but he gently lays his hand over his father's and squeezes softly. Burt sobs continue for a long moment, long after the song has changed to "Roxanne" by The Police. Eventually, his father lifts his head and looks at him. His father offers a small half smile, the first one Kurt has seen in days, and he begins to thing that things might be alright.

…

Being shaken violently by Finn was far from Kurt's favorite way to be woken up. Had it been a few months ago, he might have thought differently. Thank heaven the rose tinted glasses for this boy had been smashed by the wheel of progress. "What are you doing?" he demanded as soon as he could gather his wits, which was no easy task considering the force the larger teen was using.

"Dude, you were completely out of it. I was yelling at you to wake up, but you didn't move. I wasn't sure if you were breathing," Finn replied keeping Kurt at an arm's length.

"First things first, did you ever think to check for a pulse? Second, don't call me dude," Kurt shot back quickly.

"You try walking into a house and finding a person sprawled out on the ground. You'd panic."

"I might, but I would have checked for a pulse before I tried to shake life into a body."

"Then would you mind telling me why you're asleep on the floor with all those bottles out?" Finn motioned towards some of the spices that Kurt had forgotten to put back into the kitchen before he had begun the ritual. Fortunately, he had hidden the rest of the supplies along with the book itself. He would have had a much harder time explaining those. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw where the knife had fallen. Unless Finn had been looking for it, it had fallen in a place where it wouldn't be found easily. At that moment, Kurt was indeed thankful for the small things in life.

"I tried making herbal tea earlier. I haven't been sleeping well ever since I heard about my dad. I guess I was more tired than I realized because I remember drinking the tea, and then nothing until you were manhandling me," Kurt explained simply. It was a version of the truth. He was hoping that Finn wouldn't press for too many details. The larger teen seemed to process the information for a long moment before he nodded simply.

"Well you scared me," Finn finally said.

"I'm sorry about that. I'll try to choose a better spot for my improvised nap next time I feel one coming on."

"Do you want me to help you clean up?"

"No, no, I'm awake now. I'll clean up my own mess. I always have. Just stay out of my way and I'll be happy to give you a mug of hot chocolate in about fifteen minutes or so. Do you think your mom will want one?'

"She won't get off her shift for another hour, so by the time she gets here it'll just be chocolate milk again."

"There's a thing called a microwave Finn."

"Yeah, but it won't taste the same."

"You're being silly. Give me a few minutes, and I'll have this cleared up and you'll have your hot chocolate, alright?"

"OK," Finn said as he stood and turned from the room. Kurt watched him go and made sure that the taller teen closed the door before he grabbed the knife from where he had dropped it. After he secreted it back into its hiding place, he grabbed the spices from the kitchen and trudged back there. Finn was already waiting there, on his cellphone. Kurt didn't even bother trying to eavesdrop as he went about, first returning the spices and then making the hot chocolate. He made it in the way his mother had taught him, using a large sauce pan and being very careful not to burn the milk. The look of almost childlike joy on Finn's face lifted Kurt's mood, albeit briefly.

"I'm going to go try to get some work done. If the phone rings, I'll answer it. If it's from the hospital, I'll let you know, OK?" Kurt explained simply as he carefully poured the remaining hot chocolate into a thermos.

"Sounds good to me, is there anything I can do?" Finn asked.

"Nothing I can think of, but I'd prefer to be left alone," Kurt replied. He didn't look up to see what expression, if any had come over Finn's face. Rather he was focused on cleaning out the sauce pan. Everything had its place and Kurt wanted everything to be neat and orderly for when his father returned. He kept on telling himself that it would be a when, not an if. After the conversation with…whatever the man in white had been, it was a belief that he felt justified in holding. Not that he would be explaining that justification to anyone, ever. While he would be the first to admit that he loved being right, as a former skeptic of the first degree he knew that his reasoning would sound bat-shit insane.

He went downstairs, turned on his music, and tried to get as much of his homework done as he could. By the time he heard the door upstairs open, announcing Carole's return, he had finished with most of it. He went through the ritual of night time skin care, careful to avoid the cut on his thumb. Keeping up appearances of the ordinary, the usual, and the routine was necessary. In her letter to him, his mother had stressed blending in with his environment as much as he could and keeping to whatever patterns he had established as not to draw attention to the changes the letter and the book would bring. In some regards, it was too late to be as 'vanilla' as his mother suggested. His flair for fashion and his refusal to hide his sexuality made him stick out like a sore thumb in McKinley. However, he felt no desire to paint an even bigger target on his back. With everything in its proper place and prepared for the morning tomorrow, Kurt went to bed and fell instantly into a deep and dreamless sleep.

…

Kurt is less than a year old, and it is his first Halloween. Burt and Larissa have been arguing for the last month about whether or not they should dress him up and take him trick or treating. Burt has been pushing for it ever since he bought a pirate outfit he found on sale when he was picking up a few decorations for the front of their home. Larissa has argued she'd much rather wait until next year, when Kurt would be a little more likely to know what he was doing, and might be able to say something that remotely sounds like 'trick or treat.' Burt has a feeling that he's losing this argument with his wife, but he's not a stranger to that feeling. Larissa wins most of their arguments. Truth of the matter is she's both more patient and more stubborn than he is.

"Come on, it'll be fun," he tries to goad. His wife just sends him the look from behind her glasses. If their son ever learns that look, Burt pities his classmates. Hell, Burt pities the world if his son manages to learn that look. It's bad enough that one person knows it. If two people know it and are able to use it at the same time, he sees the end of the world happening sooner rather than later. He hears himself let out a small groan that he wasn't aware he had made. He should have learned by now that the only times he wins these arguments with Larissa is when she lets him.

"Burt, you know just how fussy Kurt can be. Remember when all of your relatives came over?" Larissa says. Burt has done his best to forget that particular incident. His son hadn't stopped crying. None of the usual tricks had been able to quiet him. Then again, Aunt Mildred had shown up more drunk than usual. Considering that the woman had at least one bottle of red wine before lunch every other day or so, that was saying something. The memory makes him picture Kurt, all dressed up in the small pirate's uniform, patch over his eye, bawling uncontrollably. Nothing said welcome to the neighborhood like parading a screaming baby. He let out another sound, this one a deep sigh. He doesn't have to look up to know that Larissa is smirking, the smirk she wears when she is pleased about something.

"I'll let you get him dressed up, and we can both take pictures with him, but we wait until next year before we take him trick-or-treating, alright?" it is the only compromise that Larissa will offer. Burt knows that trying to push for anything else will get him nowhere, and fast. He just nods, not wanting to speak. Larissa comes over, cradling their son with one arm and she gently pats the back of his neck. As always, her fingertips manage to calm him down and ease tensions he didn't know he carried. Next year will come soon enough, Burt reasons to himself, let Larissa have Kurt to herself this year. He knows just where they'll spend it, in the wingback chair next to her favorite bureau with Larissa whispering stories into Kurt's ear.

…

He drifted through school the next day, paying little heed to his teacher's and even less to his classmates. The world was much bigger than he had previously imagined it could have been. When the time came for Glee practice, Rachel of course went first, singing a soulful version of a Hebrew song that Kurt was unfamiliar with. It sounded entirely too dirge like though, but Kurt couldn't deny that Rachel connected with this piece on an emotional level that she did with few others. He would have to look it up when he had the free time. When Mr. Schu asked who was next, Kurt raised his hand politely. The entire room went mute as he moved to the front of the class. He looked out at all of them, not really seeing them, but seeing past them, to the hospital bed where his father lay, not awake, not yet.

"First, I wanted to thank everyone for their kind emails and queries about my dad, but for your information his condition remains the same. I need to express myself. With your permission Mr. Schu, I've prepared a number for the occasion?" Kurt asked. He was only half listening for the consent that his teacher gave. Looking out at his assembled friends, Kurt wondered what they would be like if the situation was reversed. Would they have gone through as much as he had for one of their parents? Would they have made the same bargain that he did? How would any of them had reacted if they had found out the life the remembered living with one of their parents had been a life only half-shared? These weren't the sort of questions that he could easily answer, so he moved on.

"On the day of my mom's funeral, when they were lowering her body into the ground, I was crying. I mean that was it, that was the last time I was going to see her. I remember, I looked up at my dad, and I wanted him to say something. Just something to make me feel like my whole world wasn't over. He just took my hand and squeezed it. Knowing that those hands were there to take care for me, that was enough," Kurt explained and then began to sing 'I Want to Hold Your Hand.' He didn't hold anything back, using his full range to give voice to everything he felt in the slower paced version he had arranged with the Jazz band. He sang and he remembered his father being his rock, his anchor in the years that followed his mother's death. He sang and thought about what he had given and what else he might be willing to give to have his father back in the world of the waking. As the song came to a close, he felt a small trail of tears on his face. As he did his best to clear his eyes, he saw that he wasn't the only one who was crying. He walked back, to a different seat than the one he had come from, needing to be alone with his thoughts and his feelings for the time being. His fellow Glee Club members seemed to respect that.

On his way to his locker, when he felt a light hand on his shoulder, he half expected Mercedes, perhaps even Rachel. What he didn't expect was Quinn, wearing a look of deep sympathy. Before she said anything, she gave Kurt a quick, fierce hug. Kurt was a little bit taken back. While he liked Quinn, they had never been the closest members of either the New Directions or the Cheerios. He knew he must have looked rather puzzled, but Quinn didn't say anything, at least not at first.

"How are you holding up?" Quinn eventually asked.

"I've had better days," Kurt replied, honestly.

"I've always admired your ability to keep yourself together. Even with all of the crazy this school is capable of producing, you've managed to keep yourself collected. I know this can't be easy for you, and I understand why you want to keep as much to the practical as you can. If my mom was in the same situation, I think I'd probably be doing the same thing myself."

"Weren't you the one who said you turned to god after a tough year?"

"Just because I pray doesn't mean I wouldn't stop looking for anything that might help my mom. I know you're looking for something in the here and now. I respect that, but Mercedes, Rachel, and I were thinking of doing a prayer vigil with your permission. We're from different faiths and different denominations, so we figure at least one of us has a shot," Quinn said with a small smile. Kurt returned the gesture, mostly without meaning to.

"Well, it couldn't hurt. I have a Sikh acupuncturist coming later today as some types of acupuncture are believed to help with blood circulation, so as long as you guys leave by the time Dr. Kaur comes, it'll be good," Kurt said. He was quietly hoping that he would need neither Dr. Kaur's needles nor the small prayer circle.

"Sounds fine to me, I'll text both Mercedes and Rachel. Now you might want to step to it, Coach Sylvester wants to see us in ten or less, and you know what happened to the last person who kept her waiting."

"Has Sylvia gotten out of the fetal position yet?"

"Not from what I've heard."

…

It is a Friday night in late April, and the wind moves quickly through the trees, carrying the last cold breaths of a long and hard winter on it. Kurt's third birthday is a little less than a month away at this point and has been put to bed for the evening. The meal that Friday had been simple, both Burt and Larissa had been rather busy. Burt would have called in for pizza if Larissa hadn't insisted on cooking. She always insisted on cooking, said that ordering in food didn't have the same importance. The making and sharing of food, Larissa insisted, was one of the oldest rituals in human history. There was no way in Hell or Michigan that she was going to be responsible for the death (even in a small way) of such a powerful tradition. Burt didn't claim to understand her, but knew better than to argue about things like this by now. When his wife made up her mind, she made up her mind. There was precious little he could do to change it.

The two Hummels are lying in bed next to each other, each reading the own material. Burt has a copy of the latest automotive magazine and Larissa is reading a noir detective novel. Besides the occasional turning of pages, the only sound in the room comes from the large grandfather clock which had been a first anniversary present from Burt's parents. Burt hears rather than sees his wife lay down her book and clear her throat. "Kurt told me what he wants for his birthday today," Larissa says. This gets Burt to put down his magazine instantly.

"Is it more of those action figures?" Burt asks, because he's pretty sure his son has almost every single Power Ranger figure they make, and he knows that his son's are in better condition than most.

"No, he's happy with those," Larissa says, turning her head just slightly so she can make easier eye contact with her husband without having to lift herself from the nest of pillows she has been resting on.

"Is it one of those oven things? I mean I don't mind you teaching him how to cook Larissa, I know it will be a dead useful skill one of these days, but I just don't think that…" Burt trails off, not sure how to continue that sentence. His wife is giving him the look and he shuts up, knowing he should quit before he says something that will have him sleeping on the couch for at least the next two or three nights.

"No, it would almost be easier if he had asked for one of those play ovens," Larissa says, with that she rolls slightly to take something from one of the drawers of her night stand. When she rolls back over, she hands Burt a sheet of paper. There, written in his son's handwriting, misspelled but legible, is one item: sensible heels. Burt lets out a chocked laugh. It has to be some sort of joke, it just has to be. He puts the sheet of paper on top of the magazine and looks back at Larissa.

"Did you put him up to this?" Burt half teases. Larissa shakes her head ever so slightly and that is more than enough to stop the grin on Burt's face from becoming a full-fledged smile. His wife may be many things, but she has always been honest, at least about the things that were the most important. Burt just swallows and lifts the sheet of paper again, looking at the single request. "What do you think it means?" he eventually asks.

"Honestly, it's too early to tell. All I know is that our little boy continues to be anything but ordinary. Why should we expect ordinary in the future, whatever it may hold? He's still ours Burt, yours and mine. We made him together, and if you're going to stop loving him because of this or whatever this might mean, then you're not the man that I thought you were," Larissa says. Her whole face is turned to him and he looks at her for a long moment. He puts down the sheet of paper for the last time that night and takes her hand in his.

"He's my son, Larissa. I will always love him, always. I think this just helps clear up why he's so careful with his action figures. He doesn't want to fight with them, does he?" Burt asks with a ghost of a grin lurking somewhere on his face.

"No, he doesn't. He keeps on having them marry and divorce. If he keeps up the interest though, he might make the big money one day. There will always be people who want extravagant weddings. Who better to plan those than someone who has had a lifetime of experience?"

…

In the parking lot of the hospital, Kurt gathered himself. As he exited his car, he saw a woman who was wearing so much black it would have put Tina at her most gothic to shame. Her skin was inhuman in how pale it was and the elaborate make up around her right eye should have looked silly, except it didn't. She walked towards him, and Kurt noticed her necklace. It was an Egyptian symbol, made in silver. He couldn't place its name, but he was sure it had been mentioned in his mother's book.

"You've met my brother," she stated to him simply. The four words and her piercing gaze stopped Kurt in his tracks. He looked at the woman for a long moment. The longer he looked at her, the more familiar she became, but he wasn't able to place her, no matter how hard he tried. He would have said something, but she continued before he could. "You're walking your mother's path, and you've already met my brother. I can't say I look forward to meeting you again, but I will, someday. You've got spirit kid, and I admire that about you. When you talk with my brother again, tell him that you've met his older sister. He'll tell you more. I just wanted to say welcome to the bigger world. Now, go on in there and tell those medical folks what for. I have an apartment I have to get to." With that she left, leaving Kurt feeling more alive than he had felt in a very long time. He would have sworn he heard the sounds of a flock of birds, but he put it off as nothing.

He walked into the hospital with such an air of confidence that some of the hospital staff didn't recognize him. He went straight to his father's room, knowing he had at least an hour before the prayer vigil was to begin, and double that length of time before Dr. Kaur will show up. He took his father by the hand and felt a small electric shock. What the shock came from, Kurt wasn't willing to guess. Rather, he just closed his eyes and focused on his conversation with the man in the white garment he had met while he was dreaming. Exhaling slowly, Kurt wondered if there was any form to this. His mother's book would have probably contained something, but he didn't need it, not for this.

"Dad, please, hear me and come back. Please dad, wake up for me. Come back for me, I miss you, you're part of what's sacred to me," Kurt whispered. It was all the prayer, all the incantation that he could think of. When he felt a slight twitch of his father's hand in his, he repeated it again, the twitch grew stronger and he could feel his father's hand closing around his. Kurt quickly called for the nurse on duty and then kept repeating the small prayer he had come up with. It was enough, it was more than enough. He didn't care about the tears that were falling freely down his face, nor did he care about anything else that was happening in the world. His father was back, squeezing his hand gently, letting him know that he had been heard.

As the doctors, nurses, and other associated professionals rushed into Burt Hummel's room, neither of the Hummel men noticed the figure in the hallway. How could they? She wasn't the tallest of women, and she seemed like the sort of person who blended in easily with crowds. From behind circular frames, piercing blue eyes surveyed the scene calmly. Her long brown hair fell back, and there was the ghost of something on her lips. Besides that though, her entire expression was passive. "His son," she whispered, "your father's son, and my heir." She turned then, and walked from the hallway, no one really noticing her as she left.

~Fin~