Once upon a time, so long ago that no one can remember when - not even the trees - there was a prince. This prince was dark haired, had a smile that made even the moon sigh in anguish over its brightness, and ought to have been happy. His kingdom was full of subjects who were peaceful and prosperous, and his land was beautiful, filled with wildflowers that whispered and promised secrets to those who were willing to lie a while and hear them.

But this prince was lonely, and found that even in a kingdom filled with people who loved and adored him, there was no one who would talk to him. He would escape his castle and go for walks in the town below, hoping to capture conversation or steal some of the happiness that he was certain others enjoyed. Why couldn't he too enjoy it? But as he walked among his people, trumpets blared and everyone bowed low, tumbling over each other to show their deepest respect and admiration for the prince. But no one would talk to him.

So he would turn and walk instead in the royal gardens, humming along with the hummingbirds and pleading with the black-throated honeycreepers to come out and sing for him. And sensing the poor prince's unhappiness, the birds would do their best to cheer him up, fluttering around him and singing softly. And for a time, this soothed the ache in his throat and brought a small smile to his lips. But birds aren't humans, and a boy cannot survive on the conversation of animals alone, no matter how nourishing it is.

The King and Queen knew of his anguish and did all they could to ease it. They lavished him with fine clothes and jewels, garnishing him with the most beautiful fabrics, and they fed him feasts with all of his favorite foods. But despite it all, the prince was withering, wilting into himself and wasting away with want of conversation and love. His parents couldn't understand it, but they cared for their son dearly, and they were determined to do all that they could to bring back his smile. So they decided to decree a month of Royal Banquets, Balls, and Festivals, all in celebration of the prince.

Eager to please and, despite himself, hopeful, the prince attended the festivals, enclothed in his beautiful new garments and tasting everything that was set before him. But the food all turned to chalk in his mouth - he could enjoy nothing, taste nothing, not while this loneliness inside of him was eating him alive. So he left the tables and instead danced.

The first week he danced the waltz with a golden-haired beauty whose name he could not remember and whose laughter was like the soft murmur of a wind-chime in the afternoon.

The second week he danced the foxtrot with a red-headed beauty whose dress was the color the sky right before the sun dipped below the trees, and whose smile was so luminous even the sun turned her face away in jealousy.

The third week he danced the tango with a brown-haired beauty whose skin was a creamy color of caramel, and whose hair smelled of jasmine and cypress and was as soft as the morning light.

What's your name, he asked of each of those he danced with. Where are you from? What do you like to do?

They all just laughed and glittered, tossing their pretty heads and pressing closer to him, speaking with their lips and their hands. Dance again with me, they begged. I can promise you the sky at night, the stars as they shine and the moon in the morning.

So he stopped asking and instead, danced.

And the fourth week, he left.

The prince escaped before the sun had woken, leaving behind his golden-spun clothes and instead climbing into a pair of sturdy boots and a homespun cloak and tunic given to him once as a gift. He left the mouthwatering meats and other tempting dishes behind too, bringing along just a loaf and some wine to sate his hunger and thirst.

Before he left, he wandered once more among the waving fields of lavender in the royal garden, enticing the lorikeets and the nightingales to creep out of sleep and sing a last time for him. But the beautiful birds only looked at him sadly, crooning out a sad mumble, and he knew it was time for him to go.

He stole into the stables, waking up his sleepy horse with the soft sound of his voice, and then he and his steed were off, escaping into the morning. The sky was the the color of a bruised plum, and by the light of the creeping sun the prince could see far and wide into the fields and rushing rivers around him, and he smiled at it all, feeling free.

The prince rode for a fortnight, and he saw many wonderful things. There were bees and birds and flowers everywhere that he looked; dizzy butterflies danced around him and his horse, and beetles climbed into the saddle to say hello. Sometimes, if he was quiet enough, he could creep into the shade of a fern forest at noon and entice a deer to dine with him. But though he loved nature, he hadn't left his home for the company of animals, so eventually he left the woodland paths and rode into a town many leagues from his home.

It was a large, bustling city, and the people walked around bursting with a sense of their overwhelming importance. It was twice the size of his kingdom, and it seemed that everyone in the town made it their business to live life as loudly and lividly as possible. The townspeople hollered at each other while haggling for food or trinkets in the market, and children ran giggling and gaggling through the streets, snatching at purses and pockets. The prince had never been in such an enormous, electrifying place, and he was glad to be there. Surely, here amongst all of these people he would find what he was looking for!

He eagerly cleared his throat, and tried to speak up among the din. What's your name, he asked of anyone who would stop a moment and speak with him. Where are you from? What do you like to do?

But all who stopped to spare a moment to look over at the prince quickly frowned and walked away, growling at his soft-spoken words and yelling over their shoulders that he should speak up. Desperately, the prince tried to raise his voice, speaking up as loudly as he could manage. I'm from a kingdom nearby, he shouted, and my name is -

But shouting for the prince was practically a whisper in this city, (for after all he had been raised properly and taught never to speak more loudly than the soft sound of a song) and his voice was swallowed up by the swelled importance and busyness of the city. The townspeople moved on, for the had things to do and places to be, and there was no room for a boy who could not speak up in this town.

Defeated and dismayed, the prince led his horse out of the city and wondered if there was a place anywhere in this world for a boy like him. He rode for a few miles until the road buckled and came to a cracked end, and he was faced with a choice: to enter the forest in front of him, or to start on the long journey home behind him.

The prince closed his eyes, folded his hands together, and entered into the forest. I'll become a woodland prince, he decided, speaking forlornly to his horse. I'll live in the mountains and I'll scratch out a living from the trees and the streams. The rabbit and the snake shall be my companions, and I shall...

Before the prince could continue, something interrupted him. It was a sound; a soft, lilting sound that echoed through the trees and tugged at the prince's heart. The prince wasn't sure what it was - perhaps it was a babbling lizard or a sunny stream - but no... it didn't sound like a creature of the forest.

It sounded like a song.

Unconsciously, the prince slipped off his horse, leaving the creature to nibble at the greenish grass, and followed the sound. It wasn't long before he was running, sliding over slippery moss and splashing through koi-infested creeks in his eagerness to catch - to find - to have - that beautiful song.

The prince felt as though he could reach out and hold the song; it painted the air until it was practically tangible, a thick, sleepy, golden murmur that melted away into wisps of light. The song spoke to him with the silver tongue of the moon, singing to him of his loneliness, of his hopes and fears, and of all that he loved.

He followed the song through the trees until it led him to a steep slope of grass, a rolling hill that slanted and slid to a stop at the foot of a tower. The tower was small and humble, messily made of mere stone and mortar, but for all of its bumbling, it was beautiful. Vines looped themselves cheerfully around the tower, tangling with thick strips of ivy, and red and purple flowers peeked out of cracks in the warm, brown stone.

The prince looked up, curious, and he could just make out a window near the very top of the tower. In the window was a figure, and from that figure came the song.

The window was high up in the tower, mingling with the clouds, and prince couldn't tell who the figure was, or what they looked like. But the prince was sure that the person in the tower could see the him, for as soon as he approached the tower, the song ceased.

The prince stumbled for a moment; bereft of the song, he suddenly felt young and alone. But he was determined to find the singer of this song, so he kept walking, until he was right below the window.

Hello, he said haltingly, trying to speak up, willing his voice to carry up into the clouds.

Hello, came the return. The person in the tower's voice was almost as maddeningly musical as their singing, and it brought a pretty smile to the prince's lips.

What's your name, the prince asked. Where are you from? What do you like to do?

The prince wasn't sure, but he thought he could see a rounding of the figure in the tower's lips, and a bright, bursting glimpse of teeth.

Instead of answering, the figure said, Won't you come up?

But how? Have you a rope?

No.

How then can I come up?

Climb.

So the prince did. The wall of the tower was cracked and scabbed over, and there were many places were a clever prince could find to place his hands and feet. The prince scrabbled up the wall, banging his knees once or twice and scraping his hands, and almost falling when he sneezed at the scent of a heavy orange blossom, but the memory of the song was still beating through his heart, and he made it safely to the window. The prince climbed through the window and peered into the dim room, looking for the song-singer.

Hello?

Hello.

The prince turned quickly towards the sound of that enticing voice, but the figure was hiding in the gloom of the tower, and the only thing the prince could make out were two blinking blue eyes.

Won't you come closer? the prince asked, holding out his hand, which was dusty and uncarefully cut up from the climb. I climbed the tower for you, he pointed out. The least you could do is show me your face.

The singer hesitated, and then stepped forward into the glow of the window, taking the prince's proffered hand. The singer's hand was shaped like the song had been - it was gentle and soft as the wind and kind. The prince traced over the fine lines of the hand admiringly with his eyes before looking up into its owner's face.

Warmth blushed into the prince's cheeks and throat, for standing in front of him was the most beautiful boy that he had ever seen. He had brown hair the color of a sparrow's wing at midday, eyes that were the color of the shifting waves, and a chest and shoulders made up of distinct, delicate lines that promised grace and beauty. The prince thought of all the birds - the blushing berrypeckers, the grandiose orioles, and even the glorious, graceful-winged goldencrests - he had ever seen or listened to, and knew that this boy's beauty ran far deeper than them all.

The boy smiled at the prince's blush, and his blue eyes were laughing at him.

You're beautiful, the prince said wonderingly, the words whispered before he could stop them. I've never seen such beauty in a boy before.

I could say the same for you.

The heat in the prince's face burned brighter, and his words nearly melted away into his mouth. Will you dance with me?

No, I don't like to dance.

Will you eat a meal with me?

No, all I have here is fruit and bread.

Will you sing for me?

Only if you tell me your name.

Blaine, the prince said, his voice slipping lower and lower until it was only just the hum of a sigh.

Blaine, repeated the boy, and he smiled again, a smile more lovely than the first evening stars at night. Blaine.

What's your name? Where are you from? What do you like to do?

The boy smiled more softly than before, and sighed and sighed. My name is Kurt, he said. I'm Kurt, I've been from this tower for as long as I've known, and I like to sing.

Kurt, repeated the prince, carefully storing the name away in his heart. Kurt, will you sing for me?

Only if you promise to stay.

Warmth blossomed in the prince's entire body, moving through the top of his head to the tips of his fingers to his knees to the very bottom of his feet. It was like Kurt's song was in him and inside of him and around him, holding him up and filling him with light and goodness and beauty.

I promise.

Kurt smiled more broadly and more beautifully than before, and the prince realized that he'd never known the true meaning of loveliness or beauty or handsomeness before until he had met Kurt and seen him smile this smile, a smile that was all moon and sky and wind. It was all Kurt, it had always always been Kurt, and it would always be Kurt - Kurt was what he had been searching for, all along and forever and now.

Kurt took a step closer to the prince, pulling their two tangled hands to his chest.

Only if you kiss me, he whispered, and so the prince did, pulling Kurt closer to him and capturing his lips with his own - and Blaine had never flown before, but this was how he imagined the sky would be, what the night wind would taste like as it caressed skin and bone, pulling you deeper into the night and into the stars, with the moon and the planet circling around you.

And then Kurt was humming against his lips, singing and passing a song from one mouth to the other, until both of them were singing, and they would always sing so long as they were together, forever, and they were. They stayed together for so long that even the birds and the sun and the ivy outside forgot about them, and it was only them and had always been them, and they were the song of the song of this world called life.

Thanks for reading :) I tried out some different stylistic things on this one... might have gone a bit overboard, so tell me (honestly!) what you think! I was inspired by a collection of short stories, Kissing the Witch, by Emma Donoghue, which is a really awesome read. It's a retelling of fairy tales. I love her particular style and the way her words just sing and float along.

This is for you, Mari 3 Happy belated birthday! Sorry it took so (so so so so!) long.