Cold
[Warnings: character death, minor description of injury]
When ice frosted the cabin windows and Kurt's father was out chopping wood, Kurt's mother would sit with him by the fire and tell him stories. The dark between the flickers of firelight would gather in close to hear the hushed words, but Kurt never saw them, safe in his mother's arms and preoccupied with far-off places. He wanted to visit them all, and when he said so she would laugh and ask if he would ever come home to visit her in their little house in the woods. She would old one day, after all, and she would need someone to take care of her. Kurt argued that she would never be old, and winters passed in warm embraces as the family of three waited for spring to whisper life back into being.
The winter of Kurt's eighth year, ice was everywhere. It hung in daggers from the cabin roof and collected on the windowsills. It covered the ground and almost buried the small gravestone in the nearby clearing. It radiated from the fire instead of heat and was every word that passed between child and father – brittle, slipping and breaking easily away, crunching underfoot.
In the evenings, beneath the covers, Kurt tried to tell himself the stories, but they'd faded, too. The bleak grays and whites of winter had seeped into them and bleached the color from them as quickly as they'd stolen the rosy glow from his mother's cheeks.
The house fell into silence. The woodcutter had little to say and his son only had small answers. There was no one close to their house for Kurt to talk to, so he conferred with the winter air instead. The small tendrils that made it through to his room from between the glass of his window and the warp in the wood that kept it from opening almost sounded like actual words. He pretended, sometimes, late at night when his father was asleep, that the almost voice was actually listening to his thoughts. Yes, he'd had a good day, thank you for asking. He'd kept himself busy for most of the day. His father complimented the soup at dinnertime, so he must be getting better. No, he hadn't had a very good day. The house seemed so much larger in the quiet, and the fire wasn't as warm as it used to be. His father complimented the soup and went to bed. He missed his mother's stories. He missed his mother.
They didn't sound the same coming from him, but sometimes he would also whisper the stories to himself so that he didn't forget.
Once there was a little boy…
Once upon a time there was a little boy who wandered into the woods…
…all alone…
He liked to think that the wind's whisperings were echoing him, learning the story as he hesitantly retold it.
But when Kurt fell asleep, he was alone.
Once upon a time…
…there was a little boy… there was a little boy, all alone…
The deadened heart of winter surrounded the cabin when Kurt heard the first lines of a story slip back to him. He startled awake and lay still in his bed, listening. It began as he'd told it, hesitant and faltering, but as it continued it started to sound exactly the way it had when his mother told it.
Once upon a time, there was a little boy who wandered into the woods, all alone. It was winter and he was afraid, but there was something important that he needed to find…
Kurt sat by the window until the early hours of dawn, feeling the cold breath on his cheek as he listened. The whispering returned every night, and so Kurt sat up to listen until it died away as the dark began to lighten into a softer gray. If his father noticed the dark circles growing beneath his son's eyes and the boy's pallid complexion, he said nothing about it when they ate dinner together.
Kurt wondered, sometimes, where the wind had come from. He considered asking, but he could never bring himself to; he worried about breaking the fragile magic of it all, but all the same he hoped that it blew through the clearing on the way to his house. Just in case, when the snow started melting and the wind's voice started to grow weaker, he whispered "I love you" into the tiny crack.
Spring brought the family of two a second chance. Kurt woke one morning to find all of the windows and doors of the house thrown wide open, and his father waiting for him downstairs. He handed Kurt a burlap sack and told him to take some of the smaller pieces of wood back to the house with him.
They fell into a familiar routine; they would take care of most of the household chores near dawn and spend the rest of the day in the forest. Kurt had little time to linger on the absence of the voice.
One summer's day, Kurt was handed a basket instead of the sack and told to go looking for herbs and other essentials that couldn't grow in a garden. None of them were close to the house, and he wandered to parts of the forest he'd never explored before, keeping an eye on the ground in case he spotted any of the familiar plants. He had only one more to find when he ran into a strange boy. He almost lost the basket and all of the plants he'd worked to find, but the boy grabbed his arm and steadied him before he could fall.
He was taller than Kurt; that was the first thing Kurt noticed. The second was his grin, which made Kurt think so much of a fox, and his eyes, which were the bright, vibrant green of the forest and which were dancing with amusement. He told Kurt his name was Sebastian, and asked what Kurt was looking for.
"Sage," Kurt told him, and Sebastian laughed at him again.
"You don't need sage, you need to spend more time in the sun! You're the only snowflake that hasn't melted yet!" He took Kurt's hand and led him deeper into the woods, over little streams and through thick stands of trees until they came out into a meadow that seemed perfectly circular. It was filled with wildflowers, and Kurt was certain that he'd never be able to find it again on his own.
It was never necessary, because every day when Kurt was sent to collect herbs, Sebastian was waiting for him, ready to take him exploring or to spend the afternoon in the meadow. When it started getting late and Kurt needed to go back home, Sebastian would return his basket, always filled to overflowing with every herb he was sent to look for, except for sage. The summer wore on, and Kurt and Sebastian compared the number of freckles they'd collected. Kurt took Sebastian to the clearing, and they spent the day gathering flowers for the gravestone. The woodcutter didn't know who Kurt's new friend was, but he was happy enough to see that his son was happy. Every time Sebastian would grab Kurt's hand, Kurt felt himself thaw a little more, with the winter's hold slowly being shaken loose.
"I have to go soon," Sebastian told Kurt when the leaves started to fall. Kurt asked him where he was going, but Sebastian shook his head.
"Not very far," he said eventually, "but I can't stay here." He wouldn't say any more, and instead started placing large, colored maple leaves in Kurt's hair. Kurt forgot to ask again.
The first winter's snow began falling early one morning, and the chill woke Kurt. From his window he could see Sebastian on the edge of the clearing, watching the house, and something seemed strange about him; he seemed oddly pale, a contrast to the glow he'd exuded for most of the summer and fall. It must have been very cold outside, Kurt thought as he slipped on a coat and ran out to meet him.
"It's time for me to go."
Kurt nodded; he'd expected to hear something like that when he saw Sebastian waiting for him. "Will you come back?"
"I won't be far." He reached out a hand to Kurt's face, something more solemn in the action that hadn't been there before. He traced Kurt's cheek, then his jaw line. He brushed a gentle thumb over the smattering of freckles that collected on Kurt's cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose. It occurred to Kurt that they'd never figured out who had more. Something strange and unfamiliar fluttered in Kurt's stomach and vibrated up and out through his throat, making his breath tremble. Sebastian leaned his face closer to Kurt's, and soon all Kurt could make out of his friend's features were those vibrant eyes, probably the only hint of summer still left in the forest. Kurt could feel Sebastian's breath on his lips when the other boy turned his head slightly to the side. "You love me," he whispered, and before Kurt could answer, Sebastian backed away and disappeared into the forest.
The nights grew long again, and the darkness slid along the walls, dodging firelight. The house was silent, but the fire was a little warmer when Kurt sat next to it at night. His father asked a few questions instead of commenting on the soup. It felt like a winter that they could survive.
Once upon a time, there was a little boy who wandered into the woods, all alone. It was winter and he was afraid, but there was something important that he needed to find. It was getting dark and he was supposed to be on his way home, but he knew he would be in trouble if he went back without it, so he turned around and ran back the way he came…
It took the span of half a minute, time that allowed him to wake and recognize the soft sound, for Kurt to fall into the old habit of sitting by the window. It didn't matter that it was always the same story; the cadence and rhythm were all he needed, the gentle lulls of the tale as he was used to hearing it. The cool slip of air from the window was more comfort than a warm fire, more reassuring than stilted conversation at dinner.
This time, Kurt's father noticed. He watched as his son withdrew and saw the shadows on the boy's face sharpen. He felt his son's forehead frequently for any sign of the fever that took his wife and gently suggested that Kurt eat seconds every night. Kurt drifted around the small cabin like a ghost, and the glow of summer drained quickly and resolutely, taking each freckle with it.
…he turned around and ran back the way he came…
"Mother?" The whispered question, pressed against the gap, was said as softly as the air that slipped back through one night as Kurt listened. He didn't know why he said it. He'd never questioned the voice before, but he couldn't stop wondering, and the wondering ached.
The silence was sudden and resolute. If he hadn't still been able to see the flakes drifting past the window, Kurt might have thought the wind had died. The house didn't creak. There was no cracking from the low fire in the other room.
Kurt waited, hardly breathing. He'd broken it. He felt like he was losing her again, and his heart began to break along a familiar fault. He turned from the window.
There was a sudden, sharp screech from right outside. The sound sent daggers of ice stabbing down Kurt's back and fear pooled deep in his stomach. He turned around on instinct and all he saw around the snow and inky blackness was a pair of pale eyes staring in at him. They were right next to where he'd been sitting by the window. There were deep scratches in the glass.
He watched the staring eyes for a few long minutes, waiting to wake up or for them to fade in some illusion made by snow and whatever weak moonlight could slip through the cloud cover. They didn't fade. They didn't blink. When Kurt finally slipped back into his bed, resolutely facing the door, he could feel them burning into his back. He didn't turn around again.
The whispers never ceased. They spoke to him every night. They slipped in under the door and down the fireplace. They were in every protest of the wooden floors. He couldn't escape them.
Kurt…. Kurt, let me in… Kurt, open the window…
Why won't you let me in…?
…it's so cold…
…let me in…
He tried not to look at the window. The eyes were always waiting for him there. The scratches were, too. Kurt tried not to wonder what it was that kept the thing outside while he stared at his door deep into the night, unable to ignore the whispering. It couldn't be very much.
Kurt tried to convince his father to stay indoors, but the man wouldn't hear of it, promising his son that he wouldn't be out for very long, that he only needed to get more firewood or maybe make a short trip to the town outside of the forest for some supplies he'd forgotten to stock up on. Kurt waited by the door for him to get back, worried that whatever was outside would grow impatient and attack his father. It never did – it just continued to whisper to Kurt.
One night, Kurt's father was late getting home. Kurt waited until midnight and after as the wind grew stronger and the snow fell thicker, but there was no crunch of footsteps or creak of the front door. He was almost asleep in front of the fire when there was a heavy thump at the door.
"Kurt, this wind is blowing right through me; could you let me in?" The gruff call was his father's deep, booming tone, and he drifted to the door, still partly asleep. His hand was on the door handle when it occurred to him that his father had never before asked Kurt to let him into the house.
Kurt gingerly took his hand from the door and slowly backed away a few steps. The voice outside wasn't his father.
"Kurt? Son, do you hear me? Let me in, okay?"
It sounded like him, and Kurt wanted nothing more than to throw the door wide open and run to the safety of the woodcutter's strong arms, but he hugged himself instead, backing away from the door while never taking his eyes from it.
"Are you awake, Kurt? It's cold out here, just let me in!"
Kurt glanced at the door to his own room, thinking of the gaze that had haunted him for weeks. There was one way to be absolutely certain of who was at the door…
In his rush to check his window, he stumbled on a chair. The noise must have been loud enough to make it past the front door, because there was another thump.
"Kurt? Was that you? Where are you going? Kurt, let me in! Let me in! Let me in let me in LET ME IN!"
The familiar voice of his father contorted and twisted into the sound of shrieking wind, rattling the house to its foundations. Kurt had never heard the house creak in protest like it did in the sudden assault, and he worried that whatever protection he had from the creature's inability to get in without his permission would be destroyed with the destruction of the house. It slammed itself against the door, over and over, the impact reverberating everywhere and rattling right through Kurt.
Kurt backed away from the door until the kitchen table was at his back. He clutched the wood tightly, wishing more than anything that it was dinnertime and that his father was there, telling him something, anything, about the soup. He realized that he never felt safer than when his father was with him.
He felt so trapped, now. His father was in the forest, somewhere Kurt couldn't run to him. It had been hours, he could be lost…
…or he could be halfway home, just in reach.
It might have been the sudden onslaught of desperation brought from being alone and afraid, the terror that the creature would break through. It might have been weeks of sleepless nights and that unending feeling of being watched, of being coaxed closer to danger. It might have been that, right at the height of the shriek, the voice outside sounded almost like his mother's, or it might have been a final attempt to find the warmth of his father's embrace.
Whatever the final push, Kurt ran for his room and pulled and pushed at the warp of the window frame. The wood splintered and bit into his hands, but he continued to struggle. The pane of glass marred by the scratches shattered and he pulled at the destroyed frame. "LET ME OUT!" A blast of cold air bit into his skin as he ripped open a hole large enough for him to slip through, but he paid no attention to it as he leapt from the window and ran for the path to town.
Once upon a time, there was a little boy who wandered into the woods, all alone. It was winter and he was afraid, but there was something important that he needed to find. It was getting dark and he was supposed to be on his way home, but he knew he would be in trouble if he went back without it, so he turned around and ran back the way he came.
The wind and snow blew wildly in every direction and Kurt struggled to see where he was going. The cold drove needles into his bare feet, slashed at his uncovered arms and face. He needed to reach his father. If Kurt could just reach his father, everything would be okay. He would be warm again, he would be safe.
He searched all over the forest, but he couldn't find what he was looking for. The night came, and the boy realized he was lost.
Kurt couldn't find the path. He couldn't see where he was going, and the snow was deep and grabbing at his ankles with every step. He thought he felt cold breath on the back of his neck and struggled blindly against the wind and snow that threatened him from all sides. He had to find his father. His father could protect him. He could only just make out a thinning in the trees around him and reached out for what he hoped was the path. As he reached the open space, his foot caught on a stone almost completely buried in the snow and he fell heavily. He struggled to pull himself to his feet, and he thought he heard the crunch of footsteps. Kurt looked up and above him were a pair of pale, glowing green eyes.
As the boy wandered, he began to forget himself. The spirits of the forest would reach out as he passed and tear away bits of his memories, bits of the boy who used to be. With every step the boy took, he became less there. He became like a spirit.
Kurt tried to back away, but the figure calmly followed. It fell into a crouch next to Kurt and leaned very close to him. Kurt could feel bits of ice on his lips until the figure moved its head slightly. It whispered in his ear, "You love me."
~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~
The first time the woodcutter saw his son, the boy was wrapped in his mother's arms, rosy-cheeked, sleeping peacefully. He was minutes old and protesting the onslaught of light and sound, and his eyes were every color of summer and winter, sometimes green, sometimes blue. Kurt was still a child when his father saw him for the last time.
He was curled at the foot of his mother's grave, and the rosiness of his complexion had leaked away into the snow that almost covered him. He looked tiny and broken, but unmarred; the only injury that could be found were deep gashes cut into the palms of his hands, riddled with splinters of wood and a few small pieces of glass. His lips were blue. His face was dusted with shadows.
The window of Kurt's room was broken from the inside. No one could offer any explanation for why the boy would run out into the storm. The poor child must have been driven mad by grief, the people in the town whispered sadly to each other.
People wondered, and the children whispered snatches of a strange story to each other, little broken pieces of something that they didn't understand. And how strange it was, they thought to themselves when they were alone in bed at night, that they'd all dreamed they'd seen eyes staring in through the window, sometimes green, sometimes blue.
…let me in… it's so cold, let me in…
…let me in.
A/N: It's been a while since I've finished something. ^_^ Hello, I'm still alive! I've been in a bit of a writing rut lately - of course that would happen right when I finally have time to write - and I'm hoping that I'm coming out of it now. I guess we'll see :D Thank you for reading!
(For those of you waiting for an update on Tiny Prayers: I'm sorry it's taking me so long. That's what I'm struggling with the most right now, and I'm trying to get everything sorted out before I continue. Just know that it's not abandoned and thank you for your patience!)
[Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and FOX. This story is for entertainment purposes only and not for profit.]