A/N I'd like to address a little feeling of unease I have towards the outcome of this story. I'm not sure whether it's the content, theme, or rating that's barring it from receiving more positive feedback (not necessarily popularity, just feedback in general), but I have to admit that it's had me worried a bit. But anyways, to keep it short and sweet: This was about seven document pages long on Word :) LONGEST CHAPTER SO FAR! Which isn't saying much since there's only three, but you know. Love you all!

~Ceecee

Blaine

I awoke before the sun itself had risen, to the sound of hooves crunching against fallen leaves. My eyelids slowly fluttered open as I sat up and tried to gather my bearings. Firstly, I was laying in a position that deemed itself indubitably uncomfortable, judging by the dull ache in my legs and neck as I attempted to stretch out. Secondly, I wasn't at home in the sanctuary of my own bed like I would've preferred, but rather curled up in the back of a shaking carriage. And thirdly, I was surrounded by bags of garments and other various supplies while still inconsequently exhausted.

Rubbing a hand over my stiff neck, I peered out the window at the endless blur of green that was streaming by. The sunrise was near; the sky blushed a romantic shade of pink. We were in a forest, that much I knew, but exactly what forest, I was unaware of. Words couldn't express how much I wanted to be home, wherever that might have been at that point.

However, as my dad always told me, duty proves itself more significant than personal desires. It was generally a practice easier said than done, but I attempted to live out his hypothesis as fully as humanly possible. Even if it meant getting my hands dirty.

Dad and I had been called to perform a vanquishing for a village whose existence up until this point I had never been aware of. It was nowhere near the village of Aspen, which was the furthest from home we had traveled thus far. The rumors I'd heard about this village were not altogether too flattering, either. Those who actually had some familiarity with the village had awful stories to tell, including the news that the village we were going to wasn't even named, and the people were so primitive that they washed clothes in a river and took multiple spouses and both male and female siblings shared a bed to stay warm at night. But apparently the young women were quite fetching (this only caught my interest for a second, as my dad and I did not stay long enough in one location for me to pursue romance) and the men were civilized enough to speak with a dignified eloquence when addressed.

I was preoccupied with the thought of having to share sleeping quarters with a stranger when the carriage lurched to a sudden stop, slamming me backwards onto the floor. Scowling from the sound of my dad laughing at my misfortune, I threw open the door and slid out of the compartment. All I saw was an perpetual chasm of trees. The driver of our carriage assisted my dad off of the perch and tilted his hat in salutation.

"This be as far as we go." he announced, dismounting himself and reaching out to one of large copper-colored horses that had been pulling the structure.

"Chessie can o'ly lug such a heavy load fer so long. You havta travel by foot from 'ere."

I suppressed a groan and flexed my numb toes inside my shoes. Walking felt impossible. Dad nodded and gave the man and handful of small gold coins.

"Much thanks, Seamus."

Seamus cradled the coins in his hands and counted them eagerly. "So generous! 'Course, but of course! Ever delighted ter assist you, Father Anderson."

Dad motioned to me. "Blaine, unhitch Pavarotti. And be sure to do so with haste."

The palomino raised his head at the mention of his name. I offered him a smile as I unbuckled his harness from the carriage. I practically sensed him sighing in relief as I removed the bridle from his pale face, stroking his muzzle lovingly and placing a small kiss on the white patch on his forehead. I'd known Pavarotti since I was nine, and through the ten years that had passed since then, had grown to consider him as my best friend. He had been my mother's horse back then, but at the time of her death was decidedly passed over to me. My dad didn't share my affection for the animal, however, and often expressed his disdain.

"You are too tenderhearted towards animals, Blaine." he admonished, tying packages together for easy transportation. "How do you expect to become a werewolf slayer if you cannot bear to be separated from a mere horse?"

"The only things Pavarotti eats are grasses and plants and those shouldn't matter to people. I replied, taking a bundle and hoisting it onto my smarting back. "He's not a killer like werewolves are. He's a lovable creature."

"He is a horse, Blaine." Dad was solemn, "Also, keep in mind that words are not meant to be butchered, therefore butchered they should not be."

I ignored his criticisms of my casual speech and strapped some bundles to Pavarotti's back, patting him reassuringly as his neck muscles twitched in protest at the load. "Just a few more miles, Pav. You should be fine. After all, you have four legs and I only two."

Dad merely shook his head at me and bid Seamus goodbye. The small man tilted his hat once again before climbing back onto the carriage and whipping the reigns. His chestnut horses nickered and turned around the makeshift pathway, trotting in the opposite direction.

Dad turned to me and gave me an expectant nod. "And now we walk."

I weighed the load on my back and frowned. "How far?"

"A few miles, perhaps three at most. I was informed that the villagers would position a team that shall be looking out for our arrival."

"And when might we be running into them?" I asked. Dad cast me a look of annoyance.

"So-many-questions-Blaine." He scolded me again, handing over Pavarotti's rope. "About midway, if the Lord has smiled upon us. Here, you take him. He is your horse, not mine."

I fingered the coarse rope, taking comfort in its rough, familiar texture. I did my best to make my dad proud, but it was inevitable that I would end up doing something incorrectly and receive criticism for it. He was not a man that was easy to please-at least towards his son, anyway. Pavarotti nuzzled my side playfully, searching for any hidden treats I might have tucked away. I ran my free hand over his ivory mane and stared directly ahead. The trees seemed to stretch into oblivion, twisting and turning at unexpected places. The air was cool and brittle, our breath forming small, smokey clouds as we walked.

And walked. And walked.

Kurt

The arrival of Father Anderson was on everyone's tongue. The two strangers had quickly become the topic of every conversation. The women whispered among their sewing, the men laughed while pushing wheelbarrows of wood and skinning meat for the smokestacks. But nothing was more spoken about than the Father's son. A flurry of questions arose about him.

How old was he?

Was he handsome?

Was he intelligent?

Had he, like his Father, killed werewolves before?

The girls especially giggled over the prospect of a mysterious boy and came up with theories about his past while sewing and washing. Naturally, I was present and involved in the conversation. Anything to distract me from the monotonous work I was doing.

"I bet he's tall," a girl named Quinn said, "with a dark and brooding past." Rachel, the brunette who was attempting to braid Quinn's short blonde hair, scoffed.

"I bet he's short," she countered, "with poor eyesight and a boring lifestyle."

The group laughed as Quinn smacked Rachel's hand away with mock irritation. Or perhaps it was real, as she and Rachel had both taken interest in Finn, and that had formed a love-and-hate relationship between the two girls. Meanwhile, Finn refused to choose who he liked more and instead milked the attention. It irritated me to no extent.

"Do you think he's wealthy?" Tina asked, folding her completed shirt and setting it aside.

"Probably." Santana replied. She and her parents had traveled from a colony in the south a few years ago, and she had a very distinctive appearance, with her russet skin and shiny black hair. She was beautiful, and caught the eye of every man who saw her. Every man, except for me.

"What makes you say that?" Mercedes spoke up, a frown crossing her ebony face.

Santana turned towards her and shot her a look. "He's the son of a high priest. That doesn't especially hint at being poor..."

"Well, yes. But still. How do we really know that he-"

"Doesn't matter. He's probably a spoiled brat who drinks himself happy and takes a different woman to bed with him every night." I griped, tossing a soiled blanket into my pail and scrubbing it furiously.

My comment was met with collective silence. I glanced up at the four pairs of surprised eyes staring back at me.

"What?"

Mercedes sat down next to me and pulled the pail away. "What's wrong?"

"I just...nothing. And everything. I don't know..." I had not told her about Finn and I's altercation from the night before. It had made me very sour towards the thought of the Father coming to our village and I had finally allowed myself to express my agitation.

"Kurt..." Mercedes squeezed my hand, concern creasing her brow.

"Just...the sooner they come and kill that monster the better."

"Don't we all think so." Rachel replied, resuming her braiding of Quinn's hair. The girls mumbled in agreement and redirected their attention to work and their chattering.

Uninterested in the conversation, I grabbed my pail and politely excused myself, claiming that I had neglected a prior engagement with Carole. I exited the hut and quivered at the sudden change of temperature.

"Rather cold, shouldn't you stay inside with the rest of the ladies?" A jeering voice called out to me. I did not need to look up to see who the owner was.

"I'm free to go where I want, David." I replied, keeping my voice calm. "But thanks for your concern for my health."

The larger boy frowned and set down the barrel he had been carrying over his shoulder. "Like I'd care if you caught a cold. It'd be great, actually. Get you out of my way for a while-where you going?" I had turned away and continued walking, despite his throwing insults. He reached out and clutched onto my wrist, turning me back around to face him.

"I wasn't finished with you, Hummel." he growled.

I wrenched my arm out of his grip, my hand snapping back and hitting him in the face. "Don't you touch me. We're done here, David."

He glowered down at me, rubbing the side of his face that I had unintentionally slapped. I simply returned the glare. Finally, he backed away and picked up the barrel. "No, we're not." he said, and lumbered away. The air seemed to grow colder at his words. This winter was one of the most bitter that we had ever been faced with. The air bit eagerly at my exposed skin, flushing it pink, as I numbly continued walking through the village towards Miss Emma's house. The previous night, I had laid awake while debating the idea of actually speaking to the prophetess about my unusual dreams. I had come to the conclusion that, no, it would not hurt to seek advice and therefore found myself standing outside of her house, gingerly knocking on her door.

"Come in, my dear." Miss Emma's muffled voice replied from inside the house. I entered without any further hesitation. Warm air welcomed me, soothing my chilled face and hands.

I had a deep indeclarable love for Miss Emma's house. It was so intricately eccentric in comparison to the rest of the buildings in my village. The long flames of candles flickered all about the room, illuminating the many decorations that dwelled within the house. Large orange and purple strips of satiny material stretched across the ceiling, draping themselves over shelves full of spices and wrapping around the wooden support beam at the center of the building in a kind of embrace. Strange, curious objects littered the tables and shelves and walls; charms, bottles filled with unknown liquids, a large chest set in the corner, sticks of burning incense that threatened to cause anyone who drew near to them to sneeze, spheres made of different colors of glass that twinkled in the light of the candles, and so many more treasures to tease the eye. There were no chairs, and instead small pillows were scattered across the floor, upon one of which Miss Emma sat, a book held in her hands daintily, with her eyes lowered to the contents on the pages. I shut the door and she glanced up, smiling.

"Hello, Kurt." her voice was soft and reminded me sweetly of honey; and I relaxed at the sound of it, temporarily forgetting my run-in with David.

"Good morning, Miss Emma," I replied, bending down to unlace my boots like any good houseguest would.

"And to what occasion do I owe the pleasure of your company?" she asked, shutting her book without saving her place. "Oh, do help yourself to some tea, 'tis quite freezing out there."

"Thank you," I responded graciously, setting my boots outside the door. Then I walked over to the kettle and poured some of the contents into a small cup, trying to ignore the unpleasant green color of the tea. Miss Emma beckoned for me to take a seat on the pillow across from her. After making sure I was seated with a warm beverage in my hands, she folded her hands and peered up at me curiously.

"So, why was it that you came here? I did not hear your response."

I did not bother explaining to her that I had not, in fact, told her why I was visiting in the first place. Pausing to take a sip from my cup, I nearly gagged at the bitter taste the tea left on my tongue. Miss Emma giggled, noticing my disgruntled reaction.

"It's rabbitweed," she said. I nodded, not having any sort of recollection of what rabbitweed even was, and politely took another drink.

"Miss Emma," I began, swallowing down the unpleasant flavor, "I wanted to talk to you about these dreams I have been having."

Miss Emma perked up and leaned closer. "Do explain."

And so I did, describing my desperate running through the endless forest and climbing the topless mountain. She watched me intently as I spoke, her eyes flickering with intrigue. After I finished, she closed her large brown eyes and was quiet. I awaited her answer, becoming increasingly uncomfortable as more time passed without her uttering a word.

"Give me your hand, Kurt." Miss Emma said suddenly. I jumped, nearly spilling my tea.

"What?"

"Give me your hand," she repeated, her eyes remaining closed.

Carefully, I placed my tea to the side and held out my hand to her.

"The left one."

I frowned, wondering how she knew that I had put out my right. I switched hands and instead held out my left, palm facing upwards. Miss Emma then took my hand in hers. She ran her thumbs along my palm and down each of my fingers slowly, thoughtfully. My fingers curled upwards to her featherlike touch, one by one, until my hand had formed what almost looked like a claw.

"Oh, my dear." Miss Emma said in a dreamy voice, and opened her eyes. "You are very difficult to read." She spread my fingers out flat once more and grasped a candle, pulling it towards her. She closed her eyes again and started to whisper what sounded like a incantation.

"Obsecro te, Spatio propinquitatis

spiritus vitae Omnes uectigal,

quantum ego tibi, Lucet lux ignota." *

I did not understand what it was she was saying, as she spoke in a language I was not familiar with. The flame of the candle danced furiously. It almost appeared to stretch before us, the fire becoming brighter, more elongated. The room had grown warmer, as sweat begun to form on the back of my neck and I fought the immediate urge to wipe it away. Then, as quickly as it had grown, the candle was extinguished by some unknown force.

"Ah!" Miss Emma's eyes flew open and she squeezed my hand tightly.

"What? What is it?" I asked, beginning to panic.

"It is so clear...yes, it is." Miss Emma traced her finger across the bottom of my first finger and trailed it to the knuckle directly below my pinkie.

"The love line," she said, "foretells what romance has come or is to come. However, I have never seen a line that looked this way. See how it trails off to connect to the bottom of Mercury?-That is your smallest finger, right there."

"So... is there any romance to come?" I asked, not attempting to hold back the hopefulness in my voice. Miss Emma frowned.

"I cannot tell from this line. It is so unusual."

My heart fell, as did what had begun to be a smile across my lips. "Oh."

The prophetess began to trace a second line, starting from the area between my first finger and thumb, to my hand's side.

"Your head line indicates knowledge and success of the individual. You are quite an intelligent boy, Kurt. However..." Miss Emma squinted her eyes at my palm, retracing the line "you secretly yearn to leave this village and discover what else there is to be known in the world. Perhaps this is what your dream is about, your wanting to escape."

I nodded. "That is very true. But do you not wish to travel as well?"

Miss Emma did not reply, but instead traced her finger in a curve, starting from the same place as before, and ending at the heel of my hand.

"Your life line," she explained, her voice fluttering uneasily, "is severed in two." She paused, gazing back at me to see my reaction. Met with a puzzled expression, Miss Emma squeezed my hand again, appearing concerned. "A severed life line declares death to whoever it adorns, Kurt. It splits about here," she pointed to the shorter half of the line. "And then continues down here." She now pointed at the longer half. "This represents what time you have left in this world. And judging by your line, there is not much awaiting."

My hand was shaking as I opened my mouth to speak. "And that means..."

"It means you are in danger, Kurt."

My eyes widened as I withdrew my hand quickly, clutching it to my chest in horror. Miss Emma looked back at me empathically.

"So what, I'm going to die soon? Just like that?" I sputtered, forsaking my manners and rising to my feet.

"That could very well be true. It is wise to say that you may be the wolf's next victim."

I stared back at the woman, looking so innocent and youthful with her smooth skin and slightly curled red hair, with incredulousness. How on earth could she predict someone's death and yet maintain such a calm disposition? What sane person could do such a thing? It occurred to me that it was quite possible Miss Emma was not completely well in the head, what with her passion for connecting with the unknown and unorthodox methods of living.

But the knowledge that my demise was nigh proved so morbid that I could not keep my anger for her and instead felt an unconditional surge of desperation.

"N-no! Miss Emma, please-"

Without warning she was on her feet, cupping my face in her small, delicate hands. Her eyes screamed for me to quiet myself as she tried to console me in my state of hysteria.

"Kurt! Kurt-stop. You must listen to me. You must listen carefully!"

She shook me to emphasize her point. I tried to calm my breathing, but in vain, as gasps continued to escape from my lips.

"Kurt, there are ways to prevent this from occurring!"

"H-how? It's fate, isn't it?"

"Ah," Miss Emma confirmed, her hands returning to my face, "but even the human power can control outcomes to a certain extent. Come."

She took hold of my arm, not different to how David had grabbed me, and lead me to the back of her house. The large oak chest in the far corner was thrown open brusquely, and Miss Emma reached in and grasped what was inside, looking at me over her shoulder.

"Here," she said, "take this."

From the chest she then produced a long piece of fabric. It was a shade of deep scarlet, reminding me of the intense color of blood. The edge was trimmed in a faded bronze, which wrapped around the area of the fabric completely. The stunning appearance of the material was nothing short of astounding.

"This cloak," Miss Emma said, "was given to me by my mother. She herself had received it from her own mother when she was about seventeen winters aged. Just a bit younger that you are, if I am correct."

She unfolded the cloak and let it fall open. It cascaded down to the floor, bunching up around her feet because of her petite figure. I reached out and stroked it with my fingertips. It was smooth and cool to the touch, like fine silk, and clung to my skin.

"It's...it's beautiful. But how does it relate to-"

"It is supposed to ward off evil intenders. The seam is filled with heather, which has been said to protect. Wear it during the rising of the next full moon. It should fit just fine."

I took the cloak in my hands and was surprised by the weight such thin fabric could have.

"And it will sanction me from death?" I breathed, holding the article close, as if it was the physical form of my life.

Miss Emma's voice was grave. "Let us hope so, my dear."

A loud rapping at the door caused both of us to turn our heads. "Yes? Who calls?" Miss Emma asked, closing the chest and approaching the door cautiously.

"Just me," the visitor replied. Miss Emma's eyes brightened, and she quickly pulled open the door to greet her visitor.

"Will!"

The tall, curly-haired man accepted her embrace gladly. The top of Miss Emma's head only reached up to Will's chin as they hugged, augmenting the woman's shortness. Will was as close to a governor as our village had, though his position was quite temporary and he could easily be replaced if another eligible candidate crossed his path. But a kindhearted, responsible governor he was, even if unmarried and without children. It was obvious that he and Miss Emma were well fond of each other. In fact, many people in the village whispered that they were actually secret lovers.

Miss Emma shined as they pulled away, grinning at one another widely.

"But I though you went out to greet the Father? Unless..."

Will nodded, his smile broadening.

"The Father and his son," he declared, sweeping his arm towards the center of village, "have arrived."

Miss Emma clapped exuberantly and pranced outside, as if she had not foretold my death just a few moments ago.

Picking up my boots, I sucked in a deep breath, and followed the adults outside to, unbeknownst to me, meet my fate.

*I implore thee,

Kindred spirits filling the space

All respects I tribute to thee

Shine light on the unknown.

Please review and spread the love! :)

Also, I tried my best to be accurate with Miss Emma's palmestry. Most of my knowledge came from various websites. Hurrrr.