Ch.4 The Price to Pay
Between pointing out features that distinguished one hallway from another, and desperately pretending that Princess Quinn's deceit didn't bother him in the slightest (even though it kind of did . . . what semi-decent human being would just do something like that?), Blaine couldn't help stealing glances at the young Kurt Hummel. A lock of hair kept falling into his eyes – most times, he swept it back into his coif irritably, but now it danced unnoticed over his forehead. Blaine's fingers twitched, itching to just do the boy a favor and brush the strand away. But that would be inappropriate. And why was it such a big deal, anyway?
Focus, Blaine, he told himself. Focus.
"And here are the servant's quarters. They're rather crowded right now, but when a bed becomes available, and your current circumstances stabilize, you'll be moving in," he announced, pushing away all thoughts of Kurt's distracting hair. The room they entered was cozy and warm. A clear glass window expanded across an entire wall; through it, Blaine could see the sun's hazy glow over the hills, fighting to crack the stony clouds. Servants already milled about, preparing for the day.
"Good morning, Your Majesty!" many voices chorused. Little children waved, and several people bowed. Every smile looked genuine, every greeting sincere.
"Quite popular, aren't you?" asked Kurt, raising his eyebrows.
Blaine shrugged modestly, but his heart swelled at the semi-praise.
He introduced Kurt to some of the servants, who welcomed him graciously. Either they didn't realize a prisoner was among their midst, or they pretended not to notice; probably the latter. Many of the servants had once been or were closely related to criminals. They understood when it was best to just keep quiet.
For a fugitive, Kurt played the perfect gentleman, shaking hands and exchanging quips. Blaine allowed him a minute to mingle, before respectfully excusing Kurt from the queen's lady-in-waiting (she could talk an ear off) and leading him over to a back corner, where a young man sat in a love seat, weaving some sort of intricately patterned cloth from branches and grasses. His bleached-blonde hair (totally fake, by the way; not that Blaine actually took it upon himself to notice whether hair colors were real or not . . .) swept across his face, just short enough to reveal distinctly pointed ears. Blaine cleared his throat.
Sam Evans raised his head, shamrock-hued eyes widening at sight of the prince. "Your Majesty!" he squealed; dropped his cloth and clambered into a bow.
Blaine forced himself not to chuckle. "Sir Sam," he greeted stoically. "Might I ask, is that a blanket you're working on?"
"Oh, no!" Sam snatched up the cloth and twisted it into a cone shape. He plopped it on his head, grinning, self-satisfied. "It's a hat, see?"
Blaine coughed into his hand, glancing at Kurt. He expected the servant to arch a sculpted brow at the boy's blatant dorkiness, or sniff in disdain, but he did neither. Instead, he simply . . . stared. Face contours shadowed. Eyes almost . . .
Predatory?
Huh. How odd.
Now, contrary to popular belief, Blaine was not a total oblivious idiot. He knew that there were men in the world who preferred to court other men, and he knew there were people in the world who found this lifestyle revolting. Personally, he didn't see the big deal: his entire life, Blaine knew his marriage would be one of convenience, of politics. If he had any opportunity to find love, even if it be with another male? He would (and had, once, though that is a tale for another day) grasp it in an instant.
Even so, the way Kurt looked at Sam was disconcerting. It made Blaine's stomach knot, his teeth grind, bile burn his throat.
It was official. This kid was making him insane.
"Um, Sam is my little brother's personal servant," Blaine made his lips form the reluctant words, relieved when sound followed, "and so he can show you what the job requires, before Winston – my little brother, he's twelve – wakes up. That is, if you wouldn't mind, Sam?"
Sam raised his eyebrows, goofy grin playing around lips that rivaled Kurt's in redness. "You finally found someone good enough for you, then?"
Blaine blinked.
"To, uh, take over Crowley's spot as your personal?" Sam clarified awkwardly.
"Oh," said Blaine. He, too, forced a strained smile. "Yes, I suppose I did. So, would you take on Kurt for me, Sam?"
"Course I would." Sam thumped Blaine good-naturedly on the shoulder, barely noticing when his prince nearly toppled over. "I kind of owe you, man, after you helped me out with that whole thing in McKinley."
Finally, Kurt snapped out of his daze, eyes flickering between the two men. "What whole thing with McKinley?" he questioned curiously.
"Oh, there was just this one time when –,"
Blaine cut off the beginnings of Sam's reply: "Nothing."Kurt's eyebrow quirked – he knew there was more to the story, and Blaine knew he knew. But it didn't matter. "Will you guys be ok starting training now? The sooner Kurt is fully able, the better."
Sam shrugged in that leisurely, laidback way of his. "Sure, I guess. We're all up. It should only take an hour or so, just to warn you, depending on how good this dude is." He cast Kurt a lopsided grin, to which Kurt rather visibly swooned.
Blaine abruptly felt sick.
"That's fine, whatever," he said, averting his eyes. "Just let me know when you guys are done – I won't wander too far."
He was almost to the exit when he chanced a glance over his shoulder: Kurt already had Sam engrossed in conversation, features earnest and giggles fluttering through the room like sickeningly adorable butterflies.
Forcing down a wave of nausea, Blaine made his way to the hospital wing, where hopefully someone could diagnose his illness.
-X-
Kurt may not have had a lot of experience in this particular area, but one look at Sam Evans gave him all he needed to know: Sam was like him. He had to be. No "normal" man (society's words; not Kurt's) would bleach his hair to that precise shade.
"You know," Kurt began, sidling up to Sam (Sammy, Sam-Sam, Sam-o? He could see the cutesy, couple pet names now . . .), "there are some really good brand name conditioners I could tell you about, ones particularly gentle to colored hair. In case you were ever curious."
Sam seemed bemused, as if he had no idea what Kurt was talking about. Likely story, buddy. "Um, I don't color my hair," said Sam. "Unless by coloring it, you mean sometimes combing it in the mornings."
Ah. Denial. How tragic.
"Mmm-hmm." Realizing Sam clearly wasn't ready to come out about his hair color (among other things), Kurt changed the subject to something that was hopefully less touchy. "What's with the ears?" he asked, referring to Sam's pointed lobes, sharp like sphinx teeth.
"Oh, that's just an elf thing," Sam explained nonchalantly.
Kurt's plucked brow rocketed to his hairline, eyes agleam with interest. An elf? So, Mr. Evans was exotic . . .
Me like-y.
"You're pretty tall for an elf. I would have guessed the prince, before you."
Sam grinned, a grin just crooked enough to send Kurt's heart aflutter. "Yeah, we get that a lot. So, you up for your totally awesome Personal-Servant-to-a-Prince training session, Sam Evans style?"
Oh, Kurt thought as he clandestinely appreciated the muscles in Sam's arms and shoulders and thighs, boy am I ready.
-X-
Blaine collapsed on a cot in the infirmary, springy mattress creaking beneath his weight. The nurse squeaked at the sight of royalty and scrambled over to him.
"Prince!" she gasped, immediately placing the back of her hand to his hot forehead. "How may I help you?"
"I feel rather unwell, Madame Pickle," he admitted, straight-faced. After a decade of her services, he no longer felt the overwhelming urge to collapse into a puddle of hysterics at her last name (oh, like you wouldn't be the same).
"Mmm?" she murmured, checking his vital signs, even though he was fairly certain he was 100 percent alive. "How don't you feel well, Prince? Nausea, headache, stomach pains?"
"Um, yes, yes, and yes?" he tried with a throaty chuckle. Plus, I'm having completely inappropriate thoughts about a boy I just threw in jail.
He figured he should leave that last part out.
"You are definitely warm to the touch," Madame Pickle said, "but there doesn't seem to be too much wrong with you physically. Here, let's see if you –," She reached over to a nearby tray stashed high with medical appliances and plucked up a thermometer, shoved it between Blaine's lips. They waited a minute or so before she pried the device from his mouth again, glancing at the bold number on its face. She frowned. "Your body temperature is perfectly normal. Do you think these symptoms could possibly be attributed to high levels of stress?"
Blaine was about to respond that yes, he had been rather stressed lately, when a new voice cut in, sharp and biting as ice: "Are you sure you weren't poisoned?"
Blaine sat up so quickly that rainbow stars danced before his irises. A few cots to his left, bandaged and sullen, sat a dark-haired young man, one Blaine had feared he might never see upright and able-bodied again.
"Wesley!" Blaine cried, grinning from ear to ear. "How are you –?" His smile dipped. "Wait . . . what do you mean, am I sure I wasn't poisoned?"
Wes shrugged, as seemingly pompous as ever, and it really rubbed Blaine's nerves the wrong way. When they were alone, Wes could be shockingly funny, unnervingly smart, and rather relatable (on good days – let us not get ahead of ourselves). When they were alone, Wes was one of Blaine's best, most trusted companions. But with even the slightest of audiences? The acclaimed knight transformed into a different man, one who was bitter, and harsh, and (pardon his language) a right pain in the ass.
Plus, Blaine supposed, a hole in your shoulder didn't do a lot to improve your mood.
"David told me about your new pet project," Wes continued. "Taking the little prisoner under your wing? It's kind of sweet, in a twisted, masochistic sort of way."
Blaine rolled his eyes. "Lay off, Wes. I know this may come as a shock to you, but I offered my assistances to Kurt because I'm a semi-decent human being. With a heart. With a soul."
"'Kurt?' Well, aren't you two just chummy."
"I said, back off, Wes!" Blaine snapped, annoyed as that all too familiar condescending tone crawled like some multi-legged thing beneath his skin.
"Why should I?" challenged Wes. He jerked as if to stand up; winced and massaged his shoulder. "I know you have some sort of White Knight complex, Blaine, but surely even you could accept that this kid can't be trusted."
Anger broiled in the pit of Blaine's stomach, raw and ferocious. "And what," he seethed, "exactly is that supposed to mean?"
Wes remained cool, unaffected by his friend's flashing eyes. "It means that you only see what you want to see! Don't look at me like that, you know it's true! I mean, look at that whole Jeremiah situation –,"
"Shut up," Blaine hissed, face flaming. He couldn't believe Wes would bring that up. And when he had almost forgotten . . . "You're being a – a jerk, Wes."
"You're being naïve, Blaine."
"You know what? I don't have to listen to this." He stood, tilting his head respectfully at Madame Pickle, who sat quaking in her seat as her eyes darted between the two nobles. "Thank you for all your help, Ma'am."
He strode calmly to the door, desperately clinging to the few shards of dignity Wes had left intact.
"I hope you know what you're getting yourself into," Wes called, voice echoing down the hall.
Blaine forced his fingers through the gel caked into his hair, a single question loud in his mind.
Do I?
-X-
Kurt perched on the edge of Sam's bed, glancing around the room. There were three other beds, each situated in a corner, though Sam's was by far the most personally decorated; Styrofoam planets hung from the ceiling and a bulletin board fixed was on the wall, pinned with drawings, both crude and intricate, of far off universes, photographs of other elves that Kurt assumed to be Sam's friends and family, and cutouts of goofy sayings like "REACH FOR THE STARS" and "To Infinity and Beyond!" It was pretty dorky. And kind of hot. If, you know, you were into that sort of thing.
Sam was rifling through the large oak trunk, carved with symbols in Gaelic and Elfish, at the base of his bed. Kurt admired the strip of suntanned skin peeking out between his shirt and waistband as he bent over.
"Here we go," Sam said, surfacing with a bundle of papers that he promptly deposited on Kurt's lap. He picked up a few, reading the headings before discarding them again. "The Milky Way . . . Titan Forest . . . Arctic Ocean . . . Oh, here it is!" He triumphantly pushed a folded up piece of yellowed parchment into Kurt's hands. Receiving the unsaid signal, Kurt immediately unfolded the parchment to its true size, smoothing the creases and flattening wrinkles.
Below the heading of DALTON CASTLE, penned in a hurried scrawl, was a picture of sorts: faded, yet sharp lines sketching a series of thick boxes, skinny rectangles, and other shapes connected in an elaborate web. It wasn't until he caught sight of a small label reading, PRINCE BLAINE'S ROOM, that he fully understood what exactly he was holding so preciously in his fingers.
"Did you . . . make this?" he asked, raising his eyes to Sam. A little awed, to tell the truth. But only a little. Because it took more than some fancy artwork to impress Kurt Hummel.
Sam shrugged modestly. "I had a lot of free time when I first got here."
"And it's accurate?"
"There's always room for improvement, I guess, but . . . yeah, pretty much."
Kurt didn't bother to hide his approval. "Hmm. Pretty and smart."
Chuckling, Sam shook his head. "Nah. I mean, maps and science and stuff are one thing . . . but, believe it or not, I'm not really that smart when it comes to people." He cleared his throat. "So, uh, anyway, probably the hardest part of servitude is navigating this place. Everything kind of looks the same. Just hang on to that good ole thing and you'll get the hang of it eventually."
He motioned for Kurt to follow him and he led them from the servant quarters.
"Ok, for your first task, I want you to get us to the kitchens, using the map," Sam said. Kurt took a moment to locate KICTHENS on Sam's map before hesitantly taking off down a wayside corridor.
About five minutes into Kurt's tentative navigation, Sam remarked, "So, like, being a PS – that's personal servant, in case you didn't know –,"
"I gathered."
"Well, being a PS can be both the hardest and easiest of jobs," he continued. "For one thing, you don't have to be specialized in anything, so there's no really hard work. For another, you're kind of always on the job. If your master wants you to do something, then you've got to do it. Lucky for you, though, Blaine's really reasonable and he doesn't ever try to take advantage of his status."
Kurt shot the blonde a side eyed look, as he turned down a new corridor. "That's nice of him."
"Yeah, Blaine's really cool like that," Sam agreed.
Kurt wondered if he could ask about whatever went down with Blaine and McKinley. Was it too soon?
He remained silent and sooner, or perhaps later, they were standing outside a battered door and Sam was beaming as he pulled it open.
"Awesome, dude!" he said. "Seriously, I couldn't have done it better myself."
Kurt smirked slightly at the praise. "So, what would one be doing in here?" he asked, taking in the cramped room, full of cabinets and stoves and the smells of delicious food. People were bustling in and out, preparing dishes and menus. Shoulders and elbows dug into his sides, jostling him. "It sure is crowded."
"Yeah, it's only this bad because of all the guests we have. You know, because people don't feel that safe traveling with strong storm warnings," Sam explained. "I hate it. It throws everything off. And then there's all these royals waltzing around, thinking they own the damn place, that they own you . . ." He shook his head; apparently, no words could describe his sheer disgust.
Kurt gave him a moment to his thoughts. At last, his eyes cleared and he smiled sheepishly.
"Sorry about that," he said. "It just . . . it bugs me. But anyway! Um, you won't have to be doing any cooking, but you will have to go place the order, should Blaine want a snack or something. Oh, and every morning, bring him his coffee – a medium drip. And . . . I think that's all you'll need the kitchens for."
Kurt made a noise of acknowledgment. "So what else will I be doing for Prince Blaine, as his PS?"
"You know, the usual." Sam snatched a fresh carrot off a cart and began to gnaw on it. For the first time, Kurt noticed he had a really big mouth. Would that make him a better kisser, or a worse one . . .? "You'll draw his bath, turn down the covers on his bed each night, help him dress on occasion. If he wants something immediately, it's your job to see to it."
That wouldn't be hard – Kurt already did those things for his dad most of the time. But, still, the principle of the thing . . .
"So basically," Kurt clarified, with no absence of sarcasm, "if it requires some sort of effort on the prince's part, then I should take care of it."
Sam nodded, before seeming to understand that Kurt just insulted his master, or whatever the hell Blaine was. "Hold on, that's not fair," he admonished gently. "Prince Blaine is a really good dude. He's just . . . royalty. He can't help what he was born."
Before he could catch himself, Kurt's mouth open. He hadn't thought of it that way – and he was not certain he wanted to. It hit a little too close to home.
He can't help what he was born.
"How did the prince help you with whatever went on in McKinley?" Kurt blurted.
Sam blinked.
"Sorry," Kurt rushed to add, "that's not my place, I get it –,"
"Nah, it's cool," assured Sam. "The story's pretty awesome. I don't even know why Blaine didn't want me to tell the it earlier – probably 'cause we're tight on time or something." He glanced around, suddenly mischievous. "Do you want to see something really cool?"
Kurt nodded eagerly and Sam ushered him from the kitchens, around a corner, into an empty hallway (there seemed to be a lot of those).
He pulled a small, plum-colored bag from his pocket; reached two fingers inside and pinched a sliver – just a sliver – of iridescent glitter. Kurt felt himself automatically straighten at the sight of it, shimmering like mottled crystals – making up in brilliance what it lacked in volume.
"This is Elfin Shimmer Dust," said Sam. "Ever heard of it?"
Kurt's head bobbed up and down, eyes wide as saucers. "Of course! I almost bought a dress once, with some Dust sewn into the seams."
At Sam's furrowed brow, Kurt hastily defended, "I was going to make it into a suit!"
"Right . . . Well, it can do more than make clothes look pretty. Especially in the hands of an elf." To illustrate his point, he flung the Dust into the air, where it hung for a brief second, filtering beams of light and mingling with regular dust motes.
And then . . . it exploded.
Sparkly powder erupted in all directions, coating the walls, the floor, clinging to unseen objects in the dead of space. The only sounds were the wind whistling through their ears, the strands of hair whipping their cheeks. For so little, there was so . . . much.
It didn't last forever though; immediately, the sparkle began to fade, but in its place, colors painted themselves over the surfaces of the castle, as if by an invisible hand: dark browns and greens washing over the floor and racing upward; purple, red, yellow popping from the Shimmer Dust; maroon weaving into the picture intricately.
As suddenly as it began, it ended and they were left standing in a forest.
Tall trees stretched into the sky. Sun drops sprinkled the mud. Bushes laced with multicolored berries and flower buds sat low, as snakes, lizards, and squirrels scampered in and out of them. But . . . the air was room temperature and near unbearably still. Was this all an illusion?
"Where are we?" Kurt whispered, feeling the need to preserve the fragile quiet for as long as possible.
"Titan Forest," Sam said. "It's in McKinley and it is . . . well, it used to be . . . my home. Look, there I am." He pointed to a nearby cluster of bushes, where a young boy of about twelve or thirteen years huddled, drawing nonsensical pictures in the dirt with a stick.
Kurt only really noticed one thing about him, though: the dirty blonde, borderline brown, haystack atop his head.
"Your hair . . ." he started.
Sam coughed. "It's, uh, lightened with age."
Before Kurt could press the matter, a snap reverberated through the open. All three boys jumped, even though two of them were in about as much danger as a fat mermaid in mating season (that is to say, not a lot). The young Sam Evans quickly regained his senses and dove farther into the bushes.
"Shut up, you idiot! Someone will hear us!"
"Sorry! Stupid twig!"
Two hulking figures materialized in a hole in the tree cover. They were clad in black cloaks, hoods obscuring their faces from view, and they each carried a flaming torch. At the sight of the strangers and the fire, animals scampered up trees and burrowed under roots for solace.
"Ya think this place'll do?" the first figure asked, voice gruff.
The second man nodded. "Mmm-hmm. It should do just fine." He bent down, looked about to place his torch on the highly flammable forest floor, crusted with dead leaves and twigs, when a squeak suddenly pierced the air and Little Sam tumbled from his hiding place.
The men froze.
"Well, if it ain't a little tree hugger himself . . ."the first man mused. "Spying on us, were you, tree hugger? We don't take too kindly to spies . . ." He grabbed Little Sam by the scruff of his muddy shirt and hoisted him up. "What d'ya say we do with him? Just leave 'im to burn with the rest?"
"Nah," said the other, malevolent tone sending chills down Kurt's spine. "I've got a better idea."
He dropped the torch.
The scene faded, colors once again swirling around them in a dizzying affect. Distorted voices drifted to Kurt's ears, haunting, surreal, as if in a dream.
"We saw the smoke and went for help – found this little twerp with two torches!"
"No! I swear I didn't do it! They're – they're lying . . ."
"Mom? Dad? Where are my parents? My – my brother! WHAT DID YOU DO WITH THEM?"
". . . A terrible fire in the Titan Forest yesterday, wiped out the entire population of elves . . . Only one boy, thirteen-year-old Samuel Evans, was found . . . Did he know the fire would end up destroying his home, his family and friends, and everything he loved? Or could he even love at all?"
Finally, the colors settled again, painting the picture of a hallway, not unlike the one in which they previously stood. Except this hallway seemed dark, shadowy, a stark contrast to Dalton's pristine cream. The works of art on the walls were not of beaches, and fields, and former rulers – but of death, destruction, volcanic eruptions, wildfires, tidal waves. They were beautiful, yes, in their own right. But they were terrible, too.
"This is McKinley Castle," said Sam, "as it's been for the past three decades, ever since Queen Sylvester took over."
A rickety door at the far end of the hallway swung open and a boy hobbled out: Sam. A sheen of sweat coated his scrunched forehead, and he wore a red and white cloak that looked to be some sort of uniform. He was mopping tiredly.
"A year's passed since the fire," explained Big Sam. "As punishment, I was sentenced to lifelong servitude for Queen Sylvester."
Kurt watched as, in exhaustion, Little Sam collapsed against the wall, allowing his eyes to droop closed. "Those men framed you." It wasn't a question.
"Yep."
"Did you get any sort of trial?"
Sam shook his head, sighing. "You've got to understand that at McKinley, magical creatures have, like, little to no rights. They could do anything they wanted to me."
"That's terrible," Kurt said matter-of-factly, and Sam shrugged, shushing him as the door knob turned again.
Prince Blaine stumbled into the hallway, expensive looking clothes mussed and curls sticking in every direction. He was even shorter than Kurt knew him to be and his face was a couple years younger, body leaner, shoulders not set in as much confidence – but those honey eyes still shone with the same vigor, the same intensity.
At the sight of their company, both Blaine and Little Sam froze. Sam quickly recovered, though, scrambling to his feet and into a sloppy bow.
"Prince," he started, "um, is there anything I could do for you . . .?"
"Those princesses," Blaine cut him off, leaning against the wall despairingly, "are insane."
Little Sam still seemed nervous, but he grinned all the same. "Yeah, you're just lucky that you and the King came up here for business while Princess Santana is away for the week. I had barely started working here when she first tried to jump me."
Blaine cocked his eyebrows, amused smirk playing on his lips, and gaze sweeping the young boy from head to toe. "How old are you?" he asked abruptly.
Sam drew himself up to his full height, which was already much taller than the prince's. "Fourteen, sir."
"You look exhausted."
"I'm ok. A bit tired, but – but I'll get through it. I always do."
"Does your family work here also?" Blaine continued, voice remarkably gentle, never pushy.
Little Sam wouldn't meet his eyes. "No . . ." he murmured. "My family's, uh – dead. There was an, uh, a little wildfire about a year ago. I was the only one in my village left living."
"Hmm." Blaine cocked his head, taking up an "I'm all ears" stance. "Something makes me think that there was more to that wildfire than you're letting on."
Sam flicked the prince a glance, debating whether or not to trust him, Kurt assumed. "They think I started it," he blurted.
"Did you?"
"No! It was these two really big dudes, and they found me in the forest. Turned me in to the Queen, saying I killed all those people . . . my family, my friends." His posture grew defensive, ready to ward off any and all accusations, green eyes flashing. "You don't believe me, do you? No one believes elves."
Bemused lines creased Blaine's forehead. "I don't know what it's like here – like, honestly, I have no clue, Queen Sylvester has my family and I under strict 'Ask Us No Questions, and We Tell You No Lies' policies – but where I come from, everyone gets treated the same, no matter what they are."
Sam frowned, as if he couldn't possibly comprehend such an ideal. It panged Kurt's heart – mainly because he understood, with every fiber of his being. "Wait . . . does that mean you believe me?"
"I don't not believe you because you're an elf," Blaine clarified.
Sam looked as if he'd just been told the freaking meaning of life.
In fact, he was so overwhelmed that he began to sway. And nearly toppled over.
So maybe there was more to that dazed look in his eyes than utter happiness.
Blaine lunged forward, grabbing Sam's upper arm, and helped the kid to the floor again.
"You look completely dehydrated!" said Blaine. "When was the last time you had some water?"
". . . I dunno. Queen Sylvester says hydration is for wimps who can't rely on their own strength. Or something. You know, I actually do feel a bit weird, though . . ."
And then the scene faded once more.
Kurt spun around to face the Sam of the Present. "What happened? Why'd everything go dark again?"
"Shh, listen," he instructed.
"He completely passed out!" shouted a disembodied voice, churning in time with the rainbow whirlwind. "He said she doesn't let them drink water – he's a year younger than me, he still has a life ahead of him! At this rate, she's going to kill him –,"
"Nephew, do you suggest we ruin this negotiation with McKinley because – what? You've got a little boy crush on some Elfin, teen delinquent -?"
"Edgar, please refrain from talking to my son – your prince – in such a manner. Blaine's kindness is something to take pride in."
"There is a point at which kindness becomes naivety, Brother –,"
"But, Blaine, you must admit that your uncle has a point. In exchange for our services, Queen Sylvester plans on paying us very heartily –,"
"So, we ask for half the sum of gold and the boy! Sam could be incredibly useful to us, Father. Winston has requested a PS closer to his age, one he can relate to – but you know young labor in good health can be so expensive these days. Plus . . . just think . . . you've been having trouble winning over the majority of the magical populace in Dalton. They know they've got equal rights, but they're still scared that it's a bluff. What better way to convince them than by rescuing a young, alleged arsonist, who so happens to be an elf, from the jaws of McKinley?"
"Well, I suppose you have a point . . ."
Sam seemed to think there was nothing more to see, or hear. He snapped his fingers – and, just like that, the fog cleared and two servant boys were left standing alone in an abandoned hallway.
"And, so, here I am," Sam said, gesturing vaguely to himself, to the ceiling, to all of Dalton. "I don't know what they did, but they got Queen Sylvester to hand me over. I've been serving Prince Winston ever since."
"Prince Blaine saved you?" Kurt asked. Just like he saved me.
"Yeah. See, he's really not a bad dude. Give him a chance."
Kurt chewed on his lips, eyes clouding as he thought of the prince – his sure walk, bright smile; pretentious, yet still cordial . . .
And the reason I'm now a slave.
Sam must have picked up on some of his doubt, for he laid a would-be-comforting hand on his shoulder.
Oh my holy hippogriffs, people, Kurt couldn't help thinking. Stop touching me!
"Listen, Kurt," Sam said slowly, earnestly, "I get that it's totally not cool to be put to work. But I'm safe here. And so are you."
Kurt said nothing and Sam seemed to take this as his cue to leave.
"Winston's probably gonna be waking up soon," he said, backing up. "I should get going. Do you think you've got the hang of it?"
"Be at Blaine's beck and call twenty-four/seven. Should be a dream."
"Cool, I'm glad." Apparently, not only did Daltonians have an unnatural obsession with touching others, they also missed rather blatant sarcasm. Fantastic. Kurt could tell he was going to love it here (for all the Daltonians out there, he was being sarcastic). "I'll see you around, man!" And with that, Sam jogged off.
Kurt watched him go. Wondering if, when it came to safety, freedom was always the price to pay.
-X-
A/N: Well, hello there, my fabulous readers! I would just like to thank every person who read and reviewed last chapter – you're so kind. Seriously, stop being so nice. It's making me look bad.
Just kidding. Really. Be as nice as you'd like. I'm all for it.
ANYWAY. I must ask, fellow Gleeks: opinion on "Sexy?" I rather enjoyed it, and the absolute KLAINENESS of it all – even though Kurt totally doesn't need help being sexy. I actually wasn't aware that he hadn't been being sexy for the past season and a half. EMBARRASSING. ;D
So! Not much Klaine this chapter, I know: just more stinking character development. I promise the story will (hopefully) pick up soon!
Thanks for reading!
Squid