A/N: I do try to alter the story when I can, but for the most part I stick to the original storyline because it fits so well. I do try to add character thoughts and motivations that aren't present or obvious in the movie, but other than that... keeping in a lot of the original lines makes sense in a lot of cases. I apologize if you find it boring because it's too close to the movie, but I did do it that way intentionally.
Other than that, I appreciate everyone's feedback so very much and I have to thank you again for being so positive about this story. It does mean a lot to me.
Kurt was being tied to a table, Blaine realized with a sickening twist in his stomach. He watched through the window as the three wretched, decrepit warlocks (and the one youthful one) cackled to themselves and each other, checking the straps that held him down.
Blaine's fingers twitched. There was pretty much absolutely no way he could possibly rescue Kurt and have either of them (let alone both) come out of there alive, but he knew he had to try. He'd die trying. He took a long, slow breath, keeping his eyes on Kurt's perfect profile, and tried to think of a plan of action.
Something thin, cold, and sharp pressed to his throat. A dagger. Very slowly, Blaine turned his head to meet the eyes of a very fierce dark-haired woman.
"Who are you?" she growled. "What business do you have here?"
He smiled at her with what Kurt somewhat disdainfully referred to as his 'disarmingly charming smile'.
She appeared disarmed enough by it.
"Santana?" he said. She matched Quinn's description of her dark, hardened sister, after all. "I knew your sister. Quinn."
"Unless you want to share the same fate as whatever happened to her, I suggest you answer my question," she said coldly, digging her knife in further until it was on the verge of drawing blood. "What are you doing here?"
"I might ask you the same question," Blaine said cooly, the tip of his knife pressed to her stomach.
She looked startled, like she hadn't expected someone like Blaine to possess the stealth to sneak his weapon upon her like that, but pocketed her knife. "Ah," she said. "It seems we are at an impasse."
Blaine turned to look back through the window, this time with Santana at his side. He felt a strange sense of camaraderie towards her—which was ridiculous, because she had wanted to kill him, and he was certain she was only doing this because she wanted to cut out Kurt's heart and eat it, but he thought maybe if she just got the chance to meet Kurt, to talk to him-
Well, maybe if Kurt had Santana looking out for him, he'd be okay even if Blaine died.
"There are four of them," Santana said, and the two of them slumped down under the window. "Do you have any ideas?"
"I was hoping you might."
"Follow my lead," Santana said, then gave him a once-over. "And try not to do anything too stupid."
"Noted," Blaine said, trying not to feel too wounded by her (somewhat accurate) assumption. "Wait-" he caught her arm. "How do I know you can be trusted?"
"You don't," Santana said, her mouth tilting in a smirk. "Why, do you have a choice?"
"No," Blaine said, letting her arm go.
"Well, then."
Santana burst through the doors with a yell, brandishing her sword. Her show of bravery was inspiring, even if it was just that—a show. Blaine could see her hand shaking on the sword she held.
She grabbed the first warlock—the closest one, the youthful one—and threw him down to the nearby bed, holding her sword high to plunge into his heart, but something stilled her hand. "Michael?" she gasped.
"Santana!" the man returned, his voice equally as shocked.
Blaine didn't have time to wonder about this new development as the third warlock—the dark-skinned one—launched a stream of fire at Santana that just barely missed her. He ducked behind a large pillar by the door, and was followed by the thin man Santana had just attempted to murder before being distracted.
He swung his sword on the man, who stopped him with frantic hands and a whisper of, "Blaine! Blaine!"
He froze, his sword halting in its tracks. How does he know my name?
"Blaine—I'm your father. I'm your father, Blaine."
Blaine didn't have time to process that lovely piece of news, that little tidbit of information, before Santana was flinging her sword across the room, neatly spearing the attacking warlock through the chest.
The first warlock let out a scream that sounded like Azimio! and let his rage-filled gaze fall upon Santana.
Santana didn't seem very put out by it. She merely arched her eyebrows, smiling in a way that Blaine could only describe as seductive at the remaining two warlocks. She lifted her hand, and crooked one finger in a come-hither sort of gesture.
"You must have some idea of their weaknesses," Blaine said, desperately, his hand resting on his father's sleeve. "You've been held captive by them all these years, after all."
"I haven't," Mike returned, quietly, keeping his anxious eyes fixed on Santana—who had to be his sister, Blaine realized. "I was with another witch—Ditchwater Sue. The same one who turned you into a bird and took you to the wall. I was transfigured by her into a canary for easier travel. These warlocks took me when they took the star."
"Kurt," Blaine said, quietly. "His name is Kurt."
"I know," Mike said. "I tried to stop them from taking him-"
They were interrupted by a loud crack—Santana crumpled to the floor, a giant clay pot lay in shards around her.
"Is she dead, or just unconscious?" Blaine asked, throwing out an arm to keep Mike from rushing forward to help her.
"Unconscious, I think," Mike said. "How can we take on the other two?"
"Can you handle a sword?" Blaine asked.
Mike shook his head. "I was just learning when I was taken captive by Ditchwater Sue. I doubt I could remember well enough to handle warlock."
"Get outside, then," Blaine said, firmly. "If I die fighting, I'll need you to take care of Kurt."
"Be the man that I know you are," Mike said, simply, squeezing his son's hand.
Karofsky turned back to the star lying on the table, gliding his knife smoothly across a stone, sharpening slowly, almost tenderly. He had all the time he wanted. There would be no more interruptions.
The star was lovely, actually. The last time he'd seen him he'd been wet, injured, bedraggled. Now he was healthy, but there was some sort of broken quality about him there hadn't been before. He wasn't happy—and nothing they could do would fix that, not when the star knew that he was going to die. Ah well. As he'd said before, the golden heart of a happy star was much better than the heart of a scared, defeated one, but he'd take what he could get.
He still couldn't believe how truly beautiful this star was. The last three stars they'd... encountered had been female. He'd started to believe there was no such thing as a male star. But now he was here, undeniably male and undeniably beautiful, in an unreachable, otherworldly sort of way.
He ran his knife across the stone once more.
Blaine took a deep breath, and stepped from behind the animal cages.
Both warlocks turned sharply, and Kurt followed their lead, struggling to force his head to the side.
As soon as he caught sight of Blaine, he lit in a glow so bright it hurt to look at. "Blaine," he gasped, his voice wrapped around the name like a caress.
"Get him," Karofsky instructed, and Strando hurried to do so.
Karofsky leaned over, examining the star. He was still glowing, yes, but it had faded in his worry over the boy standing in the center of the room, clutching a sword. Blaine, the star had said. He was in love with the boy. That's what had been wrong before. He'd had a broken heart.
Strando leapt from the balcony nimbly to land before Blaine, advancing slowly with a sneer on his face.
Blaine shot a glance at the animal cages beside him, then without a second thought, swung his sword to shatter the lock to the wolverine cage, then the ferret cage immediately after.
They flooded from the cages, straight for their long-abusive captor.
What remained of the warlock after the much-abused animals were through with him wasn't pretty.
One warlock left.
This might actually be possible.
He wanted to look at Kurt, to make sure that he was okay, but he knew it could mean his death if he took his eyes off of the last warlock.
Behind him, he heard Santana stir.
"So what's it to be, Prince Charming?" Karofsky sneered, reaching the bottom of the stairs. On the balcony above, Kurt strained against the leather bindings that held him to the stone table. "Frog, or tadpole?"
Before Blaine could do much of anything, Karofsky pointed his finger at him, a jet of what looked like green flame streaming from it, right at Blaine.
Uselessly, he threw his arms over his head—and nothing happened. The green fire parted around him, curling and licking at what seemed to be an invisible barrier that surrounded Blaine.
For a moment, he was only filled with confusion.
Then Blaine reached into the lapel of his coat and withdrew a small glass flower, which he then twirled around his fingers.
Karofsky lowered his hand, and almost smiled.
Blaine never saw the vase coming.
It was huge—nearly as tall as he was—and made of clay, and it shattered around him, knocking him to the floor as Santana had fallen.
In the balcony above, Kurt arched against his restraints, crying out in pain, crying out Blaine's name.
Karofsky's eyes fixed on him.
From the folds of his robe, he lifted a small clay doll.
Blaine's eyes widened in horror.
The arm of the doll twisted in Karofsky's grasp.
To Blaine's surprise, there was no pain, no splintering of bone as his arm bent in an unnatural contortion. In fact, his arm didn't move at all. Nothing happened.
Behind him, there was the slow dragging noise of metal-against-stone.
He spun, a feeling of horror creeping through his stomach.
Santana was rising from the ground, rising unconsciousness blinking away from her eyes. She met Blaine's horrified gaze, and her eyes widened. "Blaine—I'm not-"
Her arm lifted, the sword clutched in her hand. He could see it shaking as she tried to resist, tried to throw off the curse.
"Blaine-"
"I'm going to try really hard not to hurt you," Blaine said, seriously, as he lifted his own sword. Her dark skin had turned ashen, her eyes unblinking. "But I need to get to Kurt."
Santana's rigid body quivered, then lunged at Blaine, sword thrusting at his chest. He parried quickly, and her face was an apology—no, more than that—as the warlock twisted the doll's arm and she was forced to cut at him again.
The fight was intense and if Kurt hadn't trained Blaine, there would be no way in the world that Blaine would even be able to come close to matching the warlock's skill. He twisted Santana's body in unnatural contortions, moving the sword in ways that seemed impossible.
Blaine backed against a wall as Santana advanced upon him, her eyes as wide and panicked as his were.
There were three ropes on the wall beside him. He wrapped his fingers around the nearest one, and cut it just below his hand.
Across the room, a chandelier crashed to the floor.
Both he and Santana winced, and she continued to advance upon him.
He cut the second rope.
Another chandelier, this time over the fountain.
Santana drew closer, the horror growing on her face.
He cut the third rope, and was lifted into the air as the chandelier above their heads fell.
Karofsky dropped the voodoo doll, and Santana threw herself out of the way as the crystal shattered into a million fragmented pieces on the marble floor. Her head cracked against the floor.
Blaine swung up into the air on the rope, spinning and flailing, and fell on top of the warlock, sending them both to the ground.
He was thrown backwards as Karofsky pushed himself up, growling, his knife clutched in his large, decrepit hand.
He swung.
Fighting the real Karofsky was ten times more difficult than fighting Karofsky through Santana. His reflexes were faster, his rage more palpable when it was the two of them, and it was only the presence of Kurt, the sound of Kurt struggling behind Blaine that kept Blaine going, kept him fighting.
He swung, and Karofsky flicked his wrist, and the knife was knocked from Blaine's hand, skittering to the floor far below, underneath the balcony they stood on.
He was backed against Kurt's table, nowhere to go, nowhere to run, as Karofsky's knife pressed to his throat. His heart thrummed like a wild animal in his chest, frightened and skittish and angry all at once.
Karofsky's hand lifted, a look of rage on his face as his eyes flickered between the dead bodies of his brothers.
He swung, and Blaine's eyes squeezed shut.
He heard the impact, and Kurt's cry, and waited for the pain—but it never came.
He opened his eyes.
The strap that held Kurt to the table slid to the ground, sliced neatly in half.
The knife slipped from Karofsky's limp hand, clattering to the floor.
Blaine stared at him.
"Youth," Karofsky whispered, his eyes fixed on Kurt, his face full of anguish. "Beauty. It means nothing. My brothers are dead."
He bent at the waist, his face crumpling in pain.
"Go," he groaned, palms pushing into his eyes.
Blaine fumbled for Kurt's hand, and they locked eyes. Kurt's were shining, bright and blue, and Blaine's heart fluttered hopefully.
"Go!"
He pulled Kurt from the table, the buckles slipping away from his body, and tucked an arm around his waist as they hurried down the stairs. Blaine nearly tripped several times, his eyes fixed on Kurt, checking for injuries, unable to believe that they were just going to leave, they were going to go and live their happily ever after and nothing could ever hurt them again.
It was too good to be true.
It was too good to be true.
The doors slammed shut of their own accord.
Kurt stumbled into Blaine as they fell into a stop, surprise halting their footsteps.
Karofsky laughed, a bone-chilling noise.
The walls vibrated, the only remaining chandelier shuddering, its glass creating a a disturbingly beautiful jangling.
The glass in the windows shattered.
Kurt cried out, throwing his arm over Blaine to pull them both to the ground, shielding their heads and necks from the jagged bits raining to the ground.
Karofsky was still laughing, descending the staircase slowly, like someone who had all the time in the world. Kurt was standing, dragging Blaine up with him, his eyes fixed on the warlock, his expression terrified and something else.
"I think I should probably thank you, boy," he said, his eyes fixed on Blaine, his yellow teeth sharp and wolf-like. "What use was his heart to me when it was broken? And you got rid of my brothers... now I can have it all for myself."
Kurt took Blaine by the shoulders, and breathed, "hold me tight, and close your eyes."
"Why?" Blaine asked, because Karofsky was halfway down the staircase, and if they were going to die he wanted the last thing he saw to be Kurt.
"What do stars do?" Kurt asked, a small laugh in his voice, before he pulled Blaine into a fierce embrace.
He turned to look at Karofsky over Blaine's shoulder, a smile bright on his face. "Shine," he whispered.
The glow started soft—how it had been when he'd first started to feel differently around Blaine, and he let himself recall the way his stomach had flipped when he and Blaine had brushed hands, the way his heart beat faster when Blaine looked at him.
His heart twisted, his glow brightened as he was flooded with images, coming faster and faster—the way Blaine's face had looked when he'd heard about Kurt's mother, the way Blaine had looked under the sun while they fenced, slick with sweat and tanned and muscled in a way that made Kurt's mouth go dry. The way Blaine's eyes softened when he smiled at Kurt. The way hands curved around Kurt when they danced. The childlike joy on his face when he'd caught his first bolt of lightening. The expression of wonder when Kurt had told him that what he was feeling wasn't wrong. The tenderness of his voice when he finally told Kurt how he felt about him. The way his hands shook when he touched Kurt, ever-so-softly, during their first kiss.
He could see his shine filling the room, flooding every corner with light and with the same joy and happiness that was rushing through Kurt as he remembered what it was like to be with Blaine, in every way, to hear his name falling from Blaine's lips like a benediction, to lie with Blaine afterwards and finally feel like he was home, like he was loved and cherished the way he'd always wanted to be.
He could hear the warlock's scream, could see through the white-hot brightness as he shattered apart, because his eyes couldn't take it anymore, couldn't take everything that Kurt was finally letting show, everything Kurt hadn't even known he was holding in.
Finally, he let himself remember how it had felt to have Blaine step forward, a sword in hand, when Kurt had thought that he had nothing left, nothing to be happy about, nothing to live for, with determination and recklessness clear on his face.
He shone as bright as the sun, brighter.
He had to reel it all back in to fade his glow, pull the feelings tightly against his chest and wrap them back in because if he let them out again, he might kill himself with the intensity of his own emotions.
Blaine's hands cupped his face as he pulled away from Kurt, his eyes flickering only momentarily to the ashy remains of the warlock that littered the stairs, before fixing back on Kurt, wonder in his face. "Why didn't you do that earlier?"
"I couldn't have done that without you," Kurt breathed, his hands running up and down Blaine's waist; he couldn't stop touching him. "No star can shine with a broken heart. I thought I'd lost you. But you came back." His lip trembled even as his mouth split into a wide, crooked grin.
"Of course I did," Blaine said, and his thumbs swept wide and broad over Kurt's cheekbones. "I love you."
It made his breath catch and his heart leap, the way Kurt's shine nearly burst out of him. He pulled Kurt's face to his, pressing their lips together in a maddeningly short kiss.
Santana stirred on the ground, and Blaine turned instantly, eyes widening in distress as the girl brought her hand to the back of her hand and brought it away, stained red.
Mike was hefting one of the doors open, worry clear on his face.
Kurt and Blaine rushed to help Santana, reaching out with hands to sit her up, Blaine tearing a long strip of fabric from his shirt to wrap around her head, staunching the bleeding.
As Kurt leaned forward to knot the fabric around her forehead, the necklace he wore swung forward, and the chain snapped.
To Kurt, to Mike, to Santana, it seemed to happen in slow motion. The necklace fell from Kurt's neck, Blaine lunged, and with newly developed reflexes—caught the stone.
In the palm of his hand, it turned a deep blood-red.
"Blaine-" Kurt said, his voice choked-off in surprise.
"The youngest surviving heir of the Stormhold bloodline," Mike said, softly, and Santana's eyes dropped away, her head bowing in disappointment. "It's you, Blaine."