"'Cedes!" Kurt calls, beckoning the young girl at the back of the store to come out.
"In a minute!" she hollers back, doing something or another in the kitchens.
Kurt stands in the small bakery and waits for his best and only friend to finish up. A heavy, burlap shopping sack is slung over his shoulder, filled with groceries and supplies for which he'd come to the market for. He decides to give his sore back a rest and carefully sets the bag on the flour-crusted wooden floor.
Kurt is now seventeen. A tall lad with a slight frame, but has grown strong from all the manual work he's had to do at his position as the house of Hummel's servant. Despite his less-than-pleasant living conditions, it is in his nature to be well-groomed, so he stands in the bakery of the Jones family looking like an ordinary customer as opposed to a lowly servant. His pallid face is always clean and his burnt-sienna hair is combed back neatly. The only thing that gives him away is the burlap bag, his calloused hands, and his somewhat ratty tunic.
Mercedes' family owned the best bakery in all of Villon. It was situated right at the heart of the market square, making it an easy place to drop by when Kurt did his weekly rounds. Over time, they had become friends, and to Kurt, this weekly meeting is his only outlet of emotion. He doesn't know what he'd do without Mercedes- she's the only person he can talk to without restraint. His stutter becomes much more bearable and less noticeable around her, because he's so much more relaxed.
When Mercedes appears, she comes through the door with her arms laden with freshly baked buns. The open doorway lead to the ovens, allowing the delicious smell of baking bread to waft into the room, making Kurt's stomach growl. He hadn't eaten all day.
"Hey Kurt!" she smiles, setting the wooden tray on a mahogany desk. She gives the boy a quick hug, but not before dusting herself free of flour. When they pull away, they seat themselves on tall stools on opposite sides of the table.
"You said you had some hot gossip t-to t-tell me?"
"Grab a bun, boo, I can tell you're starving."
Kurt picks up a hot bun in both his hands and quickly drops it again, before attempting to pick it up again without burning his hands off.
"T-thanks, 'Cedes," he says, smiling appreciatively at the girl.
Mercedes then leans in and whispers conspirationally, "So, rumour has it that the Prince of the next kingdom over's looking for a match here, in Villon."
"N-no way! Cross-kingdom marriage?"
"It's all the rage nowadays."
Villon was a rather powerless kingdom, as far as kingdoms go. They were a small and humble people, living quiet, content lives in a peacefully run kingdom. Villon wasn't an awfully exciting place, nor was it very significant. It was overall, a mediocre empire, but that also meant they were never on the offensive and were safe from petty things like war.
The neighboring kingdom of Gaveston, where this alleged visiting Prince hailed from, was far more notable. They had an excellent military force and were renowned for their genius battle strategies. They were not a kingdom to challenge- many a rival had fallen at their feet.
Fortunately, Gaveston shared a border with the quaint, tranquil, non-violent little kingdom of Villon, Kurt's hometown. There was never any conflict between the two and they maintained wonderful inter-kingdom relations. They co-existed easily with one another, even if they were in such close proximity.
The back yard of Kurt's manor actually leads to the wood that separates the two kingdoms. The noble Lord Hummel and several generations before him inhabited that mansion at the very edge of Villon, and while its distance from the center of the kingdom was not desirable, the area happened to be very picturesque. Despite its closeness, no one really goes into the woods, and that helps keep things amicable between the two sides.
"He's supposed to show up sometime this week," she continues. "visiting the castle, of course, say hi to them royals, as well as most of the noble houses."
"Oh."
Kurt is technically of noble descent, if not for the fact that he has been reduced to a status of a slave since his father's passing. Of course, it's still in his birthright and he still has eligibility to marry royalty, but Madam Tourneboulle would never stand for it. She refuses to acknowledge his aristocracy because she firmly believes that if she ignores it enough, it will go away. Everyone in his village knows all about it, of course, and they've all thrown him a pity party, etc, etc, but none dare say anything to the vicious woman. She bared her teeth and claws almost immediately after his father died, and Kurt quickly became terrified of her as she could finally have her way with him. Being so young when it happened, he really had no other choice to comply. You could tell the village was sympathetic, but no one really… cared. They accepted the fact that the poor nobleman's boy had been struck down to servant status by his evil step-mother, and that there was nothing they could do about it.
Eventually, Tourneboulle's bullying and neglect took its toll on young Kurt. He began to flinch at sudden noises or movements and became much more nervous. Tourneboulle often hit him when he did something she deemed as wrong. He learned to never outwardly express his feelings- why, making an offhanded comment would have already prompted a wave of anger. To her, this boy was worth nothing, and was to be treated as nothing more. The boy became fearful of her and that, in turn, made him very quiet. He was forced to bottle up fear, anxiety, hatred and desperation if he wanted to return unbruised to his new quarters (the servant room by the stable) every night. His demons haunted him at night and this, paired with the terrors that Tourneboulle instilled into him, resulted in his very noticeable stutter. When the stutter got worse, around ten years old, Madam would ridicule him horridly. It was simply another defect in an already hopeless boy. Since then, not only was Kurt careful to not talk, he also became insecure to do it.
All of Burt Hummel's assets were to be used to maintain her and her daughters' extravagant lifestyle. In order to do that, she fired a great deal of the house's servants and forced Kurt to undertake their jobs instead, to alleviate fees. Of course, in his young age, he was not physically capable to do much, but as he aged, she had been able to reduce the staff one by one until it was just Kurt taking care of the entire mansion and its inhabitants on his own.
There is a reason why Kurt wakes up at 5 o' clock every morning and goes to bed at midnight. Tourneboulle is careful to work him to the bone, so that she wrings every last ounce of use out of him. Every night he falls asleep exhausted and overworked, having to run around the mansion doing a dozen things at once, and Kurt's job has no ending. He works full time, with barely any breaks. The only time he is able to steal away for a while is when he does his weekly shopping rounds, like he is now. He is able to stall a little, talk to Mercedes, watch some of the town's entertainment, maybe go for a walk. It's a very short escape, but it's better than nothing.
"You're still in the running, boo."
Kurt gives her a sigh of resignation, looking down at the last piece of his bun.
"Don't, Mercedes. Don't p-pret-tend."
He's had a lifetime of feeling sorry for himself; for everything he's lost, for everything that's happened. He is beyond the point of mourning what was his promising future and has accepted that all he is now is a lowly servant to a heartless family of cruel women. It has been drilled into his head firmly enough, and trying to convince himself of otherwise will only hurt him more.
"I'm just saying, Kurt. You have just as much of a right- hell, more of a right than they do. It's in your blood."
"Even then, who's to s-say that the P-prince is…" Kurt takes a moment to check that the coast is clear- "...like me?"
"Never say never," Mercedes replies, nodding sagely. "It could happen. Gaveston was the first kingdom to legalize it, after all."
And the only kingdom to legalize it, Kurt thinks. In every other kingdom, you'd be torn apart at the seams had they found out you preferred the company of your own gender. Even kindly old Villon looked down upon it.
"Y-you're j-just raising my hopes," Kurt replies, a bit of scorn in his voice. "You know it just a-as well as I d-do."
The air tenses between them slightly, but Mercedes just sighs. It breaks her heart a little how jaded Kurt has grown to become, but she knows it's only right. He's been through so much, it's impossible to not have hardened under all that stress. Better that than caving in.
"I b-" Kurt's tongue stills involuntarily for a second- "better get g-going."
"Just give it a thought, okay Kurt?" Mercedes says, putting a hand over his. "Here, take some extras. You're getting too skinny for my liking."
Kurt regrets snapping at her, knowing full well that she only meant good for her best friend. She's scooping a handful of the buns and a couple of apples into his sack, knowing that there often isn't much food leftover for Kurt after he makes dinner for the Tourneboulles. "Thank you, 'cedes. I'm s-sorry for snapping, b-but it's j-just so… unf-fair."
"Yeah, I know, baby."
He kisses her lightly on her cheek before he departs, the sack on his back feeling heavier than ever.
The walk home through the shortcut in the woods has Kurt's head swimming with thoughts brought anew from his conversation with Mercedes.
He tries not to think of his loss too much, simply because it would drive him insane to do so. It hurts too much, and his only way of coping has always been to push back pain and try to withstand Tourneboulle.
If he's being completely honest with himself, he knows who he is: a man of noble blood and a descendent of the honorable Hummel clan. His bloodline leads him to patricians and aristocrats of all ages, and he has the right to marry royalty. As Mercedes said, he has every right.
However, one cannot deny that years of being a servant to one's stepmother changes one's mindset quite drastically. He knows that the 'mysterious disappearance' of his father's will was no accident, but he's been forced to ignore that if he knows what's good for him. One slip of the tongue will land him with a sharp backhand from Lady Tourneboulle's often ring-laced fingers, possibly leaving cuts. One step out of line, and he's denied food for several days. This is how it is living with an evil step-mother.
The crunch of autumn leaves under Kurt's worn leather boots makes a comforting noise as Kurt walks down the scarcely used path through the trees. This part of the woods is largely uninhabited, except for what is a suspected thug territory several kilometres over. Otherwise, Kurt's found his own little shortcut that is out of reach from the ruffians and is a more pleasant, more convenient walk from his (no, Tourneboulle's) manor to the markets. He makes this trip once weekly.
He does, however, carry with him a bow and arrow. A quiver holding sharp, iron-tipped arrows is slung over his free shoulder, ready to be pulled out at the first sign of danger. While this path is a fair way away from the thug's woods, they do sometimes stray away. This is only a precaution in case he does run into trouble.
Today seems, much like every other trip, uneventful. Kurt panicked a little way back when he thought someone had grabbed his arm, but it just turned out to be a branch that got caught on the sleeve of his well-worn tunic. He almost shot at it in surprise- he only just lowered his bow and saved his arrow in time. He is jumpy and wary beyond belief, but that is merely another side effect of his awful childhood, much like his stutter. His nerves do make him outlandishly observant, and while this paranoia is justified, it still isn't pleasant to live with.
Kurt's been walking for about fifteen minutes now. He's been watching his feet as he walks, stepping on any crunchy-looking leaves, and maybe the odd branch. Further down the self-made path is a dense, bushy area with thick foliage that surrounds the main path. He heads up a small a slope, well hidden by the tall verdure. He steps on a branch and it makes a satisfying snap sound, but immediately after, the first sounds of a struggle infiltrate his ears from nearby. Immediately, he drops to a crouching walk, but he is thankfully out of sight from whoever it is on the other side of the thick bushes. The struggle is going on a fair bit away from the direction he's headed, but Kurt isn't one to turn a blind eye to those in need when they cross his path. Besides, he's armed- he might be able to help. He keeps climbing the slope silently, the slight height advantage given to him from the position of the slope allowing him to see what's going on with the cover of the shrubbery.
He can hear the grunts and sounds of impact- as well as the sound of an agitated horse. He moves an inch to the left and finds a small gap between the undergrowth and is able to watch the conflict.
As he'd suspected, it was a band of hoodlums from the occupied thug's woods. They seemed to be beating the living daylights of what he can only assume is a traveler. There's a little stream nearby- they probably ambushed him when he'd decided to take a rest. Definitely a traveler then, because all the locals know that this area is highly dangerous and would never dream of stopping here.
The poor guy's largely outnumbered- there are five thugs and only one of him. A large, white mare is tied to a nearby oak tree, bucking wildly, trying to get to her rider. They're only using their fists so far, and- ouch, the guy just took a hard one to the jaw- it just looks like an everyday, run-of-the-mill robbery. To Kurt's bewilderment the man doesn't seem to be giving in, either. The idiot, he'll get himself killed! All they want is your gold- you give it to them, they scuff you up a little, and then they're gone! Doesn't he know that-
oh, okay, so they don't like him fighting back. They've pulled a knife out on him. To be fair, the little man's held out admirably when he's so disadvantaged, he must be trained to some extent. However, it doesn't matter how swift, agile and precise he is with his fists if what you're up against is jagged, sharp, flesh-piercing metal.
Kurt's already loaded his bow, but he hasn't raised it yet. They'll be on him in a minute if he releases the arrow too soon- but if he's a second late, the traveler's dead. He's busy looking for an opening when the first thug gives the traveler a nasty nick on the bicep, earning a loud shout of agony from the victim. Although a fairly serious cut, Kurt can tell it's not lethal. At least, not yet. It looks like they've given up hit and run and are going in for the kill… time to move a bit faster-
Where did they pull that flanged mace out of? Oh dear lord, they've given him a blow to the head. This man is hopeless. Kurt decides it's now or never and he shoots an arrow directly into the hand of the man wielding the heavy metal club. The howl of pain makes Kurt wince, but two arrows later, he's immobilized most of the band of thieves. They can't seem to tell where the arrows are coming from (loggerheaded dunces, I haven't moved an inch, Kurt thinks) and are in a bit of a panic. They decide to run for it, having already knocked out and robbed what they could from the traveler and also having injured him enough that he'd probably die if left unattended.
Kurt waits until the coast is totally clear before racing down the slope and over the shrubbery. The man whose life he's just saved is still unconscious from the blunt impact and his arm is bleeding profusely, drenching his entire sleeve in a lucid dark crimson.
"Oh dear," Kurt mumbles to himself, seeing the depth of the laceration and inspecting the bruise to the head. He's already lost a fair bit of blood; he's most likely already lightheaded. The traveler's probably got more injuries on him, but he's got a scarf tied over his nose, covering most of his face, a big hood over his head, and his bulky, thick clothing obscures anything else. He's clothed head to toe in various layers, most of it travel clothing. The dagger had still managed to cut through several layers of heavy cotton as well as his tunic, staining the beige. His tough khaki robes had also been cut right through. The only remarkable thing about his outfit is that there is a strangely shaped whistle that hangs from his neck. There is certainly nothing spectacular enough on him to make him a clear target for a band of thieves.
He moves him (well, drags him) towards his horse and props him up against a tree, out of the way of the road so he doesn't get run over. His dead weight doesn't help make the task much easier, but thankfully he's on the short side. When Kurt's done, he glances towards his abandoned path and back to the injured stranger.
He could just leave him here. He'd done enough to save him as it were.
Who is he trying to kid, though?
Kurt sighs in surrender and settles his bow and burlap bag on the ground next to the inert traveler. He begins to rummage through the bag to find the fresh gauze he'd just bought from the apothecary in the market.
"You're lucky I remembered to buy dressing," he mutters, to no one but himself. He sits himself kneeling next to the knocked out man and gets to work.
He could easily have left this stranger on his own and not waste his supplies, but there was a very real chance he wouldn't wake up in time before the severe cut on his arm let him bleed to death. He used the water of his own little water pouch to clean the wound somewhat, and used a bit of dry moss he'd found to dab away the remainder of the blood. It took several washes and dabs for it to stop flowing as badly as it had before, but eventually, he was able to tie the gauze tightly around it, adding pressure to the wound and suppressing the blood flow. He uses a nearby branch to twist the gauze into a tourniquet.
Kurt's just finishing the knot around his arm when he feels the stranger stir. He freezes, not having thought of this as a possible scenario (that mace hit him hard) and inspects the stranger's lidded eyes.
He opens them for just a few seconds, his pupils large and his irises honey, before moaning weakly and closing them shut again. Kurt releases the breath he'd been holding and keeps tending to him, now that he's asleep again.
Kurt is rubbing some healing salve (also from the apothecary) into the angry, inflamed bump on the stranger's forehead that knocked him out cold when the traveler opens his eyes again. Kurt registers that he's barely aware of anything right now, probably concussed, and so continues to rub the salve lightly into his forehead. For some reason, Kurt finds himself only comfortable when there aren't any (or any properly functioning) human beings around.
With the exception of Mercedes, of course.
The stranger doesn't close his eyes again this time, though. His eyes are slits, barely open, but he can still feel his gaze on his face as he begins to pack up. He's still watching him when he hoists the bag over his shoulder and picks up his bow. Kurt bends down to inspect him one last time, making sure he isn't in any moral danger. He squeezes his uninjured shoulder for luck, straightens up, and heads back to his shortcut. He'll probably get yelled at for coming back late, pushing back dinner (their old cook Agatha had been fired when Kurt learnt how to cook) and will probably be revoked of his own dinner rights tonight-
Ah, dinner.
He turns back around to face the man slumped against the tree, in his very robbed and empty state. He decides then that he is too damn generous for his own good.
"Ugh, alright then."
He marches back to him almost grudgingly, as if the man compelled him to do this. How could he possibly leave him without a morsel of food for the night, when he'd just been attacked and robbed for everything he's worth? Kurt feels around in the sack for a bit and digs out two buns and an apple from Mercedes' gift (thank the lord for that girl). The buns are still a little warm, good. The man stares intently at him from hooded eyes as he puts the food in his lap, pulling his limp arms around it to keep it there. It meant less dinner for Kurt, that's true, but he rations that he'd already had a bite at the bakery and that he'd have enough to last him until breakfast tomorrow.
With a final huff, Kurt nods at the figure on the forest floor in a hardly-acknowledged goodbye. Really, it was more of a nod of satisfaction for himself. He turns and walks back on track to his shortcut path, heading home to get yelled at indefinitely.
A/N: Much thanks to the lone reviewer! Also, this is the longest chapter I've ever written for any multichaptered story, huzzah.
