Title: Keeping the Balance (9a/11?)
Author: sun_and_rain
Rating: PG-13
Warning: deals with issues of consent, homophobia, and memory loss
Summary: No one recognized the name when Kurt first spoke it–a name he'd found buried somewhere in his dreams–but he couldn't shake the feeling that it was important: "Blaine". Whatever had been taken from them had something to do with Blaine.
Chapter Summary: Someone takes a trip down memory lane.
A/N: Yet another long chapter. It's like Christmas! Or... is that the wrong holiday? Anyway. Buckle your seatbelts, kids! Beyond this door lies answers. Many, many answers. And many more next chapter, too. Everything is getting explained in these next two, so if you still have questions after this chappie, leave a note or send me an ask on tumblr so I know what was clear and what wasn't! I hope people are still reading after the craziness of last chapter... don't hate me? Please? We're almost done! (Sort of.)
Chapter Nine A: There Are Two Ways Out of This Building
"But Mama…"
"I'm sorry, but that's just how it's going to be from now on. Go back upstairs."
"Are you serious? I can't even come down to the kitchen? No one's around!"
"You don't know that."
"Mama, I can feel it!"
"It's only temporary. Go back upstairs."
"What are we hiding from, anyway?"
…
"I'll explain soon. I promise. Now will you go back upstairs, or will I have to go get your father?"
"I'm going, I'm going!"
He was himself. Part of himself. All of himself. Plus something else.
Was someone else in here with him?
Something happened to the real world (he knew because he wasn't there at the moment), and the fake world the dream world? was he dreaming? that he'd become so familiar with in the last month (mental pow-wows, that was what Andrew called them) waved friendly to him. He usually met someone here. Someone was here.
Oh, right, of course. Someone was here with him. Someone was always here. Who was the someone? Eye color? Hair color? Name? The answers had fallen out of his pockets and he couldn't seem to find where he'd dropped them. Maybe he should start by figuring out what was his and what was the someone else's.
The memories. Were those his? Or were they someone else's?
"You look like your grandfather, you know," his Lola said one day, staring at him from the rocking chair.
Once upon a time, when she used to visit, she'd chase him around the house until he collapsed from giggling. Now though, she sat. His Mama opened the door, and Lola would come in moving like the turtle, and chasing him around the house seemed too large a feat to accomplish. Instead, she sat, and she spoke to him, her washed-worn wrinkles lined with tiredness (that was new), and her eyes sparkling with mischief (that was old).
He fidgeted with a curl of his hair, biting his lip. "Was he like me?"
His Lola nodded solemnly. "He was exactly like you," she told him. "You could be his copy."
Lola said it differently than Mama did. Mama told him 'you have your grandpa's eyes' like she told him stories about princesses in towers. Lola said it like she was telling him the moon was round and far away. It just was.
He tugged on another curl, tracing patterns with his feet. She, of all people would understand. Wouldn't she?
"Lola, I think I'm…" he began, quiet. "I think I might be different." He stuttered quickly through it.
Lola looked at him carefully. "I think you are, too."
He chewed on his lip. "What does it mean?"
Thoughts chased away the twinkle in his grandmother's eye, and she thought for a very long time.
"It means you will have to be very brave," she finally said, "and very kind, and very clever. But I will tell you a secret," she leaned forward and he leaned in closer to hear: "You will always have your family. Even your grandfather will always be there for you."
"But…" He protested, confused. "But he's not here."
Lola looked at him, offended. "He is here. He is standing right in front of me."
He looked around wildly—still nothing. He looked back at Lola suspiciously. "I don't see him," he said.
"Why would you see him?" Lola tutted. "He's standing in front of me."
"Lola!" He scolded, crossing his arms. "Don't be silly. I'm the only one standing in front of you!"
"I tell you I see him, totoy, that is what matters here." she said firmly. "Now come over here and give your Lola a hug."
He climbed up onto the rocking chair and placed his arms around her sturdy form. She held him close. Her lips kissed his forehead.
"I will tell you another secret," she murmured into his skin. "You won't understand it now, but one day, you will: You must trust yourself. No matter what others may tell you—no matter what even your mama may say—don't be frightened of yourself. You are always you… no matter if it feels like you aren't. Remember that."
He frowned. What did that mean?
His Lola swatted at him.
"Now that's enough of that. Go. Go play. You're frowning too much, you'll get wrinkles and lose all your hair."
"Not my hair!" he cried, grabbing his curls.
"I think I already see some of it falling out."
"No you don't!" he scrambled off the rocking chair. "Do you? Mama!" he called, running to the kitchen as Lola laughed. "Mama, is my hair falling out, really?!"
It was an embrace, that's what it was. A big, giant, comfortable hug. That's why he was having trouble differentiating between himself and the someone else. No wonder.
Well, at least he wasn't alone. And the hug felt nice. Images stitched themselves around him—he didn't recognize them, or remember any of them, so he was pretty sure they belonged to the someone else. In fact, he was pretty sure he knew the other's name. It danced around in his mind tentatively. He didn't speak it out loud.
He was also pretty sure that being stabbed and bleeding out onto the ground was the last thing he remembered happening in the real world.
He should probably be more alarmed about that.
He sat on the couch, eyes closed, hands on knees. He felt it when Andrew entered the room.
"Oh, hey!" the other boy laughed. The couch dipped as Andrew sat down next to him. "Fancy meeting you here." Andrew bumped shoulders with him. The world spun a little.
"I don't mean to be rude, but I'd really like to be alone," he said quietly.
Something like amusement flared up in Andrew. "Overwhelmed, are we?"
Andrew was his only friend in this place, the only one he felt at all close to (and that wasn't saying much). He didn't want to alienate him, but there was something distracting—involving—about being around him. He never listened; he just sort of did whatever he wanted. It was the opposite of anchoring, and he really needed an anchor right now.
"Hey," Andrew shifted closer. "I might have a way to help you out. It's a little more effective than meditation. Or whatever it is you're doing."
Despite himself, his eyes opened. He turned, curious, to meet Andrew's. "How so?"
"Let me show you."
He caught the hunger just before Andrew's lips drove into his own, shocking embers to light in the pit of his stomach. "Oh—!" he gasped, pulling away. Andrew following him close, grabbing at his waist. "Oh—wait—!"
"Calm down, I've got you. Don't panic. Feel that?" Andrew kissed him and—and did something, pulled at something inside of him and—
"Whoa, whoa—" he pushed Andrew away. "Whoa. What was that?"
"Feel it? It's a stronger connection, right? Everyone else has to access the Magic in an artificial way, but us, we can get more personal. We can do more." Andrew grinned and did it again. And—it was painful, but it was also…
"Hold—hold on a second." Andrew didn't, pushing him into the couch. "Hey, just, just slow down, wow—" A presence inside of him he had never been truly aware of before swelled up, inside and around him, and he lost the feeling of the fabric beneath him. Andrew's fingers found handholds he didn't know his body had and clung tight. Oh. Was that—? Oh. A cry escaped him, Andrew's craving washing him in a sea of tingling. Oh, that was… oh, oh, he wasn't ready for this, he—he—he—
Fingers pressing buttons, hands in handholds. It wasn't that it didn't feel good, it just—it felt good, it felt good, but he—he was pretty sure he didn't want this. Right? He needed something, an anchor, something, he was too adrift in the sea. Where was the pause button?
"Look, it's—it's not that—ah—"
"Mmhmm?"
"Not that I'm—oh g—not—attracted to you, I—" There it was again, that pulling thing, and Andrew gripped him hard. Andrew, who wanted him so much he practically bled it out onto him like a wound. He gasped, tensing. "Oh-god-would-you-please-stop-doing-that!"
Andrew laughed, and he was seriously starting to reconsider the whole 'closest friend' thing. "Come on," Andrew grinned lazily. "It'll be incredible."
"I highly doubt that!" he protested, trying to push away. No, he definitely didn't want this. It was too much. Change the channel, stop the movie.
"Have you ever tried it before?"
"No," he snapped, trying to get through Andrew's clogged ears to his brain. "And I—I don't want to. I don't even know you that well!"
"You're so tense," Andrew grabbed his wrists like they were roughhousing. "Relax."
...Panic hit him before it was swallowed up in some… artificial, forced serenity. His muscles couldn't work. They melted into the couch. Into Andrew. And he… his vision filmed over in gold. Andrew shone through it like a beacon.
"…Y-…" Exhaustion. Calm? What was…? Too much work to talk. "…wh… what did you… just…?" Like he was drugged.
Andrew, stroking his hair. His eyes tried to close. "Shh," he caressed. "It's alright. I just want to try—"
"—Are you Blaine Anderson?"
He stumbled as he was thrown out of the memory. "Blaine!" he gasped out. That was the name! The eyes, the hair—he remembered! And he was Kurt. He had just been stabbed, and Blaine… where was Blaine? He felt him, all around, the air cradled him in Blaine's presence but Blaine himself wasn't anywhere to be seen.
What was happening?
Heal yourself, he remembered someone screaming to him.
He had milliseconds to think about it before he was thrown into another memory.
"She's in the bathroom!" he was screaming. "Please, help her, help her, please, oh my god—!"
"Blaine, you're hysterical-!"
"She's dying! She's dying!"
Tears streamed his face, his mind a whirl of confusion as he spun out of the scene. "Why are you showing me this?" Kurt panted, dizzy. "Blaine, talk to me! Where are you? What are you doing?"
He stumbled and fell—
He was beautiful… the most beautiful boy he had ever seen. Sea-foam eyes, and porcelain features staring back at him. He couldn't stop staring. They locked eyes and—he just froze. And sank, deep deep down, too frozen to swim. Something else, that other him lying in wait deep inside of him, took the reins, rose up and overtook him. It was instinct. It was terrifying. Was this boy the one he'd been dreaming about? He was so loud.
Then another boy interrupted like a herd of elephants, and Blaine broke through the surface of the water again to breathe.
Holy shit.
He cloaked his fear in politic and smiles, hid inside the charm of the cute boy helping him up.
That had never happened before. That creature inside him, that had never taken over him before. What had Erickson done to him?
Holy shit. Holy shit. Deep breaths. Erickson was a distant memory. Erickson was gone.
This boy, though… this boy was—just adorable.
This was going to be interesting.
Kurt shook his head as he came back. "What are you trying to show me? I don't get it."
He felt himself being eased into the next one. Slowly, carefully.
Around him was a room, all polished wood and hearty fire. It focused, sharp, in high definition.
Somehow, he got the feeling this was the memory Blaine had meant to show him all along.
He could feel it when he entered the room.
It wasn't an emotion, exactly. It was a feeling; an aura, slipping past his mental walls and shivering up his spine, running fast fingers down his arms. It. Tensing, he stepped back.
"Andrew!" He whispered harshly, spinning around to catch him before he left—but the door clicked shut as he reached out. The sound was loud in the silence. No, don't leave me here!
He felt it crawl like spiders underneath his skin.
Warmth at his back. Someone was right behind him. He spun, fast, his hand springing up in front of his face defensively. It didn't even rise past his chest when a voice called out: "Put your hand down."
He fought himself, tensing against his own strength. His hand—slowly—dropped back to his side.
Blaine watched the man behind the ornate oak desk warily.
"Do you know who I am?" the man asked.
Blaine glanced back at the door helplessly, but his walls were up: he couldn't feel Andrew at all. Even so, he knew Andrew wasn't coming back any time soon. "Wes wants you to go along with it," David's voice whispered in his ear. Wes, he thought frantically, what the hell did you get me into?
"You're the new Head," he answered carefully. "Head Erickson."
Erickson's face was an unreadable slate. "No," he said softly. "Don't play games with me, Blaine. I've seen you in that library you love so much. Pouring over your books." Blaine fought the urge to step back as Erickson leaned forward, eyes intent on Blaine's own. "Do you know who I am?" he repeated firmly.
The air whispered the answer in his ears. Blaine tried to swallow down the whimper that threatened to escape him. (It prickled against the hairs at the back of his neck.)
"No," he lied.
"No?" Erickson stood up, movements deliberate and slow, and walked around the desk. It was all Blaine could do not to collapse as he made his way towards him. "Why so scared, Magic-son? What do you feel when you look at me?" He reached out a hand and—
"Stay away," Blaine hissed, jerking backward, turning to get away from the door. "Don't come near me."
"You don't have any power over me. The commands work the other way around."
"Don't come near me!" he cried, hands coming up to act as feeble shields as he backed away. Something had snapped within him, and every atom of his body was screaming in alert. Why had he agreed to this? Wes! Had he known? Had he sent Blaine in here on purpose, sent him to this—monster? Blaine had heard stories of the new Head from the Warblers, had felt the evidence of Erickson's dislike of him in the way he had been systematically restricted from every room in the Academy except his own. But he had never been in the same room as him before—had never felt him before. He would have never agreed to this if he had known. The deal was off. How could Wes have asked him to do this?
"Why are you here? What do you want?" he demanded.
"You, of course," Erickson answered smoothly. He followed after Blaine in leisurely steps. Panic swelled Blaine's ribs, making it hard to breathe.
"Did they call you here? The Academy? You're not needed here." Fear drove syllables out of his mouth, sharp, fearful, fast. "Andrew's going to kill me, he's already going to kill me, you're not needed here."
"Nonsense. Andrew isn't going to kill you."
"He's my Fascinator," Blaine protested weakly.
Erickson was suddenly too close. Blaine didn't even have time to shout as his hands were knocked away and terrible, cold fingers gripped his chin, forcing his face upward.
"Stop hiding from me," Erickson commanded. It jolted through him like electricity. "I don't talk to shells."
"What—?" Blaine began, eyes wide with confusion—when suddenly Erickson's other palm was pressing against his stomach, and he—twisted, and—something reached into him, a claw, an invader, puncturing deep inside of him and dragging what it caught back up to the surface—not calling on Magic, not using it, just—rearranging his organs and changing, twisting, forcing him, it was unnatural, painful, painful—! He cried out, loudly, as his vision filmed with gold and something feral took the place of his lungs.
And then Erickson's palm was gone.
Blaine felt like he had been torn up and patchworked back together without all the pieces in the right places. Hyper-sensitive. Over-present.
Erickson stepped away and Blaine stumbled, a hand coming out to steady himself against the nearest surface. His fingers dug into the cushion of the chair as all the color in the room suddenly brightened unbearably. Unease crept its tendrils over his mind. (When had they backed against the desk?)
"What did you do?" he asked faintly as the world shifted. Erickson's presence, so terrifying, pressed against his now-tingling skin.
Erickson didn't bother answering him. "Finally," he said. "It's nice to meet you."
Blaine glanced up at him and another person's fury rose up inside him. He swayed, blinking hard. He felt off-balance. "That wasn't necessary." He gripped the chair. Someone else was using his voice. "I'm not a shell, or whatever you called me," Blaine said in his own words.
Erickson turned dismissively, heading back behind his desk. The voice inside of Blaine persisted. "Why did Andrew bring me to you? What do you want to do with me?"
"What do you think I want to do with you?" Erickson said, low and dangerous as he loomed over the desk. Every instinct in Blaine's body screamed at him to run. "You know who I am."
"Evorsor." The word alit in his mind from one if his books, and it hissed out of his mouth like the poisoned smoke it stood for. Contempt and a paralyzing fear spread out from the wildness now resting under his ribs. It brought with it an old memory that gripped his heart with stone fingers. Blaine shivered as that feeling he had felt when he'd entered the room invaded his senses, seeming to swell around him in recognition of the word: cold, ice-cold, and filled with too many ghosts. His air escaped him and another name slipped out with it—a truer name that seemed to come from an ancient well somewhere within him, from some creature inside that could translate the curves of the letters carved in the ice around him much clearer than any book could: "Sluagh." Soul-stealer.
Erickson granted him a shark's smile. "There you go. Your kind always loved to name things, didn't they?"
Blaine swayed from the force of the hatred coming from the feral thing inside him. There was too much time trapped in him. He felt distant… dizzy… Unease tingled up his spine.
"Now that we're not hiding, we can have an actual conversation. Sit down." Blaine felt his body plunge into the chair underneath his fingers. "We both know Andrew isn't your Fascinator, don't we? Not yet, at least. You haven't chosen him."
Blaine shook his head, still tense and uncomfortable in the chair. "I have dreams—"
"And that's all they will be," Erickson interrupted. "Dreams. You won't die at Dalton, Magic-boy. Not while I'm here."
Unnatural, something cried in his ears. Ghosts and death swum in the air around him, prickling his skin, worrying his forehead. Those words were wrong. Off. He had to die—that wasn't right. Not dying—it was unnatural.
You won't die at Dalton.
It was a threat. It felt like one.
He didn't know what to do. (Evorsor.)
"There's a cycle…" he said quietly. "You can't… you can't break it."
"I assure you I can."
"Why? Why would you do that?" his voice was small. "Andrew would kill me anyway, why…?"
"And you'd lie dormant inside of him until he died, or created a child, and then you'd be able to reweave yourself a new body and a new life to continue your slow little takeover. No, that's not stopping you. Andrew will kill you, but you'll still live on. You're Magic, little parasite. You're trapped in immortality." A smile, small and terrible, stretched Erickson's mouth: "I'm going to set you free."
There was a moment of blankness—of white noise in his mind. Incomprehension. Stillness.
And then it registered.
Out. He needed to get out. He needed to leave the room, run away, run away, he needed out! He bolted up from the chair, electrified with fear, but Erickson saw it coming.
"Sit down!" he bellowed. It was like an invisible rope had tied itself around his waist and pulled him back down. His bones fell, collapsed, tugged him back into the seat. He jerked, twisted, but he was stuck.
"Stop," he cried helplessly.
"You called me Evorsor, didn't you? Let me tell you how I'll be your obliteration. I'll free you of your body," Erickson continued ruthlessly. Blaine lunged forward, struggling against invisible restraints. "And I'll force you open. You'll be more powerful than you've ever imagined you'd be. Then I'm going to make you find that little hideaway the rest of your kind have taken up residence in. You're going to bring me to it." Blaine's eyes widened, his breath quickening. Folk tales his mother had told him (and memories some part of him had always carried) conjured up images in his head of towns, whole cities of Magic-folk, hidden from the rest of the world in their own little pocket of space.
"They're impossible to find," he said faintly. "It would take years, forever, to find them."
"If you were constrained by space and time, yes. You'll have no such limitations when I'm done with you."
"Why would I help you enslave my own people?!" he cried.
"Because you won't have a choice, Blaine," Erickson explained patiently. "You won't have a body. You won't have a thought in that little head. You'll be blank. You'll be mine."
Absence of feeling, of the physical, of—anything that made him who he was. Except the empathy. The empathy he wouldn't be able to feel, the empathy he would only be able to convert—into energy, Magic, endless possibilities. Nothing is impossible if you feel it strongly enough, and Blaine… he wouldn't even be able to feel. He would be nothing.
"You want to turn me into a monster," he breathed.
"You are a monster," Erickson snapped. "I'm going to turn you into a tool."
An empty vessel. A weapon. No. He had to get out of the chair.
"Besides, you won't be helping me enslave them. You're going to find them."
"No."
"You're going to kill them."
"No! No!"
"All of them."
"Stop, please, just stop—!"
"And when you're done slaughtering the rest of your parasite family, I'm going to let you back into your body"—no, no, no, no—" and you'll feel the repercussions of what you did. And then you'll perform one last magic trick."
He wrenched, pulled, he was glued—get out of the chair—
"You're going to make yourself disappear."
It sounded too much like commands—it felt like commands, like truths of a future that he couldn't escape, and he fought like he had never fought before, straining against his own body. How could Wes trap him into this? How could Andrew bring him to this? How could the Academy let this happen? How could he let himself be trapped like this, he was trapped, he was trapped, he was trapped! He had to get out of the chair, he had to get out of the room, he had to get out! Get out of the chair! Get out!
"The Academy won't let you do this," he cried. "No one will let you do this!"
"Who's going to know?" Erickson laughed. "You can't tell anybody."
The command washed over him, prickling at his skin, and Blaine knew, he knew—he couldn't. He couldn't tell anyone. He couldn't get help. He couldn't stop this, he couldn't warn anyone, he couldn't get out of the chair. No escape. He couldn't get out of the chair. He couldn't get out of the chair. He couldn't get out of the chair. He couldn't get out of the chair, he couldn't get out of the chair, he COULDN'T GET OUT OF THE CHAIR HE COULDN'T GET OUT OF THE CHAIR HE COULDN'T GET OUT OF THE CHAIR HE COULDN'T HE COULDN'T HE COULDN'T—!
The scream ripped out of his throat, a wordless cry of rejection.
The room was small. The fire crackled. The sound was swallowed into the walls. Absorbed.
Like he hadn't screamed at all.
And he sat, wilted, trapped. Still.
In the chair.
Soul-stealer.
He sunk. He couldn't do anything. He might as well not feel anything at all for all the good feeling did him. He couldn't do anything.
He was trapped.
"Can't move, can you?" Erickson noted. Blaine couldn't stop shaking. "I have you. You've lost."
His breath hitched. Tears suddenly burned at his vision, and Blaine squeezed his eyes shut before any could satisfy the monster in front of him by escaping. Trapped.
"I'm telling you this so you know what it's in store," Erickson informed him, voice dancing in triumph as he leaned back in his chair. "When you're awoken and brought up to the highest room in the mansion tomorrow morning, I want you to know what's coming. I want you to know what you agreed to when you told Andrew you'd let him experiment with you all those months ago. As you're wasting away in the cell we've made for you—as you're driven insane by the emotions we won't let you release—I want the last thought you hold to be the knowledge of what you are becoming. Think about it before you go to sleep tonight. You will single-handedly be the destruction of your entire race."
He couldn't move. He couldn't think. This man… how could a person be so filled with such a coldness? He wasn't a man. He couldn't be a man.
There was nothing left inside of him. He had screamed it all away.
"Andrew won't be back for you," Erickson said off-handedly. "You can leave, now."
Blaine was in a daze as his muscles obeyed the order. He walked as one dead to the door. Erickson's hawk eyes watched him the whole time.
"Blaine," Erickson called. Blaine turned to meet his eyes.
"Sweet dreams."
It was like a punch to the gut. Fury flared, and Blaine slammed the door shut on his way out.
His eyes squeezed shut. The sound of the heavy wood on brick awoke something deep within him.
You can leave, now, he had said. That had been his command.
A glimmer of hope, a flicker of resolve lit a fire in his blood.
You can leave, now.
A plan half-formed in his mind. Not even a plan, just—just an option. It was crazy. But he was clever. He was so much cleverer than Erickson thought he was. His body might not be his anymore, his choices few, but he still had his mind. He was trapped—but he still had options. He always had options.
(It wouldn't be running away if he had been commanded to do it, would it?)
He couldn't slip out the door; they were watching for him. His mental walls would prevent him from being able to sense and anticipate any guards, and if he was caught, it would only be one word from someone with Talent and he'd be imprisoned again. Wes wouldn't help him, not when he couldn't tell him why he needed to escape. He'd demand answers Blaine couldn't give. So he couldn't take an underground tunnel.
But he still had options.
You can leave, now.
No one would be watching a fourth story window. He still had enough power in him to rip open a doorway without a Magician's help. If he could find an empty corridor, smash open the window, rip open a doorway as he fell… he could leave. He could leave, and they'd never know where he went. He could find that pocket of space where the other Magic folk were, hide with them until Erickson was long dead and buried. He could find his family, his parents, and hide their house from the rest of the world. He could fall and land somewhere no one else knew and just let himself die.
It would hurt. Falling four stories was bound to.
But he could escape.
Damn Wes. Damn Andrew, damn Erickson, damn the Academy. Damn all of their students. He could leave.
You can leave, now.
Yes. Yes.
He still had fucking options.
…
…
Kurt opened his eyes, bright sunlight forcing him to squint. He sat up, wincing as a dull pain in his side hindered the movement. He glanced down at the patched up mess that was the makeshift bandage on his side. Goodbye dream world, hello Lima, Ohio.
Or—no. This wasn't Lima, Ohio.
He glanced around the bedroom, memories that weren't his own alighting foreign recognition in his brain. Westerville.
He felt someone else in his mind: waiting, expectant, exhausted. Images flashed. You can leave, now.
"Don't worry," Kurt told him darkly, a heavy resolve coloring his voice. He got up carefully, making his way to the door.
"I'll take it from here."
