Pairings: Kurt/Blaine; Finn/Rachel, Brittany/Santana, Quinn/Sam; Mike/Tina

Disclaimer: Don't own ANYTHING and I never will. I once petitioned for the rights to Darren Criss and Chris Colfer, but that didn't end well for anybody . . .

More than a Little Crazy

I know that it might sound more than a little crazy,

But I believe

I knew I loved you before I met you

I think I dreamed you into life

I knew I loved you before I met you

I have been waiting all my life

– "I Knew I Loved You;" Savage Garden

Ch.1 Ambush

Once upon a time, in a far off land full of mystical wonders and magic, there lived three kingdoms. Hidden deep within the mountains, ruled over by an all-powerful dictator, was brutal McKinley. Atop a tall cliffside stood shabby, yet quaint Glee, governed by the people. And across the ocean, reigned by a fair royal family since its founding, sat the regal Dalton.

The three kingdoms existed in a precarious peace. Though spats were common among McKinley's current dictator and the king or queen of Glee (beginning when Glee's first king got the first perm), the conflicts did not prohibit business. And apart from trading and political affairs, Dalton mainly kept to itself. For years and years, 'twas the status quo.

But peace is nearly impossible to maintain – and there came a time when the newest queen of McKinley grew power-hungry. In her own kingdom, things always ran smoothly: every person and creature had their place, knew their place, and remained in their place. But this was not the case for her neighbors: while Dalton was orderly, its stubborn citizens insisted on equal rights for all; and Glee was just a big mess of . . . messiness. It was revolting.

So, naturally, the queen decided to fix this.

If the kingdoms were ruled by her, there would be no mess, no chaos, no losers, or failures, or fatties. Simply triumph, winners, and order. At last, the world would run as it was intended to: with the mighty and beautiful on the top of the pyramid and the weak soiling their ugly faces in the dung-filled dirt.

But of all the things to get in her way – she never counted on love.


It was months before his eighteenth birthday, and Prince Blaine of Dalton was frightened out of his mind.

Granted, he didn't show this fear – that was out of the question. It was considered ludicrous for a man of his rank to feel afraid, at all; should anyone discover what he was actually scared of? He would never hear the end of it.

Peeking through a thick, velvet curtain, Blaine observed the Great Ballroom below him: the polished, gold and white marble surfaces; the dozens of circular tables laden with refreshments; the women clad in luxurious gowns and men in lush capes mingling, drinking, being merry; a tangible cloud of anticipation hanging low in the air.

"How do you feel?"

Blaine jumped, snapping the curtains shut, and spun around to come face to face with a man that looked very much like the prince: same bushy eyebrows, chiseled jaw line, unruly, ebony curls styled into place with indecent amount of product, and tragic, tragic height. Blaine's father. And all of Dalton's king.

"Well," Blaine answered. "I feel very well." I think I'm going to vomit.

King Charles placed a sturdy hand on his son's shoulder. "I cannot stress to you enough the importance of this ball."

If it would not have been so entirely disrespectful, Blaine might have shrugged the king's hand off. "I know, Father. For the last time, I get it."

Steel gray eyes – one of the few traits Blaine did not inherit from his dad – peered into his own, harsh, domineering. "Do you, Son? Do you truly understand? If you did, would you not have tried harder to maintain your previous courtships?"

Under his father's grip, Blaine's shoulders stiffened. "None of my previous girlfriends would have made dignified queens, and you know it."

"Perhaps not. But you have had very few girlfriends for a boy who has been allowed to court since the age of fourteen. Sometimes, it is as if you do not even care about the issue –,"

"That's not true!" snapped Blaine, barely feeling sorry for speaking to a dignitary in such a manner. "What if maybe I care too much? I want the perfect queen to bear my children, rule my nation, and I am unwilling to settle for anything less!"

King Charles clenched his jaw; released a low, resigned sigh. "In that ballroom are all the eligible noble women from most every nearby kingdom. You will go out there, mingle, dance, whisk away to broom cupboards – frankly, I don't care. Just see who interests you, establish relationships, make positive impressions. We can talk politics later. Understood?'

Blaine held his breath, wondering if he should continue to press the issue. Finally, he bowed his head in submission; confrontation never was his strong point. "Yes, sir."

The king nodded curtly, before murmuring something to a passing servant. The servant nodded, hurriedly disappeared through the curtain. A trumpet sounded and the buzz of chattering guests silenced instantly.

A voice boomed, "Ladies and gentlemen, King Charles Anderson the Third of Dalton!"

There was a low murmur, and Blaine imagined everyone kneeling out of respect. Blaine's father straightened his shining crown, ran a finger over his moustache, and walked onto the balcony, the hem of his lavish cloak whipping behind him.

"On behalf of my country, I thank you all for gathering here today."

He droned on and on about the history of Dalton, past kings and queens, yada yada yada; Blaine eventually tuned him out until –

"I now present to you my son and future King of Dalton, Prince Blaine Anderson!"

Thunderous applause; and Blaine found himself stepping through the curtain and into the blaring lights and bright stares, blistering on his face. Breathing deeply, he walked at a measured pace from the balcony, down the winding staircase, sealing his terrible fate. He took a seat at the head table, clothed in eggshell cloth and sparkling dinner plates. His mother, and younger sister and brother already sat, along with the rest of the royal family (which stretched from great-great-great-great aunts to fourth cousins twice removed). His father soon joined them.

"Dig in!" King Charles ordered. The guests gratefully obliged, tearing at pork, chicken, buttered biscuits, and all sorts of good foods. Blaine found he did not have much of an appetite.

Over an hour passed, while Blaine pretended to be happy and hungry. He kept mostly quiet, allowing others' conversations to wash over him: his mother and sister predicting fall fashions; Father educating Blaine's brother on the different kingdoms' representatives in attendance; uncles and aunts and cousins trying to advise him which ladies were suitable for marriage, which were good for a night or two of fun, and which were just plain trouble. It was exhausting to merely listen to.

At last – at long, long last – King Charles set down his fork and knife, and folded his napkin; receiving the wordless signal, dozens of servants bustled into the ballroom to clean the food away, and pull the round tables to the perimeter of the room.

"And now," Blaine's father announced, casting the prince a hard look, "we dance."

Blaine stood. He knew an order when he heard one.

Classical music began to swirl through the air and Blaine tentatively navigated the crowd. Several women batted their eyelashes, but he ignored them. He should choose the perfect woman to dance with, he told himself. And maybe – just maybe – he was stalling a little, too.

Finally, he saw her. Standing off to the side with two other bored-looking young women, as more than one man cast hopelessly infatuated glances her way. Pastel-colored gown, honey blonde ringlets pulled effortlessly away from her face, soft features. And a head held high. Perfect.

The woman saw him coming and tugged on the sleeves of her companions' dresses. All three stood a little straighter, anticipating the handsome prince's arrival.

"Good evening," Blaine grinned suavely. He bowed low at the waist. "I am Prince Blaine."

"Good evening to you, Prince," the woman Blaine's sights were set on said. She seemed to be the trio's leader of sorts, and had a voice like cream. "I am Princess Quinn Fabray. This is Princess Santana, and Princess Brittany." She gestured to the dark-haired, dark-skinned girl on her right, and the impossibly fair-haired and fair-skinned girl on her left, respectively. "We come from the kingdom of McKinley."

Blaine's eyebrows climbed. "You three are sisters?"

Princess Brittany gasped; bent around Quinn to whisper to Santana, "We are?"

Princess Santana rolled her eyes. "No, Britt."

"McKinley has many princesses," explained Princess Quinn, "none of which are actually blood related. Queen Sylvester, McKinley's dictator, picks who she thinks will be the best future rulers when they are young children, and raises them as her own, before sending them off to marry noble men. With this tactic, she has infiltrated thirty-two kingdoms across the world –,"

"And eight major corporations," finished Princesses Santana and Brittany. They high-fived.

Blaine gaped at the trio, digesting this information. "Wow," he said. "That's, er . . . well." Attempting to smooth over how awkward he now felt (McKinley sounded an awful lot like a cult), he offered his hand to Princess Quinn. "May I?"

"You may," she answered smoothly, smirking as her fellow princesses seemed to deflate and allowing him to lead her onto the hardwood dance floor. He set his hand on her slim hip and then they were gliding through the room, between other waltzing couples, and past envious men and women alike. Blaine tried to block their sneers, focusing on Princess Quinn's deep green eyes.

"You're very short," she suddenly remarked. "Shorter than any grown human man I have ever met."

Annoyance set in and Blaine did his best not to glare, for it was never acceptable to glare at lady. "And you obviously don't understand common courtesy."

Quinn's sculpted brow arched, but she did not comment on his retort (which probably wasn't much more gentlemanly than glaring would have been, he now reflected). "Perhaps it you should dance with Princess Brittany. She's tall and it would do best for you to marry a tall woman. That way, your sons will be taller than you and won't have to wait until mere months before they take over the crown to find a wife."

"What does my height have to do with my inability to find a wife?"

"Short men are very unattractive."

Blaine found that rather offensive. "Maybe I want short kids. They'll be able to overcome adversity and whatnot. Plus, my father married as tall a woman as he could get, and look at all the good it did me."

"Touché." Quinn smirked and Blaine decided that, despite her blatant disregard for short people's feelings, he kind of liked her.

Through the bobbing heads, Blaine noticed his father's watchful eyes following their waltz. Casually, the prince dipped his head closer to Quinn's ear and whispered, "What do you say we go somewhere? Alone?"

He had to grant it to her; Princess Quinn's breathing barely faltered. She tilted her own head, so her glossed lips ever so slightly brushed his ear. "One day, Prince, I am going to be the queen of a grand nation. Perhaps it will be yours. Now, I will disappear with you for the sake of appearances, but I am a princess. Not some common skank you can find on the street corner."

Blaine swallowed, eyes darting to and fro, scanning the crowd. So many people to please, so many duties to carry out. If he could just . . . leave it all for a little while . . . .

"Duly noted," he murmured, dropping his hand from her hip and tugging her through the mob. Women flushed and glanced away from them, while men swallowed their grins and nodded out of respect and encouragement. They knew what the prince and princess were about to do, and no one dared get in their way. As it should be.

The pair reached the back doors that led to the gardens and Blaine sighed in relief: escape was close at hand. But just as he was about to usher Quinn into the night –


The floors shook and the walls rattled; Quinn yelped, clutching the prince to remain upright; and Blaine saw the huge, oak doors on the other end of the ballroom spring open. In stumbled a very familiar young man, dark hair sopping wet from the rain outside. He collapsed to the floor.

"WES!" Before he knew it, Blaine was pushing Quinn out of the way and rushing to his friend, elbowing aside anyone remotely close to inhibiting his quest. Finally reaching the knight, he kneeled at Wes' side – and choked. Wes' entire right shoulder was coated in hot, sticky blood. "Oh my god, Wes! Wesley, talk to me! What happened to you?"

Slowly, Wes opened his jet-black eyes, wide with terror and pain, and in an impossibly quiet voice that somehow managed to echo off the walls, he whispered, "Dalton's under attack!"


Election Day in the land of Glee was fast approaching, which meant –

"Excuse me, pardon me, out of my way! I need to – Kurt! Kurt Hummel, I need to talk to you!"

Well, quite frankly, it meant Rachel Berry. Lots and lots of Rachel Berry.

Biting back a groan, Kurt turned to face possibly the most annoying Countess to grace this sweet Earth. She was pretty, sort of – cascading brown hair, bottomless chocolate eyes, petite body, overlarge nose (for all Kurt knew, a big nose was a very attractive quality to some people). But appreciating her beauty became ridiculously difficult when one was assaulted with her ego and overbearing personality on a daily basis.

"What do you want, Milady?" The words rolled from his tongue, dripping with sarcasm.

Rachel immediately passed over an unbelievably thick stack of colored parchment paper. Curious, he thumbed through them: each flyer was decorated in gold stars, and bore Rachel's bright smile and the goofy grin of a (kind of) cute boy, along with bubble letters declaring: DON'T BE MEAN – VOTE HUDSON AND BERRY FOR KING AND QUEEN!

She had to be kidding.

"And what exactly," Kurt asked, voice measured and patient, "am I expected to do with these?"

"I need you to hand these out to the knights, down by the sea," answered Rachel primly. "Finn says he's not allowed to anymore, so –,"

She was cut off by the force of Kurt shoving the flyers back into her hands. "I'm not your servant, Berry," he coolly said. "I don't have to do everything you say."

Rachel sputtered. "Of course not! Slavery is wrong and when Finn and I are elected as King and Queen of Glee –,"

"If you and Finn are elected as King and Queen of Glee."

"One of my first missions will be to investigate and disband slavery in neighboring kingdoms. But anyway, don't you think it's the least you could do, in order to repay my family for their generous hospitality?"

A twinge of guilt stung Kurt's heart, but he pushed it away, saying, "First off, my dad, stepmom, and I only have to live with you because you insisted every last cent of our money be spent on campaigning for the last five years. So, no, I am not obligated to repay you by carrying out your mundane tasks."

He was about to turn on his heel and continue in the direction he had previously been traveling: Mercedes Jones' house. He couldn't wait to drink the freshly squeezed lemonade Artie would surely have provided for their little get-together, discuss King Schuster's latest attempt at reinstating the Fine Arts with Tina, and laugh over the train wreck that was Rachel Berry with his three (and sometimes only) friends.

Of course, Rachel had other ideas.

"Wait!" she exclaimed, grabbing his arm. "Ok, that was rude. I'm asking you to hand out the flyers, not as repayment, but because you want to help your stepbrother and . . ." she held her left hand up, so he could first lay eyes on the huge diamond adorning her ring finer, "future stepsister-in-law?"

His mouth fell open; he watched in fascination as the jewel caught the few sunrays filtering through the clouds and splayed rainbow sparks across the pavement.

"No," he said. "When?"

"Just this morning!" she squealed, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. "I wanted to tell everyone right away, of course, but Finn wants to keep it low-key. But I had to tell you! Will you help plan the wedding? Though I'll naturally have the final say in everything, your opinion could be valuable, and . . ."

She continued to prattle on, but Kurt tuned her out. He was going to plan a wedding for a countess! A countess he didn't particularly like, but still . . . his name would be out there. And once his name was out there . . . things were bound to change.

Mercedes, Artie, and Tina could wait.

"Alright!" he interrupted, full well knowing it was extremely rude to interrupt a countess, and not especially caring. "There's so much we need to discuss. First, when do you plan on having the wedding? Before the election, obviously, so I think we should –," He stopped short at the sight of her big, doe eyes.

"Oh, give me those!" he snapped, snatching the flyers from her roughly and pushing past her in the direction of the sea.

"Thank you, Kurt!" called Rachel.

"I hate you!" Kurt called back.

"That's a small price to pay for greatness!"

Kurt rolled his eyes.

As he walked the streets of Glee to the ocean, like he had done so many times before, Kurt saw many others he knew out for a stroll; and like they had done so many times before, they steadily ignored him. It hardly mattered that his stepbrother or future stepsister-in-law were close to royalty, or that King Schuster had passed an abundance of laws to nearly guarantee equal treatment to all; Kurt was still the bottom of the food chain.

In the rare, black moments when he could freely admit to himself that he was hardly the confident, proud boy he tried to act like, Kurt wondered if things would be different if he was, well . . . different.

But he wasn't about to change anytime soon. And so he supposed he would never know.

At last, Kurt reached the cliffs; a breeze, thick with salt and impending rain, nipped at his nose and tousled his perfectly sculpted bangs. For a moment, he simply observed the ships, swaying in the clear ocean, loose sails flapping in the breeze, tall masts reaching into the sky. Men in uniforms loaded cargo onto the ships, laughing and chatting and looking remarkably youthful as they chased each other across the sand. Seahawks cawed, flying farther into the air than man could ever dream of reaching, before zooming down again, as if simply to taunt the workers with their skill.

Kurt loved the seashore.

Smiling (like a buffoon, he imagined), he took the sloping path down the cliffside to the beach, careful not to walk too fast or dislodge too many pebbles, for fear of starting an avalanche and tarnishing this beautiful haven. Reaching sea level, he spotted Finn Hudson's bulky frame towering above the others.

Kurt was just about to call out, when abruptly – before he could scream, or flail, or make sense of what the heck was going on – something pinned him to the rock face. Something; as in a massive, hulking body.

"Get off –," he started, but then a hand was covering his mouth and he had no other choice but to stare wordlessly into a pair of beady eyes, cold and terrified as death.

"Don't scream," Knight Karofsky's gruff voice grunted. "I'm just gonna talk to you."

Slowly, he lifted his hand. Kurt still felt the need to snap, "Get your filthy hands off me," as he straightened his hair.

"What do you want, Karofsky?" asked Kurt. "I thought you'd gone back to McKinley ages ago –,"

"I did. But I'm back here on business. I just wanted to make sure you didn't . . ." Even though they were clothed in the shadows, and already whispering, Karofsky looked hesitant to continue.

Kurt sighed heavily; the last thing he wanted was to remember The Incident – but maybe they could put it behind them, once and for all. "No, I didn't tell anyone about what transpired on your last visit to Glee. And I don't plant on it, either."

Karofsky seemed to relax. But only just.

"What are you even doing here?" Kurt continued. "Don't you have better things to do? Battles to fight? Girlfriends to pretend you're actually attracted to?"

Karofsky growled low in his throat, but Kurt wasn't about to back down.

"I thought all the men already knew," said Karofsky. "Oh, but that's right – women don't mess around with politics."

"Well, that explains why you're so stupid –,"

"We're attacking Dalton."

Kurt's eyes widened by half a mile. "Dalton? Isn't the prince having some sort of ball to find a wife tonight? Why would you attack – doesn't Queen Sylvester have some of her girls there?"

"Yeah. So she's attacking them. Some kind of reverse psychology thing, I think. I'm kind of confused, actually."

"Shocker." Once again, despite how inappropriate it was to speak in such a way to people of higher rank than him, Kurt couldn't fight off the sarcastic edge in the single word. An edge Karofsky immediately noticed.

"Don't push me, Hummel!"he growled, raising his fist. His eyes fell on the flyers in Kurt's hands. "What are those?" He ripped one from the stack, read it; a cruel smirk colored his lips. "Elections are coming up, huh? You should run. You'd be a shoo-in for Queen." Finally having taken some semblance of control back, Karofsky turned and made his way back to the ships.

Kurt watched him go, fighting tears that threatened to explode from memories.

It's over, he reminded himself. You can't change what happened. Focus on something else. Something bigger.


There had to be more to the story than what Karofsky explained. Why did Queen Sylvester have her knights come to Glee, when he was certain she had plenty capable ships of her own? And how on earth did said knights get anti-violence King Schuster and easygoing Finn Hudson to agree to an attack? Then again, maybe they didn't agree. As much as he loved and admired them both, they could tend to be a bit . . . easily misled.

Thinking that perhaps he should let Finn know exactly what was going on, he began to make his way toward his clueless stepbrother with new resolve. Rachel's campaign flyers remained limp and forgotten in his hands.

"Move it or lose it, kid!" a voice barked and then a heavy box was being shoved into Kurt's thin arms.

"What?" Kurt gasped, the wind nearly knocked out of him. He looked at the box, full of swords, bullets, and other deadly-looking objects. "No, I'm not –,"

But he was unable to protest more as soldiers rammed into his back, hustled along, forcing him to stumble onto the waiting deck of one of the docked ships. It swayed beneath his landlubber feet, causing him to nearly collapse. Rough hands grabbed the back of his vest and hoisted him up, pushed him to the side. A large, beefy man in a captain's hat glared at him. "I need those boxes unloaded and passed out to the soldiers STAT! And where's your uniform? You look like a girl dressed in drag!"

Kurt glanced down at his ensemble: a wine-colored vest tied tight with black lace, cream-colored tunic, and form-fitting leather pants. Sure, they weren't much, but . . . "What's wrong with my clothes?"

The man was already moving away.

"Wait, no!" Kurt called after him. "I have to get off! I'm not meant to be here!"

"That's what they all say! Queen Sylvester recruited you as a deckhand, and that's that!"

Before he could respond, a group of men nearly ran him over in their quest for weapons. He tried to push past them, or yell for help, but each soldier was just so darn big and loud and strong. It was like trying to swim upstream the most powerful river in existence.

Exhausted, Kurt stopped fighting the current and handed out weapons from the box, hoping this would speed his escape. However, just as he was finishing with the impertinent group, the ship gave an abrupt heave and Kurt staggered backwards, nearly tipping over the side. At first, he had no idea what was happening – maybe his breakfast bagel didn't sit well in his stomach? – but then he noticed. The ship was gradually swinging more beneath him and the shore appeared farther away.

Panic clenched his stomach, his heart, his lungs.

"What's happening?" Kurt asked no one in particular. His arm flew out and stopped a soldier in his tracks. "You! What's happening?"

The soldier gave him an odd look. "We're setting sail, of course!"

"No!" Kurt turned his stricken eyes to the crew member. "Can the ship turn back? We've got to turn back! I don't belong here!"

Seemingly sympathizing, the soldier patted Kurt's shoulder. "Yeah, that's what I told Captain Tenaka when I was first recruited, too. But don't worry. It gets easier."

And with that, he left Kurt alone. So, so alone.

Kurt had always harbored a deep love for the ocean. It was made of so many different, odd components, all acting in tandem to create something more beautiful and powerful than could be imagined; like the world's loveliest harmony. He had dreamed of escaping Glee and setting sail around the world, to see new sights and ideas, explore new oceans. But not like this. Not because of an attack.

Overwhelmed, Kurt buried his face in his hands. He wasn't about to cry. He couldn't be. There was still a chance of getting off this thing before the Apocalypse started.

Struck by one last, futile hope, Kurt caught the arm of a deckhand passing with a mop. "Excuse me? Is Finn Hudson on this ship?"

"No, sir," the other boy said. "Sorry." He made to move away.

"Wait!" Kurt's fingers tightened around the boy's elbow. "Is . . . is Dave Karofsky?"

"No, sir. Both Knight Karofsky and Captain Hudson are on the Gene Kelly. We're on the Journey." He jerked his elbow impatiently.

"One last thing. You wouldn't happen to believe me if I said I don't belong on this ship, would you?" Kurt tried. But the attempt was weak, even to his own ears.

The deckhand simply laughed before finally pulling free. And Kurt had to face the facts.

He was stuck on a ship that was about to attack a neighboring kingdom, and no one would listen to him.

Well, shit.


Perhaps because he was dreading it, or perhaps because Dalton was not as far away as Kurt previously believed, but sooner rather than later the hills of the shore were silhouetted against the brilliant sunset. A light drizzle fell and the waves seemed angry, crashing loudly against the ship's sides. Kurt sat huddled in the shadows of a mast, ignored in his new sailor uniform, tears and ocean mist and raindrops wet on his cheeks. His breath caught in his throat when he noticed the docks pulling closer, along with two other ships from Glee. Finn must have been on one of them . . . maybe Kurt could find him and they could get to safety . . .

But Kurt had misjudged the McKinleyons. There was no hesitation, no wait, no mercy. Simply a short call of, "Man the cannons!" And then –



Cannon balls from all three ships erupted simultaneously into the quiet night. Screams – Kurt clenched his eyes as tight as they would go, trying desperately not to imagine the innocent civilians of the kingdom, in for the shock of their lives. Tried not to put himself in their shoes.

It was just so wrong.

Now, Kurt had known a lot of wrong in his life. His mother was stolen from him so young. He was laughed at, called names, bullied from the time he could talk and people first heard the distinctly feminine lilt of his voice. He had been misunderstood and unaccepted – and that was before Karofsky decided to make his life a living hell. So, when something was really, truly wrong, Kurt was usually the first – and possibly only – one to tell.

But this wasn't even subtle wrong. Just big, flat out wrong.

Shouts of "IT'S AN AMBUSH!" echoed from the land, carried in the wind, and, just as the rain began to pour torrentially, there was another BANG! Gasps, yells – but this time from his side.

Kurt scrambled to his feet; the floor was tilting and he stumbled forward into other men. "What's going on?" he yelled. "What's happening?"

"Their cannons were already loaded! They got the ship in its sweet spot!" the young man at his side answered – the deckhand Kurt asked about Finn and Karofsky. "We're capsizing! Happens all the time, you've just got to abandon ship!"

Sure enough, all the crew members were rapidly diving into the ocean and swimming toward the other two ships; they clung to dangling ropes and were hoisted up to the decks; the Daltonians reloaded their cannons and prepared for battle.

"What – no – I can't swim!" Kurt cried.

The deckhand cast him a mystified glance. "Then why are you here?"


The ship gave a violent lurch – and Kurt had no choice but to tumble into the glorious ocean for the first time.

It was ice cold, yet burned like fire licking at his legs, his arms, his chest, his eyes. His hair floated around him dreamily, and somewhere deep inside his subconscious mind, Kurt wondered if there was a way to make his hair move like that on a regular basis.

He bobbed to the surface, dragged in a desperate breath, before he was pushed down again. The waters were shallow; he hit the seafloor and the jagged rocks dug at his sides. Thank goodness he still wore his peasant clothes underneath the overlarge uniform; otherwise, who knew what damage could have been done.

Sand, panic, current, no more air – he blacked out.

Which was why he felt rather than saw the tentacles wrap around his middle and drag him, up or down he couldn't tell.

Suddenly, fresh air surrounded him and he could gulp down breaths between the choking coughs that wracked his body. Water rushed up his throat, burning, never-ending.

And then it was over. No more water to cough up, enough air to breathe, and his vision was capable again. The first thing he noticed was that the other two ships were nowhere in sight. When did that happen? he thought hazily.

The next thing he noticed was that he was surrounded by angry-looking men.

With swords.

Pointed straight at him.

Shit didn't even begin to cover it.


A/N: This story is dedicated to those who need Klaine and need it now;)

Recently, I rediscovered my love of fairy tales. I also discovered that fairy tales with Kurt and Blaine as the main characters were, like, the most awesome ones of all. I just couldn't get enough, but, alas, I ran out of them. So, in a hazy fit of Klaine deprivation, I decided to take a crazy leap of faith and write one. I hope it provides some entertainment for any of you who decide to read it!

Also, in case you didn't gather, the title comes from Savage Garden's "I Knew I Loved You." Lovely song:)

NEXT CHAPTER: Prince Blaine must conduct the trial for the new prisoner. Not exactly a way to make a good first impression.