Title: Exaltation of the Morning Rose (Exaltation)

Pairing: Blaine/Kurt

Warning/s: Sexual themes, crude language

A/N: So this is complete AU, and fairly experimental. Basically, most of the story will be set in the Low Lands, a fairly large but limitedly-populated country that Kurt's just become Prince Regent of after his father's death. Parts will also be set in the Sun Kingdoms, a group of small kingdoms in the wonderfully-climated north ruled by Blaine's brother. There will also be references to other kingdoms/countries/provinces/regions.

(Sorry for the names, I'll probably change them when I come up with something that works in my head. Just take them as rough translations of the names or something.)

Just a note: Both Blaine and Kurt's parents are dead, which isn't canon but...yeah, canon probably doesn't really apply to this.

I hope you enjoy it!

Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, etc. etc. etc. If I did, I'd have a better computer.

Chapter 1: Change

"Prince Blaine, we're almost there."

Blaine looks around him, at the barren plains layered in more snow than he's ever wanted to see in his life, and despite all the vows he had made with himself to accept his fate with dignity, he can't help the explosive sigh that leaves his lips.

"Gods," he mutters under his breath, "why me?"

"Your Highness?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing." But the panic's rising within him, curling like a fire-snake in Blaine's stomach, threatening to engulf him from within. For a moment he wishes it would, because oh Gods then he could see Father again, and he wouldn't be here, an annoyance to an older, heterosexual brother, peddled away as easily as a handful of grain.

Andrielle stumbles suddenly, her hoof grating unpleasantly against a stone. Blaine, clutching clumsily to handfuls of reins and midnight-black mane, winces as the jolt stings against saddle-sores, both old and new. He's always enjoyed riding, from when he was a child, and reckoned himself to be more than passable on horseback; but by the end of the three weeks it had taken to reach the southern border of the Sun Kingdoms, Blaine would have been happy to never see a horse again in his life.

When Santana told him, a laugh in her eyes, that it would be another two and a half before they reached Lima, the ridiculously-named (in Blaine's opinion, anyway, because he's never really thought places should sound like misspelled fruit names) capital city of his new homeland…

…Blaine's almost positive he didn't break anything important. Like wedding presents, or bones, or heads.

…Though he did sprain his toe kicking a tree.

He can't help but smile ruefully at the memory, at the careful not-smiles on the faces of soldiers that he would have reprimanded but for the fact that he's known most of them since he was old enough to pick up a sword. David would have laughed, he thinks fondly, and Wes…

His brain, slow and sluggish in the damp cold, catches up with his thoughts and Blaine feels his smile vanish, good humour dissipated like that!

Fucking Wes. Fucking David.

Blaine wants to kick something. The only option available at the moment is Andrielle, though, and Blaine tends to prefer taking his anger out on people, for the simple reason that animals don't seem to have any comprehension of rank. Andrielle's got a temper to rival his when the need arises, which Blaine discovered the first and only time he tried to take a whip to her. If only Wes and David were here, he'd readily make them his new targets.

It's not that Blaine doesn't care for them; they're his brothers, or near enough, after all. (More his brothers than Gabriel, in any case.) Blaine's almost positive that Wes's ceremonial gavel is carved from wood of the old tree, fallen in a heat storm two summers ago, that they used to hide in when the three of them were too young to care about rank or politics or goddamn marriage. But he can't stop wishing that they hadn't decided that they knew what was best for him.

They're his best friends, and he's probably never going to see them again.

And so Blaine can't stop hating them, even just a little bit.

"Hey, Dad."

A particularly strong gust of wind almost threatens to ruffle Kurt's hair. He takes that as incentive, from some father-like spirit that may or may not be lingering in the mortal realm, to continue.

"He's almost here, you know. Yeah, him." Kurt bites his lip. "I wish you hadn't done it, you know. Done all that without telling me. And leaving me the throne. Not that it isn't a nice throne," he hastens to add. "But there was always Finn…"

He frowns, raising an eyebrow. "Though I have to admit, I don't think the country's ready for the reign of Rachel. And Finn. Technically Finn and Rachel, but I don't think I could find anyone who doesn't know who the real ruler would be. Between you and me, I think the Western Plains breathed a collective sigh of relief when she demanded to be married off to Finn. Quinn will make a pretty good Queen, I think, and Rachel's actually happy, because she's always going to be the centre of at least someone's world now."

Kurt, turning, drops to his knees, facing the towering statue. He rocks back till he's sitting on the ground, hard and cold, for once, unconcerned about the silk that'll probably be unusable after the damage the snow will probably do to it.

For a long moment he's silent, and then all the words rush out of his mouth, all at once –

"What if he doesn't like me?" Kurt demands, and he can hear his pitch climbing but he doesn't care right now. "What if we never get along? I know he's beautiful, I've seen the pictures, but what if he hates it here, what if he hates me? What if he's not actually gay and that bastard Gabriel just told me that and made him go along with it to get the alliance? What if…"

Tears well up in his eyes but he blinks rapidly till they go away, unwilling to acknowledge their presence with his hand. "What if…" His words are slower, his voice an almost-whisper. "What if I'm never as happy as you and Mum? You and Carol? Or Rachel and Finn? Even Quinn and Puck. I wouldn't mind if he were a douche – Puck's got that covered, and Quinn's happier than she ever was with Finn. I just…" Kurt's voice catches, and he has to swallow heavily before he can get the rest of the phrase out. "I just want to be happy," he finishes lamely, and he's painfully aware of how naïve and immature he sounds.

All the words have dried up now, like his tears, but Kurt can't bring himself to stand and walk away. So he sits, the dampness of his pants quickly turning into outright-wetness, till he hears an familiar, annoying and yet not unwelcome voice calling his name.

"…Kurt? Kuuuurt! I know you're here, Kurt!"

The atmosphere shatters, Rachel's voice carrying over what looks, as Kurt stands and turns, brushing snow off him, to be far too long a distance for anyone's voice to travel.

But then, Kurt thinks in reluctant admiration, Rachel isn't everyone.

"Oh, there you are!"

And there she is, standing at the heavy, ornate graveyard gates, as ridiculously-garbed as always. Kurt never thought anyone could mis-wear the traditional southern robes, till he met Rachel for the first time. He thinks of it as a curious manifestation of magic's law of equivalence; for an angel's voice she's traded any sense she might ever have had of the aesthetic.

"What is it, Rachel?"

"He's here, he's here, he's here!" she exclaims, practically jumping up and down in excitement. Kurt still hasn't quite figured out why the arrival of this foreign prince inspires so much enthusiasm, but he can understand it.

Right now, though, any potential enthusiasm is shadowed by a nervous fear that twists in his stomach like a knot, as all his doubts come back in a rush.

"Already?" he demands, and that knot's not so much a knot now as some sort of growing parasite-fungus-mutant thing that's sending shivers down his limbs and causing his heart to beat much faster than it should.

"Weeell…" she hesitates. "Not really. But sort of. Brittany says she can see him in her near-sight, which means he'll probably be here soon. But you have to get ready!" She skips ahead of Kurt, somehow managing to stop her feet from sinking into the snow in a way that even Kurt, for all the years he has spent here as opposed to her one year marriage to Finn, has never quite been able to replicate.

She spins around suddenly to face him, brow creasing.

"Hey, Kurt," Rachel frowns, looking him up and down, "why are you so wet?"

Kurt rolls his eyes, starting to walk back towards the castle through the thick snow. "What do you think, Rachel?" he snaps. Normally he can deal with inane, pointless questions, but after the almost-crying he just indulged in, Kurt's not in the mood.

He senses rather than sees her eyes soften, her step become more subdued than is normal, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her hand flick upwards as she hums something under her breath.

Warmth embraces him, not oppressively but comfortingly, and the moisture drains from his clothing. If it were anyone else, he would thank them; Brittany, he'd give a soft smile he never shows anyone else; if it were Finn, he'd roll his eyes and make a scathing remark that could be construed as both gratitude and insult.

But this is Rachel, and so instead he says "Music of the Night? I didn't know murdering sociopaths appealed to you so much," raising an eyebrow as she grins, shrugging.

This memory is more than familiar to Blaine – familiar enough to make him aware that he's dreaming, and dear enough that he doesn't care. He dreams of dark green foliage, of forests and the sparkling water of the Iyara falls that tower above a calm river that's so clear he can see the fish moving languorously, lazily.

Unable to resist, he leaps into the water, feeling it wash over his head. He emerges with a loud gasp to the sound of rich, warm laughter.

His father kneels by the water's edge and Blaine swims slowly towards him, leaning his elbows on the grass as his toes barely graze the riverbed. He smiles hugely at his father till a hand ruffles long, wet curls that almost reach to his shoulder; he scowls, but the older man simply smiles in turn, the slight curve of his lips saying just as much as Blaine's grin did.

"You're mean," Blaine says, pouting at his father as he pulls himself from the water to sit beside him, feet trailing in the slight current.

"Yes," James agrees with a chuckle. "But it's hardly my fault that you're so fun to tease, my boy."

Blaine doesn't say anything; just leans his head against his father's shoulder. The older man doesn't say anything, though Blaine's almost sure he's making a mess of the material.

"Hey, dad…"

He feels James' head turn towards him, feels the arm wrap around his bare wet torso. "Yes, Blaine?"

"You love me, right?"

The arm stiffens, and Blaine's surprised by his father grabbing his chin, forcing him to look straight into large, hazel eyes, so like his own. "Of course," James whispers.

Blaine bites his lip. "No matter what?"

His father sighs. "Is this about what happened earlier, Blaine? About what Gabriel said?"

Blaine nods, lip trembling and eyes downcast.

He feels arms wrap around him, and he buries his face in his father's shirt, trying desperately not to let the tears fall.

"No matter what, Blaine," James whispers into his ear. "No matter what."

Blaine. Blaine. Blaine…For some reason that word seems to echo, the voice changing slightly each time.

Blaine.

Odd. It sounds like a girl's voice – no, a woman.

Blaine.

A strangely familiar woman.

"Blaine. Hey, Blaine. Blaaaaine!"

"Blaine!"

Blaine groans, lifting his head with an effort. "Go away, Santana. I'm trying to sleep," he grumbles automatically before he realises that a) he's still on horseback, b) Andrielle – scratch that, none – of the horses are moving, and c) everyone that Wes and David have managed to bribe to 'escort' him down south is staring at him, expressions ranging from amusement to condescension. Santana, who was obviously shaking him from where she sat on her own palomino, looks like she's about to start laughing.

He sits up quickly, embarrassment sending blood straight to his cheeks.

"Um," he says intelligently, before giving up and burying his face in his hands.

"Eloquent," Santana drawls, and he can just feel her rolling her eyes. Ignoring her, Blaine nudges Andrielle into a canter, and after a few moments he hears the others do the same.

"Hey hobbit, wait up!" Blaine hears Santana call from behind him, but he doesn't bother to slow down. Sure enough she catches up with him, turning in her saddle to face him even as their horses move into a gallop. Part of Blaine wishes she'd fall, if only so that he'd have the chance to bruise her ego once compared to the million times she does it to him. The other, more sensible half, knows that she's literally magic with horses and that there's more chance of the two of them having sex than of her ever falling.

"You should have seen your face," she snickers, "and do you realise you were drooling? I bet you were dreaming about whatever you gay guys do when you get it on."

Blaine doesn't respond, concentrating on the feeling of the wind in his hair, the pleasure of speed (and trying to ignore the alternately dull and sharp aching of his ass and lower back.

"You were, weren't you?" Santana demands, triumph in her voice. "I bet you were dreaming about Burt, or Kirk, or whatever that Hummel kid's name is! Don't get your hopes up, hobbit, from what I've heard he's-"

He tugs sharply on Andrielle's reins, and responsive as ever despite her anger issues, she slows to a standstill almost instantaneously; too fast for even Santana, magic or not. He laughs loudly as her horse, racing past him, stumbles and she's almost hurled off the front of the saddle, only her ridiculous amount of control saving her from an appropriately embarrassing fall.

"What do you want, Santana?" Blaine asks mildly, riding leisurely to where she's stopped, trying to get her breath back. Santana scowls at him, but he keeps his expression void of anything other than a serene smile till she eventually tires of it.

"Here," she says shortly, and she thrusts something into Blaine's arms.

He blinks twice, looking down at the pot. The pot is obviously northern; sun-baked, a rich red-brown. It's three-quarters-filled with dark soil. And there's a tree in it.

"It's a tree."

"Observant."

Blaine blinks again.

"A sapling," he corrects himself.

"Are you always this smart? Or is this just a one-off thing?"

One more blink. "An orange sapling."

"Can I hit you?"

He's not understanding. "It's one of your orange tre-"

"I'm going to hit you."

"I don't understan-"

"Finally. I knew this intelligence thing couldn't last long."

"But-"

"Just shut up."

"…Okay."

Blaine remembers the first (and last) time, four years ago, that he ever saw Santana cry, and the first (and hopefully last) time he'd ever seen her angry. He'd only been thirteen, but he remembers He remembers the fire that had danced on his palm, remembers the wind that had blown it away and towards the tall tree of thick green leaves and large orange orbs of fruit. He remembers his frantic attempt to capture water, to douse the fire.

He remembers the month afterwards, when she didn't acknowledge his existence till he finally broke down and apologised for the right things - not for destroying the tree (the last gift her mother had given her before she died in the Wars), because after a bit of trimming the tree was fine. Not for playing with magic when he didn't know how to use it.

Blaine remembers apologising, tears in his eyes, for that moment when Santana thought he'd gotten himself killed.

Because most of all, he remembers Santana's expression as the air stilled and the fire died, and remembers turning to see no expression on her dark features, and not understanding why he was so terrified of a cousin barely his height, only a few months older than him.

They ride in silence, till finally (finally) they're at the outskirts of high, thick steel gates. Santana rides forwards and, in typical Santana fashion, announces who they are and where they're from. After a suitably long period of bowing and etc. etc. they're met by a Lord William of House Schuester (Santana whispers something in Blaine's ear about stupid names and he fights to keep the grin off his face) who's apparently been sent to escort them to the castle.

The word 'escort' is sounding more and more like 'prison guard' to Blaine, but he smiles when appropriate, tries to remember what David taught him about southern customs, and follows obediently, Santana by his side.

"Hey, Santana," Blaine says when as they ride as the castle looms ahead of them, as menacingly ominous as he'd always thought it would be.

"…What."

"Thanks."

"Fuck off."

Other characters will be making an appearance, rest assured.

Apart from Klaine, I'm not entirely sure what other pairings to put in...do you have any requests? I'm really open to most things.

Once again, please tell me if you think this is worth continuing!