dorothy's slippers.

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So here's what you missed on Glee:

Puck and Santana have been stranded on an island that kind of reminds them of Lost, except without the cool polar bears and the smoke monster, and both of them are missing home and feeling way out of their league, even if neither will admit to it. ( "Not your type of party, is it?" "If I say no, you're going to

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"Dear lord," he murmured to himself, suspecting that the lack of Broadway knowledge was something common among residents of the island. Although Puck's various attempts at explaining the island left something rather to be desired, Kurt had lingered around enough people to get the main gist- that the folks on Tabula Rasa came from all walks of life, all corners of the universe, and even though Broadway's influence was something that Kurt never wanted to undersell, he could more than imagine other galaxies not having the faintest clue what Broadway was. "It really breaks my heart to hear that question from you right now." Shaking himself out of the circular train of thought, Kurt held out a hand to try and invite her into the room.

"The answer being no, Broadway isn't a person, and certainly not one that wrote any of the songs that I sing. Broadway refers to performances, theatrical performances, given at some of the top venues in Manhattan, New York. The crème de la crème, so to speak, of theater. I..." He paused, eyes narrowing. "I trust that you've at least seen live performances of plays, yes?"

[vestalstone]

Hesitation and trepidation sets in like a quick flash, just enough anxiety to leave Pierrette afraid that she had made some sort of social slip. But then she remembered that there is no shame in ignorance, merely in stupidity, and she stood straighter, heeding to the boy's beckoning. He speaks of far off places, names she has not heard, and with each step her heart pounds a little harder, wondering if some new mystery is about to be unfolded for her.

"Not at all." She admitted, with some shame. Theatre was a strange concept, one she only knew from the scrolls of Anselm's library. For simple meager people as from Citharista, such a fanciful past-time would be useless and frowned upon. "I am unlike you, I am afraid. While my people may have song and dance, none of it is for the entertainment of others. It is only for the people themselves, should the occasion call for it."

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She had, momentarily, the look of a deer caught in the headlights. That was never something that Kurt wanted to inspire in another person. Quite frankly, he didn't think that there was anything threatening about his person. Even in fits of anger, Kurt had plenty of experiences that told him that his words, however sharp, rarely cut deep and to the quick, and when they did, they still always left wide openings for people to sweep in and apologize. His father had. Finn, as well. Because, at the end of the day, Kurt always tended to wear his heart on his sleeve, whether he liked it or not, and people whose emotions were left so wide open, they never posed as much of a threat.

Right then, he was almost glad for that.

Moving over to the sofa, he patted the seat next to his own, inviting her to join. "And what," he asked quietly, "makes you think that I wasn't singing and dancing for myself just then? Or that people... in the theater aren't doing the same?"

[vestalstone]

"I am afraid I have misspoken in some way." She said gently, padding further into the room and dipping her weight onto the seat, just out of arm's reach. He was a funny boy, and unbidden she was reminded of Lovi in Massalia, whose pale complexion and pink cheeks were so very much the same. Even the nose, upturned and Frankish was painfully similar. Had this boy had hair like polished brass it would have been possible to think of them as countrymen, if not as brothers.

It was an odd comparison to make and Pierrette had not thought of that boy in such a long time, far longer than her stay on the island could tell. Lovi had made her a fool with a flutter in her stomach. She would not make that mistake twice, even if she no longer was hidden as Piers.

"I have only read of theatre. While your --," she wrestled for the right word, "-- performers may sing their joy, they choose to lay down their plows and devote their strength to it. Such a thing has no place where I come from. It is for the kings and Gods to enjoy, not for people who blister their fingers for each bite of bread."

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"You haven't," Kurt replied with a smile, observing the young girl with some interest. The world that she was describing sounded very different than his own, instead like a world from centuries ago- but even on the rare occasion that Kurt had tried to picture such a world (he wasn't too interested in ren faires, but to say that he'd never taken a peek at the feel of such festivities would have been a lie), never did he imagine that the lower classes wouldn't have any opportunity to perform amongst themselves. "The uninformed should never be held accountable for what they don't know, unless it's a willful ignorance." His brows raised, as though to indicate that he'd certainly met that type before, although the expression quickly softened to one that was fond once more.

Resting his elbow on the back of the couch, and making sure not to invade the personal space that the girl had already carved out for herself, Kurt's eyes narrowed, trying to place everything in context. "So... by the sound of it, I'd guess that this island is very different than what you're accustomed to. I can't- I can't even imagine what it'd be like working like that. I feel bad enough about my dad being a mechanic," he shrugged lightly, cheeks tinging just a touch in embarrassment, not of his father, but of the fact that he was still always wanting more for his family. Wanting them to chase after their dreams, wanting them to have the comfortable way of living that they so deserved, rather than having his parents give up their dream honeymoon just to keep him safe from school bullies. "I don't think it's my place to say too much about your old way of life, but if you want to learn about performance, I think you could get off to a good start. Here."

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"Ignorance may be bred, but stupidity may only be learned." Pierrette agreed, eyes brightening. "I have always thought this, but when I came to learn from my master he told me the same. I believe he once said that if one has never seen the sky, there is no way to know it is blue. If one works and lives in the fields, then it is at their own discretion to make themselves an idiot."

His voice was nice, if not odd for a boy. Higher and softer than it should have been, but after hearing his song Pierrette thought it suited him. Lovi's had been normal, squeaky with adolescence and a medium pitch. She doubted he would have been a very fine singer.

"I had never thought of it." She admitted, brows pinching. "But it would not be a wasteful thing if I did. The days here can stretch so long and time slips by like grains of sand. I have been here for many months but have accomplished nothing each day, only found ways to waste it." Her scavenging in the woods didn't count. "But I would never know where to start. Even this place," she nodded to the room, "Is strange to me. You are soft and kind, as are many people here, but I fear that I will only make myself seem an ignorant fool. I have far too much to learn, not just of performance, but of everything."

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"Your master sounds very wise," Kurt replied in turn, even though he couldn't help but linger on the very type of language that was being used, one that most certainly had to have been from generations ago, perhaps even centuries before his own time. Not having paid the greatest of attention to pre-19th century history, Kurt couldn't peg the language down for certain, but there was something whimsical about it nonetheless, something that went along with all of her other descriptions, almost humbling. Sometimes, Kurt couldn't help thinking that the ease with which teens could get their hands on most anything those days left some lessons unlearned.

Shaking his head away from the thought, he turned his attention instead to the beautiful young girl in front of him. It would have been all too easy to make her into his next project, he thought lightly to himself. Her looks alone were enough to make her a star, if she wanted, and to Kurt, nothing seemed more important than the desire to try. What did she stand to lose, especially if her days were so idle?

"You can't just let time slip by you," he nodded, tone encouraging. "And trust me, no one knows where to start the first time. That's the very nature of the beast. Expressing yourself is something that you... have to grow into, and one of the first steps is becoming unafraid. Will you make a fool out of yourself at some point? Possibly. But if it's in the name of art, no one's going to think less of you for it. Or any other subject area, for that matter."

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"Oh, he is." Pierrette breathed, her heart swelling with fondness at the thought of the old sorcerer. "Eccentric I must add, but the world has seen no one who could compare to my master. I miss him each and every day." She missed the old man's teasing and jokes, even his stubborn will and crude attitude. If there were people she would wish to see on the island, Marie and Anselm would be the first.

She wondered what kind of life this strange boy must have been living before he came to this place. Self expression was not necessarily a strange thought, but it had a place and a time. For Pierrette, even as Piers, had been shushed and quieted, only left to her own devices in silence and solitude. And now that she could walk under the sun as a girl, she was expected to be even quieter. "I have only had one way to express myself, I think," she mused. "But even then, I had to hide myself. Not out of shame, never from shame, but from fear. To fully develop my skill and to enjoy my craft out in the eyes of my townsfolk would surely mean death for me as it did for my mother."

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Any smile lingering on his lips completely faded away at the mention of the girl's mother. Kurt felt blood draining from his face, replaced by an unpleasant buzz that lingered on his skin, a distant ringing in his ears. He thought of his mother nearly every day, that wasn't new, and alone, the thought of her could never throw him so severely off-guard. But at least he had always been able to console himself with the fact that it'd been immediate, that she hadn't suffered, that no one had intended to have her suffer. (One of innumerable reasons why he couldn't believe in God, or certainly not in the Grace of Him; if he was willing to take a woman who'd never been anything but kind from a family who could never be whole in her absence, how could anyone call him kind? Benevolent? Having their best interests in mind?)

In spite of the world suddenly layering around him with cotton, blocking off all senses and trapping inside the recesses of his own mind, still he struggled to see through and to the other girl. "The townsfolk... killed your mother?" he asked, blinking rapidly. "That's horrible."

[vestalstone]

When the boy's complexion bled to a stark white, Pierrette's brows pulled in concern and she fidgeted where she sat. She had meant nothing terrible by her words, it had only been musings brought on by their conversation, but out of the blue he seemed to have faded and grown fearful and distant of her. She reached out to him, her hands coming short of touching him and lingered, hovering just over the slim hand still settled on the back of the furniture.

"I am sorry if I have upset you," she murmured, searching his face. "This is something I have lived with for such a long time, I fear I may forget how grave of news it may be. I remember very little of my mother, it is my sister who will always bear that burden. But it is unfortunate to say that in a Christian village, no pagan woman would be truly accepted by her neighbors. I have been lucky this far, as they are too cowardly to touch a child. But as my womanhood approaches, as do dangerous tides."

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In spite of the way that Kurt could still feel his skin numbed with pins and needles, briefly brushing against the side of each cheek, he had enough sense to reach forward, his hand resting on top of the girl's. Quite possibly, it was a bit forward, especially if she was indeed from a time as far back as the one she'd described sounded, lifetimes ago, from another world entirely, where even the brush of fingers was a gesture worth note. Because, no matter what amount of discomfort he felt himself, the greater consideration had to be made to the young woman, whose mother had died for her beliefs, who had wandered around likely lost and without anyone to guide her in the way that parents were meant to, until children felt themselves capable of handling everything on their own.

Next to her problems, Kurt's felt... small. Trifling.

"The last thing that you should be doing is apologizing, dear," he reassured, lips in a smile that strained, but was no less sincere for it. "Mothers will always be a bit of a touchy topic for me. My own died when I was eight, but... not as the result of anything like that."