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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Pierrette had been about to go and see if the clothing box had any new pairs of sandals to offer her. The last week her pair from home had grown worn and tired, the leather shredding and breaking under constant wear. She was barefoot now, the leather thongs clasped in one hand and her feet dusted with a healthy layer of dirt and sand. Her head was tilted, her feet quick, and she nearly barreled past the large gathering room without a thought before her ears perked a the sound of music. When the singing began, she stopped entirely, her expression drawn and thoughtful. It wasn't unusual for men and women to sing as they worked, or for mothers to croon lullabies to fussing babies. It was in her own mother's songs that she had learned her ways as a masc, but she had never heard anyone sing this way. It was beautiful

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There were several ways that a person could accept praise, and of them all, Kurt had always had difficulty finding where 'gracefully' lay. Some people were humble, almost too much so, turning away most compliments and speaking very lowly of their talents. Kurt never wanted to be a part of that group, because in show business, and certainly in Broadway, confidence mattered. If one couldn't even acknowledge that one was a good singer, how were other people supposed to believe it? But the years that he'd spent at McKinley also made him acutely aware of the other extreme altogether, what he liked to call the Rachel Berry effect, where self-praise resonated more loudly than anything else and drowned out whatever constructive criticism other people had to offer. Kurt didn't want to venture into that area, either, and so when he turned to find a girl praising him, eyes rapt, he hesitated for a minute. Everyone on the island was different, somehow, than the average citizen back in Lima, Ohio

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Pierrette wasn't entirely sure what a jukebox even was, and she typically kept her adventures into the compound as brief, fleeting affairs. She would snoop and peek around corners, but she wasn't one to sit and leisurely loiter in the gathering areas. If anything, she was quick to stay on the edges, content to watch and disappear unless she found a familiar face.

This boy was as unfamiliar as one could get. From his funny clothes to his pink cheeks he had the lines of someone who was ready to be a man but had stopped short. There was an odd softness to him. She wondered if this was the sort of softness that had given her away as a girl when she had been pretending to be Piers.

"No," she admitted, head shaking. Her hair was getting long, too long, she thought and she found herself pulling it over one slim shoulder. "I am afraid I do not know what a Broadway is. Is that the poet who wrote your song?"

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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

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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?"

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"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

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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

[vestalstone]

"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

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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

[vestalstone]

"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

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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

[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