Carte blanche - part 1
Title: Carte blanche
Type: gen, AU
Word Count: 24,200
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Derek/Stiles, ensemble until the end of season 2
Warnings canonical character death off-screen
Summary: Stiles is the magical unicorn Superbeast of all magical beasts living the life of the worshipped on the Sacred Mountain when Lydia comes knocking and makes him descend to the mortal world to do a little housekeeping. There he meets Derek and his merry gang of misfit vigilantes who are not so quietly raging against the system, but mostly just against Prime Minister Gerard Argent and his not so merry Interim Council. Stiles is determined to keep his immortality and doesn’t intend to choose a rightful Ruler while Derek is more than happy to lead his little troop and doesn’t care much about becoming the most influential person in the kingdom.
Or: one epic journey in The Twelve Kingdoms universe that involves a lot of trekking through landscapes, surviving political machinations and worshipping badass warladies.
Notes: Written for teenwolf-bb 2013. Gorgeous artwork provided by the awesome suzimi, HAVE SEVERAL LOOKS. ♥ ♥ ♥
Carte blanche
carte blanche / noun
(1) full powers: unconditional authority, unrestricted power to act at one's own discretion.
(2) blank check: check that has no numerical value entered, but is already signed.
(3) white paper: the military term for surrender.
Like everything else remarkably adventurous in Stiles’ rather boring life, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that this latest craziness also starts with Lydia.
He is sitting on the cold marble floor out in the open, surrounded by scrolls smelling of ancient knowledge and dust, completely immersed in the Northern region’s beast taming tactics when the air suddenly ripples around him and the magic in his blood sparks to life. He can’t suppress the tiny shiver that runs along his spine when he recognizes the newcomer, the magical signature so familiar it makes his heart race double beats. He straightens from his slouch over the scroll, spine popping in the silence as he stretches his muscles after hours of concentration. When he turns his head to take a look at the surrounding gardens, he sees Lydia walking towards him from the pavilion hidden behind blooming rhododendrons.
She’s always been gorgeous, but absence makes the heart grow fonder and Stiles, like any other times he’s set eyes on Lydia after she’d ascended, is mesmerized. She’s clad in five layers of purple silk, a delicate golden belt tight around her waist. The bottom of the robe grazes the floor and sways gently with her every step. Stiles wants to sink his fingers into her hair glinting liquid copper in the sun and mold her stresses into the finest crown.
“Stiles,” she greets him when she stops a few steps away, her perfectly plucked brows drawn into a faint scowl.
“Lydia,” he grins back, just continues staring, and she rolls her eyes in exasperation. Her familiar presence punches him in the gut, leaves him breathless with the sudden ache of how much he’s missed her. She flips her hair and Stiles tells himself not to swoon. Much.
“Queen of my heart, how lovely it is to see you again,” he beams up at her. Lydia just sighs.
“Stop being a coward and get down below. Your sad excuse of a neighboring kingdom is ruining my style.”
Stiles carefully gathers the scrolls before he stands up. He knows the attendants would put it away, would clean the haphazard mess of papers and ink from the floor without a heartbeat, but now he has something his fingers can fiddle with while he and Lydia are having this conversation. He’s always had trouble saying no to her, can only vaguely remember the last time it’s happened. Mostly because it had some unpleasant consequences Stiles is not too keen to relive or repeat if he can help it.
“What a tragedy. My heart bleeds for you,” he deadpans and doesn’t look at her while they walk back to the patio. The gardens around them glow with the colors of late spring. The sweet scent of lenore flowers remind him of quiet afternoons spent dozing near lush green fields, Lydia’s fingers gently carding through his hair as he curled into her side. Lydia’s soft voice lulling him to sleep for years on end, her endless curiosity and thirst for knowledge and her indulgence of him. Of decades spent in each other’s company and imagining a future with all its endless possibilities.
Then she had to ruin everything in a heartbeat, but Stiles has come to terms with and totally respects her decision now. Sort of. On most days.
Okay, maybe he’s still a little bit hung up on her decision.
“Stiles.” Lydia’s voice is as light as her touch on his arm, but her gaze slices Stile in half with its blade of steel. “Don’t you think it’s time?”
“No, it will never be time,” he snaps, annoyed and a bit scared to continue with the conversation, then slowly relaxes when Lydia purses her lips but doesn’t push. She’s gorgeous even when she’s annoyed. Ugh, he’s so over her pouty lips. “By the way, where is the jerk? I thought he was glued to your side.”
When Lydia decided she’s had enough of sitting around in their perfect little world, bored out of her mind and sick of the constant tranquility only broken by Stiles’ chatter, she kissed him goodbye and jumped down to the mortal unknown. Stiles just shrugged and went back to the library, deciding to wait this latest phase out, but time passed and Lydia has not returned, and Stiles started to worry.
The next time Stiles had seen her, she’d brought a human with her to the Sacred Mountain and Stiles’ perfect utopia had shattered to pieces.
“I have found the Ruler.” Her smile was radiating hope and happiness. He was her king. When Stiles looked at them he could only see Lydia fading away, her infinity broken as her clock started to tick, the thick-sweet syrup of decay slowly creeping along the edges of her brilliant life force.
That man will be her death.
Stiles had hated Jackson on first sight. The feeling was mutual. They’ve had approximately sixty years to get over their dislike, but Stiles can’t be bothered for at least another three hundred. In his eyes, no mortal will be worthy of Lydia’s trust and approval, even if she has Chosen them herself.
“He’s held up with meetings over the Summer Festival. Even Jackson can manage a few days without me. Besides, I’ve told him if he cocks anything up in my absence, I will have him castrated and no amount of groveling will make me forgive him,” she sniffs disdainfully, and Stiles’ lips twitch into a smile. It helps quenching his resentment that Lydia has the Ruler wrapped around her little finger, easily a slave to her every whim. In Lydia’s presence, Jackson looks just as horribly smitten as completely terrified. Stiles can totally relate to the feeling.
When they reach the patio the attendants swarm around them and their buzzing familiarity soothes Stiles’ nerves like a balm. Considering that it’s been literally ages since they’ve seen Lydia, they are a bit overzealous in their attention, plying her with lemon tarts and arranging her hair into intricate designs, securing the locks with precious gems that chime softly when she turns her head. Lydia indulges them with surprising patience and takes their adoration like a pro.
Time is a tricky concept on the Mountain, but Stiles thinks they talk for hours over honeyed jasmine tea, catching up with current events in the mortal kingdoms which Stiles is not that interested in, but tries to keep up with anyway. He is also eager to run a few magical theories by Lydia and is not disappointed when she belts out three different routes for possible solutions from the top of her head. He tries not to show his disdain as Lydia talks about Jackson with barely concealed pride, about how he’s slowly growing into his role while their kingdom is being rebuilt. He obviously makes Lydia happy, even the blind can see that they are a good match.
Whatever. Jackson is still a douche who is slowly killing Lydia, so Stiles is totally justified to resent him for several lifetimes. Stiles is a champion in grudges, he can hold them literally forever. Just ask his Oracles - five generations since Stiles’ last Ruler and still going strong with no forgiveness in sight. Take that.
“And the tea is wonderful, thank you sweetie,” she smiles at the fae attendant, who beams at the phrase, “but I’m not here because I missed you. What I want is for you to get your ass down and make something of your pathetic kingdom,” Lydia says, casually changing topics between holy water-type fermentation and the one thing Stiles has constant nightmares about. She goes so effortlessly for his jugular that Stiles’ heart flutters in awe, even when he feels the whole world suddenly pressing on his shoulders and back, pushing him down while the edges fold in over themselves.
The soft click of a porcelain cup on the table yanks him back to the present.
“Rude. I missed you plenty.” He tries to regulate his breathing, count during inhales and exhales. One, two, three, four. He feels light-headed, his palms are sweating.
“You know I’m not a nice person,” she smiles, and Lydia’s voice is like a spiked whip cracking on his naked back.
“I really don’t want to have this conversation with you.”
“What you want and what needs to happen are two different things.”
“Drop it,” he snaps, but Lydia just tilts her head and her gaze never wavers from his. Stiles bristles. “If this is all you have come here for, tough luck. I’m never going back. I won’t change my mind. End of discussion.”
“Stiles, you can’t run forever. Stop being a coward.”
“What you are trying to do? Not working. You can manipulate a whole nation but your charm has stopped working on me centuries ago.”
Lydia’s laugh is anything but kind. “Stiles, please. Nobody can resist my charms, least of all you.”
He really hates that she’s right.
“I’m not saying that you have to ascend. That you have to choose,” Lydia explains with a little sigh. She suddenly looks exhausted, like all the problems of the world are resting on her small shoulders. “I get that you don’t want to do anything with mortals ever again, believe me I get it. But the land is getting out of hand. The wild beasts are attacking our borders more frequently, drought is sweeping in and the crops in the east are dying. Not rapidly, but it is noticeable. Has been noticeable for the past five years.”
Lydia pauses, wetting her lips and gazing at him to see if he’s listening. She looks worried and helpless, and Stiles’ heart clenches at the sight. She’s thinking of her kingdom, of her people and Ruler and he can at least hear her out if nothing else.
“And this is only a rumor. But. They say the Minister heading the Interim Council is dabbling in dark magic. That he’s looking for war. That he has been using the Divine Registry and the power of the current Oracle to -“
“He doesn’t. He can’t! He can’t use the Divine Registry without me there and a chosen Ruler on the throne, it’s impossible,” Stiles cuts in. The Divine Registry is nothing but a fancy old book filled with names. With the proper circumstances, the book becomes a register for immortals, kept and maintained by the Oracle. “I sure as hell haven’t been to the kingdom in a century and it hasn’t seen a chosen Ruler for almost as long. The Divine Registry is with the current Oracle, without its powers. It’s dormant. The end.”
Lydia’s eyebrows lift slightly and Stiles tries to tell himself that they are not judging him. “Are you sure?”
He opens his mouth to answer yes, but the truth is, he doesn’t know. He hasn’t spoken to his Oracle since his inauguration, and even that meeting played out like a ’Oh hey a new one! Nice to meet you, leave me alone. See you in your afterlife!’ quick greeting combo. Even to this day he is not very fond of dreamwalking, and at least he said hi to Deaton. After Stiles’ last Ruler he didn’t even make contact with the following two Oracles. Deaton is the fifth. So, progress.
“The Oracle is chosen by the Heavens and thus is loyal to us,” he says instead. “I’m sure he has the book. And if Deaton used it, I would feel it.”
But he will check, just to be on the safe side. When he sees Lydia’s lips curl in satisfaction, he knows she has come to the same conclusion.
“Noble and holy creature, my ass. You should be a species of your own, Lydia,” he groans.
“Oh Stiles, I am,” she shakes her head pityingly while she gathers her robes and stands up, lets Stiles walk her to the Sacred Tree that connects the Mountain to the mortal world.
“A horribly evil and terrifying creature, one of a kind. The world is doomed,” Stiles laments. Lydia just laughs as she folds Stiles into a hug. Her delicate arms wrap around his back with surprising strength.
“Don’t make me blush,” she hums into his shoulder and Stiles pulls her in harder, resting his cheek against her head, his closed lids tickled by her wayward stresses. He soaks up her presence and breathes in the scent of her. Underneath her usual clean, citrusy notes he smells something sweet and heavy. It’s not exactly bad, just not what he’s used to. Probably something she has picked up while associating with mortals on a daily basis.
He tightens his embrace for a second before he lets go. “Take care.”
“Always.” She is still smiling when she turns around, touches the trunk and disappears.
*
He tries to contact Deaton while wandering the hazy planes of unconsciousness, carefully maneuvering between the black patches of swirling nightmares and see-through fountains of crystallized dreams.
He asks nicely, he threatens; he even shuts up and listens. He does everything without outright begging for the Oracle’s presence, but nothing works. He can not make contact.
At least Lydia’s gossip court slash spy network does its job well.
He is still reluctant to abandon the safe, carefree existence he’s cocooned himself in, but Lydia’s bowed back and tired eyes slash in his mind. They are enough for that crucial, final push.
“You will be the death of me,” he sighs and the echoes of Lydia’s laugher brush over his skin.
*
“This is so not right,” Scott pants as they are lying in a heap of dried leaves. Dirt is sticking to Stiles’ sweaty skin as he’s trying to catch his breath, peering between the shriveled branches up at the open sky to see if they have lost their attackers.
“You don’t say.” No sooner than Stiles left the Mountain a chimera pack had descended upon him out of nowhere, intending to tear him apart. Stiles is a pretty good flyer and has often been gallivanting in his true form at home, just as quickly and steadily galloping through the fields as well as dashing through clouds, but on most days he doesn’t have to deal with rabid beastlings frothing at the mouth, wanting to savage him while he tries to stay hidden in the skies and get to the Capital unnoticed.
He’s infinitely grateful that Scott came when Stiles summoned him. Based on his obsession with Allison, Stiles expected him to lurk in Lydia’s kingdom, making goo-goo eyes at the object of his eternal adoration from the sidelines, probably hidden behind some bushes. But Scott thankfully appeared on the first summon so Stiles’ limbs are not scattered in bloody chunks all over the surface. Awesome.
“Beastlings shouldn’t attack you,” Scott continues when he gets his breathing under control. “You are like the holy beast of all beastlings. I didn’t even have the urge to attack you when we first met.”
“I am a Superbeast,” Stiles concedes as he sits up, brushing leaves from his sleeves. They are a bit frayed around the edges and torn at the elbows, but nothing unsalvageable. “And, Scott, not to doubt your scary wolf monster persona or anything, but you couldn’t kill a bunny demon to save your life. Hell, you didn’t attack Jackson even with very specific maiming instructions from your Master - meaning: me.”
Scott just gives him the stinky eye but doesn’t protest. In his beast form Scott looks like a monstrous canine hybrid, razor sharp teeth coated in saliva and claws tearing the ground as he advances on his prey, but when Stiles scratches behind his ears or runs a hand over his back and down his flank, he flops to the ground and whines like an adorable puppy with the promise of belly rubs.
Which is pretty much the scenario of how they first met. Stiles wanted to tame a demon beast and bind someone to him in the quest for more power - or that is what he told Lydia, not that he was lonely or anything and just wanted someone to play with because Lydia had found Allison. So he found Scott in one of the abandoned caves near the Memory Sea, they had a five minute epic stare down and when Stiles asked for the beast’s name, Scott happily answered then got Stiles to play tag with him.
Stiles thinks that Scott often forgets that Stiles is his master. He follows orders and commands a bit selectively and gets all huffy and cranky when Stiles reminds him that when Stiles finally dies, Scott will eat his flesh, absorb his powers and be more of a badass hybrid wolf monster than he already is. His new form and powers would make wooing Allison easier. Considering that Stiles is currently immortal and doesn’t want to do the one thing that would make him susceptible to dying, it’s no wonder that Scott gets prissy.
“It’s weird,” Scott insists as they stand up. “It’s like they knew you were coming. They shouldn’t have sensed you. And even if they somehow could, they shouldn’t have attacked you. Not like that.”
Stiles sighs, but Scott is right. “I know. And as soon as I changed to my human form, they backed off.”
Which is also very strange, and Stiles really needs to think about this more but right now he just really wants to reach the Capital, find his Oracle and ask a billion questions.
“I wish I knew where we are,” he admits with a grimace, looking around the bleak forest. It’s the end of summer and the air is so hot it forms a mirage if Stiles doesn’t blink.
“Somewhere south-west, close to the borders of Lydia’s kingdom,” Scott answers after a few beats, and Stiles groans. So much for a quick trip to the Capital.
“We should get to a village or military outpost and find transportation. I’m not spending any more time here than absolutely necessary. The weather is crazy, the locals are not very friendly and the scenery is abysmal.”
“Yeah, I totally wonder why,” Scott mumbles but follows when Stiles takes the lead.
“You are a hundred years too early to sass me. And you should shift back, I’m not comfortable without your beastly form guarding me.”
“Deal with it. We don’t know whether they can sense me as it seems they can sense you, but I have enough of your magic on me that bleed-through is more than possible. So I’m staying in human form, you are staying in human form as well and we are walking.”
“Okay,” Stiles concedes and walks, because Scott got really snarly at the end of his temper tantrum. He tries to stay silent, but the forest makes him edgy so he starts to run a step by step commentary on the landscape, which is admittedly pretty bleak. He draws parallels with the terrain in the Mountain which reminds him of the holy water fermentation debate he had with Lydia, but should have known Scott’s only contribution to the issue would be a misty-eyed, breathy Allison comment when Lydia’s name is mentioned in any capacity, so he just streamlines on.
*
They have been walking for so long that Stiles’ throat is parched, his shirt is damp from sweat and is sticking to his neck and back in disgusting ways. The heat hasn’t let up even when the sun started to set. Stiles is also pretty sure that they have been followed by at least two people for three miles now, which, fun. From Scott’s tense shoulders and increasingly darkening scowl, he’s noticed it as well, but follows Stiles’ lead on dealing with them for now.
Stiles is pretty sure that they can take on whoever is interested in them, but he’s never been one for messy murder (he can’t stand the blood) and remaining undetected as normal humans is a priority. He decides to wait out the confrontation and marches on.
He doesn’t have to wait too long as a few of the previously attacking beasts have wandered off on their own and accidentally stumbled upon them.
Stiles panics for a millisecond then starts running with Scott closely on his heels. There is inhuman screeching behind them, a lot of romping and Stiles thanks the heavens that it’s dry season and he can’t slip on mud.
There are still tiny little rocks hiding under the leaves, and Stiles bites his tongue on a curse as he trips, trying to soften the fall with his palms held out in front of him. He can feel Scott gathering his magic behind him and if he looked back his eyes would be yellow, indicating the beginning of his shift. That’s when their stalkers decide to intervene, jumping onto the beasts with swords drawn, ready to make the kill.
The ambush is quick and before Stiles can make a run for it he and Scott are surrounded. There is only two of them as Stiles has predicted, but even from a quick look in the dusk they seem like seasoned veterans. The smell of blood running down the steel of the men’s blade makes Stiles squeamish.
When one of the men steps forward, Scott places himself in front of Stiles. “Stay where you are.”
The man stops, his white teeth flashing in the dark as he grins. “And what are you going to do to stop me without a weapon on you? Bite me?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Scott says and Stiles has had enough. He slides up beside Scott, arms hanging loosely by his side, shoulders sagging as he tries to seem as non-threatening as possible.
“We were heading to the next town over and got a little lost along the way,” Stiles explains, his heart racing while he tries to drag up a map of the terrain from his memories. Unsurprisingly, he comes up blank. “We were attacked by the eagle demons on our way and were chased off the main roads. We are very grateful for your intervention, we own you our lives. If you could point us toward the road, we would be indebted to you,” Stiles soldiers on as he very slowly starts moving away from the burly men. If Stiles is good at something, it’s talking a lot while saying very little. He’s also very good at abandoning ship while it’s sinking.
Judging by the widening grin on the man’s face closest to him and Scott, he’s easily seen through his bullshit.
“It’s pretty late to wander around these woods unprotected. Let me offer you our services.”
“We wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”
“Just to clarify,” the man says, lifting the sword and pointing it toward Stiles’ chest. “I wasn’t really asking.”
Before Scott can do something monumentally stupid, like shift in front of these two bandits and make a scene, Stiles places a hand on his shoulder, his fingers tightening in warning. After a few tense moments, Scott relaxes and Stiles heaves a mental sigh of relief.
“Yeah, yeah. Lead the way big man. Just point that thing somewhere else, I tend to faint at the sight of blood,” Stiles warns. The man snorts but hangs back, probably more to keep an eye on them than to humor Stiles.
They walk.
Stiles really misses flying.
*
It turns out that the closest, human habituated community is a small village at the edge of the border forest. Tiny houses line the main road, most of them abandoned, half-dried ivy creeping around the roofs and walls crumbling onto the ground in a depressing elegy. It takes only a few minutes to walk through the village and they don’t meet anyone else on their way.
The man at the front leads them to the biggest house at the end of the road, its once impressive fence dulled and cracked by the constant heat of the sun. The house is probably in the best condition from what Stiles has seen, and when they step through the door he knows why they haven’t met anyone in the village.
The locals are easily distinguishable from the bandits - they don’t wear leather and have no weapons on them. One woman and two men are cooking at the kitchen on the right, peeling potatoes and boiling water, fire-painted shadows writhing on the wall after each stir of the spoon. Three children sleep on rat-eaten mats in the far corner, their clothes dirty and their skin glistening with sweat. The silence is only broken by the soft murmurs between the three men sitting around the small table. Before Stiles can make out their conversation, they fall quiet.
“Look what I’ve found wandering the woods,” the man behind them says in greeting, herding Stiles and Scott to the table. He still hasn’t sheathed his sword and the blood caught the eye of his fellow men.
“Ambush?” one of them asked, his gaze flicking from Scott to Stiles, then settling on the sword-happy one. In the dim lighting his eyes seem to glint red for a second.
“Eagle beastlings,” the man answers, stepping around them and walking to the kitchen. He picks up a rag and a chair along the way, dragging them to the small table while two of the leather wearing ensemble gets up and vacates the premises at a nod from the third.
“Sit.” It comes as a command, and Stiles’ metaphorical hackles rise in indignation. No mortal is allowed to order him around.
“I would rather stand, thanks.”
The man lifts one eyebrow as he crosses his arms in front of him, leaning back in his chair. The brown fabric of his tunic slips and bunches around his elbows, exposing the black leather bands on his forearms. Stiles’ lips thin as he stares the man down who doesn’t blink or look away. Tension fills the air, thick and smothering as a blanket and sweat beads at the nape of Stiles’ neck, trickling down between his shoulder blades. The man’s eyes are a storm of green, and when his lips twitch in amusement Stiles goes rigid.
“I wasn’t asking,” he smirks, and before Stiles can roll his eyes, a heavy hand lands around the back of his neck, fingers digging into his skin painfully before he’s manhandled into one of the chairs. Scott warily slides onto another while the remaining guy takes the last one.
Green-eyed guy calling the shots looks at them for a few more seconds before he starts speaking. “Who are you working for.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Man, you really don’t like questions, do you.”
“I don’t see the point, you are going to answer anyway.”
“Dark, dangerous, and brimming with overconfidence. You are the king of your ragtag misfits, I’m impressed. Do you usually kidnap innocent travelers and threaten them with pointy swords, or are we just special?”
“You are lucky Boyd found you when he did, otherwise you would be a special dinner treat to the roaming beasts. Now let’s try this again,” he says, leaning forward. “Who are you working for.”
Stiles knows his previously pristine white tunic is now smudged with dirt, the material torn in some places from the day’s events. He and Scott still stand out like a beacon in the room with their high tread count shirts that look too soft sitting on skin. He can probably play this up.
“I’m not one to work for people,” he says and it almost comes as a surprise that he’s not even lying. The leader grins, his mouth full of sharp teeth and Stiles really wants to punch the smugness out of him for some reason.
“Young little merchants smelling of new money always do.”
Stiles smirks and slowly reaches into the folds of his clothes. Boyd tenses next to him, the monotone swish-swish of the clothe gliding on the blade ceasing abruptly. Scott stills in his seat while the leader’s expression remains blank. Stiles pulls out a card and tosses it down the table. The token is small, its surface glinting golden as it catches the light of the flames when it falls. The clear outline of the Ministry’s sigil flares red in the silence.
“Let me clarify,” Stiles drawls, his eyes glued to the leader who picks up the card, examining it between long fingers. “I’m not one to work for people.”
The silence cracks when the man looks at Stiles, his face smooth and eyes blank. “Where did you get this.”
The card signifies a privilege so high in society that only a few clans and nobles hold. The holders are deemed untouchable and in the land of humans that is as good as declaring someone immortal. Stiles ranks higher than any mortal or human, only second to his non-existent Ruler, but he needs to keep his identity a secret so he goes with the next best thing available.
“I’ll tell you if you let us go,” he nods, his voice cheerful and kind, but the stranger just snorts as he puts the card down.
“And let such an illustrious guests wander around the wilderness unprotected? That would be pretty irresponsible of me. Where are you heading?”
“To the Capital,” Scott spits out and Stiles bites off the curses on the tip of his tongue that he wants to fling at Scott’s head. He just glares. Meaningfully. Scott ignores him in favor of staring at the leader.
The man hums thoughtfully. “The Capital is pretty far away, and the kingdom is crawling with beastlings. We would be glad to provide you protection and safe passage. Let us accompany you.”
Stiles’ lips curl into a grimace. “I guess that wasn’t really a question, either.”
The man smirks. “Derek at your service,” he nods while Boyd diligently oils his sword on the side. “Try to rest, we are leaving at sunrise.”
Stiles scowls at the prospect of more walking, his feet aching in sympathy.
One of the village men gives them a blanket and they settle into the corner, not far from the sleeping children. It’s hot and the floor is hard so the blanket functions as a ragtag bedding rather than to keep the heat. Sleep is a distant wish far on the horizon. Stiles is too busy thinking about their available options, Scott is too keyed in on Stiles’ mood to even consider taking a quick nap. His eyes keep gleaming golden but always fade back to brown after a blink.
Apart from Boyd who is apparently standing guard and the sleeping children, everyone has left the room. Stiles lies on his back and follows the tiny cracks on the ceiling with his eyes, a microcosm of fragile lines blending and spreading like a spider’s web, ready to catch the unsuspecting flies.
*
The pinkish hues of dawn sneak up on them and the sleepy chatter of children soon fills the room. A woman descends from the first floor while two men come in from the back. One of the children wanders over to Stiles, her frizzled locks tumbling in a tangled mass down her back. Stiles smiles at her and the girl squeals, runs back to her peers while her giggles echo in the early morning silence.
Boyd has left but another goon has taken his place, it would be more trouble than worth the risk to make a run for it. Not that Stiles really wants to - if he and Scott have bodyguards volunteering to join them on their journey, the chances of accidentally outing themselves to whoever is hunting them should be minimized.
“I don’t like this,” Scott murmurs as Stiles folds the blanket. “We shouldn’t go with them.”
“Better protection.”
Scott looks hurt for a minute, then his features shift to an annoyed scowl. “I’m more than enough to protect you.”
“Strength in numbers, Scott. Strength in numbers.” Stiles pats his shoulder as they make their way outside. “Plus, we are trying to remain magically invisible, which will not go so well if you rage-shift in the middle of a fight. Now while the attackers will be too busy to slaughter our money hungry line of guards, we can make our escape undetected. They die in honor of protecting the Sacred Beast, we make it to the Capital. Win-win for both sides.”
“They don’t know that you are the Sacred Beast.”
Stiles waves dismissively. “Details.”
Scott sighs. “It’s not that. Something just doesn’t feel right. Especially with Derek.”
“Yeah, I kinda noticed that you have been short of constantly growling at him last evening. I know he’s a douche, but try to keep your fangs behind those lips. We need him.”
“Stiles--“
“I know,” Stiles agrees, his tone placating but final. Scott’s intuition has never betrayed them and even Stiles can tell them something is not quite right with Derek. He’s not magic but doesn’t feel entirely human either, and Stiles would chalk up his uneasy to sudden climate change and culture shock, still adjusting to the new environment. But Scott has noticed it too, and he’s spent more time in the kingdoms, mingling with its living creatures while mooning over Allison than Stiles has even thought about them in passing.
“Any ideas?” he asks, noticing Derek making his way across the yard. He’s talking to one of his men, his gait relaxed and sure, muscles shifting under the black, well-worn material of his trousers. He walks with the silent grace of a predator. If Stiles hadn’t seen him he wouldn’t know he was there.
“Unfortunately, nothing.”
Stiles hums. “Then we wait and see.” Scott huffs but lets it go.
“We wait for Boyd, then set out,” Derek starts instead of good morning as he and his lackey come to a stop in front of them. “The closest town is two days away. We can purchase horses there and get you to the Capital in a week.”
Stiles frowns, trying to work out the logistics. “How many of your men will be riding?”
“Me and Boyd.”
“And while we are gallivanting cross-kingdom, the rest stay behind to raid the town?”
“To protect the townsfolk,” Derek corrects.
Stiles snorts. “Right.”
“Let’s go.” Boyd’s hand lands on Stiles’ shoulder, herding him out the gate. Stiles shakes off his hold with a grimace.
“Stop with the manhandling, this is a no touching zone.” He looks around when only Boyd and Derek fall into step with him and Scott.
“The others will follow us later?”
“The others stay behind.”
Stiles stops. “What?”
Derek sighs. “With this speed it will take more than two days to reach the town. Move.”
“With only the two of you for company it will be a miracle if we even reach the town. Or did you forget about the beasts crawling all over this lovely forest like ants?” His protest is emphasized by agitated hand movements.
Derek comes to a halt and slowly turns around. He looks into Stiles’ eyes before his gaze glides over his neck and collarbone with unhurried deliberation, drifting over his form and taking in each miniscule detail, measuring and assessing every flaw. Stiles locks his muscles and doesn’t squirm. He does the same with Scott, then flicks his gaze to Boyd.
“I think we will manage,” he drawls, face blank while his whole stance radiates amusement. He pivots on his heels and upon Boyd’s urging, they follow.
It takes Stiles a good ten minutes of relaxation techniques and controlled breathing exercises to not grit his teeth anymore. He doesn’t even have the patience to tell Scott to mind his growling.
*
Stiles thinks that considering that they are on a Get to know your kingdom - the wonders of the rural nooks! journey, their supplies even pooled together are on the lean side. Him and Scott haven’t really planned to stay for an extended period so that is understandable, but neither Derek nor Boyd are lugging bags with them. Apart from water flasks and swords, they don’t carry much; not even food. Stiles remembers the wilted potatoes boiling in the water and the sunken cheeks of the little girl, how the clothes have hung on her small and bony frame like an almost empty sack and doesn’t say anything.
The heat doesn’t let up. When Stiles asks about it, Boyd just shrugs.
“It’s been like this for a while, and getting worse each year. The crops and cattle die either in the heat of the summer or the torrential rain of the winter. Trade is pushed back by the aggressive wild beasts while the provincial taxes are continuously increased to support military expenses.”
Stiles frowns. “All neighboring kingdoms are controlled by a chosen ruler with a qilin by their sides. All of them are currently thriving. It would make no sense to endanger that hard-earned prosperity by meddling with another country’s sovereignty and evoke the wrath of the Heavens.”
“I’ve never said that increased military activity was due to external threats,” Boyd clarifies with a bitter smile. “The rate is set by the Interim Council and many provincial lords transfer the burden to their tax payers. But some don’t and that creates tension between the lords and the Council. And the current Prime Minister likes to keep a tight control over his kingdom.”
“It’s not his kingdom,” Derek interrupts quietly. It’s the first time he’s participated in the conversation and Stiles is hopelessly intrigued, even after his inner battle of epic proportions against his curiosity.
“Until the qilin ascends to Chose a ruler the Prime Minister has carte blanche in the eye of the Heavens over state affairs,” Stiles argues and is surprised when he comes off level-headed. As long as he keeps his detachment and tries to treat this as a classis case of theoretical politics, he should be okay.
“The Prime Minister is not Chosen by the qilin, therefore is not entitled to act on behalf of the Heavens. Just look at the state of the kingdom. It’s in disarray and steadily declining into oblivion, no Prime Minister or Interim Council will change that.”
“So you are waiting for the divine intervention of the Sacred Beast to lift your kingdom from ruins? I didn’t know that savage bandits were such hopeless romantics,” Stiles drawls, sarcasm dripping from his words and burning like acid.
Derek’s laugh is short and just as biting. “Hope is for people desperate enough to believe that change will inevitable lead to a result different than what it is currently. If they appease the Heavens a qilin will appear to choose the Ruler who will lead the kingdom to its halcyon days. But those people who wish always forget that hope and change is a two way street. That after that lucky break a storm will rage and destroy everything in its wake. The Ruler will step out of line and provoke the vengeance of the Heavens who will invoke the Sickness in the qilin which will inevitably lead to the death of the Ruler and demise of the kingdom. Rinse, repeat.”
“A never-ending circle of pretence change,” Boyd hums thoughtfully.
Derek shrugs. “The result is always the same, there is no change. Nothing to hope for.”
Stiles stares at Derek as they march forward, his gaze gliding over those broad shoulders as the rhythmic motion of steady steps lulls him into a surprising sense of security.
“What?” Derek’s voice snaps him out of his reverie and Stiles blinks, shaking his head a little to clear his mind.
“I’m surprised.” He is not even lying. “From your appearance I didn’t expect a savaging bandit leader capable of having such thought-provoking world view.”
Derek shoots Boyd a dirty look when he suddenly starts coughing. Scott doesn’t even try to muffle his snickering.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“No, no, that’s quite alright,” Stiles waves. “I feel like I understand your ways now.”
Derek gives him a look that says a thousand words with its blankness. “My ways.”
“Why you terrorize the population with your brutish, all muscle rag-tag bandit group while raiding towns and taking their gold, threatening unsuspecting travelers and overtaking the homes of the frightened locals and such.”
“Why do you think we are bandits?” Boyd’s tone is more curious than angry.
Stiles is too busy rolling his eyes so it’s Scott who asks, “Are you not?”
“I will be fine to be called whatever you want to believe we are as long as we are on the opposite side of Gerard Argent and his Council,” Derek says before he falls silent and doesn’t say anything for the rest of the day.
Scott and Boyd strike up a tentative conversation about their travels - Scott spends enough time traipsing in the kingdoms with Allison to have decent knowledge over the terrain while Boyd, before he joined Derek in his savage mission of brood and maim was part of a travelling circus. Scott has not yet been successful with his interrogation of what Boyd was doing - it’s still a toss-up between animal trainer and fire-eater performer.
They make camp for the evening off the road, but not too deep in the forest. Stiles finds a perfect nook between the twisted roots of an ancient oak tree and he sits down, back resting against the hard bark as he watches Boyd pile leaves and twigs in a small heap to make fire.
“Wouldn’t we make easier targets for the beasts?” Scott asks as Boyd keeps poking at the mass, helping it to catch fire.
“We will put it out once we have eaten.”
Before Stiles can ask what is on their nonexistent menu, Derek drops a pair of pheasants next to him. They are just as bloody as dead, their heads lolling on the ground as they stare up at Stiles through glassy eyes. He swallows the scream climbing at the back of his throat as he scrambles away from the carcasses.
“Oh my god, watch it,” he hisses, his stomach rolling as he flexes his fingers to stop their trembling.
“Can’t stand a little blood?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow in amusement. Stiles is too busy trying not to be sick all over the place to feel the familiar anger over Derek’s smug face.
“God, no. Get them away,” he breathes loudly, then makes a strangled sound as Derek crouches down, holding a small knife between his fingers, ready to skin them like someone possessed.
“Stop, stop, no! I’m not sleeping between a bloody pile of dried leaves, no thank you. Get them away, away! Shoo! And when the hell did you catch them? And with what? You don’t have a bow to shoot. Did you stalk these poor, unsuspecting birds and pounce on them from behind the bushes? Did you kill them with your teeth? Are those claw marks puncturing their sides, what the hell?! Did you have to make their death this bloody? Man, I thought you were a silent, neat killer, this is just unacceptable. So messy, god,” Stiles rambles, his stomach heaving and chest tight from the rapidly receding oxygen from his lungs.
Derek is more confused now than amused, but wanders a few steps over, settling at the other side of the fire, far enough that Stiles stops hyperventilating but still with enough light from the flames to see what he’s doing.
“You really are squeamish when it comes to blood,” Boyd adds, seemingly remembering how Stiles balked at the sight of his sword after their little rescue mission. He explains when Derek makes a questioning hum. ”Last night he freaked when we killed the beasts as well.”
Stiles thinks the answer is pretty obvious so he doesn’t elaborate, just continues to breathe, slowly and deeply, determinedly looking at anywhere than Derek. He can’t help it, it’s been woven into his life essence. Qilins can’t stand the smell or sight of blood; makes them nauseous and even unconscious if it gets on their skin in considerable quantities. It’s one of their very few weaknesses and is common knowledge within the kingdoms. He thinks he can write it off as a human quirk, but he should be careful about showing how much it affects him. If he somehow ends up using magic in front of these two, linked with his aversion to blood they can easily jump to the correct conclusion, and that’s the last thing he wants.
Scott slides up to him, sitting shoulder to shoulder, their thighs touching and his familiar presence helps to soothe Stiles’ nerves. Soon the very naked, gutted pheasants are merrily roasting over the fire, the smell of cooked meat slowly filling the space between the four of them. Stiles tears off small chunks of the browning flesh and half-heartedly nibbles on the pieces, more to conform to mortal notions and necessities than to ease supposed hunger pangs as he’s still too queasy to eat anything. Scott wolfs down most of the meat.
Boyd takes first watch and Stiles feels too wiped out to protest the schedule as he and Scott have been somehow left out of the rotation. The suffocating heat and the acrid smell of smoke rock him like a lullaby into sleep.
*
When the qilin gets the Sickness as a punishment doled out by the Heavens, the Ruler is too far gone into madness to reverse the curse and the Sacred Beast dies, condemning the kingdom to chaos until the next Ruler is chosen. The qilin is reborn on the Sacred Mountain when the Heavens deem it so, matures and learns until its capable enough to descent to the mortal world and play intermediary, relaying the absolute will of the Heavens by choosing the rightful Ruler to their kingdom.
Qilins are immortal as long as they don’t choose, and die when their Chosen ones betray the very values they stand for. Being reborn is an opportunity to start over, a tabula rasa granted as sweet relief by the Heavens to start the circle anew. Bleed through, however, is inevitable.
Stiles can still hear Lydia screaming between nightmares, her throat raw and shoulders trembling as she huddled under silken sheets, her eyes wild with panic as she bit her lips for control, the flesh painted cherry red in remembrance to a past better long forgotten.
When Stiles remembers, he dreams in smudged technicolor saturated through red filters. Of blood seeping through his fingers like quicksilver, gathering in a pool around his legs and cementing them to the slippery ground as it slowly seeps under his skin and writhes like worms in his veins, ready to burst his pulsing vessels and splatter his essence all over the place. Of a long forgotten voice whispering endearments that feel like a spiked whip tearing into his flesh, rending his muscles to the bone. Of promises getting infected with doubt, betrayal festering deep within his core and spreading along his body like wildfire, consuming his very being until all he feels is the raw, pulsing mass of thirst for the merciful kiss of oblivion.
He comes awake with a painful lurch, his muscles sizing from phantom pain. His gasp is thankfully swallowed by crickets playing an upbeat, out of sync symphony. Derek glances at his direction but doesn’t say anything, and Stiles is grateful for his silence. He turns on his side and breathes, thinks of Lydia’s refreshing presence and the soothing tranquility of lush green fields. Before he drifts off to dream, he imagines Derek’s eyes flashing red in the darkness, watching him sleep.
For the rest of the night he doesn’t dream.
*
Stiles should be relieved that they haven’t met anyone since they have left the small town, but the most he feels is stir-crazed impatience sprinkled with a huge serving of absolute boredom. Don’t get him wrong, Stiles can appreciate solitary as he had to entertain himself on the Sacred Mountain after Lydia had abandoned the mothership, but the library provided a vast reserve of accumulated knowledge ready to be dived into at all times, and the fae attendants had been more than willing to indulge him if he wanted to drown out the silence with his chatter.
His current companions are not so accommodating. Boyd is more like the gruff, silent type who is nice enough to listen but is not really keen to keep up a continuous flow of conversation. Stiles really likes Scott but there is nothing new he can learn about Allison after listening to Scott wave rhapsodies about her for over a hundred years, no matter how much Scott is convinced about the opposite. Derek is like a silent marble statue marching in the sun, Stiles can’t even look at him for long without feeling a blinding irritation start to skitter along his skin, making him itch. That may come from the grime and dust sticking to his body with the sweltering heat, but Stiles has never been overly rational when he’s frustrated. If Sties hadn’t heard Derek speak full sentences the previous day, he would think him mute.
The road serves to the right, by-passing a bare, lonely tree standing on the side, once proud but now doubling over the wandering travelers with the heavy weight of time. Stiles staggers a bit when he gets close enough and his stomach drops in horror when he recognizes the tree.
“A wild eggfruit tree,” Scott breathes next to him, his voice hushed with disbelief. “It’s dying.”
Stiles feels numb. “Eggfruit trees can’t die. It’s not possible.”
“The Heavens like to make the impossible possible,” Boyd says, his voice resigned like stumbling upon a sight like this is the norm. Stiles thinks that for people living in this kingdom, it probably is. “It’s punishment for how much the kingdom has wronged them in the past. We deal with it.”
Stiles keeps staring at the tree and slowly shakes his head, thinking. “The Heavens wouldn’t deal out a punishment like this.”
“Of course not,” Derek drawls, his tone bitter and angry. Stiles is too shocked to take offense and tries to explain.
“Eggfruit trees are sacred, they bare life for the blessed. Even the Heavens don’t play with a magic so primal and ancient,” he keeps insisting, his voice strong and firm, saturated with unshakable belief. Meddling with something this powerful would lead to unforeseen consequences. “How long has this been going on?”
“For years. I think even the neighboring countries have gotten a wind of it, word does travel after all, no matter how slowly. Have you been living under a rock?” Boyd is looking at him funny while Derek’s expression is more on the contemplative side.
“Apparently,” Stiles murmurs, but a fleeting thought makes him pale with frightening intensity. “What about the eggfruit tree in the Capital? The one in the palace gardens?”
While wild trees bear the eggfruit of animals and beasts, triggering growth from environmental and economical circumstances, the one in the Capital grows the eggs for humans. People pray for new life to spark, tying a ribbon soaked in wishes to its branches and if their prayers are awnsered, a golden egg bearing new life may grow on the tree. Once it reaches full term the egg will hatch and the people whose eggs have matured under their ribbons will welcome a newborn child to their family.
Stiles has read horror stories about faraway lands where females grow their offspring inside their bodies, but those were more like myths than anything else he’s ever encountered during his studies, so he’s dismissed the notion as nothing more than scary legends.
If the eggfruit in the Capital is dying, Stiles may as well start planning for the funeral of his whole kingdom. Wild eggfruit trees dying have been unprecedented since the history of Creation, the one in the Capital dying is just. Unimaginable.
“As far as I know it’s still standing,” Boyd says, glancing at Derek who sighs before rolling his shoulders, looking at Stiles.
“My nephew is two years old,” he explains. “But it’s been… difficult. To have him. Fewer and fewer children are born.”
Stiles blinks at Derek. “You have a family?” He’s astonished. Even Scott is looking at Derek like he’s seeing him for the first time.
“Don’t sound so surprised. I have two sisters.”
“His older sister, Laura, is the one with the kid. Derek is the middle child,” Boyd adds, his lips twitching into a smile because Derek seems really uncomfortable with the topic of his personal life. His face and body language are fascinating to watch.
“Dude, that explains so much about you,” Stiles says, suddenly enlightened. His sisters must be super scary mofos if he’s so reluctant to talk about them. He has the ridiculous urge to meet this Laura and ask why she let her little brother get mixed up in this whole bandit thing. “I bet you compensate with this whole rugged ruffian group stuff because she didn’t let you have the toys when you were young. Poor, oppressed you. No wonder you had to find something to rebel against to vent your childhood frustration. Go you, beat the system.”
Boyd snorts while Derek just glares. “Do you have siblings?”
“Nah, only child,” he shrugs and strictly speaking, it’s true. Even though the other qilins may as well be considered his brothers and sisters.
“Thought so,” Derek murmurs but Stiles gets distracted before he can ask what he means.
If the eggfruit trees are dying, some kind of magic must be involved. Powerful magic. Dark magic. Stiles vows that the next time he sees Lydia he will praise her light and write an ode to her gossip network.
He lifts his hand and gently runs his fingers along a branch that dives onto the road. It’s brittle and rigid, feels dead-cold to the touch and burns the pads of his heated skin. He murmurs a silent prayer to the Heavens, hoping he will be heard before they start walking again.
He falls into step with Derek with one goal in mind. It’s easy to spin his rambling in a way that when he dangles the Prime Minister as bait in the conversation, Derek bites embarrassingly fast. Stiles can appreciate a one-track mind, and it turns out that Gerard Argent is someone whom Derek is really, really fixated upon.
When they finally reach the edge of the town Stiles’ head is spinning from information and dread is slowly spreading in his gut, devouring his insides like a disease.
part 2
part 3
Type: gen, AU
Word Count: 24,200
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Derek/Stiles, ensemble until the end of season 2
Warnings canonical character death off-screen
Summary: Stiles is the magical unicorn Superbeast of all magical beasts living the life of the worshipped on the Sacred Mountain when Lydia comes knocking and makes him descend to the mortal world to do a little housekeeping. There he meets Derek and his merry gang of misfit vigilantes who are not so quietly raging against the system, but mostly just against Prime Minister Gerard Argent and his not so merry Interim Council. Stiles is determined to keep his immortality and doesn’t intend to choose a rightful Ruler while Derek is more than happy to lead his little troop and doesn’t care much about becoming the most influential person in the kingdom.
Or: one epic journey in The Twelve Kingdoms universe that involves a lot of trekking through landscapes, surviving political machinations and worshipping badass warladies.
Notes: Written for teenwolf-bb 2013. Gorgeous artwork provided by the awesome suzimi, HAVE SEVERAL LOOKS. ♥ ♥ ♥
Carte blanche
carte blanche / noun
(1) full powers: unconditional authority, unrestricted power to act at one's own discretion.
(2) blank check: check that has no numerical value entered, but is already signed.
(3) white paper: the military term for surrender.
Like everything else remarkably adventurous in Stiles’ rather boring life, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that this latest craziness also starts with Lydia.
He is sitting on the cold marble floor out in the open, surrounded by scrolls smelling of ancient knowledge and dust, completely immersed in the Northern region’s beast taming tactics when the air suddenly ripples around him and the magic in his blood sparks to life. He can’t suppress the tiny shiver that runs along his spine when he recognizes the newcomer, the magical signature so familiar it makes his heart race double beats. He straightens from his slouch over the scroll, spine popping in the silence as he stretches his muscles after hours of concentration. When he turns his head to take a look at the surrounding gardens, he sees Lydia walking towards him from the pavilion hidden behind blooming rhododendrons.
She’s always been gorgeous, but absence makes the heart grow fonder and Stiles, like any other times he’s set eyes on Lydia after she’d ascended, is mesmerized. She’s clad in five layers of purple silk, a delicate golden belt tight around her waist. The bottom of the robe grazes the floor and sways gently with her every step. Stiles wants to sink his fingers into her hair glinting liquid copper in the sun and mold her stresses into the finest crown.
“Stiles,” she greets him when she stops a few steps away, her perfectly plucked brows drawn into a faint scowl.
“Lydia,” he grins back, just continues staring, and she rolls her eyes in exasperation. Her familiar presence punches him in the gut, leaves him breathless with the sudden ache of how much he’s missed her. She flips her hair and Stiles tells himself not to swoon. Much.
“Queen of my heart, how lovely it is to see you again,” he beams up at her. Lydia just sighs.
“Stop being a coward and get down below. Your sad excuse of a neighboring kingdom is ruining my style.”
Stiles carefully gathers the scrolls before he stands up. He knows the attendants would put it away, would clean the haphazard mess of papers and ink from the floor without a heartbeat, but now he has something his fingers can fiddle with while he and Lydia are having this conversation. He’s always had trouble saying no to her, can only vaguely remember the last time it’s happened. Mostly because it had some unpleasant consequences Stiles is not too keen to relive or repeat if he can help it.
“What a tragedy. My heart bleeds for you,” he deadpans and doesn’t look at her while they walk back to the patio. The gardens around them glow with the colors of late spring. The sweet scent of lenore flowers remind him of quiet afternoons spent dozing near lush green fields, Lydia’s fingers gently carding through his hair as he curled into her side. Lydia’s soft voice lulling him to sleep for years on end, her endless curiosity and thirst for knowledge and her indulgence of him. Of decades spent in each other’s company and imagining a future with all its endless possibilities.
Then she had to ruin everything in a heartbeat, but Stiles has come to terms with and totally respects her decision now. Sort of. On most days.
Okay, maybe he’s still a little bit hung up on her decision.
“Stiles.” Lydia’s voice is as light as her touch on his arm, but her gaze slices Stile in half with its blade of steel. “Don’t you think it’s time?”
“No, it will never be time,” he snaps, annoyed and a bit scared to continue with the conversation, then slowly relaxes when Lydia purses her lips but doesn’t push. She’s gorgeous even when she’s annoyed. Ugh, he’s so over her pouty lips. “By the way, where is the jerk? I thought he was glued to your side.”
When Lydia decided she’s had enough of sitting around in their perfect little world, bored out of her mind and sick of the constant tranquility only broken by Stiles’ chatter, she kissed him goodbye and jumped down to the mortal unknown. Stiles just shrugged and went back to the library, deciding to wait this latest phase out, but time passed and Lydia has not returned, and Stiles started to worry.
The next time Stiles had seen her, she’d brought a human with her to the Sacred Mountain and Stiles’ perfect utopia had shattered to pieces.
“I have found the Ruler.” Her smile was radiating hope and happiness. He was her king. When Stiles looked at them he could only see Lydia fading away, her infinity broken as her clock started to tick, the thick-sweet syrup of decay slowly creeping along the edges of her brilliant life force.
That man will be her death.
Stiles had hated Jackson on first sight. The feeling was mutual. They’ve had approximately sixty years to get over their dislike, but Stiles can’t be bothered for at least another three hundred. In his eyes, no mortal will be worthy of Lydia’s trust and approval, even if she has Chosen them herself.
“He’s held up with meetings over the Summer Festival. Even Jackson can manage a few days without me. Besides, I’ve told him if he cocks anything up in my absence, I will have him castrated and no amount of groveling will make me forgive him,” she sniffs disdainfully, and Stiles’ lips twitch into a smile. It helps quenching his resentment that Lydia has the Ruler wrapped around her little finger, easily a slave to her every whim. In Lydia’s presence, Jackson looks just as horribly smitten as completely terrified. Stiles can totally relate to the feeling.
When they reach the patio the attendants swarm around them and their buzzing familiarity soothes Stiles’ nerves like a balm. Considering that it’s been literally ages since they’ve seen Lydia, they are a bit overzealous in their attention, plying her with lemon tarts and arranging her hair into intricate designs, securing the locks with precious gems that chime softly when she turns her head. Lydia indulges them with surprising patience and takes their adoration like a pro.
Time is a tricky concept on the Mountain, but Stiles thinks they talk for hours over honeyed jasmine tea, catching up with current events in the mortal kingdoms which Stiles is not that interested in, but tries to keep up with anyway. He is also eager to run a few magical theories by Lydia and is not disappointed when she belts out three different routes for possible solutions from the top of her head. He tries not to show his disdain as Lydia talks about Jackson with barely concealed pride, about how he’s slowly growing into his role while their kingdom is being rebuilt. He obviously makes Lydia happy, even the blind can see that they are a good match.
Whatever. Jackson is still a douche who is slowly killing Lydia, so Stiles is totally justified to resent him for several lifetimes. Stiles is a champion in grudges, he can hold them literally forever. Just ask his Oracles - five generations since Stiles’ last Ruler and still going strong with no forgiveness in sight. Take that.
“And the tea is wonderful, thank you sweetie,” she smiles at the fae attendant, who beams at the phrase, “but I’m not here because I missed you. What I want is for you to get your ass down and make something of your pathetic kingdom,” Lydia says, casually changing topics between holy water-type fermentation and the one thing Stiles has constant nightmares about. She goes so effortlessly for his jugular that Stiles’ heart flutters in awe, even when he feels the whole world suddenly pressing on his shoulders and back, pushing him down while the edges fold in over themselves.
The soft click of a porcelain cup on the table yanks him back to the present.
“Rude. I missed you plenty.” He tries to regulate his breathing, count during inhales and exhales. One, two, three, four. He feels light-headed, his palms are sweating.
“You know I’m not a nice person,” she smiles, and Lydia’s voice is like a spiked whip cracking on his naked back.
“I really don’t want to have this conversation with you.”
“What you want and what needs to happen are two different things.”
“Drop it,” he snaps, but Lydia just tilts her head and her gaze never wavers from his. Stiles bristles. “If this is all you have come here for, tough luck. I’m never going back. I won’t change my mind. End of discussion.”
“Stiles, you can’t run forever. Stop being a coward.”
“What you are trying to do? Not working. You can manipulate a whole nation but your charm has stopped working on me centuries ago.”
Lydia’s laugh is anything but kind. “Stiles, please. Nobody can resist my charms, least of all you.”
He really hates that she’s right.
“I’m not saying that you have to ascend. That you have to choose,” Lydia explains with a little sigh. She suddenly looks exhausted, like all the problems of the world are resting on her small shoulders. “I get that you don’t want to do anything with mortals ever again, believe me I get it. But the land is getting out of hand. The wild beasts are attacking our borders more frequently, drought is sweeping in and the crops in the east are dying. Not rapidly, but it is noticeable. Has been noticeable for the past five years.”
Lydia pauses, wetting her lips and gazing at him to see if he’s listening. She looks worried and helpless, and Stiles’ heart clenches at the sight. She’s thinking of her kingdom, of her people and Ruler and he can at least hear her out if nothing else.
“And this is only a rumor. But. They say the Minister heading the Interim Council is dabbling in dark magic. That he’s looking for war. That he has been using the Divine Registry and the power of the current Oracle to -“
“He doesn’t. He can’t! He can’t use the Divine Registry without me there and a chosen Ruler on the throne, it’s impossible,” Stiles cuts in. The Divine Registry is nothing but a fancy old book filled with names. With the proper circumstances, the book becomes a register for immortals, kept and maintained by the Oracle. “I sure as hell haven’t been to the kingdom in a century and it hasn’t seen a chosen Ruler for almost as long. The Divine Registry is with the current Oracle, without its powers. It’s dormant. The end.”
Lydia’s eyebrows lift slightly and Stiles tries to tell himself that they are not judging him. “Are you sure?”
He opens his mouth to answer yes, but the truth is, he doesn’t know. He hasn’t spoken to his Oracle since his inauguration, and even that meeting played out like a ’Oh hey a new one! Nice to meet you, leave me alone. See you in your afterlife!’ quick greeting combo. Even to this day he is not very fond of dreamwalking, and at least he said hi to Deaton. After Stiles’ last Ruler he didn’t even make contact with the following two Oracles. Deaton is the fifth. So, progress.
“The Oracle is chosen by the Heavens and thus is loyal to us,” he says instead. “I’m sure he has the book. And if Deaton used it, I would feel it.”
But he will check, just to be on the safe side. When he sees Lydia’s lips curl in satisfaction, he knows she has come to the same conclusion.
“Noble and holy creature, my ass. You should be a species of your own, Lydia,” he groans.
“Oh Stiles, I am,” she shakes her head pityingly while she gathers her robes and stands up, lets Stiles walk her to the Sacred Tree that connects the Mountain to the mortal world.
“A horribly evil and terrifying creature, one of a kind. The world is doomed,” Stiles laments. Lydia just laughs as she folds Stiles into a hug. Her delicate arms wrap around his back with surprising strength.
“Don’t make me blush,” she hums into his shoulder and Stiles pulls her in harder, resting his cheek against her head, his closed lids tickled by her wayward stresses. He soaks up her presence and breathes in the scent of her. Underneath her usual clean, citrusy notes he smells something sweet and heavy. It’s not exactly bad, just not what he’s used to. Probably something she has picked up while associating with mortals on a daily basis.
He tightens his embrace for a second before he lets go. “Take care.”
“Always.” She is still smiling when she turns around, touches the trunk and disappears.
*
He tries to contact Deaton while wandering the hazy planes of unconsciousness, carefully maneuvering between the black patches of swirling nightmares and see-through fountains of crystallized dreams.
He asks nicely, he threatens; he even shuts up and listens. He does everything without outright begging for the Oracle’s presence, but nothing works. He can not make contact.
At least Lydia’s gossip court slash spy network does its job well.
He is still reluctant to abandon the safe, carefree existence he’s cocooned himself in, but Lydia’s bowed back and tired eyes slash in his mind. They are enough for that crucial, final push.
“You will be the death of me,” he sighs and the echoes of Lydia’s laugher brush over his skin.
*
“This is so not right,” Scott pants as they are lying in a heap of dried leaves. Dirt is sticking to Stiles’ sweaty skin as he’s trying to catch his breath, peering between the shriveled branches up at the open sky to see if they have lost their attackers.
“You don’t say.” No sooner than Stiles left the Mountain a chimera pack had descended upon him out of nowhere, intending to tear him apart. Stiles is a pretty good flyer and has often been gallivanting in his true form at home, just as quickly and steadily galloping through the fields as well as dashing through clouds, but on most days he doesn’t have to deal with rabid beastlings frothing at the mouth, wanting to savage him while he tries to stay hidden in the skies and get to the Capital unnoticed.
He’s infinitely grateful that Scott came when Stiles summoned him. Based on his obsession with Allison, Stiles expected him to lurk in Lydia’s kingdom, making goo-goo eyes at the object of his eternal adoration from the sidelines, probably hidden behind some bushes. But Scott thankfully appeared on the first summon so Stiles’ limbs are not scattered in bloody chunks all over the surface. Awesome.
“Beastlings shouldn’t attack you,” Scott continues when he gets his breathing under control. “You are like the holy beast of all beastlings. I didn’t even have the urge to attack you when we first met.”
“I am a Superbeast,” Stiles concedes as he sits up, brushing leaves from his sleeves. They are a bit frayed around the edges and torn at the elbows, but nothing unsalvageable. “And, Scott, not to doubt your scary wolf monster persona or anything, but you couldn’t kill a bunny demon to save your life. Hell, you didn’t attack Jackson even with very specific maiming instructions from your Master - meaning: me.”
Scott just gives him the stinky eye but doesn’t protest. In his beast form Scott looks like a monstrous canine hybrid, razor sharp teeth coated in saliva and claws tearing the ground as he advances on his prey, but when Stiles scratches behind his ears or runs a hand over his back and down his flank, he flops to the ground and whines like an adorable puppy with the promise of belly rubs.
Which is pretty much the scenario of how they first met. Stiles wanted to tame a demon beast and bind someone to him in the quest for more power - or that is what he told Lydia, not that he was lonely or anything and just wanted someone to play with because Lydia had found Allison. So he found Scott in one of the abandoned caves near the Memory Sea, they had a five minute epic stare down and when Stiles asked for the beast’s name, Scott happily answered then got Stiles to play tag with him.
Stiles thinks that Scott often forgets that Stiles is his master. He follows orders and commands a bit selectively and gets all huffy and cranky when Stiles reminds him that when Stiles finally dies, Scott will eat his flesh, absorb his powers and be more of a badass hybrid wolf monster than he already is. His new form and powers would make wooing Allison easier. Considering that Stiles is currently immortal and doesn’t want to do the one thing that would make him susceptible to dying, it’s no wonder that Scott gets prissy.
“It’s weird,” Scott insists as they stand up. “It’s like they knew you were coming. They shouldn’t have sensed you. And even if they somehow could, they shouldn’t have attacked you. Not like that.”
Stiles sighs, but Scott is right. “I know. And as soon as I changed to my human form, they backed off.”
Which is also very strange, and Stiles really needs to think about this more but right now he just really wants to reach the Capital, find his Oracle and ask a billion questions.
“I wish I knew where we are,” he admits with a grimace, looking around the bleak forest. It’s the end of summer and the air is so hot it forms a mirage if Stiles doesn’t blink.
“Somewhere south-west, close to the borders of Lydia’s kingdom,” Scott answers after a few beats, and Stiles groans. So much for a quick trip to the Capital.
“We should get to a village or military outpost and find transportation. I’m not spending any more time here than absolutely necessary. The weather is crazy, the locals are not very friendly and the scenery is abysmal.”
“Yeah, I totally wonder why,” Scott mumbles but follows when Stiles takes the lead.
“You are a hundred years too early to sass me. And you should shift back, I’m not comfortable without your beastly form guarding me.”
“Deal with it. We don’t know whether they can sense me as it seems they can sense you, but I have enough of your magic on me that bleed-through is more than possible. So I’m staying in human form, you are staying in human form as well and we are walking.”
“Okay,” Stiles concedes and walks, because Scott got really snarly at the end of his temper tantrum. He tries to stay silent, but the forest makes him edgy so he starts to run a step by step commentary on the landscape, which is admittedly pretty bleak. He draws parallels with the terrain in the Mountain which reminds him of the holy water fermentation debate he had with Lydia, but should have known Scott’s only contribution to the issue would be a misty-eyed, breathy Allison comment when Lydia’s name is mentioned in any capacity, so he just streamlines on.
*
They have been walking for so long that Stiles’ throat is parched, his shirt is damp from sweat and is sticking to his neck and back in disgusting ways. The heat hasn’t let up even when the sun started to set. Stiles is also pretty sure that they have been followed by at least two people for three miles now, which, fun. From Scott’s tense shoulders and increasingly darkening scowl, he’s noticed it as well, but follows Stiles’ lead on dealing with them for now.
Stiles is pretty sure that they can take on whoever is interested in them, but he’s never been one for messy murder (he can’t stand the blood) and remaining undetected as normal humans is a priority. He decides to wait out the confrontation and marches on.
He doesn’t have to wait too long as a few of the previously attacking beasts have wandered off on their own and accidentally stumbled upon them.
Stiles panics for a millisecond then starts running with Scott closely on his heels. There is inhuman screeching behind them, a lot of romping and Stiles thanks the heavens that it’s dry season and he can’t slip on mud.
There are still tiny little rocks hiding under the leaves, and Stiles bites his tongue on a curse as he trips, trying to soften the fall with his palms held out in front of him. He can feel Scott gathering his magic behind him and if he looked back his eyes would be yellow, indicating the beginning of his shift. That’s when their stalkers decide to intervene, jumping onto the beasts with swords drawn, ready to make the kill.
The ambush is quick and before Stiles can make a run for it he and Scott are surrounded. There is only two of them as Stiles has predicted, but even from a quick look in the dusk they seem like seasoned veterans. The smell of blood running down the steel of the men’s blade makes Stiles squeamish.
When one of the men steps forward, Scott places himself in front of Stiles. “Stay where you are.”
The man stops, his white teeth flashing in the dark as he grins. “And what are you going to do to stop me without a weapon on you? Bite me?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Scott says and Stiles has had enough. He slides up beside Scott, arms hanging loosely by his side, shoulders sagging as he tries to seem as non-threatening as possible.
“We were heading to the next town over and got a little lost along the way,” Stiles explains, his heart racing while he tries to drag up a map of the terrain from his memories. Unsurprisingly, he comes up blank. “We were attacked by the eagle demons on our way and were chased off the main roads. We are very grateful for your intervention, we own you our lives. If you could point us toward the road, we would be indebted to you,” Stiles soldiers on as he very slowly starts moving away from the burly men. If Stiles is good at something, it’s talking a lot while saying very little. He’s also very good at abandoning ship while it’s sinking.
Judging by the widening grin on the man’s face closest to him and Scott, he’s easily seen through his bullshit.
“It’s pretty late to wander around these woods unprotected. Let me offer you our services.”
“We wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”
“Just to clarify,” the man says, lifting the sword and pointing it toward Stiles’ chest. “I wasn’t really asking.”
Before Scott can do something monumentally stupid, like shift in front of these two bandits and make a scene, Stiles places a hand on his shoulder, his fingers tightening in warning. After a few tense moments, Scott relaxes and Stiles heaves a mental sigh of relief.
“Yeah, yeah. Lead the way big man. Just point that thing somewhere else, I tend to faint at the sight of blood,” Stiles warns. The man snorts but hangs back, probably more to keep an eye on them than to humor Stiles.
They walk.
Stiles really misses flying.
*
It turns out that the closest, human habituated community is a small village at the edge of the border forest. Tiny houses line the main road, most of them abandoned, half-dried ivy creeping around the roofs and walls crumbling onto the ground in a depressing elegy. It takes only a few minutes to walk through the village and they don’t meet anyone else on their way.
The man at the front leads them to the biggest house at the end of the road, its once impressive fence dulled and cracked by the constant heat of the sun. The house is probably in the best condition from what Stiles has seen, and when they step through the door he knows why they haven’t met anyone in the village.
The locals are easily distinguishable from the bandits - they don’t wear leather and have no weapons on them. One woman and two men are cooking at the kitchen on the right, peeling potatoes and boiling water, fire-painted shadows writhing on the wall after each stir of the spoon. Three children sleep on rat-eaten mats in the far corner, their clothes dirty and their skin glistening with sweat. The silence is only broken by the soft murmurs between the three men sitting around the small table. Before Stiles can make out their conversation, they fall quiet.
“Look what I’ve found wandering the woods,” the man behind them says in greeting, herding Stiles and Scott to the table. He still hasn’t sheathed his sword and the blood caught the eye of his fellow men.
“Ambush?” one of them asked, his gaze flicking from Scott to Stiles, then settling on the sword-happy one. In the dim lighting his eyes seem to glint red for a second.
“Eagle beastlings,” the man answers, stepping around them and walking to the kitchen. He picks up a rag and a chair along the way, dragging them to the small table while two of the leather wearing ensemble gets up and vacates the premises at a nod from the third.
“Sit.” It comes as a command, and Stiles’ metaphorical hackles rise in indignation. No mortal is allowed to order him around.
“I would rather stand, thanks.”
The man lifts one eyebrow as he crosses his arms in front of him, leaning back in his chair. The brown fabric of his tunic slips and bunches around his elbows, exposing the black leather bands on his forearms. Stiles’ lips thin as he stares the man down who doesn’t blink or look away. Tension fills the air, thick and smothering as a blanket and sweat beads at the nape of Stiles’ neck, trickling down between his shoulder blades. The man’s eyes are a storm of green, and when his lips twitch in amusement Stiles goes rigid.
“I wasn’t asking,” he smirks, and before Stiles can roll his eyes, a heavy hand lands around the back of his neck, fingers digging into his skin painfully before he’s manhandled into one of the chairs. Scott warily slides onto another while the remaining guy takes the last one.
Green-eyed guy calling the shots looks at them for a few more seconds before he starts speaking. “Who are you working for.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Man, you really don’t like questions, do you.”
“I don’t see the point, you are going to answer anyway.”
“Dark, dangerous, and brimming with overconfidence. You are the king of your ragtag misfits, I’m impressed. Do you usually kidnap innocent travelers and threaten them with pointy swords, or are we just special?”
“You are lucky Boyd found you when he did, otherwise you would be a special dinner treat to the roaming beasts. Now let’s try this again,” he says, leaning forward. “Who are you working for.”
Stiles knows his previously pristine white tunic is now smudged with dirt, the material torn in some places from the day’s events. He and Scott still stand out like a beacon in the room with their high tread count shirts that look too soft sitting on skin. He can probably play this up.
“I’m not one to work for people,” he says and it almost comes as a surprise that he’s not even lying. The leader grins, his mouth full of sharp teeth and Stiles really wants to punch the smugness out of him for some reason.
“Young little merchants smelling of new money always do.”
Stiles smirks and slowly reaches into the folds of his clothes. Boyd tenses next to him, the monotone swish-swish of the clothe gliding on the blade ceasing abruptly. Scott stills in his seat while the leader’s expression remains blank. Stiles pulls out a card and tosses it down the table. The token is small, its surface glinting golden as it catches the light of the flames when it falls. The clear outline of the Ministry’s sigil flares red in the silence.
“Let me clarify,” Stiles drawls, his eyes glued to the leader who picks up the card, examining it between long fingers. “I’m not one to work for people.”
The silence cracks when the man looks at Stiles, his face smooth and eyes blank. “Where did you get this.”
The card signifies a privilege so high in society that only a few clans and nobles hold. The holders are deemed untouchable and in the land of humans that is as good as declaring someone immortal. Stiles ranks higher than any mortal or human, only second to his non-existent Ruler, but he needs to keep his identity a secret so he goes with the next best thing available.
“I’ll tell you if you let us go,” he nods, his voice cheerful and kind, but the stranger just snorts as he puts the card down.
“And let such an illustrious guests wander around the wilderness unprotected? That would be pretty irresponsible of me. Where are you heading?”
“To the Capital,” Scott spits out and Stiles bites off the curses on the tip of his tongue that he wants to fling at Scott’s head. He just glares. Meaningfully. Scott ignores him in favor of staring at the leader.
The man hums thoughtfully. “The Capital is pretty far away, and the kingdom is crawling with beastlings. We would be glad to provide you protection and safe passage. Let us accompany you.”
Stiles’ lips curl into a grimace. “I guess that wasn’t really a question, either.”
The man smirks. “Derek at your service,” he nods while Boyd diligently oils his sword on the side. “Try to rest, we are leaving at sunrise.”
Stiles scowls at the prospect of more walking, his feet aching in sympathy.
One of the village men gives them a blanket and they settle into the corner, not far from the sleeping children. It’s hot and the floor is hard so the blanket functions as a ragtag bedding rather than to keep the heat. Sleep is a distant wish far on the horizon. Stiles is too busy thinking about their available options, Scott is too keyed in on Stiles’ mood to even consider taking a quick nap. His eyes keep gleaming golden but always fade back to brown after a blink.
Apart from Boyd who is apparently standing guard and the sleeping children, everyone has left the room. Stiles lies on his back and follows the tiny cracks on the ceiling with his eyes, a microcosm of fragile lines blending and spreading like a spider’s web, ready to catch the unsuspecting flies.
*
The pinkish hues of dawn sneak up on them and the sleepy chatter of children soon fills the room. A woman descends from the first floor while two men come in from the back. One of the children wanders over to Stiles, her frizzled locks tumbling in a tangled mass down her back. Stiles smiles at her and the girl squeals, runs back to her peers while her giggles echo in the early morning silence.
Boyd has left but another goon has taken his place, it would be more trouble than worth the risk to make a run for it. Not that Stiles really wants to - if he and Scott have bodyguards volunteering to join them on their journey, the chances of accidentally outing themselves to whoever is hunting them should be minimized.
“I don’t like this,” Scott murmurs as Stiles folds the blanket. “We shouldn’t go with them.”
“Better protection.”
Scott looks hurt for a minute, then his features shift to an annoyed scowl. “I’m more than enough to protect you.”
“Strength in numbers, Scott. Strength in numbers.” Stiles pats his shoulder as they make their way outside. “Plus, we are trying to remain magically invisible, which will not go so well if you rage-shift in the middle of a fight. Now while the attackers will be too busy to slaughter our money hungry line of guards, we can make our escape undetected. They die in honor of protecting the Sacred Beast, we make it to the Capital. Win-win for both sides.”
“They don’t know that you are the Sacred Beast.”
Stiles waves dismissively. “Details.”
Scott sighs. “It’s not that. Something just doesn’t feel right. Especially with Derek.”
“Yeah, I kinda noticed that you have been short of constantly growling at him last evening. I know he’s a douche, but try to keep your fangs behind those lips. We need him.”
“Stiles--“
“I know,” Stiles agrees, his tone placating but final. Scott’s intuition has never betrayed them and even Stiles can tell them something is not quite right with Derek. He’s not magic but doesn’t feel entirely human either, and Stiles would chalk up his uneasy to sudden climate change and culture shock, still adjusting to the new environment. But Scott has noticed it too, and he’s spent more time in the kingdoms, mingling with its living creatures while mooning over Allison than Stiles has even thought about them in passing.
“Any ideas?” he asks, noticing Derek making his way across the yard. He’s talking to one of his men, his gait relaxed and sure, muscles shifting under the black, well-worn material of his trousers. He walks with the silent grace of a predator. If Stiles hadn’t seen him he wouldn’t know he was there.
“Unfortunately, nothing.”
Stiles hums. “Then we wait and see.” Scott huffs but lets it go.
“We wait for Boyd, then set out,” Derek starts instead of good morning as he and his lackey come to a stop in front of them. “The closest town is two days away. We can purchase horses there and get you to the Capital in a week.”
Stiles frowns, trying to work out the logistics. “How many of your men will be riding?”
“Me and Boyd.”
“And while we are gallivanting cross-kingdom, the rest stay behind to raid the town?”
“To protect the townsfolk,” Derek corrects.
Stiles snorts. “Right.”
“Let’s go.” Boyd’s hand lands on Stiles’ shoulder, herding him out the gate. Stiles shakes off his hold with a grimace.
“Stop with the manhandling, this is a no touching zone.” He looks around when only Boyd and Derek fall into step with him and Scott.
“The others will follow us later?”
“The others stay behind.”
Stiles stops. “What?”
Derek sighs. “With this speed it will take more than two days to reach the town. Move.”
“With only the two of you for company it will be a miracle if we even reach the town. Or did you forget about the beasts crawling all over this lovely forest like ants?” His protest is emphasized by agitated hand movements.
Derek comes to a halt and slowly turns around. He looks into Stiles’ eyes before his gaze glides over his neck and collarbone with unhurried deliberation, drifting over his form and taking in each miniscule detail, measuring and assessing every flaw. Stiles locks his muscles and doesn’t squirm. He does the same with Scott, then flicks his gaze to Boyd.
“I think we will manage,” he drawls, face blank while his whole stance radiates amusement. He pivots on his heels and upon Boyd’s urging, they follow.
It takes Stiles a good ten minutes of relaxation techniques and controlled breathing exercises to not grit his teeth anymore. He doesn’t even have the patience to tell Scott to mind his growling.
*
Stiles thinks that considering that they are on a Get to know your kingdom - the wonders of the rural nooks! journey, their supplies even pooled together are on the lean side. Him and Scott haven’t really planned to stay for an extended period so that is understandable, but neither Derek nor Boyd are lugging bags with them. Apart from water flasks and swords, they don’t carry much; not even food. Stiles remembers the wilted potatoes boiling in the water and the sunken cheeks of the little girl, how the clothes have hung on her small and bony frame like an almost empty sack and doesn’t say anything.
The heat doesn’t let up. When Stiles asks about it, Boyd just shrugs.
“It’s been like this for a while, and getting worse each year. The crops and cattle die either in the heat of the summer or the torrential rain of the winter. Trade is pushed back by the aggressive wild beasts while the provincial taxes are continuously increased to support military expenses.”
Stiles frowns. “All neighboring kingdoms are controlled by a chosen ruler with a qilin by their sides. All of them are currently thriving. It would make no sense to endanger that hard-earned prosperity by meddling with another country’s sovereignty and evoke the wrath of the Heavens.”
“I’ve never said that increased military activity was due to external threats,” Boyd clarifies with a bitter smile. “The rate is set by the Interim Council and many provincial lords transfer the burden to their tax payers. But some don’t and that creates tension between the lords and the Council. And the current Prime Minister likes to keep a tight control over his kingdom.”
“It’s not his kingdom,” Derek interrupts quietly. It’s the first time he’s participated in the conversation and Stiles is hopelessly intrigued, even after his inner battle of epic proportions against his curiosity.
“Until the qilin ascends to Chose a ruler the Prime Minister has carte blanche in the eye of the Heavens over state affairs,” Stiles argues and is surprised when he comes off level-headed. As long as he keeps his detachment and tries to treat this as a classis case of theoretical politics, he should be okay.
“The Prime Minister is not Chosen by the qilin, therefore is not entitled to act on behalf of the Heavens. Just look at the state of the kingdom. It’s in disarray and steadily declining into oblivion, no Prime Minister or Interim Council will change that.”
“So you are waiting for the divine intervention of the Sacred Beast to lift your kingdom from ruins? I didn’t know that savage bandits were such hopeless romantics,” Stiles drawls, sarcasm dripping from his words and burning like acid.
Derek’s laugh is short and just as biting. “Hope is for people desperate enough to believe that change will inevitable lead to a result different than what it is currently. If they appease the Heavens a qilin will appear to choose the Ruler who will lead the kingdom to its halcyon days. But those people who wish always forget that hope and change is a two way street. That after that lucky break a storm will rage and destroy everything in its wake. The Ruler will step out of line and provoke the vengeance of the Heavens who will invoke the Sickness in the qilin which will inevitably lead to the death of the Ruler and demise of the kingdom. Rinse, repeat.”
“A never-ending circle of pretence change,” Boyd hums thoughtfully.
Derek shrugs. “The result is always the same, there is no change. Nothing to hope for.”
Stiles stares at Derek as they march forward, his gaze gliding over those broad shoulders as the rhythmic motion of steady steps lulls him into a surprising sense of security.
“What?” Derek’s voice snaps him out of his reverie and Stiles blinks, shaking his head a little to clear his mind.
“I’m surprised.” He is not even lying. “From your appearance I didn’t expect a savaging bandit leader capable of having such thought-provoking world view.”
Derek shoots Boyd a dirty look when he suddenly starts coughing. Scott doesn’t even try to muffle his snickering.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“No, no, that’s quite alright,” Stiles waves. “I feel like I understand your ways now.”
Derek gives him a look that says a thousand words with its blankness. “My ways.”
“Why you terrorize the population with your brutish, all muscle rag-tag bandit group while raiding towns and taking their gold, threatening unsuspecting travelers and overtaking the homes of the frightened locals and such.”
“Why do you think we are bandits?” Boyd’s tone is more curious than angry.
Stiles is too busy rolling his eyes so it’s Scott who asks, “Are you not?”
“I will be fine to be called whatever you want to believe we are as long as we are on the opposite side of Gerard Argent and his Council,” Derek says before he falls silent and doesn’t say anything for the rest of the day.
Scott and Boyd strike up a tentative conversation about their travels - Scott spends enough time traipsing in the kingdoms with Allison to have decent knowledge over the terrain while Boyd, before he joined Derek in his savage mission of brood and maim was part of a travelling circus. Scott has not yet been successful with his interrogation of what Boyd was doing - it’s still a toss-up between animal trainer and fire-eater performer.
They make camp for the evening off the road, but not too deep in the forest. Stiles finds a perfect nook between the twisted roots of an ancient oak tree and he sits down, back resting against the hard bark as he watches Boyd pile leaves and twigs in a small heap to make fire.
“Wouldn’t we make easier targets for the beasts?” Scott asks as Boyd keeps poking at the mass, helping it to catch fire.
“We will put it out once we have eaten.”
Before Stiles can ask what is on their nonexistent menu, Derek drops a pair of pheasants next to him. They are just as bloody as dead, their heads lolling on the ground as they stare up at Stiles through glassy eyes. He swallows the scream climbing at the back of his throat as he scrambles away from the carcasses.
“Oh my god, watch it,” he hisses, his stomach rolling as he flexes his fingers to stop their trembling.
“Can’t stand a little blood?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow in amusement. Stiles is too busy trying not to be sick all over the place to feel the familiar anger over Derek’s smug face.
“God, no. Get them away,” he breathes loudly, then makes a strangled sound as Derek crouches down, holding a small knife between his fingers, ready to skin them like someone possessed.
“Stop, stop, no! I’m not sleeping between a bloody pile of dried leaves, no thank you. Get them away, away! Shoo! And when the hell did you catch them? And with what? You don’t have a bow to shoot. Did you stalk these poor, unsuspecting birds and pounce on them from behind the bushes? Did you kill them with your teeth? Are those claw marks puncturing their sides, what the hell?! Did you have to make their death this bloody? Man, I thought you were a silent, neat killer, this is just unacceptable. So messy, god,” Stiles rambles, his stomach heaving and chest tight from the rapidly receding oxygen from his lungs.
Derek is more confused now than amused, but wanders a few steps over, settling at the other side of the fire, far enough that Stiles stops hyperventilating but still with enough light from the flames to see what he’s doing.
“You really are squeamish when it comes to blood,” Boyd adds, seemingly remembering how Stiles balked at the sight of his sword after their little rescue mission. He explains when Derek makes a questioning hum. ”Last night he freaked when we killed the beasts as well.”
Stiles thinks the answer is pretty obvious so he doesn’t elaborate, just continues to breathe, slowly and deeply, determinedly looking at anywhere than Derek. He can’t help it, it’s been woven into his life essence. Qilins can’t stand the smell or sight of blood; makes them nauseous and even unconscious if it gets on their skin in considerable quantities. It’s one of their very few weaknesses and is common knowledge within the kingdoms. He thinks he can write it off as a human quirk, but he should be careful about showing how much it affects him. If he somehow ends up using magic in front of these two, linked with his aversion to blood they can easily jump to the correct conclusion, and that’s the last thing he wants.
Scott slides up to him, sitting shoulder to shoulder, their thighs touching and his familiar presence helps to soothe Stiles’ nerves. Soon the very naked, gutted pheasants are merrily roasting over the fire, the smell of cooked meat slowly filling the space between the four of them. Stiles tears off small chunks of the browning flesh and half-heartedly nibbles on the pieces, more to conform to mortal notions and necessities than to ease supposed hunger pangs as he’s still too queasy to eat anything. Scott wolfs down most of the meat.
Boyd takes first watch and Stiles feels too wiped out to protest the schedule as he and Scott have been somehow left out of the rotation. The suffocating heat and the acrid smell of smoke rock him like a lullaby into sleep.
*
When the qilin gets the Sickness as a punishment doled out by the Heavens, the Ruler is too far gone into madness to reverse the curse and the Sacred Beast dies, condemning the kingdom to chaos until the next Ruler is chosen. The qilin is reborn on the Sacred Mountain when the Heavens deem it so, matures and learns until its capable enough to descent to the mortal world and play intermediary, relaying the absolute will of the Heavens by choosing the rightful Ruler to their kingdom.
Qilins are immortal as long as they don’t choose, and die when their Chosen ones betray the very values they stand for. Being reborn is an opportunity to start over, a tabula rasa granted as sweet relief by the Heavens to start the circle anew. Bleed through, however, is inevitable.
Stiles can still hear Lydia screaming between nightmares, her throat raw and shoulders trembling as she huddled under silken sheets, her eyes wild with panic as she bit her lips for control, the flesh painted cherry red in remembrance to a past better long forgotten.
When Stiles remembers, he dreams in smudged technicolor saturated through red filters. Of blood seeping through his fingers like quicksilver, gathering in a pool around his legs and cementing them to the slippery ground as it slowly seeps under his skin and writhes like worms in his veins, ready to burst his pulsing vessels and splatter his essence all over the place. Of a long forgotten voice whispering endearments that feel like a spiked whip tearing into his flesh, rending his muscles to the bone. Of promises getting infected with doubt, betrayal festering deep within his core and spreading along his body like wildfire, consuming his very being until all he feels is the raw, pulsing mass of thirst for the merciful kiss of oblivion.
He comes awake with a painful lurch, his muscles sizing from phantom pain. His gasp is thankfully swallowed by crickets playing an upbeat, out of sync symphony. Derek glances at his direction but doesn’t say anything, and Stiles is grateful for his silence. He turns on his side and breathes, thinks of Lydia’s refreshing presence and the soothing tranquility of lush green fields. Before he drifts off to dream, he imagines Derek’s eyes flashing red in the darkness, watching him sleep.
For the rest of the night he doesn’t dream.
*
Stiles should be relieved that they haven’t met anyone since they have left the small town, but the most he feels is stir-crazed impatience sprinkled with a huge serving of absolute boredom. Don’t get him wrong, Stiles can appreciate solitary as he had to entertain himself on the Sacred Mountain after Lydia had abandoned the mothership, but the library provided a vast reserve of accumulated knowledge ready to be dived into at all times, and the fae attendants had been more than willing to indulge him if he wanted to drown out the silence with his chatter.
His current companions are not so accommodating. Boyd is more like the gruff, silent type who is nice enough to listen but is not really keen to keep up a continuous flow of conversation. Stiles really likes Scott but there is nothing new he can learn about Allison after listening to Scott wave rhapsodies about her for over a hundred years, no matter how much Scott is convinced about the opposite. Derek is like a silent marble statue marching in the sun, Stiles can’t even look at him for long without feeling a blinding irritation start to skitter along his skin, making him itch. That may come from the grime and dust sticking to his body with the sweltering heat, but Stiles has never been overly rational when he’s frustrated. If Sties hadn’t heard Derek speak full sentences the previous day, he would think him mute.
The road serves to the right, by-passing a bare, lonely tree standing on the side, once proud but now doubling over the wandering travelers with the heavy weight of time. Stiles staggers a bit when he gets close enough and his stomach drops in horror when he recognizes the tree.
“A wild eggfruit tree,” Scott breathes next to him, his voice hushed with disbelief. “It’s dying.”
Stiles feels numb. “Eggfruit trees can’t die. It’s not possible.”
“The Heavens like to make the impossible possible,” Boyd says, his voice resigned like stumbling upon a sight like this is the norm. Stiles thinks that for people living in this kingdom, it probably is. “It’s punishment for how much the kingdom has wronged them in the past. We deal with it.”
Stiles keeps staring at the tree and slowly shakes his head, thinking. “The Heavens wouldn’t deal out a punishment like this.”
“Of course not,” Derek drawls, his tone bitter and angry. Stiles is too shocked to take offense and tries to explain.
“Eggfruit trees are sacred, they bare life for the blessed. Even the Heavens don’t play with a magic so primal and ancient,” he keeps insisting, his voice strong and firm, saturated with unshakable belief. Meddling with something this powerful would lead to unforeseen consequences. “How long has this been going on?”
“For years. I think even the neighboring countries have gotten a wind of it, word does travel after all, no matter how slowly. Have you been living under a rock?” Boyd is looking at him funny while Derek’s expression is more on the contemplative side.
“Apparently,” Stiles murmurs, but a fleeting thought makes him pale with frightening intensity. “What about the eggfruit tree in the Capital? The one in the palace gardens?”
While wild trees bear the eggfruit of animals and beasts, triggering growth from environmental and economical circumstances, the one in the Capital grows the eggs for humans. People pray for new life to spark, tying a ribbon soaked in wishes to its branches and if their prayers are awnsered, a golden egg bearing new life may grow on the tree. Once it reaches full term the egg will hatch and the people whose eggs have matured under their ribbons will welcome a newborn child to their family.
Stiles has read horror stories about faraway lands where females grow their offspring inside their bodies, but those were more like myths than anything else he’s ever encountered during his studies, so he’s dismissed the notion as nothing more than scary legends.
If the eggfruit in the Capital is dying, Stiles may as well start planning for the funeral of his whole kingdom. Wild eggfruit trees dying have been unprecedented since the history of Creation, the one in the Capital dying is just. Unimaginable.
“As far as I know it’s still standing,” Boyd says, glancing at Derek who sighs before rolling his shoulders, looking at Stiles.
“My nephew is two years old,” he explains. “But it’s been… difficult. To have him. Fewer and fewer children are born.”
Stiles blinks at Derek. “You have a family?” He’s astonished. Even Scott is looking at Derek like he’s seeing him for the first time.
“Don’t sound so surprised. I have two sisters.”
“His older sister, Laura, is the one with the kid. Derek is the middle child,” Boyd adds, his lips twitching into a smile because Derek seems really uncomfortable with the topic of his personal life. His face and body language are fascinating to watch.
“Dude, that explains so much about you,” Stiles says, suddenly enlightened. His sisters must be super scary mofos if he’s so reluctant to talk about them. He has the ridiculous urge to meet this Laura and ask why she let her little brother get mixed up in this whole bandit thing. “I bet you compensate with this whole rugged ruffian group stuff because she didn’t let you have the toys when you were young. Poor, oppressed you. No wonder you had to find something to rebel against to vent your childhood frustration. Go you, beat the system.”
Boyd snorts while Derek just glares. “Do you have siblings?”
“Nah, only child,” he shrugs and strictly speaking, it’s true. Even though the other qilins may as well be considered his brothers and sisters.
“Thought so,” Derek murmurs but Stiles gets distracted before he can ask what he means.
If the eggfruit trees are dying, some kind of magic must be involved. Powerful magic. Dark magic. Stiles vows that the next time he sees Lydia he will praise her light and write an ode to her gossip network.
He lifts his hand and gently runs his fingers along a branch that dives onto the road. It’s brittle and rigid, feels dead-cold to the touch and burns the pads of his heated skin. He murmurs a silent prayer to the Heavens, hoping he will be heard before they start walking again.
He falls into step with Derek with one goal in mind. It’s easy to spin his rambling in a way that when he dangles the Prime Minister as bait in the conversation, Derek bites embarrassingly fast. Stiles can appreciate a one-track mind, and it turns out that Gerard Argent is someone whom Derek is really, really fixated upon.
When they finally reach the edge of the town Stiles’ head is spinning from information and dread is slowly spreading in his gut, devouring his insides like a disease.
part 2
part 3