Work Text:
Silverware & Werewolves - Tues
C : Silverware - Tues 7/30
(Unexpected crossover or *Werewolves are Known)
** Silverware and Werewolves
Part 1 of Metalsmith Stiles series
_ _ _ _ _ _
Stiles was sent by his village to a Sorcerer who promised that he could stop the Beast ransacking their flocks and tearing up the fields. All he needed was a few components, almost all the money they had, and one of their own.
They drew lots and Stiles heard his name called out. It was almost a relief. Orphaned and alone, he had been working under the blacksmith as a helper in exchange for sleeping in the forge at night and a shared meal in the evening. It was lean times and no one had enough, much less enough to just give. So if giving up one hungry mouth to save the crops and flocks was what it took, they were willing to pay the price. Stiles left with the Sorcerer with little complaint, knowing they'd all fall on deaf ears.
The Beast turned out to be an illusion, a false construct of some captured Alpha werewolf the Sorcerer has captive. Stiles doesn't understand, doesn't know what a werewolf is or what is happening. Next thing he knows, he's on the floor with fangs piercing his hip to the bone and darkness washes over him. He dreams of a golden net around him, keeping him safe, and feels fur brush by his hands.
When he wakes, Sorcerer has moved the grounds again. Stiles is on the floor, dried blood on his clothes. A diamond pendant sits on his chest, Fae-wrought and locked around his neck with magic. A wolf is curled up in his ribcage, sleeping. He looks up and sees an old man, slightly run to fat but still strong, who says, "First Sorcerer will have you swear the Oath. Then I'll show you to your rooms." He steps out of the room, Sorcerer enters a moment later and explains, "Since you did not come here on your own, I have to take measures to keep you. This pendant ties you to me, and binds you to my Grounds. You will Oath to serve and offer your life to me, by tongue and blood."
Stiles refused. He was never a follower and had no idea what the scope of that Oath actually was. "No. I won't say that. I didn't come here to serve anyone." Sorcerer laughed, "No, you came here to die. Who knows, one day you may actually die here. Keep disobeying me and it will almost certainly happen, Metalsmith."
"I am not even an apprentice, good luck with that! If you needed something fixed you should have hired Master John." Stiles shoots back.
"Oh, no, Metalsmith. You are more than an apprentice. You have magic, and I need it, so I will take it from you one working at a time." Sorcerer sounded almost cordial as he spoke.
"I don't have any magic, Druid Deaton said so. That's why I couldn't apprentice with him and ended up with Master John!" Stiles is feeling more desperate now, realizing no matter what he says, he won't be leaving, but he doesn't understand why Sorcerer thinks he has any magic.
"The Druid lied. He didn't want you around to challenge him when you finally came into it. Anyone with magic could see it in you, albeit buried under your grief and pain. It was inevitable you'd come into your talents, now you will do so here under my instruction."
Stiles, stunned, just shook his head, "No."
"As you wish," sighed the Sorcerer, and Stiles' world shattered.
Finally, hours later, the Oath was sworn.
_ _ _ _ _
The first handful of years pass by as they should, with Stiles noticing his growing height and expected changes, as well as those that came from practicing his craft for hours each day. Then he noticed the changes stopped, and within a another handful resigned himself to the seeming permanence of his state of being.
The years don't pass by completely without change, however.
He watches the windows in his workroom slowly turn from water-clear to a soft lilac to an undeniable purple.
_ _ _ _ _
The Fae finally come to claim their due of the deal. Unfortunately it didn't cover all the residents of the grounds. He stands alongside the others from the castle as one of the Fae tells them, "A portal will open for you and will return you to the mortal world." then just, stops. Stiles sighs and asks, "Will we be sent back to our homes?"
"Where and when are not the concern of the Queen. The sorcerer tried to avoid his bargain by moving his domain repeatedly, and all of you with it. Be grateful you are being allowed to leave at all, earth-child." the Fae almost sneers, then spins and walks off.
Stiles hefts his bags across his shoulders and then clutches the wooden chest of silverware he snatched out of the butler's pantry. He still had enough space left, he thinks. Just enough.
He had grabbed tools, wooden trays he stacked into a larger wooden box, in turn stuffed into a thick leather satchel. A few handfuls of gem chips and ingots, whatever he thought looked pretty and he could quickly make things out of if needed, or at least valuable for trade flat-out for other supplies. A half dozen stems grabbed to press inside his books. His commonplace book that he's compiled from other books over the years including the one on Flower Language gets tucked into a messenger-style bag, setting light on his hip because it had been Sorcerer's so it holds more than it should. Stiles normally wouldn't have dared touch it, but Sorcerer won't miss its loss now. A few personal odd and ends, a handful of supplies that could come in handy and he'd suddenly been done. He quickly puts together another bouquet of metal creations, wrapped in a soft hide. Everything else, he left behind. Had to, really, he can only carry so much.
He walks toward the courtyard where the Queen had commanded them to gather at when he is joined by one of the Fae messengers he was friendly with.
"Gatherer, I am on my way to the courtyard but glad I ran into you," Stiles started. "I only had so much room in my bags, so as a show of thanks to you for your kindness, please take these as a gift, a gift without obligation." He held out a riotous bouquet of mismatched flowers in every metallic shade imaginable, from an almost white sterling silver to black iron, gems laid down stems and over petals creating a prism of color. These were some of his latest pieces that Gatherer hadn't seen yet, his latest workthrough of some sketches the Fae had brought him some months ago. He was especially proud of the China Aster, teasing each small wisp of a petal out was tedious work.
Gatherer took the leather-wrapped bundle with a smile. "I am always happy to receive such a gift, especially from you today," Gatherer replied, stepping alongside Stiles. "You know that your flowers have made me quite popular in certain circles. I will be disappointed to have to announce these are the last."
Stiles laughs at the wolfish grin flashed his way and suggests Gatherer raise the price or stop raising hell.
"I fear I have done wrong by you, Metalsmith", Gatherer replied, looking down at the bouquet. "Since you are leaving, I wish to offer you a gift, a gift of truth with no obligation."
Stiles stared at the Gatherer, surprised at such a gesture.
"You have been trapped here in this place away from living Nature on purpose. Your selection was not random and since it suited the Sorcerer's purpose, he allowed it, so you have not known the full range of your Gifts."
He placed a small stick in Stiles' hand, whittled down flat on one side. There, crudely gouged and stained in black ink was 'Stiles', but he had written his real name on his own stick. Deaton had even said his full name when he drew lots so Stiles had never suspected he was anything but unlucky. The unlucky orphan, the disappointing son, the defective druid. Just another hit in a series, another stroke of bad luck.
And yet, there is the proof. He recognizes the scrawl, perfectly preserved as the minute Scott finished gouging it. A betrayal preserved for centuries. To think, he'd almost been glad it had been him, him instead of anyone else, that no one would miss him, that it was good it was him rather than the others who were needed and loved. Now he knew it was just another betrayal. What happens when you lose everything you value? You become worthless. He had just been another mouth to feed. Stiles was surprised at the steadiness of his own hand.
"The man in your village responsible for your Tenure here and his accomplices are all long dead. They died as a result of their trickery, so there is no one for you to seek justice against from there. I am...sorry, for that. Everyone deserves their vengeance." He paused and then drew closer.
"Anything that comes from the Land is yours to command, insomuch as it will listen. Metals come from the Earth, so it forms for you in ways it won't for others. But they are unchanging, ungrowing, and buried deep. Your Gift had been the same, layered under magics and the geas running through this tract. Now you will hear Her and be able to answer." With that, the Gatherer turned and strode back into the castle.
Stiles looks down at the stick in his hand and then hurls it against the wall. Gods damn Deaton and his plots, naïve Scott alongside him. Of course it was his name on the stick, it was probably on every stick in the village. It was always going to happen this way, like he was damned from birth. *Calm,* his wolf nudges. *Why let ghosts bother you? They are long dead and gone. We are alive.* Stiles sighs. He was right, Stiles had spent so many years being angry and what had it gotten him? He thought he'd let go of it all, but apparently there was enough left to spark an amount of outrage he was surprised at. Bad luck was one thing, but betrayal was another, after all.
"Metalsmith! Dusk draws close, do you stay and celebrate with us or use the Queen's portal?" Gambler called out, drawing Stiles' attention. He was one of the other friendlier Fae and on occasion had asked Stiles for various trinkets, in exchange for information. Gambler provided stories of the Fae and other supernatural creatures and their world, and Stiles would fashion the small pieces of jewelry that were requested. He and Gatherer were the closest thing he had to friends in this place; the rest of the Fae were more distant and rarely interacted with any of the residents of the castle.
"Gambler! I choose the portal, apologies to your dance card!" Stiles shouts back, waving as Gambler does the same. They draw closer to each other and Gambler takes in his bags, extra clothes and bedroll. "So I see. Well, there's always a chance you'll find your way into one of our Circles in the future, youngling. I wouldn't begrudge your presence at the Court," He adds, a hint of flirtatious suggestion in his tone.
"With deepest respect, Gambler, if I never see you again I will count my lucky stars. I'd rather not have any personal dealings with your Court, if it's all the same to you."
Gambler laughs, head back and carefree as ever, "None taken, dear boy. You've gained the wisdom the elders did not. Your Sorcerer and his associates have much to answer for to our Queen and her fury is," Gambler paused, considering, "magnificent, and terrible." Stiles and his wolf both shivered, imagining invoking that wrath. "Well, let's head over and see what the Queen has in store for me, hmm?" Gambler laughs again, but just claps Stiles' shoulder, "Your Fate lies beyond her Realm and she knows it. We've all known it, since you arrived. Now it's here and you'll be leaving these Lands forever. Have no fear!"
Stiles does, in fact, have fear and wonders what will happen when he goes through the portal, but Gambler dismisses them, only alluding that Stiles "will never be alone again" before bidding him fare well and good luck.
The Queen gestures, "Once you find Her, we will find you again, Metalsmith" and he's through the portal. His bad luck remains as he finds himself going ass over teakettle into a huge rhododendron the size of a damn house.
_ _ _ _ _
Stiles pushes his way out of the rhododendron bush into the surrounding woods. The sun is rising, like he was shoved forward in time as well. He can hear bees buzzing lazily, the first drones of the morning collection. He wanders around the clearing and wonders where he is. He'll need to pick a direction to walk and just...go until he finds a village? It's as good a plan as any, he supposes. His wolf shrugs, *We can hunt as long as we find water,* pragmatic as always.
He takes off his satchel and pack, straightens his clothes, fusses with his pack a bit and finally decides to head south. Suddenly, he can hear heavy footsteps, like someone is running toward him, and a faint heartbeat pulsing quickly. The steps come to a plodding stop as the owner of the feet lets loose a small groan. Stiles whips his head around at the noise, and sees a striking young man roughly his own age, standing in what looks to be his smallclothes.
"Hello! Are you lost?"
Stiles stared at his potential rescuer and answered as honestly as possible, "I don't think I can express how lost I truly am."
_ _ _ _ _
The man's eyes still glowed and Peter moved to calm the situation. "I'm Pack-born, you don't need to worry about that."
"What does that even mean?!" the man asked.
"It means I know about werewolves, the supernatural, the Other Side, whatever you want to call it. It's okay, you're safe here." Peter put up both his hands.
"Do people really know about werewolves?" The werewolf sounded surprised.
"Obviously, I am a people. I know about werewolves. I told you the truth."
The man frowned. "You are not just "a people" and that doesn't mean everybody knows. Don't speak like one of the Fae around me!"
Peter stifled his first reaction and instead replied, "And how exactly are you familiar with the Courts, stranger?"
The man stiffened, his eyes flashing gold again. "They would do business with my old Master. I'm familiar with them."
"Well, I am not Fae. Like I said, I'm Pack-born and mean you no harm. My name is Peter."
"I'm the—a—Metalsmith."
That explained the set of heaviness of the bag riding on his back, Peter thought. The broad expanse of his shoulders was natural and his arms defined yet lean, though, so Peter doubted he worked with steel or iron. His hands were nimble and quite handsome, with only a few faint scars from what Peter assumed was a slipped chisel or somesuch as the man was learning his craft.
That did not explain why the 'metalsmith' didn't give an actual name upon being asked, but perhaps he had indeed spent some time among the Fae. It would certainly explain his odd clothing and supplies.
"Why do you think I am not 'just a people'", Peter asks, curiosity rising.
"You're far away from other people but you smell like many. You're in the woods but not to hunt, not with that weapon, and not to gather, because you have no sacks or baskets. You don't have a reason to be out here."
"Those are easy to answer : I have a very caring Pack at home, which is closer to here in the woods than it is to the larger part of town, and I am not here to hunt or gather today."
"If this is so far away from your village why are you out here?"
Peter pointed at the boxes off the trail, the ones he planned on checking during his run today. The supers were almost full for harvesting.
"You're checking on...honey?" The man's voice sounded surprised.
"Not just any honey, thank you very much. It's a special kind I cultivate for Pack use. Rhododendron, which made the mad honey that killed Pompey's soldiers. As a dealer in antiquities and oddities I find a great deal of interest in history. As a member of a Pack, I've made it my business to know —and keep— many things."
"And you keep the bees?"
"As one of my hobbies, yes."
"The sorcerer kept bees. They were some of the only free things that stayed around, usually the beasts and birds would only last a few months before disappearing."
Peter looked over and saw the Metalsmith's face twist. "No, that's wrong, it was us that disappeared."
"They say bees are messengers between the Realms, maybe there is some truth to it and they could pass freely."
The man just stares at him for a minute.
Peter clears his throat, finding the act disconcerting.
"I could keep calling you Metalsmith, but I would appreciate if you gave me a name for yourself, wolf-eyes. I told you mine, after all."
The man blinks. His eyes turn back to their regular brownish shade.
"Oh. Of course. Peter. My name is Stiles."
Peter takes Stiles' bag and heads in the direction of the old cabin, then pauses and walks over to one of the skeps and whispers, "This is Stiles, new to the territory. This one is one of mine."
The bees dance and his message is spread as they fly.
_ _ _ _ _
They finally arrive at what Peter calls " the cabin" , slightly dusty from disuse but otherwise completely fine. Peter asks him to wait while he goes to fetch the Alpha.
Stiles is left alone inside the cabin, so he explores. He drags his fingers along the walls and wonders why there is so much copper under the surface. It's singing like he's never heard before. Metal is everywhere here, like a filigree cage through the wood and stone and brick of the house. It's surprisingly spacious, larger than any family home Stiles had seen in his village, with several large rooms as well as several smaller bedrooms. Two small rooms are clearly wash rooms, tiled and with baths with drains. Another door leads to a basement, and he finds a hatch that no doubt leads to an attic. He makes his way back out to the main area by the front door just as Peter arrives with his sister and Alpha, Talia, in tow.
Stiles gives a brief recollection of being given to the Sorcerer as a deal to stop the Beast as a sacrifice but it was just a trick, a way to gain servants, depending on the skills the nearest village had and what deals were struck. There was no beast in the woods and no sacrifice was needed to banish it. It was an illusion created by Sorcerer and when he disappeared along with Stiles, taking the "Beast" with him and leaving the village feeling safer than they'd felt in weeks.
"You were held there for how many years?"
Having no reason to lie, Stiles answered as best he could. "Something over 200, was what Gambler told me some time back, so it may be longer. Sorcerer... moved us around, somehow. I couldn't tell you exactly."
Talia was shocked, but managed to ask, "How is that possible? What are you?"
"I was 16, almost 17, and as human as anyone else in my village when I was given to Sorcerer. Others were older, but the same thing happened no matter what," Stiles explained. "If it could survive, it would grow until maturity and then seem to stop, even as the years continued on outside. Gambler told me that the Sorcerer asked for immortality like their own but even the Queen cannot stop time or change someone in that way. Her powers are great, but time and nature are insuperable. Instead he was bound to the grounds he had warded, those grounds were merged into the Shadowlands where time slowed to a sap-crawl. Then he trapped all of us in there with him. I don't know how many years I have, or appear to have, but I'd guess a few years past whatever counts as human or werewolf maturity. I haven't seen many changes in myself recently."
Peter spoke up, "I'd guess you're about 25 or so, a handful of yesrs younger than myself. We can try to work it out in the future or discuss it further when we get you papers."
Talia cleared her throat, "I agree. Let's continue. Peter says you were Bitten, and against your will?"
"I wasn't given a choice, that's correct. But I wouldn't have known what it meant even if I'd been asked. We had no legends about werewolves in my village."
"What do you know about werewolves, Stiles?"
"About them, the monsters from human stories? Or about us? Because there seems to be a large difference. I don't know very much about being a werewolf, if that's what you're asking. I've never had to live in secret or hide myself, and when I was human none of us in the village knew anything about werewolves." Stiles considered what he knew and continued on. "I know we have our wolves inside, that we're drawn to the Moon, that we have a bond with our Alphas, that we can be Commanded," Talia and Peter both could hear the capitalization and she interjected, "Commanded? Do you mean you were made by your Alpha to do things against your will? They forced you to submit?"
"Yes. Whenever Sorcerer demanded it, the Alpha would Command us, though Sorcerer had other ways of making us obey him."
Peter jumped in, "Did he ever use his claws on you?"
Stiles frowned, "That sounds different than asking if he hurt me. How do you mean 'used his claws'?"
Talia gives a brief explanation of how an Alpha can use their claws to enter someone's mind and finishes, "It can be dangerous, but I swear you will not be harmed on purpose and it would greatly speed things up."
Stiles is silent for a minute, wondering about the mechanics and magic behind this ability, but finally agrees as long as Peter and Talia tell him everything they know about it. He's done with secrets.
They agree, and shortly Talia is standing behind him with her claws carefully placed between the bones of his neck.
"Are you ready, Stiles?" she asked quietly.
Stock still, he said yes without nodding, then there was a sharp pain and he was falling into nothingness.
Talia closed her eyes and found herself in front of the largest tree she'd ever seen, surely as big as the old Nemeton her grandmother had told her about. Behind it stood a door, an old door that looked like it was the door to Stiles' quarters at the Sorcerer's castle. She moves to approach it only to find the tree in her way. She steps to the left and the tree bars her way again.
'What is this,' she thinks, 'How does a metalsmith end up with this tree in his mind?' and lays a hand on the trunk of the tree. Suddenly it radiates protection, and the threat of all the poisons in berry and leaf and petal spring up around her, intangible but present in the air. She pushes her other hand against the tree and thinks at it, 'No, no, he is safe, we mean him no harm!'
Everything pauses as the tree seems to inhale, and all the threats recede.
'Thank you', she sends, gathering herself up, then waits for a few seconds before asking, 'May I please see? We mean him no harm, yet my responsibility as an Alpha requires me to protect my Pack and those under my aegis. This is necessary.'
She could feel the tree considering.
After a long minute, it relented and stayed still when she moved to approach the door. She wrapped a hand around the handle, pulled and slid into the room.
She was washed in purple light. Surprised, she looked up at the windows running around the top edge of the room. A good half of them were clear, but the others were all a deep amethyst color. A work area was lit by a clear skylight and a bevy of lamps. A table cluttered with tools sat in the middle, a backed stool beside of it.
She looked to her left and saw a sleeping area, a mattress on a raised stone shelf inset into the wall. The blanket atop it was flung off as a large auburn wolf leapt toward her, fangs bared.
*He said you would come,* it snapped. *Said it was fine,* she heard as she jumped back, away from the angry creature. It landed and stopped a few feet away.
'I'm Talia Hale, Alpha of the Hale Pack.'
*Yes*, the wolf responded, *but not our Alpha. He trusts. I doubt.*
'I am just here to see who he is, if he tells us the truth, and if he is a danger to us. I mean neither of you any harm, you or the Tree.'
*What tree?* the wolf asked.
'The enormous tree outside of that door.'
*No tree grows there. Trick!*
'Possibly so, Stiles, but I'm not.'
*Not him, am me. He sleeps, I watch.*
Talia had never met a werewolf like Stiles, with this sort of different consciousness.
She still wasn't entirely certain it wasn't a part of Stiles manifesting as his unspoken distrust or fears.
'Fine, wolf. You watch, and I will look.'
She closed her eyes again and when she opened them saw the more ghostly images she associated with seeing someone's memories.
A younger Stiles sat at the worktable, hunched over hands broken and bleeding. He was sobbing, crying out for his father as the shadow of his wolf cowered in the corner.
Talia concentrated again, and saw an older Stiles, if the length of his hair spoke to the time between. He's working on, of all things, a silver orchid. She can see the sketch he is working off of, and while the rendering is more simplistic it is clearly made to represent the drawing. He uses no fire to shape the metal, instead using his fingers to pinch and draw out the petals, smoothing them larger with a brush of his thumb. It's a type of magic she's never seen. From the variety of flowers around his chambers, he must spend quite a bit of time crafting these.
Still, this isn't what she needs to see.
She closes her eyes and focuses on any memories with especially strong emotions.
She hears a wolf snarl and is pinned down before she can react, eyes flying open.
Red eyes filmy with the start of cataracts stare back at her. Foul breath hits her, huffed around stained fang. The Alpha has her pinned by the throat and the waist, no matter how she struggles he holds fast. "Bite him now," a voice orders from over her head. The Alpha leans over and whispers, "You will survive, Metalsmith. I can smell it on you." Then a terrible pain erupts, hip flaring like being branded until finally, darkness.
Burnished golden threads weave through the black, rushing toward each other and joining to form a net taut all around her. The net sinks like a hammock then snaps open with a silent crack, flinging her forward again.
She's seeing this from his perspective again, which isn't how this normally works. She is starting to get the impression that if he didn't want her here, Stiles (or his wolf, or that tree) could get rid of her. Right now, she tries to avoid that thought and pay attention to what's around her-in-Stiles.
She stands in front of one grave, holding a man's calloused hand as they both weep. Years of sadness and occasional joy flit by, then she's standing in front of two graves, alone. In the distance, she can hear a faint singing—
"No one can just take him in," she overhears a whisper from behind a door, "but the blacksmith agreed to take him on as a helper for the time being. That's the best we can do for now"—
A man holding up a small twig calls out a series of syllables and she jerks, recognizing her name. A feeling of dread and relief flooded through her, like this was inexorable. Of course it was her that would be sacrificed, she was more valuable as meat than as a mouth—
She realizes the Sorcerer tricked their whole village as she's thrown down the stairs and comes up face to face with a chained creature of some sort. The Sorcerer had control of it this whole time.
There was never a ravaging Beast in their countryside, it was all a trick—
"I am working as hard as I can! Maybe if there was someone here to show me more I could do what you're asking!" she found herself shouting, a very rudimentary engraving across the table between her and the Sorcerer. He looked displeased and said, "Your progress is limited because you believe you have no magic. You must believe, Metalsmith. I have given you work you are able to complete, simple engravings. Complete them or you will be made to do so"—
She felt her bones snap as the Sorcerer brought down the iron-clad foot of his staff against the back of her hands, bones erupting to the surface. The pain was overwhelming, and it seemed like hours before she came back to wakefulness watching fingerbones reknit and slide under new skin. She watched in a detached fascination at the erasure of damage and horror at what torture really meant for her, now—
She's flung down the stairs again, this time aware of what waits for her at the bottom. She tries to scramble upright but her feet are swept out from underneath her by a swift strike, and her head hits the stone floor with a wet thunk. She groans, protesting even now, and squints her eyes shut. "LOOK." She feels the Alpha's order push at her, her eyelids already opening. She is met by Sorcerer's steely gaze, "You will make what I require. You will use your magic as I direct. You will obey." She shakes her head and the Alpha roars, pulling on that cord inside of her, his booming "OBEY." searing through her nerves and lighting up her bones. "OBEY." Any reticence is being burned out and her wolf gnashes, angry and ashamed at being made to do anything. It finally collapses as she faints, echoes still rolling around her sore skull—
She was exhausted. The Sorcerer had spent all night pulling on her spirit through the damned gem around her throat, the Fae diamond forcing a connection allowing him to access their lifesource. He said he had been gentle. Somehow, as tired and wretched as she felt, she knew Sorcerer spoke the truth and the future could be, would be, so much worse—
A tree, a giant and a sapling at the same time, teased her dreams. Just beyond reach while waking, and even closer when asleep, always waiting for something, it was always finding its way to her but she could never reach back—
Running through the woods as a wolf, howling to a hazy moon and chasing an elk, not for the kill but just the sport of it, the joy—
Glass windows being broken, then replaced, then mystifyingly changing into hues of pastel purples—
Being told to pack & leave, so she exits the door—
Talia sees the Tree again, with Stiles next to it, eyes closed and his wolf sitting next to him.
Between Stiles and the tree, a golden rope stretched. It was similar to a Pack bond but stronger and somehow louder than she'd ever seen. It thrummed between them, buzzing loudly like Peter's bees. A single, faint broken bond drifted by Stiles' feet, his old Alpha bond she guessed, but no others. There was a curl of mist that kept almost reaching out but would shy away as it got closer to her, and another heading off into the fog around her, probably tenuous attempts between herself and Peter manifesting.
Talia looked at the tree again, trying to remember her grandmother's tales. She had spoken about the Nemeton, a huge tree that both sustained and lived off the magic of the Land, a sentient tree that some people worshiped and others feared. It was a power unto itself, a representation of greater Nature that sought out protectors and an Emissary to serve it. She shook her head, trying to clear it. Maintaining the connection was growing more difficult. She would have to go through the family library when she was done here, but it was clear that as mysterious as Stiles was, he was no danger to hers or others. She had seen and felt what she needed.
Talia withdrew her claws and took a breath before stating, "I formally grant you sanctuary, Stiles. You're welcome on Hale Land and under our protection. Peter will help you settle in and all of us will be here for whatever you may need. I can only imagine how...disorienting this all must be for you. There is so much you'll need to learn and be caught up on, but we will be here every step of the way."
Stiles, still slightly woozy from the ordeal, mumbled his thanks before clearing his throat, trying again, "Thank you, Alpha Hale. I will do my best to not be a burden on your household for long."
Peter was deeply delighted that Talia had agreed to grant full sanctuary to Stiles. He was also desperately curious about what she'd just seen.
"Peter, can you get Stiles some water, please?" Talia moved from behind the chair around to the couch, gesturing for Stiles to sit on the opposite oversized chair. Even here, there was metal underneath him inside the furniture. It seems that metal is used far more commonly that he expected, but that could work to his advantage. He pulled himself out of his thoughts when Peter's hand appeared, holding a glass full of cold water. "Drink this, you'll be back to yourself in a moment."
Stiles nodded and sipped, his wolf still unsettled by Talia's intrusion.
Talia also seemed ruffled, though. Stiles imagined rifling through several lifetimes worth of memories would be disconcerting. Possibly terrifying, depending on what all she dredged up.
*Enough,* his wolf grumped, clearly having disliked the situation, *She saw enough and more.*
The only thing that had seemed clear to Stiles was the image of the gigantic tree, crown lit by the noon sun and radiant with power.
His head was starting to pound and he was grateful when Peter showed him to one of the bedrooms.
"The next full moon is in two weeks. Until then and after, we will make sure you're safe." Peter moves the small switch on the wall and the light goes out, buzzing copper whispering a protest. Stiles groans out his own and rolls over.
_ _ _ _ _
It's the full moon and Stiles has gone down into the cabin's basement to be locked up, as none of them know how he'll react. His control seemed steady, as good as any in the Pack, and he wasn't suffering any ill effects from being cut off from his old Alpha. Stiles said the bond was already weak before he stepped through the portal and just disappeared completely when he landed in this world. Peter sat downstairs with him, chatting as the moon rose.
"There weren't always other werewolves around," Stiles said matter-of-factly, like that wasn't strange. "Or at least, not always that I was made aware of. Not everyone was bound to Sorcerer in the same way, and on the few nights we were allowed out, we could run all night and never lose sight of the Castle. It would always appear on the horizon as soon as it disappeared from behind, no matter what direction we ran."
"The Alpha? Did he run with you as well?"
"No, as far as I know once he was chained in that basement he was never let out again. Sorcerer kept him like a secret."
"Why not turn all of you?" Peter asked.
"I wondered that for a while too, but I think the easiest answer is that too many werewolves all at once could have been a threat to the Sorcerer, or his building an army of them seen as a threat to others. From what I could tell, only the younger of us were Bitten and not everyone survived it. But once we were changed, we couldn't go back home without eventually being discovered as "monsters", we had to obey the Commands of the Alpha, and we were faster at healing so we could be tortured and still be able to serve. We were rarely let out to be seen or meet other people, and were all busy with duties between. I think it was just an easy method of control with beneficial results for him, and he never seemed to care to educate us about what we were so," Stiles shrugged. "If you tell me werewolves need a Pack, I believe you, but that doesn't answer why I didn't. Maybe things worked differently for us back then, or the geas on the Land hid something or it's just how I am now. I've only been away from him for a few weeks, how long does it take for a werewolf to go feral? Maybe I would need an Alpha, and maybe I wouldn't. I don't feel any real difference right now between what I felt over the past moons."
Peter couldn't argue with Stiles' observation. He was unlike other werewolves and from a singular situation. Werewolves could rarely use magic, for one, and clearly Stiles had it. Peter had seen some of the pressed —then unpressed, much to his surprise — flowers that Stiles had pulled out of his book back at the cabin. He had never seen metal-magic like Stiles had before, but then again he'd seen little magic, period. For all the stories of mages and magics he'd read, there was precious little of it around in the world anymore.
Yet here it was in the Hale basement, in an amber-eyed man from another time, running his hand back and forth through the moonlight.
Finally, Stiles feels comfortable enough to be let out and they go running through the forest, finding the Nemeton for the first time. Stiles can suddenly see the golden rope between them, like sunlight or molten gold, keeping him rooted to the earth, to the Land, to Her. This is just part of what was kept from him for all those years, and he should be furious but finds himself unable to feel anything other than *home*. Peter looks up into Her branches, up to the moon overhead and can't believe what he's seeing. An actual Nemeton, back for the first time in living memory. He's human, true, but he can feel Her calling him faintly, like someone saying his name from another room. He looks over at Stiles and sees his face, rapt with amazement and knows his own is the same.
How could they do anything but answer?
_ _ _ _ _
More days pass. Peter helps Stiles order and set up the remaining pieces of the small 'workshop', and Stiles learns more about everything including Pack life, slowly growing closer to Peter.
"Since you weren't allowed to leave the grounds, how did you amass your collection of books and knowledge?"
"Gatherer and a few others would sometimes bring me word or tokens of the mortal world, as gifts or as taunts," Stiles replied. "Books, sometimes stories, occasionally a small device or object."
Peter was surprised at the gesture, but Stiles shrugged it off as being seen as little more than a pet. The Fae's contract was with the Sorcerer, and the Sorcerer held Stiles'. He and the Folk had nothing against each other directly and shared a common desire for the Sorcerer's end.
"The book on Flower Language seems well used," noted Peter, thumbing at the well-loved copy.
"Gatherer brought that to me after I said I missed seeing the flowers outside of the Grounds. He said I wasn't meant to live a life without flowers. He brought me more later, as you can see," Stiles points out the commonplace book on the end table, stuffed full of sketches and torn-out pages, "and I would make all of them. It gave me a way to practice without getting bored, I like puzzles and challenges to keep myself entertained."
Once again, Peter was mystified by the actions of the Fae toward Stiles. They usually saw humans (and any non-Fae, to be honest) as little more than pests or playthings and wouldn't go out of their way to help one unless it was to their advantage somehow. Plus, the Fae had their own craftspeople, which mortals couldn't come close to matching, if the old stories were true.
"What did he use the flowers for?" Peter inquired, and Stiles laughed. "For his many loves, from what I understood. Each one I gave him was a sort of novelty. He did some sort of truck with them for whatever benefited him the most, and he did indeed seem to benefit from it!"
Peter wasn't sure that was the whole of the story, but what he didn't know about Fae could fill an ocean. They didn't seem fickle enough with each other to require tokens, much less mortal-crafted ones, but who knows. Stranger things, and all that.
_ _ _ _ _ _
Stiles splits his time between the Nemeton, the cabin Peter set up for him and the Pack house a few minutes run away. His wolf is happy and his control remains good but he doesn't know about werewolf society (or human, either) so Talia takes him under her wing along with the kids, which is hilarious. He is sharp, and clever, but mostly self-educated and woefully behind on all things of this time. He is smart though, and picks up things with a quickness. Every night he takes books back to the cabin to read, and every morning he wakes up hungry for more.
_ _ _ _ _
He finally asks Peter about his scars, and Peter agrees, but goes back to the Pack house to retrieve a small bag from the floor safe in his room first.
When he comes back, Peter places a tray on the glass table, with two small velvet pouches atop. The one on the left is a twisted starfish of metal as big as his palm, and the other, a large brooch deeply engraved with a lily and nightshade.
Stiles stops breathing.
_ _ _ _ _
Kate Argent. ARGENT.
Peter was hurt because of the magic the sorcerer had tortured out of him. He had scars, permanent scars, because of him. Because Stiles wasn't strong enough to fight back against the Alpha's command or the pressure of Fae-tinged magic the sorcerer would summon whenever the need arose.
All Stiles could do in the past was as little as possible. At first, it was out of a feeling of resentment, then as he learned more, out of a sense of right. He would will as little magic in as he could without notice. He would try to etch the metal unevenly, or foul the engraving, or apply the wrong oils that would protect against wear, desperately seeking any small way to mitigate the harm these creations would cause.
He learned from the Alpha what Hunters did and came to identify the type of people who spent time around Sorcerer. Whatever they were up to, it involved a lot of shady business and more blood than Stiles cared to think about. Some of them may have been simple folk at the start, honestly only wanting to protect themselves from the unknown, but by the time they were in deep enough to do dealings with magic he doubted many —outside the Argents — made it out alive.
Now he was going to make sure of it.
200 years and more of being held meant he had had a lot of time to practice his skills between the Sorcerer's assignments.
Now he knew there were Hunters, and not just a handful, but a small army. They knew about werewolves, like Peter said, but they didn't actually understand them. Some of them still insisted on using silver bullets. This news of even more people, and such stupid people at that, tugging on the Veil made Stiles nervous.
Stiles looks around the cabin. He can see into the bedroom from his perch in his work area at the front of the living area by the largest window. It's his own space in a way his rooms with the Sorcerer never were. His workshop here is small, but what work does he have beyond what he fancies? Perhaps it's time to ask about how hanging out a shingle would work for his services. It would be good to earn his keep, so to speak.
Regardless, it was his world now and at the end of the day, behind it all, was Peter. Clever, human, mortal Peter. Peter, who'd already been scarred by the Argents but gave Stiles trust even after discovering it was his magic that was responsible. Didn't immediately blame him or demand answers. He just...let Stiles talk. Just like he had been doing since day one and he fell into this new place. What do you give someone who has helped give you back your life, Stiles mused.
A way to protect theirs.
Stiles retrieved two of the knives from his silverware in the bench under the window. He didn't want to ask Peter for any materials, these pieces would be a surprise.
He draws and discards several drafts before finding the right pattern for it all.
He chooses white Heather for protection and Rosemary for remembrance and home. The buckle will bear the Heather, the tips and heels Rosemary.
He picks up the knives and with a deft turn of his wrists, twists the two knives into one larger spiral. Another twist and it tightens, no gaps left between. Grabbing each end, Stiles folds the lumpy cylinder in half, doubling its width. A few more manipulations and he's holding an uneven ball of silver. He divides it into two balls, and splits the second one again, leaving him with one for the buckle and two for the tips & caps.
He picks up the larger ball first and begins to roll it out. Once he's got it large enough and spread at the thickness he needs, he picks up a stylus with an angled steel tip and a ruler to cut out the square plate of the buckle. He takes the scrap and places it with the remaining lumpy spheres. Left now with a slight rectangle, Stiles checks both sides to see which will bear the engraving, then marks the back with stylus where he'll place the bar and pin that will hold the leather belt.
He uses a draw plate for the swivel bar of the buckle, pulling a short rope of silver through a steel bar drilled out with decreasing hole sizes. A slight pinch of his fingers and the tip of it broadened and took on a slight angle on either end. A file took off the extra material of the tips of the leaving it smooth and slightly broader than the body it flowed from. A short, nubby pin is next, slightly curved back like a thorn to ensure hold like the prong on a frame-buckled belt. He would attach these backing pieces after engraving.
Moving on the first remaining ball, Stiles again rolls it out to the thickness he is picturing. Thinner than the buckle, but not as thin as the heel caps will be. He then cuts out two thin rectangles about the length of his forefinger. The scrap joins the rest, then the rectangles are slowly, carefully drawn into slight arcs to match the shape of the toe of the shoes.
The last ball and scrap get rolled and flattened too, this time to a thinness along the sides. These pieces would be the base plate of the heel caps, thin at the edge where they wrap around, but thicker at the middle where the rosemary with inset amethysts would bloom.
He sets aside everything and selects the first toetip arch, placing it in a small vice and gathering up the proper punches and tools he'll need for these workings.
He uses rounded punches to repousse the leaves of the sprigs of rosemary, coaxing each one up with a deft press and drag. With every push, he thinks of the feeling of home and safety and family, wave after wave of his magic pulsing through the metal. Soon the entire branch blooms from the front, raised but not delineated. Stiles flips the piece in his vise and switches over to a wood handled burin. Carefully, he guides it around the raised leaves, creating lines to separate them from the background. As the liner moves, he thinks of the rosemary in front of the cabin, wild and thriving since it broke out of its clay pot decades ago. It was put by the fence by Peter's grandmother out of the old belief that rosemary was for remembrance, so they would always remember the way home.
That was an old belief which held a magic of its own, and served as the basis for the creation of the pieces. All magic was based in belief, just like all flowers come from the earth. Stiles believed that these would always lead Peter to home, to safety, to family, and so they would.
Stiles set the buckle in the vise and readied himself for several more hours of engraving and embossing. Once this buckle was done, Peter would never burn again.
He pours his intent into the piece, imagining it countering the hottest of fires, pushing the feeling of all things safe and cool and soft. Every stroke of his steel-capped claw creates a new runnel where his magic settles into the silver, glinting like light dancing over the metal. Several stems of heather spring into being as he watches, a third of the flowers cut out to hold moonstone chips, a jeweled compliment to the amethyst of the other pieces. They would add a hint of color and hopefully help calm Peter if the magic was ever triggered; moonstone and amethyst both together would aid in clarity and calmness of thought.
He finished the last of the polishing and put the buckle on the length of plain, darkly tanned leather, then affixed the caps and tips onto the shoes. Finally it all went into the wooden box and Stiles set it aside to leave at Peter's in the morning.
Stiles sat down to pen a short note to go with the box and hesitated before finally leaving the message unsigned.
"A small gift, without obligation, for helping me gain my footing in this world."
Then he drops it off at the Pack House for Peter and goes to find the Nemeton.
_ _ _ _ _ _