Chapter Text
Stiles finds the letter in his father's desk. He didn't go looking for it, and he wasn't snooping as his father claims he is prone to. Stiles was just looking for a sheaf of parchment, and if he happened to stumble upon the letter, it was merely by accident. Even if the drawer he found it in was locked to being with.
He's reading in the dim light of the barn and wants to tear all his hair out and scream to the heavens in anger. Roscoe nuzzles at his ear, detecting his anger and whinnying softly in comfort.
The army just sentenced his father to death. Not with a straightforward beheading, no, this is so much worse, so much more unpredictable.
He crumples the letter in his palm, and throws it off into some lost corner of the barn. Roscoe whinnies again and Stiles scratches his muzzle, distracted by his thoughts. The Crown has drafted his father in the war, commanding that he goes to the front lines. Even after he lost his ability to walk without a great deal of pain because of the last war he was made to fight in.
It's not as if Stiles could take his father's place on the battlefield. No, he's an omega, and as far as society is concerned his only purpose is keeping his future wife or husband's bed warm.
"C'mon Roscoe." Stiles runs his hand gently down the roan's neck. "Let's go for a ride."
When Stiles arrives back at the farm, the sun is setting red on the horizon. John Stilinski waits with his arms crossed, sitting in a chair outside their house. Stiles slides off Roscoe's back as his father rises, limping towards him with a grimace on his face. He can hardly walk, Stiles doesn't know how the Crown expects him to fight.
"Stiles, what did I tell you about staying out so late?" His father says, disappointment and worry in his tone.
"Sorry." Stiles mumbles. He had ridden along the river for a while, before meeting Scott in town. Sometimes he wishes he could go into town by himself, but even he knows that's asking for trouble he doesn't want to attract. Folk do not take kindly to a unaccompanied omega, especially one not bonded to another.
"You know it is dangerous." His father says, his voice chiding, as Stiles pulls the blanket off Roscoe's back. The horse moves back to the barn, joining the sheep as they chew their cud. "You know you can't go out by yourself."
Stiles nods sadly and takes his father's elbow, gently supporting him as they walk slowly back to the house. Stiles' brow furrows when he hears how laboured his father's breathing is after such a short walk. "I was with Scott."
"You're an unmarried omega, and Scott isn't related to you. It's improper." His father says as Stiles helps him into their kitchen, seating him in a chair right by the fire. His father groans when he finally settles down as Stiles takes the chair opposite.
"I've known him since we were children, we grew up together, he's my brother in everything but name and blood." Stiles argues, begging for his father to understand. "How could it possibly be improper?"
His father sighs, a heavy look in his eye. "Unfortunately, many would disagree with your opinion on the matter, son."
"I know." Stiles sighs, frustrated. He grabs the poker to stir the coals, hoping to distract himself from the topic by preparing dinner. The room slowly warms as the fire gets going, casting a warm glow over the stone hearth. His father notices the conversation has ended and picks up a book to read, but Stiles knows he looks up every so often. Stiles can palpably feel the concern in his gaze.
Stiles places the cook pot over the fire to heat. He had hunted and skinned two rabbits with Scott, catching both of them and giving for to Scott for his supper. Though everyone claims omegas are weaker than alphas and betas, he's the only one in town who can ride a horse bareback and still effectively fire a bow. He's spent years honing his skill and now can bag quick witted prey like rabbits, fast and efficient.
And yet, there are those in town who whisper behind his back about his family. How John doesn't keep a tight enough leash on his omega son, letting him run around with the McCall boy without the sanctity of marriage or bond between them. How Stiles is shaming his family with lewd behaviour, riding a horse like the improper omega he is, when he should be sitting at home stitching his wedding garments. Omegas are not meant to have calluses, but Stiles bears his with pride.
Stiles has never been good with a needle, he stabs himself every time his grandmother visits, trying to teach him how to be a good husband. It's always a fruitless endeavour. Especially when he'd rather be running around with Scott in the woods, clashing wooden swords, and shooting arrows at trees. Needlework is boring.
Stiles tosses the lean meat into the pot with a sizzle and starts chopping vegetables, somewhat bitterly. If only he was drafted instead of his father, at least he is able to hold a blade without pain. Stiles grits his teeth. The Crown is selfish, it was their war that crippled his father and yet they demand more from him? They already take tithes, emptying his father's coffers for taxes. They take his father's grain, wheat Stiles sweats in the fields to grow. Now they want his father's body? It's too much for Stiles to take.
John must notice his sour mood because he puts down the book he is reading and watches Stiles work. After a long drawn out silence he finally says. "You found the letter, didn't you."
Stiles decapitates a mushroom with vengeance. "Yes." He says shortly, not bothering to construct a lie, he's not in the proper mind space to do so. He's much too angry.
Stiles hears the clink of glass as his father pours himself a strong drink. "I'm signing the farm over to you." He says after a long pause.
Stiles drops the knife, and it clatters against the cutting board, loud in the silence of the room. He feels shattered, heart beating fast and erratically. Stiles know what his father is trying to imply, and he simply will not stand for it.
"You are going to die out there." Stiles hisses. "And they're just going to let it happen. You gave your life to them twenty years past. You owe those bastards nothing."
His father shakes his head. "The Hales gave me this land as reward for my service, and I am happy to aid them in any way. If it wasn't for this land, your grandfather wouldn't have allowed your mother to marry me. If it was not for the Crown, you would not exist. I want to help them."
Stiles laughs, sharp and unkind. "Help, father, help?" He scrubs a hand over his face. "You can't even lift a sword anymore."
His father sighs, "Stiles, I cannot desert."
"It isn't deserting if you don't show up." Stiles argues desperately.
"It's the law, son. Every family must produce at least one man or woman to fight."
"Then I'll go." Stiles stands up straight. "You know I could do it."
John shakes his head. "If I let you, which I'm not by the way, and your superior officer, or even your platoon mates find out you're an omega, it is their right to kill you. And do whatever they want with you before then." John says with a grimace. "You are my child, and I would rather die before I let anything happen to you."
Stiles feels tears running down his cheeks, as he stares at his father, so many distressing emotions making his gut twist. "You'll die." He pleads.
John reaches out and grabs him by the back of the neck, pulling him in close until he can breathe nothing but the familiar scent of wood smoke and sweat on his father's skin. "Better me than you."
That night when the moon is high, and his father is fast asleep, Stiles tip toes to the kitchen and pulls a few hot coals from the fire. A pail of ice cold water from the well sits beside him. Stiles stares at it, wondering if he has the strength to do what needs to be done. He thinks of his mother lying on her death bed and the promise she made him swear to her. To always take care of his father.
He runs his fingers along the leather edge of one of his father's old worn belts. Stiles purses his lips, making up his mind. He places the leather between his teeth.
Rolling up the his tunic and pulling down his breeches, he stares at the cursed black rune on his hip, marking him as omega. The only thing that makes him different from an alpha or beta is that damned mark.
He won't miss it.
Screwing his resolve, and searching for every inch of courage he possesses, he picks a hot coal from the fire with tongs. Biting into the leather belt like he's testing that he won't gnaw it in half, Stiles presses the coal into his flesh.
Screaming around the leather, he pants, holding the coal to his skin until he's sure the skin has blistered and burned. The tongs drops from his hand and the coal clatters to the floor, now only warm to the touch. Clutching his side in agony, he plunges a sponge into the bucket, water sloshing everywhere. He presses the cool material to his hot, fevered skin, sighing in relief.
Later, Stiles limps back into his room after bandaging his wound and swallowing down a few cups of willow bark tea for the lingering pain. The pain will be worth it when the wound heals.
After a fortnight of hiding the burn as the farm and all its hands get ready for the harvest, the army summons their recruits just before the frost hits.
He unwraps the bandages, wincing at the twisted red flesh where his mark used to be. It's scarred tissue, twisted and malformed enough it hides his Omega mark.
In the woods, the same day, Scott gladly tattoos the alpha double ring around his forearm, and when he finishes, it looks just like Scott's own.
It won't stand up to close inspection, after all, it is a tattoo, not a mark, but as a lowly soldier, Stiles doesn't expect to be examined closely. The important part is, if someone sees him shirtless, they won't automatically assume the scarring is from a hidden omega mark.
The night before his father is supposed to sign over the farm to him, Stiles takes the armour he keeps shining and polished in his office, and the longsword suspended above the fireplace. With his own longbow strapped to his back, he quietly steals off into the night.
Roscoe eyes him warily, as if asking why Stiles wants to go out so late, but he offers the horse a recently harvested crunchy apple, and he no longer has any complaints.
He gallops off into the night while his father slumbers on, meeting with Scott in their usual spot in the wood. Scott wears his own late father's armour, and it's a bit big on him, but once they reach camp, they'll get it adjusted.
Scott must see something in his eyes, because he pulls Stiles into a hug before saying, "He might come after you."
Stiles shakes his head. "He won't, if he does and raises a fuss, it will definitely get me killed. If he remains quiet, I at least I have a chance to not die by the executioner's sword."
"Don't worry, Stiles." Scott claps his shoulder, a wide smile on his face. "I'll keep you safe."
Stiles laughs, climbing back onto Roscoe in one swift movement. "You do mean the other way around, right? I'm going to be the one pulling the Argents off you, saving your life and probably winning a nice shiny medal in the process."
Scott smiles fondly. "Of course."
They ride hard and they ride fast. If his father sends men after him, trying to prevent him from reaching the camp, Stiles wants to be one step ahead of them at all times. In the end, they arrive at the camp a day earlier than expected with tired, weary horses and sore bottoms from all the jumping up and down in the saddles. It's too late for his father to do anything now, and Stiles lets out a sigh of relief, sending up a quick apology to his mother for putting his father through so much stress.
Scott takes the horses, leading them over to the watering hole while Stiles wanders through the bustling camp, searching for the registration line. The camp is overcrowded, and Stiles finds himself pushed around by larger men and women. He is tall, and yet most of these people with muscles the size of mountains, seem to dwarf him.
Finally he spots a group who look more like him: confused and lost. Stiles moves to stand behind a man with curly, blonde hair. His shoulders are bent forward like it's him against the world. Stiles is sorely tempted to offer him a hug, but he refrains, not wanting to seem too nice. He's not here to make friends.
The line moves forward at a snail's pace, until it is finally his turn. A man, wearing fine clothing, looking like he would rather be anywhere else, sits at a desk protected from the sun with an expensive brocade tent. His fingers tap impatiently against the wood as he holds out a hand for Stiles' papers. Stiles hands them over without a word.
The man looks the papers over distractedly, making note of his status in his ledger. He's just about to hand Stiles his papers back, but something makes him pause, eyes moving rapidly over the words. The man strokes his nearly trimmed goatee as he looks up from the papers, finally meeting Stiles' eyes. He glances up and down his body, gaze lingering on the false mark on Stiles' bicep.
"You're a Stilinski." The man finally states, voice conniving and sly.
Stiles swallows, throat bobbing nervously. "I am."
The man's eyes narrow perceptively, "And you're related to John Stilinski, how?"
"I am his son."
The man tilts his head to the side. "I didn't know John Stilinski had a alpha son. What about the omega?"
Stiles licks his lips, wondering how exactly this man is so familiar with his family. His father was not a war hero, only a simple soldier rewarded with land for his service. It makes no sense that this lord - and the man is most definitely a lord - would know about him.
"My brother died last winter's past." Stiles lies, the falsehood rolling easily off his tongue.
The man smirks, "Such a shame." He says, like it isn't a shame at all. "But to be expected, the winter was harsh and omegas are such fragile creatures."
Stiles purses his lips, hand tightening on the pommel of his sword. Instead of reacting like he wants to and punching the man's face in, Stiles dips his head in a short bow, and takes his papers back, hoping to put as much distance between the two of them as possible.
He leaves the registration desk behind, hoping he never sees the man again, even though he can feel his eyes digging into Stiles' back. He clenches his fist, that's one person he will be sure to avoid.
"Stiles." Scott calls out, appearing from the depths of the crowd, leading their horses behind him. "Roscoe keeps trying to eat my hat, please take him."
Stiles grins and takes the reins from Scott, directing him over to the registration line. He leads the horses away, intent on finding a suitable place to set up his and Scott's tent. The whole camp is crowded, and there's not a whole lot of free space left, but Stiles spots a strangely clear area beside a rather large canvas tent.
Stiles ties the horses to a nearby post and gets to work. Pulling his tools from Roscoe's saddle bags he begins hammering stakes into the ground. Laying the canvas fabric out flat, he threads rope though the seams.
He's almost finished when a dark shadow falls upon him, blocking the warmth from the sun. Expecting to see Scott, Stiles looks up with a grin on his face, only to see a large, dark-haired, bearded man scowling down at him. A massive claymore is strapped to his back. It looks as if it's three times the width of Stiles' longsword and just a little bit longer. If it wasn't for the muscles bulging from the man's tunic, Stiles would think he's overcompensating for something.
"You can't pitch your tent here." The man says shortly, glaring at Stiles like he just killed everything he ever loved.
"Why?" Stiles asks, confused. Is the man planning on digging a well? Why else would Stiles not be allowed to set up in this particular spot.
"That's my tent." The man points to the large hulking monstrosity beside Stiles as if that is explanation alone.
"And so it is." Stiles says slowly, wondering if the man suffered a head injury in battle, what else could explain such poor conversational skills.
The man frowns, and Stiles frowns right back. "Are you done?" Stiles asks, raising his brows, finger twitching, itching to return to his work. The man opens and shuts his mouth a few times before abruptly turning on his heel and stalking back to his tent without another word.
Stiles rolls his eyes at the display. Soldiers are a strange sort, that's for sure.
Stiles can't wait to tell Scott about their grump of a neighbour. Stiles bets it will get a good laugh or two out of him. He just hopes the man won't stay a grump forever. They're going to be spending a few weeks in this camp, training, before they're to be sent to the front lines. Between that time and now, Stiles doesn't want to get on anyone's bad side. Lest they seek out a reason to discredit him, stumbling upon his secret in the process.
He quite likes his head where it is: attached to his shoulders.