/ Hey guys! So apparently I have an obsession with re-writing series the way I want them to be but here is my Teen Wolf/Merlin crossover! Stiles is my bae and I've shipped him with a certain character to be named later since like the dawn of time so! This is very very VERY AU of Merlin in general - there is no Uther or Arthur and fem!Mordred is the Queen in it with a new OC, Justin. I've been working on this storyline with my soulbae (dxrknesswillrise on tumblr) since 2014? So it's thought through and there is so much depth and plot twists to it so I hope you guys will really enjoy it. This is just a preview but reviews will be appreciated!
The Dragon's Call.
Legends have always been born from those who believed themselves to be something small and insignificant – mere flecks of dust beneath the heroes that had their destinies etched into their skin from the day they were born. What they fail to mention in the grand tales of these heroes and Adonises is that there comes a time in any human's life when they question why they are upon this Earth and whether they will leave a mark upon it when they leave. Whether they will be remembered for their triumphs like David and Goliath or whether they will be remembered for their failures – like Achilles.
Stiles Stilinski didn't want to be an Achilles. A hero, yes, but one that when mentioned – the first thing that would come to mind is his heel. Not the fleet that he lead into countless battles but his heel.
Stiles Stilinski didn't want to be remembered for his death but he wanted people to look back and say that he died at the right time – he died when he had fulfilled the purpose that God had lain upon his life. Which was why he had left the small village of Ealdor, packed up a sack and a picnic of bread and cheese - leaving his Mother to her own devices. They had been planning it for a while – for him to go and study and work with his Father in Camelot. Learn what it was to be a Knight and to work beneath the higher powers that be. Stiles had never much learned how to take orders from anyone besides his Mother or his Father when he had been there. The parting between his parents had been a bittersweet one – the Captain of the guard would often return but there were many moons when they would not see him; only receive a letter explaining his absence in hurried script.
Stiles often wondered whether his Father had found some maiden to warm his bed for the night and that was why he didn't feel need to return – and he saw the same fear arise within his Mother's eyes. Which, in part, aided in affirming his decision to travel to Camelot. That way, at least, he could keep his eye upon him.
He had been walking through the night to shorten the journey and as he neared the lip of the hill, a smile broke out over his features. It was as striking as the stories said – the turrets of the Castle radiant in the sunlight that soaked them. Judging from the pale light, it was dawn. He'd made it in time, just as he'd planned.
Making his way through the castle gates hit him hard – the beauty was incomparable, obviously, but there was something new that he hadn't felt in a long while. It felt like coming home. The hustle and bustle of the crowds, the pastel yellow colours and the warm scents of spices and perfume overwhelmed him and as he adjusted the pack upon his back, he couldn't help but smile broadly. This was a fresh beginning for him and already, he was enjoying it. He passed waves to those that noticed him and grimaced some when he didn't always receive them in return.
Though, through the sunlight, there seemed to be a dark cloud hovering over the entire kingdom. The dread that slithered onto some people's features, the soft murmurs instead of loud chatter that you would expect from market day.
A thick thread of people queued up towards the castle courtyard and Stiles took that as his sign to follow after – after all, that was where he was headed. The naïve part of him wanted to believe that there was some sort of entertainment – a man who could swallow fire as easily as milk or something of the like. Yet the manner in which his hair stood up on the back of his neck suggested otherwise.
As he petered in with the other people, he took in the new sights of the castle standing before him. It was grand in stature, in feel, in everything. The windows that he could see were all stained glass with elaborate designs in rich, vibrant colours that stood up against the aged backdrop of stone and ivy. It was beautiful and Stiles wanted to reach out and open them, see what lurked within every room. Perhaps – were his Father to allow him – he would be able to.
His thoughts were distracted, however, as golden horns blew and two guards stepped up out of the balcony, flanking a King and a Queen. They looked a curious pair; the King had hard lines drawn deep into his face, the malady that comes with frowning too much and the Queen looked melancholy but regally stunning. Their hands rested atop of one another's and Stiles wondered if there had once been a time when they would have intertwined their fingers. To the left of the balcony, a few windows down, Stiles watched as one cracked open just a smidge to reveal such beauty that rivalled anything else his eyes had drank in in the few moments he had been in Camelot.
That must have been the Princess.
Like her Mother, sadness seemed to linger upon her like a ghost and Stiles noticed that her fingers were twitching apprehensively upon the edge of the window. She looked as if she may cry at any moment but her jaw was steeled and her eyes grew hard as her Father began to speak.
"Let this serve as a lesson to all," the King began, voice thunder against the daylight. "This man," he pointed down towards the prisoner being lead up towards the gallows by a small army of men. It seemed a bit much for someone who looked so meagre. "Thomas James Collins is judged guilty of conspiring to use enchantments and magic. And, pursuant to the laws of Camelot that my Father established, I, Justin Hautbois, feel need to remind you all that such practices are banned on penalty of death. I pride myself as a just King but for the crime of sorcery, there is but one punishment that I can pass."
The Queen's hand dropped from his.
Just in time for him to raise up his hand, fingers straight and mimicking the axe that was lifted by the executioner. Stiles couldn't see the prisoner's face but he imagined he was terrified and as the axe was brought down into flesh and muscle, Stiles couldn't help but wince and look away. His hand lifted to his throat to check it was still intact. His Mother always promised him that those deaths were swift but it was hardly as if they could check with the victims, was it?
The thump of a head falling down onto the wooden gallows had Stiles gasping.
"When I came to this land," the King continued, "this kingdom was mired in chaos, but with the people's help magic was driven from the realm. So I declare a festival to celebrate twenty years since the Great Dragon was captured and Camelot freed from the evil of sorcery. Let the celebrations begin."
What celebrations could be had about a death other than a funeral?
Stiles turned as did many others to find his Father but a wail cracked through the dawn and his head snapped back to catch sight of who it was. The crowd parted and revealed a woman standing in the middle – looking as if it was an effort to do so. Her back was hunched and her hands gnarled – arthritis, no doubt.
She was sobbing.
"There is only one evil in this land, and it is not magic!" she screamed up at the King before she pointed a crooked finger at him. "It is you! With your hatred and your ignorance! You took my son! And I promise you, before these celebrations are over, you will share my tears. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a son for a son."
The King pointed in return, ordering the guards to, "Seize her!"
The woman raised her hand to her mouth, curling it into a fist and hissing a spell. Within a swirling cloud of wind, smoke and loose fabric, she disappeared.
Stiles' gaze snapped up towards the Princess and she didn't look frightened – she just shook her head and closed the window to veil the sight of the horror below. Stiles wished he could do the same.
Finding his Father had not been as simple as Stiles had planned. It wasn't fitting into his Big Adult Plan and it was frustrating him beyond belief. His fingers grasped at the letter from his Mother to his Father tight in his hand and he gestured to it every now and then when he would find someone that would surely know who his Father was – but they shook their heads and say they wouldn't know where he was based as he was always running around.
Perfect – things hadn't changed.
With a disheartened sigh, Stiles made way down the stairs – but tripped. With a muffled yell, he prepared for his skull to shatter against cold, tough, unforgiving stone and let that be the end of it.
But he didn't.
His face met with a feather pillow – a pile of them and he slowly cracked an eye open to find himself above a thick mattress that certainly hadn't been there when he had first looked down the stairs.
"Are you alright?" a voice broke through his confusion and he looked up, mouth gaping, at the Queen. Her eyes were wide and concerned – and only just losing their touch of gold.
Realisation set into Stiles' bones.
"-You saved me," he breathed. "The - the mattress wasn't here before. How did you make it appear? Did - " Magic loitered upon his tongue but was it treason to accuse the Queen of such a crime when but moments before they had seen someone lose their head for it?
The Queen tensed. "I was moving the mattress. I slid it across the floor."
It was unlikely that a Queen would be moving a mattress and Stiles provided her with a look that ascertained to such an assumption.
"You can tell me, Your Highness," he spoke, voice soft as he stood up from the mattress – and the moment he did, it evaporated into thin air. "See!" he pointed at the empty space where his salvation had been and then back at the Queen. "You - you must have done that."
The Queen's jaw tightened and she looked like her daughter. "Who are you?"
Stiles licked his lips before gesturing to the now crumpled letter in his hand. He handed it to her, running a hand through his thick mop of hair. "I'm Stiles, Your Highness."
The Queen's eyes lifted – brightened and she looked like the sun. "Claudia and John's son?!" she asked, obviously excited but still regal and proper in everything that she did.
Stiles nodded, relieved.
"You're not supposed to be here until Wednesday!"
Stiles paused. "It is Wednesday, Your Highness."
The Queen shook her head and blinked a few times – she must have had a fair deal more upon her mind than a peasant boy appearing to clutter the castle even more with servants or whatever his Father would assign him to do. "Have you spoken to your Father yet?"
"I can't find him, Your Highness."
"I'll take you to him," the Queen spoke and extended an arm to him. When he took it, she leaned in, "You may call me Mordred."
Stiles smiled and counted his lucky stars that the encounter hadn't ended in a beheading.
When they reached his Father's door, she released her grip upon him and clasped her hands over her stomach as if she were holding a precious jewel. "I trust you won't tell anyone about what happened, will you?" she asked.
Stiles insistently shook his head. "No, Your Hig- my lady." Calling her Mordred still seemed far too informal.
She turned, pleased and began to retreat.
"But I should say thank you," he called out after her.
The Queen didn't turn again but he bet she was smiling.