Everyone in the room turned to look at Lydia. She met their eyes tentatively, somewhat uncomfortable, and then crossed her arms. "What? I get it. I'm the resident whack-job. It's not like we have another banshee around here. One that'd be willing to do the job, anyway. What do you need me to do?"

Mr. Argent stepped up to answer. "In order to summon all three Moerae, a banshee needs to read the incantation. Apparently, back in the days of ancient Greece, the whole ritual was passed down as a trade secret from banshee to banshee. Whenever they lost their way, or were in danger, they could always preform this ritual and know they'd be safe. Of course, that's just an old legend. Who knows what it was really originally created to do—"

"You're saying that if we summon these things," Lydia mulled it over, pensive, "I could ask them about how these—these powers work? They could teach me?"

Deaton narrowed his eyes, "It's possible, but there's no way to know just how amicable these Fates are going to be. Whatever happens, we need to proceed with caution."

At that point, Lydia didn't care much for caution. For something that could help her shut out the voices that plagued her mind, the uncontrollable screams, the whispers of death, she was willing to pay almost any price. If the price was as low as reading some kind of incantation for some long-forgotten ritual, nothing could make her say no. "I'll do it."

Chris Argent visibly relaxed. He'd spent the last five months collecting the physical objects he'd need for the ritual, climbing mountains, browsing markets that shouldn't have been legal in even the most corrupt countries, collecting favors… but finding a banshee was another matter entirely. His entire plan, all of his hope, relied on Lydia.

"Thank you, Lydia."

"So, wait," Scott cut in, "Do we have everything we need? Can we—can we do this right now? I mean, the sooner we talk to them, the better, right? We can't do anything unless we know what they want."

Mr. Argent turned to Deaton, and then back to Scott. "I don't see why not."

Scott called his mom and left a message letting her know he was going to be home late. Nothing dangerous, he promised, but important. That kind of important. He would have told her what was really going on, what they planned to do, but as soon as Mr. Argent had seen them all reaching for their phones, he made one thing explicitly clear;

"You can't tell anyone about this. Do you know how many people in this town alone would kill for a chance to talk to the Moerae?"

The more Scott thought about it, the more it made sense. Everyone had lost someone important, and if word got out, there was no telling how far it would spread. Hunters that had lost loved ones, hunters that wanted something new to kill, the list went on and on. That aside, Scott couldn't find it in himself to lie completely to his mom, and did promise he'd explain what was going on when he could. Stiles made much the same promise to his dad (who wanted next to nothing to do with the supernatural these days), and Lydia called no one. Her mom, she said, didn't care about what she did in her spare time.

They took two separate cars to the road leading to the Nemeton. Deaton and Mr. Argent rode in one, Stiles, Lydia, and Scott in the other. The sun had set less than an hour before, and as the paved road gave way to unpaved rubble gave way to rough terrain, both cars pulled over. The woods, it seemed, had only gotten more dense since the Nemeton's rebirth almost two years ago. The trees overhead hardly let any of the moon's natural light through, and with the low visibility, Scott was on edge.

"Catch," Stiles, who'd held everyone up to rummage around in the back of his jeep, threw something Scott's way, "Flashlights. Started keeping them in the back after we went looking for Malia."

"Dude, I have night vision," Scott countered, handing the flashlight off to Lydia, "Werewolf, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah." Stiles produced two more flashlights, keeping one for himself and handing one to Deaton, "You and your 'special eyes'."

While Scott and Stiles walked ahead, Mr. Argent stayed back with Lydia. "The incantation is in greek," He handed her a piece of folded notebook paper, "think you can handle it?"

"Ti nomízete," Lydia shot back, taking the paper from him with one swift swipe, "I took Greek after I finished Latin. My accent might be bad, but I bet the ancient gods'll get the message." She looked it over, mentally reciting the words, pausing when she reached the end. "… It says I'll have to scream."

"You're a banshee. That's what you do, isn't it?" Mr. Argent asked.

"No, it doesn't work like that. It's not a normal scream, I only—I only scream like, a real banshee scream when someone's about to die."

Mr. Argent's mouth became a thin line, "… we'll figure something out." With that, he dropped back to walk beside Dr. Deaton.

Deciding not to think about what that might mean, Lydia read the words over and over again, self-correcting her mental mispronunciations, and as she practiced, the words grew louder and louder. It took her a while to realize it was only because they were nearing the Nemeton itself.

The tree stump, previously dry and dying, was now the host of a slew of new life. Fungi grew from every crack, small branches and leaves reached out towards the sky, and wildflowers of all kinds dotted the surrounding clearing. The scenery was so new it almost felt like they were seeing it for the first time.

"The place is pretty alive for November," Stiles observed, going over to get a closer look at the stump, "Guess it's all that magic mojo, huh?"

"Something like that," Deaton chuckled.

Mr. Argent, while they took in the new landscape, began unloading his bag with deft purpose. Three wooden bowls, two red vials, a bag of berries, a tape measure, a spool of thread, and a pair of very old looking iron scissors, all placed strategically on the flat surface of the Nemeton. As Mr. Argent poured the contents of the vials into the first and third bowls, Scott recoiled again.

"That is really, really old blood," He grimaced, hiding his nose behind the sleeve of his hoodie, "Where'd you get it from again?"

"A hospital in Greece. It smells old because it is. I've been carrying it around for about four months."

"Aw, man, nasty," Stiles couldn't smell anything aside from the barest hints of iron, but he still looked disgusted. "That is some dedication right there. What's with the berries?"

"Atropa belladona. Deadly nightshade. It's part of the offering; apparently, the Moerae don't eat much, but Atropa belladona is an exception. It works as a kind of sedative—think wine."

"And the school supplies?" Scott asked, picking up the rusty scissors only to have them stolen back.

It was Lydia who answered, "It's the Fates, Scott. The spinner, or the one who draws the thread," She motioned to the spool, "The allotter, or the measurer," the measuring tape, "And the cutter."

"Those scissors are the oldest pair in Grecian history," Mr. Argent set them back in their proper place, right in front of the third bowl, "They're historic, not 'school supplies'."

"Well, technically, someone could've used them back in Greece for school," Stiles offered, "We wouldn't really know—"

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Be quiet."

Mr. Argent went back to work by taking out a thin, silver blade. He poised it above his own forearm, but Scott grabbed him before he could make a move.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"One part of the ritual requires fresh blood," He explained, as calm and collected as ever, "I've lost more than my fair share already. A few more drops won't hurt, Scott."

They held eye contact for a solid fifteen seconds, and Scott let go of his arm after he'd convinced himself Mr. Argent really and truly knew what he was doing. Between an Argent, and Alpha, and Deaton, not much could go wrong.

"Alright."

Mr. Argent turned towards Lydia, who was still silently reciting the words to herself. "Are you ready, Lydia?"

She looked up, blinking as if she'd forgotten where she was. "Uh, yeah. As ready as I can be with fifteen minutes of preparation."

"Fifteen minutes for you is like three weeks of prep for anyone else," Stiles smirked, "Go for it."

Lydia stood herself in front of the Nemeton, and as she opened her mouth, it was as if all the sounds of the night vanished. There were no rustling leaves, no crickets, nothing creeping about in the night. It was only her voice, clear as crystal, resonating through the clearing, through the Nemeton itself.

"Kaló̱ sou ,

Moíres pou ypagorév̱oun óla

Emfanisteí enó̱pion mou

Gia zi̱tó̱ kathodí̱gi̱si̱ ,

me ton trópo af̱tí̱s ti̱s zo̱í̱s kai ti̱s epómeni̱s ,

Eímai chaménos .

Sas kaló̱ edó̱ ,

se af̱tón ton kósmo to̱n thni̱tó̱n ,

na thespísei metá apó af̱tí̱ ti̱n aplí̱ théli̱si̱ sas

sti̱n pisto̱tikí̱ mou."

As she spoke, Mr. Argent took the knife and ran it across his own skin. The red trailed down before falling, drop by drop, into the final, empty bowl.

And that was all Lydia could hear. It was like the sound of a faucet that couldn't quite be turned all the way off, that incessant drip, drip, drip. Her hair drifted about as if there was a gentle breeze, but there was nothing. She felt utterly disconnected, so far away from the world, it made her want to scream. She wanted to scream, she wanted to be brought back, she wanted to hold on.

And so she did. Her voice ripped through the silence like a knife run across a chalkboard, high pitched, desperate, and so loud it set everyone's ears ringing. Every werewolf in Beacon Hills heard her cry, and they all felt the sense of dread it carried.

And the Nemeton responded. A single pulse, a deep rumble, washing over them all at once in every direction. The wildflowers seemed to glow in the night, and the moon, blocked from view before, set the clearing aglow with the palest dapple.

Lydia, shaking, felt Stiles's arms around her as her knees buckled. "Lydia? Lydia? Are you okay?"

As Lydia pulled herself away from the shock that had been her own scream, she nodded distantly. Scott was at her side a half second later, helping Stiles get her back on her feet. "Where are they?" Scott asked, looking to Mr. Argent for some kind of answer.

"The hunters in Greece said it'll be twelve hours before they answer the summoning," He explained, wrapping the wound on his arm with efficient precision, "It has to pass from this world into theirs, then the draw will catch them."

"Could've told us that before," Stiles managed, "I was kind of expecting some kind of explosion. Hellfire, some lightning, the works. This is kind of anti-climactic for summoning a god."

"We'll be in school," Scott realized with a groan, "We can't miss school."

"It's just first period," Stiles reasoned, "And it's English. I don't know about you, but I've got a pretty firm grasp of the language I speak every day."

Mr. Argent interrupted their exchange, "Scott's right, you can't miss school. As important as this is, you don't know what else is going to happen this year. I'll keep you all up to date—keep your phones on."

Scott nodded, letting go of Lydia so she could stand on her own, "I… I can't leave." Lydia asserted, looking at Mr. Argent, "I need to meet them. I have to."

"She probably shouldn't leave," Deaton decided, "She's just as important as every other piece of this ritual. She may even be an anchor."

Mr. Argent looked between the three of them. "Then Lydia can stay. You two, go home, get some sleep. I'll text you as soon as I know anything."

"Whaaaat, come on." Stiles looked at Scott, who only shrugged helplessly. "Come on, this is the coolest thing we've ever done. After all the shit we've been through, I think we deserve to meet some gods."

"You might get a chance," Deaton admitted, "If they decide to negotiate, it'll probably take hours."

"So you're saying Scott and I could swing by after school," Stiles concluded, more satisfied with that than nothing, "Sweet."

"I'm not making any promises," Deaton reminded him, "But it's likely."

"I'll take it," Stiles resigned, clapping his hands together, "Be careful, alright?"

He looked at Lydia as he said it, but her eyes—and presumably, her ears—were elsewhere. Mr. Argent patted Scott and Stiles on the shoulder, "I'll be staying here all night with Lydia and Dr. Deaton to make sure no one tampers with the summoning. She'll be safe with us."

With that, he turned back to the Nemeton. Dr. Deaton waved them off, and with that, Scott and Stiles headed back home.

It was around eleven when Stiles finally got back home. As he opened the door, he found himself nose-to-nose with Malia, and he nearly scrambled backwards.

"Aie, uh, hey—"

"Sorry, I heard you driving back," She took a step farther inside the house, giving him some room, "Did you hear that huge boom earlier? I thought maybe it was lightning, but there's no storm, and I was worried it had something to do with what you were doing."

"Yeah, it definitely wasn't lightning," Stiles stepped in after her, kissing her briefly in passing, "Can't tell you about it yet, though. Alpha's orders." He gave a mock salute, "Actually, Mr. Argent's orders, but Scott backed him up."

"Why? I thought we agreed that we'd have no more secrets." After the incident with the dead pool and her real name, she'd made Stiles swear that he'd never keep secrets like that from her again on the grounds it only inspired mistrust. He'd agreed, and she didn't understand why he was so comfortable keeping something from her now.

"It's not really a you-me secret," He started up to his room, "It's not even a me secret. It's not even a secret. It's just a plan that could go really, really wrong if other people find out about it."

"Other people like Peter," Malia deduced, brows furrowed.

"Yes! Yes, exactly like Peter. Even Derek, or, or… even, like, the Pope. Not that I'm comparing either of them to the Pope, but if literally anyone finding out about this, it could go six different kinds of wrong. We're not keeping it from you in particular."

"But you're still keeping it from me," She emphasized, following him up, "You trust me, right?"

"What? Yeah, totally! Totally. But you have to trust me on this one, alright? I'm sure Scott's going to tell you the day after tomorrow at the latest. And y'know what, if he doesn't, I will. Promise."

She caught up to him, hugging him from behind and holding her pinky up in front of him. "Promise."

"… What—"

"Pinky promise. That's a thing, right?"

Stiles fulfilled his half of the bargain with a smile, "Yeah, it is. I pinky promise." He looked back at her; she had come a long way since they'd first met, and she was just as beautiful and twice as fierce. "C'mon, let's go get some sleep. Class tomorrow."

Malia rolled her head back, "Ugggggh, Stiles, don't remind me."

The two of them made it to bed, but even then, they didn't get to sleep until twelve.

It was around four in the morning that Malia woke up. No alarm had sounded. No morning sun leeched through the windows.

There was only absence.

The warmth she'd felt beside her had vanished. As she sat up and reached to the farthest edge of the bed, she found nothing. She breathed in deep, only catching the faintest traces of Stiles that she knew were embedded in his room. "…Stiles?" She stood up, bare feet causing the floor to creak, "Stiles?"

She turned on the light, blinking at its sudden intensity; the room was just like it had been when she'd fallen asleep. Stiles's sneakers were still sitting in the corner of the room, but his jacket—his jacket was gone. She turned around to check the clock; had he gone to school without her? Was the clock wrong? The sun wasn't out, it had to be right. "Stiles!"

She threw open the bedroom door, trying to catch his scent; he'd gone through the living room, out the door-

Mr. Stilinski, sensitive to noises in the night after Stiles's run in with the Nogitsune, opened the door to his own bedroom and squinted out into the hallway. "What's going on?"

Malia heard him clear as day, throwing on her shoes and a jacket, "Stiles is gone," She growled, "He left his shoes."

Mr. Stilinski was wide awake all at once. "Oh, hell. Oh, hell. Do you have any idea where he could've gone? Is this—does this have something to do with the thing he said he couldn't tell me about?"

"I don't know," She answered honestly, "But I'm going to find out. I've got his scent."

"I'm coming, too." Mr. Stilinski swore, rushing to get decent clothes on, "This isn't the first time he's done this, and last time—"

Ever since the forged MRI, Mr. Stilinski had been worried in that way that only parents could worry. As much of a false alarm as it had been, it was still a very real possibility. It was something that, supernatural or not, Stiles would need to be wary of for his entire life. If this was a real symptom—

Malia waited just outside the door, trying to keep Stiles's scent close; "Hurry up, the wind's taking it!"

Mr. Stilinski was at the door not three minutes later, and the two of them jogged off into the darkness of the early morning. Malia would run ahead and circle back, making sure not to lose Mr. Stilinski at his own request. She told him more than once she'd be able to find him faster on her own, but he'd have none of it. "He's my son," He said, "He's my son."

Malia's nose lead them both farther and farther away from the city, and with each step, Mr. Stilinski's concern grew.

Chris Argent had kept himself awake all night. One sleepless night was nothing compared to the exhaustion he'd had to endure before, and frankly, he felt more awake and alive than he had in a long while. To see his daughter again, her smile, to give her the opportunity to live her life—the possibility was exhilarating.

He'd settled himself on the outskirts of the clearing, keeping himself concealed in the bushes. His pistol rested at his side, and Lydia sat at the base of the Nemeton. Deaton had found himself a place leaning against a nearby tree, and broke the last few hours of silence with the only thing that mattered.

"It's almost been twelve hours."

Sure enough, Chris checked his watch. 4:45. "… any idea what these things look like?" He asked, scanning the surrounding area for any sign of movement, "I need to know the difference between a Moerae and every other monster out there so I don't accident shoot the one thing that could help."

"Don't worry," Deaton assured, "For all intents and purposes, they look human. The Moerae are actual forces of nature, but they take corporeal forms for the explicit purpose of interacting with the mortal world. Clotho, the spinner, assigns everyone a fate when they're born. If they want to change that fate later on, they need to directly, physically intervene. They can't do that subtly if they look anything but human."

Chris opened his mouth to reply, but movement to his left caught his eye. He aligned the barrel of his gun, eyes sharp, but relaxed when he saw the cause. "God damn it," He muttered, standing up, "Stiles, I told you I'd text you when something happened. You've got school, for christ's sake."

Deaton put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him from walking out into the clearing. "Wait." His voice was full of tension and uncertainty, and it unnerved Mr. Argent considerably.

A few feet away, Lydia looked up at him as he approached, more exhausted than anything else. "What're you doing here?"

Stiles blinked, doing a full three-sixty as he took in the situation, "I—I. You—" He pointed between the two of them, and then ran a hand through his hair, "Are you okay? I… I heard you. It was a dream, or something, but with you that might be a real thing, so I thought it'd be good to, y'know, check on you."

She looked him over, head to toe, incredulous. "…Stiles, where're your shoes?"

"I have no idea," He sat on the Nemeton, idly picking up the measuring tape to keep his hands busy, "Honestly," He let out something of a choked laugh, "I don't remember walking out here. Did I walk out here? Feels like I walked out here. Kinda freaking out, actually."

Lydia raised herself to sit on the stump along with him, "Maybe you were sleepwalking again—"

"Are you okay?" He asked it again, looking at her with a definite determination.

"I'm—yes, I'm fine. Stiles, are you?"

"I'm…" He looked at the ground for a minute, and then stood up, "You screamed, Lydia. I heard you."

"Uh, yeah. That's because you were here, Stiles. Last night. I think it was part of the ceremony. Something about it just… it made me want to—"

"No, it wasn't that, it was— I don't remember when, but I had to be here. You wanted me here."

"Stiles, you just had a weird dream." She pulled up one of the nearby flowers as she spoke, "Or you just want to miss school."

"What? No, Lydia, listen," He'd unwound and re-wound the measuring tape several times already, "Listen. Just listen, for two seconds. I—you said you needed help."

Stiles looked as confused and frustrated as she felt.

"I can feel it, right here," He tapped the side of his head, "Maybe it's a banshee thing, maybe this is a dream. Hell, it feels like a dream. Wouldn't be the first time we all dreamed of this old stump, huh?"

"It's not a dream," Lydia reassured him, "Mr. Argent and Dr. Deaton are right over—"

Beyond the edge of the clearing, there was nothing.

As always, I hope you enjoyed! If you did, I always appreciate reviews! Theories, reactions, my own errors (oops!)- all is welcome!