Summary: It was supposed to be a quick, in-and-out thing - two months, tops. Remain incognito, find what they needed, and continue running. But Dakan and his family never factored in the wolves of Beacon Hills, they were never involved in the plan. Now this one major slip is going to cost them, and Dakan stands to lose everything. Takes place in season 3.


"I'd honestly appreciate it if you didn't bleed out in my car."

The girl only groaned in response. Her eyes kept fluttering shut, her hands barely had the strength to hold the towel Dakan had found in the change room to her heavily bleeding neck. He looked back to her from the road as her hands fell from her throat a fifth time. "No no!" he said forcefully. "Keep pressure on it." She didn't respond this time, hands limp and head rolling back in the passenger seat next to him. He picked up the already blood-soaked towel from her lap, and tried to apply pressure to the three gaping slashes; one hand on the wheel, the other weakly held against her throat.

They were going at least twenty over in a sixty zone - thankful there were no cops in sight - and trying as best as Dakan could to stick to the uncrowded back roads before reaching the hospital. His mother, a registered nurse, had made sure to point out where she would be working to her children, in case they'd needed to find her in an emergency.

Well, Dakan was pretty sure this constituted as an emergency.

They were still at least ten minutes from their destination, and for all of his excessive speeding, he wasn't sure that the girl would make it. He glanced back at her again, and swore when he saw that she was barely moving. He swerved to the side of the road quickly, earning a couple beeps from the few other cars on the road. He wrenched the handbrake up and jumped out of the car, sliding over the hood of the car to get to the other side. When he swung the passenger door open, the girl practically fell on him and out the car. He huffed as he lifted her back onto her seat to check her condition.

She wasn't moving that much, her breathing extremely shallow. Her dark skin had lost so much colour, lips pale and all. But he was most alarmed from her closed eyes. They weren't even trying to remain open anymore. While he was no trained medical professional, Dakan had picked up more than a few things from his mother, and he was pretty sure going to sleep after extreme blood loss wasn't a good idea. He lightly slapped her face. "Heyheyheyhey stay with me, come on!" She merely exhaled and moved her head a bit.

She was going to die soon; right here, right now, if he didn't do something.

Dakan bit his lip, pondering if what he was about to do was wise. He didn't want to expose himself to anyone, much less someone with obvious knowledge of the supernatural. Fuck it, he thought. A mysterious girl was already dying in his car, it's not like things could get any more incriminating.

He removed the towel from her neck, the blood again flowing freely with nothing to resist against it. He can heal with his powers alone simple things - cuts, bruises, maybe even a small fracture - but without material components, there was no way he could force the torn and ripped tissue of this woman's neck to stitch itself back together again. But, he thought, you can slow the bleeding.

He put his hand to the girl's neck, shuddering at the feeling of the open wound beneath it. He closed his eyes and winced, begging for the second time that day to not screw up. "Fórsa beatha moilligh sruthaigh créacht."

Removing the hand, Dakan watched as the blood slowed significantly. Not enough so it would kill her, thank god, but enough so that she wouldn't bleed out for at least the next half hour - as long as the incantation lasted. The nice 'Goldilocks' zone that the blood flow from her wound currently existed in gave him some measure of confidence. It seemed more... manageable. He held the towel up to her neck again, and with one fumbling hand undid his belt. He wrapped it around her neck, and tightened it against the red-stained cloth as tight as he dared. He blanched when he looked up at her face and realised she was struggling to breathe, and loosened the belt by a couple holes. Satisfied with his work, he made sure this time to put on her seat belt, before closing the door and running back to the driver's seat.

He was surprised when the girl gingerly tapped his hand as he was about to shift the car into gear. He turned to her, concerned. She grimaced in return, and slowly managed to mouth 'thank you'. He nodded , turned back to the road, and then paused to look back to her. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Braeden," she mustered, clearing her throat a couple times.

"Braeden, we need to get you to a hospital."

She wildly shook her head, an amazing feat considering she was two steps from death a second ago. "N-no, no. No hospital."

"Listen sweetheart, I passed First Aid with flying colours, but this," he said, gesturing to her torn neck, "is not something I'm equipped to deal with."

She glared at him with all the power she could gather, and impressively spoke again. "Dr... Alan Deaton."

"Dr Deaton? Well you better hope he's at Beacon Hills Memorial because you are not gonna have the time to wait for him."

"No... idiot. He's a vet," Braeden gasped.

He looked at her in disbelief. "You're serious? You want to go to a veterinarian's to fix up Freddy Krueger's little slash-job?" Dakan shook his head at her, incredulous. He was pretty sure that she'd gone mad with blood loss or something.

She looked at him flatly.

"Well okay then."


Finding Deaton's clinic wasn't that hard - a couple searches on Google really - but it was far enough away to have Dakan worried whether or not they'd make it in time before their thirty minutes were up. The drive was silent, he'd urged Braeden not to talk and aggravate her injury. He wasn't sure if it actually would though, but he sure as shit sounded confident enough when he said it that she stopped trying to talk soon after. He occasionally poked her in the ribs every now and then to make sure her silence wasn't death, and only when she'd groan back in annoyance would he refocus on finding the damn veterinarian's.

When he pulled into the vet's parking lot, Dakan looked for other cars before hopping out, not wanting to have to answer the obvious question of "Why the hell would you bring a severely injured woman on the verge of death to a veterinarian's?" Finding only one other in a spot reserved for "Dr A. Deaton", he stepped out and opened Braeden's door. Her head was rolled forward against the seat belt, and blood was dripping steadily again from where the towel didn't cover all the slashes. Panicked, he tried shaking her. When no response was achieved, he swallowed and looked at the time display. 11:23am.

Their thirty minutes was up.

He hastily undid her seat belt. If he didn't get her into the vet's now and let the doctor do whatever the hell he was supposed to do, she was a goner. He picked her up and grunted. While Dakan wasn't a skinny weak dude by any means, that much dead weight resting in his arms was enough to have him struggling to the door. He kicked it open, inside to the warm interior. The room consisted of a small reception, and he saw a wooden swinging gate that blocked the opening the the back, where he hoped the doctor would be. "SOMEBODY HELP ME HERE!" he roared. He didn't wait for a response. He barged over to the gate, intending to kick it open like the reception door before, and was confused when his foot never connected.

Braeden's body in his arms blocked his view of his feet, so he couldn't see what the problem was. He tried again, this time kicking as hard as he could. With the extra force behind his attack on the gate, Dakan could tell his foot wasn't just not connecting, it was being repelled. He thought he knew what was going on now. He set Braeden down on her feet, wrapping her arm around his shoulders so he able to prop her arm while having his right hand free. Curling all fingers but his index into his palm, he slowly raised his hand to close the gap between his body and the gate. He counted to three, and tentatively tapped the air above the gate.

A flash of blue and white energy surrounded where his finger touched, rocketing Dakan's hand back to his side. His teeth clenched as zapping electric pain raced through his arm, like he'd just been shocked by an electric fence. He turned his head and looked around at the reception, and saw his suspicions were confirmed. Wooden panels covered the entirety of the walls, except around the door. All the walls and the small balustrade the gate connected to were painted, hiding its wood, but he could guess what kind it was. Mountain ash. The whole office was lined with mountain ash.

Shit, so he's this kind of doctor.

Braeden was human, he was pretty sure, so she should be able to pass over the gate, but there was no way Dakan would be able to. He looked up, and realised they weren't alone. Down the hall from the gate, just outside one of the doors, a man - Deaton, he presumed - was watching him. The sleeves of his buttoned shirt were rolled up past his forearms, and in his right hand he gripped a scalpel defensively.

As if the overkill barrier of mountain ash wasn't enough to protect him.

"You're a druid," Dakan stated.

"And you are...?" the man replied, trailing off.

Dakan looked at him for a moment, about to contest this guy, until he remembered the girl dying at his shoulder.

"Needing your help," he said, gesturing to Braeden. Deaton's eyes locked with his, like they were piercing his soul. Dakan didn't know if perfect judgement of character was one of the druids' special gifts, but either way he knew when the man didn't move that he was unconvinced. Dakan grew desperate, Braeden's grip on him was getting slacker by the moment. "Please," he said, "she's human, she doesn't deserve this."

The man's eyes studied him once more, watching the pleading expression on his face. He wordlessly dropped the surgical blade, walking over and unlatching the gate. Dakan thanked him, before stepping over the threshold. Deaton quickly led him over to the treatment room; Dakan practically dragging Braeden now as he speed-walked hunched over from the added weight.

They set Braeden down as gently as they could on the cool metal table, Deaton immediately putting on a pair of disposable gloves and preparing his equipment - bandages, swabs and stitches all placed in a pan. He removed the boy's awkward attempt at a tourniquet, and cut away with scissors at the young woman's blood-soaked shirt that concealed half the wound. He winced in sympathy as he peeled the shirt off her upper torso, some of the ripped material had sunken into the wound, and was sticking to the inside of her flesh.

Deaton was shocked by the extent of this girl's injuries; she was battered and bruised, her knuckles blue giving evidence of a fight. But then there was the immediate problem; three large diagonal slashes - claw marks, he gathered - running from the bottom of her left cheek to the top of her right breast, next to the armpit. He got to work, and began cleaning the wound with a wet cloth so he could assess the situation better. More blood spilled out though, and the poor girl was loosing too much of it, fast, faster than he would've liked.

He sterilised a needle, and was about to begin the massive amount of sutures the girl would need when the sound of loud rummaging came to his ears. He looked up, and saw the blonde boy who accompanied the girl madly going through his veterinarian supplies, ripping open cupboard doors, searching through and then moving on to the next one. Deaton set the surgical instrument down, and observed the boy. "What on earth are you looking for?" he calmly asked.

The boy didn't even bother to turn around and face him, just continued searching through Deaton's supplies. "You're a druid right?" he said, not waiting for a reply before continuing. "Where's your druid stuff? Your herbs? Anything?!" He stopped rummaging through one cabinet, and threw out a few surgical pans before reaching deep into the back and pulling out something. Deaton heard the clink of stone, and when the blonde boy turned around he saw him setting down a grey marble mortar and pestle on the bench. "Look mate, this girl was attacked by an entire pack of werewolves, and instead of going to a hospital like a normal person, she wanted to come here. You know something; to what degree, I don't care, but she came to you for help."

Deaton did that thing with his eyes again, like he was judging whether or not to trust Dakan. "Listen, Doc, this girl has lost a lot of blood, and even if you sew her up there is still a high possibility that she will die!" he shouted, angry now that this man wasn't helping him. His fists clenched, and he let out a long breath, willing himself to calm the fuck down. "I'm trying to help her too, but I can't do it without your plants and herbs. Please," Dakan sighed.

Deaton nodded, and motioned to one of the unsearched cabinets. "Bottom row, third one from the left." Dakan thanked him. Upon searching the cabinet, he found a tray filled with jars of herbs, flowers and plants, some ground and some not, but each one with a different druidic symbol on the lid. It reminded him of home, slightly. He pulled it out and set it on the bench near the table Braeden was on, placing it next to the mortar and pestle. He looked back at Deaton, who'd after cleaning the wound had begun the stitches.

That was Deaton's work, now it was time for his. lit

He searched through the rack of plant parts for his particular need. He stopped when he came across one symbol: one horizontal line with two diagonal lines intersecting. Ivy. He unscrewed the lid, and poured the small chunks of ivy stems into the marble mortar. Dakan stuck his fingers into the jar and pulled out a few rolled leaves of the plant out as well. He held his left hand over the filled mortar, and whispered a word.

"Díhiodráitigh."

The stems shrank in on themselves and cracked, and the leaves shriveled and hardened. With every bit of moisture removed from the plants, his next task would be easier. He began crushing them with the small grey pestle into smaller pieces. He was hitting them hard, Dakan knew, so hard that he wouldn't be surprised if the small stone bowl cracked beneath his hands. In other circumstances, he would've liked to have shown more restraint, but he didn't have the time for careful leisure. Every time he swirled the pestle in the bowl, the individual plant matter became smaller and smaller until finally he was happy.

The vet's supremely calm voice interrupted him. "Whatever you're doing, you had better hurry." Dakan looked back at the doctor, who'd already finished with the stitches while Dakan was focused on the ivy. The man was beginning to place gauze over Braeden's neck, until he told him to stop.

"Don't put on the gauze until I'm done, just trust me," Dakan said in a hurry. All his madness would be for nothing if he didn't apply the substance directly to the wound.

Deaton nodded, and motioned for him to continue.

Dakan stepped over the sink, and filled the empty ivy jar with water. He held it up to his lips, and tipped as much as he could hold into his mouth. It wasn't pretty, it tasted like leaves and plants thanks to the small bits of ivy still in the jar, but he grimaced and held it in his swelled cheeks. He began swishing it around in his mouth, mixing the water with his saliva. It was gross, no question, but it was necessary; saliva was one of the essential ingredients of the Healer's Paste he was making.

With the somewhat disgusting ivy-spit water done swishing, he leaned over the table, mouth over the mortar, and slowly dribbled the water out of his mouth. With the pestle, he mixed the water with the crushed ivy, mixing and mixing until a thick paste was formed. Dakan stopped dribbling, and spat the excess out of the sink. He poured over the tray of herbs again, this time searching for the flowers of cowslip. It was easier to find, the bright yellow of the flowers alerting him almost immediately to their position.

Grabbing one flower from the jar, he squashed it between his hands as if he was praying. He started rolling it around between them like play dough, breaking up the soft petals into fragments. He held his hands over the paste, and began whispering more Words of Power as he let the small yellow pieces of flower slip from his palms into the paste. "Cneasaigh an corp, athlíon an fórsa beatha. Cneasaigh an corp, athlíon an fórsa beatha. Cneasaigh an corp, athlíon an fórsa beatha."

As the petal pieces fell onto the paste, they sank and were absorbed. But they weren't done. As Dakan chanted, the bright yellow colour bled from the petals, turning the ivy paste around them from a dull brown-green to a bright, searing yellow, as the cowslip flowers had been. The yellow swirled around the pasty substance like watercolour on canvas, and when Dakan stopped chanting, satisfied, the swirling ceased, and the colour set.

Dakan smiled, finished at his work. He wasn't the best at healing concoctions, that was his mother's speciality. Even his little sister was better than him, and she was eleven. But he was done, and he'd done it successfully judging by the insistent yellow of the substance. He picked up the bowl, and turned to set the mortar down on the metal table next to Braeden's head. He looked to Deaton, who in turn was watching him curiously, probably studying this remedy for later replication. With three fingers, Dakan scooped up some of the paste, and wiped it onto Braeden's neck. He spread it over the harsh slashes from the werewolves, now stitched up by the doctor across from him, creating an even coat. He spread it down over her right shoulder, careful to cover every bit of the wound.

When he thought that was enough, he stood up straight, and nodded to Deaton. The man then finally put the gauze over Braeden's wounds and the Healer's Paste, then wrapped it all up with white bandages. After tying it off, the other man then took his turn to stand up and sighed, looking over to Dakan.

"Do you know her?" the man asked.

"No, only her name. You?"

"Braeden," Deaton said. "She's a mercenary. I've met with her a couple times before. How did this happen?"

"Werewolves. A whole pack of 'em, like I said. All alphas," Dakan answered, rubbing his forehead.

Deaton sank slightly against his desk on the opposite side of the room. "What are they doing in Beacon Hills?"

"Beats me, I don't know. All I know is they're a danger."

Deaton made eye contact with the boy, and he was surprised by the tiredness in the young man's eyes. It appeared it wasn't the first time he'd had to deal with such danger before. It was sad, seeing someone so young in this position. Kids like him should be going to parties and stressing over the PSATs, not worrying for their lives due to mythical creatures.

Dakan felt uncomfortable under the man's gaze, so he instead focused on Braeden. Her breathing was steadier now, and colour was already returning to her face. The Healer's Paste should help with the healing process and fight infection, but more importantly it would ramp up the production of blood to replace the quantities she had lost. That would take energy from the already battered woman, and it'd be some time before she'd wake up. He needed to leave soon, well before she'd awake, but he needed to talk to her, needed to find out what she knew, if anything.

So Dakan did something he'd probably live to regret; he decided to trust a stranger.

Grabbing a notebook on a shelf, he crossed over to Deaton and grabbed a pen from his desk. "This," he said, scrawling down a line of digits, "is my phone number. When she wakes up I want you to call me, I need to talk to her." He ripped the page from the spiral notebook, folded it and handed it to Deaton. The vet glanced down at the parchment, and nodded to Dakan, who exited into the hallway.

"How did you figure it out, that I'm a druid?"

Dakan paused, and grinned at the doctor. "Your whole damn office is lined with mountain ash. That's an old trick, and a pretty specific one. 'S the only reason I'm trusting you with this. Your lot is meant to protect the peace and all."

"Would you like to know how I figured out what you are?" The boy stiffened in front of him, and slight fear crossed his eyes. He'd guessed that the man would realise that Dakan was supernaturally inclined, he'd seen Dakan unable to cross the mountain ash barrier, but he'd hoped against hope that the man wasn't clever enough to put the pieces together. Obviously he didn't give Dr Deaton enough credit.

"When I saw that you were unable to cross the barrier, I thought you were just a werewolf. But then I saw you with my herbs, the chanting, the Irish... how that substance you made changed colour like magic. Tell me, what is a hag of your kind doing this far from the ocean? What are you looking for?"

"Looking for something, yes, but it's more of something else..." Dakan trailed off. The grin from before was ghostly replicated on his face, a sad smile that couldn't quite reach his eyes.

"What else are you doing here in Beacon Hills?" the doctor asked, frowning.

"Running."


Well there's chapter dos. I had to end it there otherwise I'd just keep writing and I told myself that I'll limit it to about 4000 words per chapter (so I can get these out somewhat regularly)

Anyway, I just gotta say this...

I would personally like to apologise to the entire nation of Ireland for the dishonour I have done to your beautiful language. As I myself am not an Irish speaker, and know no one who is, I've had to resort to an English-Irish translator which I think/hope is reliable as well as the odd regrettable use of Google Translate. I assure you, there is a reason that your tongue is being disgraced in such a way and it shall be revealed at some point in the future.

Sincerely,

~ Offreus