Morning came far too quickly. Derek was trying desperately to chase his dreams back into the depths of unconsciousness. For the first time in weeks, he truly thought he would wake on his straw bed back in the tiny shanty when he lived in Belirti. The coldness of his furred nest was enough to remind him of those days; waking up alone. The smell of Stiles saturated the air, though, and the realization that he was indeed without company, woke him the rest of the way. Jolting up, eyes wide as he looked around in a mindless panic, he saw that not only was his mate missing from his side, but his clothes and shoes were as well.
Not another soul was awake inside the castle yet. Derek sat there for a few seconds more, counting all the different people he could hear, by the beating of their hearts and the intake of their breathes. None of them had Stiles' unique rhythm. Derek frantically leapt from bed, slipping on his breeches and tunic, before grabbing his sword and running out of the castle bare-foot. It took a moment of standing stock-still with his nose turned up to the air to catch the trail of Stiles' scent. It was coming from the tree-line to the south. Derek felt his heart lodge behind his adam's apple.
"Stiles..." He whispered, nostrils flaring as he drew in one more deep breath. He took off running into the depths of the forest, following the trail. A familiar trail, at that. It only took him minutes to stagger to a stop. Thirty yards ahead of him, Derek came upon the stream they visit to draw their freshwater, and where they laundered their garments. In the middle of the water, Stiles stood, naked as the day he was born. The gleam of his pale skin was enough to soothe Derek's worries. The early morning sunlight, filtering in through the leafy canopy above, cast dazzling speckles of gold light on his mate's wet flesh. For a long moment, Derek stood, completely transfixed by the vision before him. A point came, though, where he could watch no longer. He set his sword gently aside to lean against an old oak tree. His shirt, and unlaced breeches slipped from his body easily enough. He walked barefoot down to the water's edge.
Ankle deep at first. Derek was pleasantly surprised that the water wasn't distastefully cold. With the last hints of summer upon them, autumn now showing in plants all around, the waters had not yet cooled to the point in which they were unbearable. Silently, Derek waded into the middle of the river. All around them, the world was slowly waking. Birds called out in whistling song that harmonized so beautifully with the soft trickle of water over stone. Even with the soothing sounds of life around them, Derek felt like it was too quiet. He wanted to hear the sound of his mate's voice- a sound he'd grown very accustomed to.
Derek's hands hooked onto Stiles' hips, and his lips pressed tenderly to his prince's neck. For only the briefest of moments, Stiles tensed and inhaled deeply. Then, the tension in his muscles released, and he leaned back against Derek's chest. His eyes slipped closed for a bit, allowing himself to sink into the other's warmth.
"I woke alone, and thought you'd finally come to your senses and fled from my bedside." Derek whispered against Stiles' ear. His lips grazed the curve of flesh in such a way that it made his lover tremble. Stiles scoffed gently, and his chin tilted up, while his head cocked to the side- an offering of his pale throat that pleased Derek deeply. Taking the proffered flesh between his teeth, Derek sucked at that spot until a fresh bruise blossomed at his command. Stiles whimpered.
"I was filthy, and you were too. I figured the only way I could lure you out of the castle long enough for a real bath would be to literally lure you here. So I did. And it would seem as though I've succeeded," The prince teased. Derek laughed and leaned forward a little more, to press his lips against Stiles' own.
"I could have told you how useless that idea was. I'm only going to get us both even more filthy than before." Derek warned.
"Maybe I was anticipating that?" Stiles returned in an almost sharp tone. Derek could smell something in his flesh. Stiles' heart was working a little faster, his pupils dilated just a bit... pheromones. That's what Derek smelled. Stiles was aroused, and the idea that he could already be this horny without so much as a touch between the two of them- Derek growled deeply and, quite suddenly, Stiles was pressed against the rock-like wall of the river banks.
"Then, congratulations." Derek groaned, pressing his bare member against Stiles' ass. He was already starting to harden, and the contact sped it up. Stiles ground back against Derek, hips jutting backwards to keep his own tender manhood away from the rocks in front of him.
"What, are you just going to rub against me till you're done?" Stiles goaded smartly. His voice was low, and thick; wanting. Derek responded predictably to the comment, hips surging forward in a more violent thrust, while his hand came down to cup Stiles' intensely hot length.
"Of course not. I'm going to impale you on my dick and fuck you until you can't walk. I'll have to carry you back home," he threatened. Derek felt Stiles' cock physically throb against his palm. Smirking to himself, the werewolf lowered his grip, gently tucking his fingertips behind Stiles sack to roll Stiles' fragile orbs between his digits.
"Derek..." Stiles breathed out, standing on the tips of his toes. Or at least, he tried to, his feet precariously balanced on slippery river-rock. "Don't tease me... Please. I need you in me." Derek groaned again, pressing his mouth against the nape of his mate's neck. Stiles' hair was damp, and smelled of river against his nose. The short hairs tickled at him, but he only sniffed again and again.
"Oh, you can tease me all you please, but when it's my turn it's too much." Derek sighed, nosing up along the prince's scalp. His free hand reached down as well, wormed around Stiles' front, but dipping further back between his legs. The wolf's cock was pressed firmly between the two halves of Stiles' ass, so he wasn't eager to pull away. Instead, he strained his arms and pressed his fingers into Stiles from the front. Even as he pushed two digits into his mates well-used hole, Derek palmed at him, teasing Stiles taut balls. Inside of Stiles body, Derek was surprised to find him still slick with his cum-load from the night before, lingering within him where Derek felt it belonged. "Fuck." He gasped softly, realizing his seed was trapped deep within his mate.
Stiles whined, shifting his hips on Derek's fingers. It knocked the prince out of his revery. Derek slid his fingers out, using his hand to grip Stiles' thigh, lifting it up to a higher perch so that Stiles was spread open to him.
"Brace yourself, love. I've no patience to be sweet with you this morning." He warned, giving one last kiss, using up what little restraint he had left. A backwards tilt of his hips had Derek's cock dropping forward. A shallow forward thrust had the head battering against the back of Stiles' sack and his own fingers. A few more directionless thrusts like that passed before a steadying hand gripped the base of Derek's cock.
Their coupling had become so common that when Derek pressed against Stiles' hole, the other's body opened up in response, taking him in easily. Derek thrust in after he'd sunk to the half-way point, rooting his cock to the hilt inside his mate. Stiles cried out, fingers scrabbling at the rocks. With a deep grunt, Derek leaned back. Both of his hands fixed themselves around Stiles' trim waist while Derek began to fuck up into him over and over again- rutheless, relentless, but not selfish. Derek was constantly aware of his angle, and his lover's body language.
He increased his speed a little more when Stiles' whimpers turned into encouraging moans. Derek howled out in satisfaction when Stiles finally let go and began to truly cry out in pleasure. Their bodies were one. They had been one for weeks. It gave Derek a hot, smug feeling of pleasure to realize that he was, and would be, the only to ever know Stiles so intimately. He knew how to tear his boy apart with the few strokes of a button.
"Fu-fuck Stiles... Prince, you feel... Mnn... So good on me... I love you. I love you. I l... lo... Fuck. Iloveyouuu..." He breathed out in tense, stunted words.
The water around their moving hips slapped and sloshed loudly, echoing along with their mutual cries of enjoyment. Stiles had no intentions of lasting long, so when he felt the knot of tension in his gut squeeze more, he shoved a hand down to press the heel of his palm against the underside of his dick. It was just what he needed. With a deep twitch, Stiles abdominal muscles started to convulse as he came, screaming out Derek's name where it reverberated off every surface in the forest. The falling splatters of his orgasm clouded the waters around them, milky white for only a few seconds before the evidence of it dissipated completely.
Derek's movements slowed minutely after Stiles' release, but only so that he could pause long enough to withdraw and turn Stiles around. Wrapping the prince's legs around his waist, his cock shoved right back into the tightness of his mate. With a deep, searching kiss, Derek finally allowed himself to shudder and quake, fighting to keep his knot back. Once the initial burn was gone, Derek exploded with a trembling moan, his arms gripping onto his mate for dear life. Burying his face against Stiles chest, Derek sucked down multiple deep breaths and relaxed.
They made their way back to the ruined castle. Derek snuffed at Stiles' neck with an easy grin while Stiles giggled freely, playfully batting him away. By the time they reached the old Tactical Study inside the ruined keep, Stiles' jovial laughter was bouncing through the halls. All too suddenly, they were crowded by a very frantic Isaac.
Just the day before, Isaac and Boyd had gone to the outlying town of Haverdell to intercept a tax transfer. The Argents had been trying to catch them off guard by switching towns they routed through to get to Belirti safely with their sacks of gold coin. They hadn't counted on the fact that their pack had connections with all of the towns. The moment something happened, they got word. It had been an overnight trip, and the two young wolves weren't expected to be back until well into the afternoon that day.
Before he knew what he was doing, Derek was already putting himself in front of Stiles. When Isaac had gotten too close, Derek's warning growl had him withering in fear, but he stood fast. Shifting and anxious, laboured from his rush.
"Stiles! The- The Arch Bishop Argent has released a Holy Decree!" He said, sucking in lungfuls of air. He must have been running for a while. The prince knew well enough now that the Vilkatis had impeccable stamina. If the young werewolf was out of breath, it surely meant he had been exerting himself far more than a mere human could handle. Boyd hadn't caught up yet. Isaac must have run ahead, being the faster of the two. Derek only regarded the other man with a scowl, unrelenting in his place in front of his mate. Stiles rolled his eyes, the motion unseen by his knight while he peeked out from Derek's side.
"And?" He prompted. "I fail to see how this is of any importance to me." Isaac stilled and controlled his troubled breath before continuing.
"It is said that the King, your father, has been compromised by the Great Demon, much like his son and that he is incurable! He is to be put to death and the kingdom will fall under rule of the Church until a new, Holy King can be appointed." Stiles' blood ran cold, and he could have sworn in that moment his heart had turned to stone. A firm hand on Stiles' wrist grounded him enough to the point of him finding his voice.
"Are- How are you certain?" The prince asked as he pushed around Derek to stand in front of him now. He had to hear Isaac's assuredness despite the fact that he already innately knew it was the truth. Something in his gut and instinct told him that this was not above Argent. In fact, he was almost disappointed with himself that he hadn't anticipated it.
Lately, he had been indulging Derek's more aggressive pleas to remain safely at the castle during their recent raids and dastardly shenanigans. A request that Stiles had been more than adamant about ignoring at first, but Derek was quick to thoroughly quell his defiance with the hard thrusts of his cock, or the ravishing heat of his mouth. The man had a maddening talent for distraction and coercion.
In place of his physical participation in their schemes, Stiles had doubled his efforts at their headquarters. Now that he didn't have to spend his time being the designated loud and obnoxious distraction during their raids, he could focus on improving their plans to a status just shy of perfection. He had begun to send each member of the pack out to different towns, giving the ruse that they were growing in numbers; gaining followers. As if there were more people taking arms and standing up against the templars.
Finally, Peter made himself known from the shadows, rounding a corner with a suspicious gleam in his eye, though he made no effort to voice any concern. Not that Stiles was sparing much thought to the Alpha; he was too busy trying to control his own breathing- the telltale symptoms of a panic attack flaring up from deep within him. Derek was quick to pull his prince back against his chest, wrapping his arms around him loosely and murmuring against his ear a calming mantra of 'Breathe. Feel me and my breath and breathe with me'. It worked flawlessly, as if Derek knew exactly what he needed- and perhaps he did? Every day that passed, Stiles felt more and more connected to Derek on a deeper, more ethereal level.
Gently, Derek released his hold, running his hands up and down Stiles' arms soothingly. His knight rubbed his nose along the back of his ear and Stiles nodded, knowing well enough that Derek was silently asking him if he was alright.
"I will see this with my own eyes." The prince said finally. Derek was about to protest, when Stiles turned to face him.
"No." He declared firmly, and even though it was just a simple, singular word, it carried the weight of a resolve so heavy, even Derek doubted his Vilkatin strength would be able to dislodge it.
"I will go into the towns and seek out this decree for myself. You can whine all you want, but it changes nothing. My mind is made."
Stiles left the ruined castle in haste, shrouded in his infamous blood-red cloak. Derek had been more than a little excited about presenting it to his mate. Stiles was sure to make many references to a certain fable about a young child and their cloak of red- of who was stalked by the Big Bad Wolf. As much as his knight would feign his annoyance with the roll of his eyes or the loud huff of his breath, Stiles knew he secretly loved the parallels.
Stiles sped towards town on the swiftest horse their small company owned, his chest heaving in air that sliced by his face. His head bowed against the current, raised slightly in the saddle as he urged the mare to hasten. The hour long trip took little more than forty minutes at his pace. Only when at last the Royal City's walls were in view did Stiles allow the laboured mount to slow first to a gallop, and then to a trot, and finally, a walk. They were both breathing hard, and anxious. Stiles could feel he'd worried the horse with his rush. Gently, he soothed her by stroking her mane and neck, feeling her muscles tight and hot from exertion.
"Thank you." He whispered to her, leaning forward and jumping off her back. Stiles guided her away from the path into the city, deep into the forest until he found a small stream to leash her beside. Hood raised now, he made his way back to the roads, thankful for the merchant caravan that pulled in just as he stepped back onto the hard packed dirt road. He blended in with the group of people, walking invisibly into the city walls.
He made his way into the heart of town, keeping to the alleys and back roads best he could. He knew exactly where he needed to go. In the center of the markets, there was a large post where the peoples would hang their work order and flyers. The kingdom would regularly perch their decrees there. If indeed what Isaac had said was true, the evidence would surely be there.
The apprehension was thick and suffocating as he neared the post, littered with parchment of various color and quality. The most notable being the thick, white paper stamped by the Argent's crest in the shimmering gold wax of the Church. Stiles swallowed hard, grabbing at his hood to ensure that it was still covering his visage and approached. Then, he felt his knees weaken, nearly about to buckle beneath him.
It was true. All of it. Every last word of what Isaac had said. His father was to be put to death. Stiles wasn't even aware of his softly muttered 'no' or his slowly shaking head. Nor did he realize he was stepping further and further away from the post board. Just when he thought his legs were on the verge of giving out, he felt a presence behind him. Firm hands gripped at his slender waist, and where his mind told him to panic, his instincts willed him to relax, for he knew this presence well. Just like that very morning in the river...
Without another moment to waste on hesitation, he quickly turned and buried his face into the broadness of Derek's chest. His own hands came up to grasp the dark fabric that his knight donned every day. In fact, he wasn't surprised in the least that Derek was shrouded in entirely all black- from the tattered cloak that hid his face, to the darkness of his shirt and breeches. Even the leather of his boots and belt were an inky ebony. He was like a shadow; a stark contrast from the bright light of the day.
Derek's arms pulled Stiles in close- hating the frantic shaking caused from his barely suppressed panic. He made a shushing sound, leaning in close to rub his cheek against the red fabric of Stiles' hood. His ears twitched, suddenly aware of the attention that they were attracting. He gave Stiles a comforting squeeze, pulling back to catch the prince's chin between his fingers, willing him to expose his face. He quickly placed a chaste press of lips to Stiles' mouth.
"Come. We should linger here no longer." His voice was soft, but strong. Stiles gave a slight nod, wiping the faint wetness from his eyes. He led the way, Derek looming behind him like a statue of fearsome presence, until they reached the crumbling out walls of the Old Kingdom.
Stiles was uncomfortably quiet. The abnormalcy of it set Derek and his wolf on edge. He wasn't the best at comforting, but he found that all he wanted to do was burrow into his mate's skin and chase away all his pain. He hated when Stiles' stank of sorrow. So he let his instincts guide him, turning his prince and pulling him close to catch his mouth in a soft, coaxing tangle of tongues. Stiles moaned into his mouth which only proved to encourage Derek's sudden hunger. What was meant to be a simple gesture of consolation had turned into an act of heated desire.
Derek indulged himself, sucking on Stiles' tongue. Tasting the wet muscle, he let it slide between his lips as he inhaled the sticky-sweet scent of his mate's pungent arousal. Derek wouldn't have been able to subdue the deep rumbling that reverberated up his throat even if he wanted to. Which, for the record, he most certainly did not. Though Derek was partly a man of nobility, and thus was instilled with a refined sense of handling a circumstance properly and orderly, he was also half animal with vicious needs and , despite his primal desire to drag his mate into the thickness of the forest and mount him until they're both howling out in pleasure- to fuck into his prince until all the sadness, tension and uncertainty were purged from his skin like the sweat that would drop from his flesh. He instead caught Stiles' bottom lip between his teeth, pulling back to let it slide between his incisors. He licked it in reprieve, softly letting his forehead rest on his mate's.
He still didn't have anything to say. Sorry was never good enough, and they both knew it meant little to nothing. Besides, he was always a man of few words. Even as a child, he would invest his energy, time and focus on becoming the best at his studies and swordsmanship rather than include himself in gossip or social gatherings. He enjoyed his solitude and the privacy of his mind. However, he must have done something right, for the sour stench of sorrow receded to a faint odor and the emotions flowing through their bond were those of contentment and safety.
Derek retrieved Stiles' steed and pulled his prince up. They both settled comfortably, Stiles' arms winding around his knight's waist, clutching to him like a lifeline. Derek steered them back to their den quickly, though Stiles hadn't uttered a single word the entire journey home. His mate knew what he needed.
Days went by without Stiles leaving the confines of their den. Derek would have been worried if it wasn't for the satiated mood of his wolf. He would never outwardly admit it, but knowing that Stiles would scarcely leave the safety of their room- it calmed something within him.
Of course both Laura and Peter had taken notice, each of them inquiring about Stiles' sudden shift in mood. Derek couldn't even answer them properly, for not even he knew what was going through his mate's mind. He often tried resorting to their bond, but it was just as confusing. Stiles' emotions were constantly fluctuating. Distorted waves of anger, depression and frustration were garbled to the point that it gave him a headache.
They rarely spoke during the day, and during the night, Stiles' light touches and shy dispositions became frantic and wanton. He had taken a liking to pushing Derek on his back so he could seat himself upon his knight's cock and ride him with a fury and desperation Derek didn't know his prince was capable of.
On the third day, he and the pack were going over random plans, trying to formulate a tactical movement the best they could, though none of them were even half as clever Stiles was. The sound of a heavily beating heart approached from down the hall while the tangy-floral scent that was unique to Derek's mate permeated the air. All of the wolves turned to face the doorway, silencing their earlier argument on who would do what during their next raid.
Stiles' form entered the doorway, his eyes red and bloodshot, jaw clenched tight and fists balled with barely contained rage. The glint of Stiles' knife caught everyone's attention and the room spiked with the stench of apprehension. The rest of their pack was uncertain of Stiles' motives and had instinctively took on a posture of defence.
"We're going to kill that bastard Argent and save my kingdom." He finally said, words cutting through the unease in the room, dissipating the earlier air of hostility instantly. However, the one thing that caught Derek's attention was the resolve in his mate's eyes. His body looked plagued with exhaustion, but his entire being now had a focus, a goal.
Derek's steps were heavy as he made his way over to Stiles. He stepped into his space and inhaled deeply, waiting. Stiles gave him a shy smile, the anger from his eyes fading away back to the comforting nature of their serenity and his entire body seemed to relax. He sighed, but Derek made no move to touch like he so desperately craved. Suddenly, his mate stank of guilt and that made Derek's stomach lurch.
"I- Um. I'm sorry for being so distant. It's just that, well you know! And then my father and- hmmph" Derek's lips caught Stiles', frantically seeking out the taste of his mouth; tongue sliding in to feel every curve and crevice. His mate fell into his chest and Derek wasted no time in wrapping his arms around him in a possessive hold. Reluctantly, he pulled back. Their lips stuck together teasingly for a moment as they parted and Derek buried his face into the crook of Stiles' neck.
"It matters not. I'm only glad that you are well." He said against his mate's skin. Stiles hummed in contentment as he smiled. One of Derek's hands came from around Stiles' back and laid out flat over his mate's stomach, resting their out of some unexplainable internal need. Just then, Laura audibly cleared her throat.
"As relieved as I am that you are feeling better, I am most curious on how you expect us to overtake your kingdom?" she asked. The rest of them placed their gazes upon the prince and his knight, and suddenly, Stiles was feeling a little self-conscious. He had been planning out the attack meticulously for days to the point where he bordered on insanity, but thinking about it now, the risks that they'd all be taking- he felt selfish. Selfish for asking them to do this for him.
He thought that maybe he could retract his statement and rescue his father on his own, but almost as if he sensed it, Derek placed a kiss on his neck and the arm that was wrapped around his back pulled him closer to his strong chest.
"Do not falter," he said softly. "I will follow you anywhere, no matter the danger." Stiles' heart clenched. Despite knowing that it was true, it was different to hear it fall from Derek's mouth. It made it far more intimate. Stiles nodded numbly, clearing his throat. When Derek pulled back, Stiles moved forward to address the rest of his pack, though, his knight was quick to place himself behind him, once again holding his mate against the strength of his chest and enveloping him in his arms, settling his hands on his prince's stomach. It was almost as if he was afraid that Stiles would vanish if he didn't hold him close. Though he didn't know why, another need had him fascinated with the feel of Stiles' stomach under his fingers.
"Well, I won't lie, it is perilous. I would take no offense if any of you wish to stay behind. I will not think badly of you." He was surprised to hear Laura's scoff, to see Peter roll his eyes and the offended faces of the other three.
"Stiles, please." Peter said. "As if we'd let you do this alone. I was under the impression you thought better of us." Stiles sighed, smiling a little brighter than before. Indeed, he knew they would not abandon him in his greatest time of need. However, to see their own resolve, almost as steeled as his own, he felt like everything had finally shifted into place. These people, his pack, they were his family now. Knowing that, it made placing his trust in them easier.
"Yeah, Little Prince. As if we'd let a human go and do all the hard work when there's six able and willing werewolves who could get it done in half the time." Laura teased. Her smile warmed him a little. Truly, he loved her as if she were his own sister.
"Very well," Stiles started, grinning a little as he came in closer to the makeshift table, "This is how we shall proceed..."
Stiles' plan, as expected, was flawless. Everyone listened diligently as he ran through various scenarios and hidden paths. It was relatively straightforward, and although the strategy was simple, the danger was paramount. Knowing this, Derek began formulating his own plans.
It took several days to get everything ironed out, and as each night passed, their behavior evolved as well. Derek's sense of protection had increased exponentially. It was to a point of near-desperate control. Never was there a time that Stiles and he were apart; always trailing behind his mate like a deathly shade, an omen of danger and protection. All of the other wolves had quickly caught on to Derek's newfound aggressive nature. None of them dared to even come within arm's length of Stiles.
They hunted almost hourly, much to Derek's request, for his wolf was edging him further to prove their worth in the form of providing for their mate. Often times, he overindulged his inner beast where it flickered to the surface, crowding Stiles to ensure his scent was prevalent, rubbing a hand down his prince's arm or neck. More often than not he preferred a quick fucking to ensure his seed permeated from every last pore of his mate's skin. He was overly agitated when Stiles wasn't nestled safely in their den and had begun to see anything and everything as a threat to his prince.
Stiles had also started to exhibit strange behaviors. His taste for animal flesh had become almost exclusive, abandoning his preference for plant based foods entirely. The exhaustion behind his eyes was a dark and trivial thing, often times forcing him to nap for hours. His moods were fickle, at best. One moment he would be smiling and laughing, the perfect picture of jovial, then the next, surly and irritated or sometimes downright gloomy. There were many a times he would seek out the comfort of his knight, despite there being absolutely no reason. He felt the need to touch; the reassurance that he was still there- all of which the prince had begun to become increasingly conscious of.
Their peculiar conduct came to a culmination the eve of the rescue mission. Derek had crowded Stiles against a wall on the way back to their den, his mind bustling with worry. His hands found their place on slender hips as he leaned in and claimed his prince's mouth. Stiles moaned into him, his flailing limbs placated; fingers digging into Derek's dark tunic. When he pulled away, Stiles was a breathless mess, slumped against the dirty, cold stone. Derek's eyes slowly illuminated electric blue as he bore his gaze deep into his mate's.
"You will not join us tomorrow," he stated. "I won't allow it." Momentarily confused, Stiles' face hardened, pushing away from Derek and steeling himself.
"Have you gone daft? This is my father and my kingdom. You will not deny me this."
Derek growled low, his fangs springing free of their own accord. It was clearly not the answer he had been seeking, but he would be a fool to think that Stiles would back down so easily. It was something he usually admired; a strong and commendable trait in a mate, but not on this. He was more than adamant that his prince would come to no harm. The thought had weighed heavy on his mind these past few nights. Dreams of his mate burning to ash with no one to save him. He wouldn't lose Stiles. He wouldn't.
The wolf within him bristled. Most times Stiles' stubborn will was amusing, like a game they'd play. However, truth be told, Derek's wolf was a dominating presence both inside and outside of his mind. It demanded obedience and would do what was needed to be done to achieve that end. Only, looking into the fierce determination in his mate's eyes, he knew this was a battle he was quickly losing ground on. His aggravation swelled, and before he knew it, he was gnashing his teeth in a snarl. His fist slammed into the wall beside Stiles' head, shattering the wall to a cloud of dust as debris puffed into the air. The sudden spike of fear only served to irk Derek more, his wolf fully emerging to the surface, morphing his face to its bestial form.
"Damnit, Stiles! " He yelled. "You think I don't understand what it's like to lose your father and your kingdom? I won't lose you, too! There are things more important than hate!"
The stench of fear absolved completely, replaced by the bitter scent of grief. Stiles' face softened slowly as his head hung low. Derek's anger seeped away, the realization of his words finally registering. The sheer rawness of their truth was more than he usually let show. A clawed hand lifted to Stiles' chin, gently catching it to lift his face up. Ducking down, Derek did his best to meet his mate's eyes.
"Stiles. I'm sor-"
"No. You're right. I'm the one who should be apologizing. I forget that I am not alone in this now." He said, letting himself lean into the warmth of Derek's chest. His own arms came up to latch around his knights neck; one hand carding its way through the back of Derek's head, gently holding onto his dark locks of hair. Resting his head on the wolf's shoulder, he closed his eyes and felt himself relax.
"I was wrong in what I said. I am yours and you are mine. I should have said our. I did not mean to insinuate you don't have importance in this." Stiles' voice was soft as he lifted his head and let his mouth graze the corner of his knight's lips. "And I know you worry for me, but I will be safe, I can assure you of that. I have not only you to protect me, but also our pack."
Derek sighed, but let his head fall into the crook of Stiles' neck, inhaling deeply, calming his wolf enough to bury his anger, though his form still stayed bestial. He couldn't help the low whimper that fell from his mouth, nor could he stop the need to snuffle and lick at his mate's neck. As if this was their last chance, Derek ushered Stiles back into their little den for one more night of exhaustive lovemaking.
Once again, morning arrived quicker than Stiles would have liked. It seemed like lately, he simply could not harbor enough sleep. He craved it like it was air at some points in the day- none more than the mornings when he roused. Today, he had reason for slipping from bed early. He had barely even allowed himself to rest, for fear that he'd sleep too long. His thoughts had gotten so far from him in the night that he'd almost considered getting the jump on Derek, and leaving before his mate could slip away and leave him behind first.
Just as Stiles reached the horses, he heard voices coming up behind him. Laura and Peter. They shot him knowing smiles, as they started tending to their own mounts.
"Dammit..." Stiles breathed out, not even a sound.
"I told them you might try to sneak out first." Derek said, before yawning, as he staggered over. He was already half dressed in his armor, though his eyes were still riddled with sleep and his hair tousled into a mess.
"You know me well, Black Wolf," Stiles grumbled, tightening the straps on his saddle with muffled anger.
"Yes, I do. Now stop pouting, and aid me with my armor," Derek muttered gruffly, slipping on his back and chest-plate over his head and holding out the laces to Stiles.
In less than twenty minutes, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd had joined them, and prepared their horses. The time came when they all began readying themselves to set out. Stiles checked his provisions and tightened the belt that held his dagger. He hoisted the hood of his red cloak over his head and made to mount his steed, when Derek's vice grip had the prince stilling his body.
"I don't suppose I can convince you to stay," he grunted. Stiles sighed, turning to face his knight.
"You could try, but it would be a fruitless endeavor," he replied, sporting a smirk. Derek's frown only settled deeper.
"Oh come now, don't look so sour. We both know I'm the intelligence here. Without me, you'd all be dead in a matter of minutes." He tried at jesting- only, Derek growled and his other hand came up to catch Stiles' free arm. His knight loomed further into his space, eyes flaring icy blue.
"This isn't a game," Derek said. "The possibility of death isn't a vague notion, it is a stark reality that we may face this day. Do you not see that?"
Stiles' mouth ran dry as he watched his mate's face flicker to something more concerned. He didn't refute it, it wasn't like he impulsively felt the need to, mostly because he knew it was true, and no amount of childish teasing would change that. Stiles could feel Derek's distress, his anxiety and fear flowing through their bond-which is why he let his hands reach out to lay on the coldness of his knight's dark armor, leaned into his space and pressed his lips to the Black Wolf's. It was chaste and simple, but in it held a thousand meanings. Pulling back slowly, he offered a small smile.
"I believe I told you once, that I survive on pure luck alone. Trust me again and I shall be your luck this time as well, just as I was all those days in the Crucible." Something changed then, through the bond and through Derek's eyes. They seemed placated and softer than he'd ever seen them before. Even the harsh grip of his knight had loosened to just a tender hold. His face grew gentle, brows lax and mouth parting ever so slightly. But as quickly as it surfaced, it was tamped back down.
Derek stepped away from Stiles' space, removing his hold entirely, nodding.
"Fine. But you stay behind me and in between the others at all times. You will not deviate from the pack and you will not, under any circumstance, do anything reckless. Am I clear?" He ordered swiftly.
The prince scoffed, bringing a hand to his chest to add to the theatrics of his mock offense. "As if I'd ever. Really, Derek. I am a Prince. I would think nothin-"
"Stiles," Derek cut in quickly, giving him a stern look that allowed no argument. Stiles could only pout under the scrutiny of his knight's piercing glare.
"Fine. Yes, yes. As you wish. I will behave." He didn't waste any more time, quickly mounting his horse and straightening his hood. He looked over to his mate and gave him a dashing smile. Only, Derek knew that particular smile only spelt trouble.
"Last one to the kingdom has to rub the winner's feet for a month!" he called out, winking to Derek and dashing off without a second glance.
It honestly hadn't taken very long for their motley group of vigilantes to reach Belirti's outskirts. As they came down the only road in and out of town, Stiles felt a chill crawling up his spine. Something was very wrong, but he couldn't put a finger on it. About two hundred yards from the city's gates, they paused, and regrouped, going over the plans again.
"Boyd?" Stiles asked, looking to the tall, dark man who Erica was currently clutching to for as many minutes as she could. They'd soon be separated.
"The hidden entrance behind the Cathedral," he replied bluntly. That's where he was stationed. Stiles had posed before, that if Argent suspected his plan to kill the King would possibly go awry, he would most likely sneak out the back of the Cathedral with the King in tow. Boyd was the best candidate for the task, being the biggest of them all. He could easily slow the templars down if it came to that.
"Isaac? Erica?" Stiles asked next, his eyes flickering to the two blondes. Isaac shifted uneasily, as if he were uncertain about this whole operation.
"Flanking the East side of town, working our way to the center," Erica replied nonchalantly.
"Laura?" Stiles moved on quickly, feeling like they didn't have much time.
"Peter and me, to the West of town, working our way to the center," she replied, giving him an encouraging smile. Peter remained silent, though he nodded, arms folded across his chest.
"And Derek and I..." Stiles started, but his mate paused him, hand on his shoulder.
"Will take the central path, a straight shot to the town center," he finished.
For a long moment, they all fidgeted, making shifting eye contact until at last Peter sighed, and rolled his eyes. "What? Are we going to have a group hug and a prayer circle? Come now. Let's get this over with," he grumbled.
Boyd was the first to enter the city. Counting fifteen marks under his breath, Stiles nodded to the Isaac and Erica. Erica gave a mock salute and grabbed Isaac's arm, tugging him into the city.
Another fifteen seconds and Laura ducked in to kiss Derek and Stiles' cheeks, dancing away after Peter when her brother snarled viciously at her for her infringement on Stiles' space. She just mischievously wiggled her fingers at the two of them before turning, and pulling her hood up.
Finally, taking fifteen deep, calming breaths, Stiles reached out and wrapped his hand tightly around Derek's forearm, heading into the place he had once called home. He was more inclined to label it 'Hell' now.
"... I don't like this," Stiles finally said as they walked along the deserted streets. It was eerie. Scary. "There's no way the city would be this- calm -with the King's execution today." He breathed out, feeling like if he spoke too loud, it would break the spell of silence. He almost felt like, if he was quiet enough, he'd be able to hear Erica laughing somewhere in the maze like roads.
Reaching the city center, where almost all of the executions always took place, Stiles felt an even stronger wave of pure wrongness roll over him, a powerful feeling of nausea accompanying it.
"What's going on..." he breathed out, looking around. Erica and Isaac had just emerged from the East crossroad, and moments after, Laura and Peter came from the West. It was like they were the only living beings in the entire city.
"It's a trap!"
Everyone's heads snapped north. Boyd's deep voice was like a frantic clap of thunder where he called out. He was running to them, cloak billowing behind. He already had blood on his hands.
"It's a trap! The execution is in the Arena, and the place is swarming with Templars! They wanted to lure you there where you couldn't escape. I heard some templars in the Cathedral speaking about it! We have to leave!" He was breathing hard. All of them had hurried forward to meet Boyd. Peter and Laura exchanged worried looks, while Erica's hands were frantic on Boyd's flesh, making sure he was whole.
Stiles let out a low growl in his throat that impressed even Derek.
"Thinks he can trick me, does he? Argent is not from Belirti. He's a fool to believe he knows this city better than I." He snapped, and pushed his way through the tightly positioned group of wolves, stalking up the unguarded stairs into the castle. Derek was hot on his tail, slowly followed after a moment of hesitation by the others.
"I- Didn't he hear me?" Boyd asked in confusion. "I said they were at the Arena. Not in the castle..." Erica shrugged a little, and pulled him along, bringing up the rear of the pack.
Argent had pulled out all the stops. He had literally placed every Templar he could spare, positioning them in the Arena. Stepping into the castle, there was one single guard standing within the huge double doors. He was startled to see the supposedly dead Prince.
"...Markel..." Stiles said softly, his eyes imploring as he looked at the man. Markel had been a palace guard since Stiles could remember. He'd lost track of how many pranks he'd played on the man, and how many things he'd learned from him.
"My Prince-" Markel started, before stopping himself, and closing his eyes. "If my Prince were here, I'd be obligated to stop him, but it seems I've closed my eyes for a long minute's rest." He said loudly, his voice suggestive. Stiles grinned and grabbed Derek's hand, yanking him to follow as he ran passed.
"I owe you, Markel." Stiles whispered, as he took a sharp left, running down the halls towards the Lower Stairs. It was a winding staircase that took them down into the sub-basement level. The Old Prisons. These were never used anymore, so they were dark and dank, musty with stagnant air. Stiles couldn't see in this darkness, but he knew someone who could.
"Derek. I need you to guide me over to the far wall. The cell at the end, on the left. We need to get inside there," he explained. He gripped onto his wolf's armored bicep, and held tight as they walked into the dungeons. Cursing a little when he'd run into the bars, Stiles squirmed into the empty cell. He felt his way to the wall, his fingertips mapping over the stones.
"Back... when the Arena was first built, it was a Lion's Pit for executing prisoners. The Kingdom didn't trust transferring its prisoners in the open-" He grunted and paused, as he gripped a slightly protruding brick and worked on it, yanking it out slowly, inch by inch. Finally, Boyd reached over and pulled it the rest of the way out. Stiles blindly felt along the back of the stone, and withdrew an old, iron key.
"They built this tunnel to transfer them safely to the Arena." Stiles suddenly reached his arm into the empty hole left by the removed brick. After fumbling around with the key for a few moments, his face lit up and there was a loud, audible click of a lock turning over. He withdrew his hand, and gently pushed the stone wall. It swung open with a loud, aching creak.
"Argent won't know about this tunnel. The Lion Pits were before his time, before even my father's. I only know of it from stories the old guards used to tell- from Markel," he explained. Peter took the lead, followed by Laura. Derek was behind her, with Stiles clutching his cloak for guidance. Isaac, Erica, and Boyd brought up the flank, and they walked in a slow, easy single file line. After a few minutes of walking, they reached a door at the end of the tunnel. It was sealed shut, though it was feeble; the wood rotten and bug-eaten from decades of neglection. Three solid kicks from Peter's boot had the hinges torn off the wood, the panel crashing forward and knocking over a barrel filled with practice weapons.
Stiles practically fell out behind Derek, blinking the Light Blindness from his eyes. He'd grown so accustomed to the dark so quickly, that it took a long moment for his vision to adjust again. When he could finally see, he squinted and looked around, narrowing in on a commotion in one of the open holding cells not far away. He felt like the breath had been sucked from his lungs. He managed to find the wind in him to cry out.
"Scott!" he screamed, starting forward. He didn't get more than a couple steps forward, before Boyd hooked an arm around him, holding him back.
Derek and Peter were already in the cell. The Templar who had been about to kill Scott for trying to escape was using his best friend as a human shield. Both Derek and Peter were half-wolfed out, gnashing their teeth at the soldier who was obviously frightened, but holding his ground.
From where Stiles stood, he couldn't see much, but what he did see didn't look good. Derek and Peter attacked, and although the Templar screamed loudly, Stiles could hear Scott's own voice crying out in pain.
"Scott! Be careful! Don't hurt him!" Stiles strained against Boyd. Whatever had happened though, it was over, and the Templar was dead. Peter was supporting Scott a little as they left. They stepped far away from the fresh corpse. Stiles finally got free of Boyd and rushed forward, checking his friend over. He couldn't find any fatal looking wounds, nothing visible at least.
"Scott... Goddess I thought... I..."
"Stiles, you can't be here." Scott hissed, looking around suspiciously at Stiles' gang of misfit wolves. "It's a trap, and..."
"Scott, I can't explain, okay, there's not time."
"No shit, Stiles. They're hanging your father in ten minutes. At the stroke of seven, the Holy Hour," he explained, grabbing the other's shoulders. "If you don't leave now, they'll hang you too," he urged. Stiles let out an exasperated sigh and grabbed Scott's wrists, lowering his hands.
While they spoke, Derek quietly searched the Templar they had killed in the cell. There was nothing of importance on him. Half hidden amidst the straw, beneath his feet, Derek saw the glint of metal. With an unnecessary grunt, he shoved the body aside and his eyes widened. Fingertips wrapped around the shaft of his battle glaive. It would seem as though this soldier had picked it up and begun using it for his own...
"I understand that, Scott, but I have to save my father. My friends here... They're different, strong. With them, we have a chance. You should go. Take the tunnel back through, and gather your things. Flee from the city, and wait for me in Haverdell," Stiles instructed. Scott searched his friend's face for a long moment before shaking his head.
"No. I won't leave you. I won't let you slip away again, Stiles. I'm your best friend, and you're mine. I'll stick by you."
Stiles wanted to tell him what folly he spoke of, but he knew that his puppy-like friend was just as stubborn as he on the best of days. Glancing over his shoulder, Stiles motioned Isaac over.
"Isaac, this is Scott. I want you, Erica, and Boyd to protect him. He's important to me, and too dumb to leave," he grunted, and shook his head. Isaac nodded and handed Scott one of the old practice swords from the ground, pulling him aside to talk to him. Stiles sighed, plopping down onto one of the benches, and let his head fall into his hands.
"This is such a mess," he groaned, and wasn't that an understatement. He felt overwhelmed, to say the least. Here he was, a banished prince, killing off the templars of his own kingdom. It seemed so easy in his mind, but to see it happening in front of him- it made him sick to his stomach. He knew he couldn't rest just yet, though. His father would soon be dead. He only had about eight minutes before the trial and he knew he had to act quickly, but his whole body already felt tired. He'd completely spent of most his energy. He had barely done anything yet. He suddenly found himself filling with doubt- an emotion he had no right to feel. He was supposed to be strong- for Derek, their pack and now even for Scott. Except, in those last, crucial moments, his head was threatening to explode. He was barely suppressing the urge curl around himself and forget the world. He groaned again, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly.
There was a loud creak and the subtle shifting of the bench. It was enough to excite Stiles' curiosity, spreading his fingers so he could peak through. His gaze landed on Derek, only, the sight of him stilled his breath.
His mind had already begun to piece everything together from the angle he was viewing the room, to the way the light caught his knight's figure. Even the distance from their seating to the door…he knew this spot intimately. It was their spot. It was the very same bench they had spent countless days conversing, stealing glances at one another and jesting playfully- hiding their smirks and shy smiles- all of it started here. Looking at Derek now, perched in his spot, his armor shining dully in the dimly lit room, he couldn't help but feel like he was stolen back to another time. Back before things were complicated. Before...
No. This was his reality now, and he wouldn't trade it for anything. They'd both come so far since those days of slowly falling for one another, and now they had each other. Derek was his and he was Derek's.
As though his knight knew what he was thinking, he offered Stiles a simple grin, one which the prince returned all too quickly.
"Hi..." Stiles uttered quietly, and it felt just like before, just like the first time he said it. Derek only raised a brow, nonplussed by Stiles completely, but his prince just carried on. His earlier anxiety had faded away almost completely.
"So... Black Wolf," He stated in a sly voice, letting the nickname roll of his tongue boldy. "I think I made good on my promise. What say you?" he asked. Derek could only raise his brow further, if that was possible. Though, somehow those impossible brows seemed to bend the rules of reality. Stiles only laughed at his knight's confused face.
"I believe I told you that I would make a friend of you yet, only, I think I overshot quite a bit. Though, I should point out that I'm quite content with where I landed." Derek took a second to try to understand, and all too suddenly, it came crashing back to him. He was referring to the first time they met. Here in the holding room, when Stiles so fearlessly approached the terrifying Black Wolf with the intent of forging a friendship. Derek was still only thought to be a grotesque, beast-man that the entire kingdom had shunned and hated. However, this young princeling had seen something that no other had the eye to see. The thought of it brought a smile to his lips, as he looked over at his mate knowingly.
"Ah! So you do remember! I knew it!" Stiles exclaimed. Derek only rolled his eyes. He reached to the side for his weapon. The movement was automatic and a painful reminder of the many times he had fought there with the intention of dying. In that moment, he silently thanked the Gods for their mercy and the gift that was his prince, his Stiles.
The moment that he stood, Stiles rose to his feet as well, catching his wrist carefully. Derek watched curiously as his prince reached into the pocket of Derek's trousers, fingers confident and searching. The prince let out a pleased noise, pulling from his knight's pocket the very same tattered handkerchief he had been given during their first meet here. Derek never left without it on his person.
Stiles looked at the fabric, now worn, frayed and stitched. It had long lost its vibrant sheen, but Derek was surprised to see Stiles' looking at it with a bright smile, eyes fond and happy. He stepped into Derek's space, carefully tying the fabric to his warrior's arm in a tight double knot. His fingers lingered, grazing over the dull-red cloth slowly. Then softly, he said...
"For luck, Black Wolf. Wear it and you'll live this day through." The scene was far more intimate than any of the others had expected. Most of them had turned away, readying their weapons and checking their provisions. Though Stiles's gaze was locked with Derek's where he was peering up at his knight through his lashes. For the first time in his life, Derek felt at his weakest, but at the same time, he felt like he could shatter the world with his fists. He knew, without a doubt, he was truly in love. He would even go so far as to say that perhaps the prince was even destined for him-that Stiles was made just for Derek.
He didn't think, nor falter, in grabbing his prince and pressing their lips together. His hands came up to smooth over Stiles' cheeks, slotting their mouths together perfectly, letting his tongue rush along the other's lips. It was hungry, yet gentle. Passionate, yet fervent. It was everything they were and would be. It was a kiss like no other, filling them up and shattering them unto the depths of oblivion. Stiles' hands clutched onto the divots of his knight's dark armor. They didn't pull away until their lungs burned and their mouths were numb.
Breathlessly, Stiles fell against Derek, holding onto him for another moment before pushing away. He looked up, into the eyes of the man he dreamt of spending the rest of his life with and uttered three words with as much force as he could muster.
"I love you."
"I love you, too," Derek didn't even hesitate, letting his nose fall into the crevice of Stiles' neck, inhaling deeply and pressing a chaste kiss to the skin there. He pulled back, rising to his full height with his giant axe in hand. He braced himself and his determination.
"Now, let us reclaim your kingdom," he voiced. He was a little surprised when Stiles laced their fingers together, giving them a firm squeeze. He smiled shyly; that private upturn of his lips that Derek knew was just for him.
"Our kingdom," he replied sincerely, and for the first time since their meeting, Stiles led his knight out into the light of The Crucible.
There was a new intent within Stiles as he gripped Derek's hand for one more second. As he let go, he felt his magick prickling the tips of his fingers. Was this how Derek's hands felt, gripping the handle of his massive weapon? Stiles had noticed the return of the monstrous poleaxe. It seemed fitting that it would find its way back to him on this day of reckoning.
With Peter to their left, and Laura at their right, the Betas huddled around with Scott behind them, they walked out into the Arena's field boldly, heads held high. For a moment a brief, silence fell over the gathered crowd before whispers began to fly, and blended together into a dull roar of incoherent sound. Stiles' eyes were focused intently on the sight of his father standing atop the gallows. The King was ragged; His beard grown out, hair scraggly, and his clothing frayed and dirty. He'd been held prisoner for a long time now, it seemed. He looked thin. It hurt to see his once great father looking so weak and vulnerable.
Although Stiles was focused intently on the King, Derek let his eyes scan their surroundings, taking in their odds. It didn't look good.
In the Royal Stand, Derek saw that it was not empty this time. Even though the King was down in the dirt with them, the boxed seating was full. Bishop Gerard Argent was perched at its center with his son, Christopher Argent to his right. At his left... Oh.
His blood ran cold and he nearly faltered a step.
Kate.
There she sat, a smug grin played across her lips as she watched the scene unfolding before her in deep amusement. She was still young looking, deceptively beautiful- a vision of everything he hated and feared. Peter's growl rumbled out, long and low, not far away. He had seen her as well. Derek didn't know the name of the brown haired young man sitting beside Kate. He wore the dress of a high ranking Templar and the Witch's fingertips stroked through his hair as if he were some kind of kept pet.
Gerard rose to his feet.
"Good, God-fearing people of Belirti. Behold. Satan has brought forth from the grave the evil spawn that has taken the visage of your Lost Prince. He has come, risen with his Beasts of Damnation, to stop our Righteous Duty which we seek to perform today. They do not want us to purify the kingdom of Demon scum!" The old man cried out, loudly, hands raised to the people around them.
"I have promised, in the name of our merciful Lord, to protect you-and I will! I will have these devils killed. They are an affront to God and to Holy men and women such as yourselves! I will bring purity o-"
"Gerard Argent is no man of God." Stiles yelled over his voice, his own strong timbre ringing out in the acoustics of the arena. "He is a foreign man who came here, bringing the words of a God that is not our own. He has poisoned you against each other and yourselves. He is anything but Holy. He has no authority to decide who is of God, and who is not!" Silence came again, but it was short lived, before Argent's laughter rang out.
"See how desperately he lies to you? How he tries to turn you against God? This is why we must repent and beg forgiveness for suffering the presence of Satan so long in our Royal family! They must be wiped out! We must start anew! Let God appoint our Holy King!"
Stiles huffed, and rolled his eyes. "His own daughter is a witch and murderer. Kate Argent destroyed the old kingdom of Vilkatis. She slaughtered and burned innocent men, women and children alive while they slept. And there she sits at his left hand!" Stiles cried out. The worried whispers grew louder, and for a moment, as their eyes met, Stiles saw panic in Gerard's gaze. A flicker of fear. Kate simply continued to look amused.
"They were a people plagued under the rule of Satan, much like Belirti! It was a ritual cleansing, demanded by God! She is no witch! She is an instrument of God, used to bring His cleansing, Holy wrath to the old, depraved kingdom! They got what they deserved!"
The pained, maddening roar that escaped Peter's chest exploded throughout the arena. There would be no more small talk, it seemed, as Peter's features contorted, and he ran for the stands. Screams rang out as he jumped from bench to bench, climbing his way to the Royal Stand. Stiles and Derek had no time to try and stop him. In the same moment, Templars swarmed the field, and Stiles broke into a mad dash for the gallows, where his father was precariously perched, noose around his neck in anticipation of his death.
Stiles could hear men dying all around him-the clang of metal on metal and the sickening thud of blades piercing flesh. Laura was in his peripheral, like a wild whirlwind of metal and black hair. Nobody could come within five feet of her. Any that did, lost a limb or their life. Most likely both. Stiles considered drawing his dagger, but there was no need.
Boyd had come forward to take Peter's abandoned post at their side, fighting off any that came too close. Behind them, Isaac, Erica, and even Scott fought as hard as they could.
"Kate!" Peter snarled as he launched himself into the box. Gerard and Chris had already fled, but Peter was tunnel-visioned on the sorceress, seeing nothing but red, and her deceptive smile.
"Peter. How nice to see you again. You look good. No, really. You're a lot less... singed than I remember." She stated with a laugh. Matt stayed at her side, hand on the pommel of his sword, braced to draw it any moment.
"Fuck you!" Peter spat out at her, shuffling a little closer. He felt like something dark was bubbling up inside of him, a rage that was shifting... Changing him. Tainting him. His rage was affecting his wolf, and it felt... Powerful.
"No thanks, your nephew already gave me a taste of that Hale skill. I have to say, he was a pretty good lay, even though he was still so little. What... was he... fifteen? Has it already been ten years? Time really does fly when you're having fun." She tittered out another laugh. Her companion smirked, adding in a bit of a confused chuckle of his own. She rolled her eyes and set her hands on her hips. Peter started to lunge for her, but a burst of flame right in front of his face stopped him, making him scrabble backwards. She laughed, the fireball floating in front of her as she stepped closer and closer to Peter.
"Put that thing out..." Peter gasped, back pressed up against the wooden wall behind him.
"Tsk tsk... Peter... Still afraid of a little spark?" she taunted, leaning in closer. She could see sweat beading on his forehead. "I don't blame, you, really, I don't. I mean, when Derek invited me in, told me about how sometimes he imagined what life would be like without any responsibility... Without a kingdom to rule someday... I was a little confused... But then I realized what he needed. What he wanted." She licked her lips and leaned in, until she couldn't without burning Peter or herself.
"He wanted me to save him. So I did. I fucked him, and then I burned your whole kingdom and everyone in it until they were ashes in the wind. I gave him everything he ever wanted. My body, and his freedom. Don't you want your nephew to be happy? I mean... It only cost you your wife, and your child." She breathed out, before smirking and planting a kiss on his forehead, then leaned back.
"Come along, Matt," she ordered flippantly, eyes trained on the wolf in front of her just a moment longer.
Peter couldn't move from where he sat, pinned in place by the floating ball of fire as he watched Kate and her companion walk away as if nothing had happened. Already, her words spread like poison in his mind, taking root.
Time was running out. Stiles felt like everything was moving too slowly, all around him. Sounds were dull compared to the pounding of his heart in his ears, and the heaving breaths he was gulping down as he ran forward. He cut a line across the arena like an arrow launched from a taut bow. Red streaming behind him like a whipping banner. In front of him, he could see just twenty yards away, his father staring at him. He was screaming something...
"No! Stiles! Go! Leave!"
He heard none of it. The king's foolish command didn't even register in his mind.
Suddenly, his father's body dropped through the trapdoor in the gallows. Just in the same way Stiles' stomach felt like it dropped out of his body.
Thinking had become another thing he could no longer do. Instead, he reacted. Raising a hand to his mouth, Stiles blew out a lungful of air across his fingertips. It stayed, caught by swirling green energy, rolling and weaving around the digits of his hand, growing in strength and intensity. Flinging his hand forward, slicing it through the air, the energy released from his fingertips. A sharp blade of air flew forward to slice through the rope that was strangling the king.
Instantaneously, a well placed Templar jumped in front of Stiles, prepared to surge his blade forward in an act that would surely kill the prince. Acting quickly, Stiles dropped to the ground, crouching down and digging his fingers into the sand. His magick surged to the tips of his fingers, bleeding out into the soil- pulsing a brilliant green light before radiating outwards.
Thick tendrils of roots sprang from the ground, latching on to the prince's arms to siphon away at more of his energy. It only served to fuel the spell. His body trembled as he willed it to focus on the auras around him. He called to them with his spirit, beckoning them to concede to his command. All at once, his magick and energies connected, linking together and swirling in his mind where it rushed from his core down through the tips of his fingers and into the soil. He whimpered- the intense rush of raw power was more overwhelming than anything he'd ever invoked before.
The wind began to rush around him, affected by the fusion of his magick and its new link with nature's energy. It billowed his cloak wildly behind him. Then, as the culmination of power reached its peak, it shot down from his arms and into the roots sapping at his skin. Throughout the entire expanse of the arena, glowing vines burst forth from the earth, covering the Crucible in a mess of tangled plantlife. He was relieved to notice a nest of roots and vines had stopped his father's fall.
Stiles suddenly whimpered again as he felt his body weaken. The intensity of the spell was already taking its toll- feeding on his own life force to strengthen its effects.
The vines lashed and whipped at the templars, knocking them around effortlessly. The sick crunch of their bones was a loud sound that echoed off the walls and bloodied earth. The arena quaked with where the violent, green tendrils moved along the surface of the ground with sinister minds of their own. All around them, the templars were attempting to flee, only Stiles' vines were quicker- snatching them up and ripping them apart, limb-by-limb. The Crucible was being bathed in a mess of blood and extremities.
Suddenly, heat rained over his flesh- a scalding spatter of crimson liquid. He watched, confused, as the templar in front of him suddenly fell to his knees. Stiles wanted to veer up, but the spell was still siphoning away his energy. Even the simple act of raising his head seemed an impossible feat. He wondered why this templar had grown lax, until he heard a sick, wet thud. It was then he saw the man's disembodied head rolling forward in a river of his blood. Stiles watched in slow motion as the deceased templar's body finally crumbled to the ground.
Stiles was momentarily stunned, wondering how- then he felt Derek's presence. He had been right behind Stiles and quickly swept his glaive forward when his mate had ducked, cleaving the Templar's head from his shoulders in one grossly smooth flourish. His arm stayed extended- stilled with his menacing battle axe firm in his hold. Scarlet essence dripped from its edges.
It was then that the spell had finally ended. The roots sucking at his arms slowly drew back into the ground below. Stiles wearily lifted his head, ignoring the crimson trails that dripped from his face. He took in a deep breath, trying to keep the sudden dizziness and exhaustion at bay. Reigning in the last of his strength, he staggered to his feet.
He was drenched in red, and the fire in his eyes was a raw, pure energy; a deep power. All of it now locked on one sole figure. Gerard Argent stood, watching from the shadows as all of his plans crumbled, but his world had become narrowed on the solitary cause of it all. The Demon Prince, bathed in blood, with murder in his eyes. He had underestimated Stiles for the last time.