Okay, so I had hoped to have this chapter out sooner, but unfortunately other things took priority. Sorry about that. Anyway, a huge thank you to all of you who reviewed the last chapter or favourited/subscribed to this story. Last chapter: I can't believe I finally made it here. :) There is still an epilogue to come, but the main part of the story ends here.

Chapter 36

Stiles opened his eyes and looked into the worried eyes of his friends, knowing they couldn't see him. He took a deep breath and climbed to his feet. Time was like a constantly-beating drum in the background of his mind, but still he took a few precious moments to savour the sight of the world through the veil of the Spirit Way – or maybe it was the Spirit Way that showed the world as it was, without the veil of mortality. It didn't matter: life vibrated around him, every creature hidden behind branches and leaves were bright spots of light within the chaos of vibrating colours.

How could he have ever thought of the forest as empty and quiet?

Finally, he turned to Lydia, who was holding herself very still, listening. He smiled. "I'm okay," he said. He looked to the Nemeton, the tree that breathed the breath of the earth: the Hale's chosen guardian. "I'm heading off now."

Lydia nodded. "Thanks, Stiles," she said. "And good luck."

"Thanks, I'll probably need it."

He took one last look at his friends and then turned towards the Nemeton, walking up to the great altar tree without looking back. Movement out of the corner of his eyes made him pause just before reaching out to it. Two figures stood on the edge of the temple. Stiles bowed to Coyote and Silver Fox. Both bowed solemnly back and Stiles knew that was the most he was going to get from them as far as well-wishes went. They'd already helped, already guided him. Now it was his turn to prove himself a worthy pupil.

He reached out and touched the tree. Let it grasp the connection forged during the ritual so long ago. He closed his eyes and felt gentle mists surround him and pull him forward, into its depths.

He opened his eyes when he felt the mists fall away. The space was familiar, though he wondered if it wasn't partially created out of his own mind: where would a tree come up with a space that looked like a never-ending, white-washed parking garage? He walked noiselessly forward, looking for any hint of what to do next.

"Hello!" he called, but no one answered. "Hee-lloo!"

He spun around slowly as he walked, but saw no clues as to how to proceed. There was nothing anywhere except the same, eerie white. He bit his lips as he wracked his mind for a solution.

"If I was a hostile, vengeful old man, where would I be?" Stiles asked himself out loud, more for the desire to hear some sort of sound in the oppressive silence that surrounded him than any hope of receiving an answer. Except that the words didn't feel quite right.

He walked around a while longer, mulling the words over in his mind as his eyes watched for the slightest hint of how to get beyond this room. Not out, no. Out would take him to the temple, but he wanted to get to what was buried beneath it, what the temple was keeping contained. Suddenly, he paused, realizing in a flash of inspiration that it wasn't the old man he was searching for – the old man was dead. He was seeking his spirit, the Beacon.

Kak kak kak

Stiles jumped at the sudden noise and spun around automatically only to be greeted by the same bare white walls that were all around him. "Storm," he whispered, recognizing the hawk's warning call. His friends were in danger; he had to hurry.

He turned away and pressed forward. Then paused in his steps. Sound... Stiles slapped a hand to his forehead. Of course! As soon as he'd thought it, he realized the oppressive silence around him wasn't quite so silent after all. Beneath the heaviness that was the power, the sacredness of the Nemeton, was a steady, constant rhythm.

Stiles closed his eyes and listened. And as he concentrated on the drumbeat, the sound became louder and louder in his mind until it was all he could hear, until the beating of the drum echoed the beats of his own heart. He listened, followed it with his ears as he tried to figure out the direction it was coming from.

Then he took a step forward, moving a little to the left of where he'd been headed. His next step was equally tentative, but the ones after that were not. He moved slowly, yes, but now that he knew the direction, he moved with confidence. He kept his eyes closed so as not to get distracted – wasn't that what tended to happen to heroes in classic myths? The evil gods sent apparitions to distract them and attempt to sway them from their course?

Lydia would roll her eyes at him for that comment, he thought with a smile. Scott, though... Scott would roll with it, instantly taking it up and coming up with a dozen things the gods would use to distract him – or possibly point out that it wouldn't take much more than something appropriately shiny.

Like his own mind, apparently.

Stiles sighed and opened his eyes. He froze and gaped at the huge tree in front of him. It was gigantic, tall and straight like a California Redwood, though he could tell from the leaves it was merely an oak. This was the tree the Hales had cut down, he realized. He carefully stepped forward and placed a hand on the tree. It felt cold, lifeless like the rest of this place. He didn't break contact with the tree as he walked around it, looking for clues as to his next step.

Until, suddenly, he heard the drumbeat at his back.

Stiles turned slowly and then, he was facing the drummer. He'd been expecting a terrifying apparition, some demonic horror that the spirit at the centre of the curse had been twisted into. What he got was an old man whose hair was a greyscale braid woven down his back and whose wrinkled, liver-spotted hands were steadily beating on the animal-skin drum between his knees. There were eagle feathers in his hair and a string of beads, animal teeth and dried berries strung around his neck.

A small fire burned between Stiles and the old man. Stiles swallowed and took a deep breath before going to sit cross-legged in front of the fire, directly across from the old man. The man said nothing, concentrating on his drum, as though its beat was the only thing he could see or hear – the only thing that mattered.

And then a single, earth-shattering howl split the silence. Stiles watched as the fire between them wavered. He smiled, even as he worried. He could feel the power in Scott's alpha howl even from all the way in here, but it meant they were in danger. Whatever was happening, though, they were fighting back. And, to his surprise, he felt a surge of warmth at his back and knew it was the Nemeton rising up to help. It was dimmed, but when he looked back, he saw that larger-than-life oak tree illuminated by light in its shadow. Stiles turned back and felt the deadness of the white surrounding him all the more.

The old man had paused in his drumming. Slowly, he reached beside him and picked up a handful of dried herbs out of a smooth, wooden bowl sitting beside him and tossed them into the fire. The fire blazed upward and the smell of burning herbs filled the air for a short while.

"Your friends are rather determined, Child of White Man," he said and then resumed his drumming, speeding up the tempo just a bit.

"My name is Stiles," he answered.

"That is not the name you were born with."

"It's the name I am called, the name I chose."

The old man nodded.

They came together, panting, to surround the tree where Stiles' body lay. Though their wounds had healed, their clothes were covered in jagged slashes and blood covered their bare arms – and, in Isaac's case, the side of his face where one of the shadows had managed to nearly slice an ear off. Lydia had somehow managed to ward most of them off with her stick, but even she sported a few viscous cuts.

"Okay, we need a plan," said Isaac as he tried to catch his breath, his voice nearly lost within the maelstrom of wind that was battering the clearing. Only enhanced senses allowed the others to hear him.

They couldn't tell how far the storm they were in spread, whether the entire preserve was caught up in it, maybe and all of Beacon Hills as well, or just their clearing. Far above them they could see hints of stars, but the persistent winds caged them in, kept them from looking up for too long and made the space around them feel like it was closing in. And from the swirling depths of the wind, the shadowy creatures flew at them, relentless and untiring in their assault. Their numbers ebbed and flowed like an ocean tide: they would push forward in numbers from all directions and then there would come a slight pause, as though some great power was taking a breath, before spitting the shadows back at them again.

"Do you suppose mountain ash would work against these things?" Scott called out as he ducked around a shadow.

Peter looked to him with a raised eyebrow. "Does it matter? The only person capable of building a barrier is currently unconscious."

"Lydia could probably do it," Derek pointed out.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Does anyone have any mountain ash with them?"

"There's, uh, probably some in Stiles' jeep," said Scott.

"The Nemeton!" Lydia suddenly exclaimed.

"Huh?" Scott and Isaac said at once.

Peter glanced at the forest temple. Then he threw himself to the side as two shadows came at him at once. He hissed as a third caught him across the upper back as he was standing up. "She's right," he said. "They're not going near the Nemeton."

"But Stiles-"

"Isn't exactly going to get less unconscious," Lydia snapped.

Scott exchanged looks with Derek and shrugged. Derek ran back and picked up Stiles' limp body and then Lydia led the way into the sanctuary of the Nemeton. Scott was the last through the boundary. He watched as one of the shadows came right at him and his muscles tensed as he prepared to leap out of the way if it passed through-

-only to watch as it disintegrated in mid-air.

Scott let out a sigh of relief. Behind him he heard the others do the same.

"Okay, now what?" Isaac asked as he watched several more shadows disintegrate against the Nemeton's boundaries. "That isn't actually going to hold them forever, is it? I mean, Merlin said the Nemeton didn't have all that much power left, right?"

"I doubt it would hold them indefinitely even if the Nemeton was at full power," said Peter thoughtfully. "The sacred land here was designed to contain what's beneath it and to prevent it from getting out, not to defend against things trying to get in."

"It'll give us some time to think," said Derek.

Just then a dozen shadows rammed into the temple. They disintegrated like the others, but it was slower. They felt the air around them shudder.

"Not a lot of time," said Peter.

Scott cursed. "We have to figure out how to kill these things!"

Lydia walked up to the boundary, cocking her head out at the darkness. "I don't think killing them is actually the problem," she said carefully.

"Oh, and what is?" Isaac asked sarcastically.

Lydia ignored him, instead looking straight ahead into the wind-torn clearing. Isaac glared at her. Suddenly, Scott was getting his cellphone out and dialling.

"Who are you calling?" Derek asked.

"Deaton. Maybe he'll have some-shit!" Scott pulled his phone away from his ear, staring at it accusingly. Then he looked up at Derek. "I'm not getting a signal."

Derek took his phone out and fiddled with it for a moment, before sighing and slipping it back into his back pocket. "No, me neither."

"Do you suppose they'll just disappear by morning?" Isaac asked, eyeing the new group that had just disintegrated against the temple.

"Well, that would be rather convenient," Peter drawled.

"Which means it's probably not going to happen," said Scott with a groan. He looked back to his friend whom Derek had laid out just beneath the Nemeton, but not actually touching any of its roots.

"Bingo."

Suddenly, Lydia screamed. They all whirled around. There was a clump of the shadows dissolving right in front of her, though Lydia mostly looked frustrated. Scott frowned, watching as Lydia closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. He shook his head and turned back to the other werewolves.

"So, Lydia said they felt like maybe they were spirits or something," he began quickly. "Do we know what works on spirits? Like, salt or holy water or something?"

Peter blinked slowly as he stared at him. "Do you have salt or holy water?"

"Uh..."

"I have chips in my backpack," Isaac offered.

"That might just do the opposite."

"Guys..."

They looked to Derek, noticed his wide-eyed look of horror and then followed his gaze to where a large clump of shadows was compressing against the temple boundary, accumulating faster than the sacred land was capable of dispelling it. It was like a black inky oil spill, the shadows condensing on top of one another so densely they almost looked like they were becoming a liquid.

The first drop leaked in past the barrier and fell to the ground with a hiss.

Scott swallowed down the lump of dread that had lodged in his throat. They were out of ideas – the non-existent ideas they'd never actually had. There was another hiss. And another.

They didn't hear anything dramatic when the Nemeton's barrier fell, when the sacred land failed to keep the shadowy creatures out. Only suddenly, they were swarming towards them like large black, silent hornets.

Scott flung himself to the side, rolling into a crouch.

"Stiles!"

He whipped his head towards the tree and his eyes widened. There were three cuts along Stiles' chest: not deep, but ones that would take a while to heal and almost certainly leave scars. Scott growled. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw more shadow creatures and he raced to keep ahead of them, throwing himself over his unconscious friend as they sailed past. He grit his teeth against the hot stripes of pain they painted across his back.

There came a half-second in which the entire world seemed to pause, to hold its breath.

And then, there came a scream.

It echoed throughout the clearing, through his flesh and his bones, into his very soul. He instinctively covered his ears, but that barely helped. It muffled the noise, but not the pitch and not the teeth-grinding pain that was piercing his skull.

It stopped and the clearing, the Nemeton, was left in absolute silence.

For a moment, no one moved, no one said a single word. Then they slowly gathered themselves, straightened and looked around. The wind had vanished and the world around them felt less constrictive, less dark. They waited, but the shadows didn't return.

"Lydia, if you could do that," Derek asked slowly, "why didn't you do it hours ago?"

Lydia glared at him. "Because I was trying to figure out how to do it. My powers didn't exactly come with a manual!"

"It doesn't matter," Scott hedged off the argument. "Lydia, thank you. Now, hopefully that was the end of it, 'cause I really wanna go home and sleep now."

No sooner had he said it, four sets of enhanced ears picked up the faint rustling sound of something moving slowly through the trees.

"Scott?" Peter asked, his voice so full of sweetness it very nearly owned its own candy store.

"Fuck."

"You're Ituha Spirit Hawk," Stiles said.

The old man looked up at him briefly. "I am surprised you know my name. Those who came before you did not care to listen to it."

"I didn't," Stiles said with a shrug. "Coyote told me."

Ituha's hands still for a moment and he looked up at Stiles. "The spirits speak to a child of White Man?"

"When they feel like it, but yeah they do. Coyote even saved my life once."

Ituha frowned thoughtfully, staring at Stiles as though he was actually considering him while his hands continued the rhythm upon the drum. The fire between them was oddly silent. Stiles could smell the burning herbs, but couldn't hear the soothing crackling that should've accompanied the aroma. The steady beat of the drum was the only sound.

Stiles took a deep breath, fighting against the daze that was trying to steal up on him. He wasn't sure if it was deliberate, but he needed to be aware. His friends were depending on him. He stared into the silent fire.

"You realize a lot of time has passed since you were last awake?" he asked.

"Time does not matter to the dead."

"But it does to the living. You're enacting revenge on people who don't remember the crime!"

"They did not want to see me or hear my words! The White Men who hurt my daughter laughed at my pain and the others did not care. They treated me as though I were a mindless beast, butchered me as carelessly as they did my daughter."

"And they deserved everything they got."

Though the drumming never paused, never slowed its rhythm, his words were still greeted with a silence. When Stiles looked up, he met Ituha's surprised, yet wary eyes.

Stiles threw his hands up. "What?! You didn't seriously expect me to condone what they did, did you? The men that, uh, hurt your daughter, they definitely deserved whatever happened to them and probably worse. 'Cause that's not forgivable! If my dad were the sheriff then, he'd have had them locked up faster than you could say 'tomahawk'. The others... well, some of them probably deserved it, 'cause they didn't care about justice and probably didn't think of you and your daughter as equals and human beings, 'cause they were dicks. Some of the others probably didn't though, but they got swept up in your revenge anyway..."

Stiles took a deep breath and shook his head. "And, yeah, not getting into the whole social aspect, so I'm cool with just chalking it up to communal responsibility and moving on. Look, I-I don't have a daughter, or even a sister, but I do have people I care about. My dad." He met Ituha's eyes. "If anyone ever hurt my dad... I've already died to save him once; it's how I'm here in the first place. I'd like to think I'm not capable of murder, but I don't know, not for sure. Not if someone deliberately and maliciously hurt him or someone I cared about. So, yeah, I understand wanting revenge."

Ituha watching him, stared into his eyes for a very long time. Eventually, he nodded. "Then why are you here?"

"Because the people you're punishing now have nothing to do with your revenge. They weren't alive when your daughter was killed – hell, most of their great-grandparents weren't alive when your daughter was killed! I mean, Beacon Hills in your day was just a settlement with, what, like a hundred people maybe? There's over 15,000 people living here now and most of them aren't at all related to those first hundred settlers."

"Then they should have left. This is cursed land; they should have never come here."

"But you're the one cursing it!"

"You just said it was my right to do so."

"Two hundred years ago, yeah! Not anymore."

"My reason for vengeance has not changed."

"But the land has, the people have."

"The land does not change. Your teacher has not been very good if he has not taught you this."

"Hey, keep Sanuye out of this!"

There was a pause. "Sanuye?"

Stiles glared at him. "Yeah, Sanuye Grass Whisperer of the Little Bear Creek Tribe is my teacher. If she hasn't taught me something then it's because she hasn't gotten to it yet. It hasn't even been a year yet since she became my teacher and I go to school in the meantime, so it's only like two days a week she has to teach me. Less than that, 'cause I've got to get there first."

The old man nodded thoughtfully. "I can see why Coyote is interested in you."

Stiles blinked. "You know- of course you do. You were, er, are a powerful, uh, medicine man for your tribe and the legend said you talked to the Spirits. It's how you knew about your daughter and her killers."

Ituha nodded. "The Spirits are fickle, humans do not often catch their interest. Coyote finds humans more amusing than most."

"Coyote's been sort of helping me. He wants this curse gone from the land as well."

Ituha's hands spend up their beats. He chuckled darkly and, for a moment, his eyes glittered with maliciousness. "Child of White Man, you are young. Coyote is, above all things, a trickster. He does what he pleases for his own amusement. He was by my side at the White Man's village; he helped me keep death away for a few precious moments, gave me the strength to utter my final words. My anger was his anger and it was through both of us that the curse came into being."

Stiles' eyes widened and he stared at the old man in horror. If Coyote was partially responsible for the curse, why had he helped him?

His thoughts were interrupted as an echoing scream pierced through the silence. He shuddered as he remembered how that scream had felt in his being, as it attempted to tear away his anchor to this world. He felt the scream in his very being, but its power couldn't touch him here.

"Lydia?" he whispered, wondering what was going on outside, in the world of the living.

The fire went out with a barely-visible puff of smoke. Stiles looked to it curiously. Across from him, Ituha scowled at the smoldering embers and his hands stopped beating at his drum. He reached down and picked up a large, smooth stick and used it to poke at the embers. At first, Stiles thought he was trying to stoke the flames back up, but soon it became obvious he was actually digging something out of its remains. Finally, he rolled out an oval-shaped ball that looked like it was made of clay. It had been blackened and charred by having been in the fire for so long. Ituha tapped it with his stick. Stiles thought it sounded almost hollow.

The old man smiled a small, satisfied smile and pushed the oval ball back into the embers of the fire.

Scott took a deep breath, listening carefully as the rustling got closer. It was the only evidence that anything was moving through the forest. A soft breeze blew towards them and he caught a faint whiff of lake-water.

"Lydia," he asked softly. "Can you tell if the Nemeton's barrier is still working?"

There was a pause. "I'm not sure," Lydia answered in an equally soft voice, sounding uncertain. "It still feels... sacred here and the tree's still glowing, but not as much as before."

Scott nodded. "Then whatever this is, we should meet it in the clearing."

Beside him, he saw Derek nod. "We can't give it the chance to tear the barrier down completely."

"Exactly."

Scott cautiously led the way into the clearing, out of the protection of the Nemeton. Before, the wind had left them deaf to the world outside the clearing and now the silence made that world seem endless. If not for the gentle rustling created by the breeze and whatever it was approaching them, he might've thought the night had swallowed all sound. It felt like the shadows between the trees were hiding something. His eyes darted from one shadow to the next, watching, waiting for something to jump out at him, wondering where it would come from.

Above them, he heard a branch creek and leaves rustle as Storm adjusted her perch and spread her wings in anticipation. Scott crouched lower, trembling with tension and probably more than a bit of fear. Where was it?!

He heard a low hiss and turned to his left in time to catch a glimpse of two glowing orbs bobbing just above the lowest branches. And they came careening at him with the speed and power of a freight train. It was all Scott could do to cry out a warning and throwing himself out of the way.

Derek cried out in pain.

Scott leapt to his feet and growled, his claws out and ready to tear into the creature that had hurt Derek and... and had him impaled on its horns?! Scott gaped for a moment, blinking at the enormity of the creature, its impossibly long, serpentine body covered in dark rings that filled most of the clearing even as its end was still mostly in the forest. It shook its head and sent Derek flying off its horns to collide with Peter, who'd braced himself for the catch and immediately hauled his nephew off to the side.

Scott growled again and ran forward, jumping onto the giant snake-thing's back and slashing at it. His claws barely left a scratch so he did it again with just as little effect. The thing moved, twisting its body abruptly and Scott lost balance, tumbling to the ground with a surprised yelp. When he looked up, he met glowing green eyes and a face that looked more alligator-like than he'd expected. One of its horns glistened with fresh blood and then it opened its mouth to reveal deadly fangs the size of broadswords.

It struck and Scott ducked under its jaws, before surging upwards to slash at its neck... which wasn't the weak spot he'd hoped it'd be.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and then felt as something dug into his side, pain exploding just below his ribs. He didn't hear himself scream above the pain and only barely registered the impact as his back met the forest floor. When he heard someone call his name, he managed to open his eyes. His vision was immediately filled with the scaled limb that was holding him down. He blinked. Wasn't this thing a snake?

Its talons curled and Scott stopped caring about unexpected limbs as he howled with pain. He slashed at the foreleg, desperately trying to make the serpent move. He noticed when the muscles above him shifted and looked to the side to meet the cold, green eyes of the serpent. It opened its jaws and lunged at him.

Something landed on its head and threw it off its balance. Scott rolled away as soon its limb lifted off him even the slightest, coming to a stop half-way across the clearing just in time to see the limb come back down hard on the very spot he'd been lying in.

Isaac had managed to grab hold of one of its horns and was holding on as the serpent thrashed its head from side to side to dislodge him. He used one of the upswings to swing himself up onto the top of its head and braced a leg on its snout. Then slashed at its left eye.

The serpent screamed in pain and surged forward to crash its head against the nearest tree. There was a crack and a cry of pain and when the serpent pulled away, Isaac slid down the tree to the ground. Scott breathed a sigh of relief when the other werewolf looked up and smiled wearily at him.

"Good thinking," he told Isaac. Isaac's raised his hand and gave him a shaky thumb's up.

And then another presence was by his side. "Scott, are you alright?" Derek asked.

"I'll live, how 'bout you?"

"Fine. It's healing slowly, but it's healing."

"Good."

And then, to Scott's amazement, they both watched as Peter ran up to the serpent with a tree limb the size of a two by four and bashed it in the face with it. He looked to Derek, who shrugged.

"Claws weren't working, so we figured maybe we can just beat its skull in," he said before grabbed the tree limb he'd placed set him and hurrying over to help his uncle.

Scott pulled himself up, stifling a cry of pain as the movement pulled at his injuries. He looked down and then immediately looked away. That had been more of his own insides than he'd ever wanted to see. He looked back to the fight and his eyes widened when he saw that the serpent's tail was swinging at Derek from the side.

"Derek, look out!" he called, but Derek was too preoccupied with keeping the serpent's teeth from getting at him.

Thankfully, Isaac tackled the tail before it hit, pulling it away from Derek with all his strength – even if that only moved it a short distance. He didn't let go. Meanwhile, the serpent's horn scraped against Peter's shoulder as it twisted its head away from Derek just as Peter had been coming in for his own hit. Peter cried out and Scott winced. He willed his injuries to heal faster.

A chorus of bullets rang through the air. The serpent jerked with each retort and then stilled for a single, tense moment. Then it collapsed to the ground with a thud, a concentrated spot of bullet holes marring the scales along its back.

The werewolves froze and looked up just as Chris Argent and Sheriff Stilinski came out of the tree cover, Argent's rifle and the sheriff's service pistol still aimed at the serpent. Only when Derek's prodding proved the beast was dead, did they lower their weapons.

"Okay, it's nice to know there's at least something out there that can be killed with regular bullets," the sheriff commented dryly. Chris Argent's lips quirked in amusement as they stared at the gigantic serpent in something akin to amazement.

Then the sheriff turned his eyes to Scott. "You and Stiles are in a lot of trouble."

"You're wrong," Stiles said, after the silence had finally become too much. His thoughts had been cycling round and round in his head and now he needed to talk. Because talking was what he was supposed to do, right?

One of Ituha's brows raised in amusement, condescension in his eyes. Stiles chose to ignore it.

"The land has changed since you were alive. It's werewolf land now. I know you know this, 'cause you targeted the Hale House with that earthquake."

"The wolves do not belong here; they brought their power from beyond the seas and forced it upon the land."

"Which, granted, wasn't cool of them, but the Nemeton is quiet most of the time. It stays within its boundaries and so the land is at peace with it. The Spirits are at peace with it. And the wolf pack makes the land stronger. Which, again, you probably know since the only reason you've been able to break out again is because most of the Hale pack was killed six years ago in a fire."

Ituha watched him silently.

"And I don't think Coyote and Silver Fox are particularly happy with you right now. Back then they really weren't happy with the settlers and maybe they're still not. I mean, Coyote says he's been watching me for a while, but it wasn't until another spirit – and the spirit of a white woman at that – tried to kill me that he actually did anything. The earthquake... I think that was sort of the final straw. There's no fault line under Beacon Hills and you made it the epicentre; that had to hurt the land, making it do something it wasn't meant to do. And that's not counting the actual physical damage. I was helping with recovery and clean-up and I know there were a lot of trees that had to be taken away."

"The land is resilient. It will recover."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Of course it'll recover, but that's not the point."

"You speak as though you are wise, but you are young."

"Young doesn't mean stupid," said Stiles with a glare, but gave up on the conversation. He was getting nowhere. The old man didn't want to listen. This place he was in, beneath the Nemeton, was stuck outside of time which meant he'd had nothing but himself and his anger for centuries; Stiles doubted he'd ever truly listen to reason, or care about any of the people he'd hurt.

Stiles would have to find another way to destroy the curse.

He looked around carefully. Behind him, stood the tree, looking strong and healthy... was it just him, or did it look bushier than when he'd first arrived? The glow from beyond it was definitely dimmer, though. Damn, he realized, the Nemeton was loosing power. He had to think of something soon. On this side of the tree, there was nothing but white nothingness with no end in sight.

Then there was the old man and his drum. The steady beat had picked up slightly and now it was almost a rhythm you could dance to. It was interrupted by a gentle crack from the fire pit. Stiles peered over top of the smoldering embers and the few, tiny flames that had already begun to spring up. He saw that the front of the ceramic, oval-shaped ball had shattered. Turned out it really was hollow inside He frowned and looked closer. Was that a bullet inside the ball, resting on top of the broken ceramic shards?

The drum went silent and he glanced up at Ituha. The old man was glaring at the broken ceramic ball, fury burning in his eyes.

Burning... Anger, revenge, burning...

Stiles sat back and looked at what was before him again. The old man was the centre of the curse. And as Stiles had already realized, he'd been alone with his steadily burning anger for a very long time. The silent fire that didn't behave like a real fire. Because it wasn't. Because everything Stiles saw before him was a physical manifestation of something that didn't actually have physical form. This place was beneath the Nemeton, the centre of the curse... the old man's realm.

Stiles took a deep breath. He had to be sure, had to believe it would work.

He looked to the old man. "What was her name?" he asked softly.

Ituha's head snapped up to Stiles in surprise. "What?" he snapped angrily.

"Your daughter: what was her name?"

Anger was momentarily replaced by a flash of pain. Of course, the old man had been existing alone with his grief as well as his anger. No wonder he was no longer capable of forgiveness, of mercy. He looked at Stiles suspiciously for a few moments.

"Ahyoka," he finally whispered. "Her mother was Cherokee."

Stiles nodded. "Then I'll make sure her name survives."

Ituha looked at Stiles in confusion.

Stiles smiled. "Those men who hurt her, I'll bet they never knew her name. They probably didn't care enough to ask; she was just a faceless, unimportant Native American woman, less than a dog to them. I can't let you continue to hurt people, but I will promise you one thing. Your daughter won't remain just another nameless victim. The only version of the story about the curse I ever heard never mentioned her name. It probably wasn't on purpose; chances are the people telling it didn't know. I promise- no, I swear on my mother's memory, to tell your daughter's story – your story – so that people know what happened, so that she lives on forever.

And she'll have a name. I might not know what she looked like, but I can guess. She was beautiful, kind and strong. No, she wasn't just strong, she was fearless, right? And loved the forest: that's why she didn't mind venturing so far into it gathering herbs and acorns and tree bark. She would wander the forest, but she'd never ever get lost because she knew it like it was her own home. And her name was Ahyoka."

There were tears streaming down Ituha's face. The old man wasn't simply silent now, he was speechless. A few silent heartbeats passed. "Yes," he finally whispered.

Stiles nodded. He took a deep breath. And then he lunged forward, using his hands to scatter the fire. It burned. He felt nearly unbearable heat and grit his teeth against the pain. Above him, he heard the old man scream, an inhuman, furious sound. He worked quickly, not caring where the wood and burning embers went, only pushing them as far away from each other as he could.

Suddenly, there was a weight against him and he was flying backwards. He landed with barely a thump. His eyes widened as he stared up into Ituha's face, which was burning with tiny bright red flame and twisted in anger. For a moment, the image stole Stiles' breath as the face of another old man took Ituha's place.

"How dare you?!" he screamed, his voice echoing as though they were suddenly in a cavern instead of the middle of nothing.

Stiles refused to allow his resolve to waver. He couldn't afford it. "How dare I?" he yelled back, because anger was easy to latch onto. "Do you know what the death toll after that earthquake was? 36, with another bunch being left with permanent disabilities. Like the guy who runs the grocery store, who was lucky 'cause he only lost a leg instead of his life when the big freezers in the back fell on top of him. And the duende went after children, specifically. To eat them."

Stiles brought the heel of his hand against the old man's face with all his might. The impact dazed Ituha enough that he relaxed his grip. Stiles shoved him off of him and scrambled to his feet. He ran to the embers and ashes of the fire pit, jumping over the scattered remains. They weren't burning anymore. He took hold of the drum with one hand as he knelt beside it.

He looked up, meeting Ituha's horrified eyes. "How dare you think your daughter's life was worth more than all of theirs'."

He brought his other hand down onto the animal skin top of the drum. All it took to start a fire was a single spark.

Beneath his hand, the drum burst into flames.

Ituha let out a strangled cry as the flames that had been surrounding him grew larger and Stiles winced as the old man's skin blackened beneath his gaze. And just past him, he noticed the tree had begun to shrivel and die as well. Of course, he'd already realized there were two trees: the Nemeton of the druids and the wolves, and the tree that had grown over top of Ituha and Ahyoka's grave. Around him, the whiteness was greying and Stiles realized he had to leave.

He stood and ran to the tree, but paused just before passing it to return to the Nemeton. He turned back to look at the burning lump that was Ituha and the few ashes that remained of his drum.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

And then he ran past the tree, into the glowing, painful white of the Nemeton. When he looked back, the tree was gone. He didn't bother running, knowing by now it didn't matter because running wouldn't get him anywhere if he didn't know the way. Inside the Nemeton he was everywhere at once.

"Storm!" he called. "Show me the way!"

He paused, straining his ears as he waited for Storm's call. He wondered if she could hear him. Maybe last time had been a coincidence. "Storm!" he tried again and then waited.

Kiiik kik kik kik

Stiles grinned and followed the sound.

Stiles opened his eyes and was met with green leaves and the blue-pink hues of sunrise. He smiled and began to sit up. And then gasped at the unexpected pain that exploded on his torso. He looked down at the bandages wrapped around his chest. Seriously, what the hell?!

"Stiles!"

He looked up as a crowd of people ran towards him. He frowned and looked up, gaping as he realized he was sitting beneath the Nemeton. "So, are we, like, friends now?" he asked the tree.

The tree didn't answer. This was probably a good thing.

"Are you okay?"

"Did you do it?"

"Is the curse gone?"

He blinked up at his friends. "I, uh, think so and yes, the curse is gone." He looked down. "Um, weren't you guys supposed to be protecting me?"

He was met with silence. When he looked up he was met with a mixture of guilty and annoyed expressions. Predictably, Derek looked annoyed when he met his eyes and then the werewolf pointed to something in the distance. Stiles followed the direction with his eyes and blinked at the shape he could see in the clearing.

"Woah, what the hell is that?!"

Lydia cocked her head. "I'm thinking a pair of boots," she said.

Stiles thought about that for a moment and then gaped. "A lake serpent? He sent a frickin' lake serpent after you?!"

"Dude, you know what it is?" said Scott.

"Well, not exactly. I mean, do you have any idea how many Native American legends there are about lake serpents? I'd have to google to find out this one's name – if it even has one."

"Is there even a lake nearby?" his dad asked with a frown.

"There's one in the park," said Lydia.

The sheriff's face went blank. "The park. You think this thing crawled out of the park?"

Peter Hale snickered from where he was standing by the edge of the group. "There's also a small lake deep in the northern part of the preserve."

"I'll take that and go with it."

Stiles frowned. "Wait a minute... dad? What are you doing here? And Mister Argent..."

"Allison squealed," Scott informed him and, oh wow, Stiles was really glad he wasn't at the receiving end of those glares coming from his and Allison's dads.

"It had more to do with the mysterious and highly localized windstorm above the preserve and the very loud alpha howl," said Mister Argent.

"Also, you weren't answering your cellphone so I called Sanuye's house to let you know to go to Scott's house when you got back to Beacon Hills only to find out that you weren't there this weekend."

Stiles winced. "Er, but the curse is gone?"

His dad nodded. "Which is why I won't ground you for your entire life."

From somewhere at the edge of the temple, Stiles could swear he heard someone laughing.