Work Text:
What A Time To Bee Alive - Thurs
E - Pocket watch - Thursday 8/1
(Lowered expectations or *Pack of 2)
_ _ _ _ _ _
Stiles was 16 when he entered the sorcerer's castle. When Peter found him, he was around 25. The 200-some years that had passed in the interim were the problem.
_ _ _ _ _
NOW:
Peter brings Stiles an old pocketwatch and asks him if he can recase it. Stiles spends only a minute inspecting the watch before he decides. A hinged hunter's case with a loop winder crown, chain fob and pendant. He picks up his charcoals and begins to sketch. Soon enough he lays down pencils and picks up an iron-tipped scribe to begin to lay down the pattern on some scrap metal and is lost in his own inner world.
THEN:
He flashed his eyes in the mirror. Golden, not red like the Beas—no, the Alpha— but didn't look any different when he wasn't concentrating. Or upset, or in pain. Otherwise they're the same light brown as his mother's. He could feel his wolf, mentally curled up and sleepy in one of the only clear parts of his mind. How strange, he thought, mentally prodding it. The Alpha had given him a name for this change - werewolf - and told him it was irreversible. It certainly felt that way. There was something twining through his being now that was Other-but-him too, in places previously empty. The wolf nipped back at his mental fingers, clearly tired. Maybe it was exhausted from being shoved into him, Stiles mused. Gods knew how tired he was.
Stiles watched as his hand came up to the small pendant at the base of his throat of its own volition, brushing over the surface of the round cut gemstone. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as his fingertip danced over the stone, a reminder of the promises the Sorcerer had drawn out of him. The state of his hands, throbbing and aching as their many fractures healed, reminded him of the promises Sorcerer had whispered in his ear in return. He shuddered and turned away from the mirror. He had to learn how to survive all of this, and he had to learn fast.
There was a set of shelves next to the workbench cluttered with all matter of chisels, punches and files. Smaller wooden boxes shoved to the corner of the large table held small bars of precious metals. Pieces of paper with partially finished designs were strewn about the room, most done in plain charcoal. "All of this is now yours, Metalsmith," the old man — Cook —had said as he gestured. "You will use these and your skills to serve Sorcerer or you will will be made to by Command, do you understand?" Stiles had nodded. It didn't seem like the time to argue he was barely an apprentice, more used to fixing rings on mandrels or smelting ingots. If the Sorcerer knew and didn't care, no one else would either in this forsaken place.
He had had no idea of what he had been agreeing to at the time. Inside that new spot in his mind, his wolf shied away at the thought of being Commanded again and Stiles silently agreed. The torture was excruciating, but the power of the Alpha's Command had lit up his bones like fire, settled into them like molten metal heavy and bubbling, weighing him down while burning him from the inside out. Even now a sluggish heat remains, threatening a resurgence to any reticence.
He took a shuddering breath and started taking inventory of his new quarters.
Moonlight shone through the glass window overhead, bright and white.
_ _ _ _ _
NOW:
Stiles looks at the clock mechanism, determining how much metal he'll need for the case, cover, winder and fob. He selects a bar and begins to roll it out to the thickness he'll need. The silver warms as soon as it touches his hands, dropping into a putty-like ball he works into a disk.
THEN:
He decides what to pack as he runs back to his quarters. Tools, at least some basics. Ingots and stones. If he had all of that he could barter his skill, make or repair items or just flat-out trade the valuable materials for other supplies. Some clothes, maybe he can get a sleeping roll from Cook or one of the others. After a quick inventory, Stiles realizes most of his notebooks and almost all of his collection of private pieces will be left behind, there's no helping it. It looks like Gatherer would end up with most of the prized blooms after all. Stiles selects his well-used commonplace book and a handful of various blooms. He places the flowers inbetween the pages of the book and presses, each metal bloom flattening down on itself that he can coax back into full dimensions later. The rest he bundles up in cloth and hide to give to Gatherer.
He catches his reflection in the mirror for the last time, the same as the last time he cut his hair. What would happen when he steps through the portal? Would time catch up to him or would he just step back into it? It's not like he has any real options, whatever the Fae have in store it doesn't include him. At least he hopes it doesn't. He'd seen the result of their zero-sum games for too long to be even slightly curious about a more serious involvement with them. Who knew what would happen to something like him in the Realms? His wolf shuddered, imagining running alone under starless, moonless grey skies forever. Whatever was on the other side of the portal would be better than an eternity of those frozen, unchanging wastelands.
He takes in his quarters, half lit with lurid purple from the mismatched glass windows. He wonders for the first time if he'll miss it. *Not home,* his wolf reminds him, *just place.* Not just any place, he thinks back. His wolf chuffs and goes back to pacing.
"After you find Her, we will find you again, Metalsmith." The Queen says as he stands before her. He tries to keep his eyes open as he steps through the portal.
A flash of darkness, a rope of gold and the brief image of hundreds of pink-red blooms, then a tumbling crash and he's tangled inside a bush as large as his entire living quarters. Well, he thinks at his wolf, what do you think?
*Rhododendron,* it sneezed. *Danger.*
Stiles agreed, fighting his way out of the bush.
A man appears, asking if he's lost, and Stiles is so, so lost. Also, he's genuinely lost. Peter is cautious but truthful to the degree he probably can be in this situation, and Stiles finds himself wanting to talk, against the advice of his common sense and wolf both. *Yap like a pup later* wolf suggests, sniffing around. There are so many new smells and sights and sounds that Stiles is almost overwhelmed, it's exhausting. The castle, with its unchanging existence and lack of people meant Stiles had been exposed to very little sensory input during his time there and is almost overwhelmed by it all. Peter is kind and even carries one of his bags to the cabin for him, like a gentleman.
That night before he falls asleep, the last voice he hears is Peter's, and that establishes a pattern repeating every night after until Stiles —eventually — loses count.
_ _ _ _ _
NOW:
The circles of silver set properly on his workbench, Stiles sets out to fashion the domed case that will house the watch innards. He sets out his bowl of chaser's pitch and lays out doming punches. Each disk gets in own turn in the doming block, hammered and nudged into shallow bowl-like shapes. He picks up the two bowled disks, mimes opening and shutting it, getting a feel to where the hinge will lie, where he'll place the stem.
THEN:
Peter opens the hatch of the metal cabinet on the left and gestures inside.
"These will wash all your clothes and linens, then dry them. I will show you how to use them, and then you can do laundry whenever you wish."
Stiles was amazed, he still used a washboard and tub to clean his clothes in the castle. They had had some of what Peter called "running water" in the form of metal pipes that Sorcerer had had installed more recently, but that was nothing compared to these machines
They were almost all metal, enameled and painted to protect against rust and wear.
In the kitchen, a tall rectangular metal wardrobe stood, what Peter called a refrigerator for keeping food cold and next to it was a more recognizable setup of an oven and stove top. It wasn't unlike Cook's setup, with multiple spots for pots or skillets and a shelf for baking but it was much easier and more reliable, running off of some sort of natural gas rather than wood. Stiles did not feel confident in the use of all of these machines but listened intently to the explanations as Peter gave them.
"This cabin was our grandparent's, and over the years we expanded it and as you can see added some creature comforts," Peter smiles wryly. "I will be staying with you here, if you'd like, and help you learn anything you need. Talia's suggestion and my recommendation both, we're all on the same page here, Stiles."
Stiles nods, in full agreement. He'll need all the help he can get adjusting to this new world and his place in it. He looks out the clear windows and sees the rosemary bush growing outside. It broke out of its pot years ago, but set down roots and adapted to live untended over the years. He understands it.
This is where he will put down his own roots. This will be his home.
_ _ _ _ _
NOW:
Stiles takes up the small pair of pliers and begins to make the fob-chain. He's decided on a Byzantine pattern for the chain, a design that looks much more intricate than it is to fashion but has a look to it that reminds him of Peter. He'll be doing it in gold and silver rings, alternating so the gold would be the outside and the silver the core. It would keep the watch attached to Peter's vest and have to bear the weight of the watch itself. Gold bracketing silver, lending strength to each other. It was the least ornate part of the entire piece, but it reminded Stiles of Peter the most. Stately. Strong. Secure.
THEN:
It's his first full moon away from the Sorcerer and without an Alpha, and he's starting to panic. It feels the same as any other full moon. Shouldn't he feel different, more out of control? His wolf harrumphs and goes back to it's contemplation of the moon, *You are too loud. Same moon as before. Just louder. She sings.*
"The moonlight is different here," Stiles remarked, trying to distract himself. "Not as harsh or cold, it's strange to see it like this." He waved his hand vaguely at the window and the pool of light underneath it. It was clear and cool, pure of any influence. It pooled on the floor unaffected by any impurities in the glass, the moon's light shining without veil.
Peter spoke up, "Talia said this probably unnecessary, but appreciates your taking the precaution. New wolves can have a hard time adjusting, especially those bitten outside of pack blood. Since we don't know how Sorcerer's magic affected you, or if it did at all, it's smart to be cautious."
Stiles nodded, the last thing the Hales needed was an out-of-control werewolf who could manipulate metal. It made him an especially tricky person to jail, he supposed. Whatever his wolf strength couldn't handle, his magic could. That in itself was strange, Peter said. Werewolves couldn't usually use magic. Peter had said a lot about werewolves, as did Talia. Stiles had listened and always wanted to hear more.
Stiles sat on the cot and faced Peter,
"The Sorcerer had some books about 'wolves, mostly tales and legends. The Alpha had been a human Hunter so it wasn't like he was knowledgeable in any fashion meant to help us. Gatherer and a few others who were more sympathetic told me more of the truth, that being a werewolf wasn't about being a monster. As far as learning how to properly be a werewolf, I'll continue to take whatever advice you and yours have for me. To me it hasn't been that much different than being human, not compared to your Pack with having to hide it or worry who saw me doing anything."
Peter, sitting on the other side of the bars, didn't know what to say. "I don't know what to say," he admitted. "For most Packs, the Bite is seen as a gift and an honor, not simply a means to control. What happened to you is...anathema, Stiles."
Stiles shrugged. "It's not like he was in a position to argue. He was more of a prisoner than I and deserved better than a life as a half-insane puppet." The Alpha said he'd been a Hunter unlucky enough to be Bitten but lucky enough to kill the old Alpha that same night. Then his own men turned on him, chained him and brought him to Sorcerer. He'd slowly been losing his mind over the decades of captivity; by the time the Fae arrived to claim their due he was little more than an empty vessel. He'd been forced to make and then lose dozens of Pack bonds over his time as the Sorcerer's captive while chained alone in a basement room at all times. It was a truly wretched existence. Stiles may have hated the Sorcerer and the Argents but could only dredge up pity for the Alpha, even with what he'd done. You can only be so mad at a rabid dog.
The moon was visible through the window now, and Peter still couldn't see any aggression or signs of shifting coming from Stiles. If anything, Stiles himself seemed to grow more anxious that nothing was happening. Peter was worried that Stiles was getting too lost in his own head.
Stiles' wolf, on the other hand, was just enjoying the moonlight and the smell of Peter. With no desperate Alpha driving him to be closeby he seemed content— if slightly eager— to explore the living woods around them. They were buzzing with life and potential he could feel alongside the pull of the Moon. *Run,* it barks. *Run and find Her.*
"What would usually be happening now?" Peter asks quietly, drawing Stiles' attention back.
"The Alpha would be pulling on our bonds, usually, so often we'd just stay close by but sometimes we'd be let out to hunt whatever had wandered into our part of the woods...and no doubt terrify the surrounding countryside," Stiles looks down at his knees, almost smiling. "It helped keep the rumors of the Beast alive, too, I suppose. We weren't free, but we were wild. I liked those nights."
Peter continued, "Did you ever hurt anyone? Kill anyone?"
*Hurt you, if so stupid to ask* Wolf snapped, indignant and impatient to leave. Wolves don't kill for pleasure and favored their peace, for all their physicality they were rarely truly violent. Stiles mentally agreed and retorted, "You already know I didn't. Did anyone in your Pack hurt or kill in a craze on the full moon?"
"Nothing beyond the little rough play with packmates or the occasional deer."
Stiles let out a sad, soft laugh. "If only the Hunters believed that."
Peter chuckled softly in agreement. "So why worry now? You're obviously fine, let us take care of you."
*Run now?* Wolf pawed, whining.
Stiles' golden eyes met Peter's blue.
"I'm not worried anymore."
Peter smiled, eyes bright, and held up the keys. "Good. Let's be wild. Let's be free."
_ _ _ _ _
NOW :
The back of the watch is a portrait-like embossed working of the Nemeton in miniature, leaves reaching down to almost brush root. A steel-tipped claw digs a furrow next to the trunk, delineating it further from the plain satin brushed background. Stiles picks up his smallest brush and begins to gild part of the highest point, a burst of sunlight to crown the Queen of the Woods.
THEN:
They find the Nemeton, because how could he not? She was a bright beacon singing out along lines in the earth, through root and leaf and flower promising. Something in his bones was singing back, and he'd never felt so alive.
It was so different than Sorcerer's grounds he was dizzy with it all.
*Home,* his wolf sang, *this is home.*
He howled, an agreement and thanks. Somehow, it seemed that everything was leading him to this place and every step he took was that much closer to the last he'd take. He could feel this golden warmth, riding under his skin next to his wolf, twining and splitting and growing all throughout him. He revelled it and wished he could share it with Peter.
Just when he thought he would explode, he almost runs into Her and clumsily pulls himself back. She's....well. She's a stump. A gigantic stump, much bigger around than Stiles is tall, and would be almost waist-high. But she's also the tree full grown, branches stretching out in all directions and filtering the moonlight into ribbons to fall around her sun-like glow.
It's like seeing the promise and potential both at the same time and then the golden warmth inside him exploded.
He sees the thick rope between them, sunlight and molten gold and the shine of wolf-eyes all woven together. She had been waiting so long for him, Her impatience surprisingly untreelike but then again, She was no simple tree. He feels an urgency begin to rise inside himself, a rally to a cause. Not yet, She sings, Not yet, but soon. So soon.
He looks over and sees Peter staring up at the tree, eyes glinting with the golden light She is throwing off into the woods around them, and knows he can hear Her, too. After an indeterminate amount of time, She nudged them both up and conveyed a gentle shooing motion, gesturing back the way they came. Stiles stood and took Peter's hand to help haul him up. He looked especially pink under this light, Stiles thought as he quickly released Peter's hand. He gives a small smile and turns, heading back to the cabin. After a moment, Peter springs past him, laughing, so Stiles gives chase.
One day, years from now, he knew would serve Her and the Land. For now, he ran free and howled his thanks.
_ _ _ _ _
NOW:
Stiles knew exactly what pendant to make for the fob. A small honeybee would dangle off the chain. This he would work in gold, to compliment the gilding on the watch itself. Pinching off an appropriately bee-sized piece of nugget, he rolls it between nimble fingers. The imperfections are worked in as it's shaped, leaving behind the suggestion of stripes. He'll attach the legs and set of silver lace wings later.
THEN:
Peter and Stiles go to gather honey for Kate's welcome basket. Peter guides them to the hives closest to the rhododendron they'd met by, that held the mad honey Peter collected for trade with other Packs. For humans, this honey was too toxic to consume; causing delirium, paralysis and even death within a matter of hours. He usually cut it quite heavily with honey from the other hives when bartering. Not today, though. Kate would get this honey fresh from the comb.
"How many people do you think Kate has killed?" Stiles wondered aloud, watching Peter fill the glass jars with the red-tinged honey. After they added the figs, the discoloration — if even noticed — would be blamed on the fruits. This was a plan he'd first thought of years ago but never had a reason or need to enact.
"Too many, no matter the number." Peter answered. "Does it matter, exactly?"
"No, it doesn't. I was just wondering. In my village, before, we hadn't had a killing in a long time. People died a lot, from all kinds of things: illness, injuries, childbirth…but they were all natural, not by someone else's hand. You already know I myself was an orphan, which wasn't uncommon, but my family was small so after my father passed, there was no one to take me in."
Peter knew all of this, but let Stiles continue.
"There is already so much death and grief in this world, I don't understand how people like the Argents live with themselves bringing so much more into it. They have everything : money, power, family, and yet!" Stiles exclaimed, "Instead of doing anything good with it they use it to harm. Do you know what I would have done to have the money for my parents to see the physicians in the city, or even be able to claim a living cousin or two? And my story isn't the only sad one, in my time our lives were full of loss and uncertainty.
I would have given anything to help my parents, but I was just a child. By the time I was aware of what those deals truly cost, much less existed, I was caught up in one myself."
Peter mourned alongside Stiles for all he has lost, regardless if it was a more ordinary occurrence back then, losing your only family that young and being foisted off on strangers is a devastating situation. "I think your parents would be proud of you, Stiles. You survived a terrible ordeal and retained all the good things they instilled in you as a child, all without compromising yourself. Now you're making sure other children will be able to stay with their families, to grow up and become adults."
"I know. I just...I thought I had done and finished all of the crying and mourning for them, but it still hurts sometimes and it just snuck up on me now, " Stiles sighed, eyes bright. "I wish I could see them again, Peter. Tell them who I am, let them know I am still proud to be their son."
Done with his collecting, Peter fastens the lid on the jar. He takes in Stiles and gestures at the skeps behind him. "Tell the bees, dear one. Old legend says they travel between the realms. That's why we tell them about arrivals and births; celebrations and deaths. They take our words with them wherever they go."
Stiles nodded a bit jerkily, then headed over to the cluster of small rope domes. He sat down and started whispering, and didn't stop for a long, long time.
Peter waited, watching the bees fly.
_ _ _ _ _
NOW:
The winder and its stem were next.
A silver crescent shaped into the round, making a ring would serve atop a simple column. Dappled with hammer and then polished, indentation serving as craters and giving the stem texture. A moonrise above the Nemeton.
THEN:
Peter found him by the Grove close to the cabin. He wanted to spend as much of this Moon as possible together, before they headed out to destroy the Argents.
They run and run, eventually ending up at the stump of the old Nemeton. Stiles shifts and approaches it, unable to resist her Call. He reaches out to touch it and—
A vision of himself laughing, neck long and proud in moonlight while Peter watched with shining red eyes surrounded by wolves— was what She sent back.
Stiles yearned for that image to be true, and asked Her, 'How?'
She sent back a slow trickle — Her patience, the slow passage of time — then a quick burst — action, movement, growth as sudden as a spring blossom.
Seasons and places passed in his mind's eye, snow chased by spring winds into the heat of summer melting into autumn rains swept through the clearing over and over with each wave leaving the Nemeton that much broader and taller. She shot up and out, shaking off cool droplets in every direction. She was glorious and shrouded in fog, then when Stiles blinked again he was back in the Grove looking at the sapling bursting from the heartwood of the old stump. All this time She'd remained hidden, shrouded and patiently waiting for Her Emissary. Now, She was ready. She did not have to hide anymore.
"I think She wants to help," Stiles tells Peter, eyes wide with excitement, "And you're never going to believe how."
They leave the Grove that night with matching silver jackets on their left hands and promises dripping from their mouths.
_ _ _ _ _
NOW:
The front of the watch was what made it a hunter's watch. A metal front protecting the crystal face inside. Covered in rhododendron (danger, beware) in bloom and chased in round with engraved knotwork, the watch was done. Stiles plucked the steel caps off his claws, put down the burin and picked up his polishing cloths.
THEN:
Together, they go back to the rhododendron to place new skeps, the first new ones Peter has placed since before Kate's death. So much has happened in the past handful of months it's like several years all compressed into one. Peter was almost killed, then Bitten, promised to the Nemeton, found his soulmate, killed Kate Argent and helped take down Gerard and his faction. When he added up all the events it seemed almost ludicrous, yet here they are.
The guardians of the Nemeton, the promised Alpha and Emissary, hosted by and serving under the Hale Pack until their Ascension once She is ready. They still have so much to learn and She has so much to grow that it will be years before they take up that mantle and responsibility, all gaining more maturity and knowledge as the days pass by. Until then, they'll be a small Pack of two.
Back at the cabin as the sun rose, Stiles turned on his side to face Peter on the couch. "I want to get new windows for the house," he stated." Well, maybe not new, but different."
Peter, surprised by the request, responded "What did you have in mind, dear heart?"
"When I was in the castle the only thing showing the passage of time was the darkening purple of the windows. I find myself missing it, and I want to watch the time pass again with you, truly pass, and live long enough to one day see you bathed in royal purple light."
Wordlessly, Peter nodded. What could he do but acquiesce?
_ _ _ _ _
NOW:
Stiles winds the watch, attaches the chain and with a final swipe sets down the polishing cloth. Carefully he places it into the velvet-lined box Peter had brought the original watch. Setting it at Peter's place at the table along with a note, he goes to wash up. Peter should be back any time now.
THEN:
"Thank you for taking your time with me"
Peter reads the note propped up against the watch box as he opens it. Inside is a burst of brilliant reddish-pink against a round of silver, rose gold rhododendron taking up the entire face of the watch like an overgrown shrubbery. A crescent moon rises above it, with a silver & gold chain leading off into the fold where a small bee perches. He picks up the watch and turns it over, finding a miniature rendition of the Nemeton done in silver but for a swab of gold at Her peak.
Peter was already planning on ways to expand his wardrobe to wear it visibly rather than simply putting it in his pocket. He would have to procure a lapel pin or perhaps Stiles could fashion him something that would work. Each one of Stiles' designs out did his last, it seemed to Peter. He couldn't wait to see what the future had in store.
LATER:
Out of habit, he picked up the watch to set in the vest pocket. Out of curiosity, he holds up the blooming front face of rhododendron to see if they're a match to the Pauldron's larger blooms. They are so similar that Peter could almost believe that Stiles used the watch for a reference, especially for the stunning reddish-pink color of the flowers. Stiles worked in more woods and even clay these days, those materials so responsive to his touch and magic that just a few strokes of his palm or claw create fantastic shapes. He said it almost feel like cheating, after working with the less malleable metals for so long. Peter chuckled and tucked in the watch, leaving the pauldron on its base awaiting the upcoming Jubilee and their official raising as Alpha and Emissary of the Nemeton. For now, he had one more request to grant, a missive sent requesting a audience with himself and Stiles from a representative of the Fae Court. "A gift without obligation," he read aloud, "Given freely to the Guardians of the Queen of the Woods." His curiosity piqued, Peter sends back a positive response. Later, when he asks Stiles what the gift could be, Stiles has no idea but is also curious and approves of Peter's response.
All they could do now was wait.
And Then, even Later :
Next to them on the nightstand, the minutes slowly spun on while dappled moonlight passed through their window, bathing them in soft lavender.