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Every day begins with the sun rising from down below the horizon. Stiles can see it even before the first rays of sunlight stretch across the sky: he awakes with the soft changing of the light and watches the world come to life with it. His shackles are unbreakable and his body is once again unmarked. He only has a few hours of rest before the wrath of the father of gods looks down upon him again.
Standing is hard with the shackles, but Stiles tries anyway. The scents of the forest travel to him, fresh and strong, deep with the rains from the night before. It hailed all night as his torso pieced itself together, the pain slow and piercing, but now the skies are clear. There’s calm both before and after the storm.
He switches between sitting and standing for hours, until the sun peaks in the sky. Then the eagle comes, from somewhere behind the sun, and Stiles takes one last slow breath.
The force with which it lands on his chest knocks him back against the rocks. It’s a pain that Stiles doesn’t notice for long, because that’s when the eagle claws at his stomach and rips open his skin. Stiles always thought he would get used to it somehow, but it’s always an agonizing feeling, the sharp edge of the eagle’s beak digging into his insides, his flesh being ravaged piece by piece, the burning blood trickling down his body, and Stiles screams and screams like it’s the first time.
He never knows how long it takes. When the bird takes flight, Stiles drifts in and out of conscience, the pain flaring and overwhelming. He knows solace will come soon, but the seconds stretch infinitely; he knows he’ll be good as new when the sun rises again, but it feels like death is hanging above him in wait. The sun has barely moved from its midday position.
When Zeus had chained him to the Caucasus, Stiles had been deprived of any human connection. His friends, his father, the people he loved, the people he’d been punished for protecting, for ever out of his sight. “Never again shall you see a human face,” bellowed the father of gods in his arrogance. But he still remembers them, and calls upon those memories every time the eagle strikes him down and swallows his liver.
He thinks of Scott, his best friend, his brother, lips stretching in an overexcited grin, soft wrinkles around his eyes, always ready to find the bright side of things. He thinks of Lydia, her impossibly long strawberry blonde hair cascading down her back, scolding them all for one thing or another and then smiling softly when she thought no one was looking. He thinks of his father and the way he’d always felt safe in his arms, his words soft and loving, and he thinks of how alone he must be now. He thinks of Erica, Boyd, Isaac. He thinks of Alison. He thinks of Malia, and Kira, and even Cora whom he never saw again. He thinks of Liam and Mason. He even thinks of Peter, that smug backstabbing asshole.
He thinks of Derek. Derek is his only hope.
A black wolf struts carefully along the rocks toward Stiles’ torn body, but keeps his distance, waiting for a signal. When the boy looks at him, the wolf’s eyes turn blue; the bright blue of a shifter.
“Hey buddy,” Stiles croaks out. The wolf hesitates. “It’s okay, Derek. Come here.”
All the restraint Derek has shown so far falls apart, and he practically runs the rest of the way, burying his snout in the crook of Stiles’ neck. He smells of blood and iron, but also of the thick, sweet scent Derek’s wolf recognises as home. Stiles manages a soft chuckle that quickly turns in to a groan.
Derek whines in response.
“S’okay, I’m okay,” Stiles says. “You know, apart from the old daily liver transplant debacle.” The wolf nips at his shoulder, unamused.
No human faces, he’d said. In his arrogance, the father of gods had forgotten that Stiles was the boy who ran with wolves. And even though most of them couldn’t produce a full shift, this one could, and hell if that wasn’t a stroke of luck.
“You’re warm,” the boy mumbles. He always feels feverish for the first few hours, while his body gathers the strength to heal itself. Derek snuggles closer to him, and despite the agonizing pain, Stiles feels grateful.
Stiles doesn’t know when he first fell in love.
Something about Derek had always riled him up, kept him on edge, like a riddle he couldn’t figure out even though he was sure he’d already solved it before, the answer hiding somewhere underneath his tongue. It made him feel frustrated, and angry, and sometimes near homicidal, until the day Derek had kissed him and he felt stupid and the answer to the riddle was a collective eyeroll from the pack. And they’d slept together and eaten together and had sex together to celebrate anniversaries, multiple ones, the first and then another and then more, and at some point, they decided Stiles should just move in already, and they spent nights in bed making plans for the future, good plans, until Stiles had to go and play the hero and get himself cursed forever by a freaking god.
And Derek had followed.
Stiles doesn’t realize he’s crying until the wolf starts licking at his face. “S’okay, Der,” he says, voice thick with sadness and pain. “I’m okay.”
The wolf lays down by his side, and waits patiently for Stiles’ skin to begin to stitch itself back together. Derek’s paw falls softly on Stiles’ arm, and as the veins turn black inside his fur coat, Stiles’ body sags against the rocks and he drifts into a light and troubled sleep. Derek passes the time between soft yaps and rubbing his snout on Stiles’ arm, while the boy suffers through the worst of the pain.
It’s almost sundown by the time Stiles rouses again. Though the damage to his torso is still considerable, he’s healed enough to sit up. He doesn’t admit how much it actually hurts, and Derek pretends not to know.
“Hey, Sourwolf.” Stiles forces himself to smirk through the pain. “How am I lookin’? Good enough to eat?”
Again, the wolf looks less than pleased with his sense of humour. Stiles knows he keeps it up for his sake, for some semblance of normalcy, but it never ceases to amaze him how Derek is able to channel his disapproving look even through his wolf form. Stiles tells him so, for what is likely to be the hundredth time.
They don’t have much time together, so they try to make the most of it. Sometimes they play, and other times Stiles talks and talks until his voice goes raw, but much of the time they spend laying together, staring into each other’s eyes. Derek’s are a soft green, like the first leaves of spring, and pin Stiles down in an unwavering gaze, full of all the words Derek can’t say ever again. Stiles’ are darker and warmer, and they shed tears that Derek licks off his face before they can fall. And eventually, they fall asleep.
Sometimes, they don’t play, or talk, or simply lay down. Sometimes, Stiles doesn’t know how to keep being strong and he crumbles and those are the worst times, because there’s not much Derek can do when he can never be human around Stiles again.
If this mountain was home, and the rocks were the soft mattress of their bed, and Derek could speak, then he would know how to make Stiles talk. Here, all he can do is wait. Wait for Stiles to mull things over in his head until he begins to go stir crazy. Wait for the night to be over and then crawl back into his den. Wait for the eagle to tear the man he loves piece by piece, again and again.
Wait, for eternity.
The air turns colder around them as the sun hides under the horizon. Here, the night sky is of a deep dark hue, and the stars scintillate like giant bulbs from lighthouses reflecting on the calm sea. Derek wishes someone would follow the lights and find them both.
“Derek?”
Stiles’ body has been gradually healing, and now his belly is pink and glistening, his tender muscles are covered in the thinnest layer of skin. He sounds small and terrified, and Derek wants to kiss it out of him.
“I- I can’t remember. I keep forgetting things, like- like, on which side Scott’s jaw goes all funky, or how my dad’s jacket smells. Allison’s face is getting all blurry, and I know Erica once said the funniest thing about me, she said I was something and I was so happy about it and…” Stiles sucks in a shaky breath. “And I can’t- I’m trying so hard but right now I just can’t remember- I can’t remember your voice, Derek, I can’t-”
Stiles’ sobs become too forceful to make out his words. Something selfish inside Derek is glad he doesn’t have to know any more.
They’ve been here so long, he’s sure they have both lost track of time. He used to think they’d make it out, somehow. He doesn’t think that anymore. But this is not his time to cry, it’s not his turn. Until the first light of day dims the shimmer of the night stars, Derek doesn’t move an inch.
The time to leave finally comes, when Stiles’ skin is all healed and smooth again, and he has finally drifted into a light slumber. Derek makes sure that the boy is awake before he trots back into the forest.
Standing is hard with the shackles, but Stiles tries anyway. He sees the sun rise, inch by inch, until it stands just above the horizon. His cheeks are hardened from salty tears, and the freezing wind, blowing hard on his refuge, brings with him the melodies of chirping birds and the echoes of a raspy voice he thought he’d forgotten.
It’s bittersweet, but it’s enough for now. They’ll find a way out.
The eagle descends upon him from behind the sun.