Archive of Our Own ^omega

Groaning, the woman blearily blinks her eyes, trying to focus on the suddenly too-bright of images before her. She feels disoriented, her head stuck in a clouded space she has never experienced before. Her mind is mixed up, her own name lost on her for a moment but then she sees him. It’s slow, like honey dripping lazily, her mind sluggish as it reconnects.

But it’s him.

“My Queen?” he asks tentatively, a weariness settled deep into his features. He has a hand partially outstretched as if he’d been going to grasp her arm and she has a moment to wonder why he would do such a thing when it clicks.

“Stiles?” Talia asks softly, her hand coming out to grip his wrist a bit too tightly. The boy before her mentions it none, instead allowing a soft smile to grace his weary-lined features. “Oh, Stiles- yes, yes. It’s you! Stiles, oh - what has happened?”

The boy sighs, resigned, and slumps. With her flooding memories now reconnecting, Talia is nearly appalled. Stiles was the vision of quick wit, sharper than a tack at all times. He had his moments, in private, where he was more loose-lipped and fluid motion, but he always stood tall. Always squared his shoulders. Always braved the vision before him with nothing less than determination. But now… now he was but a child. A child slumped before her feet, head bowed as if he were expecting a blow - a blow he was ready to accept.

“Oh, my boy, my sweet boy, no… no, what’s happened?” Talia cooed, cupping Stiles’ cheeks and tilting his head up. Her own head was still stuffy as if filled with cotton, and there were many concerns racing through her head - where were her children? Why could she not hear anyone else? What happened to the coronation? - but in that moment, Talia only had eyes for the boy before her.

Big, brown doe eyes gazed at her. Waterlines brimmed with threatening tears. Dee lines were etched into his skin, the slightest of tremors wracking through his body. This boy - he was not hers. He was not her flesh and blood. He was not of royal bearing or royal court. He was of no proper connection to her. But Stiles was her’s. Stiles was Talia’s. He had long since curled up in her heart and laid a claim to the love and devotion she shines upon her own children. 

“We didn’t know,” Stiles brokenly breathed out the words. “Deaton - Sir Deaton - and I, we had no knowledge. We were… we were in the hospital wing, preparing draughts for hangovers and replenishing the supplies, we… we thought it would just be some stumbles, a few scrapes, lingering headaches not… oh, Ta- my Queen, we didn’t know!”

Talia soothingly rubbed the boy’s cheeks, encouraging him to explain further. With a deep breath and eyes focused anywhere but on her, he continued - shakily.

“After Cora’s ceremony, there were the usual activities, you know? Food and wine and… and dancing!” he laughed, a bit bitterly now. “I wasn’t here, but we heard. We heard her declaration. It seems Kate proposed her hand to- to Derek, seeking a marriage and alliance, to properly merge and… and he must have said no or-or- or said something she did not like.” Stiles paused, his eyes now cold and cut off, distant as he retold the events, Talia felt a chill settle in her bones from the look. 

“It had been Jennifer - her lady in waiting, the one Princess Kate demanded entrance,” he sighed, shaking his head, “we heard her voice. The echoes of the event were loud enough to be heard in the hospital wing, Deaton had even mentioned it… but her voice, it…”

“She decreed a curse to the lands, demanding silence to the lands as Derek had silenced her proposal. Everyone has been put to sleep. A mist came through the halls, it covered all of our lands, my Queen. Deaton covered us both in a cloak - enchanted. We were able to survive the declaration but everyone else has been put to sleep.”

Talia growled now in her chest, her grip tightening without intent. She quickly softened her grip upon noticing the minor wince from the boy before her. “Oh, my boy, that was none your fault,” she assured, but Stiles shook his head.

“I was meant to be here, to stand guard but Deaton… he needed another magic user - another person to help with the draughts and the enchantments and… I was meant to be here,” he stubbornly insisted, hatred for himself reflecting in his usually warm eyes. Talia shook her head vehemently.

“If you were here, you’d be asleep as well and Deaton would be alone. You served your post well, my young ward,” she insisted, before casting a look around the room. Now, letting her senses fully take in the room, she smelled rot of food. The staleness of a room not aired out. Previous streamers and decorative cloths had draped sadly, some fallen entirely. “How long has it been…?”

“Three months.”

Talia gasped, focusing intently on Stiles once more. “You were meant to all sleep until the caveat was met but Deaton was able to counteract the secondary part of the curse. The supplies needed, however, were hard to come by. I traveled most of the first two months, going as far as the Isle of Valia,” Stiles smiled sadly, casting a look to his Queen, “your alliances made procuring many of the items much easier. Valia, Haven, and Emberwood have all loaned troops - securing our borders in your absence. It is not my place, but I promised counsel with you once the curse had been addressed.”

Talia waved the notion away, mind whirring rapidly from each thought. Three months… she had missed the alliance meeting, she had missed the Firelight Festival, she- Talia gasped. She had missed her daughter’s birthday.

“We just finished the potion- well… actually, it’s less a potion, more a… plant. We just finished and tested it on some of your best guards first to ensure the side effects were not abysmal,” Talia glowered at him momentarily, but it was his turn to wave her off, “Scott, Jordan, and Isaac pledged their lives to ensure your safety, my Queen, they were pleased to hear of their being the test subjects. But now, they are assisting with administering the relief to others. I came to you first but I know Parrish went to my father to gain assistance with the rest of the guards and Isaac is retrieving supplies for the rest of the family.”

Talia simply nodded. She listened as Stiles stumbled inelegantly over an explanation of the potion brewed and the plants spliced and saturated in the liquid before being dried in order to be appropriately administered. He moved, using the same small bunch of plants in hand to work on waking the king and the surrounding guards. Isaac had shortly arrived with his own supplies, starting with Cora and then moving to Laura and the rest of the royal family. Scott was elsewhere in the castle, working his way around just as well. Each bundle had a couple dozen bone-dry, twig-like plants - one snapped for each person and waved under their nose.

There were gaps when family members were awoken, and reassurances were dealt out before Talia encouraged Stiles to continue his retelling of events. Where the other nation’s guards were stationed, what supplies had dwindled or spoiled in their absence, and so on. Talia watched as her own family woke, various states of confusion and haziness, while others awoke and immediately became sick - vomiting, coughing, turning pale. Stiles assured her they would be fine, as evidenced by Jordan. Being werewolves, Talia and her family’s reactions were much more subdued - much like Scott and Isaac. Jordan had been sick for a few hours, monitored by Deaton especially, and deemed fit once the nausea, aches, and fatigue passed.

It was a lot - a whirlwind of activity. It wasn’t until most of the room had been awoken, Talia having embraced her daughters, brother, husband, nieces, nephews, and a plethora of others that she realized who was missing.

“Stiles,” she said, a dangerous tone settling into her voice and catching the weary attention of all others in the vicinity, “where is my son?”

Stiles paled.

“I had hoped Deaton would find a reprieve…” he whispered, head once more bowed, “but Derek is the caveat - the one we cannot find a cure for aside from the one given to him by Kate and Jennifer.”

“Which is?”

Swallowing, Stiles met his Queen’s eye with great hesitance, his words sharp but subdued in nature. “Derek will only wake with True Love’s kiss.”

+.+.+

The counterspell - or ‘reanimation’, as Deaton clinically dubbed the process - had taken days. Stiles’ father, Head of the Royal Guard, led parties throughout the land of Triskelia. He was joined by guards from the palace and troops from the neighboring lands that were able to release their guard of Triskelia’s borders - even Lord Peter joined the efforts alongside his and Talia’s younger sister Clara. Each person who woke helped - aiding in the ‘reanimation’, reprieving foreign guards’ posts, taking over harvesting and transport of neglected crops and goods. No one was reprieved of work, even the children lending aid where they could.

And Derek…

Derek had been moved to private chambers. Cleaned up from the remnants of the once had celebration in the great hall. He was still asleep, heartbeat steady and breathing rhythmic, but zombie-like in all accounts nonetheless.

In the following weeks, Queen Talia had briefly met with messengers of each aiding land, promising proper counsel and ensuring repayment of kindness. She tended to meetings and mended the broken patches of her kingdom - never a day passing without a new, unnoticed issue popping up - but she spent most of her time by her son’s bedside. She only left once reprieved by her husband or one of her daughters. All taking turns to sit beside the young man cursed to eternal slumber.

And Stiles. Stiles had assisted with moving Derek to private chambers. He had selected the Prince’s most favored garments for re-dressing by the maids. He aided where demanded, assisting Deaton with research and spells and replenishing supplies, strengthening wards around the castle as well as the borders. But every night, no matter where he was called during the day, Stiles was at Derek’s side.

Stiles stood firmly by the window, eyes staring straight ahead to the wall. He greeted Laura, Cora, Talia, Philip, and anyone else who came in - he consoled the grieving family - but he stood watch. And in the twilight hours, when he had convinced all the Hale family members to retreat to their rooms and sleep, he talked softly. Talia and the others overheard murmurs, and soft empty laughs sometimes. What he spoke of, they weren’t all too sure, but he always spoke to Derek.

It had been four weeks since everyone was woken, and they captured Jennifer. Princess Kate attempted to return home to Silvenia - the Argent’s homeland - but she quickly fled when word got back of her doings. She had been met with uproarious rage by Silvenia's people, crowds demanding payment for her crimes against such a strong kingdom they had once relied on heavily for trade and goods. She had been lost to the wind since. Jennifer and she must have split ways, as only Jennifer was found.

She refused help, simply grinning coldly when questioned. Deaton - with Stiles’ aide - was able to bind her and her powers. A proper punishment had yet to be determined (though death was the quick suggestion) when Jennifer keeled over herself. Deaton was disturbed to find her wither and crumble to ash soon after binding her, determining her life force had been too tainted by the magics she invoked over the years that it was unable to sustain her livelihood without the cursed magic flowing through her veins. No one was saddened by the turn of events, only by the lack of assistance she offered in her final days.

With the kingdom gaining ground once more, life returning more or less to a steady enough pace, all efforts turned to Derek. Laura had broken down, realizing the severity of the situation while Cora screamed of their neglect the past weeks to her brother. Neither could be consoled. And Talia was sullen - pouring over texts she only half-comprehended with Deaton, sending messages to any and all kingdoms with known magic users both current and past, requests for texts, help, anything.

“Deaton is trying to comfort your mother, I think,” Stiles whispered quietly one night, eyes unfocused just past Derek’s face. His hand gripped the edge of the bed the Prince lay on, unable to touch the now cold and oddly stiffened skin - too sickened by the abnormal touch. “But he knows as well as I do that there is no counterspell… no potion. True Love’s kiss is not an easy thing to trick. It’s demanding… love’s promise nearly as binding as death’s.”

Stiles stopped speaking that night, thinking unstoppingly of all the possibilities. It was now nearing five months with weeks passed, and Derek was still frozen in time. He found it harder and harder to gaze at the face he once ached to seek out each morning.

Derek was a staple. Stiles, despite being nothing of nobility, had been raised in the great halls of the castle. His mother was once Deaton’s apprentice, a medic by trade but an Emissary by blood. And his father had held the position as Head of the Royal guards since Stiles was just learning to walk - having raised through the ranks for years before that. It cemented his presence his first few years before he could walk and talk, then Laura’s interest in the young child cemented his presence well into adolescence. By the time he was a young adult, he was pulled as far into the family as possible. Talia’s offer of proper training and a position of a personal guard was made only a year after his display of magic announced itself, cementing his position as Deaton’s new apprentice after his own mother’s passing several years past.

And in that time, Stiles had learned to love. He loved Talia’s heavy hand on his shoulder. He loved Philip’s endless discussions of books over meals. He loved Laura’s mocking mannerisms consistently held once the company was gone. He loved Cora’s growling determination to train alongside the guards despite her now officially pronounced title of Princess. And Derek…

There was nothing he didn’t love about Derek. Derek was the one who taught him to wrap bandages, having plenty of practice from Stiles’ stumblings as a child. Derek was the one who taught him to read, despite having access to the castle’s tutors courtesy of Talia and Philip. Derek was the one who stood beside him, hidden in shadow, when he was unable to watch his mother’s burial. And Derek was the one who knelt beside him as Stiles cried, apologizing over her grave, hours later when he regretted not being one of the people to pay their respects and spread the earth above her.

Derek was ingrained in his every memory and his every fiber. Even before being officially offered training to become a private guard, Stiles had stood in beside his father, demanding to learn how to wield a sword, how to point an arrow - all so he knew how to defend his Prince and his friend. Even before being officially announced as Deaton’s apprentice, Stiles had run to the older man and demanded all the readings of wolfsbane and other plants harmful to werewolves and shapeshifters, asking countless questions about how to counteract them, to ensure he knew what to do should his sword never be quick enough or his arrow’s aim not be true enough.

Derek was his reason. He had started as Laura’s adoration, a child to dress and play with to waste the days away, and he had been pushed towards Cora when he began schooling, a comrade in studies, but he swayed and gravitated towards Derek. And Derek always welcomed him.

Stiles was the one who administered Derek’s first draught of anti-nausea after Derek drank too much aconite wine at his own coronation. Stiles was the one who helped Derek select his preferred robes for court, teasing him relentlessly between dressings. Stiles was the one who listened as Derek recounted alliance negotiations and talks of possible proposals. Stiles was the one who Derek walked with in the gardens, filling the silences Derek swore he craved but Stiles knew would drive him crazy - even while Derek remained quiet all the while.

It was just a fact. The sea kissed the land. The dying sun embraced the moon at nightfall. The trees bristled when the wind tugged. And Stiles and Derek were tied together in life. A fact

How Stiles could look at the now cold, too-smooth face and the stiff, unnaturally squared body of Derek - his prince, his care. His friend… How he could do that, he didn’t know. There was no fact to it.

When Stiles finally found the ability to whisper any more words to Derek, eyes still unfocused, it was when the sun was lighting up the walls, calling the creatures of the earth to rise.

“I promise to fix this. I promise you will see the stars you love so much again and you will quote the overbearing poems you adore so much again,” he spoke, his eyes finally able to look at Derek for the first time in days. Weeks, perhaps. “And my promise to you will be stronger. Than love or death.”

+.+.+

It was another two weeks before hopes of a spell, potion, or magic fix could be found were abandoned. It was only two days before new ideas were brought forward.

“That cannot be the course we must take!” Cora yelled in anger, her face red as her nails sharpened and dug into her chair. “That cannot be our only choice!”

“Cora…” Laura was dismissed as Cora left the room in a fury. All the other members of the family were present, all standing gathered in Derek’s chambers. Peter looked grim but had no remorse for his offer. Talia looked stricken but kept her composure. Philip looked resigned, staring mournfully at his son. And Laura was preoccupied with damage control.

The only ones present not of Hale blood were Stiles, Deaton, and Stiles’ - father John. Deaton was summoned as council on all matters of this type, John was requested due to his overseeing the guards and thus the process of the proposed action, and Stiles… Stiles had never left. He had remained in his position, overseeing the room, and no one had requested his presence elsewhere. 

“We can try with Valia and Emberwoods first,” Talia now spoke, composed but stoic, “both Princess Paige and her Lady Braeden have visited and engaged in counsel of courtship. Both seemed likely companions despite no formal agreements and… we can start with them. They are likely matches.”

Laura’s energy had wanned and she tiredly turned to her mother. “Princess Paige has not seen Derek in a year - not since her parents began discussing possible alliances with Waydem. And Lady Braeden was a match but as a companion , not a wife . Not an actual love, mother. Her proposal was only discussed due to the uncertain terms we had with Emberwood once Deucalion was dethroned,” she sighed, already seeing flaws. It was well-known talks of marriages with Derek were often popping up, especially as a male heir - it made him attractive to those who were bourne no sons and sought a king for the Crown Princesses. Of course, Lady Braeden’s hand had also been discussed with Laura, the desire for a King less of a priority than peaceful pacts. But the only offer that had seemed both politically beneficial as well as personally matched in interests of the heart had been with Paige.

“We shall send for them nonetheless,” Talia dismissed. “As will all who have entertained proper proposals and have met with Derek. They will be first.”

The last sentence settled the room into silence, the weight of the proposed action finally settling on everyone’s mind. Derek was a… private person. Of royal blood, yes, but not of social-facing desires. He had put off marriage for several years, neither of his parents pressing since they were in good health and Laura was in line to take the throne. But it was still a common topic, common enough that everyone understood just how private Derek preferred to be.

He spent his days in the gardens, his afternoons in the stables, and his nights with books. Stiles was often a counterpart - walking beside him in the gardens, riding at his side on their horses, and taking turns listening to Derek read out books and discussing them with him. Aside from his family, Stiles was his only true exception to others’ company.

Derek would detest the idea, but he would detest the idea of being stuck in this trance even more. He was private, but not meant to be locked in place. He was meant to roam and wander.

“They will be first,” Talia repeated, eyes scanning the room now, challenging anyone to oppose her, “and then we will go through the castle. Then the city. Then the towns and villages. If we must.”

It was decided then. Derek’s True Love would be found by sheer force of elimination. Even if they had to scour all the lands and pluck the men and women on every roadside to determine who it was. They would be found.

Stiles remained silent, knowing it was the only true option if they wished to break the curse. But his throat seized and his stomach dropped. He felt sick. For Derek, for his preferences, for his wishes - and for himself , selfishly. He mourned the loss of space and distance Derek often wished upon himself but he moreso mourned the loss of ignorant bliss - of turning a blind eye in knowing he’d find a counterpart. It was inevitable but this? This was cruel. Cruel in tainting that first touch between the two. Cruel in demeaning Derek and his ability to choose and have autonomy. Cruel in forcing Stiles to choose between defending the man he loved’s life or defending the man he loved’s autonomy and sanctity of personal choice. Because neither was an acceptable choice when it meant violating the other.

Slowly, people began to filter out. The silence had settled heavily and caused a stir to action. Peter was quick to take John, discussing parameters of safety and how protocols should be laid out should they escalate to taking in public guests at large. Talia was ushering Laura out, discussing letters to Princess Paige, Lady Braeden, and any others she could confirm from Laura had met Derek - even if fleeting, and especially positively. And Philip… he was to seek out Cora. He had become a shell of a man, a broken look taking over his eyes in watching the fate of his child ripped from his hands. He was unable to offer much counsel these days, instead acting as a comforting presence to his wife, but he was able to console his family. He refused to turn down those demands.

As such, it dwindled to just Stiles and Deaton in the room. Deaton quietly bowed his head, staring to the distance as he spoke, as if trading secrets. He spoke of Stiles’ training, he spoke of precautions they may take to ensure no one attempted forgery at being Derek’s True Love and threaten to worsen his state, he spoke of what the next days and weeks should bring. And then he left. Not expecting an answer and acknowledging Stiles’ main post as being the one to oversee their Prince’s well-being - as best as he could, given.

Once he was sure everyone was gone, out of earshot, Stiles crumbled ever so slightly. He knelt by Derek’s bedside, leaning his forehead softly against the plush cushion of his bed. He allowed himself to ignore his post and close his eyes, allowing himself a moment of defenselessness. He thought it only fair, seeing as his Prince was more or less defenseless himself all these weeks with no choice in the matter. He could turn his back and close his eyes in commiseration and solidarity for those brief moments - share that last thing with him, if they were deemed unable to share anything else in this life.

“If you can hear us, if you know of what’s to come,” Stiles spoke, “I can only imagine the rage you must feel. You are stiff and rigid as a rock, cool as the summer springs, and yet I can feel the burning hatred you must feel. I can feel the heat your words would surely carry, if… if you could share them.”

“Please, do not resent them. If you must turn your hatred untoward toward someone, let it… let it be me.” Stiles closed his eyes, having raised his head to gaze upon the Prince as he spoke - honoring the respects he has sworn to the boy before him. “Let me carry the burden of your distaste, as I am the one sworn to protect you. To uphold your honor by all means. I am the one who has surrendered this fight. But I promised you - and that promise is stronger than my oath… God, Derek, I can hear you in my ear, I can see you rolling your eyes… I-I know this argument better than I know my own name.”

Stiles laughed pitifully, weakly, but he could hear the words playing in his head. Could envision the discussion between the two of them, and just for a minute, he could live it - live it during a time this reality was so far away, so unknown.

“It just seems so backward, don’t you agree?” Derek huffed. Stiles - realizing something had stirred his friend and that he needed to vent - simply hummed and nodded. A small, bemused smile took over his lips as they walked the gardens. This was one of the few conversations he had remained quiet, offering his ears instead of his lips in comfort to his Prince.

“We wish to make treaties and alliances and peace and the best way to do that is - what? To take two of the most honored people of each nation and… force them into something they did not ask for? The best way to project peace and unity is to falsify the biggest unity of all? How… how does that make sense?”

By now, Derek seemed downtrodden, the fire lighting his eyes darkened. He seemed resigned as he cast his gaze across the gardens. They had taken pause and Derek took the moment to enjoy the scenery. Stiles caught sight of Derek’s favorites - tiny white and blue flowers, nearly hidden in the vestige of other, more bountiful and full-figured plants. They were beautiful - a hidden gem in a garden of continuous beauty, something hidden yet bright. An appropriate metaphor for the Prince himself, Stiles mused.

Plucking just a couple of the tiny flowers, Stiles moved to properly face his Prince. “You know your mother would never force you to enter a union with someone you could not be happy with,” he reassured, which seemed to make Derek shut down even more.

“Yes,” he softly agreed, eyes downcast now, “but would she allow me to enter a union with someone who does make me happy?”

Stiles frowned, “That is what I said, is it not?”

Derek looked up, a sad smile on his face. He paused but gave a curt nod. He looked unwilling to explain the misunderstanding and miscommunication, causing Stiles to frown just as much. Stiles opened his mouth to ask, to inquire how he went wrong, when Derek spoke again.

“I suppose I cannot be too unhappy, at least I’ll have one true friend no matter whom I am besotted to,” Derek murmured. Stiles grinned, nodding in ascent. He would follow his Prince anywhere - he would go as guard, friend, whatever Derek asked. His oath would remain even once he retired from his post, even if Derek’s future demanded better, more capable guards. Stiles’ oath would remain - whether by position or personal devotion.

“Tell me,” Derek suddenly spoke again, voice much softer than anything previous, “would you… would you accompany me?”

“Yes.”

“...I didn’t even mention where,” Derek said, smiling for the first time that entire evening. Stiles smiled back, honored and delighted to be the one to make the expression return - to shine a light on his Prince’s happiness. Stiles gently reached out, tucking the flowers he plucked into Derek’s hair. It made him look a bit silly, the flowers not properly pinned and drooping ever so slightly, but the white and blue made his eyes shine, made the tan color of his skin glow. The beauty of the flowers only made Derek’s beauty more heightened in such a raw, stunningly natural way Stiles could barely comprehend. It made him lose his breath, as sappy as he thought himself to be.

“I would follow you anywhere, my Prince. Wherever you go, I will too - no matter the cost,” Stiles said, words airy.

He knew he chose the right words when Derek held his look, fingers coming up to gently touch the flowers drooping in his hair. He knew those words were right when Derek smiled and his posture relaxed as if he was free of the chain of worry.

Stiles knew Derek’s stance on marriage. Knew his Prince longed for a marriage of love. Longed for a courtship based on friendship and adoration. He knew that and even if he could not make Queen Talia accept whoever Derek wanted that with, he could still provide those qualities to some degree. He could still offer his friendship and adoration to his Prince. He could still offer all of his love and devotion. He could offer whatever his Prince desired - even if he had to do so silently. Derek may not know it, but Stiles hoped he’d always feel it. Always know that at least one person would love and adore him, no matter the cost.

"If I have your presence," Derek decided, "then I have my happiness."

+.+.+

After that day, it seemed each day following passed agonizingly slowly, a torturous parade of seconds ticking by too slowly. Stiles thought it suiting, that everyone else in the castle be doomed to moments frozen in time - just as their Prince was. If he had been the romantic, the one who poured over the poems of old, he’d find the parallel ironically just and poetic. Instead, he found it cruel.

It had taken just a week for messages to reach Princess Paige and Lady Braeden and for their arrivals to take place. Talia had sworn she had hoped and believed it could be one of them, but Laura had already written up a dozen other letters to be sent off at a moment’s notice to all others she thought accepted. Anyone Derek had danced with at feasts, anyone who had accompanied him for a walk in the gardens or a ride through the trees. It wasn’t many names and they were equally scattered, only half of any proper thrones and royal blood, but she wrote to them all.

When neither the press of a kiss from Princess Paige nor Lady Braeden caused a stir, Talia had insisted it may just take some time. Deaton warned how prolonged exposure to a spell, a curse especially, could lead to lethargy after - how residual effects could linger four hours and at worse days. Laura had patiently sat at his bedside from that afternoon until the first break of dawn the next day. Then she sent off a dozen court messengers without a blink, her face stoic.

She hadn’t even asked the Queen and yet everyone knew the notion was well overdue. Talia didn’t say a word when Laura made the announcement of her actions over breakfast several hours later.

By this point, dozens of people had come. Within just another week of Paige and Braeden’s kisses, entire royal families and courts arrived in droves. Despite letters asking for only one person, entire families arrived - offering their kisses to be put to the test. Even Sir Jackson and his betrothed, Princess Lydia, pressed soft kisses to the Prince’s lips. Jackson had been known to test Derek’s patience and Derek had been known to trigger the other’s anger. But still, they both offered to attend and took their turns as anyone else had. Lydia, despite her distaste for Stiles’ childhood crush (one that had been based simply on her ability to recite entire pages of his favorite literature and thus engraving his attraction to great minds), squeezed Stiles’ hand in a private moment and gave an apology for not being the one to wake Derek.

Stiles had smiled, bowed his head in respect, and thanked her for her willingness despite her engagement to Jackson. His gratitude had not been as outwardly expressed to Jackson but the shared nod between them spoke volumes.

When the people of foreign courts began to die down in numbers, those of the Hale family castle were brought in. Even guards and maids and kitchen hands were requested to attend. None were forced, but not a single person declined. Even the older members of the court pressed gentle kisses to the corners of Derek’s lips, whispering their apologies for his state and blessing him to find his destined other half. 

The most emotional of those to visit were perhaps from Lord and Lady Boyd - Vernon and Erica. They were of one of the lowest nobilities within the court, Erica having gained a title due to marrying her husband, but they had both been close friends to Derek. They married fairly young and acted as counselors to treaty negotiations and other affairs at times, often away from the castle most days, due to Vernon Boyd’s education having been brought up between several regional dialects and languages. His wife Erica was often helpful as well, though more for visual assistance than verbal. Still - despite their scarcity among the halls as of the couple years past, they still each offered a kiss. Each hoping, twistedly, that they may be the one to wake their friend even with the implied repercussions if they were the ones to rouse him.

Erica broke down, braced over Stiles’ lap as her husband rubbed her back. Stiles listened as she wailed, asking why it couldn't be one of them - why none of their attempts worked. Isaac had joined them, ushering his friends out and offering reassurances, his arms wound around Erica as Boyd had difficulties bracing himself as was. The three of them were closely knit, closer amongst the three of them than any of them were to Derek, though they were still some of the few others who had developed some proper relationship with Derek over the years. Some of the few who loved him, genuinely, and knew him as more than just their Prince.

After such, commoners began to enter the halls - led by Stiles’ father and overseen by Peter. Tailors, bakers, stable hands, homemakers - anyone of any walk of life willing to enter was invited to do so. Stiles could tell on many of their faces they doubted it would work but half of them teared up, looking down at their Prince, a desire to help him rise, and the other half mournfully cast looked upon their Queen, apologetic that they were unable to offer her the only desire she’d come to wish for in months’ past.

Stiles watched on as the number of visitors dimmed, soon becoming nothing but a couple a day at best. He watched as Cora slammed a fist against her brother’s chest, Stiles’ fingers wrapping around her wrist to try and gently pry her away, as she cried and wondered why her kiss wasn’t enough, why her love wasn’t true enough. She had hoped True Love’s kiss could be from anyone - could be from one of the ones who knew and loved Derek the longest and most sincerely. She had dragged each member of her family in, demanding they try their hand at the same approach they asked their courts, allies, and people to take in attempting to reprieve the Prince.

Everyone did so, if not in hopes that the girl was correct then to at least appease her, and everyone seemed to shatter that much more when Derek never roused. The rest of the family had simply looked on as Stiles pulled Cora away, collapsing to the floor with the girl in his arms, shushing her and rubbing her back. They were all too broken to comfort her nor even reprimand Stiles for the improper actions. 

A new darkness seemed to settle within the halls that day. A reminder that none of their love for their son, brother, nephew, uncle - whoever Derek was to them - was true enough. Pure enough. Enough .

Stiles spent that afternoon with Cora screaming into his neck, fist banging on his chest, and then later spent that night with Laura’s head in his lap and her tears soaking patches on his pants. He never spoke, allowed them all to mourn as they needed, taking the blossoming bruises of Cora’s fists, the red gashes of accidentally shifted claws from Laura’s grip on his leg - he showed he carried the same burden and pain as them all and was mournful of his failure upon their Prince. 

+.+.+

As the days turned to weeks turned to months, it neared almost a year that the Prince had gone under. Life had essentially been picked back up, though the gloom of the castle remained. It was a month shy of the year mark when a new conquest had begun.

Deaton sought Stiles out, pouring over returned letters, scrolls, and books from various kingdoms that had responded to their earlier requests for assistance regarding magic and insight into the curse. Many had offered simple apologies, some sent their own Emissaries, Mages, and magic wielders to speak with Deaton and offer their knowledge personally. Some sent scrolls and books, some sent letters filled with possible leads and half-remembered tales of who and where they could turn to.

It was after receiving one such letter, that Deaton was stirred to action. He pulled Stiles aside, casting looks about, before quietly entering private chambers far removed from all others in the castle.

“We may have a way to remove the curse,” Deaton simply stated, his usual beat-around-the-bush antics gone. Stiles appreciated it and nodded for the man to continue. “But, there is a cost.”

“I’ll pay it. I’ll pay it ten-fold,” Stiles said without thought. He knew the price was not money, jewels, or riches. Magic cared naught for such things. Magic desired power, energy, life - it craved the power of the living, not the embellished power of objects that were less than dead. Stiles knew that and he knew he’d pay whatever it was. Deaton simply nodded.

“A Lady of Sight from the mountains of Hiraeth got back to me. I was told of her by an emissary in an allied nation and it took some months to find her and have a letter delivered, but she responded. In her letter, she speaks of a Nemeton…”

Stiles zoned out, nodding appropriately, soaking in what he could. He was on autopilot but he absorbed all the information given to him. He learned of Nemetons, of their rarity and purity. He learned of their belief to be portals - to be centers of magic and energy, the closest form to a god on earth in the shape of a tree. He learned of their power, how unrelenting they could be, and how twisted they could make magic. He learned and he learned, and he agreed - even before hearing the plan.

“If you agree to this-”

“I have,” Stiles interrupted, unbothered by the steely glare Deaton leveled him,

“If you agree to this, I cannot promise your future. Death, misery, pain - all are just as likely as power, pleasure, and livelihood. The Nemeton could kill you or it could bestow upon you gifts we have never even heard of. It could do nothing. It is the rawest form of magic and as such acts in a form so pure it’s chaotic,” Deaton explained. “If you agree to this… we cannot tell our Queen. We cannot tell anyone.”

Stiles nodded. He knew his father would try to stop him. Talia may even try to stop him if she knew what it was he wished to do, even if it was the answer to waking her son. Most of all, they couldn’t tell them for fear of them following. Stiles had the greatest likelihood of success. His magic was not strong but Deaton had once explained it as him being a director of magic rather than a wielder. He did not possess his own source of magic and instead, he reacted to other forms - a vessel, a guide.

His magic was as pure or as impure as the one he guided, making him ideal for interacting with Nemeton - offering it itself. Anyone else had a chance of success, but not as high. The Nemeton was not written of anywhere, it was not spoken of in any courts - it was but a myth. Both a blessing and a curse, in this instance.

“I leave tomorrow,” Stiles announced, exiting the chambers he held with Deaton. He carried himself to his private quarters, ones mostly left abandoned in recent times, and packed as minimally as he could. He bathed, scrubbing his skin raw as he prepared for a journey of many days and nights. He layered himself with his best clothes and picked as many weapons as he could carry safely. He exited the castle for the first time in weeks - possibly months - and quietly prepared his horse for travel, not daring to breathe a word to a stablehand. He moved Roscoe to the furthest stable in the barn, saddled her, and filled her pouches with necessary supplies. He kept her in the back, closing the gate and urging her into the farthest corner of the stable with treats and hay, away from prying eyes.

Come nightfall, he was prepared. Not a single soul seemed to know better. The only one who knew was Deaton and their only further interaction had been Deaton stopping by his chambers an hour after their meeting, a sack of coins given without a look - then he was gone.

Stiles fell into his normal routine. He joined his father for dinner, seeing him off as his father went to bed and Stiles claimed to retreat to his post at Derek’s side. He slipped into the library, after dinner, and sat by the fire as Laura read, offering his last moments of comfort for possibly weeks… possibly ever. He later ducked into the kitchens and found Cora in a nightgown, sitting on the tabletop of the kitchen prep space. He made her a concoction of bread, creamy cheese, and sweet fruit preserves - sharing the late-night treat in silence. Then he slipped up to Derek’s chambers once more.

He didn’t usually do all of that in one day. He had dinner with his father every other day now. He joined Laura twice a week or so for her evening reading. He stumbled into the kitchens late at night perhaps once a week to catch Cora and offer companionship. But never all at once.

He felt a duty to do them all that night, however, knowing it may be the last chance he had. He had tried to catch Queen Talia’s eye, even King Philip’s, but they both had retired early. He mourned not seeing them one last time but knew forgiveness could be found should he return successfully. Instead, he focused on his last moments with his Prince, knowing he would have to leave soon should he wish to slip through the briefest of overlaps in shift switches. With his knowledge of the land, the late hour, and the bare couple minutes of vulnerability in a shift change, he could get out before anyone noticed. Best, he’d leave when there were still only human eyes and senses scouting the area, the switch being to a full werewolf attendance, ideal for the late night with darkened skies.

“My promise to you, my Prince,” Stiles whispered. He sat on Derek’s bedside, gazing at him. He tentatively curled a hand around Derek’s, shivering at the cool touch, but knowing he’d want to remember Derek in any capacity should he not return. He may be too stiff, too cold, too still - but he was still Derek. And Stiles loved him, no matter the state. In despite of it, even.

Hesitating, Stiles leaned down from where he was now standing over the other. He gently pressed his lips to Derek’s forehead. He pressed a bit harder, realizing it may be the only kiss he ever got to offer him, and then pulled back. He rubbed a thumb on the spot, smiling at how it warmed from the press of his own lips. It felt promising, getting that small bit of normalcy as his last touch, as if promising himself he’d one day get to enjoy all of Derek again - truly. The promise made a bond, a connection between the two, and reminded Stiles of what his promise meant. He wavered in his stance for several long minutes, a gentle thumb stroking the warmth that blossomed from the shared, prolonged contact. He took the time to memorize each line of Derek’s profile, the curve of each eyelash dusting his cheeks. He swore to himself he’d return with an answer - he’d ride past the Hiraeth mountains and off the maps if he must, so long as he came back with more than he left.

With his head held high, Stiles left. He crossed paths with Scott just as he exited the door, who was switching with another guard deeper within the castle for an overnight watch. When questioned on why his friend was not in Derek’s chambers for the night, Stiles simply said he was tired. Scott paused, cocking his head to listen to Stiles’ heartbeat. It was true and it remained steady. So he nodded, clasping a hand tightly over his friend’s shoulder.

“I’ll stand guard outside his door tonight, then,” Scott promised, “Isaac will pass by soon and I’ll ask him to take my patrol on the Eastern Wing hall - he was meant to stand near the kitchens entry, but there’s another guard posted there tonight and several patrol the stables just across the way. We’ll be fine.”

Nodding his thanks, Stiles left in the direction of his chambers. Once he was far enough away, he took a sharp detour and headed back toward the kitchens. The other guard won’t have arrived yet and Cora would have just left. He could slip out and into the stables while the shift change took over. Scott was always early to his shifts, so the others would follow suit in just a couple of minutes.

After slipping out silently and into the stables, Stiles softly coaxed Roscoe out under the ink-black sky. The horse came quietly, guided by her reigns. Stiles walked her all the way to the tree line, several yards deep, until he found a well enough known path wide enough for him and Roscoe that would lead out to a smaller village. He’d have to skirt borders and he’d be doubling back since he needed to head north and the village in question was east, but it was the only way

+.+.+

Two weeks. It took Stiles two weeks to travel the passages and trails up to Hiraeth. The mountains of Hiraeth were avoided by even locals, the stories of twisting sight and lost presence of mind legendary even kingdoms over. The mountains were special and home to many creatures blessed by the moon’s gift - shapeshifters who declined society’s wishes sometimes took comfort in the woods, many faes were hidden within the trees, and various spirits and beings of the night trailed the various streams and ponds, finding a place of their own in the twisted mountains.

Stiles had stopped in the local town, where the Lady of Sight claimed to live. He met her and she housed him for a night. She gifted him a stone, bestowing it on a cord around his neck, and promised him all he had to do was close his eyes if he wished to see the way. She showed him sketches of the Nemeton, explaining that it was cut down years and years ago, causing the influx of magic in the area and the attraction of shapeshifters, fae, and spirits. It was still pure, but it was not whole, making it that much more chaotic. She warned him of his intents, warned him of how nothing could remain hidden from the Nemeton and it played judge, jury, and counsel.

He accepted it all and gave his thanks when he took off at dawn. The Lady of Sight had promised him she’d look over Roscoe, knowing the horse could not journey into the woods without getting hurt or being driven mad by the inhabitants. She did ride with him on Roscoe’s back to the tree line, pressing a kiss’s blessing to his forehead, her thumbs rubbing protections into his skin where she cupped his cheeks. Then she was gone. And Stiles was alone.

The mountains and wooded areas were just as troublesome as the stories told. Forests could be confusing but Stiles grew up near heavily wooded areas and learned to read them like the back of his hand, but there were different. He walked in loops, he stumbled upon wild animals, he felt prickles of magic dance over his skin - and he got lost.

Doing as told, he kept walking but closed his eyes. He released the grip on his blade and instead wrapped his fingers around the stone around his neck. He tugged at the magic coursing through the stone, small but strong, and willed it to guide him, directed it to his feet, and let it take control of his senses. He focused so intently on the stone he hadn’t realized how long or far he’d walked.

Opening his eyes, Stiles knew he’d lost time. A layer of dew covered him as if he’d sat out in the foggy air all night. The coldness around him was suddenly intense, seeping into his bones as if he’d been dunked in ice. And the sun… he noticed its position and realized it couldn’t be right, not unless he had walked all night, because it was higher in the sky, indicating an earlier hour, than when he’d first begun his journey. It could have been a day - maybe multiple - but he honestly couldn’t tell. It had felt like minutes.

But there, before him, was a great stump. It was wider than any tree he’d ever seen, wider than even some homes he’d visited. But he felt it. Unlike the stone, it radiated power. Waves of it ran around the surrounding area, inviting Stiles in as much as it threatened him. It was like a taunt, showing him everything he could have while also showing him all that he could suffer. If it had been of his own volition, he’d turn around, knowing not to gamble on such an illusion. However, he was here for Derek, his Prince - for his promise.

Pulling in a deep breath, Stiles stepped up, kneeling on the Nemeton. Nothing happened at first, then… nothing. It was quiet. No animals, no winds, no movements of the trees. Stiles felt his sight begin to fade, as if tunneling, and he felt like he was falling into a void-filled sleep, something unavoidable. He welcomed it, let the feeling embrace him. And then he was out.

+.+.+

Two Weeks & Two Days Previously

Scott watched his friend walk down the hall, a frown settling on his lips. The boy was so tired these days and so quiet. Scott and Stiles had grown apart in the time they spent together over the years, Stiles accompanying Derek on all his journeys and Scott being sanctioned on opposite patrols after taking the bite. It only became fewer between visits once he began to court Allison. She and her father had been cast out years prior by King Gerard - the king disgusted by his son's 'far-fetched' and 'overzealous' ideas, refusing to even look at him let alone share council with him - and sought sanctuary under the Hales. Talia granted it, putting Chris’s military expertise to use and employing him to oversee border tactics and patrols - often sending him out for days at a time. 

When Princess Kate attacked last year, many demanded Argent blood. Talia - despite her grief - waved it away, knowing their outcast statuses had been enacted years before when Allison was but a child. They had no ties to the royal Argent family, but Chris did offer to lead a troop to his father’s court in wake of his sister’s actions. He offered to leave Allison as a token of goodwill, showing his trustworthiness and also his trust in his newfound Queen and King. Chris was currently battling his father for rights to the throne, the disturbed voices of his kingdom crying out that they did not condone their rulers’ actions. It had been going on for several months now, but Chris’s favor was already with the people and the battle would be won for his benefit, if only time permitted.

With Chris gone, Scott took to overseeing Allison as much as possible - limiting his time with his best friend even more. They still shared meals together with their parents but not nearly often enough. They still trained together on occasion, but briefly at most times. But they were still close and it hurt, seeing Stiles as he was.

Scott had zoned out, thinking this all over, wondering how he could lessen his friend's burdens, which is why he didn’t notice it at first.

Scott had guarded the Prince’s private chambers often in the year past. He had gotten used to the steady, even beat heard through the door faintly. He got used to the odd stillness of the air that surrounded the Prince’s room. So when it was disturbed, he did not realize until the door was being shoved at.

Fearing his moment of thought allowed someone to slip in, Scott felt himself shift, hand going to his sword, as he swung the door open quickly - ready to attack. His growl died before it even made it out of his chest because there was Derek.

Derek looked hazy like cotton was stuffed behind his eyes and he wasn’t completely aware of himself. The Prince cast a wide glance, unseeing it seemed, then collapsed forward onto Scott. The younger man quickly braced him, moving to curl an arm around him and properly support him.

Without taking mind of the late hour, Scott yelled as loudly as he could, hoping either a fellow werewolf would hear or a passing maid doing late-night chores even. 

“Come! Come quickly! Get the Queen!”

Scott yelled the phrase twice before Isaac was in sight. He must have been the closest, having not fully made it to his patrol station after being redirected by Scott not too long prior. Isaac’s eyes widened and before he closed the distance between himself and the other two, he threw his head back, letting out the deepest howl he could manage. 

As Isaac and Scott braced each side of Derek up, the Prince still stuck in a hazy fog within his mind, eyes clouded and limbs lethargic, they heard the others. Guards from all around the castle poured down the halls, servants of all types ran untoward the call, some with weapons picked from workstations and bedsides in anticipation of needing to assist their guards, and the royal family ran down one hall from their chambers.

Everyone paused as they saw Derek slumped between the two boys, head bowed as if he were a limp doll. When Queen Talia moved forward, she paused just feet away, seeing no movement from her son. She was about to question the two guards, uncertain of the situation, when Derek raised his head. 

With great effort, his head swung slowly to look over the crowd. His eyes were glassy, but he was of better sensibilities than moments ago. “I… I need-”

Derek crumpled once more, not quite fainting but his eyes rolled back and his legs buckled once more. Peter and Philip surged forward, taking Isaac and Scott’s places. Talia knelt on the ground, cupping her son’s cheeks, urging him to look at her. Laura stood behind her mom, gripping her mother’s shoulder tightly as she stared at her brother. Cora was the last to move, slinking around behind the others and fisting her brother’s shirt into her hand, feeling like a child again trying to get his attention while he read.

+++

They swiftly moved Derek into a hospital bed and called upon Deaton. The man looked surprised and then stricken, the most emotion he had ever displayed outwardly before so many others. He quickly composed himself, however, and set about checking on the Prince.

After an initial examination, he addressed the room - now filled with all members of the family as well as John, Erica, Boyd, and Isaac. “He’s fine, he’s just experiencing the after-effects of the curse. His heightened healing abilities are making it pass much quicker than normal and he should be okay within the next couple of hours.”

Sighs of relief were heard all around. People began to cry and laugh, hugging and exclaiming their delight. It wasn’t until Talia had felt John’s firm hand land on her forearm, an act the man had never done despite their closeness, that it was realized. Talia swiveled around the room, her heartbeat increasing in speed as she moved onto each new face.

“Where is he?”

A hush fell, everyone glancing at one another. It took only seconds for them all to realize who was missing.

“I’ll fetch him!” Laura delightedly offered, turning on her heel. She was stopped in her actions by Scott, who opened the door to the hospital wing. He had a grave look on his face and clutched a piece of parchment in his hand, crumbling it and rubbing ink into his skin.

“Scott…?” John asked, stepping forward. Scott’s glazed-over eyes snapped to attention and his face paled as he shook his head, weakly holding up the paper.

“I saw him off,” he murmured, “he told me he was tired - I offered to take charge of the Prince for him and… I rushed to his chambers once you all were situated with Deaton and I found this, folded on his desk.”

John took the paper, reading it out loud, his own face turning ashen as he read. “I will return with answers. That’s- that’s all it says,” he broke off in a whisper, staring intensely at the words as if they’d tell him more than what was being offered.

“He was the last one to see Derek, wasn’t he?” Peter spoke, breaking the silence. His statement earned him a room full of eyes. “Do we think he…”

Peter broke off, seemingly unable to offer the thought they all shared, even being as straightforward and blunt as he was. He stared at his nephew, running a hand down his face as he let all the pieces click into place. It seemed the rest of the room was having similar experiences with the various stages of grief, sickness, and nerve radiating throughout the room in waves.

“He never did kiss him,” Cora spoke, “that first day, before Paige and Braeden arrived… he told me how much Derek would’ve hated it all. He laughed, told me the story of their repetitive discussion about marriage… he wouldn’t of.”

Another hush fell, everyone looking torn. None of them had seen Stiles so much as lay a hand over Derek’s own since this all started. He was alone with the Prince most nights, but he always kept a distance. Laura remembered slinking in late some nights, silent as could be, only to see Stiles staring out the window across from Derek’s bed. He’d raise a hand to his sword upon realizing her presence, then lower it immediately after recognizing her. He’d watch over them both those nights when Laura curled up on the floor next to Derek’s bed. She’d never once caught him touching Derek let alone pressing a kiss to his lips - even in those moments of utter aloneness between the two, with the sky at its darkest and the world the most willing to harbor secrets.

“Before he left…”

The voice drew everyone’s attention, making them close in tight to Derek’s bed. The Prince kept his eyes closed, his voice gravelly and rough, but he pushed on. “...he pressed a kiss to my forehead. I remember… all of it. I didn’t realize it properly at the time, but I remember it all now. It’s almost like it’s a story I read, playing it all out in my head. But it happened.”

Derek opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t face his family - not yet.

“He knew I’d hate it,” Derek, unwillingly, cracked a broken smile - slight and pinched from having his muscles been sedentary for so long. “He asked me to hate him if I must hate someone for it. But he never kissed me. He could allow it from others out of necessity, but he couldn’t allow himself because… because he knew…”

Derek slowly sat up, his eyes closing again as he felt a small rush of nausea. He wasn't sure if it was from the curse or otherwise - it may have been both. His limbs felt heavy and simultaneously like jello - wobbly and uncooperative, but heavy like lead.

“He promised he’d find an answer, then kissed me on the forehead before he left. That was it, wasn’t it.” It wasn’t a question, everyone already knew the answer. No one had been in Derek’s chambers outside of his family in over a week and the last person to offer a kiss had been almost two weeks ago. The numbers of those who had yet to try were dwindling, new suspects would have to be sought outside the kingdom which was a much more tedious affair. The only possibilities were Stiles or it was a massively delayed reaction from someone else weeks before. Considering Deaton’s bowed head, the others in the room knew the second wasn’t very likely - if at all.

“Where is he?” Derek asked, breaking the tension falling across the room. He didn’t meet anyone’s gaze still, limbs still unsteady, heady still a bit light and airy. He wasn’t ready to face the others, but he needed to see Stiles.

Clearing his throat, Deaton caught everyone’s attention next. “I’m afraid I have some undesirable news in that regard.”

Finally, Derek looked up, meeting Deaton’s eyes. He leaned forward, prompting the man. With a great, heaving sigh, Deaton began to explain what a Nemeton was.

+++

It had taken until midday the next morning for Derek to be back to himself properly. He could stand and walk, he spoke easily despite his words still being numbered, and it was as if the past year had never happened. During the entire duration of his bed rest, his family brought various food, drink, and other items. Derek ate mechanically, drank out of necessity, and zoned out when Laura read him some of their newest poetry that was added to the library just months ago.

Deaton had explained what Nemeton was, skirting some of the finer details. Everyone immediately narrowed their eyes at the man, demanding to know why he allowed the young guard to take on such a perilous task.

“He said he would pay - any price - tenfold. There was nothing he wasn’t willing to do or give up if it meant defeating the curse,” Deaton lamented. 

No one argued because no one honestly could. Stiles had been vigilant in his oversight of the Prince. Aside from his initial journey at the start of the curse, when waking the whole of the kingdom was of necessity and not just Derek, Stiles hadn’t left. He spent every second or third night in his own chambers. He took enough time to eat dinner most nights with someone else’s company but every other meal was brought to him by a kitchen servant in Derek's chambers. He slipped out of the private chambers long enough to listen to Laura read a book, to share a late-night snack with Cora, to say goodnight to his dad, or to sit with Talia and Phillip for just a half hour or so. He seldom left for more than an hour at most, having minimized even his training with the guards and with Deaton, often reviewing texts and scrolls in the chair beside Derek’s bed when Deaton demanded help.

Stiles, above everyone else, devoted himself. That was never a doubt. Derek could hardly recall a moment in the past year without Stiles, seeing as he was so often there and the only one who spoke to him even if it was just them alone. He felt sick at the devotion, felt ill at knowing Stiles willingly set out with possible death his destination just at the chance of aiding Derek. And he never once thought himself to be the cure, he hadn’t hoped or yearned, he expected nothing but to help. Derek wished he could claim the same levels of devotion but he knew even a lifetime’s effort would never be able to amount to such a feat.

“I’m following him,” Derek announced that evening, a late lunch consisting of platters of meats, cheeses, bread, and fruits sprawled across the hospital wing. He hadn’t had a moment alone since he woke up and had just mastered his sensibilities in the last hour, being able to tune into his hearing and sense of smell just as strongly as before. He was fully himself and he wasn’t about to let Stiles journey alone on a fruitless endeavor when he had his faculties about him.

There were, of course, oppositions. Cora vehemently denied it, Phillip frowned and crossed his arms in defiance of the announcement, and Talia’s eyes flashed while her grip on the bedpost intensified. Even Deaton urged him of how ignorant a choice it was, how he had a lesser chance of surviving the journey than even Stiles. When John returned shortly after, he too shook his head, softly telling Derek not to do it. Derek watched as the older man looked out the window solemnly, telling him of how he deeply loved his son, and in loving him he begged Derek to not go. “His fate is sealed, no matter the outcome - it is what it is. But your’s… your’s is not. My love for Stiles embraces all that he too loves, including you, my Prince. I beg of you - do not let me lose the thing my son loves most,” John urged.

He hadn’t waited for a response, simply left. He hadn’t paid mind to their audience, the Hale family still in attendance, and spoke freely. Derek watched as the most well-versed warrior he’d ever known walked with a bowed head and slumped shoulders. He couldn’t recall the man looking so resigned, even when his wife had passed. His words, however, were true - his plea sincere.

Still, Derek knew he would leave. And the only one who seemed to understand that was his sister.

He didn’t get his chance to flee until the next night. His family opted to take turns staying with him to ensure he didn’t attempt an escape. They kept a guard on the door as well at all times. The next night, Laura had volunteered - but when she left briefly to her chambers to fetch her current book, she instead returned with a stack of clothes and a satchel.

“You will take the back entrance through the kitchens. In the stables, a horse has been prepared - you will find it prepared for the journey, tied to the closest post on the backside of the stables. Isaac says shift change will happen soon, but you should not rely on it to cover your tracks. Walk to the woods with your horse, walk as far as you can - then run.”

As she spoke, Laura laid out the outfit - one fit for a long journey, adorned with the lightest fitting armor possible. She laid a sword next to it despite her brother’s lack of experience and reference for his built-in weapons when necessary. She pulled a small sack from the top of the satchel afterward, taking out several things of cheesecloth and laying them on the end of the bed, revealing several of their favorite sweets from when they were too young to comprehend the life ahead of them.

“I will remain here, and I will read for as long as I am able. If anyone passes by, they will think I am reading to you. Isaac will remain outside and deter anyone until morning. If all goes according to plan, no one will notice until you have had several hours head start. I included as many notes about Deaton’s explanations and maps I found useful as I could. Isaac snuck into the hospital and found a letter we think might be of use as well and is included with your maps.”

Laura leveled him with a look, taking a seat at the foot of the bed beside the laid-out food. She sat poised and elegant, his eyes steady and her head held high. “Now, you will entertain me with one last meal together before you dress. We must be quick, though.”

Derek gave the sincerest, happiest smile he could manage. He fell to his knees before his sister, gripping her hands tight. Laura traced a thumb across Derek’s forehead, ghosting her lips near the same spot Stiles had kissed him.

“Sometimes, no punishment can outweigh the treason,” Laura whispered, “and if love is treasonous then I will gladly lead you to your execution if you wish.”

Derek sat and ate with his sister. He spoke as much as he could, he told her he loved her as many times as he was able, and he lingered as long as his heart allowed. Soon, though, he was dressed in new clothes and being ushered out the door. He paused, met eyes with Isaac who gave him a smile and nod, then continued on his path.

As he made his way towards the kitchens, Derek heard the very first few words - so faint they were almost mute - of Laura’s reading. He smiled when he recognized the poem, then disappeared into the shadowed corridors of the castle to begin his journey

+.+.+

Two Weeks & Three Days Later

Stiles felt so tired, he didn’t know if he was meant to fight or succeed, and when he tried to allow his body to give in, it felt like the Nemeton was urging him to fight. When he fought, it felt like he was being smothered into submission. He was weak, so weak, and was losing track of time and all other concepts aside from the waves of fatigue rolling over him.

He was going through flashes - memories. He could feel them, could trace their shapes, but could not follow. He saw snippets of Derek’s face, heard the rumble of a chuckle, and felt the ghost warmth of fingers on his arm. He tried to hone in and focus on that, tried to pull Derek closer - tried to focus on his Prince and summon the image of his True Love.

Stiles felt like crying. He wanted to scream. He wasn’t even sure if his eyes were open, if he were sitting or standing, how much time had passed - he was stuck in his mind, warring with the magic all around him. But he persisted. The Nemeton whispered for him to give up, to retreat - he felt the promise of being allowed to leave the mountains whispered into his blood, the deal of leaving and never coming back just as he had been before. He couldn’t, though, not when he knew the Nemeton had the answers. The next piece of the puzzle.

The anguish and exhaustion warred on, widdling Stiles down until he was sure he’d perish from exhaustion before anything else. But… but the vision… it became so clear. So life-like.

Stiles swore he felt a sure grip instead of phantom touches, he could clearly trace Derek’s profile and outline rather than grasp at flashes of it, he could hear and cling to his Prince’s voice instead of trailing after it - lost on the wind. He dove into the embrace, he felt himself fight with every fiber of his being while simultaneously giving himself up, opening his mind and body bare so that he could submit. He didn’t know if he was submitting to Derek or to the Nemeton, but he knew it was the answer.

Instead of seeing Derek, it was as if he caught glimpses of others, those around Derek - the Prince always in the peripheral but never actually in the picture.

“I love our son, I do,” Talia sighed, gazing at her husband tiredly, “but I do wish he’d be more considerate of the offers.” Phillip hummed, rubbing his wife’s back in understanding. “I’m sure he’ll come around dear, he’s stubborn but even he has his limits,” Phillip murmured.

Stiles felt as if his mind whirled around, vision going top speed as it blurred and made him nauseous from the suddenness.

“You are the Prince!” Laura groaned, eyes rolling. “You may not want to be social but it is for our people, Derek. A few hours of your time cannot hurt! Just… dance with me, drink some wine. Let us enjoy the night.”

Again, the assault of sudden change and a blur of motion and colors assaulted Stiles’ line of sight, making him feel weaker by the moment. But he hunkered down and watched on as the Nemeton continued the reels of memories none of his own.

Cora huffed, looking at Laura from where they sat together - seemingly at the breakfast table. “I just don’t understand the appeal,” Cora tsk’d, “sure, he may be a prince but he’s so grumpy and broody. He spends all his time reading or in the stables, he tortures himself over those sickeningly saccharine poetry books and yet looks as if he was never taught to smile!”

“He may be my brother, but he can be a real stick in the mud,” Cora laughed.

It continued with each flash of someone new. Peter, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, Paige, Braeden - all of Derek’s family and closest friends and even some people Stiles could hardly name or properly recall flashed into mind. Some had soft taunts to share with loving tones. Others were speaking to Derek directly, trying to persuade him into some activity or line of thinking. None of them seemed hateful or rude, most of them actually showed the love and compassion they each felt for the Prince, but they all had a complaint or concern or something to try and convince Derek of.

Just as Stiles thought himself ready to fade, felt the tingling of nothingness tugging at his body and coloring the edges of his mind, it was like a blanket of peaceful bliss was laid over him. The Nemeton stopped warring and pushing him away, instead lulling him gently - filling his veins with magic, letting his own gifts react and pull at it. He felt the pictures in his mind brighten and soften, no longer burning his vision or causing him sickness. He felt so relaxed and at peace. It was like he’d had the world’s most amazing slumber in a matter of seconds, his body as relaxed and uninhibited as he would ever get it.

He felt protected and loved, like a fondness was caressing him and a protective layer was surrounding him. He had never felt so safe and cared for, it made him want to give in - give up even, if that’s what this feeling demanded. But he didn’t.

He glanced around, trying to seek out what this new feeling was when he felt it. The Nemeton bubbled within him, warmth spreading within his limbs - ridding the icy feeling within his bones. It made his headache wane and his hunger disappear. He felt well rested, well fed, and happy - so happy. Then the visions began all over again.

...

“Whatever makes you most comfortable is what is best - there is no shame in knowing your boundaries and references, my Prince.” Stiles gave Derek a reassuring nod, smiling genuinely at the other.

...

Derek wearily eyed his guard, slouching in the chair before the fireplace in the library. “Do you wish to go back? I… I’ll accompany you if you so wish, Stiles,” Derek spoke softly. He had no urge to return, wanted nothing to do with the wine and dance and women and men and festivities of great going on down the hall. He just wanted solitude.

“I wish to accompany you, my friend,” Stiles waved him off, picking up a book and opening it at random. “Dancing, wine, parties - they’re nice, but I think I prefer a good book. Perhaps a long ride through the woods. Besides,” Stiles paused in his examination of the book to look meaningfully at his Prince and friend, “I know you do not wish to return and I would never ask you to. I am happy to just be in your company - the location is of no concern.”

...

Stiles laughed loudly, eyes shining as he looked at Derek upside down from his position in the window. “No, no! Please - read it to me again, slower. The last line is my favorite,” Stiles urged. Derek scowled at the other but obliged, reading the poem over again. At the last line, Stiles whispered along - word for word.

“Hmm, I don’t think I could ever tire of you reading to me,” Stiles mused. “Perhaps we can continue in the gardens? There are some wonderful new additions Madame Fames added last week - they smell sweet even to me!”

Derek followed as Stiles led the way, continuing his reading at Stiles’ prompting as they entered the gardens. The sweet, fragrant smell filled the air as Derek’s voice flowed easily around the duo - entrapping them in their own personal bubble of a world.

...

As before, the visions continued - all of these, however, were of Derek and Stiles together. Stiles felt the tug on his heart, all the emotions from each moment overflowing him and then some with each passing memory. Some were overwhelming, Stiles not recalling such emotions or such intensity during the time but he experienced them in waves - and none of them bad, all of them felt comforting and warm.

The more memories that passed, the more surreal the feel of hands and arms wrapping around him became - like a hug. Derek’s touches became more and more real, as if Stiles could press back into Derek’s grip. Derek’s voice became stronger and clearer, singing in Stiles’ ears. And his face - god, Stiles thought he could reach out and touch it.

When a smile began to lilt on Derek’s lips, Stiles gave in, reaching out to cup his cheeks. He knew it was his mind, but even in memory, he could never resist his Prince.

Except…

Except he felt him. He felt Derek’s strong jaw under his hands, the brush of stubble scratching his fingers. He felt the warmth and gentle thrum of blood under his skin, singing. He pushed his fingers in, feeling cheeks dig into a jaw and teeth. He heard a rumble of a laugh and saw Derek’s eyes shine. It was too real, too much-

Stiles gasped, his eyes snapped open and he wildly looked around, seeing the Hiraeth mountains and surrounding forest. Birds sang, animals scampered between trees, and the wind rushed between branches.

And Derek. Derek was knelt over the Nemeton, cradling Stiles in his lap, his eyes shining and his smile bright - the laugh he sang was light and airy. Stiles stared, his hands still cupped over Derek’s cheeks. He was afraid if he blinked it would all be a trick - a ghost of an image from the Nemeton.

But Stiles heard the whispers. He felt the Nemeton tug in his veins, a new Something settling inside of him that was a bit too bright and pure - a bit too raw - to be anything but overwhelming.

Impure when apart, the Nemeton whispered, filling his head with a chorus of muddled words and rushing winds, but pure and true when together. 

Stiles suddenly laughed, his understanding clicking into place. Deaton had warned him of the Nemeton and its inhumanely leveled morals of purity. He knew he was impure and tainted, with blood on his hands, and death in his heart - he was far from pure and his intentions were as selfish as they were unselfish when it came to Derek. But Derek… he made it pure. 

“What are you…” Stiles whispered, never finishing. He began to let his eyes run up and down Derek’s form before he realized the other was hurt. Gasping, Stiles scrambled to sit up, cradling one of Derek’s arms in his hand, the other hand tracing the hole in Derek’s pants and the damaged skin beneath.

“The Nemeton,” Derek answered, shrugging. Stiles’ eyes bulged, realizing that Derek was being burnt by the Nemeton. Unlike Stiles, the magic in Derek’s veins was already destined and thus warring with the Nemeton. It wasn’t an intentional infliction, more a reaction to the introduction between the two magics.

Hurriedly, Stiles pulled Derek off the Nemeton. Blistered healed and cracks in the skin seemed to sew themselves together in minutes, but the longer time went on, the more apparent it was that some of the scars would remain. Angry red lines resembling a strike of lightning spread up from Derek’s palms. If it weren’t marring his skin, Stiles would find the marks beautiful on their own. 

“I’d take a hundred more if it brought you back to me,” Derek whispered, pulling Stiles closer and dragging his attention away from the angry red lines marring Derek’s skin.

Ignoring the flush rising to his cheeks and the skip of his heart, Stiles squeezed Derek’s hands before asking, “What are you doing here? How did you get here? How are you awake? Just… what-how-”

Stiles broke off, eyes dancing and with questions. Derek carefully guided him through the woods, words soft as he explained. Stiles, according to Derek and the Lady of Sight, Stiles had been in the woods a little over a day before Derek was able to find the woman and ask for assistance in finding the Nemeton. Derek revealed he’d then spent another day holding Stiles on the Nemeton.

“Your eyes were… white. And your heart was so slow. Every time I touched you I felt this jolt and every time I thought and spoke of our shared memories, you moved. So I kept thinking and speaking until you woke up or… roused, whatever it was,” Derek explained. Stiles had traced under his eyes, unsure of what white meant. He could still that rawness in his chest from the Nemeton, a piece of it wedged deep behind his ribs, but he didn’t know what it was yet. He would find out in time, he assuaged.

Derek continued on, recounting his journey. He worked backward, talking of how there was a letter that mentioned the Lady of Sight and Hiraeth mountains. He recounted how he rode non-stop but got lost early in the journey until halfway through, he was able to pick up fading scents of Stiles. He had given up on the maps and relied on the fading scent to guide him, hoping for the best. It had worked, obviously, but Stiles chided him teasingly nonetheless.

He continued on, explaining how Laura and Isaac snuck him out. How his family was adamant he not follow after Stiles, and Laura was the only one to understand. When Stiles raised his eyebrows, Derek ignored it, continuing with his story. 

“When I woke…” Derek began, getting to the last of Stiles’ questions. “I woke the night you left,” Derek revealed. Stiles felt the air leave his lungs, punched out. They had made it to the base of the mountains, well out of the woods. Derek’s sense of smell never leading them astray. They had taken up residence next to a small stream just outside the village, pausing before they returned to the Lady of Sight who was housing their two horses.

“I heard you, all of you,” Derek changed the topic, causing Stiles to shake his head in confusion briefly. “I heard the fights and the crying - I heard you talk to me all those nights… it’s like a far-off dream, something I didn’t know was going on then but I can perfectly recall now… it’s so odd, but I remember it all. I remember you.”

Stiles swallowed a bit heavily, realizing Derek already knew of his betrayal and the previous efforts to wake up. Derek just smiled, lifting Stiles’ chin to look at him as he continued.

“I may have been upset with the choices made, but not much,” he confided. “I’d have done the same were roles reversed with anyone else. And… and even if I was angry, I could never be angry at you. I could never hate you. You were the only one who did your all to reverse the curse as well as honor my wishes… I know of everyone who ever kissed me, and you were never one of them.”

Bowing his head, Stiles felt himself flush. He was relieved by the grateful tone Derek held but he felt… rejected. Derek was relieved Stiles hadn’t kissed him. He knew it was largely because of Derek’s person and not Stiles’ as an individual, but the relief…

“Who woke you?” Stiles finally whispered. “You heard it all so you know of the curse’s only cure. You woke before I even made it to the Nemeton so who was it? Where are they?”

Of all things Stiles expected, he hadn’t expected Derek to laugh. He snapped his eyes up, eyes widening and the tingle of frustration bubbled up in his stomach. Derek seemed to be laughing at a joke and Stiles wasn’t sure what it was. He didn’t want to think the worst of his Prince, hir friend, but-

“What was the last thing you did? Before you left the castle?” Derek asked.

Furrowing his brows, Stiles thought back. “Spoke with Scott…?”

“Before that,” Derek huffed, a soft ‘idiot’ mumbled after.

“I-... I said goodbye to you and…” Stiles paused, looking quizzically at Derek. He slowly shook his head despite the smile on Derek’s lips. “No - no, it couldn’t have been me. I- I didn’t even kiss you, not on the lips and… and it said True Love’s kiss, if the curse wanes to technicalities then your mom’s or Laura’s or…”

Derek pulled Stiles closer with the hand still on his chin. His other hand moved to twine with one of Stiles’ own hands, anchoring them to one another.

“The curse never said where I must be kissed,” Derek whispered, “and True Love…” he laughed, shaking his head slightly as he took a moment to look into Stiles’ eyes. “My family, my friends… they all love me. They love me the most of anyone but… only you, Stiles. Only you loved me without conditions. You never loved me in hopes I would change, you never asked me to be anything that wasn’t simply me, you… you loved me because of my faults, no matter how many there are. You’ve never genuinely wished me to be anything but who I am, even if it upset or angered you. You truly loved who I was despite anyone and everything else.”

Stiles swallowed hard, his eyes latched onto Derek’s. Every bit of it was true. Derek infuriated Stiles, always had. He was moody, and quiet, and preferred to be alone. He read books Stiles would never think twice to pick up. He spent so many hours in the garden Stiles had contemplated begging the Queen to consider expanding it, adding onto it, just to add something new for his eyes to view. And he was stubborn - so very stubborn. He argued daily with his uncle, he had the same arguments with his parents and Laura and Cora constantly, and he never gave an inch let alone made a compromise. He was bullheaded and a damned fool and-

Stiles couldn’t imagine him any other way. Derek gave him headaches and made his Queen give him one too many disapproving glares and sometimes made him ache for change but… but it was Derek. He wouldn’t want anyone else to give him headaches or anger him or frustrated him. He’d rather be bored with Derek in the same old library and same old garden every day for the rest of his life than off seeing a new place every day with anyone else.

If Derek was part of the equation, it was okay.

“I don’t know if the way I’m forcing myself to continuously speak or the way I keep leaning closer in hopes you’ll kiss me is any indication,” Derek interrupted Stiles’ internal monologue, halting his revelations. “But I love you too. Every bit of you. And I hope you’ll just allow me to attempt to devote myself and prove to you how much I love and care for you as you have already shown me. I’ll take whatever time you allow me, if any.”

Stiles launched himself forward, slamming his lips into Derek’s. They were too close and it was abrupt and it stung a bit. Their lips were dry and chapped, Stiles could tell his breath was stale and Derek’s was just as bad. He could feel the grime and dirt on his own hands and where Derek pressed into his skin. There was the faintest tang of iron and salt from a busted lip - his own, Stiles’ was sure - from the sudden impact. 

It was catastrophic. It was glorious.

Pulling back, Stiles paused, then pressed forward once again - slower. This kiss was gentler. Kinder. A kiss that should be what all first kisses are like. Derek’s hands cradled him, one cupping his hip and the other hooked around the back of his neck. Stiles had fisted his hands in Derek’s hair, unable to completely give up his overly intense, rough nature. Derek didn’t mind, his touches only softer and sweeter the tighter Stiles gripped.

A broken and dry moan slipped out of his throat when he parted his lips to let Derek's tongue in, his bottom lip slick with spit from where the Prince had traced it oh so lightly. Stiles was less kind, biting and tugging at Derek’s bottom lip in return, pushing his tongue a bit too quickly into the other’s mouth.

When they broke apart, it was obvious neither kiss was what they had expected. One was clumsy, overzealous, and involved bloodshed. The over was hungry and biting, spit-slick, and dripping of cut-off moans and panting breaths.

Stiles loved it. Derek couldn’t wait to experience it for the rest of his life.

“Let us go home, my Prince,” Stiles murmured.

“Let us, my Love,” Derek whispered back.