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~ * ~
Warmth is a thing of the past, much like surefire shelter or even food. Apocalypses will do that, Stiles thinks bitterly, as he joins the line for the morning’s ration of water.
He clutches his mug tighter, knowing that there are others who don’t have vessels and aren’t above stealing even the ones others already hold.
When he reaches the front of the line, he’s given a scant eight ounces. Whatever. There’s a limited supply until the snowfall. He steps away, knowing better than to complain, unlike the man behind him who immediately exclaims that yesterday there’d been more.
No, there hadn’t been. They’ve been on eight ounces twice a day since the “summer” started.
Stiles ducks behind the corner of the water barricade, leaning against it while he studies his water.
It’ll have to do. He can always trying dowsing later. Sighing with resignation, he digs through his waist-pouch until he finds the single leaf he found two weeks ago. It’s a telstan leaf. The liquid brewed with it imbues warmth and strength in regular humans. For supernaturals, it increases the level of magic temporarily so that even exhausted or rundown, they can perform small feats of miracles.
He glances around. No one is paying any attention to him, so he cups his hand around the base of his mug and lets a little magic spread until the water is just boiling. He drops in the telstan and swirls it with a swish of his finger.
He lets it brew for a few minutes before risking his first sip. He burns his mouth, but it’s almost worth it for the flash of heat that trails down his throat and into his belly.
Stiles wanders off to the edge of the compound. His assigned task for the day is foraging, as it has been for the last three years. He finishes his tea, chewing on the telstan for the residual power it will give him, and hangs his mug on his belt.
He doesn’t sneak out, can’t when it’s literally his job, but he still feels guilty about leaving the compound.
See, the leaders of the compound don’t know that he’s magic. If they did, he’d never leave the premises. He’d be considered an asset, property of the compound to be used and abused as they saw fit.
He knows this because he’s seen others be hauled away to the command post and never seen again, but for a time, they have a bit of warmth and more luck finding supplies.
Other supernaturals are sent out further than foragers, tracked by, presumably, the imprisoned magic users.
Stiles also knows this because his best friend, Scott, a bitten werewolf, is always out on a “mission.”
He heads toward the first quadrant, having already foraged the fourth quadrant yesterday. They rotate so that if one forager misses something, then another one can find it. But, they all know, the quadrants have been stripped very bare. Stiles doesn’t even know how he found the telstan, and he hasn’t stopped looking for any other missed leaves.
Today, he hikes over the hill that is supposed to be the boundary of the first quadrant. Since he isn’t monitored, he skirts out as far as he feels safe to, dipping beneath a hollowed out depression where he’s stashed a few supplies that he can barely spare, like an extra bit of dry bread and a nutritional bar.
He grabs them and tucks them into his waist-pouch and then continues. He lets a bit of magic flow from his fingertips, searching the ground for water.
He travels seventeen miles round trip, eating the bread and nutritional bar on his way back to the compound, but he doesn’t find anything useful. He finds a stripped berry bush that he pauses to examine. Other than a few rotted berries smashed into the ground, it’s as bare as the ground of the compound.
As he studies the bush, he has the distinct feeling of being observed. He snaps his head up, scanning his surroundings.
Nothing stands out to him, but still, Stiles cautiously picks his way back to the compound, checking every few feet that he’s still alone.
By the time he makes it back to the compound, it’s time to line up for the evening ration of water and the daily nutritional bar.
Stiles steps into place behind a thin man wrapped in a thin jacket. The man glances over his should at Stiles and nods, like there's something he knows that Stiles should know too. Stiles ignores him, not entirely successfully, because even half-starved, he’s still an attractive man, and shuffles forward as the line slowly moves.
Once he has his rations, Stiles heads to the dilapidated shelter he shares with twenty other men, including Mr. Thin Jacket. He hunkers down in “his” corner, opposite of the man, who is still staring at him, drinks his water as slowly as he can, and eats his nutritional bar. Then, he slips off his wrap sweater, spreading it out like a blanket, and rolls himself into it.
Nights are colder without the thin sunlight that sometimes breaks through the heavy cloud cover, but at least it’s better than in the winter months when daylight never happens and it always snows.
He falls asleep slowly, listening as the other men sigh and grumble as they also go to sleep. He dreams of summer heat and sandwiches.
~ * ~
Derek crawls into his corner, curled tightly in his thin jacket, watching the mage studiously ignore him while they both gnaw on the unappetizing but necessary nutritional bars. The temperature is dropping now that the meager sunshine has faded away. It’s worse in winter, so he knows he’ll survive. Around him, the other men slip off to sleep with some trouble. Even the mage.
As soon as the last one is breathing evenly, Derek slinks out of bed and out of the shoddy bunkhouse.
He avoids the sentinels easily. Being a werewolf makes fooling humans easy. He slips out through the gate and heads into the first quadrant. He retraces the steps the mage had taken earlier, passing the dying berry bush, the mage’s hiding place, and the edge of the boundary.
He pauses where the mage had stopped for the day before heading back to the compound, just breathing in the cold night air. Then, he takes one more step. It’s the farthest he’s ever been in the three years since the world changed.
He’s been too afraid to go far, worried that it would give himself away. See, supernaturals, those that aren’t mages, are used to scout ahead for better land and more resources. But if they don’t perform to the standards of the human leaders, then they are taken far underground and forced to dig for water or fuel sources. Of which, the leaders hoard because forced scarcity and mandatory starvation is how to keep a population in line.
Derek knows this because his best friends, Erica and Boyd, have been underground for seven months after trying to run away. When they can, they whisper messages that he has to strain to hear. Conditions are worsening for the werewolves because magic is being driven out of the compound.
He knows there are other supernaturals, especially werewolves, that are out here above ground, traveling too far to return every night, so he carefully picks his way over the rough terrain, keeping to the deepest shadows and making as little noise as he possibly can.
He knows if he isn’t back by daybreak, then he’ll get in trouble, but he could try to play it off as a forager who wandered too far. But, that won’t work. He knows everyone saw him in his corner. He has no excuse for why he’s out here.
The mage had been looking for something earlier. If Derek can find it, then maybe he can steer him toward it when he makes his rounds back to quadrant one. Or maybe he should have searched beyond quadrant two? Saved them both the trouble?
Derek doesn’t want the mage to be found out. As terrible as werewolves have it, mages have it worse. They are imprisoned in the central building and used to create heat for the compound. They are used until they are drained of magic, and then, when they are considered useless to the compound, they are taken to a camp several miles away, beyond the quadrant boundaries, and left to die in a camp or recover enough magic to return to their shackles.
Derek isn’t paying close enough attention, too busy thinking of the mage with his mole-speckled skin, his determination to keep searching, and his infuriating way of ignoring Derek, when his next step causes the ground to give way beneath his feet. He falls approximately ten feet, landing on his back, knocking the wind out of him (and bruising him badly enough that it hurts).
After a few minutes to recover, his healing greatly hampered by the starvation, he sits up and looks around.
There’s nothing remarkable about this cavern. Not until he looks closer and notices several tunnels leading away from what must be the main chamber.
He sniffs the air, trying to discern if any of the tunnels might lead to something worthwhile.
At first, all he smells is dirt and rot. And then, a light breeze brings something sweet, fresh almost, to his nose.
He hurries toward it, choosing the middle tunnel because it smells the freshest. Soon enough, he comes to another large cavern, this one open to the air already. In the center of the area, where sunlight must break through, there is a whole garden. Berry bushes, stalks of grain, other plants that Derek has no name for, all of them standing tall, reaching for the sky.
And tucked in the center of everything, hiding itself behind a cluster of something flowery, is a telstan plant.
Telstan might enable a quick hit of energy for a werewolf, but he knows that it’s more useful for the mages. In fact, he had smelled telstan on the mage yesterday. It’s been so long that he’d almost forgotten the bitter scent that heralded increased magic.
He plucks a few leaves, tucking them into a pouch he’s allowed to wear for personal items. Then, he uses his water cup, a lopsided wooden mug he carved himself with his claws, to gather a few of the berries and some of the more edible-smelling plants. He knows the mage will be able to tell him if the plants are poisonous or not.
Once he has a nice sampling of things, he begins looking for a way out. There is a natural slope on the far side of the cavern where the ceiling must have fallen in to create the opening. It’s still a few feet shy to the top of the cave, but Derek can jump easily.
He manages to get out without spilling any of his treasure, and then he speeds back toward the compound, aware that he’s been gone for a long enough time that the dawn should be breaking soon.
~ * ~
Stiles stretches, working the kinks out of his back as he heads to the ration line. He accepts his meager water and beelines for the gate leading to the second quadrant. He slips out of sight easily and skips over the boundary. He lets a little magic flow, trying to search for water. Behind him, someone steps on a branch. He knows it’s a person because there haven’t been any animals in the quadrants since halfway through the second year.
Stiles whirls around, heart in his throat. He curses himself for not paying enough attention and letting someone sneak up on him.
There isn’t anyone in sight, but Stiles knows they are there. He snakes a tendril of magic out, worried when it manages to snag around a thin wrist. He jerks with his mind, and the thin man from the ration line stumbles out from behind a tree.
“Wait,” he says, voice higher than Stiles would have guessed. “Just wait.”
“Why are you following me?” he demands. A good defense starts with a strong offense, he remembers his high school lacrosse coach saying. Never mind that it was supposed to be the other way around.
“I need to show you something,” the man says. He approaches Stiles, hands held high, the magic still looped around his wrist.
“What are you?” Stiles narrows his eyes at the man, who visibly flinches.
“Werewolf,” he mumbles. “My name is Derek.”
“And why are you following me, Derek? Hmm? Or better yet, how long have you been following me?”
“Just since yesterday,” Derek says, which Stiles immediately pegs as a lie, remembering the intensity Derek had scrutinized him with last night. He lets Derek get away with it for now. And then Derek says, “When you used magic to brew the telstan tea.”
Stiles goes cold all over.
Derek’s face scrunches into confusion before he raises his eyebrows. “No! Oh, no, I’m not going to turn you in.” He digs at his waist-pouch with both hands, Stiles belatedly realizing that his magic tether has vanished, and pulls out a few leaves of something. He offers it to Stiles, holding his hand steady while Stiles just stares at him.
Finally, when it becomes clear Derek isn’t going to move, he steps forward, grabs the leaves, and steps back again.
Then, he studies what Derek gave him. It’s telstan. His mind blanks, and he just stares at the leaves.
“Where—how—where did you find these?”
“Out past where you stopped yesterday,” Derek says. “There’s more.” He digs in his pouch again, pulling out a cloth bundle with fresh purple stains. He hands it to Stiles, retreating before Stiles even realizes he was in his space.
Stiles carefully unfolds it, staring in awe at the juicy berries and wild onion tops. “Where did you find these?” he breathes.
Derek shrugs. “Same place I got the telstan.”
Stiles chooses a berry and pops it into his mouth. He tries to make it last, his first berry in what feels like a year. It’s sweet and tart and peppered with seeds and gone too damn quickly.
“Can you show me where you found them?”
Derek shakes his head. “Not yet. I need to know I can trust that you won’t share it with the compound leaders, and if I can rescue the supernaturals from them, then I’ll need all the food I can get.”
“You’re going to overthrow the compound?” Stiles raises an eyebrow. Derek is thinner than him. He looks like a stiff breeze could blow him away. “You, Mr. Creeper-Wolf?”
Derek ducks his head before looking up again, determination writ upon his face. “Yes,” he declares. “Me. Are you going to try to stop me?”
Stiles thinks of Scott, scouting the land for resources, of the other mages stuck inside the command post. “No,” he says. “I won’t stop you. In fact, can I join you?”
Derek looks surprised. “You want to help me?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, I’m no fan of the compound or its leaders.” He hands the bundle back to Derek after taking another berry. “So, where are you headquartered? Who else is involved?”
“Uh, well, aside from me,” Derek says, hesitantly, wincing, “there’s you.”
Stiles blinks, blinks again, stunned. “You were planning to overthrow the compound with just yourself?” he asks, incredulous.
Derek flushes, shoulders hiking up to his ears. “Well, I was going to rescue the werewolves and then have them help me rescue the mages.”
“Solid plan there, buddy,” Stiles says sarcastically. Derek glares at him. “Did you also find water to go with your food source?”
“Maybe,” Derek hedges. “I mean, the plants have to get it from somewhere, right?”
“True.”
“So, we just find that source and then we’ll have food and water.”
“Brilliant idea. Now, who’s this ‘we’ you speak of?” Derek glares at him again, and Stiles laughs. Helios help him, but Derek looks adorable with his scrunched brows and narrowed eyes. “I’m kidding. I’ll help you find the water. Then, we’ll get the werewolves and the mages and take over the compound.”
“Or just make, like, a camp or a farm or something where there aren’t any leaders trying to suppress us by keeping us hungry and thirsty all the time.”
“What?” Stiles says. “What do you mean?”
“What do you think the werewolves do underground?”
“There’s werewolves underground? I thought they were all being used as super-foragers or something.”
“Well, there are both. And the ones underground are where we get our water supply from. Of which there is plenty more to go around than just the sixteen ounces given to us daily.”
“And what about food?”
“You think they don’t have more of those nutritional bars stashed away somewhere?” Derek taps his nose. “Also, before you ask, yes, we can hear each other over a few miles. So, that’s how I know about the water.”
“Well, shit,” Stiles says. “I guess we’re going to overthrow a corrupt compound.”
Derek sticks out his hand. “Swear on it?” he asks.
Stiles claps his hand into his and pumps it quickly, ignoring the way the warmth of his hand leeches into Derek’s cold one, their deal built on mutual trust. “Of course.” He looks around, taking in the fact that they are out past the boundary, that Derek has a food source, and that he has a willingness to share it. All miracles if the last three years have taught Stiles anything.
“We’ll need more people on our side,” he remarks. “And I know just where to start.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Derek smiles at him, and Stiles feels a warmth not unlike his telstan tea surge in his belly. He tries to hide it, but he sees Derek’s nostrils flare minutely. “Let’s go,” he says, turning to hide the way he knows his face is turning red.
Derek immediately falls into step with him, bumping his shoulder. “I like you, too,” he says, almost too quiet to hear.
Stiles swallows hard. “It’s too soon,” he says, forcing himself to speak nonchalantly. “Maybe after this business is done.”
He doesn’t want to wait, wants to take Derek’s hand and see where they can go. He’s spent so long being denied vital things that he wants with his whole soul to the point that it hurts physically, even if he’s right that it is too soon.
Derek stops, hand around Stiles’ wrist to stop him too. He uses a finger to tip Stiles’ face up before gently pressing their lips together in a chaste if searing kiss.
“Hold you to it,” he says, gruffly, not unaffected at all. He starts walking again, but he doesn’t stop holding Stiles’ hand.
And Stiles doesn’t care. There will be time enough for them to examine their sudden, blossoming feelings, but for now, there is a werewolf to track down—Scott had better still be out ahead of quadrant three—and a resistance to plan.
He touches his lips, smiling against his fingers. Then, he twists his hand in Derek’s so he can thread their fingers together, sharing his warmth, their trust.
Once the rebellion or the fracturing or whatever is done, Stiles is so going to kiss Derek again.
~ End ~