Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/2187450.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV)
Relationship: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Character: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd,
Isaac Lahey, Sheriff Stilinski, Allison Argent, Chris Argent, Peter Hale
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics,
Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Shepherd Derek Hale,
Alpha Derek Hale, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Mating Cycles/In Heat,
Mating Bond, Some descriptions of lambing/animal birth, Non-
Graphic Torture, Mutual Pining, Alternate Universe- Medievalesque
Stats: Published: 2014-08-24 Words: 25370

an exaltation of larks
by llassah

Summary

There are times when he feels as if they could fall into bed together, easy as breathing. If
Stiles were not highborn, if he were an omega without connections, Derek would be sorely
tempted. As it is, he resists. Derek wants, he yearns, but he resists. Still, the sight of Stiles
in his cot is enough to test him, even now that it is familiar. At the end of each lambing
season, he sleeps for a week, worn down by months of hard work, of relentless struggle.
He doesnt know how hell feel by the time Stiles leaves, how hell feel after long days and
longer nights spent resisting the insistent tug of Stiless scent and the inclinations of his
own foolish heart.

All Derek wants is to get through the lambing season with his body and spirit intact. He
had thought that the blizzards would be the main danger, not a highborn omega with
beautiful eyes and a stubborn streak.

NB: it baffles me that I have to say this, but please don't put this fic onto goodreads.

Notes

For eeames and drunktuesdays, the better halves of my brain.

See the end of the work for more notes

When Derek first sees the boy, he thinks of a fox. Not an insolent fox with its mouth open, eyes
bright, laughing at himalthough that happens later, when hes already hopelessly gone on him
but a hunted one, ears back, low to the ground, breath high and desperate, almost a whimper. The
boy is wearing green, crossing the stream further down the mountain. He carries nothing with him,
is wearing only light clothing, too light for the snow on the ground, for the blizzards that come
without warning. Its already dark: below them, the lights from the village glow. Its no night for a
boy such as this to be away from his home. Hes a little injured, limping, holding one hand against
his side. Hes also being followed by men on horseback: although theyre half a mile behind him,
theyre gaining on him fast and he wont be able to evade them for long once theyve cleared the
brow of the hill. When Derek first sees the boy, he wants to help him, and he has no real idea of
why.

Derek stands up from his watchful crouch, letting the boy see him for the first time, and jerks his
head towards his hut. The boy nods, lips pressed tightly together and starts to scramble up the
slope, feet catching on tussocks, sending scree falling into the valley below. He has arms and legs
that seem inconveniently long; he must be in the middle of a growth spurt, shedding the last of his
cub fat. He moves with a spiderish sort of grace, and Derek thinks he is handsome, though there is
precious little to compare him with, up here on the hillside at the tail end of winter. My hut is
over those rocks. Give me your shirt and go lie under the sheepskins by the door.

The boy squints at him, head tilted to one side. You have a peculiar seduction technique, he
says. And no, Ill freeze.

Derek prays to the moon for at least a measure of patience. You smell of omega. The fleeces are
warm. Go! Still, the boy doesnt. He stands there, panting, his lips parted. Theres steel in him,
and Derek would respect that at any other time, but not now, not when the hoofbeats are getting
louder and louder and the hounds are baying for the scent. Please, if you wish to live, he says,
and this time the boy takes off his shirt, thrusts it at Derek with a scowl, hands crossed over his
chest. Go, Derek says softly, and this time, thank the fates, he does, dodging from side to side as
he runs, just as the men clear the brow of the hill and Derek, fully shifted, starts to run with the
shirt in his mouth. The hounds whine, and hed grin if he could spare the teeth. He runs instead,
staying out of sight, stretches his legs in a way he seldom does in lambing season.

They follow, led by the hounds. Their horses are starting to tire, and they are becoming more
irritated with every mile he leads them. The boy must have given them quite a chase, and he can
well believe that he would not have gone with them quietly had they caught him. Derek takes
them a valley over, leads them into a cave and drops the shirt into one of the streams that goes
underground to the river a few miles away, slips out of the cave through a narrow foxhole at the
back. One of the hounds tries to follow, and he gives it a long look that sends it whimpering back
to its master. He only shifts back when he is next to his pile of clothing, dresses quickly in the
keen wind.

When he gets back to the hut, the boy has fallen asleep. Only his hair is visible from the pile of
sheepskins, and he smells strongly of wool, overpoweringly so. Derek is used to it, but he is
unsure of how impressed the well-born boy will be when he wakes up. Hefting the fleeces under
one arm and the boy under the other, he ducks into the hut, sets the fleeces down by the fire and
carries the boy to his cot. He doesnt even stir, though his skin starts to pebble in the cold and he
frowns, turns towards Derek. Youre going to be trouble, Derek murmurs, goes to the stove and
stokes it, puts some more peat in. Maybe more trouble than he can afford.

The boy has blisters on his feet, soft shoes worn through. Theres a cut on his left calf that needs
cleaning, and a large bruise on his ribs, although they arent cracked or broken. Mostly, hes tired,
so Derek cleans his wounds, bandages his feet and puts all of the quilts he has in the hut over the
boy so that he will at least be warm. His hand lingers over the boys forehead, but he doesnt
touch him. He feels oddly guilty, as if that single touch would change something between them,
for all that the boys asleep. He runs his hand through his hair, sighs. The boy has long lashes,
softly parted lips. He is beautiful, in a way that makes Derek feel clumsy, too strong, too wild. He
feels awkward in his own den, and the bleating in the caves nearby is more of a blessed relief than
hell admit.

He leaves the boy sleeping in his cot, the stove glowing softly, and goes out to the lambing caves
to check the ewes. He doesnt need a lamp out there, as other shepherds do. He can see even the
ewes in the backs of the pens where the cave dips lower, and even if he couldnt see them, he can
tell how they are by scent and sound alone. One is birthing now, and another will have lambed by
morning. All the ewes are calm and quiet, and he runs a hand over their backs as he walks
between the pens checking. The air is heavy with the warm animal smell of them, with the scent
of the hay theyre eating. Two of the lambs make distressed bleats when he comes near them, but
the ewes lick them, quiet them gently. He smells of predator to them, of danger. Theyll learn to
trust him. His hand smells the most strongly of sheep, and he holds it to the lambs, lets them scent
him then leaves them in peace.

The other ewes are fine, settled down for the night. The lambing ewe is on her side, in no distress,
her lambs heartbeat steady and strong. Shes three years old, experienced. He sits in the straw a
few yards away and watches as she shudders through her contractions, as the lambs forelegs, then
head appear and the lamb slips out onto the straw, bleating in the quiet of the night as the ewe
licks its face clean, warms it with her tongue as it tries to get up on shaking legs. It blindly seeks
her milk, tail moving as it suckles for the first time, a strong, good lamb. Theres a girl, Derek
murmurs, standing up. Good lass. The ewe ignores him completely.

He stays in the cave for the night, leaning against the side of one of the pens dozing, his mind
drifting as the ewes and lambs sleep. The omega keeps returning to his thoughts. Derek could
perhaps let him use the horse he stables at the inn in the village to get home, once he has rested.
There is no possibility of the boy leaving tomorrow: there are dark shadows under his eyes and he
is injured, though not badly. Derek could give him some more suitable clothing for the journey,
pack him some food. Give him some coin to pay for food and a bed on the way. Yes, that is what
he will do. He will help the boy in whatever way he can.

The boy is asleep when Derek returns to the hut, exhausted. At some point in the night he kicked
off some of the quilts Derek put on him and hes sprawled on the cot with one leg hanging off the
side, face pressed into Dereks pillow. He smells of an odd combination of sheep, Derek's cot and
omega. It feels as if he belongs in this hut, sets off old instincts in Derek that he tries to ignore.
Those old yearnings, dulled by age and time, feel keen and sharp when there's a boy in his bed
that smells like everything good in the world. Derek takes the quilts that have fallen to the floor,
lies down on the long bench on the other side of the hut. Grabs sleep while he can, lulled by the
soft crackle of the fire, the sheep on the hillside and the slow, rhythmic breathing of the boy in his
cot.

Hes still asleep when Derek wakes up. Hes not feverish, thank the fates. Hes sleeping deeply,
face smooth, lips parted. The sweep of his eyelashes is enchanting. Derek could lose himself in the
soft rhythms of his breath, his scent. He looks better, a light flush on his cheeks, the tension gone
from his face.

The mountain pass is clear for now; he could find lodging in the village, stay there for the winter if
he could go no further. The sea is a few days ride from here, and from there he could go to one of
the outlying islands, a monastery if he was in need. Derek stokes the stove a little, starts a pot of
tea brewing. The smoky smell of it begins to fill the hut, cutting through the boys scent. He could
send the boy down with Isaac, the next time he comes up to the hut with supplies. Derek rubs
absently at his knee as he waits for the tea to steep properly. Therell be snow here before the end
of the week. He can smell it in the air, feels it in his bones. This is no place for one as finely born
as the boy, especially in the driving wind, the cold. Especially when food will be scarce, comfort
scarcer.

As Derek sips at his tea, he looks out of the small window. The sky is a bright, bright blue, the
snow melting a little on the ground. He can see tufts of grass and heather, little scraps of life under
the snow. The bell is tolling in the village below, and if he listens, truly listens, he can hear the
hum of conversation, takes comfort from it, from the lives lived in small ways, away from the
wind and the snow, in hunkered down cottages and winding sidestreets. The sheep are quiet in the
lambing cave, although they are starting to stir with the morning. One of the ewes, a yearling, is
getting ready to birth, her heart leaping with every contraction. He drains the mug of tea, sets it
down on the hearth. He leaves a mug of tea on the stool next to the cot, leaves the boy sleeping in
his cot, leaves the hut, his shoulders hunched against the thin wind.

He forgets about the boy as he works. The yearling is quick to panic at every change to her body
in labor, strains and pushes, her distressed bleats making all the sheep in the cave restive. He calms
her with soft words, careful with his movements. Shes having twins, is already tired when the
first lamb slips out, but she rouses herself, licks the lamb clean, lets it feed from her. She considers
her work already done, puts little effort into pushing the second lamb out so he clambers into the
pen, kneels next to her, side of his face pressed to her flank as he pulls, the scent of her strong in
the still air. Its still and limp when it does come out of her in a slippery rush; he has to tickle its
nose with straw to draw out its first shuddering breath. He rests his head against her for another
few moments, then wipes his hands on the straw, stands up and breathes deeply. Theyll be fine.

Is it always like that?

Derek turns slowly, doesnt startle. The boy is standing at the mouth of the cave, backlit by the
pale winter sun. He clears his throat, wipes his hands again on his shirt. Its her first time
lambing, and she had twins. Usually, they know what to do, but the new mothers can need help.

The boy nods, comes a few steps further in. Hes wearing one of the quilts from Dereks cot, and
is holding the mug of tea that Derek left for him. Hes barefooted, feet pale on the stone and dirt,
snow melting on the tips of his toes. Is she going to be alright?

Derek looks over at her. Shes licking both lambs, alternating between the two of them as they
push in closer to her. Theyre already bonded, and his scent hasnt disrupted that link, even with
his intervention. Aye. Shell do well. Are youare you well rested? he asks, mouth feeling
clumsy around the words. And youshoes? he adds.

The boy shrugs, drawing the quilt a little tighter around him. Im a little surprised you arent
carrying me back to your hut to get warm, he says with a slight tilt to his mouth. Fragile omega
that I am.

Derek raises both his eyebrows. Omegas who see fit to try and outrun a pack of hounds arent
generally fragile, he says at last. Your feet get cold, its your lookout.

A part of him, of course, wants to pick the boy up and put him straight back in his bed. He is more
than a knotbrain, however good the boy smells, and its worth restraining those impulses for the
way the boys expression softens, a smile hovering about his lips. My feet are cold, he says.
Derek shakes his head, doesnt quite smile. Wants to.
Cmon, we can go back to the hut. The rest of the ewes are quiet for now.

At the mouth of the cave, he takes his shoes off, tries not to preen when the boy slips them on
without a murmur. The ground is cold beneath his feet, but it doesnt bother him. Who are you?
he asks the boy as he skirts around a patch of ice. Theyre almost at the place where Derek first
saw him running and thought he was beautiful. The boy doesnt answer for a few moments,
concentrating on keeping his balance in Dereks sturdy shoes, fine feet unused to such footwear.

Everyone calls me Stiles, he says, and its the truth, but it isnt the whole truth.

Im Derek, he says as he reaches a hand out to steady the boyStilesover a rutted patch of
ground. Stiles. It is an odd name, but it fits. Derek walks quietly beside him, taking the brunt of the
keen wind from the ridge of the mountain.

The hut is warm, smells like home. Stiless scent completes it, somehow, speaks to vestigial
instincts that Derek tries to ignore most of the time. It feels a little smaller than before, though, and
a lot shabbier. Derek is looking around his hut with new eyes, sees the threadbare quilts, the
chipped mugs, battered plates and pans, the tattered map of his old home. Sees the dust, the
clothes hes thrown into a cobwebbed corner to be washed at some point. This is no place for a
wellborn boy like Stiles. Derek closes the door behind him, busies himself with the stove, making
them both porridge to break their fast, more tea. He will tell the boy his plans, and theyll part
ways when it is safe. The scent will fade from his hut, soon. Derek ignores the dull ache in his
chest at the thought. It will be better like this.

What do you mean, no way?

Stiles folds his arms. The effect is a little spoiled by the way his hair is sticking up in every
direction, and by the fact that he is wrapped up in a brightly colored quilt. He looks a little like a
mildly peeved bird.

Im not going, Stiles says. No way am I going home. I cant.

Well you cant stay here, Derek says, and it feels like hes been saying it forever. He stirs the
porridge on the stove, adding the honey and salt evenly. Stiles already has a mug of sweetened tea
that he is holding in front of him like a shield.

Why not?

Derek really wants to say because I said so. He hasnt had to say so many words in weeks.
Because youre an omega and Im an alpha and you should be safe, at home, not halfway up a
mountain with a werewolf, he bites out, filling two bowls with porridge and bringing one to
Stiles.

But why? Stiles asks again. Derek is on the point of growling when he realizes that Stiles has a
look of unholy glee in his eyes. He hands him a spoon, sits at the small table near the cot, keeping
his temper.

Why cant you go home? Derek asks instead, gentling his tone. Stiles blows on his porridge
before he answers, and Derek is momentarily enchanted by the shape of his lips, the sweep of his
eyelashes, the way his fingers curve around the bowl.

My father has gone from our homejust for a little while, Stiles says at last, calling Derek's
mind back from thoughts of dens and cubs. theres a power struggle among those who remain.
I have no wish to stay in a household in which I could be used as a bargaining chip by anyone
with a knot, because ImIm of an age to be mated. And there were looks, insinuations. I didnt
want to stay there to see what those looks could turn into.

Derek bites back every comment he wants to make about the highborn humans who think of
nothing but bloodlines, who tether their omegas to hearth and home, send them into seclusion for
their heats. With wolves, its simpler. More bloody, perhaps, but more honest, too. You had no
guard? No one to protect you from them? he asks at last. Stiles scowls, picks idly at a loose
thread in the quilt. Or you had no wish to be burdened with guards, he says, a slash in the dark,
but by the way Stiless shoulders tense, an accurate one.

You make me sound like a brat, Stiles says quietly. Something thrums through his voice, a
deeper anger. Sadness, too. Like a spoilt child. A guard can go take a piss and in the time
between undoing his breeks and shaking his dick I could have been taken. A guard can be bought,
drugged or threatened. I want to stay here, stay safe. I trust you.

Derek looks up at him, sighs. Theres nothing for you here. Nono feasts, no tapestries, no
servants, no baths, no libraries, no tourneys, no dancing, or music, no swains to write poetry about
your eyes. All I have is a hut, and three hundred ewes. Its cold: the wind is too lazy to go around
you so it cuts through you, food supplies come but once a week, and its the same every time, and
I am notI am not safe to be around. Im a werewolf. An alpha. And the last thing you should be
doing is trusting your safety to me.

He blows on his spoonful of porridge to avoid Stiless eyes. Theyre far too knowing, too sharp
for him. Theres something bright and fierce about Stiles, like an ember in Ericas forge, spitting
sparks, too hot to touch. Derek keeps his head down, eats methodically. You can go down to the
village with Isaac. I have enough coin to

By the seven hells, Derek, will you just listen to me? I dont want to leave. Im safe, here. All
youve done is protect me, and all youve said is that you cant. Justlook at me. Please. Derek
looks up, doesnt say anythingcant say anything. Stiles sets his bowl down on the bed. His
eyes are almost beta gold in the pale morning light. His cheeks are flushed with anger, but when
he speaks, his voice is careful, gentle. Its just until my father returns. Scottll come find me, and
bring me home. Youll hardly know Im here, he adds. Derek raises his eyebrows at that, cant
help it, then sips his tea to hide his smile at the way Stiles scowls.

Until your father returns, he says at last. To keep you safe.

Stiless smile is brighter than the sun, pulls him in like the moon. Derek can feel himself falling,
can feel his heart melt and yield to him. He doesnt do a thing to stop it. Even though this is
temporary, even if this is unwise, he still lets himself fall, eyes open and head clear. Theres
nothing else he could possibly do.

Isaac comes up the winding path the next morning. Derek can sense him from a few miles away.
Stiles is still asleep, sprawled on his cot. Dereks been up half the night with three ewes, sisters by
their scent, who decided to lamb their twins at the same time. Hes with the last ewe when Isaac
comes in, sets his knapsack by the mouth of the cave and kneels in the straw next to him. The ewe
is tired, but the lamb is nearly out, so Isaac stays by his side and watches as, with a few last
rippling contractions, the lamb slithers out onto the straw, already gulping in air, limbs twitching
shakily. The ewe rouses herself, licks her offspring clean, nudges it around to her milk. When it
starts to feed, Isaac stands, offers Derek a hand and pulls him up.

Id forgotten how much you stink when you go up into the mountains, Isaac says as they walk
together to the mouth of the cave. Its as if you forget that soap exists, and that washing is a thing
that any decent werewolf should do for the sake of their pack.

When they get out into the light, Derek makes him stop walking, checks him over for injuries, that
hes eating enough, then when hes satisfied, he buries his nose in the side of Isaacs neck, settling
down at the smell of his pack, the smell of their contentment. I dont need to use soap, not for the
sheep, he says when hes stepped back. He should wash, perhaps. Alls well?

Yes. The river has frozen over again, and Boyds selling skates. The cottage is fine; the ducks
and hens miss your smiling face. Erica made a belt dagger, but the balance on the blade isnt quite
right. Shes getting better at it, though.

Derek lets Isaacs voice wash over him. The pack prospers, and the village is safe. Thank you,
he says when Isaac finishes. Hed like to hear more, but Isaacs hunched over a little in the cold,
cloak pulled tight around him. And thank you for the food. Andthe next time you bring
supplies, I need double, please. I have a guest, he explains when Isaac raises his eyebrows. A
traveler.

Isaac tilts his head to one side, scents the air. Funny, the sheepstink was masking most of it. I
didnt think you were the type to keep an omega warming your bed.

He keeps his claws down. We haventit isnt like that. He needs somewhere to hide. I
wouldnt. Its not he sighs, frustrated with the persistent, enticing scent, the temptation hes
allowed into his hut. Isaac shifts from one foot to the other, searching his face for something, some
sign. Whatever Isaac sees, hes satisfied with it.

Ill be back later today. You cant survive on quarter rations for a week, Derek. You need your
strength. And I know you; youll give most of your food to the omega.

Stiles. His name is Stiles, Derek says. Isaac shrugs, hands him the knapsack. Isaac, he says,
reaches out and grasps the back of Isaacs neck, presses their foreheads together. Dont tell
anyone outside the pack. Please.

Of course, Isaac murmurs, relaxing into Dereks grip for a few seconds. This is going to end
badly, he adds. Derek cant even correct him, just nods, swipes his hand over every patch of skin
he can get to, spreads his scent, and with it the scent of sheep. Isaacs disgruntled expression
pleases him more than it should.

At the bottom of the second knapsack Isaac brings up is a generously sized bar of soap. Derek
probably deserves it.

Stiles finds him at noon as he rests on one of the benches. Hes wearing shoes this time, is
wrapped up in one of Dereks shirts, a tunic belted with a length of twine. His trews are his own,
clumsily mended, the patches Derek sewed on as he slept a bright contrast with the original fabric.
In his hands are two mugs full of sweet, spiced tea, and he walks tentatively, face creased in
concentration as the tea ripples and splashes. You got supplies in, he says, handing Derek the
mug. Is your pack down in the village? Do you live with them? Or do you live here all year?

Yes, yes, no, Derek says, then elaborates at Stiless deeply unimpressed look. We live in a
cottage backing on to the woods. I only live up here for lambing, then the sheep scatter over the
mountains, come back down for the shearing. I couldnt live up here without them for longer.

Stiles sits next to him, straddling the bench. Do you miss them?
He feels the loss of two packs when hes up here in the mountains. Of course, he says. This tea
is good. What did you add to it?

Some of the spices in the new supplies. Just a small pinch of cinnamon, a little cardamom.
Enough to warm it.

Its good, he says again, and Stiles smiles at him.

After lunch, Stiles stays with him, watching him work. Some of the lambs have wriggled out of
their pens, and he matches them with their mothers by scent, fixing the pens as he goes. Stiles
seems content just to look at him, the lantern in his hand casting shadows over the pens, light
softening at the edges into the darkness. He looks away for some of the messier parts of birth, but
theres wonder in his eyes, too, at the first breath of life, the thin bleating cry, the way the lambs
tail flails and wriggles as it seeks its mothers milk. Derek becomes used to his presence as he
works quietly, soothing the ewes, getting the lambs used to his scent. Stiles sometimes wanders off
deeper into the cave, looking at the rocks, the mineral veins, but he always comes back to Dereks
side.

By the time theres a lull, its late. Its only when he straightens up that he realises that hes
hungry. We should go and eat, he says, noticing the way Stiles is swaying a little, his eyelids
drooping. You should have said you were tired, he adds, snagging the lamp from Stiless hand
and herding him out of the cave.

m fine, Stiles mutters, but he allows himself to be led out.

The night is clear and cold, their breath dragonsmoke in the moonlight. The stars sprawl out over
the dark sky, the moon bright, so bright. Beneath them, the lights twinkle in the village, little
clusters of warm lights gathered in patches all along the valley. Stiles stops, points over to a distant
hilltop. Thats the beacon, he says, hand on Dereks shoulder to point him in the right direction.
Theres a fire there, or a light. As Derek watches, it flickers. Its a code. They let the light shine
out in pulses, the same message, over and over. The messages can be passed up and down the
kingdom on a clear night.

The hand on Dereks shoulder is warm and strong. Derek controls his breathing, keeps his voice
steady. What does it say? he asks. Stiles keeps watching the pulse, his lips moving, eyes
narrowed.

It says all will be well, Stiles says at last, with a shaky laugh. Mythey use that message
when the country is in peace talks. They say no news is good news, but Ive never believed that.
This message isits comfort. Things will get better.

Derek nods, cant quite speak. Stiless eyes are liquid black in the moonlight, face all shadows and
angles. They watch the pulses of light until he notices Stiles shivering, then they go back to the
hut. Stiles has managed to find every single book in the shed, every chalkboard, every map, and
they all seem to be scattered on the cot, a nest of books and quilts. I got bored, Stiles says with a
shrug when he sees Derek looking. Some of the books are about crop rotation, household
remedies. One is a treatise on wolfsbane, one a vade mecum on visiting large cities. The rest of
them are collections of ballads, folklore, about constellations and far off lands, heroes and old
battles lost and won. Books are expensive, but he has more coin than he likes to think about.

He clears his throat. Im glad you found them. I was worried that you would be bored, here all
day. Im unused toto conversation.

Stiless lips twitch, but he doesnt say anything. They peel carrots together, chop them. Derek uses
his claws to peel the potatoes, smiles with his head ducked when Stiles makes him do it over and
over, eyes bright as he manages to strip a potato in one long string of peel. Throw it over your
shoulder, Stiles says with a grin. It always comes out as an S. Ive got so many people to bond
with, Ill waste away.

Derek puts it in the bowl with the rest of the peel, ignores Stiless scowl. After they have eaten,
Stiles sprawls on his back in front of the stove, one book resting on his chest as he reads another.
Derek quietly carves the wolf figure he promised Erica for her birthday, stealing glances at Stiles
as he works. Stiles isnt so subtle; he will openly watch for long moments. Derek isnt quite sure
what he is looking for, if he ever finds it. As he works, he thinks of the beacon, of the people who
tend them, who are cold and shivering in the dark so that the people who know what to look for
can get their comfort and peace from the flashing of a fire on a hill. When Stiles is asleep, curled
up in his cot, Derek lies on the long wooden bench, a blanket draped over him, looking through
the small window at the moon, his own comfort, falls asleep to the sound of Stiless breathing and
the soft crackling of the fire in the stove, a new sort of peace.

This time, when Stiles brings him tea, Derek snags both mugs from his hands, sets them down on
the ground and hands him a lamb and a bottle. The ewe, she was too tired by the end. Shed lost
too much blood; it had been too long for her. She didnt survive.

Stiles nearly drops the bottle as the lamb wriggles in his arms. And what am I meant to do with
this? he asks, scowling when the lamb starts to mouth at his jerkin.

Theres milk. Its cows milk, with more fat added it. Youll need to feed him little and often.
Hell need to be near to you, sleep in the hut, Derek adds, steering Stiles over to the bench. Stiles
is too baffled to do anything but follow. Derek sits down, takes the lamb and bottle from Stiles,
sets the lamb on Stiless knee. Hold the bottle up. Hell know what to do, he says, watches as
Stiles brings the leather teat of the bottle to the lambs mouth. The lamb seeks it out, suckles
eagerly at it as Stiles watches, enchanted. Hell stop when hes ready, he adds.

Stiles looks up at him when the lambs had his fill, from his head to his toes. You lookawful.
YoureIm not even going to guess whats all over your clothes. And when did you last sleep
properly?

Derek doesnt know what to do with his hands. He takes the lamb from Stiles, puts it in a small
pen, picks up the mugs and sips from his own. When Stiles frowns at him, he remembers he had
been asked a question. About a month ago, he says after some thought. And theres the lake,
just over the ridge. I could get he loses the thread of his thought. It had been an awful night.
Long, and bloody. The lamb had been close to death when he had eventually got him out of his
mother. Hed had to swing him back and forth to clear his lungs, tickle his nostrils, and then, when
that hadnt worked, hed growled, a subvocal growl that the ewes knew well enough not to fear,
his eyes glowing red in the darkness. The lamb had jerked into life then, born in fear, bleat thin
and high, body still weak as he struggled on the floor.

Drink your tea, then go wash yourself in the lake, Stiles says, frowning slightly. All Derek can
do is nod, too tired to think.

He doesnt undress, just slips off his shoes, walks forwards into the bitingly cold water, everything
in him seizing up at the shock of it. He keeps walking, stones slippery under his feet, breaking the
thin ice thats gathered on the shore. When the water is waist depth, he starts to swim, submerges
himself in the water, eyes closed, lets the air bubble out of his mouth. The water is sweet and cold,
clean. He strips off as he swims, shedding his clothes and flinging them closer to the shore. He can
use Isaacs soap on them later, but for now, he keeps swimming, lets himself stretch disused
muscles, burn off physical energy, use his body as he was always meant to, not in stillness but in
action. When he looks up to the ridge, Stiles is watching him. Its too far away to see his
expression, but Derek swims a little faster under his scrutiny, dives down to the bottom, just for
the burn in his lungs as he pushes himself back up, up, from the darkness up to the thin light of the
surface. He comes out gasping, breath harsh in the stillness. Stiles is gone the next time he looks
up.

He swims back to shore, then, sits on a rock and scrubs at his clothes as best he can. Now that
hes clean, the smell on them is harsh, sheep, musk, blood and sweeter undertones of omega,
every time Stiles has touched him showing through in the weave of the cloth, soaked into the
fabric. He gets the worst of the dirt out of them, slings them over his shoulder to trickle water
down his back. He puts his shoes on, walks skyclad back to the hut, mind muffled, calm. When he
gets to the hut, Stiles isnt there. He puts his clothes to dry in front of the stove, dresses himself
again in his third best shirt, his last best pair of breeks. The best of his clothes, Stiles is wearing.
Derek couldnt bear to give him anything but.

If Derek allowed it, Stiles would have the lamb in his cot. Hes taken to calling him Scott, using
the lamb to win arguments by insisting that he agrees with Stiles, that Derek is outvoted, and
Derek should never be in the position where he is tempted to use his alpha powers on a lamb.
Scott begins to prosper under Stiless care, grows well and takes to following him around the hut
and sitting at his feet as he reads. Stiles is delighted by this, and would have dressed the lamb in
clothing if Derek hadnt put his foot down.

They start playing cards in the evening, or talking. Stiles is careful about what he tells Derek, talks
about his father but not his mother, and doesnt say much about his background. He doesnt ask
about Dereks family. He talks a lot of his friend Scott, the Scott who isnt a lamb. Scott is his best
friend and his partner in crime, the only man he trusts to keep his father safe. I made Scott go
with him. I knew Id be fine without him, but my fatherI couldnt let him go without Scott. Hes
too important to theto me.

How did Scott feel about leaving you?

Stiles shrugs, fiddles with the edge of the tablecloth. He didnt mind, he says, but theres a note
of hesitation in his voice.

Did he know about your escape plan? Derek asks, but he already knows the answer. Stiles
shakes his head with a slight smile. Did anyone?

Stiles hums, thinks for a few moments. Lydia, probably. Shes clever. But she would never give
me away.

Not even to keep you safe?

Stiles doesnt answer. Derek doesnt know if hes considered the worry that he has caused for his
fathers staff about his safety. Their posts or their lives are at risk, for letting a noble born omega
escape from their guardianship. Even if he has considered it, Derek isnt sure if Stiles cares all that
much, and he doesnt know if its because his father is a just man or because Stiles is an unjust
one.

Stiles is uneasy. Derek doesnt know quite why, but Stiles has started to look at him oddly. Hes
been preoccupied for a few days, keeps on watching Derek when he thinks Derek is unaware. It
could be that Stiles has discerned his regard, an attraction that he feels must be painfully obvious.
Stiles could be letting him down gently. Derek stays quiet and watchful, tries not to show his
growing affection. Perhaps Stiles is made uncomfortable by him, so he makes himself small, tries
not to be too hurt by the way that their conversation is stilted, the card games that they play less
lively. Stiles still brings him tea, still feeds Scott dutifully, but their previous ease is gone.

Derek is on the point of asking Stiles outright what he can do to make Stiles comfortable again, is
trying to shape his words with a too-clumsy tongue when Stiles puts his hand of cards down, leans
forward and looks at him. His scent has a thread of nervousness running through it, his eyes
troubled. Derek calms himself, waits for Stiles to talk. I know who you are. It took a while to
make the connection. But I sawwhen you were swimming. The triskelion on your back. The
Hale coat of arms, Stiles says at last. And I know what happened to the Hales, to your family.

Derek lets out a long, slow breath. And what happened? he asks quietly. There are stories, so
many stories, whispers turned to fables turned to warnings to tell wide-eyed cubs by the fireside.

The Argents massacred the Hales at a feast on the lunar eclipse. The Hales were weakened by
the moon, and the feast was to celebrate a truce. All but three survived. The Argents were brought
to justice

it was no justice. We decided, for the sake of peace, to forego justice, Derek spits out. Scott
bleats under the table, and Derek takes another breath, steadies himself. We decided to leave it in
the hands of the old king, although none could blame us for taking every one of their worthless
hides. And his justicehis justice was to allow them to go free, to take their coin in recompense
for the lives of my family, their worth measured in gold, and measured poorly

it would have been war, Stiles says softly, looking at the claws that make little marks on the
table. If you hadnt, if your alpha hadnt chosen mercy, your feud would have dragged every
wolf into war with their king.

He had wanted war, back then. But Laura had stood firm, and he had stood with her, ignoring the
itch in his fangs to take his grief out on their worthless hides. He had stood with her through the
trial, the weighing out of his family in gold. He didnt do it to keep the peace. He did it because
she was his alpha, and the kingdom could hang. I have no king, Derek says, very softly. I will
never have a king.

The old king is dead, Stiles says. He still hasnt looked away from Dereks claws. Will you
never accept the new one?

Derek feels as if his skin is too tight. Stiles is sat with his back straight, face still and calm, save for
the fire blazing in his eyes. There are moments, brief moments, when Stiles seems powerful,
draws it around him like a cloak, only to cast it aside the next second. Right now, he seems as if
he could lead armies.

I had an alpha. Wolves need no king. And nowI have a pack. I have the land. Its enough. I
accept no king.

The hut feels too small. Stiles, when he does meet his eyes, looks lost. Derek stands, his chair
clattering with the force of it. He walks out before Stiles can say anything, before he can speak
more treason.

He wants to run and run. He looks down at the village instead. He knows which of the lights is
from his cottage. Boyd, Erica and Isaac are there, curled up together in his bed. He can feel them,
contented in their sleep. Peter had bitten them first, his first act as an alpha after he had murdered
Laura for her power. Then he had killed the old king, although no one has ever proved it, killed
Katherine Argent, Gerard Argent, killed every Argent who was at the feast, every one of their
soldiers. By the time Derek had caught up with him, he was covered in blood, replete with it,
standing between Katherines brother and his daughter, the daughter holding a crossbow too big
for her to keep steady. He hadnt even been at the feast, had refused to take part in the bloodshed,
and yet, here Peter was, ready to murder them all. The worst thing was how sane Peter seemed,
how familiar. Not even a stranger wearing his uncles face, but his uncle.

One howl could summon his pack to him. He stays quiet, watching the lights in the village go out,
one by one. The door to the hut opening draws him out of his thoughts. He turns to face Stiles,
already braced for an argument.

Your uncle murdered the old king. Does regicide run in the family? Stiles asks, almost toe to toe
with him, his fists clenched by his sides. And rumor has it your uncle lives yet. What of him?
Does he want to add another king to his collection? Does he want more power? They say he is
clever, has cheated death, that he calls people to him and they come. Will you aid him? Your flesh
and blood? Your pack?

Derek doesnt speak for long moments. A deep, dark part of him wants his uncle to be alive still.
At least then he wouldnt be the last Hale. At least the bloodline wouldnt die out on a hillside,
name blackened beyond redemption. I dont care who sits on the throne. There is nothing more
that they could take from me, he says. You talk of kings, of a ruler. We have alphas, who love
us, who fight for us. I was born screaming from my alpha a few days after the solstice, and she
calmed me with her red eyes as she lifted me up to show the moon, bloodied and new, she guided
my first steps and guarded me as I slept. What is a king? I had a mother, a sister. He bows his
head. Its an old grief, but a strong one. I want to live quietly, without blood or revenge, without
feuds. Thats all I want. I have no need to usurp a king, to steal their power. It wont bring them
back. It wont bring me their guidance, their love.

Stiless hand is warm on the side of his neck, touch light at first, then stronger when Derek doesnt
move away. He cant calm his breathing, his claws still sharp, his eyes red. I believe you. I
understand. I think I understand, Stiles says. Derek lets his head drop and rest on Stiless
shoulder. I can see the beacon from here, he murmurs. I look for it every night. When its too
cloudy to see it, I worry; it feels as if I cant breathe. As if I dont have a reason to believe
everythings going to be alright.

Derek doesnt understand, but he doesnt speak. His wolves are restless, reacting to his anger, his
pain. He calms them, gentling his thoughts, draws on their strength and gives them his in return.
He listens to the sheep as they settle, their placid waiting. He leans on Stiles. His scent is a sweet
comfort, a soothing balm, an anchor, keeping him from drifting too far into thoughts of bloody
revenge, of phantoms and dead men who didnt stay in the ground. Over his shoulder, Stiles
watches the beacon and they stand, lost in their own worlds, until the cold seeps into their bones
and they stumble home, shivering and numb, warm their hands on mugs of sweet tea and finish
their card game. That night he doesnt sleep. He doesnt think Stiles does, either.

Things are fragile between them for a few days. Stiles looks after Scott at the hut for the first day.
Derek works in the cave, checking over all the lambs, scenting each of them. There are only
straightforward lambings today. Derek doesnt think he could cope with anything too complex.
He forgets that they are due some new supplies, is surprised by Boyds steady footsteps as he
enters the cave. Boyd doesnt say anything, but he lets Derek walk all around him, scent him for
longer than usual. When he feels calmer, he clears his throat. You remember what I told you
about Peter? About what to do if he comes for me? he asks Boyd. They had argued about it, long
into the night, when Derek had first told them. He had made it into an order, made them promise
to obey. It was the only time he has ever used his powers on any of them, ever forced them to do
anything.

We run. We run, and we dont stop. And if we need aid, Argent owes us a life debt. More
rumors?

Derek nods. Could be nothing, he says, but Boyd just looks at him, brown eyes calm and wise.
But youre my second. You need toyou need to make sure you keep them safe.

Boyd tilts his head to the side a little. I hope I never need to, he says. Derek nods, leans into him
briefly. They sit next to each other in silence for a long time, then Boyd stands up, nods, leaves the
cave as quietly as he had entered it.

That evening, they play cards. Things start to feel normal between them when they become
embroiled in their usual argument about Stiles cheating by counting cards and Derek cheating by
listening to Stiless heartbeat. Its an argument that Derek has begun to feel an immense amount of
affection for, especially as they both cheat. Each method seems to cancel the other out, and as they
are playing for air, there isnt much at stake, but Derek likes the way Stiless eyes snap and his
cheeks flush when hes agitated, likes the spice of his scent, the way he tries to persuade with his
whole body.

There are times when he feels as if they could fall into bed together, easy as breathing. If Stiles
were not highborn, if he were an omega without connections, Derek would be sorely tempted. As
it is, he resists. Derek wants, he yearns, but he resists. Still, the sight of Stiles in his cot is enough
to test him, even now that it is familiar. At the end of each lambing season, he sleeps for a week,
worn down by months of hard work, of relentless struggle. He doesnt know how hell feel by the
time Stiles leaves, how hell feel after long days and longer nights spent resisting the insistent tug
of Stiless scent and the inclinations of his own foolish heart. A werewolf can heal in the blink of
an eye, yes, but they must recover, at some point. He may drive himself beyond the point of
recovery. He doesnt know when he falls asleep, but his dreams are troubled, full of dead men,
coming closer.

The next morning, Stiles smells different. Its a subtle change, but it is a distracting one. Derek
wakes up slowly, already hard, hips rolling against the wood of the bench. For a few moments,
the sheep become a secondary concernwhy heave in hay and feed when he can stay here,
surrounded by such a scent as this? He could stay here all day, rutting up into his hand, taking his
pleasure until the sun went down, leave the sheep to their work. When he wakes up fully, he
sighs, ignoring the insistent demands of his hardness, swings his legs around to the floor and sits
up, looking over at the cot, the tousled head up above the quilts. Stiles is in heat. Stiles is in heat,
and they never discussed what they would do if it ever happened. Derek missed the signs, addled
as he was by Peter, senses muddied by the sheep. He missed the signs, and now Stiles is hard,
slick, moving his hips in his sleep as he falls deeper into arousal.

Derek brings wood in, wakes up the fire, starts to warm some milk for Scott. Kneeling on the
hearth, he can see Stiless face, how flushed it is, how sweetly he parts his lips. He is beautiful like
this, all ripe and ready. A heat is a precious time, a time to take pleasure, to give it if you wish.
Wolves run and chase with it, bring the forest to life with their desires as they play. With humans it
is different, more confined. Omegas can be bonded just by knot, so they hide away until they can
choose a mate with clear eyes and a steady heart, not just with the ache of an unfulfilled need.
Stiles will stay in the hut, taking his pleasure where he can. It will pass in three days. Derek can
stay out in the lambing cave. It will be fine. He can resist. He must.
Stiles stirs as Derek finishes making porridge. Derek stops his work to watch as Stiless brow
creases in a slight frown, eyelashes fluttering a little on his cheeks. He sighs softly, his hips
moving steadily, mindlessly under the quilts, and his eyes, when he does open them, as already
hazy with lust. When he sees Derek, all he says is please, but Derek shakes his head.

Sit up, you need to drink something, eat some food. Youll need your strength.

Derek puts a little croon into his voice, something to persuade. Stiles frowns at him, but he sits up
anyway, the quilts pooled around his middle. I needI need to come, he says, plucking fretfully
at his shirt. He looks lost, a confused child in a too-large shirt. Derek sighs, kneels in front of him.

Eat first. You know how it is. After the first release, you wont be able to focus on anything. Just
eat. Please.

Hes spiced the porridge, added honey and raisins. Hes added a little cinnamon to the tea as well,
some honey and anise. Stiles probably has sweetmeats when hes at home, candied peel and fresh
fruit, meat that isnt heavily salted to preserve it. He probably has a soft bed, a fire and people to
tend to it, tapestries on the walls and rugs beneath his feet

It smells good. I didnt think I liked porridge before you made it for me, Stiles says. Derek
smiles, hands him the bowl, sets the tea down on the stool for him. He feeds Scott as Stiles eats,
slowly at first, then faster as his hunger kicks in. Hell take Scott with him, feed him outside when
he needs to. Youre so good for me, take such good care. Smell soeven with the sheep, you
still smell right. Calms me down. Makes mejust

Derek closes his eyes, digs his claws into his thighs. Thank you, he says. Im honored. Would
I have to work. Would you like my blanket? For the scent?

You should stay, Stiles says. You could stay with me.

His old ancestral home is in ruins; his name is black as pitch. Stiles can be so much more than his.
I have nothing to offer you, he says, looks up at Stiles from his knees. You need better than
me.

And what about what I want? Stiles asks. Derek can only look at him. He wants Stiles with
every part of him, could deny Stiles nothing if his head was clear, if he didnt have a future
beyond this hut, this village, beyond Dereks exile and his grief.

Im sorry, he says. He stands, gets the blanket from his bench, puts it within reach of the cot.
Call if you are in need.

Stiles is on the edge of saying something. He flees the hut before he can hear it, Scott trotting at
his heels.

There are thirty more ewes left to lamb. Its too cold to let the ewes with the lambs out onto the
mountain yet, but the thaw of spring feels as if its right around the corner, the scent on the edge of
the wind. Theyve done well. Two dead ewes, one lamb bottle fed, the other fostered onto another
ewe, and healthy lambs. One lamb is a little lame, so theyll keep him near the cottage, away from
the foxes and the crows. Its been a good season, work well done. Derek feels torn in two. He
wants to stay here with Stiles, share this life with him, sit with him in the evenings, show him the
mountains and the caves, the flowers as they grow. He wants to wait until the skylarks start to nest
on the pastures, flinging themselves up with their wild songs, their exultations. He wants to show
Stiles what leaves are good to eat, the berries to avoid. Wants to make him porridge the way he
prefers, and drink the tea Stiles makes, just for him.

And yet. And yet, his pack needs him, and Stiles needs to go to his father. To read more books,
meet scholars, live in the city with its bustling crowds and universities, in the bright, noisy mass of
people, surrounded by his friends, all laughing and talking. It is an exquisite ache, imagining Stiles
in the city. He indulges in it as he watches one of the ewes, as he untangles one of the lambs from
the cloth bag of feed. By the time it is noon, he has imagined Stiles bonded, prospering in a fine
house, studying runes in a lofty room. He has imagined seeing him in passing as he sells his bales
of wool, dressed in fine linens and silks, fingers black with ink. Six lambs born, and Derek has
tortured himself into imagined jealousies, made his heart ache with them, his teeth pricking at his
lower lip with the urge to bite, to tear.

He needs to clear his head. When he leaves the caves for the night, he plunges his head into a
trough of ice cold water, fed from the spring, yells into it, sputtering as he surfaces, cold but clear
headed once more, frustrations vented for a short while. He washes his hands, his face, then starts
walking back to the hut. Stiles needs to be fed. Needs to be cared for. He prays to the moon for
fortitude as he gets closer to the hut, cold water trickling down his neck, the bridge of his nose.
The snow crunches under his feet with each footstep, the rutted track hard beneath his boots. He
wants nothing more than to sleep in his cot, to curl up and den, but the cot is Stiless now, for as
long as he needs it. He sleeps on a bench, and that is fine. That is enough. As he gets closer to the
hut, he can hear a thin, hoarse cry, a keening, and he closes his eyes briefly for courage.

The scent is like a physical blow. Derek has to pause on the threshold, fingers clawing briefly on
the doorframe. His feet take him to Stiles without him even meaning to move, and he kneels down
next to the cot, eyes wide, mouth dry. Stiles is on his front, hips up in the air. Hes kicked off the
quilts, his pale skin bare, flushed and sweating even in the open air. Stiles is mouthing at the
blanket, at Dereks blanket, cheek reddened from the harshness of the wool. One of his hands is
clutching at the blanket, and the other, oh, the other is two fingers deep in his ass, back bowed, ass
clenching eagerly around his fingers as he tries to get them deeper, his eyes closed tightly, face
wet with sweat and tears. Theres no coordination to it, and Derek can smell how desperate he is,
can hear the staccato thud of his heartbeat.

Easy, there, he murmurs, gripping the back of his neck like he would to calm one of his betas.
Youre doing well.

Stiles opens his eyes, smiles wearily at him. I have a toy I use, its knotted. Left it back at thein
my rooms. Been trying to findmy fingers arent enough. Could youyou dont have to knot.
But your hand? Cant stop looking at your hands. Strong fingers. Broad. Need your fingers.
Filling me up; youd be so good for me, he says, hips moving all the time. Derek lets his head
drop briefly to Stiless shoulder, kisses the bare skin there. Silently, he tugs at Stiless wrist until
his fingers slip out of his ass. His fingers shine with slick, glistening with it. Derek rubs their
fingers together until his are coated with it, although he doesnt need much. Stiles has dripped all
down his thighs, down over his taint, his balls. Derek wants to bury his face in it, to smear it on his
beard, to lick him until his skin is soft and swollen, all ripe and ready for him. He bites the inside
of his cheek, keeps his breathing steady.

His finger slides in, easy as butter. It sinks into Stiless slick heat, right up to the knuckle as Stiles
opens up for him with a soft sigh. He pulls it out a little, pushes in gently, keeping to a soft,
drugging rhythm, fascinated by the way Stiless ass yields so well, so hot and ready. By the time
he presses in with a second finger, Stiles is wordlessly begging, hips canted up, mouth slack with
want. He starts out slow, stretches Stiles out with his thicker fingers, keeping the same steady
pace. He grips Stiless neck with his other hand, mimicking the press of a mating bite, calms Stiles
with crooning endearments, all the words hes been holding back. Youre doing so well, look at
you, my bright, brave boy. Youll makeyou make me so happy. So proud. Hush, hush lad, Ill
give you what you need. There, he murmurs as he presses his fingers up, seeks out the spot
inside Stiles that will light him up, make him jerk and jolt with pleasure. Stiles claws at the
blanket, his toes curled up, back arched, face red and wet with tears and snot, this ugly need that
Derek soothes, fucking his fingers in and out with harder thrusts until Stiles is making these
punched-out sounds, eyes wide and glassy. He keeps on fucking Stiles through his orgasm,
gripping his neck hard enough to bruise as Stiles comes with a yell. He doesnt stop, not even
when Stiles is weakly batting at his hand, coaxes another, smaller climax from him, coaxes the last
of his seed from him until hes twitching and shuddering, sprawled sated on the bed.

Stiles murmurs a sleepy protest when Derek eases his fingers out, so he keeps touching him,
stroking his hair back from his forehead, cleaning his tearstreaked face with the edge of one of the
quilts. When hes sure that Stiles is asleep, he stands up quietly, walks barefooted to a small
clearing of trees near the hut. His hand smells of Stiles, and he bites down on it as he wraps his
other hand around his dick, stroking himself fiercely, teeth sinking into his hand as he growls, legs
spread, hips thrusting forwards into the air. He comes quickly, knotting his hand, spends a few
minutes squeezing down on his knot, dick twitching and flexing in the cold air, hands clawed. The
hand in his mouth tastes of blood and omega, smells of everything good, everything worth having.
He spills his seed and blood onto the snow, marks a spiral on one of the trees for protection, letting
his power soak through to the land, then leans against the tree, breath white in the chilled air.

Derek feeds Scott, leaves a plate of food next to Stiless cot, kneels next to him for long moments,
just looking at him. Now that hes touched Stiles, and so freely too, he never wants to stop. He
rations himself carefully, only allowing himself to press his lips to Stiless shoulder, to pull the
quilt up so that its covering him, keeping him warm. Its a wrench to leave the hut. He goes to
check on the sheep, nose still full of Stiless scent, ears still full of his moans and cries. One of the
ewes kicks out and hes too slow to dodge, his knotbrain still making his movements sluggish.
More of his blood drips on the straw. He wipes it off with his thumb, smears some on the lambs
forehead, some on the ewes. Its a sin to waste blood, to spill it without purpose. The ewe licks
her lamb clean, but she leaves the mark .

Theres snow coming. He has work to do, to keep the ewes safe and warm. He stays there until it
gets dark, raking out the pens, putting down fresh straw, working until he can see the steam rising
from his skin, breath misting in the cave. He works mindlessly, works until his muscles tremble
and his mind quiets, scoops Scott up under one arm, too tired to coax or chase him, stumbles back
to the hut a sweating, exhausted mess. Flurries of snow kiss his skin, the cold burning until it
melts. Flakes gather on his eyelashes, in his hair. The air above is heavy with snow. He cant see
the stars or the moon, cant see the lights in the village below. All he can see is the soft glow in the
window of the hut, the light that shines around the door.

When he lets himself into the hut, the world stills around him. Derek stands helpless, entranced, as
the snow turns to meltwater, trickles down his heated skin. Stiles has taken every quilt, every
blanket, made a nest by the stove, made broth with the food Dereks pack provides. Hes sated
himself, his skin flushed and glowing, all sleek and contented, the whole hut smelling sweet with
it, with his pleasure. His eyes are lazy-lidded, lips curved and Dereks lost, so lost.

Come to bed, Stiles murmurs, and he stumbles forward, kneels just before the nest. His clothes
are wet with snow, sweat. He cant defile such a bed as thisa mating bed, some vagrant part of
his mind whisperswith his boots, his rough clothes. Just to hold me. Just be with me.

He should tell Stiles he cant. He lets Scott squirm free, unlaces his boots, takes off his
sweatsoaked clothes, leaves them by the door. He cleans his face as best he can, wipes the dirt
from his body and puts his last clean shirt on and Stiles watches, keeps watching with greedy
eyes, lips slightly parted. Then, feeling too rough, too clumsy, he kneels without grace in the
center of Stiless nest and accepts the food Stiles gives him, dizzy from the scent of them
combined, surrounding them.

The broth is warm, spiced. Stiles watches him avidly as he eats it, preens when he asks for another
bowlful. Derek is hard and aching for him. He knows that if he asked, now that Stiles is so warm
and contented, now that he has made them a nest, now that hes so enthralled with the pleasure of
his heat, Stiles would let Derek worship him with his body, his knot. He finishes his food, the
warmth gradually returning to his bones, as the wind howls around the hut and the snow falls and
falls and falls and he wants to ask but he doesnt.

It feels like itll never stop being winter, Stiles says as the walls of the hut tremble in the gale.
He puts their bowls on the hearth, puts out the single lamp, pushes Derek down until hes lying on
the mattress, the quilts warm and heavy around them, lies on his side with his leg over Dereks, his
head resting on Dereks outstretched arm. Derek lets him arrange their limbs to his satisfaction,
eyes sliding shut in pleasure at the closeness.

In spring, on the lower slopes, the flowers are like stars, too many to even dream of counting.
You can hear the skylarks and the blackbirds, the laughter of children as they climb the slopes and
roll down, all in a tumble. The lake is deep and blue; you can jump from the high rocks and dive
down, down and still not reach the bottom. You can run through the woods for miles, through
streams and rivers, passing trees that are so old it takes ten men to wrap their arms around them,
skirting round groves that are so full of old magic they make you sneeze. And if you run far
enough, you can get to the sea without ever breaking out from the trees. The springs are full of
promise, the summers are hot and long and the trees blaze in the fall, dropping their leaves for the
winter, which is full of its own beauty. And up here, on a clear night, you can touch the moon.

Stiles sighs, curls up closer. I could love it here, he says. Seeing in through your eyes, I could
learn to love it.

They talk softly, trade secrets and stories. Derek tells Stiles about his pack, about Erica learning to
be a ferris, about Boyd and Isaac working at the inn, looking after the smallholding in lambing
season. About Ericas temper, how she and Isaac squabble like siblings, how quiet she can be
with Boyd. He tells Stiles about other people in the village, some of them werewolves living in
secret, some of them hedgewitches, druids. He tells Stiles about going to the city to sell his wool,
about putting on his merchant clothes and how strange it feels to put on highborn airs, to ape his
superiors, humans with their customs and taboos, and Stiles tells him hes worth a thousand of
them, sounds so fierce it takes Dereks breath away.

Stiles tells him about his father, about his mother, how she grew forgetful and would wander, how
she was young, too young to be so ill. How quiet and sad his father became, how tightly they held
on to each other. He tells Derek about Scott, about Lydia how they grew up together, got into
scraps, until it feels as if he knows them. He tells Derek about the city fairs, the guilds, the
universities with their alchemists, historians, lawyers and doctors, the people who come from far
and wide to trade and to work. It sounds full of life, of all life, the love Stiles has for the city and
the people there thrumming through every word. He wants to go to one of the universities, to
study ancient languages and rhetoric, perhaps study the law, to live in the city in the thick of life.
Derek listens, lets Stiless voice wash over him as Stiles idly plays with strands of his hair, voice
getting softer as he gets sleepier, as another wave of heat begins to wash slowly over him.

They curl up together and Derek strokes Stiless hair, his back as Stiles wraps his long fingers
around his straining dick, brings himself to completion, sweetly flushed and wanting as he pants
and writhes into an orgasm that seems to go on forever, all shuddering pleasure. Derek doesnt
take long to come after that, knots up quickly as a cub at the scent of omega, uses Stiless come to
slick the way. He ruts up into his fist as Stiles watches with sleepy interest, the warm press of his
body grounding him. He falls asleep with his knot still half plump, not quite knowing where he
ends and Stiles begins, never wanting to find out.

The world is muffled when Derek wakes up. The snow lies in drifts, icicles hanging from the hut,
the last twitches of winter turning everything white and pure. He leaves Stiles sleeping, slips into
wolf form and bounds across the snow, breath misting the air as he runs, the snow scuffing up
behind him. Everything feels sharp and clear when hes running. He feels stronger, all lean and
sleek, keen-eyed and sharp-nosed. He rolls on his back in the snow for the pleasure of it, dives
into one of the drifts after an interesting scent, frightens a ptarmigan into wide-eyed stillness and
leaves it there, tongue lolling out in a laugh. He jumps into another drift, scooping up the snow
with his nose, flinging it in the air, and hes three steps from chasing his tail when he remembers
himself. He has to go back to the hut for clothes, carries them in his jaws to the cave. When he
shifts into human form, his heart is light, his nose cold.

Three of the ewes birthed during the blizzard. One has a fine pair of lambs, all three of sitting in
the straw in a neat little row. The second has twins, but only one survived. The third is cold on the
straw, her lamb huddled close. Derek sighs, sags briefly. It may be too late to try fostering the
lamb, but he tries, wraps the orphan in the dead lambs skin, puts all three of them close together
in the pen, the living twin, the ewe and the orphan, so that their scents mingle. Good lass, he
says quietly, briefly stroking down the ewes back. You did well.

He leaves them there. The cave is a little colder than hed like, so he lights the small stove in the
center of the cave, goes around checking the lambs, stroking his hand down their backs so they
get used to him. Some of the ewes hoof the ground when he gets too close, so he leaves them be.
Theres nothing fiercer than a mother with her young, so he keeps a respectful distance, cleans the
pens around them. He still feels stronger, somehow, feels like he does when hes spent a whole
night running with his pack, shared a bed with them and broken fast, like he has a full belly and
his pack by his side.

They didnt mate. He shouldnt be feeling like this, like he is somehow more. He loads more peat
into the fire. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the orphaned lamb feeding from the ewe, his
tail wagging in his eagerness as the ewe stands, placid, accepting her twin lambs with simple
maternal instinct. Perhaps their scents together confused his wolf. Perhaps Stiles wont feel the
same thing, wont feel this tugging need, this glow blooming in his heart. They didnt mate, but
his memory of the night is hazy, warm, something to carry him through long days and lonely
nights. They didnt knot, but they were close, sleepily sharing secrets as the stove crackled and the
wind battered at the walls. Derek presses his fingers to his lips. He hopes Stiles doesnt feel the
same. Hes lying.

The snow begins to fall outside. He thinks nothing of it, continues to work. Two ewes lamb at
once, at different sides of the cave, both yearlings, one with a breech lamb and he feels as though
he is torn in three, between the ewes and yearning, yearning for Stiles. He rests his forehead on
the ewes flank as he pulls the lamb out steadily, the panicked flutter of its heart loud in his ears.
When the lamb is out, he swings it back and forth to clear its lungs as the ewe slumps, breathing
heavily. When the lamb starts to shudder into life, he puts it by her head, hoping that the scent will
cure her fatigue, get her bonded to the lamb and feeding it. He rushes to the other ewe, then to
another until all thoughts of Stiles are driven from his head in the messy business of birth.

By the time theres a lull, its dark. He cant see the stars or the moon, the snow thick and heavy in
the air, driving at him as he secures the cave for the night, starts to struggle back to the hut. Hes
filthy, cold and tired, the scent of sheep strong on his clothing, the howl of the wind the only thing
he can hear. Hes nearly blind in the snow; its only because he knows the land so well that he can
find the hut, eyes closed, feeling along the wall to the latch of the door and

His hand meets empty air, and everything slows down to a standstill. He stands on the threshold,
fingers clawed, eyes red, fangs dropped and ready. The lamp has gone out, the sour smell of oil
lingering. Snow has blown in, making drifts around the door and the wind whistles through. Stiles
is gone, but he cant scent any intruder, any threat. Only the scent of Stiless heat, of them
together. The only living thing in the hut is Scott, and hes huddled close to the stove, head down
against the wind. Derek takes a few breaths, trying to catch a scent, to work out how long Stiles
has been gone. The blizzard isnt going to stop any time soon, and even a fully dressed werewolf
in full possession of their mind would struggle. Stiles is a human omega in heat, a heat that is
burning through him, sapping his energy, distorting his senses. Hes as good as lost.

Derek shifts into full wolf, steps out of his pooled damp clothes. Scott looks up as he trots over
and licks the side of his face, butts his head against Dereks, then hunkers down again. He leaves
the door open, moves slowly from the threshold, trying to catch a scent, see a track. The snow has
fallen too quickly, obliterates all traces of Stiles, sight or smell. Still, Derek moves forward, a few
steps at a time, ears pricked for any sound, nose up to catch the currents of air as they whip past
him. He moves slowly, the snow stinging his eyes, his nose. Its a struggle to stay calm, to stop
himself from running in frantic circles, using all of his strength and speed and none of his sense.
He searches in a fan pattern, returning to the hut each time until his paws are numb and the cold
has settled deep in his bones, the snow freezing on his skin, his breath turning his muzzle to ice.

He should be in his den now, with his pack, not chasing a scent that has been lost, footprints that
are long buried. He wants to howl, wants to run down the mountain, to find his packmates, share
their bed and their warmth, their bond, seek comfort from them. He cannot rest. He can feel his
packs minds as they sleep, lets them soothe him for a few precious moments. He can feel the
shapes of their minds: Ericas is a crackling fire, a dancing flame, Isaacs is new shoots in the
earth, the snag of a briar, Boyds is as cool and deep as a lake, a sunwarmed stone on its shore. He
almost misses the new, weak bond, small as it is, just a faint brush on his mind. Its weak,
flickering, just the vestigial sense of spiced tea, the feeling of a page under his fingertips. He
shakes the snow from his fur. Stiles is alive.

This time, he has a direction, moves forward with purpose, letting the bond draw him closer,
beckoning him. He chases a scent, a hint of laughter, the flash of brown eyes in the sunlight, a
constellation of freckles on pale skin. He follows it until he can see the darker outlines of trees,
and he knows, with a bone-deep certainty, that Stiles is there, and that he lives still. He breaks into
a run, eyes glowing red as he bites back the urge to howl. Stiles lives still, and he is close, and
nothing else matters.

It is quieter in the grove, sheltered from the worst of the wind. Stiles is leaning against the trunk of
a tree, his eyes closed. He is barefooted, wearing only a loose shirt. He is cold, cold to the touch.
Derek nudges him once, makes a high whining sound that he cant quite hold back. Stiles frowns,
opens his eyes. Hes delirious, eyes bright and staring in his stark pale face. Derek nudges him
again, presses his nose to Stiless hand, trying to make him move, stand. Stiles just frowns again,
doesnt seem to notice the cold or the danger. His lips are moving soundlessly, repeating
something over and over. Derek tries to nudge him again, gets no response so he shifts into his
human form, crouches in front of him. Stiles, can you hear me?

Stiles meets his eyes briefly, then they focus on something else, something only he can see. Had
to look for it, he murmurs, running his fingers down the tree bark.

Look for what? What did you lose, Derek asks, putting his hands on Stiless shoulders. I need
you to look at me, speak to me. Stiles!
Couldnt see it. Didnt know ifhow will I know if I cant see it? I cant lose him, I cant, I
wont, Stiles whispers, grasps at Dereks wrists, his fingers cold as ice, but strong, unexpectedly
strong in his delirium. Had to see if the signal had changed.

The beacon. Alls well, Derek says softly. Alls well in the kingdom.

Did you see it? Do you promise? On your honor?

On my honor, Derek says, because he doesnt care about honor, doesnt need it, just needs
Stiles alive. Stiles nods, tries to stand. Derek catches him as he stumbles, scoops him up and
carries him through the drifted snow, the blizzard stinging his bare skin as he struggles to get back
to the hut, Stiles a limp weight in his arms, head lolling back as Derek sinks into snowdrifts, nearly
loses his footing countless times and the cold burns, it burns but he keeps on walking. Stiles shifts
and mumbles fretfully in his arms, lost in some dark dream, his scent sharp with fear as Derek
hunches over him as much as he can, tries to shield him from the worst of the wind, knowing as
he does that hes so tired that they might both perish, that every last scrap of his physical reserves
is being used up on this last desperate trudge.

He left the hut door open, falls through it and into the melting snow, his feet still over the
threshold. They can sleep now. All will be well, theyre in his den. His limbs are heavy as lead
and hes cold, so cold, thoughts quiet and calm. All will be

Scott bleats loudly in his ear, butts at his forehead. Does it again, then again when all Derek does
is groan. Derek lets his eyes go alpha red to quiet the little thing, but all Scott does is bleat again.
Hes spent too much time with Stiles to be anything other than insolent. He butts at Derek again
and again until he can feel something other than cold and tired, can feel a spark of anger as he
lurches up to catch the lamb, stands and sways as Scott darts out of reach, watches him balefully
from under a pile of quilts. Derek digs his claws deep into his thigh to trigger his healing, nearly
yells out as warmth starts to return to his limbs and with it, pain. He breathes through it, starts to
work even with fire racing up and down his legs, sweeps the snow out of the hut, closes the door
against the wind, bolting it. He opens up the stove, breathing on the embers until they spring into
life, feeds the flames with twigs until the peat has caught again. He sets the kettle on the stove
again, the pot of broth, lights the lamp and takes a breath, another, shrugs on his overcoat and ties
it loosely.

He kneels next to Stiles, who lies sprawled on the floor, shirt clinging damply to his back,
breathing slowly, his pulse just a thread. It feels as if theres no animation to him, nothing giving
him any life. He is just a puppet, letting Derek take his shirt off, giving no complaint as hes dried
off with a scratchy woolen blanket. He doesnt even stir when Derek wraps him up in quilt after
quilt until he is just a face and some tufts of hair. Derek drags the cot until it is in front of the stove,
picks Stiles up and places him there gently, stroking an errant strand of hair off his forehead. He
looks at Stiles for long moments, memorizing a face he had thought lost to him forever. He knows,
he knows that this isnt going to end well for him, that Stiles is going back to his father, to the city.
But he knows that Stiles will live, and be safe, and that is all he needs. It is enough. He brushes his
thumb over Stiless lower lip, allows everything he feels to show in his face, just for a little while.
He aches with a sweet, tender heaviness, allows himself to ache, to want, counts Stiless eyelashes
and traces the constellations in his freckles.

When he has fed Scott, he sits on the stool next to Stiles, and waits. Stiles is warming up slowly,
his heart beating a little faster, breathing a little steadier. He starts to smell more alive as his body
warms, color returning to his cheeks. He starts to shiver, teeth chattering with it, tremors running
through him as his body fights to live, to warm itself. Derek puts his hand on Stiless forehead, on
his cheek, and Stiles leans into it, frowns when he cant get closer, anxiety threading through his
scent when he tries to move but cant, trapped as he is by the quilts that warm him. Its alright,
Derek says, voice a little hoarse. Youre safe, now.

Stiles calms a little, but he still shakes, breathing heavily, tries to curl up but he cant. He opens his
eyes, looks straight at Derek but doesnt really see him. Cold, he gasps out. So cold, I cant
please.

What do you need? Derek asks, his hand hovering just over Stiless shoulder. Stiles tries to
move again, tries to sit up and he presses him down, keeps him wrapped up in the quilts.

Need you. Youre always so far away, and IIm cold. Need you here.

Hes too tired to say no. He prays to any listening god for forgiveness, tugs at the end of one of
the quilts, unwraps Stiles, letting the quilts fall to the floor as he goes. Stiles is pale, cold. He
doesnt feel quite alive when Derek first slides into the cot, his skin cool to the touch. He smells
wrong, and something in Dereks hindbrain takes over, some pack instinct that he doesnt fight,
doesnt struggle with. He starts with Stiless fingers, taking the tips into his mouth, letting them
rest there until they start to warm, then licking up each individual finger. Wrists are next, and he
swirls his tongue around each pulse point, seeking the traces of saltsweat on his skin. He does the
same with the insides of Stiless elbows, tongue gentle on the soft skin there, weighing Stiles
down with the rest of his body, pinning him still, keeping him quiet. Behind Stiless ear, he takes
his time, drawing sweet moans out of the boy, licking and sucking, finding all the places that make
him keen and whine.

He grabs some of the quilts from the floor, throws them haphazardly over them both then goes
back to the dip between Stiless collarbones, licks along the skin where it feels thin over the bone,
up to the meat of Stiless shoulders. He could bite down, there, get a good purchase, keep the cub
still and obedient, make him all limp and pliant. He licks the skin there instead, until it starts to
warm and flush, strokes down his arms with careful clawed fingers. He can smell Stiles starting to
become aroused, his heat reawakening now that the danger is passed, soothes the boy with little
growls, pushes him into the mattress harder with the weight of his body.

Stiless nipples are tightly furled and he coaxes them out with his lips, his tongue, licking the
crinkled skin over and over until theyre puffy, until Stiles has his fingers tangled in Dereks hair,
pulling at him to make him stop as he arches up into Dereks mouth with these sweetly begging
noises. He growls again to calm the boy, starts to lick and suckle at the other nipple until Stiles is
hard against his thigh, warm and eager. Please, please, Stiles gasps, but he doesnt tell Derek
what hes asking for, what he needs, so Derek just keeps going, licking a trail down the center of
his chest, closing his teeth gently on the hint of cub fat on his stomach until Stiles whines and
arches up again. He hushes him, keeps going until hes nuzzling where Stiless scent is the
strongest, his nose buried in Stiless pubic hair as he licks greedily at Stiless balls, the base of his
dick.

Stiles humps up with a filthy undulating roll of his hips, his feet digging into Dereks sides as he
clumsily tries to take his pleasure. Derek soothes him again, pins his hips, settles his weight over
Stiless legs. He smells perfect, all warm and alive, all slick, precome and sweat, ripe and
receptive, all eager to be knotted, to be mated. Derek mouths at his dick, just presses his lips to the
shaft, kisses up the length of it. He does the same again and again until his lips are shiny with it,
until Stiles is gripping his hair with a strength that hurts, trying to buck up, to take what he wants,
get some relief. Derek smiles, sniffs along the crease of his groin again, tugs at some of the hairs at
the base of Stiless dick with his teeth. He lets Stiles spread his legs, tilt his hips up a little, and this
time he licks down Stiless taint, presses his tongue to Stiless hole as it flexes, all empty.

Stiles pushes down on Dereks shoulders with his heels, tilts his hips some more until his ass is off
the mattress and this is hell, this is a perfect hell, because he cant, he shouldnt but hes knotted
up already, his dick swollen and hard against the mattress. Stiles is presenting, is begging for it. It
would be so easy, but this, this is almost enough, lifting up Stiless hips further with his hands,
lapping at his rim with his tongue as Stiles opens, slick leaking from him as he swells, all hot and
ready. Derek licks him, over and over until hes sobbing, until hes crying with it and it only takes
a few short strokes of his dick before Stiles comes, his hole spasming around Dereks tongue, dick
twitching and flexing in Dereks hand.

Even before hes finished coming, Stiles pulls Derek up, covers his face in feverish kisses, his
eager fingers smearing his own slick onto Dereks face, his beard as he marks Derek us as surely
as Derek has marked him. Derek ruts up against his stomach, bites down on the mattress under
Stiless shoulder as Stiles strokes his back, his hair, his fingers all gentle now that they arent
clawed in desperation. Theyre alive. Theyre both alive, and Stiles is touching him like hes
something precious. As he comes, Derek kisses him, because theyre alive, and Stiles has the most
beautiful mouth he has ever seen, and Derek will love him until he dies.

They eat wrapped up in their quilts, sleep in each others arms. Hold each other close until
morning.

Theyre being watched. Derek can feel it as he works, a prickle between his shoulderblades.
Stiless heat broke in the night, and he comes out to the lambing cave at Dereks insistence,
wrapped up warm, watches Derek work without questioning Dereks sudden protective streak.
Derek is tired, weakened by the cold, the struggle of resisting Stiless heat. He doesnt think he
could defend Stiles, so he points out the tunnels at the back of the cave, shows him the length of
rope that he needs to follow that will lead him to the village. Ill be fine, if anything happens, he
says, ignores Stiless narrowed eyes, his frown. Theyre being watched, but its subtle, careful.
Derek stands straight, doesnt limp or slump, pushes himself through the fatigue. He closes the
curtains of the hut before he sits down, before he shows any weakness. He shows Stiles where the
knives are hidden, where the purse of coin is kept if he should need to flee in the night, and Stiles
scowls, backs Derek up against the wall and kisses him until he stops talking.

They havent moved the cot. They share it once more. Derek is too tired to do anything but close
his eyes. He goes to sleep to the feeling of Stiles running his fingers through his hair, over and
over again.

The last lamb is born at midday the next day. Some of the ewes have already been let out onto the
lower pastures, have bonded well enough with their lambs that they can leave the pens, can graze
on the slopes further down the mountains. The snow is melting rapidly, the blizzard a distant
nightmare now. Another week up here, and hell be done. It feels strange to think of Stiles with
his pack, existing somewhere other than this isolated world, this hut, the cave, the mountain. He
doesnt know if Stiles will be able to see the beacon from his cottage. He doesnt know if Stiles
will like the woods, the stream. When he tells Stiles that the last lamb has just been born, Stiles
looks as if he wants to say something, but he just smiles in the end, kisses him on the cheek. Has
it gone well? he asks.

Derek nods, caught by the way the sunlight catches the color of Stiless eyes, makes them blaze,
the curl of his lips. He will be the talk of the village, when they go back to the cottage

When Stiles goes to the cottage, Derek will stay at the hut. Boyd will look after Stiles, the pack.
They can run, if they need to. He can buy them time, stay up here and draw the wolf away. Its
gone well, he says softly. When he stands, his knees ache with the cold. He grits his teeth and
walks with Stiles to the hut. He catches the scent of the wolf on the wind, bares his teeth in a silent
challenge. Stiles lets their shoulders bump together as Scott plays at their feet. Whatever happens,
its gone well.
That night, when they go out to look at the beacon, Stiles sighs, lets his head drop on Dereks
shoulder. Has the message changed? Derek asks quietly, but he knows the answer.

I dont want to go, Stiles mumbles, his voice muffled. Derek strokes his hair, looks down at the
village below.

You have to, he says. You have your life to live. A city, a father who loves you. Books to
read, professors to infuriate.

You wont be there.

Derek keeps his voice light, keeps looking ahead. What do I matter? he says, and he doesnt say
anything else. Stiles smells hurt, angry, but Derek doesnt respond. He can hear howling in the
distance. The sooner Stiles leaves, the better. They still sleep together. Stiles is silent, sullen. Derek
curls around him from behind, links their fingers together and rests them on Stiless stomach,
kisses the back of Stiless neck. He gets no response, but Stiless scent and the warmth of his body
comfort him.

Hes taking his first sip of tea when he scents a wolf, closer now, too close. He herds Stiles to the
back of the cave without talking, rolls the rock back from the tunnel. Go! he whispers, turns
back round just as the wolf gets into the cave. Now! and he leaps, his claws out, on the point of
shifting to wolf form as the intruder does the same when

Scott! Stiles calls out. Derek, its Scott! and Derek pulls back his claws, lands on the wolf in a
heap, breathing heavily.

Scott. Your friend, he says flatly. A werewolf.

He rolls off Scott, looks up at Stiles. Didnt I mention that? Stiles asks, guileless. Derek snarls,
deep in the back of his throat. Stiles ignores him, launches himself at Scott and they laugh and
play like two cubs, talking rapidly, speaking in a language of half-sentences and touches, a
language just for the two of them. Derek stands up, starts to walk back to the hut, breathing deeply
for control. Stiles is going, leaving his life as rapidly as he entered it, and there isnt a thing he can
do to stop it. Stiles is going to live happily, to prosper. Perhaps sometimes hell think of Derek, of
the mountain. Derek hopes that its a comfort to him, a memory to take refuge in. Hell mate well,
mate with a good alpha who will support him as he studies, who will know how to calm him
when hes worried, listen to him when his head is full of words. Hell mate with someone from a
good family, one that doesnt feud, that doesnt kill kings. Hell be safe from the wolf that prowls,
just at the edges of Dereks awareness.

Derek looks around the hut for Stiless possessions, but he came to Derek with just the clothes on
his back. Theres nothing to take away, no memories to remove from this place to make it any
easier for Derek to bear. Derek wants to give Stiles all of his books, because they smell as though
they are already his, and books are expensive and Stiles loves them. He strokes his fingers down
their spines. Theyre tattered, worn from many readings. Stiles has marked pages with bright
scraps of cloth, has handled them so often that they smell of him, every page touched with long,
clever fingers, read and reread. He will put them in the strongbox, hide them under the cot. Wrap
them in fleeces so the scent doesnt taunt him. Or he will give them to Stiles, and hope that he has
use for them.

The sound of their laughter is clear and bright in the still air. They talk of Stiless father, how he is
well and prospers, of peace talks and ambassadors. They walk up the path to the hut and Derek
looks at the single room with fresh eyes. It incriminates him. The cot incriminates him, with its
nest of blankets, the scent of their lovemaking, their sleep. Derek could talk all he wished of how
he slept on a bench, night after night, but in front of the stove is a cot that bears the scent of his
weakness, of Stiless need, tells the tale of how he almost lost Stiles, wasnt enough to keep him
safe and protected. He can wash the quilts in the lake. Carry them all up to the lake, dive in with
them and let them sink. Use every sliver of Isaacs soap on them. Then, next year, they will smell
of lavender and mildew, musty with disuse, and he can lie beneath them and never think of Stiles.
He smiles at his own folly, prepares Scott and Stiles a meal with the last of the bread, the cheese
and the cured ham, serves it on his best plates, pours them each a glass of milk.

They come in arm in arm, a light dusting of snow on Scotts shoulder. Snowball fights? Derek
asks, smiling when Scott glares at Stiles. Come, eat, you must be hungry after your journey.

Thank you. I am, I hardly had a chance to sit down before I was under orders to bring Stiles
back, Scott says with another glare. Stiles smiles, all insolence, spreads his hands wide.

I left a note he says. Its not my fault that my fathers staff are all incompetent. Besides, I was
safe.

Scotts mouth is full of bread, but his look speaks volumes. Derek sits on one of the stools, takes
his tally book from his pocket and notes down the last lamb born, its condition and the date it was
born. When he looks up, Stiles is watching him. Yes?

Tell Scott I was safe, Stiles says. Tell him hes an old woman, and he breaks off at Scotts
low growl.

You tricked me; you tricked everyone who was there to keep you safe, you

Enough, Derek bites out. Stiles is old enough to make his own mistakes. Ive known him but a
short time and I dont believe a word he says. If youre all deceived by him, thats your lookout.

Scotts eyes go red, his claws slowly appearing. Derek offers no challenge, just waits for him to
regain control. Stiles has gone quiet, and when Derek looks at him, his expression is soft,
unreadable. I dont want to go, he says. Now I know that my father is safe. I could stay here, I
could

No, Derek says, keeps his voice flat, as cold as he can make it. Its difficult to look at Stiles, to
watch the humiliated hurt bloom on his face. No, he repeats, because Stiles has a way of making
a no into a yes, of chipping away at his resistance, arguing black into white. We had a deal, and
were sticking to it. He uses his alpha voice even if it makes Scotts hackles rise, stares Stiles
down until he looks at his hands, jaw clenched, eyes ablaze with anger. Derek turns to Scott,
keeps his voice even. The weather is set clear. If you leave now you can be on the broad road by
noon, and they keep the kings roads passable.

Scotts eyes keep flicking between them. Hes an inexperienced alpha yet, unused to using his
power, or Derek is sure that he would have had Scotts claws in his neck by now. Im, Stiles
clears his throat, Im going to say goodbye to Scott.

He leaves quickly, doesnt look at either of them, cheeks still red, the lines of his body all anger.
Scott starts to speak, but Derek holds his hand up, waits for Stiles to get to the cave before he
lowers it.

Youyou hurt him! Do you know how rare it is for him toto trust anyone? And youyou
throw it away. You dont deserve to even look at him, I should take it out of your worthless hide,
he snarls.
Derek lets himself slump on the stool, unutterably tired. Id let you, he says, closing his eyes. He
needs to sleep. Lambing season takes everything he has, every year. Stiles has taken more, and he
has given it willingly. Scott stands, crouches down in front of him and puts his hand on Dereks
forehead.

Youre burning up, he says, looks into Dereks eyes, scents the air around him.

Ill live, Derek sighs. But Im weak, too weak to keep him safe. Best if he leaves, before the
danger gets here. I think youd take me in a fight, and youre just a cub. When he opens his eyes,
Scott is smiling a little.

You love him, he says.

Derek lets his silence damn him. My horses are stabled at the inn. Take them; theyll be fresh for
the journey. Theres coin in the purse on the mantelpiece, my seal ring. Use them if you need
them; my name can still give some protection, blackened as it is.

Scott tilts his head to the side. Did he ever tell you who he is? he asks. Derek closes his eyes,
unable to bear Scotts compassion, his pity.

Everyone calls him Stiles, he says, keep his eyes closed as Scott stands. Just as Scott is about to
leave the cottage, he turns and looks at Derek, the light behind him making his outline dark, his
face unreadable. You should be quick. And when you get to the village, tell my wolves to run.
Theyll know where to go. Dont tell Stiles. Promise not to tell Stiles, he says, pleading. Scott
hesitates. Please. Im their alpha. I have toI have to at least try to keep them safe, he says.
After long moments, Scott nods, once, turns, closes the door behind him. Derek digs his claws
into the bench as they leave, talking quietly as they walk down the path. He doesnt howl. He has
his pride.

He bites down on his hand that night to keep himself quiet. The full moon is high in the sky,
sending his blood into a fever, his mind disordered. Everything smells of Stiles, everywhere he
looks he sees traces of him, from the books to the spices he puts in their tea. He bites down on his
hand, stays silent and still as blood fills his mouth, huddles down like a frightened child in the
corner of a hut that was a refuge. A single whine, a howl, and the pack will turn back, will come
to Dereks aid. A single sound, and hell reclaim Dereks pack, and all their running will be for
nothing. Derek bites down on his hand, and when Peter comes with his own, new pack, he
doesnt make a single sound. Doesnt even fight them. His hand drips blood on the snow as they
carry him. He hasnt even the strength to heal.

He wakes up in chains. Time blurs. Peter is kind and cruel by turns. Talks of mating bonds, of
packs, tells him how easy it would be for him to free himself, how Peter can make things right for
him. How they can be a pack again, reclaim their lands and their name. Derek stays quiet. Just
howl, Peter says. Call them. Call your omega, and hell move mountains to get to you.

Derek whines in pain, slumping in his shackles until his shoulders wrench. He doesnt howl. Peter
leaves. His skin burns, his joints ache. Peter doesnt even need to torture him much. His mind and
his body are doing all the work for him, not that this blunts Peters claws or dulls his fists. He
doesnt know how much time passes before Peter is back again. He coaxes again, talks about their
old home, how beautiful it was, how sweet their lives were, full of ease. Derek doesnt speak. He
talks about their future, about ensuring the future of the bloodline, strokes Dereks hair as he plans
with a soft voice. Derek doesnt respond, concentrating on every breath. You could have so
much, he murmurs, kissing Dereks forehead. Why form a mating bond with the son of the king
and never use it? he asks softly, his voice kind, eyes full of pity. Derek doesnt speak. He keeps
his heart closed. Peter slams his head back against the wall when he leaves, snarling in his face, all
teeth and anger, all honesty. Derek doesnt flinch.

High above, he can see the stars through the grille. He imagines a beacon, something to ease his
mind, but there is no need for one now. The kings son is with his father. There is no need to calm
the restless mind of the heir to the throne with lights that flicker on the hills. Stiles has nothing to
trouble him now. Derek looks at the stars, names as many constellations as he can. Tries to
remember all of the old stories, all the tales of chases across the sky, of wolves eating the sun in
three bites, ravens and wolves as dear friends and bitter foes. His mind wanders, but those stories
that he recalls give him comfort.

Peter grows impatient. Derek is steadfast. He stops healing himself, uses all of his strength to keep
his mind intact, his will strong, denies himself the bonds that tie him to those that he loves. Peter
turns to words, to soft touches, gives him bitter wine that haunts him with monstrous visions,
sweet wine that weaves illusions of soft hands, warm lips. He sees his mother, feels her touch,
smells her scent and kneels at her feet, face buried in her stomach as she strokes his hair, soothes
him. He is at the feast, watches his family die, over and over. The old king comes to him, tries him
for treason in his uncles place. Laura cries, slashes at him with her claws and they grapple, naked
and bloody until they can no longer stand. His pack comes to him, lick his wounds, rip his
shackles from his weakened limbs. He wakes up alone each time. Before each sip of wine, Peter
tells him how easy it would be to stop these dreams. He drains each glass.

He never dreams of Stiles.

He opens his eyes one morning and sees a dark haired girl with a crossbow. He doesnt speak,
waits for her to disappear. Do you remember me? she says at last.

Derek clears his throat. You grew into your weapon, he rasps, coughs racking his frame. But
youre not real.

The Argent girl tilts her head to the side, her smile teasing. Come with me anyway. Youve got
nothing to lose.

Derek considers this, nods. That seems logical, he murmurs, watches her break the shackles
with a magesnap, tries not to fall when his arms are freed. She takes his weight easily. She smells
of gunpowder and wolfsbane, and he doesnt trust her. A rope hangs down from where the grille
used to be, and she asks if he has the strength to climb. He just looks at her.

Try, she says. Ill catch you, but you have to try. Please, so he bends down, leaps, claws
nearly shredding the rope, thrashes until the rope swings enough to knock against the wall and
hell fall, hell fall but a hand reaches down and grips his wrist, holds him still.

Be calm. Take my hand, and its another Argent, the brother, and he doesnt trust him but the air
smells fresh and clean, and he might be able to see the moon from here so he breathes deeply, lets
Argent pull him up and scrambles over the cold stone to the grass, black bile pouring from his
mouth, blood seeping from his unhealed wounds. This is real. Nothing has ever hurt this much in
his dreams. The grass is cold beneath his shaking hands, damp with melting frost. He wants to roll
in it. We need to leave, Argent says, grips the back of his neck and hauls him up.

Are you here to kill me? he asks, swaying a little in Argents hold. Behind him, he can hear the
sound of the grille being put back in place, fastened down. Argent smiles at him, teeth glinting in
the moonlight. He looks older, grizzled, no longer the clean shaven, respectable merchant. His
clothes are dark, serviceable. The stench of wolfsbane clings to him.
Id rather not. The price on your head is for your safe return, Argent says, steering him towards
a waiting horse. Can you stay in the saddle?

So youre a mercenary now? Not falling back on your glorious name? he asks, turning in
Argents grip. The girl rolls her eyes, starts to unwrap a length of rope. His knees buckle when he
tries to get his foot in the stirrup. And no. I cant.

Because the girl is kinder than her father would have been, she ties his arms around the horses
neck, ties his feet to the stirrups so that he can at least pretend to be riding the thing. Chris Argent
is the sort of man to tie him belly down and tell him its for his own good. Or he used to be. Time
has changed them all, as it must. He smiles at the girl, nods his thanks. When they set off, the
horse hes on keeps pace with them. He rests his cheek on its mane, feels its muscles flex under
him as it sets a merciless pace, eating up the ground with muffled swiftness. The Argents have
learnt some smuggling tricks. Fitting, for a family of thieves and murderers to have abandoned
their civility, false as it was. Mercenaries. Then, he is a shepherd now. It is perhaps not such a
strange thing after all.

He loses consciousness as they enter the forest, unable to keep himself awake any longer. They
have kept the same pace, not talking or pausing for rest or food. Both of them wear dark cloaks,
daggers close to hand, set little wolfsbane traps, throw bottles of anise and cinnamon either side of
them to confuse their trail. It is just like the old wars of his childhood, skirmishes and ambushes
that gave way to a false peace of pleasantries and gifts, and it is with the back of his neck prickling
that he eventually surrenders to sleep.

He regains consciousness flat on his back, with Argent holding a mirror to his nose. He claws up
and tries to struggle out of Argents grip. Easy, there. Why arent you healing? Argent asks,
poking at one of the clawmarks on his stomach, the deep gouge from his knee to his groin. Derek
doesnt answer, sits up slowly. Youre an alpha; some of these are old wounds. You should have
healed these weeks ago; theres no trace of wolfsbane in them. Tell me, he says, voice a little
harsher, now, presses down on a wound on Dereks arm. Derek snarls, stands up into a crouch,
arms out by his sides, fangs dropped. Argent doesnt move, but behind him, theres the snick of an
arrow being notched, the faint creak of a bow.

Derek takes a breath another, blackness blooming at the edges of his vision. I dont trust you, he
says. I dont know why youre here, but I dont trust you. Or like you, he adds. Behind him, the
girl adjusts her stance. He sheathes his claws, lets his fangs recede slowly, but he doesnt stand
down. He doesnt need to: hell fall down soon enough. He pants for breath, bites the inside of his
lip to try and stay focussed, but the world is tilting to black and white and hes weak, too weak.

Were supposed to bring him alive, Argent says. The wood of the bow creaks as the girl takes
the tension off it, putting the arrow back in its quiver.

We should move quickly, then. I dont think hes going to be alive much longer, not in this
state, she says. Her voice is dispassionate, but she catches him as he falls, lowers him gently to
the ground. Easy, there, she murmurs, strokes his hair back from his forehead with a smile.
Youre nearly there. You can let yourself heal soon. His eyes slide shut as he looks up at her,
then at the stars above her head, blazing bright, so bright that theyre all he sees.

The world goes by in flashes: the road beneath him, the sunrise, Argents fingers at his throat as
they make him drink, the girls as she coaxes him to eat, putting crumbs of honeycake to his lips
and praising him warmly when he licks them off, brief conversations with other travelers,
murmured conferences over his head as he lolls in the saddle. He cant keep his claws in, snarls at
the Argents when they come near. They get to the walls of a city and its all noise, all scent and
its only Argents grip on the back of his neck that keeps him from going utterly feral as they ride,
growling in a way that makes the horses paw the ground restlessly. Its more a mercy than a
betrayal when the pommel of Argents dagger comes down on his temple with brutal precision,
and he accepts it without protest.

and if you think Im going to sit here and watch you destroy yourself out of some misguided
sense of honor, you damned

I think its the custom to be soothing when youre at someones bedside, son.

If they arent the most infuriating

Stiles.

Someone touches his forehead, his cheek. Alright. Soothing. Your pack is here, and theyre safe.
Peters dead. Im here. Its allits all fine. But you need to heal. It isntyou dont need to be
strong any more. You need to rest. Because I love you, even if youre an incredibly stupid,
knuckleheaded lunk of a

Stiles.

Someone kisses him on the tip of his nose. I love you. Youll live, because I love you.

You made me promise not to tell Stiles, so I told everyone else, and Im not sorry. Your pack is
here, and theyre safe. And Scotts here, the other Scott, because Stiles made us go back for him.
And youre here. We didnt thinkwhen Chris Argent came up the stairs carrying you, your pack
thought he had killed you. Its alright, though. Hes healing now. And he has a beautiful daughter,
and she shot me, but she said she was sorry so its fine, because I healed. And you should, too.
You should let your wounds heal, because your pack is here, and your mate is here. You just need
to let them in.

Stiles told me what you did, son. I wanted to thank you, as his father. Not as a king. Just as his
father. Hes going to be trouble, but he loves you beyond reason, so I think you should do just fine
together. You dont need my blessing, but you have it. Heal well, alpha.

Were all safe, Derek. We kept our promise to you, and were safe. The lambs are doing well,
learning all the old paths through the mountains. Youll see a fine flock when you come back for
shearing. Isaac and Erica are out in the city. They didnt want to leave you, but they were arguing
the birds out of the trees, so I told them to go make trouble somewhere else. I hope they dont
make too much trouble, though. I think Ive had enough of that to last a lifetime. I wantyou
should be the one to tell them off. They dont mind me as well as they should.

I had forgotten how beautiful the girls are in this city. Boys, too. I tried my hand at
pickpocketing, just to see if I remembered it, but Stiless father made me take the things I had
stolen back. His fatherthe king. Strange, to think of him as a prince. He didnt act like one on
the journey here. Excepthe told us we should travel with him, to ask for his fathers protection
and his voice kind of went like yours does sometimes. So maybe he does, and I just dont know
enough princes. We made Boyd go and sleep. Hes barely left your side. Ericas at the forge,
hitting things because shes still angry with you. I think I am, too. I can decide when you wake
up.

You lied. You always told us, you said that when we ran, wherever we went, youd find us
when it was safe. Its safe now, damn your eyes, its safe. Were your pack. Youre our alpha, and
we need you. You promised, and I know you say you dont care about honor, but you swore on
the moon, we made you swear on the moon, and you justBoyd, I cant. What if he doesnt
wake up? What if he never comes back to us?

Hell wake up. Hes tired. He just needs to rest.

She kisses him on the lips, then on each of his eyelids. She touches him on his forehead, then his
chest, right over his heart. Let us in, she whispers.

Its been too long. He justhe isnt there. We cant reach him. Its like his bodys here, but his
mind is just gone.

Call his mind back.

Stiles, it isnt that simple.

Why not? Why cant it be simple? Why cant he just be at the other side of a wall, or in the next
room? Why does he have to beto be lost? What do you dowhen someones lost, how do you
find them? Boyd, how do you call your pack? How do you let them know you need them?

We howl.

Show me.

Stiles

Now.

Its like being struck by lightning. Its like being in the thick of a battle, all snapping teeth and
slicing claws, the clash of steel and the scent of blood, like hunting down a stag with your pack by
your side, like diving into the lake from the highest rock, like the heat of the fire in the forge, the
sea in a storm, like the first shuddering breath of a newborn lamb, like the red flash of a fox
running in the snow. His wolves howl, and it tears down his carefully tended walls. His wolves
howl, and it hurts. His wolves howl, and he lets it hurt, sinks back into a body wounded almost
beyond repair and lets it mend, lets bones knit and flesh bond as his wolves run back into his
heart, his soul, flow into the spaces that were empty and cold before and reclaim their home.

When the howling stops, the only thing he can hear are his shuddering gasps, before the rest of the
world floods in, every heartbeat, every scent. His pack are here, alive and well, and

Stiles?

Im here, Derek. Right here.

Derek frowns, tries to find words. Puts his hand over his heart. Here, too.
Stiles puts his hand over his, strokes back and forth with his thumb. Someone decided to form a
mating bond without telling me, he murmurs. Someone decided to make me fall in love with
them, and never tell me they felt the same. Someone decided that they didnt deserve to have any
happiness, that they should make themselves suffer because they were too stone headed to

I love you, Derek says, opens his eyes. Stiles smiles at him, his eyes warm and bright.

You cant just say things like that, he says, a little helplessly. Its cheating when Im trying to
be angry with you.

Derek smiles, feeling weak and washed-out. Isaac, Erica and Boyd stand at the foot of his bed.
Their faces are pinched and drawn, shadows under their eyes, but theyre alive, and he can feel
them again, in his heart, where they belong. For the first time in long weeks, he takes a breath and
everything feels alright. The lambs? he asks as he sinks back onto the pillows, Stiless hand
warm in his.

All safe, out to pasture. Theyll go up to the higher slopes when the lark starts to sing, Boyd
says. All fine, strong lambs, too, Derek.

And my pack? How does my pack fare? he asks, closing his eyes. I missed you all, these past
months. Felt wrong. Empty bed.

Hes on the point of sinking back into sleep as the covers are pulled back. His pack surround him,
Stiles tucked into his side, nose cold on his neck, Boyd on his other side with Erica and Isaac on
top of him. All the knots that had been tied in his chest loosen, because his pack is here, and they
smell like home, and whatever else Peter has taken from him, he still has this, still has them. They
talk quietly as he basks in their presence, their scent calming him. Youre almost purring, Stiles
murmurs, his breath warm on Dereks skin. Derek rubs his chin lazily on the top of Stiless head,
shifts so that his arm is wrapped around him.

Im happy, he says, testing the words in his heart and finding them true. He sinks into sleep
between one breath and the next, still smiling.

Theyre still there when Derek wakes up. Stiles has somehow rolled over him in his sleep and is
draped half over Boyd, half over Isaac. Erica is lying over his legs, her head nearly hanging off
the bed. He strokes her hair and she leans into his touch with a soft sigh. She smells a little of
smoke, of iron and sweat, and there is a smudge of soot just below her ear. He licks his thumb,
wipes it away. Find a forge, and youll find Erica. She shuffles a little closer to him, humming
contentedly when he starts to stroke her tangled hair again.

Now that he is more alert, he can think, and plan. And wonder. His wolves seem at home in the
palace, seem to be comfortable with Stiles in a way they seldom are with strangers. It took years
before they were accustomed to the people in the village, and they were good, kind people who
accepted them without question, helped them through the cruel winter with food that they could ill
afford to spare. It is the reason that Derek goes up into the mountains every year, the reason he
cares for the villages flock, guides them through lambing, calls them down for the shearing. He
owes them a debt that he may never be able to repay, helps them where he can with whatever they
require of him, because they accepted his pack, even when they didnt venture out of the cottage,
would stay indoors or deep, deep in the woods, high in the mountains.

The villagers called them Dereks shadows, only saw glimpses of them as they disappeared
around corners, behind trees, flashes of yellow eyes and sharp teeth. Derek would go to the inn,
go to the village pump, talk to people because they werent monsters and he wouldnt let his pack
become the unknown. He would tell them how Isaac could play the fiddle, how he still hadnt
stopped growing, how Erica could bend and twist metal wire into cunning shapes, how Boyd
could fashion ice skates out of almost anything and follow a scent for miles. He would talk, and
talk, even when he wanted to mourn his losses, to care for his pack, for the alternative was flaming
torches, whispers, fear and mistrust. The village knew his wolves, and so when they came out of
the shadows, tangle-haired and wild-eyed, they were welcomed.

Now, they are in a new place, a strange place, and they arent hiding, and hes more proud of
them than he can say. He sits up, starts to work the snarls and snags out of Ericas hair, drawing
out the pain with one hand as he combs through with the other. It is an old trick his mother used to
use with Laura and Cora, to stop them growling every time she combed their hair, eyes glowing
yellow as they struggled. Laura used to make him tangle her hair deliberately when their mother
started to use that trick, used to kneel at their mothers feet, eyes slipping shut in bliss as her pain
was drawn out and mother brushed her hair until it shone like raw silk. He hasnt got a brush or a
comb, but he does the best he can with his fingers. Shes half awake, now, smiles up at him with
her eyes half lidded. You found a forge already? he asks quietly. Her smile becomes a little
wider.

The armory. Its run by another werewolf. Youd like her, she murmurs, rolling over so that
Derek can get to the rest of her hair. She says Ive got a lot to learn, but I listen well.

He huffs out a laugh and she nips at his leg, growling a little. I can listen; youre a mean alpha
she says, but he can hear the smile in her voice, so he skritches lightly at her scalp, starts to work
out a particularly large tangle.

Yes, I am, he agrees mildly. Whats her name?

Kali.

His hand stills for a few moments as he tries to remember who she is. So many packs came and
went through Hale lands, and were welcomed and aided as required. These old alliances, old
rivalries, most of them lost to the massacre, generations of aiding and feuding lost at the tip of a
sword. Kali, though, was a good ally. Sheafter the feast, and the bloodshed that followed, she
stood with him and Laura. He has little real memory of that time, but she stood with them. Youll
go far with her, he says. She used to wear torcs and cuffs of beaten copper, tipped her claws with
tempered steel. Ifif we stay.

We stay, Erica mumbles, face pressed into his shin as he tugs apart a strand of matted hair. He
has no idea what she does to her hair to get it in this state.

It isnt that simple, Derek tells her, wishing with all of his heart that it was. Peter made sure of
that when he murdered the previous king as he slept and left his bloodied corpse in front of the
palace. Im reasonably certain his heir will not welcome a member of the same pack into the
palace for longer than is necessary.

Stiles stirs next to him, lazily stretches out his arm so that hes touching Derek. Not the heir, he
croaks, his eyes still closed. Old king didnt have an heir. Too busy embezzling funds. My father
kept the peace after Peter, and, uh, they didnt let him stop. He was in the city guards. He still
sneaks out of the palace to patrol sometimes. Thinks I dont know.

Everyone knows, Isaac says, trying to sit up, pushing Stiles so that he rolls off both Isaac and
Boyd, lands on top of Derek with a stifled yelp. Except Derek.

Derek doesnt comment. Stiles is straddling him, face pressed into his neck, legs wrapped around
him, and he smells warm and right, smells like home and Derek doesnt care what he doesnt
know, doesnt care about anything but the solid weight of his mate, alive and well, struggling to
keep his balance.

Mated to the son of the king, and didnt even know it. This is what happens when you dont
have us around, Isaac says, sitting up and taking over from Derek with Ericas hair. Stiles smiles
into his skin.

I didntI didnt know I was bonded. Id always thought there were those stories, of alphas
forcing a bond through knotting, of omegas in heat, bonded when they were too desperate to say
no, feverish with need. Old folktales, of animals that would take human form carrying off omegas,
kingdoms won and lost by the right knot at the right time. A bond stronger than death. I tried to,
to give you a chance to leave. I didnt want to take advantage.

Stiles leans back a little, looks at Derek, his eyes sharp, serious. At some point, were going to
have a long talk about you making decisions on my behalf, he says, then his expression softens a
little. And then we can have a long talk about honesty and how I shouldnt keep things from you
just because it makes things simple, he adds, and Derek nods, because a guilty part of him wants
things to go back to being simple, except perhaps they never really were between him and Stiles,
perhaps they will always be a tangle of love and divided loyalties, old wounds and older grudges.
Perhaps they are only simple when Stiles is running, or in heat. When there is need, and it is the
most important thing between them.

I would speak with your father, he says. I know youI know tradition means little to you, but
I wantI wish to show him respect, as someone who loves you, who raised you.

Stiles nods. He shows so much on his face in these moments, looks heartachingly young,
vulnerable. Does that mean you accept our bond? Even knowing who I am?

He kisses Stiles, a chaste press of lips, rests their foreheads together. With all my heart, he says
softly, allows himself this one wish, this desire.

King Stilinski is unnervingly like his son. He sits at his desk, leaning back in his sturdy oak chair.
He wears no symbol of office and his clothes are made of sturdy fabrics, more practical than
ceremonial. His hair is cropped short and he looks tired, his face lined but his eyes are bright and
kind, keenly intelligent. He wears his power lightly, but it is still there, in the heavy seal on his
desk, the maps, the territory markingsPack lines? he blurts out without meaning to. Stilinski
nods, rubbing his chin with one hand.

Im trying to work out what to do about them. Argents old maps. Funny things, borders. Once
theyre on a map, theyve got more power, and sometimes its down to who draws them on the
map first. And with werewolvesthe boundary moves, yes? It ebbs and flows.

Derek nods, looking down at the map. It feels wrong, seeing them set in ink like that. This map
can only be true for a few months, he says. He doesnt like it, doesnt like seeing pack lines
reduced to something you can draw with a quill. Stilinski looks up at him for a few moments, rolls
up the map.

Im going to put them in the archives. The archivist sleeps all day, so it should be a few years
before they are catalogued, he says with a slight smile. Stiles would never let me hear the end of
it if I were to burn them, but I dont think they have any place in my dealings with werewolves.
Does that sound fair? he asks. Derek doesnt know quite why he is asking. He is just one
werewolf, not all of them. He would like to burn every single thing Gerard Argent ever touched,
would like to set fire to every single damn thing, every weapon, every experiment, every single
book in their damned collection, passed down from murderer to murderer

Or we could burn the things, and forget to tell Stiles, Stilinski says, head tilted to one side. But
you arent here to talk about maps.

Derek takes a breath to calm himself. I came here to ask youthat isI bonded with Stiles. A
mating bond. I would honor it, if you will allow me to.

Stilinski looks at him for long moments, eyebrows raised. No talk of accidents, of circumstances?
No apology or justification? No regrets?

Derek looks down at the rolled up maps, the seal of office, at the man who never aimed to be
king, who kept the peace in a restless city and ended up with a country to rule, thinks of
werewolves and older loyalties, alphas and kings. I fell in love with your son when I saw him
running up a mountain in unsuitable shoes, trying to evade a group of men on horseback with
hounds that were nipping at his heels. I cannotwill notregret that.

Whatever happens?

Derek nods. Stilinski sighs, rubs the back of his neck with one hand. I give you my blessing, he
says. As a father, and as king.

Derek cant quite stop himself from blinking in surprise. Asyour people would never accept
me as consort. A prince and a werewolf who herds sheep, hiding up in the mountains from the
disgrace brought about by his uncle. It isnt a match with any advantage.

So you would be a kept wolf? Someone who warmed the princes bed when it was required?

If it made Stiles happy, yes, Derek says. I know he will be allied to someone acceptable, but I
canIll ignore my instincts. Stilinski gives him a long look.

Derek, he hired assassins to go and rescue you. He actually went, alone, to the most notorious
tavern in the city with a bag of gold, and promised it to the first person to bring you to him alive.
Do you know what ballads are being sung on the street corners? They tell of a lonely shepherd, a
werewolf, high up in the mountains tending his sheep, who is visited by the most handsome prince
in the land, on the coldest night of the year. In some, the werewolf fights off a rabid bear to save
the prince, in some, a whole pack of werewolves come to try and steal him away. In some, the
prince is there to test the werewolfs hospitality, finding true nobility in the mountains when down
in the richer houses, he was turned away from every home. In most, it becomes bawdy by the
third verse, but in all, the werewolf is a hero. You will honor the bond, and you will do it in full
sight of the people, and it will be a lasting bond and a fruitful alliance. You are a good man, and
my son loves you. Nothing else matters.

Derek resists the urge to touch the tips of his ears to find out if they are as hot as he imagines they
are. There are ballads?

Stilinskis mouth twitches slightly. Stiles has been transcribing them. I think he wants to give you
the book as a bonding gift. Hes had some of them illustrated. Son, are you still sure about this?

Gods help him, he says yes.

They run together, hand in hand down dusty corridors, through doors concealed by wall hangings,
up worn stone steps that spiral up and up. Stiles keeps looking back to check hes still there, even
though theyre holding hands, even though Derek will never lose him again. Bonded. Theyre
bonded. A bond that is stronger than death, more enduring than stone, bright as the sun, quiet as
the moon. They run through old rooms full of finery that lies forgotten, covered in dust, gold
glinting in cobwebbed corners. There are statues in one room, animal skulls in another, broken
spinning wheels and unstrung harps. The rooms smell of dust, old scents overlaid in places with
the brighter flare of Stiless scent, trails laid down on his wanderings. These corridors and rooms
are secrets: this is as much Stiless territory as the mountain and the caves are Dereks. He tugs
Stiles to him, kisses him as he laughs, breathless and giddy.

Stiles lets go of his hand, darts through a small side door. Catch me, he calls, voice full of
laughter, already fading as he takes them deeper and deeper into the palace. Derek grins, follows,
could find Stiles with a blindfold on, could track that scent tirelessly for days. He can see Stiless
feet disappearing round a corner, cant hold back a low growl as he hunts his prey. Stiless
laughter is more breathless this time, arousal running through his scent. He holds back, lets Stiles
gain an advantage, waits for a minute before he chases him.

He turns this way and that, through doors behind hangings, up and down staircases, across open
walkways between soaring towers and down, down, to where the wind doesnt whistle around his
ears. Every step, he gains on Stiles, until he can see a flash of bright clothing disappearing around
a corner, the scent a bright lure. Derek follows him down some stairs, pauses at an archway
looking out over a small courtyard with a frozen pool in the center. A tower stands opposite. At
the base of the tower, a door is open. Stiles stands in the doorway, waiting for him, out of breath,
his cheeks flushed with the cold.

Derek walks slowly across the courtyard, feet crunching in the snow. Snowflakes flurry about
him, settling lightly on his hair, his eyelashes. This place feels sacred, somehow. In the summer,
there will be roses here. The briars climb up the walls, twine around stone statues. Theyve been
left to run riot over the stonework, reclaiming it. He can see why Stiles loves it here, why he
chooses to have his chambers in a long-forgotten wing of the palace, where wild birds make their
nests and ivy crawls up over the stones. He had imagined Stiles living in pampered comfort, his
every need met, but this tower, this wild, crumbling tower, suits him better than some lavish
apartment, suits him better than having servants at his beck and call. Stiles doesnt say anything
when he reaches the doorway, just holds out his hands for Derek to take, eyes a pale amber in the
thin winter light.

They have already bonded, with heart and body and in the eyes of their loved ones, but the chase
and the claim, their run through the Stiless territory and his welcoming into Stiless den fills his
heart with a breathless joy at the ritual of it, accidental though it is. Close your eyes, Stiles says,
so he does, lets Stiles lead him, meek as a lamb. He can hear a fire in the hearth, can smell the
warmth of spices, cinnamon and cardamom, the sweetness of the rush matting on the floor. He can
hear the uneven thudding of Stiless heart, can smell his lust, underlaid with nervousness, even if
his hands are steady and warm, callused thumbs stroking over his skin. Stiles drops his hands,
walks around him to close the door. He can hear fabric rustling, can hear Stiles moving around the
room, minutely adjusting things to his satisfaction as he waits, trying not to smile.

When I got back to my rooms, after the hut, I couldnt sleep. I spent night after night just staring
out of the window, wondering why everything here felt so wrong, why I waswhy I didnt feel
safe. So I made it feel like home again, Stiles says, brushing his thumbs under Dereks eyes,
kissing his cheek and leaning in close, tucking his head under Dereks chin with a soft sigh. He
smells as if he is in heat again, his scent ripe and ready, a temptation that Derek no longer needs to
resist. You can open your eyes, so Derek does. The walls are covered in pictures, chalk writing,
brightly colored threads spiderwebbing out over the stones. Books cover every available surface,
scrolls of parchment littering his desk and floor, spilling out over Stiless heavy wooden bedframe,
scraps of paper pinned to the heavy hangings around the bed.
Stiless mattress is in front of the fire, covered with quilts, the clothing Derek gave him on top of
the pillow, copies of the books Stiles read next to it. There is a battered kettle hanging above the
fire, a box of spiced tea on the mantelpiece. I wanted to be back at the hut, with you. I didnt
want to miss you anymore, Stiles murmurs, and Derek cant quite speak, doesnt know what he
would even say. He kisses the top of Stiless head instead, kisses the tip of his ear, any part of
Stiles that he can get to, because he had always assumed that Stiles would move on, would find
someone better, but had never stopped to wonder whether Stiles wanted to.

Its perfect, he says, its home. Stiless scent goes warm and pleased, and he looks up at
Derek, a flush blooming across his cheekbones. We shouldcan we? and Stiles smiles, blinks
slowly, takes a step back.

You did catch me, he says, his eyes demurely cast down. We should respect tradition, and his
tone is formal, his posture perfect, the picture of omega chastity, and if Derek didnt know he was
a complete hellion, he would be utterly taken in.

In that case, I should write you a sonnet, dedicated to your eyes, and another five praising my
own deeds. And then play you music of my own composition on the lute, and give your father
three of my best horses, and

The courtly illusion is ruined when Stiles tackles him to the mattress, fingers already busy on the
fastenings of his breeks, impatient as they tug at his shirt, wanting everything at once, and when
they are finally naked it is more in spite of than because of Stiless efforts, their clothing strewn
about the room. Stiles is slick already, keeps rutting against Dereks thigh as Derek kisses him,
pants hot and desperate against Dereks mouth, making these sweetly broken sounds. Derek is
hard, his dick leaking against his belly as Stiles curves over him, his spine a long, graceful line,
skin soft and warm beneath his hands. Hells, your fingers, justplease, Stiles gasps out as
Derek strokes down his back to his ass, fingers just brushing against Stiless rim, trailing the slick
down over his taint. Please, Stiles begs again, and Derek soothes him with kisses, presses his
index finger into Stiless hole smoothly, both of them sighing as he sinks into Stiless heat, the
tight clutch of his hole.

Stiles is slick enough to be in heat, his skin hot, almost feverish. Derek can ease his finger in
without difficulty, making Stiles sigh softly, opening up to accept it. He keeps on moving his
finger in and out as Stiles kisses him, his lips soft, sometimes nipping gently at Dereks lower lip,
sometimes tracing the divot above with his tongue. Cmon, Stiles says, brushing his thumb
across Dereks nipple, hips moving constantly, his dick leaving a trail of precome on Dereks skin.
I need you.

Derek arches into Stiless touch, his brain fogged with lust. Not for my knot. I need to open you
up for that. Get you all slick and ready, he says, adding another finger as he speaks. Stiles
whines, his mouth slack, eyes bright and feverish. Hes leaked so much that its smeared on
Dereks thighs, the scent heady, intoxicating. Youre doing so well. Youre so beautiful, he tells
Stiles, heaps praise on him as he twists his fingers, stretching Stiles out for his knot with two, then
three fingers, and Stiles takes him so easily, so readily.

Please, Stiles says on a gasp, almost a sob. Please, Ive waited so long, Ive been soI want
you, he begs, and how can Derek resist? He slips his fingers out of Stiless hole, hushing him
when he whines at the loss, uses Stiless slick to coat his dick as Stiles watches with wide eyes. In
the old woodcut pictures in the pamphlets passed from hand to hand by grubby-handed boys, the
omega always presents themselves on their hands and knees, ass raised up. They wait patiently for
the alpha to mount them, afraid but dutiful. Stiles is eager, warm and alive, a heavy weight on top
of his thighs as they kiss, the warm glow from the fire making his skin golden, smooth and perfect,
covered in freckles and moles that he wants to map with his tongue.
Derek never thought hed get to have this. Stiles raises his eyebrows at him, and he knows hes
staring, he knows he looks moonstruck, all wide-eyed, but he thinks Stiles understands, because
his expression softens and he kisses Derek again, a soft chaste kiss, wraps his arms around him.
Im ready, Stiles murmurs, his face pressed to the side of Dereks neck. Derek nods, strokes
down Stiless back again, his hand shaking a little, eases his hips up so that Stiles can sink down,
guides himself into Stiless hole as Stiles gasps against his neck, hands clawing at his back. Its
shocking, all that heat, the tight clasp of Stiless hole around his dick. Stiles keeps making these
little gasps, moans and whimpers, biting down on Dereks neck to keep the sounds in as he
shudders. Derek strokes his back, his flanks as he moves, eager to draw more sounds out of Stiles,
enchanted by the smell of them together, by the heat of Stiless dick between them as it twitches
and flexes with every thrust. Stiles is a heavy weight on top of him, long legs wrapped around his
waist, clinging on as Derek moves, heels digging into the mattress, eyes closed tight, trying to hold
off his knot until Stiles has come. He changes the angle a little, presses even closer to Stiles so that
his dick can rub up between them, determined to show Stiles how good he can be for him. Stiles
sobs against his neck, fingers clawing again, whole body tensing until he comes with a harsh cry,
his hole tightening around Dereks dick, rippling, the scent of his come rich in the air.

He knots Stiles before hes stopped twitching with aftershocks, cant help it, pleasure shooting
through him at the sensation. Stiles whines, bites down again as his sensitive hole is stretched,
Dereks knot pressing against his tender prostate. Derek cant resist, presses his fingers to Stiless
rim, feeling the space where theyre joined, where his knot is locking them together. Stiles whines
again, tries to move away, but he keeps stroking, rubbing the slick into Stiless skin, cant stop
touching, exploring, mesmerized by the stretch, by how right it feels. His orgasm keeps ebbing
and flowing until he feels stupid with the pleasure, kissing Stiless hair, his ear as Stiles grumbles
sleepily. Stiles is hard again, despite his fatigue, so Derek stops playing with his hole, wraps his
hand around his dick and brings him to completion with the sweetest, meanest strokes that he can,
as Stiles flexes around him, breathing in gasps, his body tired, even as he twitches and jerks with
pleasure, his seed spilling out onto Dereks hand.

Stiles falls asleep as soon as he has come for the second time, his limbs relaxing fully as he
slumps. He doesnt even stir as Derek arranges them so that theyre on their sides, a few of the
quilts draped over them in case Stiles gets cold. Theyre still locked together. Derek puts his hand
on Stiless lower stomach, on the slight bulge there. They could have cubs. In a few years, they
could have cubs. Derek would care for them in the day, if Stiles wished to study. He would like
that. Or they could care for them together, bring them up surrounded by pack. Erica, Isaac and
Boyd all grew up here, as did Stiles and Scott. They could show the cubs the city, and Derek
could show them the mountains, the caves, show them which berries were good to eat, which
groves to steer clear of, which ones to make offerings in. He smiles, and daydreams. Theyre good
dreams. Hell tell Stiles about them in the morning.

When Derek first sees the boy, he isnt wearing any shoes, runs up the mountain path barefooted,
his long legs eating up the distance, as the pack of wolves run behind him, gaining quickly. Hes
laughing as he runs, looking back to taunt his pursuers, breathless in his joy, impudent as a fox.
Derek straightens up from his work, sets the shears down and sends his last sheep running with a
pat on her flank, wipes his grimy face with his shirt and waits, trying not to smile at the briar-snags
in Stiless fine clothes, the mud streaked down his legs. Stiles grins when he spots him, puts on an
extra burst of speed, comes to a halt a few yards in front of Derek, almost close enough to touch.
Theyre after me, he pants, looking over his shoulder at the wolves. Stiless eyes are golden in
the sunlight, his parted lips streaked with the juice of the berries he stole. They are of a height
now, his shoulders broader, showing his strength. Derek will never be tired of looking at him.

Derek folds his arms, looks at Stiles. Give me your shirt, he says, keeping his voice gruff. He
 can see the exact moment when Stiles realizes, his eyes narrowing, flickering between Derek and
his mornings work.

I am not diving into a heap of fleeces while you run yourself ragged with my shirt in your mouth,
just because you think its romantic. Think of a different plan.

Derek closes the distance between them, waves his pack off and hopes Stiles will at some point
learn to stop playing pranks on them. Or I could show you the waterfalls near the lake, and the
pastures where the wildflowers grow, he murmurs. We could lie in the grass and listen to birds
on the wing, take our pleasure of each other as the sun rises and the rest of the word awakes. We
could look at the stars in the sky and watch for the beacon, then stay abed until noon. We could
swim together in the moonlight, warm ourselves under the quilts, he trails off, kisses Stiles,
unable to resist his sweet scent any longer. Above them, the skylark sings, flinging herself up into
the air with her wild song and Stiles kisses him back as if hes starving, even though they saw
each other just this morn and hes too happy to speak any more, so he holds Stiles close and hopes
he understands.

He does. He always will.

End Notes

Everything I know about lambing I learned from my father, a farm vet, and from
increasingly interesting internet searches. If you see any errors, I can only apologize.

The midwinter massacre was partly inspired by something that happened in Norman
invasion period Wales, to a prince called Seisyll ap Dyfnwal. The prince, along with other
Welsh noblemen in the area, went to the Norman lord William de Braose's castle for a
Christmas feast, in order to discuss grievances and a future peace. They went in good faith,
leaving their weapons at the door as was traditional and courteous. As soon as they were
in the castle, they were slaughtered where they stood by de Braose and his men. It, and
other similar incidents and revenge killings, rather set the tone for Wales's relationship with
the Normans for many generations. The story stuck in my mind when I first heard it, and
hasn't really left.

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