#anyways crest of the stars is one of those things that's burnt into my soul in terms of worldbuilding

[xyliane]

AUgust 9: royalty au

PROMPT THE NINTH: ROYALTY AU

aka “space royalty IN SPACE!!!” ft the kingdom hearts kids. I don’t know what I’m doing in kh except that certain people got me into it and I’ve been dabbling with a few other fics for it over the last month and I don’t know how to write any of these good good kids at all. so I smashed up destiny island trio with “crest of the stars” which I haven’t seen since 2009 so all of my memories of it are on the delightful worldbuilding. vaguely soriku or sorikai? I guess? what is kingdom hearts?

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The Highwind hadn’t changed at all in the last three years, or however many rotations that translated to on Kingdom ships. Sora couldn’t restrain himself from running his hands over everything, his new haptic interface buzzing gently at his temples with every passing node and module. It would have itched if Sora weren’t practically leaping with excitement. This was the Highwind. He was done with training. And what’s more, he’d been recruited for this, so someone out there thought that he was ready. Maybe if he was lucky, he’d even run into--

“Sora?” a familiar voice said. “What are you doing here?”

He spun, his smile wide with delight, and practically sprinted down the corridor to bury the red-headed junior officer in a hug. “Kairi! I didn’t know you were stationed on the Highwind!”

His best friend grinned sheepishly, face flushed the same red as her hair as Sora set her back on her feet. They wore similar sleek space-ready black uniforms, but while Sora’s jacket was full-sleeved and trimmed with red insignia, Kairi’s tunic was sleeveless and her collar marked with two tiny silver stars--a lieutenant now, not even three rotations into her official serve. Sora would have to get her something as a present. Rose-gold interfaces wound around her wrists and up her arms, newer and much nicer than the ones she’d borrowed at the academy. Nicer even than Sora’s headpiece, which he just got as a graduation present from Donald. Jeez, the Highwind really did have it all. “I’m not surprised you slept through that announcement,” she said. “I heard you were barely awake enough for your own assignment, sleepyhead. Admiral Yen Sid was probably ready to have you court marshaled.”

“Yeah, well,” he said and scratched at the back of his neck. “I’m here now?”

Kairi’s smile grew to match Sora’s own. “You definitely are,” she said. “Have you been to your quarters yet? Or do you need a tour of the ship? Captain said we don’t launch for another rotation, so I can--”

“I’ve got this, don’t worry,” Sora said, and started down the corridor again.

She raised an eyebrow. “If you’re sure,” she said, and fell into step with him. For a minute, it was like they were back at the Academy, or even back on Destiny Island, striding along the edges of the ocean like they were in space and bouncing up and down in the lack of gravity. Sora hadn’t known about grav boots then.

Sora turned down the third corridor, following the spoke past the windows that looked out upon the twilit lights of Departure Station floating against nothing but a thousand thousand stars. “I was here before,” he said.

“Before we shipped out? That’s against protocol--even you know that.”

A really stupid rule, but one Sora had to follow if he wanted to be here. “No, before that. We haven’t even left dock yet! Before the Academy. It was after you and your family had to flee the Island, and I went looking for you and--”

Kairi blinked like Sora had hit her over the head with a practice sword. “No way,” she said. “You were here?”

“Yep!”

“On the Highwind?”

Sora crossed his arms with an annoyed harrumph. “Where else would I have been?” he said. “We found you while I was here.”

“I didn’t know it was the Highwind! I was kind of out of it, with the oxygen deprivation and the spacing and the kidnapping. I thought it was just...just the...” Kairi trailed off as she looked him up and down, taking in the haptic headpiece that wound through his chaotic hair and the red pilot’s insignia at his wrists and collar, and she put her head in her hands for a long exasperated sigh. “Oh, stars. No wonder the Kingdom Navy was so angry.”

Sora did remember more than a few expressions of shock when Yen Sid had announced where he was to be stationed. But he’d cared more about Donald and Goofy’s expressions of joy than some old farts. Or young farts. Farts who thought they were better than anyone else just because they had weird-colored hair. So most of the Academy, really. “They weren’t angry, just...not happy.”

“They’re pissed, Sora. But it’s not their choice to have two humans onboard the Highwind, not anymore.” Without checking to make sure that Sora was keeping up, Kairi squared her shoulders and picked up the pace with a grin that usually spelled pain, and lots of it. “You know, we’re almost at the flight deck. You wanted to meet the new CO, right?”

He had been going to the mess, but his stomach suddenly didn’t seem as important. He wanted to be on the Highwind because it was the best, but he also wanted to serve the person who had helped him save Kairi. He wanted to help. Not having King Mickey around felt...weird. Different. Like the air needed to be circulated a few dozen times. “What happened to Mick--I mean, the Rear Admiral?”

“The king handed over the ship to someone he trusted with his heart,” Kairi said.

That gave Sora a long moment of pause. “Should I know him?” he finally asked.

A muffled giggle came out from his friend’s mouth. “You have to meet the captain eventually. So I think you should meet him now.”

“Meet who?”

“Someone you trusted with your whole heart!”

Of all the times to be mysterious, she had to choose right this moment. “Kairiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii...”

“Come on, Sora!”

They made it to the bridge in what must have been record time, Sora’s books thudding heavily against the tiled floor. Other officers, their hair all colors of the rainbow, gave the two humans the side-eye as they raced along the corridors. Sora didn’t care. They’d have a chance to say hi later, to become friends, when he wasn’t in danger of falling behind Kairi. But she slowed down with just enough time to catch her breath, unable to stop Sora from his all-out sprint to the door. Without the magnets kicking in on his boots, he couldn’t quite stop himself before tumbling face-first into the sleek sides of the small bridge.

Normally Sora liked Kairi’s laughter--it reminded him of waves and summer storms and the Island--but right now it was turning his face as her hair. What a first impression. He did his best to jump to his feet and imitate a proper salute. “Ensign Pilot Sora, reporting for command, sir,” he said, looking anywhere but at the tall captain who was definitely staring at Sora and probably counting all of the ways that he could be sent back to the Academy.

Another laugh, much quieter than Kairi’s but absolutely cacophonous in Sora’s ears, echoed around the tiny command chamber, loud against the half-empty room. Sora’s heart ached with it, beating in time with a voice he hadn’t heard in years except in the rare crackly messages shipped from the other side of the system.

The captain’s hair was long and the color of stars, a rare color even among humanoid nobility in the Kingdom. His uniform, practically picture-perfect and sleek with silver lining, had a solid steel blade at his hip, a form of haptic device that responded less to physical touch like Sora’s or Kairi’s as much as pure will. Sora hadn’t seen one of those in use in years. Not since he’d last seen Riku frantically stabbing it around a ship, Sora at his side.

Riku smiled, a private little thing that lit his green eyes up brighter than a solar flare. “Still crashing into things you shouldn’t, right Sora?”

“It’s you, Riku,” Sora breathed. “Riku!”

One of the bridge officers actually squawked. “That’s the prince of the Seven Island Worlds, you insubordinate--”

Sora ignored them and all of the rules about propriety and princes and how no one is supposed to call the nobility by their names because that’s not how things are done Ensign Sora that the instructors had tried to drill into his head at the Academy, and threw his arms around his friend. Because once, long ago, Riku had promised that Sora could call him by name, and Sora won’t ever break a promise like that. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he said.

Even though it barely lasted a moment, Riku hugged him right back, tight and warm and just right. Sora missed that. He missed Riku. “Well, you promised you’d be my pilot when you were done,” Riku said a little self-consciously.

“And I am!” Sora said, and thrust a thumb at the pilot’s insignia emblazoned on his jacket. “That is why I’m here. Right?”

Riku laughed again, and Sora swore that his heart turned to molten gold right in his chest. “A captain can choose his crew."

“You chose Kairi?”

“Well, of course,” Riku said, glancing over the top of Sora’s head to the young woman. “She’s the best gunner in her class, and probably will be in the fleet in the next few cycles.”

“Thanks, Captain,” she said. Sora could tell she was trying to be miffed and ended up being pleased. Of course Riku would know how to make her feel welcome.

But that still left Sora.

As though hearing his thoughts, Riku poked him gently between the eyes. “And I chose you, Sora. So. Welcome aboard.”

(AUgust prompts)

[ithilwen-lionheart]

Love, lead me on - Legolas x Priestess!Reader/OC - Chapter 1 pt. 1/2

[ Notes: ]

- takes place during The Battle Of The Five Armies

- based on Hey Say JUMP's 'Ai yo boku wo, michibiite yuke'

[ Work Text: ]

A priestess should be one with her surroundings in order to be bound with even the tiniest sounds around her without the use of her senses- from the flutter of a butterfly's wings to the eruption of a volcano.

She is to hear every heart -beating or not- around her as well as the pleads for help and the cries of pain and anguish, tears of those who lost, and those of which who were forsaken. At the chance of being an audience to this, she is to act, for fate had not placed her in the situation she is in for a mere play at destiny's chessboard.

A priestess is there for more than a single reason: to lay gentle hands on the wounded, to aid the disabled, to protect the defenseless, to provide comfort and dreams to the haunted and to save as many souls as she could in behalf of the honor of both herself and the order that she represents by the crest that she wears.

-----

Amidst the roaring flames and clouds of smoke and sight of nothing but destruction, death and chaos, a tiny flicker of hope rises at the hearts of every single villager left alive and running in the floating city of Laketown.

Among them is a priestess, albeit a novice, of the Northern Order.

Dark hair as blue as the night, skin that glistens a milky white under both the sun and moon, and eyes that are the most fanciful shade of lilac. She is a wonder dressed in a dark brown garb over a short white dress and loose pants tucked underneath knee-length boots, darting around the docks hidden under a simple royal blue hood.

As much as she is still a trainee, she sees to it that she could be the best that she could ever be at every moment given and so here she is taking every villager she could into safety and out of the raging flames consuming the entirety of the village.

She is, like Lady Galadriel had said, here for a reason and even though some parts of the 'whyfor's' still isn't anywhere near clear for her at the moment, her heart had already found the most significant reason behind her rushing about just under the gargantuan dragon, Smaug: it was because a piece of her was here.

The piece of her that she so willingly gave to a person who never even asked much less needed it and doesn't even know he had it in the first place: Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, son of Elvenking, Thranduil.

All she had to do was pick up a thing or two about the elves from Mirkwood after miraculously gaining the King's approval through the Elf Lord Elrond, who seemed to have this uncanny fondness of her.

It started with tours around the villages and the castle; then lessons on their language and spells, books and healing; and then it got muddled up with archery and horseback riding because she was studying under Legolas after all and he seemed to develop a fascinating fixation on her Siberian Tiger, Luna- while herself -much to her dismay and disapproval- fell for the prince each day that had passed until she began to ardently wish she could learn shifting sometime soon within that mere month.

But that wasn't the problem, no.

"Celine? Celine!" A hand on her shoulder attempted to shake her back to reality.

This, this was the problem.

Although it took the girl a few moments to register the voice since she was still hearing the screams of a woman who just lost her beloved husband over the memories that smelled vividly of book pages, herbs and had the elf prince written all over it in shades of gold and late afternoon sunlight. She felt something clenching her heart at this and she doesn't know whether she's mourning for the woman's loss or her own.

The girl looks up and sees long ginger hair in braids and bright emerald eyes glistening with concern on the face of the beautiful elf warrior, "Tauriel..." she trails off and turns to look at the thick clouds of smoke that covers the light of the stars.

Tauriel furrows her brows a bit and lets go of the younger girl, "Are you alright?" She asks because there's something in the girl's eyes that goes beyond being a simple Old Soul and a novice priestess.

Celine just nods and shifts her attention to the elf approaching their group. The she-elf notes how the younger girl falters for a moment before schooling her features into that of her usually playful sheepishness around Legolas.

-----

*If I'm allowed to peep into your heart, I only want to make sure of one thing,

I wonder if I exist somewhere in the road leading to you...*

The blond prince approached both of them and it never escaped her how those icy blue eyes simply grazed over her before completely settling on Tauriel.

"Is everything alright, Tauriel?" He asked, his voice gentle and worried as he sheathed his sword and placed it back on its slot in his belt.

And it was just like as if it's just the two of them standing there on burnt planks over the debris-littered water. As if the captain of the guard didn't just leave him alone to chase after Azog during the preliminary ambush of the orcs back when Laketown still wasn't crumbling down in dragon flames, as she tended to the dwarf, Kili.

Tauriel nods, giving the girl beside her a glance that wasn't discreet enough for Legolas not to notice.

'But then again, it's not as if Legolas never noticed anything Tauriel does...' Celine ponders while trying her best not to sound bitter inside her own thoughts as she places that maybe she knows exactly why her chest feels all tight.

Then those piercing eyes were now on hers. He swipes an arrow from his back and aims at something behind her, then shoots.

It hits an orc straight in the face.

"You should know better than to space out at times like these, Celine." His tone was reprimanding but nevertheless, the concern was still in there.

And she adds it up to the reasons why she's still helplessly clinging to this hopeless attachment.

She settles on with a sigh, since mulling about it at present would just mess up with her performance.

Tossing the idea aside, she allowed her senses to fire up and quickly took a dagger from her waist to fling it on the beast that stood a few feet just behind the unsuspecting prince. Finding a remotely stable pole behind them, she ran for it and used it to propel herself forward to kick the thing square on the face for good measure- her body barely missing the prince's face and shoulder as she gracefully spun horizontally through the junction.

Hitting her mark, she then landed on both feet and made a dramatic flourish and a bow after seeing that she had both elve's attention: Tauriel had her face fixed with awe and a sense of profound pride and Legolas simply gawked, albeit effectively unapparent to those who haven't memorized his set of facial reactions.

Which sums up to everyone else who isn't Celine, "Same goes to you, Prince Legolas." She snickers and stood straight, the cape of her hood swishing behind her.

Legolas smirked, "I would not get too brazen now, dear priestess." And she pretends her heart didn't melt at the reply or the title, when he walked towards her and swung his sword at yet another orc behind her.

As much as they're both always at each other's throats and tempers, when it comes to times like these- when they're in the battlefield, running through blood and gore, it's almost as if a bonus instinct that they'd watch each other's back. Even if it's often Celine doing the job while Legolas is busy looking after his love, Tauriel.

Its not as if the novice priestess minds it anyways, she could do this forever so long as she could see his precious smiles safe and sound even if it's for someone else. 'Better see it than not at all, right?' She would all too often think during the times she'd begin to doubt the acceptability of the extents she'd be willing to take for the admiration she feels for the prince.

"If you could please bow, my dear prince?" She suddenly requests and it was so much of an overused 'there's some filth behind you that I am going to hit so please duck' that Legolas immediately complied with an equally mischievous smile as hers, knowing what it means by habit.

Celine swung her left arm back and with it brought water forth and turned them into icicles that she used to successfully impale the beast with, being extremely cautious so as to avoid hitting the exact person she was protecting.

By the moment Legolas had straightened back up to his full height, he shot him one of his grateful little smiles that -she grew to know- meant nothing more than appreciation, before his whole attention was back on some debris that nearly fell over Tauriel had he not pushed her away in time and would've hit both elves had Celine not whistled for Luna to tackle them both to the side.

Commanding the water to douse the flames threatening to begin spreading from their area, she throws them another one of her cheeky grins and places a hand just above her heart,

"At your service, my dearest Prince Legolas and Lady Tauriel."

The Great Tiger then gracefully strides back to her owner at her beckoning and affectionately rubs her huge furry head against the young novice's entire side, "you did great, Luna! Huh? What is it?" Celine's train of giggles was cut off by her familiar's observatory report. Her entire mien changing from the carefree one not too long ago to a deathly serious expression, "Bard? That's foolish! He wouldn't be able to take down Smaug using ordinary arrows. What? His son? Where is he? Oh dear goddess... Okay, take me there." The novice then swiftly climbs up as Luna crouched for her master to settle in.

Noticing the confused although hardened expressions on her companion's faces, she tried to smile even though it came out as a grimace, "If you could please fetch Bard's children from their home? The boy's not there, I'm going to find him." Celine offers as a cue that they should get back to their posts and save as many lives as they could.

And that was precisely when Tauriel made that face that spoke volumes of her concern through her features.

The younger girl could feel her heart break a little for Legolas but she still spoke nevertheless- the bit of information is necessary for all of them to function and know what they're doing and the people that concern them after all, "And yes, Tauriel, the dwarves are with them. Luna also notes that Kili had successfully recovered." The young priestess informs the she-elf who flushed in an embarrassed yet comfortable surprise, while Legolas rose a scrutizing brow with his eyes now fixed on hers.

This, of course, caused the priestess to reach behind and scratch her neck diffidently, a guilty upwards turn on her lips as she spoke, "And I may or may not have mixed in some very specific ingredients to hasten the healing process..." she then averts her gaze to the side and away from electrifying blues, fearing that her resolution to remain neutral would waver at the intensity of those eyes.

Before she knew it there was a hand that rested on her leg that wasn't Legolas' and Tauriel was looking up at her with great relief and gratitude, "Thank you." And those mere words and the thankful squeeze should not have given anything away aside from a profound sense of alleviation but there was a reason why novice's are sent to see the world before they could be considered priestesses.

It is to learn about every being in Middle-Earth, regardless of race and seeing nothing but the hearts underneath chests of either skin or fur, paying careful attention to the underlying emotions behind every breath, batter of eyelashes and those that swirl just around a creature's eyes before disappearing entirely and turning into something else.

And in those emerald green gems she saw love. A yearning so desperate yet aimless and confused just barely concealing the heart's desires with a thin sheen that's nearly transparent. Tauriel had fallen for the dwarf and she knew it ever since that night in Mirkwood's dungeons even though the she-elf was not consciously aware of it.

It was so apparent that it even began to concern Thranduil and Celine was there but she'll never say the words she had heard when the King had confronted his army's captain because it was a secret she'd be willing to bury with her heart once it finally dies from all the blows it had endured for and from the obliviousness of the prince.

"Legolas had grown very found of you."

"I assure you, he only looks at me as a captain and a guard. Nothing more."

"Perhaps once. But not anymore."

"Surely you would not let your son pledge himself to a lowly Silvan elf."

"Yes. You are right. But he cares about you. Do not give him hope where there is none."

"Shall we head off, Tauriel?" Lilac eyes were fixed on the blonde prince as he clasped a wary hand on Tauriel's shoulder, and she knows just how much he tries to push the inevitable aside.

Because she's doing the exact same thing.

Not trusting herself enough to meet his equally broken soul hidden underneath those pale blue eyes, Celine was quick to turn to the opposite direction heading to Bard's house without once turning back at the elves behind her.

"Appears not... we're on completely different roads and I exist nowhere in yours." A lone tear made its way down one flushed cheek and a brown gloved hand quickly went up to furiously rub it off. She then dons up a smile because it wouldn't help the villagers she'll come across if they'll see her like this, and pats the side of her lifetime companion, "Let's get going. Shall we, Luna?"

-----

*Within the fleeting dream, I wish this unexploited love to end,

Yet, I open my eyes to this red and flickering flame of love...*

Casualty had and will always be a given whenever dragons and war are involved.

No matter what a single or even a group of persons and races do, it could never be avoided and there would still be those who they failed to reach in time and those they never even knew of.

That would most likely explain the burnt and mangled bodies that were strewn across the shore from where they evacuated everyone else.

It was already in the middle of the night and everyone else was long asleep. Celine doesn't know why but out of all the people who had lost someone that's close to their hearts, she was the one who took everything the hardest. Sleep just couldn't find her and so she volunteered to keep the fires burning to keep the villagers from freezing since winter's already upon them.

Smaug's dead, Bard had successfully slain it and was reunited with his family, he was even given the title 'Dragon Slayer'; and the dwarves of Erebor, lead by Thorin Oakenshield, finally reclaimed their homeland.

Of course Kili left with them but it never stopped the dwarf from entertaining the frivolous idea of taking Tauriel with him and that split second of consideration in the she-elf's eyes didn't manage to get pass Celine's keen observation. The priestess then wondered that perhaps Legolas noticed it too because he quickly intervened and told his captain to take her leave of the dwarf who then in turn left a stone with engravings on it as a promise that he'll come back for her.

And that was when she saw the resolution on the prince's eyes deteriorate and through a chink, she was able to see the hurt and despairing vie as his entire figure slumped ever so slightly.

The bluenette visibly sighs now, white puffs of air slipping pass her open mouth. Everything just gets too ridiculously cold whenever Death walks by, and the fact that he leaves trails of emptiness and a path of irremediable loneliness only makes it worse.

A priestess, even those who are novices, could feel the presence of Death and is not exempted from it's dreadful aftertaste. She is consciously aware of the lives it took and the pleads of the souls who do not wish to depart from their loved ones and it tastes like bile stuck at the back of her throat.

The voices are there, yes. And it drags her down into the state of half-sleep, a void that is a mixture of both her conscious and unconscious thoughts. She succumbs to it, it's not as if her service is needed anytime soon and Legolas and Tauriel left earlier to ride north, so there's not really much left for her to do except to keep close watch of the bonfire.

Laying down, her back rested against patches of grass and dirt and she remained still, took a deep breath, watched the midnight skies clear for once to make way for starlight. It never failed to make her marvel at how surreal and distant the skies feel for mortals, like some unattainable dream forever for them to see but never to touch and everything goes back and all she could see was the elf prince the very instant she had closed her eyes.

It all come crashing down like some vivid recollection of the times she stood beside him. From the way he elegantly draws his arrows, aims with his long arms and shocking depths of intoxicating blue, and then shoots with deadly precision at whatever his target is; to the way he skillfully fights his enemies with practiced ease in using swords and daggers as well as quick wits; how he could be so much of an adept warrior yet a refined prince both at the same time; how he's so warm, so gentle and there's so much knowledge crammed into the little space in his eyes and even though his soul could be ages old, he'll remain eternally youthful and curious and the fact that his heart could be so achingly dedicated to both the wrong causes and the right ones in tragic equality, Celine finds, is the thought that hurts her the most.

Sometimes she couldn't keep herself from wishing that she never had these feelings in the first place. The fact that a critical part of her supposedly undivided attention as an aspiring priestess had been effortlessly snagged by one single person is trouble enough, but coupling it with the actuality that it is unrequited only makes it all the more unbearable for her. It partitions everything she does in two and as much as she doesn't want to shamelessly admit it, if there'll be some innocent human, elf, or dwarf hanging on the edge of a cliff with an incapacitated Legolas on the other and she could only save one of them she'd very much rush to the prince's aid without so much as a second thought.

"Argh," she groans in self-disappointment, "I should get my priorities set straight.. I am such a horrible disgrace to my house." she threw her hands up, still refusing to open her eyes.

"How could you say such a thing about yourself?" And that voice sounded so hauntingly beautiful and familiar that she wished she could just close her eyes forever and hear nothing but the sound of that voice saying her name in the tone it would use to address his beloved.

She tried to keep her eyes closed, feign sleep-talking or at least anything at all to keep her from seeing him as near her as the way his voice sounded because she doubts she'll be able to take this without breaking and like always, she fell a prisoner to his words as he leaned a bit closer and demanded that she appropriately face him whenever they're talking.

Lilac eyes fluttered open and all she could see was his face curtained by his silky long blonde locks on each side and she figures maybe he's the reason why the moon was missing that night.

Like some child in a trance, Celine slowly reaches upward with one hand to gingerly touch a few glistening strands in between her thumb and index fingers just to see if the Legolas crouching down beside her was real.

With the slightest curve on the side of one perfect mouth, the figure vanished into thin air, like silvery whisps of evergreen scented vapor. It didn't even take a second for the girl to realize that it was nothing more but a figure of her yearning that was immense enough for it to take concrete form through the unconscious use of her power.

Standing up with an emotionally spent expression strewn across her face for no one to see, she made her way towards the camp to replenish the fire threatening to die out.

The renewed pang her daydream left fueled the flickering embers in her heart even as it slowly turned into everything synonymous to despair as she stared at the crackling wood before her.

The illusion may have deserted her but the hole it left in her heart had stayed- and the apprentice thinks she'll harbor that for as long as her pitiful existence on earth would be.

-----

*I might not be the one who warms up your cold and numb hands, but

the one who can illuminate my future in this world is only you...*

The real Legolas is with Tauriel under the same stars she's seeing that night. It is relatively cold and Celine wonders if they're some place warm or are they sitting close enough to each other in front of an open fire outside.

It wouldn't matter if it gets cold. There are two of them afterall. Always had been and always will be. Because even though the elleth have some tendencies to go astray, the priestess knows that the prince would blindly follow her through the ends of the world.

And perhaps -Celine hopes- that the captain would at least return the favor by protecting him even if it'll be done out of mere courtesy. It would be hard for the priestess to intervene if they would be this far away from her and some time soon, she'll have to leave their sides and discover the rest of the world-

Alone. To further pursue her desire to be a legitimate priestess of great power to protect and help those who are in need the same way she'd dedicate herself to safeguard those whom she holds dear.

Tear-stained violets continued to stare on at the dancing flames as she curled up into a ball in a fetal sitting position. Allowing herself the luxury of weeping for all the wrong causes she'd be willing to take and the future she could never see without the prince in it.

Even so, she'll thrive for that future if she must, seeing as it is her only purpose for living. And the road she'd take towards that path would always be lit up by the purpose of being able to stand proudly beside the prince someday, even if it means that she'll have to stay as nothing more but a priestess in his service.

-----

*Even though I deliver this "I love you" to you one million times.

In the end, you won't give me a "YES", but

I will deliver this "I love you" to you one more million times again.

Oh love, please show me a way... *

They never went back that day. Or the day after that. Not even when the villagers of Laketown went on their journey towards the ruined city of Dale, not even after they have arrived.

The bluenette girl did her best to be of help to everyone. From tending to the wounded and handing out blankets and food rations to keeping watch at night and maintaining the flames, just to get her mind off of things.

She knows that even Bard himself had grown worried of her dedication to keeping the night watch but he never did directly voice his concern. He just asked her once if she's alright and suggested that he could give the task to someone else that night just so that she could have a well-deserved rest, to which she, of course, courteously declined.

The midnight chills are much better than the warmth of a blanket after all.

These past few days, sleep had been her enemy, everything that came close to it had conjured the same picturesque version of the prince. The one who'd openly smile for her and for her alone, the one she could actually tell her genuine feelings to without the fear of being looked down upon with distaste and being avoided altogether. She couldn't really recount how many times she told this prince how much she adores him and how many times he'd been so close to touch before her consciousness kicks back in and she realizes that everything was just the same tricks her mind was playing on her over and over again.

And so, over and over she fell and swore and spilled the same words to the same figure, hoping that it would at least make him realize how much she truly, desperately means it. Over and over she awakes to see herself in the same position: curled into a ball, tucked beside Luna in front of the blazing fire before her, her cheeks wet; over and over her thoughts would wander to Legolas and she'll say the same words again.

Some nights, she'll ride Luna at full speed and run up at hills to scream, at others she'll curl in with the tiger and just settle with a coveted whisper.

All those times, her words fell on deaf ears. All those nights, her voice shivered and cracked words of admiration and dedication for the prince. Over and over again.

Out of love, out of helpless passion that she knew would never be returned.

And she'll make the same decision because none of it was ever a mistake.

Nothing could be considered a mistake anymore, especially not a word said a million times before and again.

-----

*After giving me a smile with downcast eyes, you suddenly grew up

That was like a sharp knife split my chest apart...*

The desolation of Smaug was merely a part of something bigger. Compared to the bloody war that came next, the flames and corpses of human villagers was nothing compared to the aftermath that The Battle of The Five Armies had left.

Bloody, mangled remains of elves, dwarves, orcs, and humans had littered both the foot of Erebor and the repeatedly destroyed city of Dale along with discarded armors and deteriorated stone walls of once great cities.

No matter how you put it, there's no absolute victory even after the war had been won by the rallied forces of all races combined against the Gundabad orcs and the annihilation of Azog the Defiler and his right-hand, Borg.

Not even Celine -the young apprentice to Lady Galadriel- could feel remotely festive even if she was the key to every bit of success they had with this war.

She had stopped a very much unneeded war between the Sindarin Elves and the army of Thorin's cousin and had fought alongside the dwarves and elves as Durin's kin hid behind the walls of Erebor while the orcs attacked in astounding numbers. Standing firm with her usual garbs and nothing else but her courage and a sword and the skills she had learned from Legolas. Her great tiger, Luna, beside her.

Celine had fought and will fight, for everyone else's life if not for her prince's. That's why and how she manages to live, her own self-preservation completely going down in shambles every moment this unreciprocated charade of hers stretched on and she's not even remotely guilty to throw her life across the line far more times than she had kissed and will kiss the moon goodnight - and she aims to be a priestess of the moon someday.

[ To be continued in Chapter 1 pt. 2/2 ]

[ A/N: ] I wasn't aware of the word count limit here in Tumblr seeing as this is my first time putting one of my fics out here so here's the 1st part of the 1st chapter to an ongoing fanfiction book I'm writing over at Wattpad entitled 'Love lead me on'.

Am gonna try cross-posting some of my fanfics here so as to bring my blog some life so I hope y'all give them some love~!

[accidental-ducky]

Like Fire in Your Blood--pt 1

After Peter’s home and family are burned to the ground he makes a wish, calls upon the demon his great-grandmother had spoken of so reverently. Ink dark hair and bright honey eyes that can turn burnt gold in a second of rage, a sharp tongue and magic sparking at fingertips the color of moonlight, a creature of myth to be feared and worshiped.

Peter never expected to find all of that encompassed in the skinny frame of a teenaged boy, but stranger things have most certainly happened.

You can also read it on Ao3 here.

I

Peter remembers the agony of fire scorching up his side, the feeling of his flesh bubbling even as it tried to heal; it was repetitive, cruel, and it was driving him half insane. The pain wasn’t even the worst part, he reserved that title for the screams torn out of his family as they died around him.

Fire sears through him, through his veins as his vision turns a bright, vivid red and familiar ties snapped like twine. He writhes on the basement floor, the concrete scratching at his bare skin as his clothes turn to ash. Beside him, his wife goes still and her back thumps to the ground for a final time.

Peter can feel his teeth lengthening as the Change overtakes him, fur sprouting and claws spearing into the cement as his back bows in agony. Far away and muffled is the sound of husky laughter, the huntress that started the blaze enjoying her work from a safe distance outside. Peter knows what that means, the fact that his ears can pick up the noise, but he refuses to think of his sister as dead just yet. Talia is strong, his Alpha, she has to survive even if no one else does.

Some point after one of the support beams collapses on top of him, Peter remembers the stories his great-grandmother used to tell him. He’d been small and she’d been the Alpha at the time, they would curl up near the lake in the woods and she would tell him stories of Fae beings. One in particular had been her favorite, a tale from ancient times in Poland—a fairy tale and prophecy all rolled into one.

(Sometimes, if you close your eyes and wish hard enough, he’ll come to you. how will i know it’s him, nan? You’ll know him by his ink black hair and burnt gold eyes that glow in his terrible rages. He has a sharp tongue and magic that comes in bursts around fingertips the color of moonlight. You must not summon him unless you have no other choice, Pup, creatures like him always expect a heady price in the end)

Peter craves revenge for what’s happening to his pack.

He squeezes his eyes closed, teeth bared in a snarl, and Peter wishes.

When he opens them again, the space around him is dark and his body is suspended in the air and he thinks—hopes—that he’s died. He stares around him, resigned to the blankness of the afterlife if it means the screams are gone with the pain. He releases a sigh, just a quiet whisper of air that forms into a pale vapor.

It’s cold here, but cold is so much better than searing heat that burns and tears and destroys.

“Who are you?” The voice catches him off guard and his gaze snaps in the direction it came from, crimson instead of an icy blue. “Why does a ‘wolf summon me?” There’s a flash in the darkness, like a lighter shade of black against the impenetrable void.

“Revenge.” Peter’s voice is little more than a croak, vocal chords strained from screaming for what feels like hours.

“That’s all anyone ever wants.” There’s a brush of soft fur against Peter’s face, but it’s gone just as quickly. “What makes you so special?”

“Nothing, I’m sure. But I’ll pay whatever price you demand. I’ll give you anything.”

“What if I want the soul of your firstborn?” Peter freezes and then there’s laughter, dark and rolling like a thunderclap. “Relax, ‘wolf, the souls of children are hardly interesting. Besides, you have that particular scent of loss that means your firstborn has already passed. What was its name?”

“Jackson.” It leaves his lips on a sob and the tears he manages to shed float upwards in cloudy droplets. “His name was Jackson and he was just murdered by hunters along with the rest of my pack.” There’s silence and Peter is beginning to think that the stranger has left until he feels the swish-flick of a tail against one of his hands.

“You want revenge on those hunters?” It’s not a question even if it’s phrased like one, more statement of fact that’s long been acknowledged. “I’ll help you.”

“What’s your price in return?” A sharp claw runs along his cheek, the tip of it skimming under one of his eyes. Peter doesn’t flinch away from the sting, it heals fast enough and it’s nothing compared to what he’d felt just minutes ago. Or maybe it was hours. Time means nothing when you’re immersed in torment and thrust into this other realm.

“This I’ll do for free. Hunters killed my mother and I take a special sort of glee in watching the life leave their eyes. You need to wake up, ‘wolf. Open those pretty red eyes for me.”

Peter’s eyes flicker open (again? or maybe he never had them open to begin with) and he takes in the glittering stars far above his head. It’s a different sort of darkness than before, not clogged with smoke or unreality. He sucks in deep breaths of clean air and the burn eases in his chest.

“What’s your name? I can’t exactly call you ‘wolf for however long this takes.” Peter’s gaze flicks to the voice from that other place, taking in hair that’s just long enough to hang over the being’s forehead and the predatory curve of his smile. And his great-grandmother’s words come to him again.

Ink dark hair and bright honey eyes that can turn burnt gold in a second of rage, a sharp tongue and magic sparking at fingertips the color of moonlight, a creature of myth to be feared and worshiped. Peter never expected to find all of that encompassed in the skinny frame of a teenaged boy, but stranger things have most certainly happened.

“Peter Hale,” he rasps out. “What’s yours?” The smile grows wider, too many teeth that are too sharp to be human. Peter can appreciate it, the sharp points of the creature’s nails even as they turn dull and intelligence that brightens his stare. The creature tilts its head to the side, a vulpine gesture of curiosity.

“Stiles Stilinski.”

 II

Peter remembers Christmas nights that he used to scoff at even if the sight of his children happily tearing into presents made him feel like the happiest man on earth. Jackson and Malia and Scott used their claws to rip the silk wrapping paper and that was probably the part they loved the best. Next to them was Laura, older and the heir apparent to the Hale fortune and so calmly unwrapping her presents one by one.

There would be garlands of bright gold and red twining around the bannisters and a wreathe hung over the mantel. Talia’s kids run rampant, the pups digging into the desserts that have been piled on a table by loyal servants—humans mostly, but a couple are Betas.

After presents was a hunt, the ‘wolves set loose in the expansive woods that surrounded their house. Peter would shift as well as he could, in charge of keeping the pups safe and crowded for the first two hours before his brother-in-law took over and Peter could go find some small woodland creature to sink teeth and claws into.

He wouldn’t return to the mansion until the sun was cresting on the horizon, copper heavy on his tongue and all but his trousers missing. Jackson, Cora, and Derek would be passed out on the sofa, but his baby girl would be bright-eyed as she ran over and jumped into his arms.

Peter lived for that moment, the unparalleled joy in Malia’s brown eyes (her mother’s eyes, her brother’s eyes) as she grins up at him. She was only four, unable to make even a Beta shift, but there were faint ridges over her brows and a golden gleam to her beautiful eyes. She would demand a fairy tale from him and he would take her to that lake hidden deep in the woods, surrounded by lush trees and greenery, and they would sit on a log that Peter’s great-grandmother had dragged over when Peter was small.

They would sit there for hours afterwards, even after Malia’s heartbeat slowed with sleep and her head rested against his shoulder. He would run careful fingers through her hair, the intricate braiding undone by then anyway with a few dead leaves caught up in the thick mass of it. He would carry her back up to the house by noon and he’d settle her in the large bed Peter and Melissa shared before heading downstairs by the siren call of cooking meat.

The day after Christmas is for recovery, lazing around with no worries to gnaw at them and still moon high from the night before. Peter would take Scott into the woods to look at the small creatures as they went about their business, his son watching with wide eyes as a small bunny disappeared into its burrow while Peter’s gaze strayed towards the flash of dark fur as a fox ran into the trees.

That afternoon, he’d take Jackson into town to visit with the other children and let him put on his human guise that he loves so much. Jackson is his firstborn, the one Peter fought to keep alive the first year after his birth, so Jackson could get away with most everything even if it means roughhousing (and sharing his first kiss years down the road, though peter swore to never tell) with a human boy named Danny.

The evenings were reserved for Malia. He’d take her up onto the roof to look at the stars and the moon and Peter would tell her an old Polish story-turned-prophecy of a creature with moon-bright skin and long fingers capable of granting wishes after a price has been taken. He told her about wishes and sparks of magic.

Jackson was only thirteen when he died, Scott was eleven, and Malia was seven.

And Peter wishes.

 III

“How old are you?”

“Older than you.”

“But you look like a teenager.”

“Magic.”

 IV

The first hunter to be killed is a man named Garrison Myers, a lord that’s gambled most of his fortune away and is suddenly rubbing elbows with the finest people in Beacon Hills. The man never expects it when Peter shows up uninvited to the man’s stately new home least of all when Peter’s eyes flash the same red as the man’s blood when it hits the cream wall in an arterial spray. For the first time in years, Peter savors the taste of warm blood as he sucks it off his claws.

Myers is half-dead on the floor, mouth opened in a scream that he can’t quite force out past the blood spewing from his lips. It’s a good look on him and Peter’s wolf can always appreciate a bared throat when it’s offered up to him. He doesn’t sink his teeth in, though, just watches as Myers’s body gives one last shudder before collapsing completely.

(his wife goes still and her back thumps to the ground for a final time)

Stiles comes out of the parlor, a glass of liquor in hand and curiosity turning honey eyes to whisky. He holds the glass out to Peter, but his eyes don’t leave the body. He almost looks…. Disappointed?

“You could have dragged that out a little.” Yes, disappointed. Peter’s used to having that sort of look sent his way.

(he was never the favorite child, never strong enough or fast enough for his mother’s liking)

“I’ll make the next one suffer a little more,” Peter says, and neither of them mention the promise in his voice. Stiles watches him for a moment until Peter finally takes the glass and downs it in one gulp, not even wincing as it goes down. It’s brandy of some kind, expensive, missing the touch of Wolfsbane that would allow him to lose his sobriety.

“I could have poisoned that.”

“You could have. You won’t.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because you still have need of me.” The curiosity never seems to leave Stiles, gaze bright as starlight and the color of flames that warm and destroy. A weaker person could fall in love with those eyes, but Peter isn’t weak anymore. Peter’s strong now, he can feel his newfound power pulsing in his veins as he flexes his hand.

It’s still covered in blood when Stiles takes it, admiring the color before producing a handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and wiping the tacky substance off. Peter lets him, soaking in the creature’s touch like it can cure the aching in his chest. He used to be touched all the time, Werewolves are tactile, but it’s been so long since he felt a kind hand against his own.

Stiles doesn’t do touching or personal space, which are really two things that shouldn’t go together so well. There were nights in the beginning when he would wake to find Stiles perched on the edge of his bed watching him sleep with his head tilted in observation, but there was no hand reaching out to brush a stray hair off Peter’s forehead or even the slightest brush of shoulders when they walked together.

Stiles doesn’t do touches and Peter is beginning to crave it.

His touch doesn’t linger, hands returning to his sides once the blood is gone and the handkerchief has been tossed away. Peter feels a surge of anger at the loss and throws the glass across the room, watching as it shatters and glittering shards sprinkle across the rug like diamonds.

(he’d bought melissa a diamond engagement ring when they were seventeen, but it’s in the family mausoleum with the rest of his family now)

“Burn the house down,” Peter commands, though his voice never rises over a murmur. “I don’t want to chance the murdering bastard coming back.” He turns and walks out as Stiles summons a small blaze that catches on all the wooden end tables Myers has lining the wall of his entrance hall. He can’t look back, can’t chance the bad memories that parade through his mind whenever he sees dancing flames.

He goes to a park three miles away and stares up at the crescent moon and the stars.

 V

It takes nearly three and a half years to get the family mansion rebuilt to Peter’s ridiculously high standards, everything restored from the faulty stove in the kitchen to the squeaky floorboard up in the attic that Peter used to hate. He even went and found a family of mice to set up in the spare bedroom on the second floor in memory of Scott and his fondness for animals of any kind.

(he brought home an injured fox one day. its foot had been caught in a trap and scott’s eyes widened and shined with tears until not even talia could refuse him)

Stiles thinks it’s all silly, the lengths mortal men go to in order to have a structured life. “It’s downright irresponsible,” he says one night, nimble fingers picking apart a lifeless bunny. “Your lifespan is so short, yet you prefer to stay in one place instead of travel.”

“Not all mortals can afford to travel.” Stiles sends him a disbelieving look, like currency is something he’s never dealt with before. And who knows? Maybe Stiles gets things for free in that other realm, the one beyond the veil where everything is dark and still. “Believe me, you’ll be happy to have a roof that doesn’t leak once Winter arrives.”

Peter spends hours drawing up the blueprints for the house, supervises the work crew personally in case they tried to skip over any details. The days are long and the work is hard, but Peter finds himself rejuvenated whenever he looks at the sketches of what’s to come.

He’ll have his home back soon. He’ll build a pack. He’ll have his revenge. He keeps the words repeating in his head as he lies awake at night, trying his best to control his shift. Stiles never mentions the gouges in the blankets, just quietly asks a servant employed by the hotel to bring up fresh linen.

When the house is actually finished and Peter can run his hand over the smooth mahogany of the winding staircase, the emptiness in his chest eases somewhat. Stiles comes to stand next to him, hands in the pockets of his greatcoat with the brass buttons along the front gleaming in muted sunlight.

“Not bad,” Stiles admits, taking in the grandeur that would intimidate most people. But Stiles isn’t most people, he’s a Demon with no concept of what time is appropriate to sing an old song in a language Peter doesn’t know.

Still, he takes the victories where he can find them these days.

 VI

The next hunter to die is found strung up by his ankles from a light post outside the police station, bled dry and covered in claw marks. It had taken him hours to die and his home is ashes by the time the fire crew make it there.

Surprisingly, there isn’t an investigation and Peter puts it down to Stiles’s magic until the police chief shows up at their hotel room with a grim set to his mouth and amusement in his eyes. Peter tenses, sure he’s about to be arrested, only to have the chief march straight past him to embrace Stiles in a tight hug that’s actually returned.

“Hey, Pops,” Stiles mumbles into the man’s neck.

“I take it this is your work.”

“I might have had some help.” They pull apart and the chief turns shrewd blue eyes to Peter, raking them up and down from the sleep-mussed hair to the bare toes peeking out from under his sleep pants. The chief takes a step forward and extends his hand, his grip firm and confident when he shakes Peter’s hand.

“John Stilinski,” the officer introduces.

“Peter Hale,” the ‘wolf copies. He keeps his head up like he was taught as a child, not showing any weakness despite the gnarled scars that cover most of his right side all the way up to his hairline. He’d asked Stiles if he could heal them, somewhere near the beginning of this whole ordeal, but the Demon had shaken his head and walked off into the woods.

“Those men, the two who’ve been murdered and had their houses burned down, were they hunters?”

“Yes.” There’s no point in lying, not when the chief so obviously knows about the supernatural.

“They’re the ones that burned your family.” Peter winces at the reminder, phantom pain lancing through him like a lightening strike. John doesn’t apologize or look at him in pity, he just nods like that’s all the confirmation he needs. “I’ll make sure these murders stay buried. Just take care of each other.”

“You don’t think I deserve to hang for my crimes?” John gives him a long look, searching and seeming to find something that makes his gaze soften. Still no pity, just a bone deep understanding.

“Hunters don’t deserve their lives.” And he walks out after one last glance in Stiles’s direction, the door closing softly behind him. Peter doesn’t ask about the elusive mother, the one who might have died just a few days ago from how fresh the pain is in the Demon’s posture.

But Peter wonders.

 VII

“You don’t sleep?”

“No.”

“And you don’t eat or drink?”

“Only if I have to look human.”

 VIII

Peter wakes one night and finds Stiles curled up in the window seat across the room, head titled back against a glass pane as he looks at the sky. It’s too cloudy to see the stars even with Werewolf vision, but Stiles is enraptured by something all the same. He’s all soft lines like this, suddenly looking far too young to be helping Peter murder grown adults.

“What are you looking at?”

“You don’t see it?” Peter’s brows furrow and he climbs out of the bed, goosebumps breaking out over his arms and bare chest from the cold. The fire’s gone out, he’ll have to hire a servant to tend to it. Outside, all Peter can see is faint wisps of cloud that are just thick enough to hide the moon from him. It’s not full yet, but nearly, maybe another week.

“See what?”

“The Wild Hunt.” Peter’s heard of them, more old stories his nan would tell him by that lake in the woods. Faeries that run through the sky on an indefinite quest to claim the souls of humans close to death, recruiting them to the hunt or just devouring them. Next to the Demon, the Wild Hunt was Nan’s favorite topic.

“You’re just hearing the wind, Stiles.” Stiles quirks his lips in a smile that’s not quite a smile, whiskey-dark eyes turning over to him instead of the clouds. There’s a knowledge in that gaze, heavy with all sorts of implications. He knows far more about the Hunt than Peter ever will, that’s what that stare means.

(the fair folk are tricksters, pup, and they have lifetimes of knowledge to create those tricks)

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, ‘wolf.” Stiles crosses the room and gets a fire going using only a snap of his fingers, curling up in front of it with his chin resting atop his knees. All the softness has gone out of him, the fire throws harsh shadows against the smooth plains of his face.

Peter lets the discussion drop and goes back to his bed, a massive thing for only one person, but he’s a creature of comfort above all else. The two heavy comforters he has draped over him serve the purpose of keeping him warm and tricking his subconscious into thinking he’s not alone.

He dreams that night—the wind howling like wild horses and pale pink lips that curl up in mimicry of a smile.

 IX

Peter’s come to appreciate the way it feels to tear a throat out, lapping up the blood as it pulses in rapid spurts from the wound. The man’s name is Unger, he is thirty-four years old and half-dead from opium. Peter’s just doing him a favor at this point, murder saves his immortal soul.

He laughs, the sound almost too loud in the quiet house. Stiles glances over at him but says nothing, just continues to browse Unger’s impressive collection of drugs. They’re laid out neatly on the dining room table, a vase of dead flowers just a few feet away and a glass of fine brandy soaking into the pristine table cloth.

Unger gives one more twitch and goes still at Peter’s feet, eyes still wide from the surprise. Across the table, Stiles sets down a small vial of laudanum and wipes his hand on his pants leg. His gaze flicks up and seems to take in Peter’s face for the first time, the crimson drenching Peter’s chin and the ridges set above nonexistent eyebrows.

“Blood looks good on you.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment,” Peter asks, the words coming out slurred around his fangs. Stiles gives him that mysterious not-smile, tucking gloved hands back into the pockets of his greatcoat and walking out.

Peter’s gonna take that as a compliment.

 X

Stiles sings when he thinks Peter is asleep.

 XI

The first servant they hire is a Kitsune, full of bubbling energy and laughter that can even make Peter smile on occasion. Kira Yukimura is all the best parts of her parents, but Peter can see the darkness in her, the way her brown eyes flash orange in the quieter moments when she remembers.

Kira is seventeen years old, barely surviving the fire four years ago when her mother pushed her through an open window before hunters stormed inside. Inside her is the same fire that keeps Peter going, the drive for revenge and blood on her hands. He lets her take Reddick apart piece by piece and she looks like a goddess come to earth, divine in her wrath.

They spread Reddick out over a series of weeks, drawing in more hunters with each limb uncovered but the one they want isn’t showing a sign of interest. Stiles and Kira have taken to coming up with strategies in the library, bonding over their shared interest in magic that Peter can’t understand since, by nature, Werewolves can’t wield it.

They find their second servant completely by accident, a young Omega whose Alpha had died, cut in half in the woods with his blood still tacky on the boy’s face when Peter runs across him. His clothing hangs limply off his frame and he’s covered in grime that’s at least a month old, but his eyes glow blue and his mate is crouching just behind him with eyes dark as pitch.

It takes time, but Kira manages to draw information out of their new guests until Peter is satisfied. Liam takes on the role of gardener, the repetitive work helping him with his anger and control issues while Mason dives into research on hunter families in the area. Peter leaves him to it, content with the pack bonds slowly growing between all of them.

The emptiness in his chest eases.

 XII

Unsurprisingly, it’s Mason that discovers exactly which Argent set Peter’s house on fire. The surprise comes five minutes later when he and Stiles come racing down the hallway, pushing and shoving and trying to be the one to tell Peter the news first. The Chimera wins after hooking his foot around Stiles’s ankle and sending the Demon face first over the stair railing.

The indignant squawk is the most human sound Peter’s ever heard Stiles make.

 XIII

Peter remembers the bond he shared with Melissa, that unwavering loyalty that was seared into his instincts. He remembers how possessive he got when she was pregnant with his pups and how fiercely he’d fought to keep her alive when the hunters raided their home. He’d thought that was the most intense emotion he’d ever feel for a person.

Then he woke up one night to the sound of a muffled whimper, pained. He’s out of bed and rushing downstairs before he even knows what’s happening, finding Stiles kneeling in the entryway with a skinny man standing over him, an amulet swinging in one shaking hand. Stiles has always been pale, but this is downright ashen, his eyes almost blank and his breaths coming out in sharp gasps.

Peter bares his fangs and lets a reverberating growl echo through his home. In just moments, his Betas are at his back and shifted. The man wavers, but he holds firm and doesn’t bolt like most humans would in his place. His jaw tightens and he chants something in Latin and then Stiles’s back is arching and a pained scream is torn from his throat.

“Come any closer and I’ll banish him back to hell,” the man says, voice cracking near the end as tears make his green eyes shine. Derek had green eyes, but Kate Argent plucked them right out of his head and left him for dead outside the mansion just one day before the fire. Peter’s eyes flash and he can feel the Change coming over him, but he shoves it back for now.

“Do him anymore harm and I’ll feed you your own heart.” Peter’s voice is steady, low and calm and holding the promise of violence. That skinny little snake will not be leaving this house alive. “Who are you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Why are you here?”

“Clearing a debt.” He’s sweating, it’s soaking into the plain clothes he wears. Peter remembers him, a professor that’s always hated the Hales for what they have. He gave Derek bad marks in school simply because the boy was loved by anyone he encountered.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do! She said I’d stay alive if I got rid of your pet Demon!” Harris swallows so hard it’s almost as though he’s trying to take the words back, eyes going wide. They’re sunken and have dark bruises underneath them, like he’s had quite a few sleepless nights lately. Don’t worry, Harris, you’ll sleep for eternity when I’m through with you.

Peter lets the red bleed back into his eyes, taking on that soft tone that makes people feel all warm and safe. Talia used to say he could charm snakes right out of their skins with that tone, a gift that not a lot of ‘wolves inherit. “You don’t have to do this, Adrian. She can’t get you here.”

“That’s not…. I can’t—”

“Just stop the spell, Adrian. We can all walk away from this.” The stiff posture relaxes inch by inch, eyes beginning to cloud over as the amulet falls from lax fingers. Almost there, just one more nudge. “No one ever need know.” The spell shatters like glass, Stiles sucking in deep gulps of air as Harris drops to his knees and bares his throat in submission.

Peter catches Stiles as he falls sideways, only vaguely registering when his Betas go in for the kill. Harris doesn’t even get a chance to scream before Mason is coiling a thick cloud of blackness around his throat and squeezing. The Demon is staring up at Peter with something akin to shock.

“Are you okay?”

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Save me.” The answer is on the tip of Peter’s tongue, but he swallows it down and just gives Stiles a shrug in response, helping him to stand up. They don’t talk on the way up the stairs and Stiles doesn’t fuss when Peter dresses him in a pair of sleep pants that hang low on his hips. Stiles sleeps deeply that night, regaining strength as Peter keeps watch. Inside him, his wolf is howling one word over and over again.

Mate.

 XIV

Pod pierzyną czarnej nocy W blasku srebrnych gwiazd Gwiżdże swoje kołysanki Rozśpiewany wiatr.

 XV

The day Kate Argent comes into Beacon Hills is the same day that the newly rebuilt Hale Pack finds out that Stiles is afraid of spiders. They find out because they hear a shriek and then a blast of magic destroys a large portion of the dining room table, taking out Peter’s bacon along with it.

“Uh, Stiles…?”

“We’re not speaking of this,” Stiles grouses, setting back to work on his eggs.

“But,” Peter tries again, pointing at the jagged area that used to be his breakfast.

“Nope.” And he stuffs his mouth full just to drive the point home. Peter lets it drop and leans back in his seat with a frown, ignoring the way his stomach growls. When Stiles is sure no one is going to say anything, he scoots his chair closer and offers up the plate of food he doesn’t actually have to eat. It’s become habit since Kira moved back in, eating just to be part of the routine.

“You’re actually going to share your food? Last time I tried to take a piece of your toast, you almost bit my fingers.”

“You all need your strength.” Peter cocks his head to the side, blue eyes searching brown until realization dawns on him. Stiles nods in confirmation, then turns to face the Betas to explain the silent conversation. “Argent is back. She came in by coach just twenty minutes ago according to a Reaper friend of mine.” His brows scrunch up and he gets that not-smile again. “Finstock wasn’t exactly pleased to be dragged away from his bed when I gave a call.”

“We’ll hunt her down in a week. I want the Betas to have more training first.”

“I want to play with her while you do that. She took something from me, so I think I’ll take something from her.” Peter dips his head in a nod, remembering those early days when he’d overhear Stiles talking in Polish to someone that isn’t alive anymore, saying his mother’s name like a prayer to bring her back. He never got an answer in return.

“Her family has a home in the middle of town,” Mason informs him. “It’s right next to the library and the window that leads into the parlor doesn’t close properly since someone broke the lock two days ago.” There’s a gleam in the teenager’s eyes that makes pride fill Peter’s chest.

“I’ll be sure to check in on that. We wouldn’t want anyone to break in and harm Miss Argent, after all.”

 XVI

It’s close to one in the morning, the time when rational people are all asleep in their beds. Peter’s laying on his back and staring up at the silk canopy over his head when he hears floorboards creaking under someone’s foot. Stiles appears by his bed a moment later, pale skin seeming to glow in the moonlight flooding the room.

“Can’t sleep,” he asks, reaching out slender fingers and stopping just short of grazing the stubble along Peter’s jaw. Peter aches to rub his face against that hand, scent mark Stiles until pale skin is a delicious red from beard burn.

“Too many thoughts in my head.” Stiles nods and sits next to him, still within touching distance. His fingers twitch, then they cup Peter’s face and he’s leaning down and his lips are almost pressed to Peter’s, but then the bedroom door is flying open and Stiles falls backwards with a squeak of surprise.

The Betas don’t even seem to realize what they interrupted, all three of them piling up next to Peter and snuggling under the covers until they’re all touching in some way or another. A puppy pile, a newly regular occurrence that Peter can’t find himself denying. Stiles rises from where he’d fallen, brushing off his clothes with a frown making his plush lips twist downwards.

Peter holds out a hand, an invitation for him to join, but Stiles shakes his head and returns to the window seat. The wind’s howling outside, but Peter knows without having to check that the trees are motionless. The Wild Hunt is sweeping through the clouds, circling like they have for the past three nights.

(they sense these things, scotty, when a war is brewing. They claim the souls of sinners because they’re the easiest to steal)

Stiles stares up at the Hunt with wide eyes and hope and Peter wonders if his mother used to ride with the Fair Folk.

They pass the rest of the night like this, the pups curled up around him like they’re afraid to be left behind, Peter watching Stiles, and Stiles watching the sky. There’s no talking, just the sound of the Hunt and the soft snores that escape past Kira’s lips. Peter lets a content hum rumble through his chest, soothing the pups as they relax further against him.

Stiles leaves the room when daylight starts creeping in from the east, faint rays of it illuminating the bedroom in gold. An hour later, Peter can smell breakfast cooking and the pups begin to stir against him. Liam is the first one to wake up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and twitching his nose as he sniffs the air.

“Is Stiles cooking venison?”

“And ham,” Mason says, the words slurred from where his face is still pressed against Peter’s chest. “And the last of the sausage.” Kira’s the next to wake up, wiping the drool off her chin as she gets out of bed. She doesn’t say anything, just shuffling out of the room and not even noticing the way her nightgown has slipped off one shoulder to reveal tan skin.

Once the other two have gone back to their room, Peter gets up and dresses for the day in his finest clothes. They’re his funeral clothes, black and stiff and smelling faintly of mothballs. He thinks they’re appropriate since the day won’t end without him or Kate Argent dead. In the kitchen, he can hear Stiles quoting Shakespeare as he starts in on making pancakes.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.

  XVII

There’s a conversation while the Betas are frolicking in the woods, far enough away to keep them from eavesdropping. Stiles’s eyes blaze and the simple conversation turns into an argument of epic proportions, but Peter comes out the victor all the same.

  XVIII

It’s dark when they manage to draw Kate out into the woods, the Betas limping and sore but still strong. They’re snarling and growling and Peter’s so proud to have them at his side. They circle the huntress, lashing out randomly to keep her on her toes and dodging her own attacks with the ease of practice.

Stiles is nearby, eyes glowing a burnt gold as he uses his magic to throw Kate to the ground. She hits hard enough to drive the air out of her lungs and Peter can her the faint snick of a bone breaking.

Kate’s teeth are bared in a snarl of pain, almost animalistic as she draws something out of her jacket. Peter’s moving on instinct, shoving Liam out of the way just as the bottle collides with his back, soaking funeral clothes in whiskey. Mason charges at her and slams his fist against her cheek, shattering the bone and knocking out most of the teeth on the right side of her head.

Argent howls in pain, but she’s still moving and Peter meets her halfway, fully shifted. This is a fight he’s been expecting for six years now and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t draw some blood. They collide in a mass of tearing claws and growls, Peter knocking her to the ground and sinking his fangs into the meat of her shoulder. He wants her to suffer the way his family did, he wants her to burn.

He barely even notices the knife she plunges into his side, crimson eyes moving to the Demon panting a few feet away. Stiles looks hesitant, fingers curling around something in the pocket of his waistcoat. It’s a vivid red against the black of his clothes, a conscious choice to match his Alpha’s eyes. Peter dips his head in a nod and Stiles pulls the object out slowly.

Stiles tosses the lit match onto the ground right next to Peter and Kate, the flame catching on Peter’s soaked clothes and settling into a wild blaze that Stiles’s magic encourages. The pain catches Peter off guard, but he keeps his teeth locked into Kate so she can’t escape the fire that’s ravaged Peter’s life.

Somewhere outside of the flames, the Betas are snarling and snapping and sobbing, trying their best to reach Peter. The fire grows hotter, blistering Kate’s skin until Peter can see the white of bone in her forehead. She’s still alive, eyes rolling wildly in her head.

Peter waits, ignoring the pain licking up his back until the rapid thump of her heartbeat begins to stutter. That’s when he releases her, plunging a clawed hand into her chest and ripping out her heart, throwing it to Stiles before the fire can reach it. He watches as Stiles bends down to pick it up, gold eyes meeting red and his lips quirking up in that familiar mockery of a smile. There are tears on his cheeks, glinting like diamonds in the soft moonlight.

Above them, the wind grows louder and Peter can almost hear the hoofbeats as a green, ghostly hand reaches down to snatch Kate’s soul out of her body, searching around in the hole in her chest and plucking a wisp of dull light. Peter watches with wide-eyed fascination as the Wild Hunt circles the group once and then takes off back into the sky, whipping their horses and driving them far away from Beacon Hills.

And Peter howls.

 XIX

“Forget it, I’m not doing that to you.”

“Then do it for Claudia. Why should that Argent bitch get to live when our loved ones have been decimated by her family for the simple reason of being born something other than human?”

“How will I explain it to the pups?”

“You’re clever, Stiles. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

 XX

Peter remembers the agony of fire scorching up his side, the feeling of his flesh bubbling even as it tried to heal; it was repetitive, cruel, and it was driving him half insane. He’s able to handle it this time, knowing his Betas will heal and find a new Alpha, maybe even the Talbot boy that Stiles seemed fond of whenever they traveled into town.

When he opens his eyes again he’s back in the darkness, floating and serene and cool. It’s like being suspended in water, though he wishes he could feel the waves moving him to and fro. Just one last time, this one last thing.

“You didn’t summon me.” The voice doesn’t surprise him this time and Peter’s eyes can pick out the form sitting near his feet. It’s a black fox instead of a teenager, black fur soft where it brushes against Peter’s ankle.

“I didn’t need to. My revenge is done.”

“Maybe I wanted my payment.” Peter arches a brow, watching as the black fox sidles up near his face.

(a small bunny disappeared into its burrow while Peter’s gaze strayed towards the flash of dark fur as a fox ran into the trees. the fox’s foot had been caught in a trap and scott’s eyes widened and shined with tears)

The fox’s face is right up next to Peter’s, close enough that even the darkness can’t obscure the eyes that are as familiar to him as breathing. Honey through sunlight, burnt gold, whiskey, Stiles.

“Come back to us,” Stiles asks, breath cold against Peter’s cheek. “Let that be your payment to me, ‘wolf. Stay alive for your pack and for me.” The realization is slow to set in, that the softness hasn’t gone away with the moonlight and Stiles is looking at him with almost adoration in his eyes.

Mate.

Mine.

Peter heaves a dramatic sigh and reaches out to comb his fingers through soft fur. “Well, I suppose I will since you asked so nicely.” Stiles laughs, nuzzling against his cheek as the darkness slowly begins to break apart like clouds. “So, what did you tell the pack about why you set their Alpha on fire?”

“That you told me to do it.”

“And when they didn’t believe you?”

“Ran for my life.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” Stiles shifts and takes Peter’s hand, dragging him upright so that they can walk side by side. It feels nice, holding hands, the touch-starved part of Peter yearning for more. He wants to take Stiles somewhere quiet and then take him apart, finding out which places makes him moan and which ones make him scream. He’s so consumed by his thoughts that he never quite notices when ink black gives way to a small beach surrounded by greenery.

The Betas are sitting on a couple of logs dragged up to the lake and Peter has a vivid flashback of three other children sitting like that, pushing and shoving playfully. When it fades back to his Betas, that ache in his chest almost disappears. He has pack again, family and a mate, Peter can relax.

Peter moves on.