S͟T͟E͟R͟E͟K͟ I͟M͟A͟G͟I͟N͟E͟S͟

Things we lost pt.2

Stiles dug his fingertips into the cold metal of Derek's helmet, clinging it to his chest as he swiftly moved down the hallway. He couldn't recall how he escaped the hall—the eyes of the Court. Somehow he managed to leave with Derek's helmet in his hands. He told the guards not to disturb him as he slipped into his bedroom.
The helmet grew heavier as the silence did nothing to comfort Stiles. It was cold against Stiles' warm skin. It was a cursed reminder that Derek was gone. It was all that was left of the Dread Wolf of Triskelia.
Stiles turned the helmet until the wolf's face was looking at him. The eyes were gorgeously carved into the metal, easily moving with the curves of the metal that was bent in order to cradle Derek's head.
Wordlessly, Stiles threw the helmet as hard as he could, sending it sailing through the air and crashing into the window of his balcony. The stain glass shattered under the force, clattering to the floor in chaotic disarray. The helmet rolled to a stop, rocking back and forth among the mess it created.
Stiles' hands tore at the blankets of his bed, ripping them from their place among the mattress. He cast them aside, his mind not thinking rationally as he tried destroying everything in sight. His actions didn't cease until he felt the strong kick against his stomach—a protest. He stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the bed as he reached a hand to cradle his stomach. He allowed his legs to give way, crumpling to his knees on the floor as the tears started to fall.
Stiles released a pained scream, his grief suddenly flickering from anger to devastation as his voice cracked, his chest releasing a sob as his tears took over. He cried until his eyes burned, his throat raw, his voice tender.
Stiles awoke to the feeling of a delicate hand brushing his hair from his face, a sure hand gently rocking his shoulder.
"Stiles," Scott's voice pulled Stiles from his sleep.
"Scott?" Stiles asked in momentary confusion. "You're ... how are you here?"
Scott tried to give Stiles a fond smile, but he couldn't even manage one. He helped Stiles to sit up, moving a pillow from the bed to place behind Stiles' back. He knew nothing about pregnancies, but he knew the grief alone wasn't helping Stiles or the baby, and a sore back wouldn't aid anyone.
"I brought your father," Scott explained. "We took the longer route—through the forest. We left before the ..." He paused, not knowing what Stiles knew. He scanned the destroyed state of the room, knowing that he must at least know about Derek. His thoughts were confirmed when he saw Derek's helmet, cast aside to remain in the distant corner of the room.
"What happened?" Stiles finally asked, knowing Scott was holding back the truth.
"Stiles—"
"I deserve to know how my husband died," Stiles firmly countered, not willing to listen to any excuse Scott was about to offer him.
Scott hesitated before nodding. He took a deep breath, moving to sit beside Stiles. "Derek was winning the battles," he started, drawing his legs up to his chest, like he used to do whenever he and Stiles would stay up late and swap stories by the fire. Like he did when he didn't wish to admit being scared. "We thought he beat the Argents—he was planning on leaving to head back to Triskelia, with your father. But that night, the Argents were at our walls with over a thousand men." He shook his head, recalling the memory. He was terrified when he heard the bangs of their shields, their cries for bloodshed. "Derek orchestrated that the troops be split into two sections—one as a decoy, the other as a reinforcement wave that was to come around the enemy and surprise them. Derek instructed me to take your father through the hidden tunnels. And once we reached the marshes, he told me to take the merchant's road."
"He was evacuating," Stiles weakly answered.
Scott didn't know about the merchant's road—nobody in the vast neighboring kingdoms knew about the merchant's roads except Beacon's royal family. And Derek. Stiles had told Derek to use them should he ever need an evacuation from the kingdom. Derek was taking Stiles' advice, and evacuating everyone else, except himself.
"We didn't realize what happened until we reached Triskelia's gates. Stiles," Scott started to turn towards him, wanting to offer his friend any comfort he could. "I'm so sorry. If I knew— I wouldn't have left his side."
Stiles shook his head, staring down at his stomach as he tried to ignore the way his baby moved, kicking and altering his position as if he was fussing. "He wasn't your responsibility, Scott. He ... he was a soldier. He wouldn't let anyone defend him."
Stiles snuck into Natalia's room that night, slipping into bed with her before scooping her up in his arms. He held her against his chest, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing. He imagined Derek was only a day's ride away—that he was headed back to them, and couldn't wait to be stretched out along the bed beside them. That he'd be willing to relax after such a trying series of battles, to spend the day with them both.
Stiles silenced his tears as he pressed a kiss into Natalia's hair, wanting to keep close the last parts of Derek that he had. He made sure to slip away in the morning, cursing himself for being unable to face his child and the questions she was bound to have.
~*~
Stiles forced himself to attend the funeral. A funeral for an unrecognizable pile of ash. Derek's body hadn't been found, the Argents having burned the bodies when the battlefield cleared.
Stiles fled to the safety of Derek's room when it was over, needing to rid himself of his clothes, feeling constricted by the smoke that seeped into the material. He crawled under Derek's blankets, overjoyed when he found that they still held his scent. He wrapped himself in as much of the smell as he could, pretending that he was too ill to attend any meetings or balls.
Stiles ignored the newly appointed generals urging him to attend their meetings. He ignored Scott's attempt to get him to eat more—Scott was only successful when reminding Stiles about the baby. He ignored his father telling him that he had to make a response, a counter to the Argents and their treachery.
On one, uneventful day, Stiles' body felt weak and achy, as if he had no energy left. When he pulled the blankets back to make the short trip from the bed to the bedpan, Stiles screamed, yelling in protest to the blood he found staining the sheets.
Stiles was in a haze when the guards, followed by his father, moved him from the bed. He protested against them, trying to grasp for the bedsheets. He released a weak 'no' when he saw the servants already clumping the sheets together—most likely going to burn them.
Fire—smoke.
Stiles nightmares were still taunting him. Everything he's lost has been to a fire's flames. His mother's funeral pyre. Derek's body being lit aflame with the other fallen soldiers. And now, Derek's sheets and blankets—the last objects to still hold Derek's scent even after months of his absence. He sobbed and whined when the physician tried to examine him, cutting his bloody bedclothes from his body. He pushed at the man, not wanting anyone to touch him, not when he felt vulnerable.
Another complicated birth. Another child left without their father. Another Hale to carry on what their father couldn't.
Stiles' body was enflamed, his sweat cover brow furrowed in pain as he struggled against everything. He fisted the sheets of the birthing bed, shaking his head back and forth.
"I can't," Stiles weakly uttered. "I can't, I can't do this."
"Stiles," his father's voice broke through his haze, his hand moving to hold his son's in an attempt to comfort him. "You can do this."
"No, I can't," Stiles protested, releasing a gasp of pain. "I can't do this without him. I can't—Derek's supposed to be here. I can't do this without him here!" He tried to make his father understand.
"He is," his father sternly answered as he pressed a cold compress to Stiles' forehead. "Your baby—Derek's baby. He's here with you and your baby."
Stiles bit back his tears, nodding in agreement. "Something wrong," he suddenly uttered, feeling the way the pain started to radiate upwards. "He has to get him out," he deliriously managed to speak. "He's dying, he's dying—get him out!"
Stiles started to panic, feeling as if his baby was being stolen from him. He wondered if Derek would come to collect their child—if he would watch over him until Stiles was ready to join them in the afterlife.
The last thing Stiles remembered was the surgeon prepping his knives. The rest fell into darkness. He awoke with a similar pain as when he awoke after Natalia's birth. He didn't bother looking around the room, knowing he wouldn't see Derek holding a small bundle in his arms. He remained silent, aware of his father sitting in one of the chairs. He turned his attention away from the crying bundle when his father offered him a chance to hold it. And he hated himself for it.
Days passed by quicker than Stiles could count. He remained in bed, pretending that the cries of his baby weren't tearing at his heart until the wet nurse was able to subside the baby's tears.
"The kingdom is awaiting an announcement," Peter's voice traveled from the hallway as he argued with Stiles' father.
"Stiles isn't feeling well," his father replied, refusing to allow Peter entrance to the room.
"The King Consort cannot remain hidden forever, especially after the death of the King," Peter loudly announced with the intent of making sure Stiles overheard them. "He ignores the needs of the country just as much as he does the needs of his own children."
Stiles lifted the blanket, covering himself in an attempt to block out the world.
"The kingdom needs unification, and the announcement of the birth of Derek's child will create that opportunity," Peter stubbornly continued. "If we are to regain our hold on Beacon—which is still under siege—we need the people motivated."
"I'll be sure to inform my son of that," Stiles' father answered, refusing to budge as the last remaining wall between Stiles and the rest of the world.
Stiles waited until nightfall, slipping out of his room in the darkness. He went into the baby's nursery first, catching sight of him swaddled in a soft blanket. He hovered by the edge of the bassinette, too afraid to get any closer. He caught sight of the baby's hand, somehow wrestled free from the blankets, moving in a grabbing motion, as if he was trying to grab something just out of sight. A pang of guilt ran through his body, unable to forgive himself for refusing to hold his baby—for abandoning him.
The baby released a faint, high-pitched noise, the noise of a small growl being released from his chest. He stirred in his sleep, his feet fighting against his blankets. He released a soft coo as his eyes opened.
Stiles released a small sob, hiding his face in his hands as he tried to hide from the shame he felt. He conceived the baby in love, carried him in worry, and shunned him in grief. His baby. Derek's baby. Nothing could change what happened.
Stiles reached down into the bassinette, scooping his baby up into his arms. He cradled him against his chest, crying as he whispered gentle words—pleas for forgiveness that were muffled against the soft hairs on top the baby's head.
Stiles sat in the rocker for hours, only to be discovered by his father in the morning. He hummed lullabies—some of which he recalled Derek singing for Natalia whenever she was sick or tired enough to cling to him instead of Stiles.
"Feeling better?" His father asked as he came to stand behind Stiles, peering over his shoulder as he watched his grandson yawn and stare up at Stiles.
"As can be expected," Stiles offered, knowing that he would never feel better. "I ... I haven't named him," he shamefully admitted.
"According to Peter, Hale tradition is to name sons after other males in the family," his father offered.
"I'm not naming him Peter," Stiles harshly commented, knowing that it wasn't out of Peter's intended purposes of telling his father that.
His father released an amused hum of approval.
"Samuel," Stiles suddenly stated, looking down at his son as he started to fall asleep. "After Derek's father," he explained.
"He looks like a Samuel," his father offered in acceptance.
"Is Natalia still asleep?" Stiles asked as he rose from the rocking chair, moving to place Samuel back in his bassinette.
"Maybe," his father truthfully answered. "Stiles ..." He took a deep breath, shaking his head slightly. "I tried speaking with her about Derek," he started, watching his son's face for a sign of discomfort before continuing. "She doesn't understand. She kept asking when she could see you, refusing to speak with anyone else."
Stiles weakly nodded, knowing that he was bound to be the one to tell her. It had been months since the funeral—since Stiles had even seen Natalia. He hated himself for pushing her away—for not being a parent when she needed it most. He had a lot to make up to both her and Samuel.
Stiles greeted the guards with a small nod of his head before entering Natalia's room. He quietly approached her bed, carefully watching the way she hugged her pillow, almost as if she was hiding her face. He sat on the edge of her bed, careful not to pull her blankets from her. He brushed his fingertips across her cheek, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind her ear.
"Daddy?" Natalia groggily called as she stirred. She blinked her eyes open, taking in Stiles' form.
"Morning, sweetie," Stiles softly stated, a small smile pulling at his lips.
"Are you feeling better?" Natalia asked as she sat up some, reaching for Stiles. She leaned forward, trusting him to catch her.
"Much better," Stiles answered as he pulled her towards him, holding her against his chest as she stirred herself awake.
"Can I see brother now?" Natalia asked as she looked up at Stiles in question. "I promised Papa that I'd keep an eye on him while he's gone," she innocently explained.
Stiles fought against the frown pulling at his lips as he ran his fingers through Natalia's hair. "Natalia," his voice partially cracked, making him paused to collect his words. "Papa's not coming home."
Natalia remained silent as she rested her head against Stiles' shoulder. "Why not?"
"He went—" Stiles bit back his sob, taking in a steady breath as he fought to not cry—Natalia didn't need to see him broken. "He went to protect grandpa from some bad men."
Natalia was silent for a few moments, her breathing easy and calm, almost convincing Stiles that she fell asleep. "They hurt him," she uttered, her tiny voice almost curious as much as it was confused.
"They did. They ... they took him away," Stiles stated, unsure how else to explain it.
"They can't," Natalia argued, pushing away from Stiles in rejection. She crawled to her feet, standing up on the mattress despite the way she wiggled off balance. Her eyebrows were furrowed, her eyes red from tears Stiles didn't realize she had been crying. "They can't keep him!" She stubbornly yelled. "He promised! He promised to— to see brother! He promised to come back!" She grew even more impassioned when Stiles sorrowfully stared at her. "They're bad! They're bad men and I hate them!" She wiped her hands at her eyes, trying to make the tears disappear. "I'll hurt them!" She bitterly claimed. "I'll hurt them like they hurt Papa." She collapsed into Stiles arms, burying her face in his chest as she cried.
Stiles knew she didn't understand—that she might never understand what really happened. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as he attempted to gently rock her pain away.
But no matter what they did, nothing could reverse what happened—they placed their faith in each other, only to have a cowardly force rip them apart. Stiles was done playing politics. He was done with the façade of pacifier. He was done being the helpless victim. He was ready to embrace what Derek had given him.
The world thought Derek was a monster—Stiles was ready to show them one.
~*~
Stiles ignored Peter's snide remarks about his absence. He arranged Samuel's announcement, allowing the social season to continue now that the mourning period was over. He easily made his appearances in the Court, taking his place on the throne as the King-Consort Regent. He used the public's demand for revenge and the love the soldiers had for Derek to his advantage.
"With respect, your majesty," one of the generals began. "Beacon was considered somewhat of a success, given that they surprisingly outnumbered the garrison—"
"The garrison wasn't Triskelia's full force," Stiles commented, his eyes tracing the maps. "It was a minor force, one that wouldn't express Triskelia's intent on engaging in war."
"If we hunt the Argents down, we're passing war and moving straight into vengeful bloodlust," another general countered.
"The Argents enacted war on Triskelia when they murdered my husband," Stiles sternly stated, the force of his voice silencing the room. "Triskelia is not enacting war on the Argents. Triskelia's soldiers are bringing the murderers of their king to justice."
The generals were silent, all refusing to argue with Stiles on the matter.
"Then should we engage them with the intent to kill?" One general thoughtfully asked.
"The people want justice," Stiles answered, taking his eyes away from the maps for the first time. "And I intend to answer their cries." He interlaced his fingers in an attempt to stop his subconscious twitching, absentmindedly spinning his wedding ring around his finger. "I want the Argents brought back here for public execution. I want the masses to be able to see their end."
"And Beacon?" Another general questioned.
Beacon was safe—for the time being. Its residents had managed to successfully barricade themselves within Beacon's walls. But the walls would not hold forever.
"Once the Argents are handled, no kingdom will suffer from their greed again," Stiles stated.
Stiles wasn't ignorant that attacking the Argents head on meant that he would be endangering Lydia's and Allison's lives. He spoke with them both, putting Allison at ease when he explained that, like the Court, neither Triskelia nor Beacon would hold her and her father accountable for their family's actions. Derek had pardoned Chris and Allison, and Stiles chose to honor that.
Stiles knew it was foolish to spend his nights in the crypt beneath the castle. He felt closer to Derek, despite his doubts that the ashes they collected truly belonged to Derek. He felt guilt for being unable to reunite Derek with his family, knowing that Derek wanted nothing more than to be laid to rest among them. He would sit and weep by his casket, his questions of 'why' met with only silence.
It was in the crypt that Stiles placed the letter informing him of the Argents' defeat. He placed the letter across the top of Derek's casket, his hands shaking. He pressed his cheek against the cold stone, closing his eyes as he pretended that Derek could actually still hear him.
"It didn't bring you back," Stiles weakly whispered to the harsh silence that echoed around him.
~*~
"Mercy isn't weakness, Stiles," the King offered. "Sometimes, mercy is the right way to proceed."
Stiles stared at the scaffolding being raised for the execution tomorrow.
"Sometimes, mercy isn't enough to stop the pain," Stiles answered.
"And death will?" The King asked.
"It'll stop the dreams," Stiles' voice was barely louder than a whisper.
~*~
"The Dread Wolf's whore graces me with his presence," Gerard commented, a small smirk befalling the man's lips.
Stiles calmly stood before the bars, his hands folded in on themselves as he waited out the needless taunting.
"Did you mourn him? I can't imagine someone would miss being mounted like a bitch in heat," Gerard cruelly continued.
"I hope you're prepared for tomorrow," Stiles gently offered. "If not, a priest or priestess of your choosing can be summoned for you."
"Such elegance—disguising pure rage, no doubt," Gerard replied as he leaned against the bars. "Tell me, what was it like?"
Stiles narrowed his eyes on Gerard, knowing that he shouldn't rise to his obvious heckle. "What was what like?" He lowly questioned.
"Carrying that animal's spawn inside you," Gerard spat in disgust.
Stiles clenched his jaw, wanting to claw Gerard's eyes from his skull. "It was the highest honor I've ever had," he defiantly replied.
"You didn't know what he was," Gerard stated in near amazement. "He put children in you without even telling you. He never told you what he was capable of. What he did to my Kate—"
"He told me all about your precious daughter. How he punished a psychotic murderer," Stiles snapped. "You're going to sit in a cell, awaiting your own punishment, and try to make an argument that you are in the right—that you've always been in the right?" He incredulously demanded. "You sent your daughter to seduce a boy—to burn his family alive. And you expected that boy to not grow up into a man seeking justice?"
"A Hale could never be a man," Gerard snarled.
"It's a shame you think that," Stiles calmly stated. "Because tomorrow, you die for killing a man."
"It's a shame his spawn managed to survive," Gerard venomously answered.
A wave of vindictive happiness pulsed through Stiles body. "Then you'll be happy to hear that upon your death, and with Chris' consent, your lands and holdings will join with Triskelia and Beacon—to be split among Natalia and Samuel on their coronation days." He confidently took a step closer to the bars. "You call my husband a monster; you insult my children; you call me a whore. But it was you that created a monster when you killed my husband." He leaned away from the bars, turning to take the torch placed on the pillar with him—leaving Gerard in the dungeon's darkness. He paused by the door, his eyes burning with the hatred and anger he held back for months as he grieved. "With your death, I can only hope it can be put to rest once more."
~*~
Despite Natalia's protests, Stiles refused to let her watch "the bad men pay." He stood on the balcony, his father's hand sure and comforting on his shoulder as they looked down at the herald read off Gerard's punishment. He held his breath as he watched the executioner swing his axe. He closed his eyes to the roar of the public, turning to leave the scene behind.
Stiles found himself wandering the castle's halls, stopping at the crypt. He knew he was going to end up here, as he did most nights. He collapsed against Derek's casket, his tears finally breaking him down as he prayed for the nightmares to leave him.
~*~
Stiles relaxed into the throne, his fingertips gently drumming against the armrests as he waited for the diplomats to make their point. Natalia was restless in her chair beside him, pulling at her dress as she longed to be in the simple shirt and trousers she was allowed to wear.
Months had passed since Gerard's beheading, and Triskelia had become a terrifying force to be reckoned with. It was still stronger than any other kingdom—respected by most and terrified by others. But unlike before, Stiles had learned how to play the game at the others' rules. Most of them had assumed Stiles would take the diplomatic approach after Derek's death, but he garnered his resources and used his intellect to his advantage. He was just but methodical, nonetheless. He promised his people security, and he more than delivered when Beacon was finally freed and Derek's killers punished.
Now, Stiles was to meet with countless kingdoms in hopes of ensuring alliances rather than relying on good faith. In short, diplomat after diplomat offered Stiles the propositions of their kings and queens—marriage. Most were for Stiles' hand, a rare few asking for Natalia's. Stiles pretended to entertain the ideas, never giving way.
Until the last proposition of the day. Stiles didn't bother to remember the man's name, ignoring his snide remarks and air of confidence.
"I thank all of you for your gifts and offers," Stiles started as he stood, offering his hand to Natalia.
Natalia gratefully jumped down from her chair, eagerly grabbing Stiles' hand as she attempted to patiently wait for her father to finish addressing the men.
"Neither I, nor my daughter, are ready to accept," Stiles curtly stated, moving to exit.
"When then, your grace?" The last man defiantly questioned.
Erica moved forward, opening the door for Stiles as she held her gaze on the man who spoke.
Stiles paused, his hand holding tightly to Natalia. "Natalia will choose her own suitor," he simply stated. "Someone she chooses to rule beside her, if that is what she wishes."
"That is your final stance?"
"It was Derek's," Stiles dangerously answered, turning to glower at the man. "Derek was very particular in how his children's futures played out. And I intend to keep my husband's wishes."
~*~
A hearing was scheduled, placing Stiles under scrutiny—suspicion of infidelity being raised as a result of Stiles' unwillingness to allow Natalia to be betrothed. It was most likely Peter's doing—an attempt to discredit Natalia and Samuel's right to Triskelia's throne. And Stiles knew this. He knew that Peter never liked him, and even disliked that Derek started to hold a higher opinion of Stiles.
"You're not afraid of me," Peter answered in an amused tone, having noted that Stiles was glaring at him throughout the opening procedure.
"I'm too angry to be afraid," Stiles remarked, glaring at the man. "You honestly think that I would go as far as betraying my husband—"
"I think you're as smart as Derek gave you credit for," Peter remarked. "It doesn't take a smart man to realize that Derek was less than likely to return from battle. And then you happen to reveal that you are with child while Derek is absent, a few months before his untimely death."
"I never thought I would need evidence of my husband fucking me," Stiles bitterly snapped as he stood from his seat, making a move to leave. "A person just needs to look at Natalia and Samuel to see that they are in fact Hales. And knowing that you are unable to put a child in someone, that would leave only Derek." Without another pause, he marched out of the rooms, not caring if the hearing was shocked with his words, nor if Peter was pissed at his crude remark.
~*~
Stiles refused to take a lover. He spent his nights in the cold of the crypt or in the solitude of his rooms. Sometimes, his mind would wander, remembering Derek's touches.
In the seclusion of his bath, the hot water heating his skin, he would remember the heat of Derek's mouth on him. He would close his eyes, allowing his head to fall back against the rim of the tub, his hands roaming his body in faint familiarity. He imagined the way Derek would shower attention across his stomach—dedicating loving kisses against his birthing scars, telling him they made him more desirable. He imagined that his hand was Derek's. He shuddered against the pleasure growing in the pit of his stomach, his teeth biting at his lip as small moans escaped his throat.
Derek's name, nothing more than a soft whisper falling from his lips in a silent plea.
Afterwards, Stiles tried not to cry, even knowing that he'd never feel the way Derek had made him—knowing that he'd never feel Derek's touch again. It was always the same afterwards, tears that made him vow to never take a lover. It even made him less inclined to touch himself in the future, knowing that the euphoria he felt in the moment was nothing compared to the heartbreak he felt afterwards.
Stiles' vow, of course, didn't prevent people from trying to seduce him.
Stiles kept himself from the Court, keeping himself up to date with the varying reports on both Beacon and Triskelia's statuses. He spent time with Natalia, helping her with her studies as he held Samuel in his lap. He tried his best to fill the hole Derek had left in their life, knowing that it was an impossible task.
It was at his father's insistence that Stiles traveled to Beacon—a chance to escape from Triskelia and the eyes of others. Natalia was excited to see where Stiles had grown up, curious about what it looked like. Samuel, still too young to demonstrate his opinion, merely seemed happy to be held in Stiles arms as he took in his surroundings.
As a family, they walked the busy market, greeted by the civilians with much love and joy. Their guards kept a careful eye on them, making sure that they were watching for any threat.
Natalia gasped in excitement when she saw a forge, shiny armor and swords on display for customers to browse. She ran ahead of Stiles, immediately trying to lift one of the swords.
"Natalia," Stiles cautiously called to her, trying to stop her from hurting herself. "Those are sharp, and much too big for you," he warned her.
"They're like Papa's," Natalia called out, ignoring her father's warnings to be cautious.
"And I'm sure they are as sharp as Papa's," Stiles reasoned, a small frown pulling at his lips as he situated Samuel on his hip.
"Perhaps you would prefer a smaller weapon?" A woman's voice interrupted them as she appeared from behind the stand. Her smile was friendly as she smiled down at Natalia. "You should only handle a weapon you're comfortable holding."
Natalia hesitated before smiling at the woman. "I wouldn't be able to move otherwise," she stated.
The woman looked up at Stiles. "If it's alright with your majesty," she cautiously stated, not wanting to overstep her assumptions that Natalia was allowed to handle weapons.
"A small one," Stiles commented, a small, worried smile pulling at his lips when he saw how happy Natalia looked at those words.
The woman obediently nodded, offering up a small slender blade with a sheath and belt attached. It was gorgeously crafted. "A good friend of mine crafted this," she explained to Natalia as she knelt beside her. She held the sword up for Natalia to look at. "He was a soldier—horrible at listening to orders, but a great fighter all the same," she partially laughed. "He's amazing with forging weapons."
"My Papa was a soldier," Natalia proudly stated as she took the sword. "He fought bad guys all the time. He protected grandpa from some bad men."
"He sounds fierce," the woman stated in an impressed look.
"He was a great fighter," Natalia continued. "I remember seeing him practice ... I think," she hesitantly added.
"Your majesty," Boyd started as he approached them. "Your father asked to have a word with you."
Stiles nodded, turning his attention towards Natalia. "We have to go," he sorrowfully stated when he saw the look of sadness in her eyes.
Natalia looked from Stiles towards the woman, frowning as she looked down at the sword. "It's very beautiful," she offered in compliment.
The woman looked from Stiles back to Natalia. "Think of it as a gift," she finally stated.
Natalia's face lit up before she could hide it behind a cool mask of poise. "But my birthday has passed," she offered, knowing it was the proper reply opposed to taking the gift she so desperately wanted.
"Then that is my mistake for not getting it to you earlier," the woman stated, holding the sword out to her.
Natalia looked at Stiles, uncertain if she was allowed to take it. She smiled when Stiles nodded. "Thank you, thank you so much!" She joyously stated as she hugged the woman.
The woman laughed in surprised before she gently hugged Natalia back. "I'm glad you like it," she answered as she released Natalia. She stood offering the sword to Erica to carry for the young princess.
Stiles moved to get closer to the woman, offering her a grateful smile. "It's too much to accept as a gift," he started.
"It's but a small token of what I can give in thanks for what you've done for Beacon, your majesty," the woman answered with a small bow. "We had faith that you would never forget us. We just mourn that you lost so much for our freedom."
Stiles nodded, a small ball of grief forming in his chest. "Then allow me to extend Triskelia's welcome," he offered. "Triskelia would be honored to have a master swordswoman selling her creations at market."
"That would be a great honor," the woman answered in surprise.
Stiles smiled, shuffling Samuel's weight some in order to offer his free hand. He clasped the woman's forearm as she did his, shaking on a vow.
"What is your name?" Stiles asked as he released her arm.
"Braeden, your majesty," she answered.
"I look forward to seeing you again, Braeden." Stiles gave her only last fond look before turning to take Natalia's hand.
As they walked, Natalia turned around to wave to Braeden in thanks. She caught sight of the woman turning towards a man who approached her. The man's eyebrows were furrowed, asking a rushed question, as if demanding an answering as he stared at Braeden's hand. When he looked up, catching sight of Natalia and Stiles' retreating forms, Natalia made sure to wave to him, too. She assumed that he must be the one who made her new sword.
~*~
Stiles, although worried about Natalia, allowed her to practice her swordplay with Scott. They started off with wooden swords, despite Natalia's desire to use her real one. Natalia was a quick learner.
Stiles was proud, but couldn't help seeing Derek in her whenever she practiced. Natalia moved with Derek's grace and determination, but she had Stiles' rational side. She made calculated movements instead of relying on her own skill and confidence.
It didn't take long for Natalia to learn Scott's patterns, easily hitting him more than enough times with the wooden sword. She joyously celebrated by tackling Scott as best she could.
"She's only five," Stiles answered whenever Scott complained about being sore.
"She tackles like a full grown man," Scott defiantly countered.
Stiles laughed at him. It was one of the first genuine laughs that left his body over the past two years. He hadn't realized so much time had passed since Derek's death until he saw Samuel's attempts to stand and walk on his own. Samuel was a reminder of the time that had passed—every passing day saw him grow stronger.
~*~
The dreams came back when they arrived back at the Triskelia castle.
Screaming. Fire. Smoke. The things he lost.
Stiles grew confused by them as images of Derek crossed his mind. He called out to him, begging him to come home as he reached for him. He always wrestled himself awake, Derek's name still on his lips.
Stiles wasn't surprised to awake in the middle of the night to the smell of smoke. He immediately rose from his bed, rushing out into the hall to find a fire roaring through the halls. His body was frozen in fear when he felt the warm blood of the fallen guards touch his feet. Someone set the castle ablaze. He panicked before his thoughts drifted to his children, forcing him into motion.
Stiles ran as fast as he could, avoiding the flames licking the walls. He heard the rising screams of others awaken to scurry around for an exit or way to douse the flames. He burst through Samuel's room, moving to wrap him up in his arms. He collided with Scott in the hallway.
"I was coming to find you!" Scott quickly yelled. "I ran back in when they said no one had seen you."
"Someone started the fire, Scott!" Stiles quickly stated. "My guards, they're dead."
Scott looked at a loss before his instincts kicked in. "We have to get you out of here—"
"No, I have to get Natalia," Stiles argued as he placed a screaming Samuel in Scott's arms.
"Stiles—"
"I trust you, Scott," Stiles stated as he looked down the hallway, the flames growing. He had to make it down there to Natalia's room. "Protect my son," he tearfully commanded before he turned to run down the hallway.
Scott yelled Stiles name, cursing loudly when the castle made a protesting yawning sound, the fire weakening its support beams. He made his move to run for the exit, covering Samuel with his body in order to keep him safe from the smoke.
"Natalia!" Stiles yelled when he burst into her room. He threw the blankets from her bed, turning back and forth in a flurry as he tried to catch sight of her. He loudly cursed when he realized she was missing. He stuttered to a stop when he saw blood staining the floor—a spray of blood, as if someone had swung a sword at another. He pushed himself to follow the blood trail out of the room. He was almost to the throne room when he heard a loud howl resonating from within the room.
Stiles ran inside the room, not bothering with rational sense anymore. His heart fluttered, feeling lighter when he caught sight of Natalia curled up in a ball by the throne. The fire had yet to reach this room, putting Stiles at some ease as he rushed towards his daughter.
"Natalia, we have to go!" Stiles hurriedly stated as he moved to grab her.
Natalia tensed at her father's voice, scurrying behind the throne, putting the giant metal chair between them.
"Natalia, now!" Stiles urgently snapped, knowing that the fire was growing bigger—closer—by the second.
"Something's wrong," Natalia gritted out, her words slurred and terrified. "I'm scared!"
"Sweetheart, I'm right here," Stiles started, remaining still in an attempt not to chase her around the throne.
"No," Natalia whined. "You'll hate me!"
"Natalia, I love you," Stiles stated. "That's why I came back in for you. Now, please, sweetheart, we have to go."
Natalia hesitated, slowly moving to unfold herself. She carefully rose from her spot on the floor, keeping her head downcast. She hesitantly looked up at Stiles, waiting for the worst to happen.
Stiles stared at Natalia in awe, unsure how to react. Even in the harsh glow the fire happened to provide as lighting, he could see Natalia's features plan as daylight.
Natalia's brow was furrowed, slightly built up. Her hair was in disarray, bushy hair framing her face. Her teeth were sharpened fangs; her ears pointed. And her eyes glowed a golden yellow.
"Natalia ... what ... what happened?" Stiles softly questioned, never seeing his daughter's features contorted in such a way.
"I don't know!" Natalia yelled, fear still present in her eyes. She grew terrified when Stiles didn't say anything. "You hate me!"
"No!" Stiles quickly stated. "But we have to get out of here first, and then we can figure this out," he pleaded. "Sweetheart, I could never hate you. You ... You and Sammy are the good parts of me and your father. I love you both, with all that is left of my heart," his eyes burned with tears, upset with himself that Natalia could think he'd hate her.
"Daddy, I'm scared," Natalia cried with uncertainty.
"We'll figure it out. Together," Stiles offered, reaching his hand out for Natalia to take.
Natalia ran forward, running into Stiles' embrace. "He said you'd hate me," she cried against his stomach. "He said you hated Papa because of it."
"Who?" Stiles asked, confused by her words.
"Uncle Peter," Natalia cried. "He said that you hate that I'm like Papa and him!"
"What?" Stiles asked in disbelief.
"He said I couldn't control it—that I'd hurt people and he had to stop me! I cut him," Natalia stated through her tears as she let her sword and sheath to clatter to the ground by them.
"You really are good at being in the right place at the right time," Peter's voice suddenly broke through their thoughts.
Stiles whipped around to look at the door to find Peter blocking the one exit not covered in flames. He turned around, blocking Natalia from Peter's line of sight. He held onto Natalia, leaving her plastered by his side.
"I will say, I knew Derek didn't tell you about us, but I never—not in a thousand life times—would guess that you'd accept us," Peter started, taking a few steps towards them.
Stiles back them up, using the throne as a small obstacle that he hoped would help delay Peter if need be. "You say that like there is something wrong with Derek and Natalia," he countered. "I'd say there is just something wrong with you."
Peter partially glared at Stiles, offering an unamused huff of air. "You just had to make him like you," he grumbled. "He wanted to tell you—turn you even. I guess the Argents were helpful in taking care of that."
Stiles stared at him, still back Natalia away from the obvious threat. "So what now, Peter? You set fire to your own home? You murdered your nephew for power?"
"You're such a pathetic human," Peter practically snarled. "You'd never understand it. An Alpha spark is so much more than power. And he passed it on to that little brat when he died," he snapped as he gestured towards Natalia.
"You caused Derek's death—you killed him, and didn't get what you wanted, so now you want to hurt his daughter?" Stiles angrily demanded, always having known that Peter had something to do with the reinforcement wave retreating, leaving Derek to die.
"That Alpha spark was my sister's," Peter growled. "It passed to Derek when it should have gone to me!"
Stiles winced at the volume of Peter's voice. Whatever Peter was, it was far beyond reason. "Yell and whine all you want," he retorted. "But you can't have Natalia."
Peter scoffed. "Won't matter, Stiles," he calmly stated. "Once I snap your neck—like I should have done before Derek even put a child in you," he slightly laughed. "You'll be one last problem I have. With you and Natalia dead, the only one left is Samuel. But don't worry, I think I'll make a better regent for him than you ever managed."
Stiles didn't hesitate when he pushed Natalia back, telling her to run. He made a dash for Natalia's discarded sword. He threw the sheath away, not hesitating to stab the blade through Peter's chest. He released his hold on the hilt, stumbling backwards. He stared on in horror and disbelief when Peter pulled the blade from his body. He ran to where Natalia was running, following after her.
A heavy force collided with him, knocking him off his feet and to the ground. His head hit the hard tile, a sharp pain cracking through his body. He was pulled up, only to be forced down onto his back as Peter's hands wrapped around his throat. He scratched and clawed at Peter's hands and wrists, trying to stop him from draining the life from him. His head pounded, his vision slowly blackening as he fought for oxygen.
A loud roar boomed through the burning hallways.
"No," Peter uttered in disbelief as he looked up.
Stiles lost consciousness.
~*~
Stiles awoke, the smell of smoke and fire a distant memory now. He looked around his room, taking in his old room at Beacon. He didn't know how he got here. He coughed some, startling when he heard a weight rise from a chair. He reached for the glass of water, waiting for the person to speak and tell him what happened.
"You're awake."
The glass slipped from Stiles' hand, shattering on the floor.
Stiles looked up in surprised wonderment, staring at the person. "You're dead," he finally forced himself to speak, his words weak and unsure.
"In a way, I was," Derek answered, his voice soft and unsure.
Derek. It was Derek. Derek was standing in Stiles' old room in Beacon's castle. He was looking down at Stiles as if two years hadn't passed—as if his death hadn't passed. He looked the same, his features a little rougher than when he left. But his eyes still stared at Stiles as if he was an oasis Derek had discovered after days of wandering the desert.
"Is everyone ... what happened with the fire?" Stiles asked, wanting to ask a thousand questions, but terrified to know the result of the fire.
"I killed Peter," Derek offered, not wishing to go into detail about how he ripped his uncle's throat out, enraged beyond the point of reasoning when he saw Peter's hands wrapped around Stiles' throat. Everything had come flooding back to him the minute he saw Stiles. "I pulled you and Natalia out of the fire. I brought you back home to Beacon ... I thought you'd be more comfortable here."
"Peter said ..." Stiles closed his eyes, processing the words Peter spat at him. "What are you? You and Natalia."
Derek hesitated, a look of fear crossing his features. "I didn't know Natalia would inherit it," he began. "If I did ... I would have told you, Stiles, I swear. I wanted to tell you about me—about the real reason Kate killed my family."
Stiles remained silent as he watched Derek explain everything—explain how his family were from a line of born werewolves; how he was the Alpha; how Peter was convinced that Derek's Alpha status passed to Natalia; how any Hale child runs a risk of possibly being a werewolf; how Kate burned his family for being werewolves because she thought them to be abominations.
"We heal, but not as fast as some seem to think. We have scars, just like humans," Derek started to ramble, unsure of himself.
"Isaac brought me your helmet," Stiles rationalized as he stared at Derek. "They said you were stabbed through the chest."
"I fell on the battlefield," Derek quickly explained. "My men saw me fall—someone had run me through with a sword. By all rights, I should have been dead."
Stiles stared at him in disbelief.
"Someone had hit me over the head," Derek stated, drawing in a steady breath as he remembered the events. "I crawled away, trying to find someone for help. I managed to crawl far enough for a group of peasants to find me. They took me in—cared for me. But when I awoke from my fevered dreams ... I couldn't remember anything. I had armor, a weapon—I knew I was a soldier, but a king? It never crossed my mind."
Stiles was silent, tearing his eyes away from Derek.
"By the gods, Stiles, say something," Derek nearly begged, his want to crawl across the bed and hold Stiles in his arms was obvious.
"I mourned you," Stiles started. "I ... I grieved you. I birthed our son," his words were nothing more than shallow breaths of heartache.
"He ... he was a boy?" Derek asked. "You were right," he released a slightly happy breath when Stiles nodded.
"I begged the gods, every night, to give you back," Stiles tearfully confessed. "I cried for you every night."
"I heard you," Derek urgently stated as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Just being able to share a piece of furniture with Stiles made it bearable. He rested his hand on the bed sheets between them, itching to slide it across the material in order to hold his hand. "I had nightmares for a long time—feeling you calling my name, but you were always so far away. I wanted to come home, I just didn't know where it was," his voice slightly cracked.
Stiles released a hurt sob. He moved quickly, practically launching himself into Derek. He wrapped his arms around Derek's neck, burying his face in his shoulder. "This can't be real—it can't be," he sobbed.
"I'm sorry I left you," Derek replied. "I'm so sorry, Stiles," he stated as he pressed kisses into his hair, moving to shower his face in kisses as well.
Stiles released a breathy series of sobs that turned into joyous laughs as he clung to Derek. "You're alive," he whispered in relief. "You're alive. You're alive and you came back to me." He silenced himself, pressing kisses to Derek's lips as he pulled himself against Derek's body.
"I promised you I would," Derek breathed against Stiles' lips.
Stiles was hesitant to sleep, pulling Derek into the bed with him. He pressed his cheek against Derek's chest, listening to his heartbeat as he tried to fight off sleep. He asked Derek to tell him about his life over the past two years. He listened as Derek told him that he became a blacksmith's assistance.
Stiles wasn't sure if he wanted to release a sound of anger or joy when he discovered that is was Braeden's family that discovered Derek—that Derek was the friend she spoke of to Natalia.
Derek told Stiles how he had caught Stiles and Natalia's scent that day. That he knew the scent from somewhere, despite his amnesia. He had seen Natalia from a distance, knowing that he knew her—somehow. That night, he had been plagued by nightmares of the battle and flickering images of Stiles and Natalia. He had awoken screaming Stiles' name. That was when he came back to Triskelia. He had arrived the same night of the fire.
"Sammy," Stiles suddenly uttered. "You have to see him," he tiredly yawned.
"Natalia told me all about him," Derek answered as he pressed a kiss to Stiles' head. "I'm still amazed that you knew he was going to be a boy."
Stiles smiled against Derek's chest, pressing in as close as possible. "Don't leave before I wake up," he yawned. His body felt safe for the first time in years, his body's defenses lowering as he allowed sleep to take over him.
"I'll never leave you again."
Like all his promises, Derek kept this one as well.

By; Dexterous