Chapter Text
Stiles was missing and he was surrounded by fools. They ran around in a blind panic, not taking a moment to stop and think. He prowled through the forest as the west finished swallowing the sun. Night would cause the fear and chaos to grow in the idiots who thought they knew what a pack was. He snorted, the sound breaking the unnatural stillness that enveloped the dark forest. Even the creatures of the night knew not to be out when a dark god walked their land.
He paused to inhale, taking in the scents around him. Ozone, sulphur, ash—the air was heavy, weighted and still. The scents twisted through fear and chaos, they pushed at his instincts, telling him to run, shift, fight. He stayed still until the urge passed. A feral grin tugged at his lips—patience had always been one of his best virtues. The ozone grew stronger the closer he got to the source.
The cave wasn’t much to look at. A simple bolt hole for wild animals but darkness oozed out in cold waves. The tendrils of its presence reached for him and his lips twisted in a snarl. He gritted his teeth at the first step inside. Entering the lair of a fox never worked out for the wolves of legend—but he was no ordinary wolf. Even an ancient god might be surprised by the strength of his blood.
This fear would not own him. He paused as he entered and observed the boy spread out on the cave floor. Despite the cold, there was a thin layer of sweat over the boy’s body. The eyes were open but unseeing. It was the stillness of the boy’s limbs that made his hackles rise. This boy was not made to be still.
He pulled out a length of coiled rope from his pack. Step by step he let the rope fall in a wide circle around the boy. As he walked, old words fell from his lips—words he’d learned on his grandmother’s knee. He rubbed a claw-prick of blood into each knot tied in the rope as it fell from his hands. Back at the beginning of the rope he dropped the end and watched it fuse together to form an unbroken circle.
Next out of the bag were homemade candles of beeswax. He set one for each compass point, starting with north and ending with south. Around each candle he placed a different herb. Chrysanthemum for the west, chamomile for the south, rosemary for east and mugwort on the north. He didn’t pause in his chant as he lit each candle and herbs.
The last to come out was the hyssop. He crushed the leaves in his hands as he stepped into the circle. He sat on the ground and pulled the boy into his lap. He kept his movements calm and even. The boy’s body felt ice cold under his hands. He closed his eyes and rubbed the crushed hyssop up and down the boy’s arms.
He placed blunt fingernails on the back of the boy’s neck. He paused to count his breaths and let the scents of the herbs fill him. He murmured more ancient words, this time a half prayer, half lullaby. He was as ready as he could be. One more breath of the air. The bitter scents were now overlaid by herbs and honey. His eyes flashed blue and he dug his claws into the pale flesh of Stiles’ neck.