Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I'm not sure how original the idea is, but I've been having fun writing it! This story has been edited to comply with the restrictions of the he website. If you wish to read the story in its entirety, you can find it on AO3 at archiveofourown works / 479619

Enjoy!

Stiles knelt down low in the brown and brittle leaves, closely examining a broken branch. His fingertips lightly brushed against the leaves, watching the way they had been bent ad broken. Crisp, brown and gold leaves were shaken off, littering the forest floor. The fall was the best time to hunt. The leaves were a perfect way to follow a stumbling and injured quarry. It broke his heart to do it, but the doe he had hit was scrawny and already limping from a previous injury. It wouldn't last long anyway, and Stiles would be certain to put its body to good use after death.

From the way that it was thrashing about, Stiles could tell he was drawing close to where the deer had met its end. He checked the sun. Still plenty of time to find the thing and get back to the village before sunset. Not that he didn't know his way around the woods, but Beacon Hills was a rather small village on the outskirts of the Kingdom. Relative to the rest of the country, it was rather vulnerable. Its roads, unwatched. Marauders and highwaymen were not uncommon outside the protection of the village gates, preying on those who walked alone or unprotected. Even in relative times of peace such as these, it paid to be wary. Stiles hurried off down the gentle slope, following the path of the doe which was becoming more obvious as it drew closer to the end.
Stiles found the deer in a secluded glen. Looking around, Stiles privately and grimly thought that it really wasn't a bad place to die. Sunlight filtered through broad, leafy trees that grew around the cliff side. Water trickled about a steady brook that fed a small clear and cold lake pressed up against the rocks. Despite being late in the season, little yellow flowers were still in bloom. Stiles bent down over the body, checking to make sure that it didn't need to be put out of its misery.

This was why Stiles leapt about two feet into the air when he heard a low, deep and rumbling growl.
He reeled about, brandishing his slingshot despite the fact that it was unloaded with any sort of artillery. He groped around the soft grass, eyes wide and alert for a predator. Inwardly, he cursed himself for being so careless. One of the biggest threats of hunting in these woods was another animal that also picked up on your target injured and dying. A wildcat, or perhaps a stray wolf rendered wild and savage after being left alone. He heard it again, and his hair stood on end. Whatever it was, it was close. But... it didn't sound angry or threatening. When Stiles was younger and somehow even more reckless than he was today, he found himself in the company of an angered mother bear. That day, he learned that black bear cubs did not make good playmates, and had learned to recognize the sound of an enraged predator. And this... didn't sound that way. Not quite.

Stiles heard it again, a low and gravelly sort of roar. A strained, drawn-out note at the end. One that was almost... pained.
Stiles' hand closed around a smooth, peach-pit sized rock. He fitted it into the leather seat of the sling, creeping forward. The wall of the cliffside naturally created a curve, large boulders having fallen away due to erosion over the years. Beginning at the top, several feet above as a hairline crack, a crevasse opened on the cliff side to the very bottom now wide and protected cave.

He could hear it breathing now. A harsh, ragged sound. It was a large creature, and there was no doubt now that it was hurt. The howling sounded closest to that of a wolf, but like no wolf Stiles had ever heard before. The smart thing to do probably would have been to back away, leave the doe and hurry back to the village. Perhaps with luck his snares might have caught a rabbit or two and he would not have to go home empty-handed. But curiosity had him now, and he could not be deterred. Slowly, cautiously, Stiles round a large round boulder to the mouth of the cavern. But it was not a fallen wolf or bear that he saw; rather it was a very dirty but very obviously human body. The man was naked from the waist up. He wore a pair of trousers so dirty and torn it was impossible to tell what sort of make they were originally. He was lying on the damp stone floor, his breathing heavy and ragged as if coming from the lungs of a creature three times his actual size. Still, he was a person. And that was enough to cause Stiles to jump into action.

"Oh, god! Are you alright? Hey!" He ran forward, dropping his sling as he went. He skidded across the rough stone, putting his hand on the freezing cold shoulder. At once, there was a fierce snarl and a flash of fangs. The next moment passed in a blur but Stiles was on his back in the dewy grass, his heart beating out of his chest. An arm had flung around, throwing him with all the ease of a rag doll. He stared with wide-eyes now at what he realized was not a man at all, but a werewolf.

Stiles had never seen one before, only heard about them in legends and stories. Always they were cruel and malicious creatures that skulked around bare, mist-laden woods at twilight, lurked about ruined castles or stalked hapless maidens. That in mind, it was a rather odd sight to see one in broad daylight, and in such a dismal state. Along with the other mythical creatures of the world, werewolves were always depicted as symbols of power. Seeing one injured, weak and alone seemed... wrong, somehow. His chest rose and fell painfully slow and staggered. His skin was pale and sallow, his eyes just barely closed. Despite his haggard state, it was impossible to not notice that this man, this creature was uniquely beautiful. His face was angular and handsome, with a light brush of coarse dark stubble which matched his disheveled hair. His body, though ravaged by starvation still showed signs of once being remarkably healthy. He had not gone without so long that Stiles couldn't appreciate a fine musculature, his body perfectly proportioned, tall and tanned to a bronzed dark by the sun.

Stiles had never been one to look at the male gender in terms of aesthetic value, it was a profession so monopolized by the female nobility that he bad simply never thought of it. But with him, it was impossible to ignore, especially when Stiles took in just how he had been injured.
His body was scuffed and scarred with red lash-marks. A clawed hand grasped at his side, and Stiles gasped at the sight. He held a deep, ugly wound at his side, just above the hip. Stiles could see the broken end of an arrow protruding from the blackened, shredded flesh oozing with pus and the deep red of fresh blood.

For a long while, the two didn't break gaze. Stiles was captivated. Dimly glowing red eyes had him stunned. Now, he was the deer before the arrow. He saw the fangs, the crease of the forehead and nose, the claws and the power, and he knew he was in the presence of his natural predator.
But still, he didn't run. Finally, the werewolf's eyes slid closed, and it slumped over weakly. It was then that Stiles realized just how much that had taken out of this mighty creature in his weakened state.
He wouldn't last three days.

Stiles sat there for a long while, contemplating the extraordinary occurrence that he had come across. Beacon Hills was, after all a thoroughly ordinary little village on the outskirts of the Kingdom. People grew up and lived and died and would never be remembered or sung about in tales or legends. His perfectly ordinary fate loomed over him now, as he leaned against a boulder and watched a fantastical creature wasting away before him.
Werewolves were man-eaters. The historical enemy of the ruling family Argent. To shelter one, to help one, to do anything other than report them to a figure of authority within the Kingdom was in its nature treasonous.
But... Stiles couldn't just let him die.

He checked the clearing for anyone watching, thinking quickly. He turned and raced back to he village, going quickly the way that he came.
Beacon Hills was a small farming town. During high noon of the harvest season, just about all of its inhabitants were out laboring in the field, bringing in the crop. Harvesting, storing, stockpiling for the long winter months. The small town square with the tavern, market, and council square. As the son of the town's Protector and Knight Resident, Stiles' home wasn't too far from the center square. He raced inside, scattering the goats and chickens that picked about the front paddock. Like most in Beacon Hills, his house wasn't terribly large, and it didn't take long at all to find what he needed. Stiles emptied his satchel, filling it instead with flint and steel, kindling, linen bandages, a few utensils and a small cooking pot.

Laden with so many extra goods, his progression back to the woods was considerably slower. For a brief period he was certain that he had lost the way to the glen altogether. It was a rather sheltered place after all, hidden by trees and tree branches that resembled low-lying shrubs in a certain light. When he did discover the place again, he found his werewolf curled up the same way, sheltered in the cave twenty feet from the deer which had not yet begun to attract flies. This was how Stiles found himself dragging the deer carcass across the meadow and into the cave, and set to work skinning, cleaning, and carving the animal with no intention of bringing it back to the village. Though he was sure that the werewolf's injuries needed seeing to, he was clearly weak from hunger. Keeping his distance and making a meal seemed at the moment to be a far safer endeavor than getting up close to examine that arrow.

Though, trying to treat him once he's regained some strength probably isn't much better. He realized grimly. If it were a person, perhaps Stiles could rely o a sense of gratitude to make him understand that Stiles was trying to help him, not hurt him. But despite his seemingly human appearance, this werewolf was no better than an injured tiger or bear. It was an animal, bloodthirsty and mindless.

Preparing the deer was slow work, taking up most of the afternoon. He constructed a small fire, adding clean water from the lake outside and simmered the roasted venison to a thick broth. As the smell filled the cave, sometime around sunset, a small growl was heard in the far corner. Stiles froze were he sat, mulling over the stew. By just a few increments, his eyes had opened, a deep crimson red. The werewolf snuffed at him a bit, possibly acknowledging that Stiles was not a threat just yet, and sank back into unconsciousness.

By the time he was finished, Stiles was glad that he had made the decision to turn the venison into a stew rather than try to feed the werewolf whole pieces of meat. For the hours he worked, he had hardly stirred. He simply didn't have the strength. Still, Stiles approached him with utmost care. Sitting cross-legged, Stiles set the pot in between them, letting the scent waft over and rouse the werewolf somewhat. The werewolf looked up at him blearily once again, his mouth hung open. Stiles took the opportunity to hold a spoon to his lips, and to his great surprise and satisfaction he accepted it. To Stiles' great relief, the wolf swallowed whenever the broth was presented to his lips. He didn't open his eyes very much. When he did, it only seemed to be the same gentle rolling back and forth on the brink of consciousness. Just once, he managed to look Stiles in the eye, holding his gaze for an unfathomably long second. Then, he nodded forward again, seemingly dozing off. It was slow going, but in this way, Stiles coaxed two small bowls of broth down him before he would take no more. Full and sleepy, he was curled up on his side. Stiles watched him guiltily, knowing that the best thing to do would be to try and treat his injuries while his guard was down and he was too weak to fight back. Still, it took quite a bit to overcome every natural instinct that he possessed as a human being to approach the animal put on this earth to slaughter his kind. Eventually, Stiles reasoned that he would have to earn its trust first.

All the same, Stiles brewed one last pot of broth, which he left on the warm coals of the fire. The sun had truly begun to set now, and if Stiles didn't leave soon he would be stuck wandering the woods in the dark.
"Don't die before the morning." Stiles murmured to the werewolf, who seemed to have returned to unconsciousness, and possibly couldn't even understand human speech at all. In a last-ditch effort to stave off the reaper, Stiles shrugged off his coat, draping it over his shoulders. The werewolf growled softly when the unfamiliar weight settled over him, but did not fight it. Perhaps it was the red-orange glow of the evening sun settling over the glen, but Stiles couldn't help but imagine that some of the color had returned to his werewolf's cheeks.
As he trotted out of the secluded area, Stiles realized that by leaving his jacket and supplies there, he had assured that he would in fact be coming to see the werewolf again the next day. There would be no sudden epiphany of reason to be had during the night. No sudden surge of logical sense where he would realize that what he was doing was most likely a reckless endangerment to the town and to himself. To his father's honor and legacy.

"Nothing, huh?" His father asked grimly. He sat in the corner of the room, casually sharpening his sword. He hadn't needed to use it in years, not since the last war had ended. Stiles liked to think that the fact that it was barely used was a sign that he did an excellent job as keeper of the peace in the little village town of Beacon Hills. Most issues that arose were domestic, and being a well-liked individual, most disputes easily settled by verbal mediation rather than violence. They were small and insignificant enough that any marauders would overlook them in favor of more exciting conquests. The last time Stiles had actually seen him use that sword was when an old mountain lion came down to the nearby woods, making trouble.

"Ah, no. Sorry." Stiles lingered by the door, trying his best to put on a casual nothing-is-wrong sort of face. It must have been satisfactory, since his father returned to tending to his weapon.

"Couldn't say I'm terribly surprised. You always were hopeless with that slingshot." There was a huff of laughter to his voice though, and as Stiles expected it wasn't too big of a deal. They didn't depend on Stiles' hunting to survive after all. Being on the King's salary actually left them quite well off in the town, comparatively. Most citizens of the town were farmers. They worked the king's land, and in return kept a portion of their crops while the rest were sent to the Royal City in taxes. These were the ones who struggled to get by, to have food to eat throughout the winter. Stiles meanwhile always had clothes on his back, food on his plate and the incalculable luxury of leisure time to spend traipsing around in the woods.

Still, it would have been quite the triumphant moment to be able to finally bring home a substantial kill. The best cuts of meat could have been sold to the butcher, as well as the hide to the tanner. The leftover meat could have been dried and smoked to last them throughout the winter, so they wouldn't end up eating potatoes every night like they had last year.

"Any trouble in town today?" Stiles asked, going over to the wash basin to begin preparing dinner.

"Just the usual."

"Old man Smith drunk in town square again?"

"I had another talk with the tavern master not to let him drink himself blind before noon." His father chuckled, placing the sword back on its usual stand over the fire. Stiles smiled to himself, peeling a handful of potatoes for the pot. No news was how he liked his father's news the best. As much as he bemoaned an ordinary villager's life, he also knew in his heart of hearts that any trouble would see his father on the front line of it. Sometimes, life in the kingdom was hard for the bottom rung. The noblemen feasted and sang songs in their glorious, feast-laden halls while the others bent and scraped to survive the year. But at the end of the day... they were safe. It was the King's army that kept the marauder tribes of the Western moors from raiding their towns and setting them ablaze. The power of King Argent was to be feared, and respected by all.

After a few more drinks and a handful of laughter with his father, Stiles retired for the night. There was much to do in the morning after all, and he had never been more thrilled for the sunrise.

Before Stiles could return to the woods the next day, he had a few chores he would have to take care of first. First was a quick trip to the market before all the best produce was taken, then loading up the goat pens with fresh hay. After that, Stiles delivered a few notices as per his father's instruction, and finally a trip to the edge of town to see the healer Deaton.

Deaton came to town only a few months after Stiles' mother passed away. For quite a while, Stiles had irrationally and privately resented him for this. After all, Deaton was very good at what he did. From injuries to colds to seemingly incurable illnesses, anyone who visited him always came off a bit better in the end. Stiles was certain that if he had arrived at Beacon Hills just a few weeks earlier, his mother's life could have been saved. It wasn't until a year ago, when he brought Stiles' father from the tremors that ravaged his body he had managed to forgive him in the private place of his heart.
Stiles took the dry dirt road that wound out of town, following as it slowly became more grown-over to only the wagon-tracks of Deaton's supply cart. His home was a small, modest cottage made of mortared stones and a thatched roof. He kept to a policy of only charging for his services what the people could afford, which often wasn't much at all. He couldn't really afford a life of such wealth. After all, Deaton's ways were strange. His methods of healing the body involved herbs and powders. He insisted on nourishing the ill instead of utilizing bloodletting to balance the humors. In larger villages and towns, Deaton would most likely hanged for such heretical ideas. Beacon Hills however, was bested in its sense of superstition only by its sense of apathy. Because of this, the healer's existence here was quiet and peaceful as anyone else's.

Stiles knocked, feeling a little skittish. It was hard not to, with the autumn leaves swirling among tall grass. It was quiet out here, and the afternoon sun no longer provided the heavy, comforting heat of summertime. Now, it was cool and the wind carried a very distinct chill. Still, he felt a distinct thrill from arriving for a visit. There was something else he needed from the him today, after all.

"Come in."

The inside of Deaton's hut did little to dissuade Stiles' nerves. It was a dim and dusty place, a small fireplace in the corner providing little warmth. Large tables were cluttered with bits of this and that. Glass tubes, various stones, powders, jars of small pickled animal specimens, skeletons, and a large scaly lizard that Stiles was certain to be another model until it turned to him, blinking its beady eyes rapidly.

"Ah, Stiles. Here for your father's tonic?" Deaton smiled. He was half-hidden in the shadows, standing at a far table where he was measuring out large quantities of black ash on a scale.
"Um, yes, thank you." Stiles nodded, not taking his eyes off of the massive lizard.

"I was expecting you. Its a good thing our meetings are a regular occurrence." He said, leaning over a pewter cauldron sitting in the fire. "Hamish's cattle blight has been keeping me busy most of the week." He ladled a portion of the draught into a bottle, capping it tight. "The man let his water supply become contaminated. It put the entire herd in danger." He shook his head, sealing the cork of the bottle with sealing wax. The lizard waddled off, and Stiles sat down on a stool, watching the healer work. Along with human troubles, he also often saw to animals. Stiles plucked at his trousers a bit, trying to sound nonchalant. There was another reason besides the tonic that he was eager to visit Deaton today.

"Well, you know on the topic of animal injuries..." Stiles drawled, doing his best to sound terribly casual. "I was wondering if you could help me out with a problem I was thinking of recently."

"Oh?" He placed the bottle in front of Stiles, accepting the few gold coins from him in return. As one of the few families that could afford to pay him in real currency, rather than goods, Deaton had more than enough time to listen.

"Well, I heard a story about this guy. Some hunters once mistook his horse for a deer and tried to shoot it. It... it got really sick and weak after that because they didn't know how to treat him. What ah... what would you have recommended doing?" Stiles was quite proud of himself for the plausibility of his cover story. Normally he was quite a terrible liar. A big help had been the fact that this had in fact happened to someone he once knew.

"I would first have to know where the horse was shot-"

"Oh, like... here." Stiles gestured to his abdomen, just above the hip. The healer scrutinized Stiles closely, perhaps trying to translate that to a horses anatomy. Soon enough though, something seemed to click for him. A strangely knowingly smile curled the corners of his lips.

"First and foremost the arrow must be removed. Horses are strong creatures, but it wont be able to heal until that arrowhead is out of its body." Stiles nodded, listening with rapt attention.

"Now, this would not be an easy thing to do. Horses," he strained the word carefully, "are very powerful animals. I don't think I need to tell you that one which is injured and delirious with pain will have difficulty discerning an effort to help it with one to hurt it. Your friend... he would have to make certain this horse trusts him completely." Stiles shifted from foot to foot, a little uncomfortable now.
"Alright, yeah. Thanks." He pulled away, simply wanting to be far from him at the moment.

"That's not all, Stiles." He said softly.

"Oh?"

"More... experienced hunters, they works with poison s to take down larger prey. For that, a special elixir would be needed to drive the poison from the poor creatures body."
Now, Stiles' skin was really starting to crawl. There were the rumors, after all. The whispers and murmurs that the healer was a man of the dark arts. Every few years or so some hot headed youth would always speak up, try and bring together a large enough following to storm his house in the night and have him lynched. It was the fact that this town was so terribly apathetic that often saved him in the end. This, and the fact that he had saved the lives of every villager at least once with his tonics and remedies.

"Should such a misfortune befall anything or anyone under your care, I would implore you to seek my help." He said quietly. "Otherwise, I fear their future is a rather grim one indeed." The silence that settled between the two after that was a rather uncomfortable and strange one. Stiles could tell that the healer did not believe all of his story. But what part of it didn't he believe? There was no way he could have known about the werewolf. They were practically unheard of in these parts, the stuff of legend.

No, there was simply no way he could know the truth. Stiles thanked Deaton and awkwardly excused himself.
On the way back into town however, Stiles was forced to face the very real truth of what he was doing. The ruling family Argent after all were the mortal enemies of the werewolf kind. Though he had never been to the royal city himself, the festival of the King was supposedly an unforgettable event. Aspiring knights all fought and gathered, the victor given the right to fight and slay a werewolf in the Coliseum in front of a crowd of thousands. That being how things were, to harbor or try to protect a werewolf could possibly be seen as an act of treason.

But... what else could he have done? Now that he had already helped Wolf once, he couldn't just abandon him.
As Stiles trooped across the damp earth back to the glen, he briefly entertained the very real possibility that his werewolf might not have survived the night. It would make perfect sense, after all. He looked like hell when Stiles left him. Though his wound didn't seem too bad, he had clearly undergone some serious mistreatment. And even minor injuries could prove fatal once infected. If Wolf died on his own, Stiles would be off the hook. Still, the thought certainly didn't make him any happier. The more he dwelled on the idea, in fact, the more panicked he became. By the time he reached the slope down to the dell, he was practically in a sprint.

However, when he reached the cave he found that Wolf was still very much alive. The bowl of stew had been licked clean, and the werewolf was curled a bit closer to the embers of last night's fire, the jacket wrapped tight around his otherwise naked torso.

"Hey, you're alright!"

Stiles was greeted by a vicious snarl.

"You sound way better too!" He sat down on the opposite side of the fire, keeping a tight grip on his knife just the same. "I hope you like rabbit. I found these two, they look great!" Though Stiles was obviously panicked about being in his presence, he had always been taught not to let a dangerous animal know that you were afraid. Wolf didn't move, and still seemed to be resting with his back to Stiles. Still, he didn't seem to be strong enough to openly attack him just yet. Stiles took the opportunity to talk aloud a bit as he worked. Though he wracked his brain, the legends of the werewolves, never seemed to touch upon whether or not they were creatures capable of human speech. Not even the very powerful or old ones. All the stories he could remember made them sound like bloodthirsty, simple-minded animals. Wolves that used the guise of the human to terrorize villages and run off with their women. Regardless, Stiles talked aloud as he worked just the same. Even if he was unresponsive, it was nice having someone to talk with other than the goats.

Stiles didn't have many friends in Beacon Hills. Any others his age were all mostly from the families of farmers, now hard at work in the fields. There was a rift, of sorts between the classes; between those who benefited directly from the kings coffers, and those who went hungry during the winter in order to fill them. The young farmers tended to band together. They laughed and drank and shared their private jokes. Anyone of the merchant class who might be more welcoming to Stiles' company just didn't quite fit his age range. The Blacksmith's children were only eight and eleven. The artisans were all much older and making families of their own.

"I suppose it's no wonder I spend so much time in the woods." Stiles noted aloud, stirring the cauldron aimlessly. "Though I'm not sure what good it would do. In a few years I'll be expected to move out and start a family." He laughed dryly at the thought. After all, who was there in Beacon Hills that he could imagine spending the rest of his life with? Especially when his heart had already been given away to unreachable goals. To the vision of a noblewoman he had only seen three times in his life, a glorious angel with strawberry-blonde hair and the perfect smile of an angel.

Stiles shook his head, changing the subject before he could go on to further depress himself pointlessly.

"You know, you ought to let me take a look at that wound." Stiles poked at the cooking rabbit meat. "I mean I know I'm not a surgeon or anything, but at least we could try and get that arrow out. It... well it might get infected, you know." He murmured, glancing up at Wolf. "You would trust me to help, wouldn't you?"

No response.

Stiles sighed quietly, turning the meat over on the coals.
After a few more fruitless efforts to get Wolf to react to his words, Stiles could only assume that he could not in fact, understand him. Perhaps the legends were right after all. He gave Stiles quite a surprise however, once the meal was ready. With what seemed to be a herculean effort, Wolf pushed himself upright into a sitting position, turning to face Stiles directly now. Figuring that Wolf didn't have long before he dozed off again, Stiles prepared a bowl and set about the task of feeding him once again.

It was a bit easier to get Wolf to eat this time, as he was quite a bit more awake. However, this also made the act of spoon-feeding him a bit more awkward. After all, it wasn't every day one saw blood red eyes. It was perfectly understandable that there was something captivating about them, how he watched Stiles with an indiscernible gaze, puzzling over this human who was nursing him back to health.

"Here. I need my coat back, but you can use this." Stiles held out a stitched wool blanket. "It's the only spare we have though, so you can't shred it or anything." When Wolf didn't make a move to accept it, Stiles leaned forward to drape it around his shoulders.

"I... I should bring you a shirt too, huh?" Stiles said sheepishly. His thumb brushed Wolf's collarbone with the motion. His skin wasn't cold, if anything it was unusually flushed and warm. It was either the start of a fever, or perhaps the natural body heat of his kind. Wolf drew the blanket closer around himself, leaning back against the wall of the cave. His heavy eyes slid shut, looking ready for another deep sleep.
Stiles fumbled a bit, suddenly aware at the closeness of their proximity. Close enough that his thumb was still resting against the nape of Wolf's throat. Close enough to trust him with his life. And certainly he had been before, but now Wolf had consciously permitted it. Either he was sicker than Stiles realized, or slowly beginning to trust him. Stiles' eyes lowered down to where the wound was hidden behind the blanket.
Perhaps he could really do it.
He could make him better.

That was the first night Stiles dream changed.
Usually, it was some variation of the same tale. Stiles finding himself with a different lot in life, a nobleman riding a white steed in bright armor, set out on some valiant errand. A life of adventure, of freedom. One where the hills in the distance where not stationary bits of ever-constant landscape, but worlds to be traversed and explored. It was a fantasy so common for him that the dream tended to manifest and reoccur once every few weeks or so. Sometimes it was a dragon. Sometimes he was riding a dragon. Tonight, he stormed a tall, ruined castle in the middle of a dark moor. Where a throne room should have been, saw without the slightest bit of surprise, that his enemy was an enormous black wolf. The size of a small house, it took up the entire room. Its fur was a thick, glossy black. It's eyes, a brilliant burning red that left trails in their wake through the dark.
He readied himself for attack, but instead found himself suddenly quite disarmed. His hands pressed against a very naked, human torso. This part of his dream wasn't too unusual either, but always it was the buxom form of the same beautiful noblewoman, the one with the strawberry-blonde hair. But this body was hard and firm. It was darkened by the sun, rather than soft and pale. His lips touched a strong neck, rough with stubble. Knees slid together, hips aligned and ground into place. At once, a sudden surge of warmth overtook him. He could feel strong arms grasping him, dominating him, owning him. The distant pain of fangs that sank into his skin, and instead of fear what came was a moan of the sheerest wanting. The nameless form slid against him, their bodies moving smoothly together, until there was no division of where Stiles ended and his beautiful stranger began.

Stiles woke up flushed and in shock. The morning air was frigid against his flaming hot skin. His body trembled as his hand grasped his chest. His heart was beating frantically.

Stiles didn't think too much about the meaning of dreams. There wasn't much he could do to dwell on it anyway. It was a law of the Kingdom that it was a sin for two men or women of the same gender to be lovers. Though Stiles was never clear as to why this was, it was a law that always had been, and there was nothing he could do to fight it. During his march through the woods, he tucked the dream away into the far, dark corner of his mind.
The leaves crunched underfoot as he went now. This morning in particular, each fallen leaf and blade of grass was bedecked in a delicate outline of glittering frost. As the sun made its golden ascent it was clear that the frost would not last very long at all, it was simply a sign of the changing season. Stiles briefly wondered what would be done about Wolf once winter set in. Once the snow began to pile up it would be difficult to make the walk to the glen each day. Did werewolves migrate south for the winter, as birds did? Perhaps they hibernated. Stiles checked his snares, which today were bare save for the last, which rewarded him with a very fat pheasant. As he worked, Stiles realized that he might actually become rather lonely not being able to see Wolf until the springtime. He had only been doing this for a few days now, but the change from the ordinary, the brief dip into fantasy, it was intoxicating.

"Hey, Wolf!" Stiles called out happily, rounding the large boulder that stood as the entrance to the cave. "Do you like pheasant? Because..." He trained off when he caught a strange smell coming from the cavern. Usually, it didn't smell like much of anything. A bit of moss and damp air, that was all. Today, the air was thick with a sickening, rusted sort of smell. The floor was dark and slightly sticky with a mysterious black liquid. Upon closer inspection, he realized with a swell of horror that it was dried blood, and a lot of it. Stiles found Wolf huddled in the back of the cave, his body twisted at a sickeningly unnatural way. He was breathing, but just barely. The blanket had been kicked aside, exposing his arrow wound, slashed open wide