Warning: This story takes place directly after season 3A, therefore be warned it contains spoilers. It's meant as a sort of potential 3B - or, I suppose an alternative to whatever 3B will be. I'm fairly certain this is not the direction Jeff Davis plans on taking the show, but the point is that he could. This, believe it or not, includes the crossover.

Knowledge of BBC's Merlin is not strictly necessary for this story, I don't think. The crossover is minor, but is still an important part of the story. I had actually debated over not making this a crossover and just creating an original character to take Merlin's place... but Merlin just fits this story so perfectly that I left the idea as is. I also apologize in advance for any mistakes or inaccuracies in my depictions of either alchemy or Native American lore - I have done some research, but will be adapting some of it to suit the purposes of this story. My goal is to capture the spirit of both even if not all my facts are 100% accurate. Having said that, if there's anyone out there with any actual knowledge of Native American lore - particularly from the California region - I'd love to chat and potentially pick your brain for details if you're willing.

Disclaimer: I own the plot idea, but nothing more. The rest belongs to MTV and the BBC.

This story is unbetaed, so let me know if there's anything particularly glaring.

Chapter 1

It had taken him days to crawl his way out of the depths of the forest. His neck stung where sharp wire had cut into it and throbbed where a sharp blade had cut it open, while the side of his head felt like a bomb had detonated inside his cranium. No, was still detonating - at some sort of slow-motion rate of infinitesimal decay. Which didn't make any sense whatsoever. Gods above his head hurt! Every step he took was agony, sheer willpower the only thing moving him through the continuous energy drain that connected him to the Nemeton. To her.

That bitch. To think he'd taken pity on her and helped her when so many would've simply run away screaming. He'd kept her secrets, was willing to help her plan her revenge. Apparently he'd missed a few things. By the time he'd finally figured it out she was with the Wolf and his scent would've been noticed. He'd thought he had time; hadn't expected her to come for him. To use him.

He took some ounce of satisfaction out of knowing that her power was only skin-deep. Otherwise, she would've known he hadn't died. Or rather, would've known a long time ago that he couldn't die. He'd met scores of powerful magic users – real magic not just sparks and prayers – and she wasn't one of them.

He didn't bother going back to his home. By now he'd likely been officially listed as 'missing' and his house put under surveillance even if that only referred to the nosey old lady next door. Instead he headed to the small shack he owned just at the edge of the forest, one large tree grove away from the boundary of the Hale property. He'd bought it years ago under a different false alias in order to conduct some of his more... exotic experiments. He had supplies, a change of clothes there and a cot. Most importantly, however, she didn't know about it.

Exhausted, he fell onto the cot. The steady draining of his life force was like a sharp burning throughout his body, as though the desert sun had taken residence there and was trying it damnedest to melt his bones from within. It wasn't the worst pain he'd ever felt, but it had been quite some time since he'd felt anything remotely close.

He wasn't certain how much time had passed before the burning agony abated enough for him to drag himself upright and teeter over to the heavy stone bowl on the far side of the room. It was already two-thirds full of water. Taking a large milky white crystal off the shelf above the bowl, he placed it carefully into the water until it was completely submerged. Then he held his hand just above the water's surface and said the familiar incantation with an unsteady, raspy voice. The water shimmered and then stilled.

He cursed and tried again, wincing at the pain in his throat. The same happened. He sighed and grabbed onto the table to steady himself. When the dizziness passed, he looked out the window and blinked into the darkness. Ah, it was nighttime; she was probably sleeping. His eyes landed on the small desktop calendar sitting on the window sill. He closed his eyes and groaned. Of course, the date... Merlin would be at the Lake right now. He never missed an anniversary.

With a deep sigh, he grabbed a handful of dried pansy and zinnia petals and threw them into the water. Hopefully, the message would be heard. He moved slowly towards the door, feeling like a an old man whose body was two steps away from giving up. And yet he managed to pick up the aluminum pail from beside the door and walk over to the pump to fill it. He had a generator at the back of the shack, but no running water. Instead, his water came from deep beneath the earth. It was good water.

He'd managed to clean himself and cover up the worst of the wounds at his neck when the agony returned, ripping a scream from his abused throat. He heard something fall to the ground and shatter. He followed it shortly.

His last thought before the waves of stinging, leeching pain enveloped him was that he sincerely hoped he hadn't underestimated the children when he left them the clue to follow.

Stiles sat on the lacrosse bench munching on chocolate chip cookies and waiting for his best friend to show up. Because contrary to how things may appear, he and Scott were still best friends. Didn't matter that Scott had grown a curly-haired shadow that went by the name Issac: nope he and Scott were bros. Best buds, nothing could ever come between them. Like, ever.

Especially with Allison no longer being his girlfriend. At the moment. Actually, she seemed to be spending a lot of time hanging out with Issac. Stiles wasn't quite sure what that was about, because some days it almost seemed like Issac had a crush on Scott. Except with a distinct lack of hot steamy looks full of longing and desire... Unless werewolves did that differently. Maybe they just let off some sort of pheromones or something in order to lure in prospective, er, mates. In which case, he supposed it would be Scott who was sending out pheromones, although knowing Scott it would also likely entirely unintentional because that sounded like too nefarious a plot for his best friend's mind. Speaking of which, where the hell was Scott anyway?!

Stiles took his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. He sighed. His bested bud in the whole wide world was running ten minutes late. And hadn't bothered to message him. Fantastic.

Stiles reached into his bag and grabbed another cookie. He glared in the direction of the school, willing Scott to come bounding out, sheepish grin on his face and excuse on his lips. And Stiles already knew that no matter how annoyed he was right now, he'd already forgiven the damn idiot of a best friend. Not that he would tell him that.

He just wished the silence didn't make the Darkness around his heart resonate more strongly. Darkness the wrong word for it. It implied that something had been added, but to Stiles it felt more like there was a hollow space around his heart – as though something were missing. Sometimes, in the dead of night it almost felt like a black hole, patiently swirling around waiting for the right moment to suck him through... To where, Stiles wasn't sure, but he knew Scott felt it too. They'd talked and the new alpha had said thinking about his friends and being connected to the pack helped him ignore it. Which, okay yeah, Stiles agreed that being surrounded by people – by his friends – helped.

Except that he didn't feel the connection Scott did. If anything, he felt more disconnected than ever. No matter who was with him or how well they were getting on, it always felt like he was one step further away from them than he should be. Like he'd come back from the ritual just slightly out-of-phase with the rest of the world.

It sucked, but Stiles refused to regret it. His father was alive and the alternative... No. There was no alternative, had been no other possible choice to make.

Suddenly there was a flurry of movement to his left and something dark appeared mere inches away from his face. Stiles cried out in surprise and fumbled his phone, nearly dropping it between the bleachers. Once he had a tight grip on the device again, he swung 'round to... blink at the empty space beside him.

"Okay, what the-"

Something chirped. Stiles looked down. A pair of small brown eyes blinked back at him innocently and then the bird hopped forward. It was chubby and roughly the size of Stiles' fist with black colouring on its head, a pink beak and white belly. The rest of it was brown and black with what looked like two white stripes running horizontally across its folded wings. It actually looked a bit like a sparrow, only bigger.

"Huh?" was the only thing he could think of to say to the bird. It chirped at him and craned his neck, looking alternatively at him and then the bag behind him expectantly. Then it hopped backwards twice and burst into a short string of melodic chirping.

Stiles raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Sooo... you're either trying to sing for your supper or Timmy's stuck down a well." He reached back into his bag and pulled out a cookie. "Too bad for Timmy I don't speak birdese, so I'll just sort of assume you're hungry."

He crumbled the cookie into smaller pieces and scattered them onto the bench. The bird hopped forward again and began to eagerly devour them. Stiles watched the bird for a few minutes in bemusement. The situation was just too surreal for words. Eventually he just shook his head.

"Great, this just figures," he muttered under his breath as he ran a hand through his hair. "My best friend gets turned into a werewolf and I'm turning into freakin' Snow White."

The bird chirped and Stiles looked back to it. It was standing over the remains of the cookie looking very happy.

"Yeah, you're welcome, buddy. Just don't make a habit of it, 'cause next time I might actually freak out."

Then the bird spread its wings and flew off. Stiles watched it go and chuckled. Well, that had certainly been strange. He turned back to brush the remaining crumbs off the bench and froze, frowning.

There was a folded piece of paper sitting in the spot where the bird had just taken off from. Stiles looked around, but couldn't see anyone except for a small group of students trying to inconspicuously smoke by the corner of the school building. Slowly, he reached for the paper and then unfolded it.

Mister Stilinski,

I suspect you know that the Beacon is becoming active. However, I doubt you realize exactly what that entails. We have much to discuss. Meet me at the old water purification plant tomorrow at one. Come alone. If you do not, then I shall walk away and you will never find me.

Your potential is being wasted and unfortunately, it will be needed to face what is coming. Don't be more of a fool than you usually are.

The note was unsigned, which didn't surprise Stiles in the slightest. It was, however, hand written. The handwriting looked familiar: precisely-formed, rounded letters that looked slightly feminine, although Stiles had the feeling the writer wasn't a woman. They also clearly knew him. They knew him well enough, in fact, to know that dangling a mystery and threatening to never give any answers was more likely to get them the results they clearly wanted than threatening to hurt anyone.

Or here was a thought: maybe the person knew his friends were werewolves and therefore knew he couldn't hurt them anyway. However, they'd have to be able to hide from them or detect them if they were nearby... Stiles' right knee was bouncing a staccato rhythm and he could feel the familiar thrum of excitement in his veins. He had a puzzle to solve. And the note didn't feel threatening: mildly insulting, sure, but there wasn't any actual threat anywhere in the words.

Wasted potential: was this person talking about his so-called 'spark'? Did he – they, Stiles reminded himself he didn't have any evidence to prove this was a man – know about his spark? Okay, so definitely someone who'd been around him. Wait, were they indicating they were willing to teach him to use his spark? But Deaton had said the Darkness made it impossible.

It occurred to Stiles that maybe he should at least be debating the merits of not going to meet this person. Except he had no reason not to really – apart from the obvious trap-like quality of the meeting. Tomorrow was Saturday and lacrosse practise was in the morning so he'd have plenty of time to – wait. Did this person know he had Saturday morning lacrosse practise?!

This person was starting to sound more like a creepy stalker by the second.

"Stiles!"

Stiles' head shot up at the sound of his name. He scowled at the approaching group. "You're late, Scotty!" he called even as he folded up the note and shoved it into the corner of his bag.

Issac, the twins and Danny all followed behind him and Stiles suddenly realized he wasn't really in the mood for lacrosse anymore. The note was burning a hole through his backpack and his hands were itching to grab his laptop and get researching.

"Sorry," said Scott sheepishly with his usual boyish grin before launching into a story involving ice, balloons and the new chemistry teacher.

Stiles sighed, not really listening. The training would no doubt turn into a wolf party and Scott, Issac and Danny certainly didn't need him to teach the twins how to play lacrosse. He'd just slip away when they weren't paying attention.

Stiles parked his jeep into the shade behind a dense cluster of trees. It wasn't that it was illegal to be here, but his car was recognizable to every member of the sheriff's department and he didn't particularly feel like explaining this to his father. Not yet anyway. His father was being super cool with his new knowledge about the less human side of Beacon Hills – except for the part where it was sort of really dangerous and his son was involved.

The old water purification plant was at the edge of town accessible by what was now a narrow, overgrown stretch of badly-cracked paved road that branched off from a side road running west out of the city and alongside the far end of the preserve. It wasn't used much since it was faster to get to the highway by using the road that ran through the preserve – and it was better maintained.

Stiles waded his way through knee-deep grass until he reached the visitor parking. It was a gravel-lined rectangular area large enough to fit about five cars just off the long paved road that lead up to the plant. A tree had fallen across its entrance during some windstorm or other making it now inaccessible by car. Stiles climbed over the low wooden railing lining the lot and began to cross it, gravel crunching beneath his feet. Wind blew across the derelict parking lot and through tall wire fencing into the silent plant. Overgrown greenery rustled.

Somewhere in the tree line, a crow called. Less than a minute later, its call was answered. Stiles wondered if it was crow-speak for 'Hey honey what's for lunch?' (with the reply being 'I don't know, what've you scavenged?"). Except possibly more sinister, because crows always sounded slightly sinister.

He looked around, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the mysterious note-sender. He'd been up for hours researching and then hours more wide awake with thoughts running through his head faster than Superman's speeding bullet. He had a conclusion, a possible answer – a theory you could call it – but it defied all logic. Or rather, the evidence pointed towards something that shouldn't be possible given previous evidence. Except that there was always the possibility that the evidence wasn't actually evidence but an assumption...

His brain was seriously starting to hurt. Lack of sleep wasn't helping either and he'd been an absolute mess at practise. He wondered what the odds were that Coach Finstock wouldn't hold it against him when it came time to pick the starting line. Probably not good.

Something soft smacked him across the right cheek and Stiles cried out, jumped and flailed his limbs in surprise. He felt soft pinpricks embedding themselves into his right shoulder and turned his head. The bird on his shoulder chirped at him. Stiles blinked. It was the same one that had brought him the message yesterday. He knew this for a fact, because he's spent several hours and three cokes trying to figure out what sort of bird it was.

Behind him, he heard the tell-tale crunch of gravel as someone walked up behind him. Stiles froze. The foot steps stopped several feet away. He took a deep breath. He was almost certain he was right. Scott might be the one with the super planning skills lately, but research was still Stiles' territory. There was only one thing that didn't make sense-

"How?" said Stiles loud enough for the person behind him to hear. "It's the only part I don't get. How are you alive?"

"You aren't surprised it's me," a familiar smooth voice answered him.

Stiles let out the breath he'd been holding and shrugged. The bird on his shoulder squawked in protest at the movement and Stiles raised his left hand to gently pet its belly as a silent apology. "You wanted me to figure it out," he said. "The note was, like, a test or something. I thought I recognized the handwriting, but couldn't place it at first. And then there's this little guy."

Stiles turned to face the man. "I didn't recognize him, so I turned to google. Turns out he ain't native to California. In fact he's quite a bit farther south than usual. He's a Harris' sparrow."

Dressed in blue jeans and dark blue turtle neck, his usual disdainful look of superiority on his face, Adrian Harris nodded at Stiles. "Very good, Mister Stilinski. I'm glad to see you are capable of applying yourself and your intellect when necessary."

A/N: Adrian Harris has always struck me as one of those 'more than meets the eye' characters. Now if only I can get him to stop sounding like Severus Snape when I write him...