Chapter Text
Mieczysław floated on his back in the large pool, long hair fanned around him, staring up at the vast black ceiling that seemed to soak up every glimmer of light that might have hit it.
He'd been there for a while now, just floating, thinking. It was the only place in the entire city where true silence reigned. No street clatter, voices, traffic, no distractions pressing through walls, just him and the soft lap of water in the pool around him. The temple soaked it up in its entirety, leaving him with just his thoughts, and those too had quietened over time.
He was 25 now, and a 25 year old omega lost the right to choose. Or at least past this particular choice. He knew that when he got out of the pool and pulled on the clothing left for him, when he stepped into the temple proper, that was where the last choice he'd be given on the matter would be asked in the silence, but it was the most important one.
Calm had become more difficult to hold onto as each year had passed since he'd presented. Worries and intrusive thoughts escalated towards the unmanageable, making it more difficult to deal with anything outside the home. With his father close by, the leading alpha of his House, his thoughts calmed and stabilised, but his father was busy, and he knew he needed an alpha of his own.
He had come into the temple with his mother the day prior; the only other person permitted to bear witness to his choice, other than those already sealed to their life dedicated to the God. He'd come in uncertain about what he was going to choose, but in the silence of the temple, where its stillness pushed away everything but his own thoughts, clarity had come. Every omega went through this on the cusp of a mating, no matter if they had decided to choose a mate themselves or if it was left to their family to do so, as time had rendered his own. They all came here, stepping through the halls that soaked up sound and light, until it opened up to echoes of life once more. Until they, like him, hair tightly plaited, now dressed in the flowing clothes of the temple, walked up towards the sacred circles, his mother a silent reassurance nearby.
He had already made his goodbyes before entering. His words had halted by the threat of a choice too large to be encompassed by them, but he had clung to her in the hushed entranceway, shielded from view but not yet inside enough to count, but even then his words had not come. What could you say about a decision this big?
But as he knelt there, carefully lighting the sacred candles and letting himself fall deeper into the silence that had been cultivated for such things, he wished he had found words to leave her with.
But now as he had settled and stilled, the temple priests moved like mist from the outer edges, barely seeming human in their grace, dark split robes flowing around them as they approached, faceless behind their masks, limbs visible as cloth parted to show the undulation of marks that painted their skin. His own skin soon took on those marks, painted in lines that might be temporary depending on his choice. Black seeped onto him, the light touch of the brushes just this side of being too much as they adorned his skin and then let it sink in. Raised to his feet, the marks continued in black tributories of dedication, side-split trousers parting only to be tied shut once more when it was done.
He was left standing there, his forehead still tingling with the residual touch of the brush, eyelids damp as he looked up to the symbol of the God, and him a living request for a blessing.
His hands were trembling. Stillness once more settled. The calm before the burgeoning of change took ahold.
All around him the floor and walls changed, black lines of dedication on them darkening, deepening, until it was like nothing was there at all, until the entire room, no matter how dimly lit, felt bright compared to those lines that sucked every drop of light from them. In front of the effigy, a line of twisted letters hovered in the air before splitting apart, as if they had been all that was holding reality together, spreading and spreading until an oval of that same darkness hovered there in the space before him.
His choice.
Did he stay, get mated to the political alliance his father had set up? Sensible, uninspiring, tedious, restrictive.
Or did he have those blessings solidify? Did he dedicate himself to the God and take one more roll of the dice, trusting that even though he would leave everything he knew behind, that it might be better that way.
He did not look to his mother. It was not her decision, and she must surely have considered that he might choose this. Her hug had been tight with the desperation to hold him one more time. Few made the choice in the way he was eyeing the unknown, but she had known he might, he thought. Fewer still ever returned. To dedicate their existence, to place their entire trust in their God, was considered lunacy by many, but at 25 he had run out of choices except this one.
The silence of the temple was overtaken by a rush of noise and pressure as he set his steps into the hands of his God, blacking out every other option, every other sense except for the burning sear of ink fusing to skin and sinking soul-deep.
On his forehead, the painted depiction of an eye opened in the darkness, and suddenly he knew the way.
––==I==––
Peter sat in his usual spot on the spiral staircase, sitting between the pack and the private rooms upstairs. None of the pack went up there, and his presence tended to make them reconsider trying. They preferred to keep him at a distance as much as he preferred them to do so.
The pack were gathered across the room, but as much as he was trying to take the meeting seriously, considering there was an actual threat in the preserve, good god it was difficult. The levels of teen drama and general incompetence in the room was off the charts.
He, out of everyone, understood the need to have at least three betas in order to have a stable pack. More was better at a time of war, but to choose a whole group of teenagers who had so many issues you could sink a ship with them, instead of people with actual experience in life and fully developed brains, it was just ridiculous. And yes, he was self aware enough to grasp that he had bitten a teenager when he was alpha, but it bore remembering that he'd been insane at the time and running on the feral mindset that cared only about survival. Scott McCall had always been a mistake, one he was given to deeply regret every time he saw the boy. The karma boomerang at its finest.
He sighed as the loft was once more filled with the teenagers jostling and complaining, rather than making any progress or decisions about dealing with the current threat in the preserve. It would be down to him most likely, even though he was still recovering from his stint with death. The pups were just as likely to fling themselves onto claws than to use their own.
Derek wasn't doing much better than them either; not taking charge, not putting forward a plan of action, just glowering at the betas from across the room. Did he truly think that being silent and brooding was how to run a pack? It was as if he'd never mentally matured in the six years since the fire, and had just surrounded himself with people who were that very age or thereabouts. None of them responded to him like they should for an alpha, but that was hardly surprising since he wasn't acting like one.
It was no way to run a pack, but there was only so far he could push Derek. Frankly, no matter how much baggage his nephew had, he'd already proven that he could rip his throat out, and Peter really didn't fancy going through that again, even if it would take the pack holding him down for Derek to do the deed.
Deciding that nothing useful was going to happen for the rest of the meeting, he got up and moved towards the door. Considering that Derek said nothing, only watched him go, his nephew had probably figured that out too. That's what you got with teenagers, after all. Let Derek deal with them himself for a while, Peter needed some air.
––==I==––
The rush and pressure of the endless darkness broke, shattered as his foot stepped onto solidity, eyes blinded by that first glimpse of light after what he'd been walking through to reach that moment. A jolt of feeling, of kinship that flowed up from where his foot landed, solid; the swell of feeling something alien to himself, yet familiar, before it was gone once more, following the trail he had just trod.
Eyes blinking away tears from the brightness, the ebony oval of his God's gift of choice closed behind him, leaving him standing atop a huge tree stump in what appeared to be a forest of some sort. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but he'd assumed there would at least be four walls and a roof, and the first tremble of uncertainty took him.
There was no one there. No priests. No dignitaries. No one at all, just the hush of wind through the trees that sent a shiver through him. He had no coat, and his clothes – designed only for temple ceremonies – weren't crafted for the outdoors. But the huge tree had been cut down, and that meant civilization, right?
"Hello?"
It was worth a shot, he felt, but no matter how many times he called out, no one answered, and no one appeared.
What way should he even try to go? There was no path, there was nothing to say which way was north. Sure, the sun could be seen, just about, through the foliage of the grove, but how far was it from the horizon? What direction was it going? And even if he knew that, he had no idea where the nearest city would be. At night, he might be able to see lights, but even there, in the eye-squinting brightness of the day, he was uneasy. There was no way he wanted to be lost in a wild forest by night.
This wasn't like the times his father had taken them to the picnicking spot, and as he picked a direction at random and started to walk, that became all too clear. There was no carefully cultivated path with sunken rocks carefully brushed of debris. There were no carved benches or tables inlaid with the great House's heraldry. There were no sweet smelling blossoms in waves of colour at the edges of clearings, or screens of clematis to offer privacy. Some of the scents were the same, but this was a wild wood, and he'd read about things that could be in wild woods, things only the bravest of the hunters would ever dare face.
It was nothing he was familiar with, and the difference was stark and terrifying. He was ALONE, and he'd never been alone before.
He froze at a sudden noise he couldn't immediately identify, tense with the prey-like fear of the unknown; his own heart too loud, too rapid, to be anything but prey. He didn't know what was out there, how to identify whatever it was, because the wild woods were nothing he'd researched before. There'd been no need, no drive, not when there were so many other things that were more immediate in their interest. But he knew about bears and tigers, about wolves and great serpents, in general terms at least. It wasn't likely to be wolves, he probably would have heard them howl by now, and it wasn't likely to be tigers either, as he wouldn't have heard one of those. But he didn't know what it might have been, or what to do if he came across whatever it was. Why hadn't he researched the wild woods more?!
He didn't know how long he stood frozen. Long enough for his sweat to dry at least a bit. Long enough for his heart to slow. Long enough to notice that his arms seemed bare of the black marks of his dedication.
It was panic then, fresh and new, that he stared at his arms, wondering if his God had deserted him.
But no, no, he could feel the blessing still upon him. He could, when he calmed, still see with that strange vision if he focused. With it laying over his own, he could once more see a shimmer along his skin before darkness seeped through it into view.
He hadn't been abandoned.
It was enough to get him moving again, that reassurance. Enough that he started using what skills he did possess to find remnants of scent that overlapped enough to lead him to a game trail. He figured it would be better to follow it downhill rather than up. That was logical, right? Towns usually sprang up around rivers, and rivers were more abundant closer to sea level. The game trail overlapped a wider path as he moved on. It wasn't paved with stones, but it was clearly maintained by people.
It took hours, or what he assumed was hours, but finally he saw a break in the trees that offered a view of a town below. He could have wept with gratitude, weary and sore from walking for so long in shoes unfit for the task; ones designed for dedication, not hiking.
No matter that it was in view, it took longer still to reach the town proper, but even as desperate as he was for human contact after such a trial, he lingered in the shadows of the buildings as he made his way towards the centre of the town where the most important Houses would be located, shaken further by what he saw. Horse-less vehicles drove at speed along roads, the entire place stank of fumes and chemicals, of garbage, of human lives piled atop each other haphazardly.
But he didn't scent any alphas. He didn't sense any of the comforting pheromones that would have heralded anything familiar and safe in this land that was fast proving, with each horseless carriage growling past, with each glimpse of building structures and even clothing styles, to be so horrendously different than he'd expected.
No one turned towards him. Barely anyone even noticed him at all, even though he had to be pumping out enough chemosignals to drown in, and not one person approached.
But there had to be alphas around. His God had sent him there to find a suitable mate, so there had to be an alpha around there somewhere, even if he couldn't sense them.
Right?
––==I==––
One slightly above average coffee and several emails later, Peter was heading back to his car when he picked up the scent of Stiles nearby. Or something that smelt like Stiles.
Every person had their own unique layers of scent, and while it did smell intrinsically like Stiles, there was something different about it; distressed in a way that had him hurrying his steps along the street. He didn't want the one teenager of the pack he actually liked to end up in some manner of trouble, and while Stiles was notorious for always carrying some anxiety around with him, this was deeper, far more panicked, and he didn't like that one bit.
But as he turned the corner and scanned the area he paused, because what he found wasn't what he'd expected. The person standing in the shadows of an alley wasn't dressed like Stiles had been earlier. He was dressed all in black, in a style reminiscent of a formal japanese hakama, and had a long braid that trailed down to the backs of his knees. It was his face though that confirmed that something was awry, because although he looked like Stiles, that face was more mature than the teenager he'd left with the others in the loft over half an hour ago.
The distress though, that was coming across loud and clear, and it wasn't as if Peter would trust anyone else to competently deal with whatever new crisis Beacon Hills was currently offering up.
"What appears to be the problem here?" he asked lightly, having come closer before stepping into view for maximum surprise impact. People gave away a lot more when they were surprised, he'd found, and he wasn't disappointed this time either.
The man that looked like Stiles spun, and his eyes widened in a shocked sort of awe.
"You… You're Peter Hale!"
Well, that wasn't exactly what he'd been expecting, but then there were a great deal of things that didn't quite fit in the current situation. While it was gratifying to receive a star-struck stare, it wasn't as if he could trust what he was seeing. Stiles didn't have any close family members that could explain the familiarity of look and scent, and his moles were in exactly the same locations. This was no cousin or brother.
"Indeed," Peter said, and moved forward, the shadows in the alleyway perfect for having this little chat out of the public eye once he had corralled the man deeper into it, surprised when he didn’t have to fight to get him there. The man just kept looking at him like he couldn't believe who it was that was guiding him away from the main road. But if this Stiles-lookalike knew of Peter, then he'd know that nothing good would come from this conversation; nothing good for him at least.
Peter was probably going to enjoy it though.
He let the charm drop fully once he'd moved the man deeper into the alleyway and then up against a disused doorway. Interestingly the scent of distress had faded, rather than increased, which was more than a little odd. Anyone that knew of him would have been terrified to be pinned against a door by him. Little about this meeting was making much sense, but Peter didn't smell any wolfsbane or mountain ash on the man. If anything he smelled clean, like mild soap and of the preserve, with hints of ozone around the edges.
So, a magic user rather than a hunter. That made more sense.
"Now," he said, mild and gentle in a way that he'd found would calm the innocent or threaten the guilty, "Since we are doing introductions, would you mind telling me who you are, and why you are here?"
But perhaps he was losing his touch a bit, because the man he had pressed up against the wall did not tremble, and did not shrink. He relaxed.
"I'm Mieczysław Stilinski, formally of the Gajos House." His voice didn't hold the same American tang as Peter was used to hearing. The accent was difficult to place. Not Polish despite the name, Peter knew that much. If anything, he'd be willing to think it was something closer to Asian in the way the words were formed with precision, coupled with the clothes he was wearing. Or, of course, this was all just a big ruse. The latter was far more likely considering whose visage the man was wearing. "I was sent because of my choice at the temple. I stepped through and found myself in the wild woods near here without a guide, but I made my way successfully here where you found me. I don't know why I wasn't sent to another temple. Everything seems very different here, but you must know about it, since you're here. Is your mate nearby? I saw her in the broadsheets not that long ago. I'm not keeping you from her, am I? I just need to find my way to one of the temples or leading Houses."
The disconcerting thing was that the man's heart did not falter. It stayed true throughout the ridiculous speech, but Peter couldn't trust what he was hearing when this was a magic user who had shaped themselves, in look and scent, like an older Stiles. Especially when he was asserting things that were so blatantly untrue. Peter had no mate. Still, it was better to find out what fever dream version of events the man believed was true, or was trying to sell him.
"Explain what you mean by ‘leading Houses’."
There was a long pause where the question didn't seem to compute, and he was left staring at the shadowed face that then took on a growing expression of something closer to fear. "What do you mean, what do I mean?" Mieczysław's voice had risen, and the return of that scent of stress and anxiety were once more building enough to be uncomfortable, especially considering it was an almost-pack scent that it came from. "The Houses. The House of Hale is one of the most prominent in the city, but there are dozens of other Houses too. I know this isn't the place you usually live in, but I don't come from here, and I don't understand why you are even asking me this!"
"Because you wear the face and scent of someone else," he said, any residual warmth having leeched from his voice, blackened shards of memory slicing outwards. "You speak of things that don't exist. The Hale House burned down over six years ago along with whatever stability of power we had over the territory, as anyone here could tell you. Why is it important that you find them anyway? If you're lost, go to the sheriff's office."
The man just stared at him. Not scared like he should be of Peter, not aggressive or antagonistic in the face of truths being aired, but a sort of stunned freefall that only deepened the threat of what seemed to be an encroaching panic attack, if the signs he noticed were any indication.
Troublesome.
"Why is it important, Mieczysław?" he asked again, putting a little growl into the words, a clearer threat to focus the mind. He was familiar enough with the Polish language not to butcher the name, and showing a little competence never hurt. It seemed to do the trick.
"Because the Houses look after us, always. Where am I to go if there are no Houses? No temples?"
Peter was starting to get a headache. There was much a werewolf's healing could tackle, but stress headaches still existed so long as the stress remained. It certainly didn't help that whatever magic the person was covered with made it very difficult to remain antagonistic with him. He wasn't even fantasising about ripping his throat out, and that was an oddity with any potential threat. It was better for everyone to get some clarity before he even considered letting this person anywhere near the pack. If he was being mentally affected, the idiots would be rolling over like puppies.
"And you expect these 'Houses' to just take you in? A stranger with questionable background and sanity?"
"Yes? It's always been that way." Mieczysław seemed to try and stabilise his mood, visibly taking a breath, then another, until at least a little of the panic had receded. "Look, if there are no active Houses wherever we are right now, they must be in the nearest city, right? Will you take me there?"
The agreement to do what was asked was on the tip of his tongue, but he strong-armed it back and let another growl out instead, popping his claws and pressing the man back against the wall with less care than he did before.
"I don't appreciate whatever compulsion you are trying to use on me, so how about you reign it in and actually answer my questions better this time."
"I can't help it! My chemosignals and pheromones are always like this, especially with alphas!" He paused then, focusing more on Peter's hand, "Are those... claws? Oh my God, they are claws! You can shift your hand to have claws! That's amazing!"
Contrary to expectations, Mieczysław didn't shrink back or retreat, but reached out and grabbed his hand to get a better look at them, testing the strength and sharpness. It was so unexpected that Peter just stalled there, frowning, watching the almost child-like wonder on the man's face. That wasn't like him either, and he mentally shook himself and put the claws away again.
"I'm not an alpha any more. You'd be looking for my nephew for that."
It bore saying, even if he hated it.
Mieczysław looked up at him at that, eyes still slightly wide from the revelation about the claws, fingers still holding his own. The scent of anxiety had once more balanced out with the apparent awe over his shifting and it soothed something in him to see that. If it was chemosignals and pheromones rather than magic, that was going to be troublesome. The touch of his hands was probably saturating Peter’s skin with a direct dose, which would explain the calmness that had come over him.
He should probably kill the man, but there was too much about him that was like a mystery he wanted to devour to get to the choicest of revelations.
Unfortunately the dulcet tones of Scott McCall came from behind him.
"Peter, who are you threatening now? Wait, Stiles? What are you wearing, man?"
Peter let out a breath of annoyance, both at the interruption, and at the idiot in general.
"This isn't Stiles. Even an imbecile could see that."
It looked like he'd be taking the man to the pack sooner than he'd wanted after all.