Chapter Text
July : Claiming Moon
The petitioner shall come forth, arms bared, and with a freely given offering of themselves and the Land, initiate the Claim. A full year, until the Claiming Moon shows again, shall they be bound by their declaration.
_ _ _ _ _ _
It's almost the peak of summer when Stiles returns home. No one knew he was coming back except for his Dad, and even Sheriff was in the dark about why Stiles was truly returning. He arrives back in Beacon Hills the day of the full moon and immediately gets to work.
He's been studying up on Claims for a few years now, gathering up all the information he can from the books and lore more readily available to him now.
More often than not, a Claim was made by a trained individual who was part of a pack. Over the course of the year, the pack would be expected to help or participate as the Claimant went about the required tasks. This wouldn't be the case with Stiles' attempt. He wasn't formally trained or part of a pack. He couldn't form any new bonds during the year of the Claim. He would perform the tasks alone, unless joined by willing invited parties. Starting with the sacrifice, Stiles would have to prove to the satisfaction of the Land and the Nemeton that he was sufficient as a protector of both. He wouldn't know the end for a dozen more moons.
From personal stories, rumors and a handful of rare books he'd cobbled together the rituals for the next thirteen months, and tonight he would discover if he had wrought well.
_ _ _ _ _ _
Stiles feels the ground beneath his shoes as he trudges the last few meters to the Nemeton. The backpack and duffel of supplies he'd had to carry out weren't too heavy but they did make his trip a bit more awkward. At least it hadn't been even twenty minutes of walking before he'd found the clearing. He feels an eagerness from where it stands in its found spot in the woods, shadowy under the moonlight. Waiting.
Stiles opens up the leather satchel and starts unpacking his tools. From what he understands, he is responsible for calling a sacrifice from the territory as well as making a more personal one that only he can provide. Something from himself, literally.
He climbs up onto the stump of the old Nemeton, picking up his knife as he sets himself down close to the center. He concentrates, cutting into his left forearm, drawing a dark red line around the entire thing, bisecting his arm. Taking the knife up with his left hand, he repeats the process on his right. Then, Stiles presses both his hands against the dry wood. As his blood drips down his arms, he sends out tendrils of magic, flowing and spiraling out into the preserve. Flavored with need and hope, it rushes over bush and branch, seeking a willing party to answer its call. With a shout, he brings up his hands and spreads his arms, a pulse of gold erupting from his chest.
There in the dark, Stiles waits, arms bared and bleeding. He stays on his knees, arms out and head down, counting his breaths in and out. He focuses on the jagged light of his magic spiraling out, further and further into the forest. Into the night, he waits patiently until he hears a loud huff from the edge of the treeline.
A stag, a little long in the tooth and all the wiser for it, strides toward the Nemeton.
Stiles holds his breath as the animal walks over to him. It takes one last step and expels a breath, shaking its head. Drawn here by threads of magic, It lowers its head and Stiles reaches out, touching the ridged brow. Crackling light gathers around the blood on his fingertips, fizzing like a sparkler against the dark.
"Sleep." He urged as he made contact, and the stag swayed. It slowly leaned forward, bending front legs to slump into a resting position. As soon as it's down, Stiles unsheathes his knife and lays it against the stag's long neck. "Thank you. I will strive to deserve this."
Stiles collects the blood in a bowl, then moves over to the center of the stump and pours it slowly, allowing it to gather for a moment before being soaked up by the dry wood. Three times he pours, until it finally fills the ridges. He places both of his hands down on the soaked wood, letting his own blood slowly join the shallow puddle. When it feels like enough, Stiles taps into the magic within himself, casting a line into the Nemeton.
His body is still sitting on top of the huge stump, but the rest of him is somewhere beneath the earth. He can feel the stag's strength seeping into the magic surrounding him, a cool ripple joining the eddy around the pool he floated in. He weaves his own magic around it, and sends it down into the ley line.
He receives an impression of curiosity. It's been some time since anyone had communed with the Land and there's barely a trace of any signature magic Stiles expected to find showing that this was Hale territory. It was probably only through Peter's continued presence that this wisp he sensed held onto existence.
Stiles concentrates, sending out the magical equivalent of a handshake and immediately feels an interested surge in response.
The Land remembers, Stiles realized. It remembers wolfsong and magics and the feel of a Pack running across it.
He sends back positivity, encouraged by the welcome.
It sends back curiosity as it weaves and flows around him. Why? Why is he here? What does he want?
Protection, he thinks at it. Protection of the land and it's people. *All* of its people, human and otherwise. Peace and bounty for those within the territory. Hope for the future for all. A positive future he was willing to wrestle into existence with his bare hands, one where a Hale pack runs again on the Land and seeks the sacred clearing on full moons. A sanctuary and a home, defended by an oath-sworn pack; a place where a new Nemeton can rise up.
The Land is quiet, thinking and waiting.
Stiles reaches down within himself and pulls, offering his magic up as his own sacrifice part of the ritual. He imagines himself like the bowl, tilting and pouring. The Land drinks in the bulk of it and pulls it down deep into Itself, holding it in trust for the duration of the Claim. The rest It leaves, a small pool flowing back into Stiles and warming him again. He's surprised any was returned, but senses satisfaction with what was offered.
Eyes still closed, Stiles sends a questioning pulse, the image of him continuing the rituals. Is this allowed?
He feels the land review, considering. It weighs his magic, the freely given spirit of the deer and finally Stiles himself. He feels the magic flit around him, assessing and prodding as it takes in all factors.
Slowly, he feels it begin to withdraw. Whatever it found, it seems pleased with and sends Stiles an impression of satisfaction, then an excited surge of permission. The Land approves.
Stiles relaxes a bit, arms starting to sag a bit as he pulls himself out of the magical eddy under the old tree stump and back into his body on top of it. He sends back his thanks and gratitude in a final pulse, then wrestles his eyes fully open. His pupils expand against the dark as his eyes adjust.
Now comes the messy part. Taking up his knife again, Stiles moves down to collect the deer's heart and other components he'll need. It takes all his strength and a bit of magic, but he finally has every piece required from the stag. He takes the heart and hops back up onto the stump, looking at the center cracks to find the deepest looking one. When he decides, he puts the heart down and places both hands in the crack, applying a touch of his own magic. The wood shifts and the crack widens as he pulls his hands apart, easy as bending cardboard. Finally wide enough, he picks up the heart with his left hand and pushes it down into the dark shaft until it is squeezed and caught deep. "A heart from the Land, for the Heart of the land" he murmurs, remembering the words of the book.
It takes three strangely shorter trips for Stiles to carry everything back to his Jeep, but at the end his cooler is full of meat, the antlers are in bags in the back and a large thermos of blood is tucked behind his backpack on the passenger seat. The hide is wrapped in a tarp in the footwell. He'll need these components later. The rest of the stag won't go to waste, scavengers already approaching.
Whatever remains after they finish will be laid at the roots of the Nemeton in coming months.
He takes out the jug of soapy water and towel he brought along and scrubs his arms and hands clean. It doesn't get all of it, but he looks less like a horror show than when he started. At least his own self-inflicted cuts had healed while he was communing with the Land. Not even a hint of scar remained on either arm. At least that's one less thing to have to explain.
Now he just has to worry about what to tell Peter.
_ _ _ _ _ _
Peter is walking in the Preserve looking for Stiles. He'd spotted the Jeep parked in the hiking trail area and was surprised to see it. As far as Peter knew, Stiles was coming home sometime this summer but he didn't realize he was already back in town. The last time they spoke a few days ago, Stiles hadn't said anything.
He'd be more suspicious if Stiles hadn't been especially squirrelly around his return. Something was afoot.
Peter meanders down the same trail Stiles had taken, following his scent. Eventually Stiles diverted off the path and into the wildwood, and Peter followed. He couldn't see Stiles but considering the time and that the remains of his passing were still fresh, he couldn't have been out this way more than a couple of hours before.
Peter hears something approaching, something large. He pauses. A deer. A large stag, at that. He expects any moment the stag will catch his scent and bolt, but it does not. Closer and closer it comes, horns visible over the brush. It's coming up directly behind him like it's headed toward something, and Peter's curiosity rises. What exactly is going on in his forest tonight?
The stag comes up even with Peter and continues on, not even looking at his direction. Peter follows it, just a few steps behind. He can still smell Stiles, the deer roughly following his trail, and wonders if the two are connected. Was Stiles in danger from whatever had ensnared the stag? He thinks about trying to run ahead, but holds himself back as the deer breaks into a quicker walk. It seems to recognize what's up ahead, just as Peter does too.
It's the clearing of the Nemeton.
Peter stops at the edge of the clearing, moving behind a tree heavy with low foliage, remaining hidden and still. He can see Stiles in profile, blood dripping down from his left hand. His eyes are shut, his face slack, lips barely parted.
The stag paused and let out a huff, and Peter saw Stiles open his eyes halfway. To Peter's surprise, they glowed a bright copper, two half circles with only a pinpoint of pupil. They shifted toward the stag, and Stiles turned his neck slowly, minutely, to get a better look.
Plodding heavily, the beast continued toward the Nemeton, coming to a stop right in front of Stiles. It eyed him for a moment, not startling when he raised up a bloodstained arm to touch it. Peter blinked as sparkling magic lit up the space between hand and head, casting Stiles in sharp relief. He saw Stiles' lips move, "Sleep." and the large stag knelt between the roots of the Nemeton, tucking it's forelegs neatly and baring its neck to lean on the edge of the stump.
An inaudible incantation, a quick flash of blade and then Stiles is collecting the blood in a wooden bowl. Peter's curiosity turns to recognition as he realizes what is happening. Stiles is starting a Claim.
Peter watches as Stiles pours the blood from the stag onto the center of the Nemeton, then folds himself down again cross-legged with his hands just a few inches from the top of the stump.
Peter squints as lightning discharges in the space between the Nemeton and Stiles' hands, delicate bolts discharging and illuminating the area around him. Others shoot up his arms and disappate around his shoulders, shadowing his bent neck and lowered face.
The wind kicks up, blowing toward Peter, who knows with a strange certainty if he steps outside the clearing right now he won't find it again. Not on his own, at least. He stays where he is, quiet and motionless.
Finally, Stiles seems to completing whatever it is he's been doing magically. Peter watches as he relaxes slowly, lightning receding as he comes back to awareness. Stiles moves off the Nemeton and picks up a large knife out of a leather kit and gets to work.
He watches as Stiles skins the main body of hide, and collects cuts of meat and organs. After wrestling the heart free, Stiles returns to the top of the stump and places it in the center. He finds the deepest, widest crack in the heartwood and puts his fingers inside of it, pulling it further open. Peter hears the wood creak as Stiles' elbows move apart, then a popping squelch as he presses the heart deep into the tight crevass.
Not done yet, Stiles removes the antlers with a wire saw and places them by the rest of the collected items, all bagged and ready to carry. He loads himself up, looks down at the remaining pile and sighs, seeming a bit frustrated about having to make several trips.
Peter follows at a distance, making sure Stiles makes it back to his Jeep. He's going to need to be alive for Peter to dress down later. He waits as Stiles walks back into the woods and reappears with the remaining bags. He watches as the Jeep trundles off back toward the city, and wonders how much of what he just saw happen was meant for him to see. He flexed his claws. The next time he sees Stiles, he has questions.
_ _ _ _ _ _
The next morning Stiles sits down his Dad and explains what he's trying to do.
"No, Dad, it's more like...running for Sheriff. I have to earn the trust of the Land. This is me declaring my intent and showing I have the best interest of everyone involved in mind and will work to keep everyone safe." Stiles explained, running his hand through his hair.
"I don't know that I like it," Sheriff grumbled, crossing him arms. "This land seems out to get you."
"This will hopefully take care of that."
"Exactly what is 'this', then?" Sheriff waved at the unseen pile of sacks behind the garage door, "Because if this puts you in any more danger—"
"It doesn't, not really. If I'm right, we'll have a much less eventful year. Now that I've started, the Nemeton should quiet down a bit. At least for the next while, as long as I satisfy Her during the rituals. If I succeed, things will stay quiet. Well, quieter." Stiles gestured for his dad to sit down.
"And tell me again how Peter fits into all of this?
"That's complicated." Stiles immediately wants to fidget under his Dad's appraising stare. "Peter is the last Hale who wants to have anything to do with this territory. I don't need a Pack to start a Claim but it's good to have support, and his approval wouldn't hurt." Stiles paused. "His Pack had ties to the Land and he wants nothing more than he wants a real Hale Pack again. One with a real territory and ties. I can provide that for him if I complete the Claim."
"I think he wants something more than that, son. You don't spend years texting and chatting with just anyone. I know the two of you've gotten close."
At that, Stiles did fidget. He tried to cover it by crossing his arms as he thought of a response. "That's also complicated. You're not wrong, Dad. We have spent a lot of time talking over the past few years. Peter's my closest friend now, to be honest."
"Knowing Peter he's not going to be happy he's the last to know about this," Sheriff warned. "He's probably already grumpy you didn't tell him what day you were coming home."
"He's going to be even more upset than you think, Dad. He saw me start the Claim last night."
Sheriff blew out a breath, gently shaking his head. "You didn't tell anyone you were going to do this, not even me. Peter can only be so mad when you've had to keep all of us in the dark on this, son. He'll understand once you explain it. Maybe grovel a bit, that could help."
Stiles made a face. "When have I ever groveled?"
"Now's as good a time as any to start." Sheriff chuckled.
Knowing Peter already saw him, Stiles decides against mentioning how he's home again. Instead he texts Peter : *Dinner tonight at 6, your place?*
_ _ _ _ _ _
"Hey, Peter." Stiles says. "Thanks for—"
" 'Hey, Peter'? Stiles, I saw what you did—" Peter starts, but is in turn cut off by Stiles. An oddly subdued Stiles.
"That's why I'm here." Stiles confirms. "I know. I...I think I wanted you to see. I think She did too. I'm tired of working alone, and I'm probably going to need help."
"Just help?" Peter asks, suspicion still evident in his tone.
Stiles looks away, then back at Peter. There's something in his gaze that has Peter feeling oddly transparent. "No, not just help. That's why I'm here. Can I come in, please?"
Peter considers, then sweeps the door and his arm wide, granting entry. Stiles steps inside, cooler in hand.
"I brought something for you." Stiles waves the cooler in his hand. "We just have to cook the steaks."
_ _ _ _ _ _
Peter makes quick work of the meat, searing it on both sides then placing it in the oven to finish. Stiles plates up the sides and Peter moves to uncork a bottle of wine. They collect their dinner and sit down at the table.
"How long have you been able to find the Nemeton?" Stiles starts off.
"I haven't, not until last night. I wasn't even looking for it specifically, I was looking for you."
"That makes more sense, but it's still surprising to me. I had thought the Nemeton would have stayed hidden during the ceremony. It's why I didn't create any other boundaries."
Peter tilts his head a bit, considering. "Perhaps your use of magic to lure in the stag disrupted things, either by locking the clearing into our world, or even by catching me up in it, too?"
"That's...possible." Stiles frowns. "The first one, I mean. My magic shouldn't have snared you in any way though, it was very specifically only for animals. And the Nemeton doesn't just show itself to anyone, usually there is a reason. No offense."
"None taken. Maybe it did have a reason, like you said. Perhaps it wanted me to see, or sensed I could help you somehow? Surely you know well enough by now that I would support your Claim, Stiles. I am obviously unhappy that I was not the first to know, but I know enough about Claimings that I can't be too angry with you."
"But you are, and you have every right to be. I couldn't discuss it with anyone, it had to be my choice alone. I had to prepare alone, I had to approach alone."
Peter nods once, sharply. "Which wouldn't be necessary if you were in a pack already. If you were—"
"I know, we've had this conversation before. If I were in a pack it would be different, yes, but doing it alone is possible. We don't have time to wait another year and give anyone an opportunity to make their own Claim or move into the territory. I'm sorry it's taken this long, but I'm finally free to do this for all of us."
"I've usually taken the stance that it's better to ask forgiveness than seek permission," Peter allows. "And since I approve of you and your actions I can't be too upset, can I?"
"You could. I was hoping you wouldn't be."
Peter sighs. "A little. I'll get over it."
"For whatever it's worth, I would have told you if I could have. I wanted to."
Peter knows Stiles would have, that's the thing. He can't be angry at all and that's what's making him upset. Stiles was doing everything right: following the old way, making the Claim, submitting to the land. And it was *Stiles* doing it, which meant even more to Peter.
"Our world requires a great deal of secrecy, sometimes even from each other." Peter finally returns.
"I don't know if I'd go that far, dramawolf. It's really just the Claim and what was around it directly that required my silence. Now that it's begun, there isn't anything I won't tell you, from now on. I think there's been too much secrecy and silence between us." Stiles shakes his head a bit in disagreement as he answers. "Now that you know, we can discuss it all. I want to discuss it all."
"What if I want to do more than discuss it?"
"What do you mean?"
Peter puts his fork down. "Must I always spell it out for you, sweetheart? You said you would probably need help, so this is me offering it. Before I even knew you were coming back, I would have helped you with whatever you asked. So, here. My welcome and help, freely given."
Stiles was struck by Peter's choice of words, and stared in response. So many times over the years he'd read the same thing, "freely given". The sacrifice had to be freely given. His magic, freely given. The permission, freely given. He wonders if the welcome of a wolf, freely given, will have an effect as well.
"Thank you. I accept, although to be honest it doesn't sound like there will be much to help with. Over the next year I'll have duties each moon and a few rituals to perform, but I wouldn't have started if I didn't feel like I could do it all by myself. I'll be glad to have you with me during it, though. During, and after." Stiles softly accepts.
Peter keeps his tone light. "After too? You must be feeling especially forward tonight."
"We've talked about the future that we want. Maybe I've just realized more about what I want personally. I know we'd already be working on a pack bond if the Claim wasn't in progress, but...If we do this, Peter, there's a chance we'll be bound together. Until we die, and perhaps even after, we'll have ties to the Land and to each other. Ties that can't be broken." Stiles warns, offering a way out.
"I am aware. When my great-grandfather took on the ties to the Land, he was bound to our Emissary, too. Our ties came through him later when we shed our blood on the land, and were affirmed completely when we oathed as adults. When they both passed, the magic faded. My grandmother sought out someone to renew the bindings, but it isn't simple magic. She kept looking, but she couldn't find anyone both powerful enough and free of ties that would move to Hale territory. Talia chose Deaton when she became Alpha, but for some reason no-one went forward with a Claim. Then the Nemeton was felled and the fire happened, leaving only me to remember what those ties were like. Talia's children were all too young to remember what they'd lost. I still do, however, and I know the potential risks." Peter paused. "Please note that I said 'risks', Stiles. I don't consider a bond with you a cost or burden."
Stiles nods even as he blushes a bit. "I just wanted to make sure you knew of the possibility."
"Well, let's see what the Lands have to say about it." Peter finally answers.
Stiles smiles and nods, "And me, and you."
"And me, and you." Peter echoes.