Chapter Text
one
Noah makes his way slowly through the forest, branches and dead brush crackling under his feet. His knees ache, and it will probably take all night for him to hike back to the house, but it's worth the exhaustion to see the smile on Claudia’s face every time she looks back to make sure he’s following.
“Keep up, old man,” she says, eyes twinkling.
“I am two years older than you are,” he says, as he always does, and Claudia rolls her eyes, as she always does. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were dragging me out here to sacrifice me to some errant god.”
Claudia laughs like the joke is far more hilarious than he meant it to be.
“So dramatic,” she teases, taking his hand, her fingers warm and fitting perfectly between his own.
He looks up at the cliffs at their side, taking stock of his surroundings, follows Claudia around a sharp left turn, and then the temple comes into view.
She laughs as he stops in his tracks, slack-jawed. He’s lived in Beacon his entire life; never has he so much as heard rumor of an ancient temple only several hours walk into their own woods.
Now he understands why she laughed so hard.
She walks up the stairs and around one of the support columns, pressing her fingertips to the branches of the rowan tree carved into the stone.
“My family built this shrine hundreds of years ago,” she says, looking at Noah. Her finger never stops moving, sliding up and down the grooves as if she has their exact shape and placement memorized. “It wasn’t anything special. There were many across the kingdom then.”
She walks around the column again, following the pattern. Noah stares, transfixed. “Over the years, people stopped believing in the old gods. Their names faded from memory and their temples disappeared. All but one.”
She looks up at the crumbling edifice with a wistful smile. Noah drinks in every detail of her face, from the way the corners of her lips turn upwards, the slight glow of exertion at her cheekbones, to the shadows of her eyelashes against her cheeks.
Claudia’s gaze meets his. She tilts her head to the side. “What?”
“This is amazing,” he says, shaking his head in wonder. What he means is, You’re amazing.
Her cheeks burn red as if she hears the words he doesn’t say. She takes his hand. “Come on.”
Claudia leads him up the stone steps and through the open doorway. She lets go as they walk inside, allowing Noah to explore.
The interior walls appear the same as they do from outside, square, brown stones spaced in jagged patterns, covered in hundreds of years worth of dirt, dust, and moss. A rolling stream cascades from one end of the space to the other, as if the temple was built using its exact length as a guide. The grass is midsummer-green beneath his feet, and surprisingly so—they’re several weeks into autumn.
Occupying the middle space is a tree stump, wider than he is tall, standing almost at the height of his waist. The tree that came before must have been a sight to behold.
“Altar?” Noah asks.
“In a way. It wasn’t meant to be.” She trails her fingers along the edge of the outermost rings and tells him about the nemeton, how once, the sacred tree towered over every other, ancient before the temple was built. How the grove was razed to pave the way for new beliefs.
“Their priests were dead before the year was out.” She shoots him a devious look full of satisfaction at the well-deserved vengeance.
“Look up,” she says, and he does, finding another surprise. The walls curve slightly inward, coming to an abrupt end against the open sky. The uppermost stones are inlaid with stone-carved garlands of ivy, broken up at four points by the carefully rendered figure of a wolf with its head thrown back. Noah swears he hears the sound of a howl echo in his ears.
Claudia follows his gaze with a smile. “Legend has it that the old gods could take the form of some creature half-man, half-wolf.”
“Do you believe that?”
She looks down at his face. “Anything is possible for the gods.”
She bites her lip, twisting her fingers against her stomach. It’s the most uneasy Noah has ever seen her in eighteen years of growing up at her side and the following two years they courted.
Noah’s gut churns in response. His brow furrows. “What is it?”
She blurts the question out, voice tinged with desperation. “You believe me, don’t you?”
He pauses to sit down on the edge of the rowan stump. “I’ve never believed in much—old gods or new. But just because I don’t believe in them doesn’t mean there isn’t some power out there in the universe.”
“That is a very polite way of saying no,” she says, frowning.
He sighs, tugs her into his lap, and leans his head on her shoulder. He speaks with his lips at her ear. “I believe that you believe. That your family believes, and I would venture one day our child will as well.”
She smiles at that, cheeks flushing as she looks at Noah. All of that earlier apprehension melts away as Claudia tugs his head down to kiss his laughing mouth. “We have fourteen days yet before we take our marriage vows, and you are already planning children?”
“Yes, I am. In fact, I believe we should get started right now.”
She laughs when he lifts her up into his arms, carries her across the temple, and out the doors.
They marry two weeks later at the center of the town square with the entirety of Beacon in attendance. He stumbles through his vows, unable to stop smiling long enough to speak the words properly.
Claudia speaks her vow softly, a single sentence in a language Noah could never hope to speak, but Claudia made sure he would understand all the same.
“I give myself freely,” she says, voice soft but clear, just before she places a wreath of wolfsbane and ivy on his head, matching the tiny vines and flowers woven into her hair.
It’s a simple enough addition to the otherwise traditional ceremony, and Noah ignores the looks of confusion from his guests, too busy staring at his beautiful wife to pay them any mind. Their neighbors already have enough to gossip about, what with Noah taking on the Stilinski name.
Let them talk. He’s not so easily humiliated that something as simple as taking his wife’s name makes him feel less of a man.
His wife. Noah grins as they walk hand-in-hand up the path to their house.
Their house!
Claudia swings their joined hands. “What are you smiling so widely about?”
“You’re my wife,” he says, unable to hide his pure, unbridled joy.
“And you’re my husband. I’m so glad I married such an observant man,” she drawls.
Noah lifts her off of her feet, throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her across the threshold. Her screech of hysterical laughter rings through the house.
Claudia disappears once every several weeks to the temple. Sometimes, she carries an offering basket on her arm full of the best fruits from their tiny garden. Other days, she leaves empty handed and returns with an armful of ivy and flowers that she weaves into a wreath to bring back the next visit. He watches her hands, fingers deftly twisting and braiding pieces into place.
Once, she makes the mistake of dropping half of the pile in Noah’s lap. Patiently, she twists his fingers into the correct placements, manipulating his hands until he’s able to copy the movements on his own. It’s a shaky effort, and he frowns at the dismal results.
“It’s perfect,” Claudia says.
Noah rolls his eyes. “It’s terrible.”
“Well, I think it’s a fine first attempt.” She places her own perfectly woven crown on his head and sweeps his into her basket. “And if it’s good enough for me, then it’s good enough for the gods.”
He tugs her into his lap, pressing his lips against the impish smile on her mouth.
She brings her offering to the temple three days later, returning after dusk. Noah is already in bed, lying on top of the covers, eyes closed.
“You’re home late,” he murmurs.
Claudia curls up against his chest. “The gods have smiled on us.” She pokes at his cheek until he grunts, opening one eye to glare. There’s a small, blue wolfsbane flower cradled in her palm.
“I stopped by the midwife on my way home,” she whispers. Noah’s eyes pop open.
Claudia’s smile blooms across her face. “I’m with child. It’s a boy.”
There’s a moment of stunned silence before Noah tugs her close with a burst of joyful laughter. He doesn’t say that there’s no way to know the child’s sex, that she isn’t even far enough along for her pregnancy to show. He’s learned not to question his wife when she makes an announcement in that tone of voice—as sure as he is that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.
In the months that follow, her belly grows. She whispers to their child with her hand low on her stomach, grinning and tugging Noah close enough to feel the baby kick. Her trips to the temple grow further and further apart, until her ninth month, when the hike becomes impossible. She can barely walk a mile to the marketplace.
Noah glances out the window, at the cloudy sky growing darker by the moment. “I’ll go.”
Claudia bites her lip, twisting the edges of the wreath in her lap between her fingers. “I should—”
“Claudia, the skies look like they may open any moment now, and you are due to give birth within the week. I think the gods will forgive you for sending a messenger.”
He expects her to laugh. Instead, she cups his face in her hands, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to his lips.
She speaks with her mouth so close, her breath warms his cheeks. “I love you. You’re right.”
He kisses her again. Then, he smirks, plucking the wreath from her hands. “As usual.”
She throws a pillow at him and hits the pile of firewood standing beside the door instead. He laughs even as he crouches down to straighten out the mess.
The skies do indeed open up just as he reaches the temple, and he rushes inside, seeking shelter, before he remembers the building has no ceiling. He sighs, skirting the edges of the walls to remain dry and only stepping out when he’s directly in front of the nemeton.
She didn’t give him any instructions, so he places the wreath on the stump of the rowan tree. He steps back, gaze drawn to the sky, the color of slate and covered by bloated clouds. He shuts his eyes.
Noah isn’t entirely sure what he’s expecting, but he’s surprisingly disappointed when he opens his eyes and finds nothing changed. Feeling more foolish by the moment, Noah sighs, pats the top of the stump, and heads out into the pouring rain. It isn’t until he’s halfway home and soaked to the bone that he realizes it wasn’t raining at all inside the temple.
Claudia gives birth several days later. Noah paces outside of the house for hours, watching the sky brighten in the afternoon sun, turn gold at dusk, then black with night. He winces at every scream from his wife’s mouth. He looks up at the stars and—for the first time in his entire life—he prays.
Please, let Claudia survive this.
A moment later—silence. He holds his breath.
The sound of a different cry reaches his ears, this one higher-pitched and squalling, but no less important.
Noah opens his eyes, heart thundering in his ears when the midwife finally opens the door and beckons him inside.
Claudia is lying in bed with the baby wrapped up in a blanket at her breast, her face red, hair wet with sweat. He doesn’t think she’s ever looked more beautiful.
“It’s a boy,” she says with a tired smile.
Noah brushes the back of his hand across the baby’s face. “Of course he is.” He sits on the bed at her side, thumb stroking her fingers as he lays his hand over hers on the baby’s back. “Did you decide on a name?”
The midwife snorts from where she’s gathering up the dirtied sheets from beside the bed. She mutters something under her breath he can’t make out, but he doubts it was complimentary.
Claudia shuts her eyes, ignoring the woman completely. “Mieczysław. After your father.”
Noah’s thumb stills, all thoughts of the midwife forgotten. His father has been dead since long before they were married; his mother followed soon after.
Claudia opens her eyes and looks up. “You took my name when we married. The least I can do is give our child yours.”
He presses his face into the hair at her temple so she doesn’t see the tears of gratitude in his eyes. She slips her hand from beneath his and squeezes his fingers.
To Noah’s surprise, for all that his birth was a long and arduous affair, Mieczysław is a healthy child.
To Claudia’s surprise, his first word is, “Da.”
She pouts, playfully bopping their son on the nose with a finger. “I labored for eighteen hours before your birth, and your first word belongs to your father.”
Noah lifts the squirming, giggling child into his arms, grinning against the crown of his head. Claudia glares, but she can’t quite keep the answering smile off of her face.
She tells their son about the temple and the old gods, speaks to him in that guttural, ancient language often enough that he begins repeating the words back without prompting. Noah starts to pick up on some of the words, too—beloved, blessed. Loved. She whispers the same in Noah’s ear at night, and he smiles as he falls asleep.
Mieczysław is still a word beyond his son’s speaking abilities; instead, he asks that everyone call him Stiles. Claudia takes to calling him Mischief, a nickname well suited to their son. Stiles is constantly getting into trouble, wandering into the neighbor’s gardens and ruining the flower beds, or running outside to play in the grass and returning covered in mud from head to toe with a garden snake he insists is his new best friend. He’s talkative and energetic and far too bright for his own good.
For all that he’s outgoing, Stiles doesn’t have many friends, just one of the boys from the village. Even then, he prefers to be home reading, talking his father’s ear off about something new he learned, or listening to his mother tell stories about the old gods of their family as she tucks him into bed at night.
“Never make a deal with the gods, my little Mischief,” she whispers to Stiles. “Not unless you intend to pay their price.”
Stiles nods, eyes wide, hanging on her every word.
She brings Stiles to the temple when he’s old enough to understand her stories rather than just repeat them. They go alone, the two of them in their own little world, an empty basket tucked in the cradle of Claudia’s elbow.
Noah doesn’t begrudge them this single act of solitude. Besides, if he ever decides to pray again, it’s not like the gods can’t hear him from behind the walls of his own house.
(Looking back, he wonders if he brought this upon himself, sending such a thought out into the universe. He never suspected he would be given the agonizing opportunity to test that theory.)
Claudia wakes one morning, coughing so hard, she can barely breathe. Her body aches, head burning with fever. She holds down no food or water, but the town healer states the only cure is rest and time.
Eventually, the fever breaks. She’s able to eat small portions of bland food, then larger portions. The body aches slowly fade.
The cough stays.
Noah begs her to stay in bed and rest, to listen to the healer’s instructions, but Claudia is as stubborn and wilful as her son when it comes to listening to directions she has no desire to follow. She continues her outings with Stiles to the temple. Over time, her cough grows worse. The last time Claudia accompanies Stiles, he carries her over the threshold upon their return, bursting into the house screaming for Noah because his mother can barely breathe.
The healer returns that night; he does not bring good news.
“Is Mom dying?” Stiles asks as the healer departs, sympathy written into the lines of the grimace on his face.
Noah’s chest twists. He should lie. He wants to lie, but his son is far too observant for Noah to get away with it.
He tugs Stiles into his chest, hugging him as tightly as possible. Stiles clings desperately to his back.
Somehow, Noah manages to choke out an answer:
“Yes.”