Chapter Text
Mieczyslaw was excited for the upcoming festivities. In less than twelve hours, he’d reach official adulthood. The celebration preparation had taken the better part of the last month and he was more than ready to see the fruits of the castle staff’s labor. He was also looking forward to finally spending time with his father again; he hadn’t seen much the man, King John having been too busy, sequestered away with his advisors to prepare for the arrival of royals from neighboring kingdoms. It had been a rough year, treaties coming to an end, trade agreements needing renegotiating, and Mieczyslaw knew better than to demand his father’s attention in the face of all of that. Every time he tried, he was rebuffed by Chancellor Argent anyhow, so he’d finally given up, his resentment for the Argent house growing. Mieczyslaw knew that they’d been of great help with his father’s grief after the Queen passed; and, to an extent, his own grief – although that was more thanks to the Chancellor’s granddaughter than to anyone else in the family (though the girl’s aunt had tried to ingratiate herself to him, he’d always been inexplicably wary of the woman). Of late, he’d grown increasingly cautious of the entire Argent household, a strange itch forming under his skin whenever he ran across them. It had started almost exactly one month before his birthday, he’d begun to distrust them and he wasn’t sure why it had started so suddenly. They’d been a part of his life for nearly seven years at that point, arriving just before his mother had taken ill. They had never done so much as step out of line in front of him, and yet that feeling of unease has only kept growing. Eventually he gave in, deciding to go see the kingdom’s most trusted advisor. He didn’t want whatever this was to keep him from enjoying tomorrow’s celebration.
“Emissary Deaton, do you have a moment?” It was always strange being in the man’s workshop – it gave off an air of darkness and mystery, though it was nearly as bright as the gardens just outside of its windows. Mieczyslaw had long ago stopped trying to puzzle it out, assuming that the room took on the qualities of its master.
“Hmmm?” Mieczyslaw saw the swish of dark green robes as the man he’d been seeking stepped out of a shadowy corner, the dark skin of his shaved head catching the flickers of candlelight and giving the impression that he was framed by a corona. “Your Royal Highness, how may I be of service today?” The words were accompanied by a slight tilt of Deaton’s head, a small smile edging his lips but not quite reaching his eyes. Mieczyslaw let out a slightly annoyed huff at the formal introduction – he’d known the man his whole life, repeatedly asked him to call him something far less formal, but to the best of his recollection, in all his years the emissary had never once complied.
“Deaton, I’ve been having a bit of trouble lately. I’m not – I don’t really know how to explain it, but I keep having this feeling that something is off.”
“How so?” Despite the response, Mieczyslaw got the impression that Deaton was only really half listening, not overly concerned with the prince’s problems.
“It’s this feeling I’ve had for the last few weeks, it seems as if something is…well, wrong. I can’t really explain it. It’s almost as if…you know how it is when you think you’ve seen something from the corner of your eye, but when you turn to look it’s gone? It’s like that, only I don’t think I’ve been missing something so much as I’ve got this itch under my skin. It only happens when I’m near the Argents –” the name had barely left his lips before Deaton’s head was snapping up, dark brown eyes wide, mouth forming an ‘o’ of shock. Before Mieczyslaw could utter another word, the man was shaking his head, hand sweeping before his throat to warn the prince against speaking as he pushed past him towards the large stone door that led back into the hall. Mieczyslaw spun to watch as Deaton slid the heavy bolts across it, locking them in, before placing his right palm flat against the stone and murmuring words too quietly for the prince to hear. He could only gape as Deaton shuffled quickly around the room, doing the same to the windows and the much smaller wooden door that led directly into the courtyard gardens. Only when he had finished that did he turn back and face the prince.
“Stiles, you aren’t missing anything. You’re starting to remember. I didn’t think it was possible. All of my research, I never – I thought it was a lost cause. Have you told anyone?” Deaton took several long steps forward, arms grasping Mieczyslaw, who was frozen in shock, the name Deaton calling him reverberating through his skull, intensifying the sensation of wrongness. He came back to the moment when Deaton used his grip to shake him a little. “Have you?”
“What? No, no of course not. I couldn’t explain it – I still can’t. I came to you first.” The hands on his arms loosened and dropped away as Deaton stepped back, a relieved breath escaping him.
“Good. Good, there’s time then.”
“Time for what? Deaton I don’t understand, what is happening? What am I remembering?”
“Stiles – the Argents are not your friends. You have to get out of here. You have to gather your things and go now, before they realize you’re remembering.”
“I’m not going anywhere – what are you talking about? I’m sure if we just tell my father whatever your suspicions are –”
“NO! Gods no, Stiles you can’t. You’ll end up like the Hales, or worse, like your mother.” Deaton’s voice had taken on a frantic edge as he moved around the room gathering various items and small books into a rucksack he’d pulled from a cabinet. His words made Mieczyslaw’s heart pound in his chest, the repetition of that name sending echoes through his veins again. He recognized it, but he didn’t understand why, it wasn’t something he’d ever heard, at least, not something he’d ever remembered hearing. It was distracting enough that it took his brain a few moments to process what Deaton had said.
“Wait – just, wait a minute. Who are the Hales? And what do you mean like my mother?” His voice cracked on the last word, the grief still raw after six years. He watched as Deaton glanced around the room before nodding to himself in satisfaction, turning and holding the rucksack out for Mieczyslaw to take. His hand moved of its own accord, grabbing the bag and swinging it onto his shoulder, even as he shook his head in disbelief, expecting answers to his questions.
“Stiles,” and suddenly there was a hand against his chest, pressing into the muscle above his heart, Deaton’s voice deeper in timbre, a sensation of command flowing through it. Mieczyslaw would swear later there was the sound of shattering glass before memories began to flood in. He felt his chest heave with panic, eyes dripping tears as his knees began to buckle before Deaton caught him, helping him remain upright until the strength returned to his legs.
“My mother – oh god, they killed her. They killed her…” his voice was raw, the painful memories trying to push back to the forefront of his mind after being locked away for so long. “I’ll kill them all.” There was steel in his tone, even as his eyes continued to flood, and the jars on the shelves started rattling suddenly. Mieczyslaw barely paid them any notice, his jaw clenching as he started to turn back towards the door, but Deaton laid a hand on his shoulder, glancing at the jars as the rattling momentarily increased shaking his head.
“No Stiles, you can’t. Not yet. You need to find some allies, find the Hales. I think –” Deaton cut off suddenly, head snapping sideways to a suddenly flickering candle, watching as it danced in an unfelt breeze before the flame suddenly shot up nearly a foot in the air, now burning solid silver. It was enough to startle Mieczyslaw, and the jars stilled once again. Deaton turned his head back to Mieczyslaw, eyes once again wide before shuffling over to a bookcase, moving things around until there was a click and it swung wide, revealing a staircase that the prince had never realized was there.
“They’re coming. Stiles you have to go. I’ll buy you whatever time I can.”
“But what am I supposed to do?” Deaton was manhandling him towards the first steps, gaze darting back and forth between the prince and the main door.
“Enough, there’s no time. Get to the Kingdom of Yukimura, someone there will help you. Don’t stop until you’ve crossed our borders.”
“But –” he was cut off by a sudden pounding against the main door, a guard calling out for Deaton to ‘open up immediately, by order of the king’. It made his heart clench, knowing he was supposed to leave his father behind, somehow bespelled. Deaton turned toward him again, face set in determination.
“Stiles, run.”
And so he did.