CROW WOMANby Rabid1st
Teen Wolf Ficlet
Rating: Everybody
Spoilers: None that I know of...except it is set in S3, after episode 8.
Summary: In a comment to my last post,
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elsecarlass, who let me borrow the icon to the right, suggested to me that Lydia might be a Banshee. And that led me to the lore of The Morrigan. And this little ficlet. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: You know I don't own anything connected with Teen Wolf. So, this is just for my amusement.
Lydia's auburn hair spilled across her shoulder as she bent over Deaton's examination table to study the book he'd cracked open on it. A puff of dust rose from the binding. Lydia rubbed her nose and blinked. The edges of the brittle, yellowed pages flaked. She could barely make out the words on them. But a stark, pen and ink illustration showed an ugly old woman surrounded by crows. Her head was tilted back and her mouth gaped. A corpse lay twisted at her feet, a boy run through with a spear.
“I see why they call her the crone woman.”
“Crow,” Deaton corrected, gently. “Though she often appeared as a hag or crone.”
“And I never do,” Lydia said, straightening to glare daggers at Stiles. “I should slap you for suggesting I resemble her. This woman needs a spa day. Or month. Deep moisture won't do it. Definitely botox. And a wardrobe consultant.”
“Will you focus,” Stiles said. “We think this is what you are. A Banshee.”
“And I don't see it. Not even when I'm ninety-five,” Lydia said, dismissively as she daintily dusted off her hands. “I would never wear a duvet toga.”
“Her appearance is deceptive,” Deaton said. “She can take on any form, shape-shift, though generally she is a human female. She's been a crow. A cow.”
“Oh, a cow. Much better.”
“It is her powers that are important.”
“Right. My superpower is screaming? Someone dies a horrible death and I scream,” Lydia said, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “Like some kind of horror film cliché? Do I, also, have inappropriately timed sex and throw aside perfectly useful weapons as I run away from the killer?”
“You're a harbringer. You harbring...stuff.” Stiles cast a pleading glance at Deaton. “Tell her.”
“Mostly death,” Deaton said. “The Banshee foretells death. But, also, vital changes in circumstances. The weather. Power. Kings.”
“Alphas,” Stiles added. “That's why Deucalion wants you on his side.”
“Because then he can't lose?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“That's ridiculous,” Lydia said, slamming the book closed. “So I scream and he knows someone is going to die. Big deal. What good does that do him? I forecast a change in the weather? Doesn't he have Channel 6 news for that?”
“I thought you would be behind this,” Stiles said. “If ever there was anyone who would be happy to be worshiped as a goddess, I thought it would be you.”
“Goddess? What? Nobody mentioned worship.”
“The Banshee is one of the forms of The Morrigan,” Deaton said. “She is the Celtic Goddess of Battle and Strife.”
“They got the strife part right,” Stiles muttered.
He reached for the book, sliding it across the table. He paged through the leather bound tome until he found another drawing. This one, Lydia saw, depicted a much more attractive woman, leading a brawny soldier along by one arm. Stiles spun the book back to face her as he stabbed a finger down on the picture.
“She decides the fate of kings. She confounds men's minds. Leads them to victory. Or, you know, their doom. Sound familiar? Remember how Jackson could not lose on the lacrosse field.”
“Don't talk to me about Jackson. Maybe he just practiced a lot.”
"What about when Derek's pack surrounded Scott's house? You were on our side and we won against overwhelming odds."
"I'm going with...Derek's incompetent. And I wasn't so much on your side, more like completely out of the loop." Lydia sucked in her bottom lip and tilted her head, as she considered a passage on the page. “It says I have followers. Lawless, savage young men who do my bidding?”
“Yeah,” Stiles said, “They're called Freshman.”
“It is said she commands a band of youthful warriors who live on the outskirts of civilized society.”
“Like I said, Freshmen.”
“Bring me a Gucci tote,” Lydia intoned, pretending to command a throng. “And all three Jonas brothers.”
“Oh, my God,” Stiles groaned. “And I don't mean that in any worshipful sense.”
“We will not be worshiping you,” Deaton informed her.
“Because that would so go to your head,” Stiles said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“It would,” Deaton agreed. “And no doubt lead to more trouble than any of us can imagine. But we do need to know who's side you are on in the coming fight. You mustn't be swayed by Aiden. We want to make sure we have secured your---favor.”
“I don't see how you are going to do that without appropriate sacrifices,” Lydia said.
“Sacrifices?” Stiles squeaked. "Ego check on aisle twelve."
“I'm kidding,” Lydia said, rolling her eyes. “Can't a Goddess make a joke? Besides, I can buy my own designer bags. And Aiden is so last Wednesday.”
“Really? It's over? You and Aiden?”
“Like the Mayan Apocalypse...and gel tips. He left me for dead. That's frowned upon in Goddess circles.”
“You're a circle of one.”
Ignoring Stiles, she waved a hand carelessly in the air, as if drying her nails. “Fine. You have my blessing. Get out there on the battlefield and maim the other guys. Go Team Scott.”
“Is that it? Is that enough?” Stiles glanced from Lydia to Deaton.
Deaton shrugged. “She's my first Battle Goddess. I don't have any operating instructions.”
All three of them jumped as thunder cracked outside. A transformer blew with a shower of purple sparks. The resulting electrical surge turned the overhead fluorescents into strobe lights. Shadows danced on the walls like frenzied pagans. A second bolt of lightning silhouetted a crow pecking at the window. The bird screeched.
Lydia had gone pale, but she shook off her fright. “See? I always back the winner,” she said, trying for aplomb. Turning on her heel, she started for the door, only to halt and look over her shoulder at Deaton. “Hmmm. I guess I really do have some power.”
Deaton and Stiles exchanged sidelong glances. Neither of them looked particularly reassured. The electrical disturbances followed Lydia out the door, seeming to flow after her. As she exited the building, the lights came back on at full strength.
“Holy Nevermore! What have we unleashed on Beacon Hills, now?”
The End
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