art-of-swords:
Fantasy Knives & Daggers - Lunar Twin Blades
- Twin blades for twin towers - 9/11
Two twin blade daggers with wood plaque imitation leather wrapped handle. Stainless steel guard covered with a brass piece engraved dragon design.
Source & Copyright: Wing Lam Enterprises
“The hell is this?” Stiles says, when Deaton opens the box and folds back layers of rich blue velvet.
“These,” replies Deaton, “are Lunar Twin Blades. The only pair on the American continent.”
“Uh,” Stiles gapes, because - those things? Are beautiful. And he isn’t used to calling anything that doesn’t begin with ‘Lydia’ and end with ‘Martin’ beautiful, but, damn. Damn. There’s something almost seductive about those strangely claw-shaped double-blades, gleaming softly but menacingly against a sea of darkling blue, with delicately embossed grips that must be smooth as heaven to slide one’s hands into.
“They’re yours.”
Stiles’s eyes snap up to Deaton’s. “Huh?”
Deaton sighs, like Stiles is being particularly slow. “These are the only weapons capable of killing all supernatural creatures, from werewolves to vampires to skin-walkers to dark elves.”
“Elves?” Stiles asks, because he’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that these blades are apparently his. They can’t be, right? He’s just - well, him - but blades that beautiful belong to some prince of the night, or something. Or maybe some badass ninja with, like, flawless physical coordination. He’ll probably end up stabbing himself in the face the moment he tries using them.
“Focus,” says Deaton, voice stern. “The blades draw upon the power of the moon. These patterns,” and Deaton lets his fingers hover above the swirling patterns on the twin grips, “are runes.”
“Um. That’s - that’s awesome. And why are they mine, exactly?”
“Because they just are. You can feel it, can’t you? The pull?”
“If you mean do I think they’re weirdly sexy despite being, er, inanimate objects, then yeah. But that doesn’t mean - ”
“There are some things only you can do, Stiles. I’ve been keeping these for someone that could use them. That person is you.”
“I don’t even know how to use them.”
“You know,” says Deaton, mysteriously. “Carry them with you, and when the time comes, you’ll know how to use them.”
“Gee, thanks, Yoda. But will the pack be okay with my owning something that could, theoretically, kill them all? Derek won’t be happy about it. Peter might just murder me preemptively.”
“Wolfsbane could kill them,” Deaton points out, “and you have a store of that.”
Stiles swallows. “You… you know about that.”
“Yes,” says Deaton, evenly. “I know about that.”
“Do you really have the third eye? Are you, like, spying on me? ‘Cause I’ve gotta say, doc, I’ve got enough stalkers in my life.”
Deaton’s mouth quirks. “Oh, you have no idea.”
“What does that mean?”
“Keep the blades,” says Deaton, as if Stiles hadn’t said anything. “You’ll never have to polish them. Or clean them.”
“Clean… clean them of what?”
“Why, blood, of course.” Deaton smiles. “The blood of your enemies.”
Stiles stares at him.
Deaton stares right back, calm as a fucking statue of the fucking Buddha.
“Man, I was wrong about you,” Stiles mutters, even as his hands twitch toward the box, despite themselves. “You aren’t Yoda; you’re a Sith Lord. You totally want me to go Dark Side.”
“Protecting your loved ones - protecting your pack - is not evil, Stiles.”
“Yeah, yeah. Gimme those.”
Deaton slides the box over.
Stiles takes it, letting his fingers dip inward to brush one of those glittering, gorgeous blades, and feels a shiver run through him, something electric and sharp and sweet.
“Yes,” Deaton breathes.
Stiles snatches his fingers back, and snaps the box shut. “Holy shit.” His heart is hammering. “That’s - what was that?”
“That was the union,” Deaton says, “of the weapon and the wielder. All magical weapons choose their masters in that way.”
“Holy shit,” Stiles repeats. “I’m gonna have a constant boner while I use those, aren’t I? How’ll I even be able to fight? I’ll be sneaking away to jerk off every five minutes.”
“Teenagers aren’t renowned for their stamina,” Deaton agrees, mildly, and Stiles sticks out his tongue.
“Boo.”
Deaton just seems amused. “You might want to warn Derek, before you start using those.”
“Why?” Stiles frowns. “What does Derek have to do with - ”
“Trust me,” says Deaton. “He does.”
“Dude,” Scott says when Stiles shows them to him. “You’re Ventress in the Clone Wars.”
Seattle 
