Fiddles of Gold

Stage 3: Bargaining

On August 26th 2013, Stiles Stilinski walked out his front door and didn't return.


It started the night that Scott found out. He held out that goddamned wrench, and Stiles felt his stomach drop as the world began spinning out of control. It was all downhill from there, until Stiles found himself watching Scott's retreating back, harsh words ringing in his ears as the skies crashed above him and heavy rain soaked into his skin.

He was painfully aware that his chest was heaving erratically, and the sound of the rain was drowned out by the echo of Scott's voice in his mind. He fought for control, clenching his hand tightly around the cool handle of the wrench as he struggled to slow his breathing. It was no use, though, and in moments there was stabbing pain in Stiles' chest as his head swam, and he knew he was slipping.

"No!" he grunted, desperately. With one last burst of energy, he focussed every fibre of his being on forcefully pushing the voice out of his mind.

Surprisingly, it worked. Stiles' limbs shook with relief the world returned to full definition and his mind fell blessedly blank, his breathing settling down to regular rhythm. He knew that it was only a matter of time before his delicate shield would collapse and he would have to face what had happened, but for now, it was enough.

Glancing at the animal clinic, Stiles was abruptly struck with an urgent need to leave. The building was suddenly the last place he wanted to be, so he lifted his leaden feet and made his way into his Jeep with jerky movements, automatically twisting the key in the dash. The engine stuttered to life, and he moved on autopilot to flick on the lights and press down on the pedal, finally finding himself on the road.

Later, Stiles would wonder for how long he drove. He had no idea. He drove mindlessly and aimlessly, losing himself in the motions as he turned down one familiar street after another. At one stage, he found himself on the highway leading out of town, the wide open road beckoning him onward. But he pushed the temptation aside and turned back. He couldn't leave town, he couldn't do that to his dad. He also couldn't face his father, though, so instead he just drove, feeling the comfortable vibrations of his well-worn seat as rain hammered down on the roof and windscreen wipers squeaked against the glass.

He was so caught up in the familiar sensations that he almost didn't notice it at first, the soft voice whispering in his ear. But then it spoke his name, his real name, clear as a bell, and with a start he slammed on the brakes, heart pounding in his chest.

The Jeep screeched, skidding several yards on the wet road before finally coming to a stop. Stiles twisted in his seat, wide eyes flickering over the passenger seat, the back seats, the windows – all were innocently empty.

Clenching his jaw, he gathered his courage and pushed open his door, jumping down onto the street. He was immediately hit by a deluge of icy rain and within seconds was soaked through once more. Shivering slightly, he pulled out his flashlight from the foot well and shined it into the darkness. The raindrops reflected the light, and his vision ended after only a few short feet.

"Who's there?" he yelled, struggling to be heard over the rain.

The universe held its breath, and after a long moment he heard a reply. "Don't be afraid," the soft voice spoke, directly into Stiles' ear.

With a surprised yelp, Stiles spun on his heel, desperately flashing his beam of light into the darkness, but there was nothing to find. "Stop it!" he shouted, frustrated. "I've had a really crappy day, and I'm not playing your game, so show yourself!"

This time, he could hear a faint whistle of air in the trees before the voice again rang in his ear. "It's not a game," it spoke, quiet as ever. "I cannot show myself, as I have no form that your mind can comprehend."

Fear was giving way to confusion and, if he was honest with himself, a faint thread of curiosity, and Stiles felt his heart start to slow. The voice was weirdly comforting, and so far it hadn't tried to overturn his jeep or knock him unconscious, so it didn't seem to be on the same level of vindictive as his recent encounters with the supernatural. "Okay," he replied, still a half-shout. "But you can speak. What do you want?"

"I need your help," the voice replied, and suddenly the empty road and the rain vanished. Stiles was standing on a green field in the middle of the day, the sun shining against a beautiful blue sky. He blinked furiously and shielded his eyes, tearing up at the sudden change in light. He opened his mouth to demand to know what the hell was going on, but before he could, the voice continued.

"This was my home," the voice said, and Stiles' breath caught as a wave of grief, a thousand wailing voices, broke over him. The sorrow was incomprehensible and he choked, mind swimming and legs threatening to give way. It wasn't his grief, he realised, it must belong to the voice, and through the distress he felt a thread of pity for it. Whatever had happened to it, it was horrific.

The sensation lifted, and he somehow sensed the voice's gratitude in response to his pity.

"What happened?" Stiles whispered.

His surroundings changed, and he was frozen as he found himself a bystander in scene after scene of destruction. War, he realised, and he watched as these beautiful creatures of light turned on each other, as millennia of life was extinguished again and again, and before he realised it his vision was blurred and tears flowed down his cheeks, his chest aching with sympathy. He watched as one figure stood amongst a field of destruction, and as others wept in sorrow. He watched as brothers turned on each other and tortured each other, and his throat burned with grief. The scenes continued, and finally he watched as the ground cracked and the beings fell. Their wings were on fire, and the pain was nothing compared to the sensation of loss as they watched their home fall out of their reach, as they plummeted toward a foreign world, and their bond to each other fractured and broke as they finally hit the ground.

Stiles blinked, and suddenly he was back in his own skin, standing next to his Jeep in the heavy rain. He shivered, and was hit with a sensation of loneliness so deep it rattled his bones. He was breathing rapidly, his chest a confused mess of grief and horror, his own and someone else's, and he took a moment to try to compose himself before the voice spoke again.

"That is my story," the voice continued, and Stiles' heart ached. "I cannot go back, and I cannot survive here on my own. This world is foreign, and I do not belong here."

"What can I do?" Stiles whispered.

Again, he could almost feel the being's gratefulness wash over him as it heard his question. "You can say yes."

Stiles was confused, and he felt his eyebrows draw together in a frown. "Say yes to what?"

"Let me share your form," the voice implored. "I cannot exist here in my true form, and you can help me. Please, help me."

Stiles inhaled sharply, and his sympathy was immediately interspersed with dread. He had been used before, a puppet of destruction, and he was shaking his head desperately even before the voice was finished. "I can't, I can't," he spoke in a strangled voice. "I'm sorry, but I can't do that again. I wish I could help, but not like that. Never like that."

A wave of sympathy and comfort crashed over him, and Stiles felt tears sting his eyes. Somehow, he knew that the being understood. He felt a sharp stab of guilt, but couldn't bring himself to retract his statement.

"I understand," the voice said, and the universe sighed and suddenly it was gone. Stiles hadn't even realised that he could feel the being's presence until it vanished, and a fresh stab of loneliness cut into him. He shivered, suddenly freezing to his core, and took a few steadying breaths before forcing his limbs to climb back into his Jeep.

Mind spinning, his engine grumbled to life, and Stiles turned the Jeep toward home.


Stiles had known the next few days were going to be hell, and he thought he had prepared himself. He was wrong.

He known loneliness before, but not like this. If he was honest with himself, he had never had friends to lose before, except for Scott, and no matter how bad things were he always had Scott by his side to rely on. Now though, he sat alone and watched as his friend walked by, occasionally catching his eye before turning away guiltily and hurrying past. He had a feeling that Scott hadn't even told the others what had happened – everyone had drifted apart so much this year that it wasn't even necessary. Lydia never seemed to be at school, and Malia was lost in her own world; Stiles couldn't even remember the last time she had slept over. His connection to both Kira and Liam had been through Scott; it seemed as though without him, they had no reason to talk to each other.

So he sat next to strangers in class and he opened his mouth to voice his ideas, only to find that there was no one left to listen. And when the final bell rang at school, he found his way to his Jeep, went home, and closed the door behind him to spend his evenings alone in an empty house.

Three days of this, and he wanted to scream. He needed to speak, to have someone listen to him, and the worst part of it all was the growing sensation of dread in his stomach, his instincts that were poking and prodding at him, warning him that something awful was about to happen. He was left restless, pacing, relentlessly researching the Dread Doctors, but everything was ominously quiet and the internet was devastatingly bare of any useful information.

It was on day four that disaster struck. He wasn't even supposed to be there, but Stiles had left his phone in the library and hadn't noticed for hours - after all, who was left for him to call? - so he found himself leaving his house late at night, climbing into his faithful Jeep, and travelling back to the school. Scott's bike was in the parking lot, and Stiles' felt a surge of dread when he spotted it. That wasn't right; Scott had no reason to be here this late.

Stiles' heart rate ticked up, and he tried to quiet his harsh breaths as he slowly picked his path toward the library. There was scaffolding on the outside, he noticed, that he could use to sneak in through the windows, but he immediately dismissed the idea as Donovan's agonised face flashed across his memory. Giving up on subtlety, he headed for the main entrance, flinching as the outer doors to the building scraped loudly against the floor as they opened. Biting his lip, Stiles closed the doors with a soft thud, and crept toward the library doors. There were windows embedded into the solid wood and he sidled up to them, holding his breath as he peered inside.

It was dim inside the library, but the picture before him was horrifyingly clear. Liam's face was twisted, distorted more with anger than the wolf as he leapt toward Scott. Scott was clearly holding back, unwilling to hurt Liam, and Stiles nearly called out to his friend before silencing himself. What could he even do? He couldn't stop Liam; going in there would just make him another person for Scott to have to defend, and it would probably end up causing Scott to be hurt.

Maybe he could reason with Liam? Stiles considered the idea before discarding it with an internal shake of his head. Liam idolised Scott, and was attacking him with blows clearly meant to cause more than just temporary harm. He was well beyond reason. He could try to find a weapon, but that would probably lead to more injury than if he went in without one.

Wolfsbane would probably do the trick, and for a moment Stiles had a wild vision of pumping it through the vents before kicking himself and reigning in his imagination. He didn't even know where to find any, other than Deaton, who was still out of town and who kept his herbs expertly hidden, and by the time he tracked it down Scott would be dead. Besides, a vague memory of a Wikipedia article on ducted air conditioning from three years ago did not make him skilled, and he didn't have a clue how he would get wolfsbane into the room to begin with.

The fight continued, and it was clear the Liam was gaining the upper hand. Standing outside the doors, Stiles felt himself start to panic. His heart was pounding, but his mind was coming up empty. "Come on, come on," he muttered to himself, wheels spinning pointlessly. He was running out of time, he was going to have to do something.

"Fine," he said to himself, preparing to open the doors and run inside, plans be damned. He was going to have to improvise.

He reached for his library card, but it wasn't there. Of course it wasn't, he realised, eyes wide. He had left it behind at the hospital.

"Fuck!" he shouted, not caring if Liam and Scott heard him. He couldn't get into the goddamn room; there wasn't a single thing that he could do, and he was going to have to watch his good friend murder his best friend as he stood there helplessly.

Chest heaving, Stiles felt tears prick his eyes as his fists clenched tight in desperation. That was when he heard it.

The voice was soft, as it had been days ago, and when it spoke his name Stiles felt a warmth of kindness and sympathy wash over him. The pieces fell into place, and Stiles swallowed against a lump in his throat. Every instinct was telling him to say no, but Scott's life was on the line, and there had never been anything he wouldn't do for his friend.

"Okay," Stiles whispered harshly. "Okay, I'll help you, but on one condition. You save my friends, all of them." He was surprised at how steady his voice was. For once, it did not betray his inner turmoil. "You get rid of the Dread Doctors, and Theo, and you promise me that my dad, Scott, Melissa, Lydia, Malia, Kira, Liam – they all get to live in safety from now on."

The voice murmured an agreement, and Stiles had a moment of thankfulness that maybe things were finally going his way.

Then the hallway was lit with a brilliant light, and Stiles couldn't move as it burned his skin, his flesh and all the way into his very soul.

It was the last thing he knew before he was gone.