A/N: I received this prompt from Adihsar on AO3 a little while ago, and almost immediately I started working on it, but real life got in the way and superheroes temporarily took over my brain. But it's finally finished and I hope you all like it!
Warnings for: fantasy AU, some language, illness, some violence, total ridiculousness.
Title comes from a poem by Gabriela Mistral.
The day has long begun when Stiles finally wakes up. Squinting against the sunlight streaming in through the small glass window across from his bed, he sits up, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. Everything is peaceful and quiet, save for the sound of birds chirping outside. Stiles is allowed a minute of drowsy calm before he suddenly realizes exactly how high the sun is in the sky - it's long past time for Stiles to get up and do his chores. He's struck with a sudden panic, instinctively rushing out of bed, but as he strips out of his nightclothes, he thinks, maybe Dad did them for me and let me sleep in?
But that seems unlikely, Stiles realizes. It's not his birthday, nor any other special occasion, and he isn't sick. Therefore, Stiles's father is going to be very angry with him if he doesn't get a move on. Stiles throws his clothes on at top speed and hobbles out of his room with one shoe halfway on and the other tucked awkwardly under his arm. Stiles scans their cottage, looking for his dad and bracing himself for a lecture, but none comes. Instead, his eyes land on his father, who is lying face down on the floor next to their small table.
Stiles goes completely still for a moment, fingers frozen in the process of lacing up his boot. After a long silence, Stiles says weakly, "Dad?"
His father doesn't move. After a few more seconds of silence, Stiles snaps into action, darting across the room and immediately falling to his knees next to his father. Stiles shakes his father once before rolling him over with a small grunt of effort. Finally, his father stirs weakly, but it's only to murmur something unintelligible before losing consciousness again. "Dad?" Stiles says, beginning to panic. He shakes his father again - first gently, then more violently. "Dad, wake up. What's wrong?"
John Stilinski doesn't respond, and Stiles checks to see if he's still breathing by gently placing a hand in front of his father's mouth. A faint flutter of an exhale tickles his palm. Stiles checks for a fever next - his father's forehead is burning hot. So this is some sudden illness, then. Whatever it is, Stiles is sufficiently terrified. However, his father, like the good village magistrate that he is, has done his best to prepare Stiles for this sort of situation. Stiles stands up, wringing his shaking hands as he tries to remain calm and think about what to do. He's not strong enough to carry his father anywhere, but he knows someone who is.
Stiles hastily jams his other boot on and laces them both up haphazardly, then kisses his father on the forehead before hurrying out of the house. He feels bad about leaving his father on the floor, but John needs more help than Stiles can give him alone. Stiles's feet find a path near the house so familiar that the grass has been worn away over the years, and then he starts running.
Stiles runs faster than he's ever run in his entire life, but he doesn't feel the effects until he reaches the McCall house mere minutes later. He skids to a halt ten feet from the wooden fence separating the McCall land from the land around it and doubles over, clutching a stitch in his side. Barely ten seconds later, he hears someone call, "Stiles?"
It's Scott, of course. He's on the other side of the fence, and with him is Allison, who lives in the village but still manages to find an excuse to walk to Scott's house every day. Stiles can tell he's interrupting, but he honestly can't bring himself to care right now. "It's Dad," he says, straightening up once he's able to breathe again. "He's ill. Very ill."
Everything becomes a bit of a blur once Stiles utters those words. Scott directs Allison into the house to fetch Melissa while he runs to get the horse saddled. Stiles relays his father's condition to Allison before she goes into the McCall house, and then he heads back down the path to his own home. Leaving his father alone for very long in his present state doesn't seem like a very wise idea, after all. John is still on the floor, totally still but alive. Stiles knows his father well enough to assume he won't go without a damn good fight.
Minutes later, Stiles hears the thud of hooves on earth and darts out of the house to meet the others. Melissa is on the horse, her expression calm but serious. There's a satchel slung over her shoulder, no doubt full to the brim of herbs and elixirs and tools. Melissa is the best medicine woman in the area - in the world, really, although Stiles is a bit biased. As a matter of fact, one of Stiles's earliest memories is of being held still in his mother's arms as Melissa leans over them and ladles a bitter remedy into his mouth with a gentle, soothing smile. Melissa possesses a skill for healing that he's never seen in anyone else, except maybe in Scott when he takes care of wounded animals or baby birds who have fallen from nests.
Melissa clambers down from the horse with Stiles's assistance, pauses only to tie the horse to a nearby post, and then marches toward the house with Stiles at her side. "Has there been any change?" she asks, all business.
"None," Stiles says. He isn't sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. All he knows is that his father hasn't woken up (at least, not fully) and hasn't died since being found.
Melissa nods and goes into the house. When she spots John on the floor, she says immediately, "We need to move him to a bed."
"I know," Stiles says ruefully, running a nervous hand through his hair. "I couldn't do it alone -,"
"Scott will be here any moment," Melissa says, gently grabbing Stiles's arm to still his nervous movements. "He and the others are just gathering up some more things for me, things I might need."
Almost as soon as Melissa finishes speaking, her son is at the door, clutching a few jars to his chest. A split second later, Isaac - who is, by all accounts, Melissa's unofficial second son - is at Scott's shoulder, the supernatural speed at which he'd been running leaving his sandy curls windblown and messy. "I couldn't find the angelica," Isaac says, rather sheepishly.
"That's because I've got it in my bag," Melissa reassures him, and Isaac looks relieved. He and Scott enter the cottage and deposit their various jars and pouches onto the table before simultaneously bending down to lift John. Scott picks him up by the shoulders and Isaac by the legs - one of them could probably pick him up on their own, but for stability, it's for the best that they seem to have decided to do it together. They carry him to his bedroom and lay him down on the bed gently. Stiles follows, wringing his hands nervously all the while. A moment later, Melissa shoos him from the room, telling him, "There's nothing you can do but wait, Stiles."
Wait he does - all day, as a matter of fact. Isaac and Scott are in and out of the cottage frequently, making trips to the well and such, but Melissa never once leaves John's bedroom. This whole affair is uncomfortably similar to that terrible time in Stiles's childhood, when he'd watched Melissa nurse his mother back from the brink of death time and time again until Claudia had simply succumbed, unable to fight any longer. Stiles can't go through the same thing with his father. He just can't.
"Stiles?" someone says nearby, and Stiles jolts out of his thoughts. The room suddenly seems very dark; while Stiles has been sitting at the table, waiting and worrying, the sun has nearly set. "Is it okay if I light the lamps?" Scott asks gently. He seems to understand Stiles's preoccupied state - of course he does. He has the same caring, healing nature as his mother, after all.
"Yes," Stiles says, standing up abruptly. The urge to move around is suddenly unbearable; he honestly can't believe he's managed to sit still for so long anyway. "Yes, of course."
Scott lights the lamps, moving about the house with the comfort of someone who considers the place a second home. Meanwhile, Stiles goes to the kitchen and starts throwing together a stew. It's only polite to feed the people that are working hard to save his father's life, after all. His father would insist upon that, if he was currently able to do so.
Stiles lights a blaze in the fireplace and hangs the stew over it to cook. A moment later, Isaac comes out of John's bedroom. His expression is grim. "Is everything alright?" Stiles asks, trying hard to keep his voice from quavering.
Isaac hesitates, glancing over at Scott briefly before replying, "Well . . . nothing's really changed. Yet."
"That means things could still change for the worse," Stiles surmises, sitting down heavily at the table again. If things haven't even improved slightly by now, does that mean his father is well and truly doomed?
"Or for the better," Scott offers hopefully, but Isaac doesn't look so sure.
Melissa leaves the bedroom once Stiles starts serving bowls of soup. She sits down in the seat normally taken by Stiles's father. Her expression, Stiles notes, is even graver than Isaac's. His hands begin to shake so badly he can hardly hold the spoon steady. "Is he - ?" Stiles begins, but Melissa shakes her head.
"He's the same as he was before," she says. She sounds exhausted. "You're sure this disease came on this morning, Stiles?"
"Absolutely," Stiles says, thinking back to the night before. His father had been absolutely fine then. Maybe a little tired, but that's normal. Isn't it?
Melissa gratefully accepts a bowl of stew, and then continues, "I've seen illnesses like this before, but I can't place the true cause. It's just - a horrible sickness."
"Is he going to live?" Stiles asks quietly. That's all that matters at this point - whether or not his father can survive this sort of thing.
Melissa looks at him with eyes that remind Stiles so strongly of her son's, only with a bit more hard-earned wisdom lurking in them. "I can't say," she answers. "Not with any certainty."
"Surely there must be something else we can do," Scott says, his brow furrowed and his expression determined. "Something we haven't tried."
"We've tried everything I know to try," Melissa says. "Everything except . . ." She doesn't finish her sentence, her expression suddenly thoughtful.
"Except?" Stiles prompts, watching her like a hawk.
Melissa hesitates, and then says, "I've heard of someone being brought out of a long, feverish sleep like this before by something a bit . . . unusual. A very wise man - Deaton - told me of it once."
Stiles has never actually met Alan Deaton, but he's heard a few things about him from Melissa and Scott. He's apparently a well-renowned medicine man, gifted with the use of rare plants. "Would it be possible for us to get it?" Stiles asks, hardly caring what 'it' actually is. "Could we go see Deaton?"
"I doubt we could find him quickly," Scott says, his expression sympathetic. "He travels far and wide - doesn't he, Mom?"
Melissa nods. "You might have to retrieve it yourself."
"Where?" Stiles asks, voice full of trepidation.
Melissa hesitates for a long moment, and then says heavily, "The Forest."
Stiles understands exactly which forest she means. Not just any old forest - the Forest. Full of horrors too gruesome to be spoken of (except on dark, stormy nights when ghost stories are prime entertainment), the Forest is a land no one in their right mind dares to enter. Stiles has heard grown men speak of it in hushed tones, as if at any moment a howl might be heard in the distance, the call of a werewolf out for the blood of innocents. (Of course, Stiles now knows that most werewolves don't go around mauling random people, but still - it's a scary thought.)
"The Forest?" Stiles repeats. He hopes he doesn't sound as frightened as he actually is. "How can I retrieve this so-called cure if I'm dead?"
"You won't," Scott suddenly assures him. "I'll go get it. It's safer in there for someone like me, anyways." He's right, Stiles knows - a werewolf, and a true alpha at that, is almost assuredly going to fare better in a dark, haunted forest than a skinny human boy. But Stiles could never expect Scott to do something like that, not knowing that he might not return.
"You can't," Melissa says. "It must be a human. And I can't go, because I have to tend to John."
"Why does it have to be a human?" Isaac asks, after hastily swallowing a mouthful of soup. "He'd be dead within the hour in there."
"Thank you for the support, Isaac," Stiles mutters under his breath. Isaac rolls his eyes.
"Because the plant he'll be going after is wolfsbane," Melissa announces with an exasperated air, as if she's been trying to tell them this but hasn't been able to get a word in edgewise. "You'd start hallucinating if you were near it for too long, and you'd be dead if you accidentally ingested some of it."
"Oh," Isaac says mildly.
"Wolfsbane?" Stiles says. "Isn't that poisonous to humans, too?"
"Not if you know what to do with it," Melissa says. "And I do believe I know enough. If it will work in the first place."
"But that's just it, we don't know if it will work," Scott says, glancing back and forth between Melissa and Stiles like he can't believe this matter is seriously being considered. "Stiles could die in the Forest for a cure that might not even be a cure!"
"His father could still die either way," Isaac points out logically. "Is it really worth it?"
"It's up to Stiles," Melissa says, shaking her head. "I'll do my best to save John no matter what."
"I have to try," Stiles blurts, before anyone gets a chance to say anything else. His heart is thrumming in his chest as visions of every horrible monster he's heard tell of living in the Forest flash before his eyes. But at the same time, he can't stop thinking about his father, lying in the other room, halfway between life and death. If Stiles can somehow get into and out of the Forest without dying, with the wolfsbane in tow, it could mean the difference between life and death for his father. The idea of a bloodthirsty werewolf almost pales in comparison to the idea of losing his father. (Almost.)
"Stiles, you can't," Scott says, looking horrified. Stiles supposes he would feel the same way if Scott had decided to embark on some potentially (okay, probably) suicidal quest. "You've heard the same stories that I have about what lives in there. Alpha werewolves and poisonous snakes long enough to swallow you whole - and just a few weeks ago I heard someone in the village talking about a witch! A witch with fiery red hair and lips painted with blood. Everyone who hears her cry ends up dead."
"Well, apparently not everyone," Stiles points out, rather feebly. Sarcasm, his oldest defense, is failing him now. "Or else how would we know she was there?"
Scott gives him a pointed look, and then continues, "Stiles, please, think about this. You'll die in there."
"My father could die," Stiles says, voice shaking slightly. "Scott, you know you'd do the same for your mother. Or Allison. Or Isaac. Or me! I have to try, Scott." Stiles finds himself suddenly blinking back tears, all the tumultuous emotions in him finally becoming too much. He looks away, swallows hard, and then repeats more firmly, "I have to try."
A moment later, Scott reaches across the table and gives Stiles's hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "Alright," he says softly. He seems displeased by Stiles's determination, but he's not going to argue any more. Not now, at least. Stiles can't help but be thankful for that. The decision to risk his life is hard enough to make without feeling like he's hurting his best friend.
After supper, Scott helps Stiles prepare for his impromptu quest. There's really no way to know what he'll need in the Forest, because deciphering fairy tale from truth is almost impossible. Food and water is a must, of course; Stiles has heard too many tales about poisonous fruits and rivers filled with blood instead of water (that seems a bit far-fetched, even for the Forest, but Stiles isn't inclined to take the chance.) While Stiles gathers as much bread, cheese, and jerky as he can fit into a satchel, Scott uses a whetstone to sharpen Stiles's father's hunting knife. If the knife is used at all, it won't be for hunting, Stiles knows - but he doesn't mention that to Scott, lest he worry even more than he already is.
The next morning seems to come around in the blink of an eye, much like any other dreaded event. Stiles wakes from a restless sleep to the sound of someone rattling plates in the kitchen. When he gets out of bed, he finds the culprit is Isaac, trying to scavenge some of the stew from the night before.
"Oh," Isaac says. "You're awake."
"Thanks to you, yes," Stiles replies, going to fetch a bowl of his own. He might as well get something hearty in him before he goes to what could potentially be his death. "Is my father any better?"
"No," Scott answers for Isaac as he appears in the doorway to John's bedroom. Ever industrious, he's already dressed for the day. "He's the same as before."
Of course, it had been too much to hope that John might have made a sudden recovery, or even some progress at all. Stiles sighs, resigning himself to the fact that he's going to actually have to go through with this. Visions of the terrors of the Forest have been plaguing Stiles all night, and now, even the reminder that he's trying to save his father can't stop him from thinking about it. He wonders morbidly what a witch would do to him if she got her hands on him - cut out his tongue and put it in a brew? Sacrifice him in some bloody ritual?
"Stiles," Scott says gently, snapping Stiles out of his thoughts. "You're going to break the bowl if you keep hitting it like that."
Stiles realizes he's been clinking his spoon against the bowl for several seconds now, getting progressively more violent with each nervous tap. "Sorry," he says quietly, before going back to his stew.
Once breakfast is through, there can be no more dawdling. After all, John could take a turn for the worse at any moment. Melissa leaves John's bedside briefly to give Stiles some last minute instructions before he leaves. She pushes an empty jar into his hands. "Keep the wolfsbane in that," she tells him. "And if something happens - you're hurt, or you take ill - you come home immediately, do you understand? We can figure something else out for your father if need be."
"Understood," Stiles says, nodding, and Melissa smiles weakly before kissing his cheek.
"Be safe," she tells him.
"I'll certainly try." He may die trying, but it's the best he can do.
Scott is next. He looks uncharacteristically grim; it makes him look much older than he really is. "Cheer up," Stiles tells him, with a forced smile. "Frowning doesn't do your crooked jaw any favors."
"Shut up," Scott says, before pulling Stiles in for a tight hug. "If you're not back by sundown, two days from now - I'm coming after you, wolfsbane be damned," he mutters.
Stiles nods once they've separated. "Let's hope I'm back, then."
He sets off after that, riding his father's horse through the village and down the desolate path that will lead him to the Forest. DANGER, warn a few painted wooden signs lining the road. KEEP AWAY FOR YOUR OWN GOOD.
"This is for someone else's good," Stiles says aloud, to no one in particular.
A mile out of town, he crests a hill and sees, in the distance, a great wall of trees, spanning nearly the entire horizon. The Forest, land of nightmares, looks almost . . . normal from this distance. Innocent, even. But Stiles knows better.
Apparently, so does his father's horse. The closer they get to the Forest, the slower her pace - and then, twenty yards from the tree line, she stops altogether. "Come on," Stiles says, urging her forward, but she whinnies and stomps her feet in a clear refusal. "Oh, alright," Stiles mutters, realizing how futile it is to keep urging her. He clambers down from the horse's back awkwardly, and then pats her flank once. "Go home," he says, and just like that, she turns and trots off. Clearly, she has better sense than he does.
As Stiles watches her go, he realizes that this is his last chance to turn back. Soon it may be too late. Nevertheless, he swallows his fear and turns toward the Forest. A moment later, he marches onward and into the woods.
He follows the path, one hand constantly at his waist, where his knife is sheathed. Even this close to the edge of the Forest, the path is in a state of horrible disuse; it's clear only the occasional traveler has come through here for years. There are other paths through the Forest, of course, but if Stiles had to guess, he'd wager they're all in a similar state. Nevertheless, he follows the path.
Stiles keeps an eye out for the telltale sign of purple flowers, but there are no blooms to speak of, purple or otherwise. Everything is either dark green or brown, and that's about it. Stiles supposes it would be simply too easy for him to encounter a flowerbed containing a convenient sprig or two of wolfsbane. He walks on, nervously glancing about.
He walks for at least a couple of hours before he stops for a break. He sits down gingerly on a half-rotten log beside the path and pulls his flask out of his satchel before taking a sip of water. Once he's sated his thirst, Stiles takes a small bit of cheese out of the bag and munches on it. In the distance, there's a faint rustling sound, but Stiles chalks it up to leaves blowing in the breeze - he's heard the same noise periodically throughout his trek, and it doesn't seem to be anything worth getting alarmed over. He takes another bite of cheese and fiddles with a small hole on the knee of his trousers, refusing to be concerned about it.
But this time, the rustling sound doesn't stop after a few seconds. It continues. And it's getting closer.
Stiles swallows his last mouthful of cheese and rises slowly to his feet, his heart thumping in his chest. He glances about, but he doesn't see anyone or anything immediately - just an endless span of trees around him. But finally, he spots movement on the forest floor, about fifteen feet away.
"So the snakes are real," Stiles blurts dumbly, before tripping over the log as he stumbles backwards, away from the long, thick snake. No - snakes, he realizes, the stupid thing isn't alone. Stiles clumsily gets to his feet and takes off running. The snakes aren't moving fast enough to warrant such speed, but Stiles doesn't want to risk hanging around in case he's accidentally stumbled upon some kind of snake pit.
He finally stops running when he reaches a small clearing. Rather than burst into the center of the clearing, where he'd be an easy target for any predator, Stiles hangs back, looking around warily before walking forward. It seems deserted and snake-free, which is a good thing. It's also wolfsbane-free, which is a bad thing.
It's then that Stiles hears a very human-sounding shriek.
Stiles lets out a yelp of his own, jumping so violently he nearly falls over. The sound is eerie, but it's definitely a human scream - a woman's, if Stiles had to guess. Stiles glances around frantically, spinning about in the center of the clearing, and a moment later, he sees her, standing among the trees and staring directly at him.
Stiles knows immediately that she is the infamous witch; her long red hair is a dead giveaway, although she doesn't have lips painted with blood like Scott had suggested she might. She doesn't look nearly as terrifying as Stiles had imagined she would, he abruptly realizes. She's beautiful, actually. She's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
She's staring at him, her beautiful face twisted into what she seems to think is a frightening expression. She opens her mouth and lets out another scream. Stiles flinches, jarred from the daze her beauty had inspired in him. Still, he doesn't move. If he runs, is she going to chase him down and kill him? Surely she must be open to negotiation of some sort.
Just then, another sound echoes from beyond the witch - a far more horrifying screech. It feels Stiles with a sense of fear that is almost primal, and his body goes tense, prepared to attack or to flee. To his surprise, the witch seems equally surprised by the sound, and nearly as frightened. She gestures at him suddenly, her expression growing panicked. "What are you, stupid?" she blurts. "Run!"
Stiles runs.
His feet hardly seem to touch the ground, he's moving so fast. The only thing he's aware of is the blur of trees around him and the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. All he knows is he's got to get away from the source of that sound - he'd face a witch a thousand times over before finding the source of that terrible noise. To do so would surely spell his doom.
Unfortunately for Stiles, his undoing ends up being far more mundane. He doesn't see the ravine gaping ahead of him until it's far too late, and he falls into open space at nearly full speed. He barely has time to scream before he slams into the earth below, and everything goes abruptly and totally black.
He wakes briefly, but not completely; all he's aware of is that he's propped upright, and there's a warm, human presence against his back. The clean, vaguely floral scent of the palm pressed against his mouth and the vague sensation of breasts pressed against him does not serve to alarm him the way it probably should, and he slips willingly back into unconsciousness a second later.
He comes around for real an indeterminate amount of time later. The first thing he's aware of is pain. There's a throbbing pain in his head, an aching sort of pain in his left wrist, and a general feeling of being kicked about everywhere else. When he opens his eyes, he finds himself staring at a low-hanging ceiling made of what looks like dried mud. He scans the area, expecting to see cauldrons and smoke and the skeletons of previous occupants, but the whole area actually looks quite nice, for a hollow. There are fresh flowers everywhere, brightening up the place and helping to disguise some of the earthy smell. To Stiles's immense disappointment, none of the flowers look like wolfsbane.
The witch kneels with her back to him, tending a small fire. The smell of cooking meat fills the air, and Stiles glances down at himself quickly to make sure he hasn't had a foot or hand amputated recently. The witch might be beautiful, but that doesn't rule out her potential for cannibalism. Once he's made certain that he is, in fact, in one piece, he moves on to the next obvious problem, which is that he's half-naked. "Where are my pants?" he blurts, quite without thinking. Surely he hasn't been kidnapped by a witch just so she can have her way with him (although he really might not mind all that much.)
The witch starts slightly - not a very witchy reaction to one's captive waking up. She rises to her feet (which, Stiles notes, are bare and rather dainty) and turns to look at him, arching an eyebrow at him. "Drying," she says simply. "You landed in a mud puddle."
"So you - you washed them for me?" Stiles asks, perplexed. How long has he been unconscious? Quite a while, apparently, if she's had time to bring him here and wash his pants. "Why would you do that?"
"I wasn't going to let you get my bed dirty," she says, as if it should be obvious. "Besides, I had no way of knowing when you'd wake. I can't spend my whole day waiting around for some traveler who fell in a ditch."
"Oh," Stiles says. "Well, if you're going to kill me, I'd have preferred it if you did it while I was still unconscious, really. Although, I guess my opinion doesn't really matter."
The witch looks vaguely befuddled. "Kill you?" she says. "Why would I bring you to my home, clean you up, and then kill you?"
Stiles realizes the logic is a bit faulty, but this is a witch he's talking to - all wagers are off at this point. "To cook me in a stew?" Stiles offers weakly.
Now she looks disgusted. "Why would I eat you?"
"I might taste good," Stiles says, irrationally miffed by that.
"Do you want me to eat you?" she asks, even more disgusted. "Because I can assure you, that's not going to happen."
Stiles shakes his head, unsure whether to be grateful or not. "No. I'm very okay with not being eaten. Thank you."
The witch rolls her eyes but doesn't reply. Stiles attempts to sit up then, and winces when his head spins violently. Apparently slamming his head into the earth earlier had left some residual effects. To his surprise, the witch crosses the room in three strides and pushes on his shoulder, urging him back down. "Careful," she says. "You've got a bad wound on your head. You lost quite a bit of blood."
Stiles sinks back down onto the bed, oddly unafraid despite her close proximity. She's too short and thin to pose a threat to him physically, and she doesn't seem to want to kill him through some violent or magical means. So why is he here? "Are you sure you're not going to kill me?"
The witch purses her lips. "I saved your life in that ravine, and you think I'm going to turn around and murder you?"
"Saved my life?" Stiles repeats, confused. He's injured, true - his head hurts pretty badly, and his wrist is definitely sprained - but he's not in any danger of dying from those injuries. Without her, he would have woken up in the ravine, alone and terrified, but surely he would have eventually figured out a way to get out and be on his way.
The witch nods. "You were out in the open, unconscious." She's abruptly dead serious, her bright green eyes full of something that looks almost haunted. "She would have found you."
Stiles suddenly remembers that terrible noise from before, the one that had scared the witch just as it had scared him. "Is there another witch or something?" Stiles asks, nervous. "I thought you were the only one - but you -,"
"Witch?" she says, blinking. "I'm not a witch."
Stiles gawks at her for a second. "That's what - that's what everyone says you are," he argues lamely.
The witch - well, the girl who is not actually a witch - rolls her eyes. "Of course. Well, I'm not a witch, luckily for you," she says. "I'm a banshee."
"Well, that's even worse, isn't it?" Stiles blurts. "You're a - a herald of death!"
"Well, yes," she says, "but I'm not a herald of your death."
Stiles stares at her. "You're not?"
"No," she says. "I scream when death is near. But you didn't get a real scream. You won't die today."
Stiles supposes he should be relieved, but not dying today simply means he might die tomorrow. Rather than say that, he asks, "Well, why did you scream at me if I'm not going to die?"
"To scare you," she says, simply. "I hoped you would be smart enough to leave the Forest."
"Well, a ravine got in my way," Stiles says.
To his surprise, she smiles - although she quickly tries to hide it. A moment later, she turns and goes back to her fire, muttering a few quiet curses when she realizes the meat over the fire has burned on the bottom. Stiles tries to sit up again, and this time, he manages it without too much distress. He watches as she takes the meat off the fire and plates it, and then he asks, "So do you have a name?"
She looks up at him briefly, arching a brow. "Lydia," she says, finally.
"Lydia," he repeats. "That's pretty."
"So I've heard."
"I'm Stiles," he says. "I come from the village of Beacon Hills."
"And what on earth made you decide to leave the safety of your village?" she asks dryly as she moves to what looks like a makeshift table made of logs, where a plate of something green and leafy is already waiting.
"My father," Stiles says, sobering at the thought. "He's very ill. I'm looking for a plant that may save him."
"What plant do you search for?"
"Wolfsbane."
Lydia shakes her head. "You'll have trouble finding that unless you go into the heart of the Forest," she says. Her tone is gentle, like she's trying to avoid upsetting him. "And believe me - you don't want to go into the heart of the Forest."
"What's in the heart of the Forest?" Stiles asks.
"Her," Lydia says, the word hushed. "The Darach."
"What's that?" Stiles asks, confused.
Lydia motions for him to join her at the little table, and Stiles gingerly gets to his feet, walking slowly across the room and perching on the edge of the log. Lydia sits next to him out of necessity (there's only one log to sit on), but she's suddenly very close and Stiles is not quite as worried about this Darach person as he'd been only seconds before. Seemingly unaware of his distracted state, Lydia continues, "The Darach is a powerful druid - a witch, of sorts. She's the reason I'm trapped here."
Stiles gives her a confused look at that, and she elaborates, "The Darach's power holds us here - supernatural creatures like me. We can't leave." She doesn't sound particularly upset about that, but Stiles can see a hint of sadness in her eyes. He suddenly feels deeply protective of her, unable to believe that some horrible creature could imprison her here like this.
"So that's why there are so many terrible stories about the Forest," Stiles says. "You're all stuck here. I suppose it's lucky I didn't bring my werewolf friends with me."
Lydia raises her eyebrows. "You have werewolf friends?"
Stiles shrugs. "Of course," he says. "Don't you?"
She chuckles a bit at that, and Stiles feels as if he's won some small victory by making her laugh. She offers him some of the leafy green stuff, and he takes some, if only to be polite. "Well, at any rate," she continues, "you cannot go where the Darach lives. She already knows you're here, and that means you need to leave as soon as you've recovered."
"She knows I'm here?" Stiles repeats, eyes widening. "How?"
Lydia shrugs. "She has her ways, I'm sure. She wouldn't have come this far away from her home if she wasn't looking for you."
"Well, what does she want with me?" Stiles asks, taking a nervous bite of one of the leaves. He tends to eat when he's particularly distressed. "Is she going to cook me and eat me?"
"No," Lydia says. Stiles is almost relieved until she says, "She's going to bash your head in, strangle you, and then cut your throat. Perhaps not in that order."
"Why?"
"For a sacrifice," Lydia says simply. "It's not every day a virgin wanders into the Forest."
"What if I'm not a virgin?"
Lydia just raises her eyebrows at him.
Stiles sighs, and then says, "Alright, so I am. She's really going to sacrifice me? Surely she was a virgin once. She must know how terrible and boring it is."
Lydia rolls her eyes, although there is a hint of amusement in the gesture. "All of that is beside the point," she says, punctuating her sentence with a prim bite of her meat (some sort of bird, by the looks of it.) "You need to leave. Save yourself, Stiles, before it's too late."
"I'm here to save my father," Stiles says, looking away. "I can't turn back now." He's suddenly overcome with guilt and worry - how much time has he wasted, unconscious or talking to Lydia? His father could be gone by now, or at the very least closer to death than before. Stiles resolves that as soon as he's eaten, he'll leave. He needs the strength the food will provide if he wants to move quickly and efficiently in his present condition.
"You may die if you continue," Lydia warns.
"I don't want to live in a world without my dad," Stiles says, meeting her eyes again so that she'll see how serious he is about this. "I've already lost my mother. I won't lose my father, too."
Lydia bites her lip. She doesn't seem like a person who is uncertain very often, so the gesture jars Stiles slightly. "There must be another way."
"There isn't," Stiles says, already tired of arguing. He's already made up his mind, and no one - friend, foe, or banshee - will talk him out of it at this point. "I appreciate your concern, I really do, but why are you so worried about me? Surely humans come through here occasionally."
"They do," Lydia agrees, "but you're different. You're not supposed to die in here. I can feel it."
"Then perhaps I won't die," Stiles says.
Lydia doesn't answer him. She seems suddenly lost in thought, and after a moment, she absentmindedly offers him some of the meat. He takes a bit gratefully, watching her as he eats it, waiting for her to speak. Soon enough, she does. "I'll make you a deal," she says.
"I'm listening."
"I will take you to the Darach's land," Lydia says, "but only if you promise to leave if we find no wolfsbane."
Stiles supposes he will need her help to find what he's looking for - and he certainly won't mind her company. Still, he can't help but wonder why she is so intent on keeping him alive. "How are you so sure I'm meant to live?" he asks. "And why are you so determined to keep it that way?"
Lydia looks at him thoughtfully. He wonders what sort of banshee wisdom she is thinking of. "Plenty of travelers have come through these woods, and I know they're already marked for death - too far gone to be saved," she says. "But not you. I can't let you die like all the others." She holds his gaze for a long second, and Stiles is momentarily struck speechless by that.
Before he gets the chance to recover, she looks away and quickly changes the subject. "Do you want any water?"
That reminds him of his satchel, and Stiles jolts out of his daze enough to say, "I've got some. It's in my bag - where is my bag?"
"By the bed," Lydia says, gesturing. "It's a bit wet, but I don't think it's damaged. That reminds me - your pants should be dry by now." She rises gracefully to her feet and, without further ado, moves to a small entrance that Stiles hadn't noticed until now. She disappears, and he supposes it must be a tunnel that leads out of the hollow. She returns a moment later with his pants, and Stiles stands and gratefully puts them back on. He's not ordinarily self-conscious about his body, but sitting in his underwear next to a fully-clothed person, even someone as beautiful as Lydia (or perhaps especially since it's Lydia), is a little bit more awkward than he's comfortable with.
Their meal comes to an end shortly, and afterwards, Stiles locates his boots and puts them back on. He then takes up his pack, verifies that the food within is still edible, and slings it over his shoulder. "Shall we go?" he asks Lydia.
She raises her eyebrows at him. "You're certainly eager," she says. "Do you feel up for it?"
"I'm as ready as I can be," Stiles says, with a slight shrug.
Lydia nods. Her preparations are simple enough; she braids her long, red hair and ties it with a strip of fabric, then puts on a pair of simple, patterned slippers. Stiles doesn't have to wonder where they came from - judging by how worn out they are, she'd brought them into the Forest when she came here, however long ago that had been. After that, they set off.
It's a bit past midday now, meaning that the sun is out in full force. Thankfully, the ever-thickening trees offer shade. Lydia seems to know exactly where she's going, which is fortunate because Stiles is beyond lost this deep in the Forest.
They're crossing a small stream when Stiles finally plucks up the courage to inquire, "So why are you here? I mean - have you always been here?"
Lydia glances back at him briefly as she gingerly hops from rock to rock, trying to avoid getting wet. "I don't really remember," she says. "I just woke up one morning and found myself here. My . . . abilities make me sleepwalk sometimes. When I tried to leave, I could only stay away for a few days before I started to become weak and ill. I knew then that I had to stay here."
Lydia hops gracefully from a particularly large rock to the bank of the stream, and Stiles follows as best he can. "So you've been alone all this time?"
"Not alone, no," she says. "There are others who live here."
"Who?" Stiles asks, curiously, once he's at her side again.
"Some werewolves," Lydia says. "Most of them leave me be, especially since I'm immune to their bites. There are a few kitsunes - Kira and her mother. They roam. There's a werecoyote, too."
"A werecoyote?" Stiles repeats, perplexed. "I've not heard that tale."
"You wouldn't have," Lydia says. "She keeps to herself - or so I've heard."
"Interesting," Stiles says. Perhaps if the Forest wasn't so terrifying, it would be a fun place to explore. Lydia carefully skirts a large patch of mushrooms then, and Stiles does the same. "But the Darach is the worst of them all?"
"Yes," Lydia says. "Which is why we need to reach her land before nightfall. I don't want to give her the advantage of darkness."
"Fair enough," Stiles says, quickening his pace. Lydia speeds up, too. Stiles doesn't want to run into the Darach at all, especially not when it's dark, so hurrying is a must.
They continue on for another hour or two, and by now, Stiles's feet and legs are starting to ache, unused to all this hiking. If Lydia minds the pace or the terrain, she hasn't spoken up yet. When Stiles glances over at her, little wisps of hair have come undone from her braid, and the hair closest to her temples is damp with sweat. Stiles smiles a bit. She's even more beautiful now than before, all flushed and determined.
Lydia notices his attention, and says, "What?"
"Nothing," Stiles responds quickly, a blush heating his cheeks. "It's just - you look nice."
Lydia rolls her eyes at that. "I doubt that," she says. "My hair must be a mess by now."
Stiles shrugs. "Well, I think you look beautiful."
He hopes he's not imagining the vaguely pleased look on her face. Before either of them gets the opportunity to say anything else, a twig snaps rather loudly behind them. Lydia jumps, and Stiles's hand flies to where his knife is sheathed at his waist. They both turn to look, but there's nothing behind them.
"I'm sure that was nothing," Lydia says, although she doesn't sound sure.
"Could have been a deer," Stiles says hopefully. "Or maybe a large rabbit."
"Right," Lydia agrees slowly. Stiles abruptly realizes that her hand, small and soft, is resting on his forearm. She must have instinctively grabbed him when the noise had startled her. Rather than release his arm immediately, however, she merely slides her hand down and takes his hand before leading him onward.
They don't stop again until much later in the afternoon, when they finally pause for a bit to drink water and nibble on bread and cheese. The long walk has tired both of them, and they're both hot, sweaty, and hungry. It's also starting to get dimmer in the Forest, and Stiles can't tell if that's because of fading sunlight, the thickness of the tree branches above, or some supernatural darkness that is going to grow heavier and more sinister the closer they get to the Darach's lair.
"Do you know how far away we are?" Stiles asks, after taking a careful sip of water. If they come across another stream, he's going to have to refill his flask. He offers the water to Lydia then, and she takes a considerably larger drink - he doesn't begrudge it to her, however.
"I'm not sure," she admits. "But we should be closing in by now." She looks upwards, her expression worried. Through the tree branches above their heads, the sky is visible; it's no longer bright blue, but instead a muted gray. "If it storms, we'll be in for trouble. It storms a lot, this deep in the Forest - because of the Darach."
Stiles isn't sure what to make of that, but Lydia doesn't seem inclined to explain. Abruptly, she shifts to look behind them. "Do you - do you feel like someone's watching us?" she asks, her voice lower than normal.
"Uh, no," Stiles says, although now that she's mentioned it, it does sort of feel like somebody's watching him. He can't tell if it's because he genuinely feels that way or if it's just because the thought scares him, however.
"I do," she murmurs, biting her bottom lip. "I think we should go. Now."
They hurry on their way yet again, and now, it's definitely getting darker. Stiles is almost positive he's imagining it or blowing things out of proportion until he looks over at Lydia and sees the tight way she's holding her jaw. "Are you alright?" he asks, slightly breathless from their quickened pace.
"There's death in the air here," she responds, her gaze straight ahead. "I can feel it all around me."
Without thinking, Stiles reaches out and grabs her hand. He just has to bolster her resolve - it's on his accord that she's come this far into the Forest, after all. "We'll be out of here soon," he tells her. "All we need is a few sprigs of wolfsbane."
"Soon it will be too dark to find anything, let alone some flowers," she points out. Her expression is still grim, but some of the tension in her body has relaxed.
"Then we'll make a torch," Stiles says immediately, although he's fairly certain that discerning wolfsbane from any other flower will be nearly impossible by firelight. If it gets too dark, they might be stuck here overnight, and that sounds akin to asking for trouble.
Lydia doesn't respond, and Stiles is about to offer her what few words of comfort he can when she suddenly stops dead in her tracks. Stiles lurches to a halt as well. "What?" he asks, following her gaze. "What is it?"
A second later, he realizes what it is - a huge, hulking tree that is, judging by the fact that there's a front door, a home. "Who lives here?" he asks.
"Only the Darach would live this deep in the Forest," Lydia says, glancing over at him. "We've found her house."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Probably a bad thing, but she doesn't seem to be home right now, because she'd have already killed us - so we'd better hurry and look around for some wolfsbane before she comes back," Lydia says. "She may have some herbs and flowers growing around here, or perhaps she has some inside."
There's a brief pause before Stiles realizes that Lydia is looking at him expectantly. "I'm not going in her house," he says immediately.
"Do you want the damned wolfsbane or not?" she asks.
Stiles bites his lip and looks back at the tree, which appears harmless enough. Looks can be deceiving, however. "Alright," he says finally, mustering his courage. "But if you hear me screaming, you'll know I've accidentally woken her from a nap or something."
Lydia squeezes his hand. "You'll be fine," she says, before walking off to search the land nearby for plants. Stiles swallows hard and walks up to the front door of the Darach's house. He gently pushes on the door, and to his surprise, it swings open immediately. Apparently the Darach is too powerful to fear intruders.
Stiles shakes off that thought and steps into the house, which is lit only by lanterns. It seems a bit foolhardy to leave lanterns burning in a house that's actually a hollowed-out tree, but Stiles supposes the Darach has her reasons. He looks around, but the area seems relatively normal, given the circumstances. But there, past the Darach's small cot - several piles of what seems to be dried herbs or plants lie innocently on the floor. Stiles walks closer, scanning the area for purple flowers. He bends down and thoughtfully touches one pile, curious as to what type of plant it is. It's nearly powder, but -
"Mistletoe."
Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin, straightening up immediately and whirling around. A woman stands a few feet away, looking vaguely amused. "Mistletoe," she repeats. "You were looking at mistletoe."
Stiles is still too stunned to speak. He'd thought for a moment that the Darach had been about to ambush him, but this woman can't possibly be the Darach. She's far too beautiful, her smile too kind - Stiles can't imagine the sort of screech he'd heard earlier coming from her. Maybe there's been a mistake, and this is another banshee or some sort of well-meaning witch. "I - I'm sorry," Stiles finally manages, slowly moving away from her plants. "I shouldn't be in here."
"It's fine," she says. "Nothing wrong with a little bit of curiosity, I suppose. What brings a young boy like you into the Forest?"
"Just - looking for something," Stiles says. Her smile is growing sweeter by the minute, and rather than reassuring him, it's creating a growing sense of unease in him. "I'd better be on my way."
"Don't rush off," the woman says. "Maybe I can help. I'm Jennifer."
Stiles takes a step towards the door, and Jennifer mirrors the motion, stepping closer to him. Stiles swallows hard and is trying to come up with something to say when he hears, "Stiles?"
Lydia is standing in the doorway, staring at both of them with wide, horrified eyes. To her chest she clutches a makeshift bouquet of wolfsbane.
"Well, well, well," Jennifer says, her sweetness replaced by smugness. "The banshee has brought me a gift - a new sacrifice."
Lydia opens her mouth wide - not to speak, but to scream.
Stiles looks back at Jennifer, frantic, but instead of a beautiful, dark-haired woman, he sees a scarred and mangled wraith, shrouded in a dark cloak - the Darach. Stiles can't help but scream, stumbling backwards, as the Darach lunges at him, shrieking almost loud enough to compete with Lydia's incessant screaming. The Darach reaches for his throat, clearly trying to choke him into submission, but suddenly a small figure slams into her - Lydia. The Darach turns her attention to Lydia, who has finally stopped wailing, and starts grappling with her wildly.
Lydia is strong enough to put up a fight, but apparently the Darach is much stronger. Before Stiles can blink, Lydia has been flung across the room, slamming into the wall with a harsh thud. The Darach reaches into the pocket of her cloak and pulls out a dagger - a split second later it's flying through the air, a flash of silver in the dim light of the room, and then Lydia lets out a very human scream.
"No!" Stiles cries, desperate, as he flings himself at the Darach, who knocks him to the ground. They wrestle on the floor, rolling about on top of the plants and herbs. Stiles knows he needs to get away from her, get Lydia and run, but he isn't strong enough to incapacitate her or kill her. All he can do is try and distract her. She slams his head into the floor, stunning him for a second, but the adrenaline coursing through him helps him shake it off. Flailing, he reaches out and then - oh - he hurls a handful of mistletoe at the Darach's face.
The Darach flinches, screeching in pain and instinctively moving to cover her eyes - Stiles thinks he catches a glimpse of Jennifer for a moment, but then it's gone. Stiles scrambles away from the Darach, desperate to reach Lydia, but a loud bang makes him cry out in alarm and freeze. The bang turns out to be the door flying open, revealing a man with eyes glowing red.
A werewolf, Stiles realizes, before hurriedly closing the distance between himself and Lydia. She's lying on the floor, one hand wrapped around the blade of the knife buried in her upper thigh. She doesn't seem to have the strength to pull it out yet. Incredibly, she's still clutching a few battered sprigs of wolfsbane in her other hand. "Stiles," she says, pained and frantic. "We have to get out of here."
Outside, Stiles hears a howling sound - more werewolves. Judging by the way the alpha and the recovering Darach are currently facing off, the werewolves are here for Jennifer - Stiles hopes that will give them an opportunity to escape. Lydia grits her teeth then and gives the knife a tug, but stops immediately with a pained noise. "Help me," she says. "Help me get it out."
Stiles wants to protest, but there's no time - the werewolf and the Darach are fighting now, snarling and spitting at each other. Pausing only to wipe blood away from his eyes (the wound on his head had apparently reopened during the fight with Jennifer), Stiles wraps a hand over Lydia's and pulls the knife out as smoothly as he can, drowning out her scream of agony the only way he can think of - by kissing her. She tastes like salty tears, and he doesn't stop to think before he stands, helping her to her feet. She can't put weight on one leg without sobbing in pain, so he half-carries her past the brawling duo and out into the Forest.
There are more werewolves, Stiles realizes - the first thing he sees when he steps outside are several pairs of glowing yellow, blue, and red eyes. Stiles pauses for a minute, clutching Lydia close to him, and then says weakly, "Please help us."
It's all he can think to do - after all, there's no way Lydia will be able to make it very far through the Forest on one leg while she's steadily losing blood. She's already leaning heavily on him as it is. She needs care, and fast. Stiles knows he won't be able to carry her; now that he's standing up, he's already feeling the effects of the blow to his head, and there's hot, sticky blood dripping down from his forehead.
The werewolves don't react immediately - they all seem to be spoiling for their turn to fight the Darach, and none of them seem keen on helping two kids. "Please," Stiles says desperately, as Lydia abruptly sways next to him. "Please. She could bleed to death."
Finally, a young girl steps forward. Her eyes had been glowing gold seconds earlier, but now they're back to a normal shade of brown. She motions for Stiles to move away from the Darach's house, and says briskly, "Do you have anything to make a bandage with?"
Stiles eases Lydia to the ground, and grabs the hem of his shirt and starts tearing as neatly as he can. "I do now," he says, once he's ripped a decently sized portion of his shirt. The girl rolls her eyes but takes the fabric before kneeling next to Lydia. She pushes up the loose, gauzy fabric of Lydia's dress without care, then wraps the cloth around her thigh. Lydia doesn't seem to realize that she's nearly been exposed - she's fading in and out of consciousness. "Lydia?" Stiles says, his words coming out slurred as he falls to his knees beside her, desperate to keep her awake. "You're not supposed to die in here either. Hang on."
Lydia smiles faintly at those words, but the expression slips as she completely loses consciousness, going utterly limp in the grass. The she-wolf stares at Lydia for a second, seemingly assessing her condition, before she announces, "She'll need a healer. The wound is deep, and even if she survives the blood loss, it could get infected."
"But we're . . . miles away from a village," Stiles points out weakly. He reaches up and touches his forehead, knowing he must put pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding, but he flinches in pain and lowers his hand instead. He's suddenly grateful that he's already on the ground, because he doesn't think he has the strength to stand again. "Wait a minute, why are there two of you? I don't think there are supposed to be two of you . . ."
The she-wolf doesn't respond; instead, she stands and turns to look at the crowd of werewolves lurking around the door to the Darach's home. Inside, a bloody battle still seems to be going on. Stiles wonders vaguely if eventually they'll get tired of waiting for her to come outside and all push their way into the Darach's home, or if this is some sort of one-on-one match where they are all the spectators. "Derek," she calls, her voice sounding far-away and slightly distorted to Stiles's ears. "Come here . . ."
The last thing Stiles has the presence of mind to do is reach out and grab Lydia's hand. She's still limply clutching a spring or two of mangled wolfsbane. Weakly, Stiles fumbles for his satchel and stuffs the wolfsbane into the jar within - he barely has the energy to get the lid off and back on again, but he manages it. Halfheartedly, he tries to steady his breathing, somehow aware that he's on the verge of losing consciousness due to all the blood he's losing from his head, but sinking down to the soft grass and closing his eyes seems like a much better idea . . .
Some time later - Stiles isn't sure how long, but he is vaguely aware of the feeling of wind whipping around him - Stiles wakes up on the ground, but not the same ground as before. He feels dizzy and nauseous, but at least he's conscious. "Lydia," is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, only half-audible.
"Cora, the human's awake," a male voice says. "Finally."
A moment later, a female face appears in his vision - Cora, apparently. "Are you strong enough to stand?" she asks. Stiles nods weakly, although he isn't entirely sure if he is just yet. A second later, the she-wolf has unceremoniously dragged him to his feet.
Stiles looks around. They're no longer in the Forest, he realizes with a start; they're on the path which leads back to the village. Lydia is spreadeagled on the ground nearby, her face as pale as death. Stiles almost panics, thinking she's already dead, but she shifts weakly and he relaxes slightly. "How did we get here?" Stiles asks, reaching up to gingerly prod the wound on his head. The blood is still damp, but it's not flowing heavily anymore.
"We carried you," the man says - Derek, Stiles assumes. He doesn't look too pleased about any of this, but he doesn't seem to want to hurt either Stiles or Lydia, which rather disproves all the theories Stiles has heard about wild werewolves.
"You're lucky we took pity on you, but don't expect it again. You shouldn't come back to the Forest," Cora says then, rather sagely. "It's no place for a human."
"You know," Stiles mutters, "I gathered that."
"We need to go," Derek says to Cora. "We might be needed, if Deucalion hasn't managed to finish her off."
Stiles is about to pick Lydia up, turn around, and leave the Forest behind, but at those words he hesitates. "What's going on, anyway? Why did that wolf attack the Darach?"
"We're going to take her down, once and for all," Cora says, smirking slightly. "We're a little tired of being trapped in these woods."
"Of course," Stiles says, glancing down at Lydia. She's still limp on the grass. He'll have to tell her about this later. Perhaps then she'll be free.
But before he can do that, he's got to get her somewhere she can heal. Neither werewolf seems to have anything else to say; they both disappear into the shadows a second later, and within moments, the sound of their rapid footfalls fades away completely. Stiles braces himself and lifts Lydia as carefully as he can, groaning as his weakened body barely manages her dead weight.
What took him a few minutes on horseback is obviously going to take quite a bit longer on foot, especially since he's carrying Lydia and he's so weak from exhaustion and injury. He's thankful for the light of the moon, large in the sky. That's why the wolves chose tonight to attack, he realizes suddenly. Because of the full moon. He's incredibly grateful for it - if they hadn't come when they did, Stiles would be long dead by now, and Lydia, too, no doubt. At that thought, he quickens his pace as best he can, trying to put as much distance between himself and the Forest as possible.
Lydia lets out a small whimper of pain, and Stiles manages a soothing shh. "I'm going to get you somewhere safe, Lydia," he tells her, although he's not sure she's capable of listening. "And maybe you can stay for awhile, if you don't have to go back to the Forest." It's almost too much to hope for right now, but Stiles is mostly babbling at her anyway, trying to calm both of them.
His legs feel as though they'll barely carry him - he's tired and sore, and Lydia's weight, while still not totally unmanageable, is not helping matters. Nevertheless, he presses on, unwilling to give up. Lydia had been determined to keep him alive earlier, and now he's going to do the same for her. It's as simple as that.
He lets out an audible sigh of relief when finally, finally, he can see the faint lights of the village in the distance. He takes the path that will lead him into the heart of the village, rather than the one that will take him home. That's too far away on foot, and he knows it; he'll be unconscious again before he makes it halfway home.
Fortunately, he has a friend who lives in town. At this hour of night, most of the villagers will be sleeping, but Stiles marches up to the Argents' door without care. Without a free hand, he can't knock, so all he can manage is to kick the door a couple times.
Soon enough, the door swings open, revealing none other than Allison Argent, barefoot and in a white nightgown. She gawks at him, taking in his disheveled appearance and the fact that he's carrying a girl who is currently covered in blood. "Stiles," Allison says, stunned. "Who's this?"
"Her name's Lydia," Stiles says, as briskly as he can. "Listen, can I borrow a horse? I don't think I can carry her all the way home."
Allison snaps into action immediately. She pauses to slip on a pair of boots that have been left by the door, and then motions for him to follow her as she leads the way to the small stable behind her house. "You'll have to take our pony," she says, her voice low, presumably to avoid attracting attention from any of her neighbors. "My parents are . . . on a hunting trip, and have taken the horses."
Stiles doesn't have to ask what they're hunting. "Thank you so much," he says, as Allison efficiently saddles the pony, which is a sweet, chubby thing. It's no wild mustang, but it'll have to do.
"You're welcome," she says, watching as he awkwardly lays Lydia across the pony's back. He's so shaky that Allison has to help him climb onto the pony behind Lydia. "Scott told me you went looking for wolfsbane. Did you find it?" Allison asks.
"I had to wrestle a druid to do it, but yes."
Allison immediately opens her mouth to ask a question about that, then shakes her head and says, "Go, Stiles. Save her, and save your father."
Stiles nods and snaps the pony's reins, and she sets off with a low nicker. Once they're out on the road, Stiles urges her to go faster, and she complies. Soon enough they've left the village, and Stiles is back on the path that he knows by heart, even by moonlight. After that, it's a straight shot to the Stilinski house.
Stiles manages to get down off the pony without dropping Lydia, which is quite a feat given the circumstances. He nearly collapses when his feet touch the ground - bouncing up and down on the pony's back has made him almost as lightheaded as if he'd run the distance himself. He tosses the pony's reins vaguely in the direction of the post, praying it won't wander off and leave him owing the Argents a new pony. He's no longer strong enough to carry her, so he half-drags Lydia to the front door and awkwardly uses his shoulder to bang on it, hoping someone is inside, tending to his father.
A moment later, the door opens, revealing a sleepy Melissa. As soon as she realizes who it is, all traces of exhaustion disappear from her face. "Come in," she says immediately, "and take her to your room." She doesn't ask why Stiles has a blood-stained teenage girl with him, or why half of his face is smeared with fresh blood, but he's sure he'll be facing those questions sooner or later. He does as he's told, heading for his room and gently laying Lydia down on his bed, and Melissa follows. "What happened?"
"She was stabbed in the thigh," Stiles says, sinking weakly into the wooden chair he keeps near his bed. He takes off his satchel and sits it on the floor, removing the jar of wolfsbane and leaving it on the floor next to the bag. Melissa is too busy to notice. She tugs up Lydia's dress, but thankfully with more care than Cora had. Not that Stiles would mind seeing Lydia undressed, of course, just - not like this.
Stiles closes his eyes for a moment, trying to regain some of his strength, and when he opens them again, Melissa has just returned from fetching her medicine bag. Stiles is ready and willing to stay by Melissa's side and assist her with whatever he can - after all, her two usual helpers are gone, the full moon having made it unwise to put them in potentially stressful situations - but as soon as she pulls a needle and string out of her bag and starts threading the needle, Stiles rises unsteadily to his feet. "Uh," he stammers, "I'm no good around needles." Translation: I may faint again if you stick that into her leg right now.
Melissa gives him a brief, harried smile. "I know," she says, and of course she does - she's had to stitch up a wound on him more than once. "Go. I'll call you if I need your help."
Stiles ends up exactly where he started, only considerably more exhausted, bloody, and dirty than before - sitting at the kitchen table and fretting. He knows he ought to go sit with his father, in case by some miracle he suddenly wakes without the aid of wolfsbane, but the view from his father's room will enable him to see directly into his own room, and that won't help his fear of needles much. He decides to stay put at the table, his chin in his hands, waiting.
He doesn't realize he's dozing off until, abruptly, he's awakened by the sound of the front door opening. He jumps so badly he falls out of the chair. "Whoa!"
"Stiles?" Scott blurts, incredulous, as he rushes over to help Stiles up from the floor. "You're alive!"
"Oh, really? I could have sworn my heart stopped when you burst in like that."
"Sorry," Scott says, although he doesn't sound particularly apologetic. He's grinning broadly, as if Stiles coming back from the Forest alive and relatively unscathed is the best thing that's ever happened to him. He gives Stiles a quick, tight hug, and then asks, in quick succession, "Did you find the wolfsbane? What happened to your head? Why are you so bloody?"
"Yes - I fell - and not all of it is mine," Stiles answers, not bothering to elaborate on anything just yet. The mention of the rust-colored stains splattered on his shirt and hands reminds him of Lydia, and he limps towards his bedroom with Scott following closely behind. He pauses in the doorway, relieved to find Lydia asleep on his bed, looking quite a bit better off than before. Her leg has been elevated with a pillow, and a new, neat bandage is wrapped around her thigh - clearly Melissa's handiwork.
"Who's this?" Scott asks in a whisper, eyes wide.
"Her name's Lydia," Stiles replies. "She's a banshee. You know her as a witch, but those rumors have been greatly exaggerated -,"
"Stiles?" a familiar voice calls.
Stiles whirls around, stumbling past Scott towards the source of that sound. "Dad!"
He stumbles into his father's room and draws up short at the scene before him - his father is comfortably reclining against a few pillows, very much alive and awake. Melissa is in a chair next to him, doubled over with her head resting on the edge of the bed, sound asleep. She doesn't stir - not even when Scott pushes past Stiles, crosses the room, and gently scoops her up like a child, whispering, "I'll take her home now."
"Of course," Stiles replies, finally snapping out of his gobsmacked silence. Melissa is no doubt exhausted, and since everyone seems to be alright for the time being, she deserves a break. "Thank you," Stiles tells Scott. "Thank you both so much. Oh, and I guess thanks to Isaac, too. If he actually did anything to help."
Scott rolls his eyes fondly and carries Melissa from the room, and Stiles takes Melissa's place in the chair. "Dad," he says. His father is unusually quiet - he seems to be taking in Stiles's disheveled and bloodstained appearance. "Dad, how do you feel?"
"I've been better," John admits, and Stiles smiles weakly, blinking back tears of joy and relief. "What the hell happened to you, son?"
"Well," Stiles says, sheepishly reaching up to run a hand through his hair, "you're not going to believe this, but I promise it's all true . . ."
Stiles's father does believe it, and although he's angry with Stiles for throwing caution to the wind and risking death in the Forest, he's proud and grateful at the same time. John's recovery over the next few days is slow - at first, even talking to Stiles for a little while wears him out. Gradually, though, he begins to build up his strength again, and Stiles knows then that his father has cheated death - with a little help from his son, of course.
Lydia recovers in much the same fashion. For several days she is unable to do much more than slowly hop to the outhouse (with Stiles's help, although he isn't needed to do anything other than help her get there and back.) But after nearly a week of lying around and hogging Stiles's bed, she calls to him one morning and demands (as sweetly as possible) to be taken outside.
He starts to lead her to the outhouse, but she says, "No. I want to have a look around."
"There's a window in my room, you know," Stiles says. She shoots him a look, and he says, "Alright, fine. The fresh air might do you good anyways." Stiles knows from experience that being cooped up is a miserable thing, and it must be even worse when you're used to absolute freedom.
Soon enough, she grows too tired to hop any farther, and he carefully helps her sit down in the soft grass. He sits next to her, their sides almost brushing but not quite. She looks around, drinking in the scene - her time in the Forest has not offered her much in the way of a good view, he supposes. He watches her, marveling at her beauty the way he does every time he looks at her. She has borrowed a clean dress from Allison, and the light blue color does her wonders. Her red hair blows softly in the breeze, and her eyes are bright with intelligence and strength. Stiles only just manages to look away before she catches him staring.
She looks healthy and vital, but a certain question has been bothering Stiles for days now. He's been ignoring it, busying himself with taking care of his father and Lydia, but he can hold it in no longer. "I have to ask you something," he says softly, and she raises her eyebrows at him expectantly.
"How much longer will it be before you have to go back?" he asks. "To the Forest, I mean." He knows that unless the werewolves had been successful in their attempt to kill the Darach, soon enough Lydia will grow weak and sick. She will have to leave Stiles and return to whatever fresh monsters await in the Forest.
But to his surprise, the corners of her mouth twitch, as if she is fighting back a smile. "I don't feel ill," she says. "I should have already felt the Forest calling me back. But I haven't yet."
Stiles doesn't bother to hide his own grin. "You mean - you don't have to go back?" he asks. "Lydia, that's great."
Finally, she can't hide her joy any longer, and she glances over at him with a smile spreading over her face. "I think I'm free," she says.
They simply look at each other for a moment, and for a split second Stiles thinks she is going to lean in and kiss him, but she doesn't. He looks away, his smile slipping slightly, and after a moment's pause she says, "Stiles."
"Yeah?" he says, absently pulling up stalks of grass and tossing them aside.
She reaches over and stills his hand gently. He looks up to meet her gaze then, and she hesitates for a second - but Lydia is not the type to wait around for very long. "In the Forest," she says finally, "you kissed me. Didn't you?"
"You don't remember?" Stiles asks, failing miserably at playing coy. He certainly remembers. At the time it had simply been the first thing that occurred to him - he had to distract her from the pain of pulling that dagger out of her leg. But now - well, now, it's a thought he holds close to his heart. He'd kissed her, a smart, beautiful, brave girl. He couldn't let go of that feeling. All the horrors of the Forest could not take that feeling from him.
"The whole night is a little blurry," she admits, and his heart sinks a little more, only to rise again with her next words. "But I do think I remember you kissing me."
"Do you remember it - fondly, or . . . uh . . . not so fondly?" Stiles asks, with a lot less eloquence than is desirable.
"Well, it's not my most pleasant memory," she says a bit tartly, "since you were pulling a blade out of my leg."
"Sorry," he says, for lack of anything else to say. He resorts to babbling then. "I didn't mean to offend, but I just - I couldn't think of anything else to do to distract you, and I knew it would hurt but I -,"
She takes him entirely by surprise when she chooses to silence him by leaning over and kissing him. He makes a muffled noise of astonishment and then, gradually, relaxes against her. After a moment, she pulls away and says, "I didn't say the kiss itself was unpleasant. I only meant that the knife in my leg dampened the mood a bit."
"Oh," is all Stiles can think to say. The corners of her mouth twitch again, and she kisses him with the beginnings of a smile on her lips. This time he kisses back.
When they break apart she takes his hand, and for a moment all is quiet, save for the sound of grass rustling softly in the wind. But Stiles can never bring himself to be quiet for long, so he looks down at where their fingers are loosely twined together and says, "So . . . if you don't have to return to the Forest . . . does this mean you'll stay?" The unspoken here, with me hangs at the end of the sentence and he can tell by the look on her face that she hears it loud and clear.
"Yes," she says. "Yes, I think I'll stay."