[It's rather fun, meeting strangers]
Your son is a funny looking one, with dark eyes and wrinkly skin, and perpetual tightly pursed lips that seems to convey his discomfort of being out of his mother's stomach.
But he is the perfect baby for you and Claudia, for after decades of marriage, he's the fruit harvested from granted wishes of shooting stars and never-ending conviction and determination.
But the happiness does not last for long, for your son is born without his wings.
o.o.o₰o.o.o
Some nights Stiles dreams about the moon, and him and the earth are bath in all its silver glory. At the next slope is a silhouette of a wolf guarding over its pack.
o.o.o₰o.o.o
The first time someone else crosses the property was when John and Stiles were fixing up the manor.
Although the building manages to stand strong in an overnight storm, it is a building that has been abandoned by its previous owner with no one else to stay and maintains it. There are windows and furniture that need replacing or doors and walls and fences that need repairing or leaks that need to be found and barred. There is so much dust that can be collect to bounce on or skeletons of prey that predators left after they filled their belly.
And there is only John and Stiles now to clean up the mess.
"Stiles," John calls out after the frame is solid in place, fingers stretched expectantly. When no wood touch his palm, he glances at his son. "Stiles? You can hand me another one now, kid."
Only Stiles' attention is so enraptured by something else, he doesn't even blink. So John cranes his head over his shoulder to see too what sight has fascinated Stiles.
There's a person standing by the edge of the fence, the hood donned concealing any other important facts but his face. At least John could tell he's a man by the scruff on his face and the length of his shoulders.
"Merlin," Stiles breathes out, so soft John's ears barely manage to pick up the word before it's blown away by the breeze. John sighs and straightens his spine, but the corner of his lip twitches from bemusement. Even if Stiles had explained his dream in detail with added notes and graphs, he never really gets them. He only knows that sometimes his son's dreams are mere imaginations of his wired mind, while other times they speak of taking improbable chances or suffer the consequences.
(He's still reserved of having a huge manor as their new home, despite Stiles insisted that this wouldn't be a home for just the two of them.)
The man's grin spreads and a hand tosses the hood back. He's an average man, one that no one pays attention to within moving crowds. Even if he has accidentally bumps shoulders, no one would remember his face or mind his apologies.
But part of John's work is to be observant and constantly in vigilance ‒ it's tattooed into his bones and blood ‒ so he does not miss the depth in those cerulean eyes, or the hollowness of his charming grin. He steps forward with a hand on Stiles' shoulder.
The man notices the intention of a father shielding his son. Good.
"Can I help you?"
"Merlin just needs a place to rest." Stiles interrupts and raises his gaze to face John's. It's been a while since his son's forehead comes to the same height as his stomach. "It's been a really long journey, and he's really tired. We can spare him the room that faces the lake?"
The cloak may have concealed everything else, but it's not hard to miss a flinch under the fabric. This time his smile is much more subdued. "It's been a while since I met mages as powerful as you are."
The grip on Stiles' shoulder tightens.
Merlin raises both hands in a placating gesture. "Please, I meant no harm to both of you. But as a token of offering me an accommodation, perhaps I can help your son to control his magic?"
John frowns gravely as he takes a glimpse of his son before returning to the man. "My son is not dangerous." And was fairly surprised by the smile that turns wry and wistful, a memory clouds his eyes and left with a blink.
"No, of course he's not. But his magic is mostly quiescent now, and he has so much potential to help, to do good, to accomplish when magic is the only way out."
"And why can you help?"
The smile turns into a smirk, confident and a touch of cheekiness. "I was once known as Dragoon the Great!" When an unimpressed stare is his only reply, Merlin chuckles with honest delight. "I'm a warlock. Really."
"And I'm a griffin," John mutters under his breath, but from Stiles' boggled stare and Merlin's snort, it wasn't a successful deed. He sighs. "Fine, you can stay as long as you want. And you can teach Stiles." He raised a threatening finger. "If he's hurt in anyway, you can be sure that no magic can save you from my wrath."
Merlin nods earnestly. "Of course."
"Come on in then," John turns on his feet and the three heads for home. "That room Stiles suggested? We haven't gotten that far. You'll have to use whatever magic you have to make sure you don't wake up in the middle of a pouring night drench from head to toes."
o.o.o₰o.o.o
That night Stiles dreams of serene lake, of billowing red cape just underneath the surface and a golden dragon that shines as bright as the sun in the sky above.
o.o.o₰o.o.o
[You completely have no idea about them]
You first explain the similarities and difference between your magic and Stiles'.
(I use words to concentrate my power; you use your will and belief to strengthen yours. I'm more elemental, while yours concern more of spiritual. Our magic is drawn from all around us ‒ from the sky high above to the age-old earth beneath our feet.)
Then you help Stiles masters and practices by mending and cleaning inside and out of the manor. It is a parade when the tools sashays and hops around. Holes are patched and tears are sewn back together while surfaces are polished to a sparkle.
(John takes a look at the charred corner with amusement dances in his eyes before forbidding any use of magic in the kitchen. Or at least until they have perfected it.)
During dinner time, the three of you choose to seat before the hearth with fire blazing and a warm broth on crossed legs. Stiles' subtlety in coaxing stories out of you is as successful as a nest of bee right beside your ears. You indulge father and son with tales of a young sorcerer and the dollophead of a king he serves. Of silly knights and shrewd physician and senile, demented dragons as his friends. Stories of old kingdoms and ancient prophecy, of loyalty and bonds and betrayal, of blindness and compassion, of malevolent and kindness, of mistakes and regrets and forgiveness, of hatred and love.
Of understanding and accepting.
(Sometimes your mind drifts without your consent, muddling earliest of memories and fragments of imagination together. Your mind is lonely, and you wonder how long you can keep it sane.)
You're quite certain the Stilinskis are asleep when you slip out to banish the second ghoul this week. The ghoul screeches and dies along with the flame you summoned, the ashes returning to the earth from where they originated. You turn around to face the elder Stilinski, a crossbow in his hand. Not poise to kill, nor slack in negligent either. "John, I can explain?"
John's gaze seizes you for a moment, and the thought of a king in his throne before all court comes fore to your mind. You breathe deeper to calm your heart, but you can do nothing else for your mind. Then John speaks.
"Are you teaching my son to kill?"
You shake your head. "No, not really. Not when he needs to."
John glances at the remaining ashes then back at you, and then he turns to you, asking, "Do you get drunk easily?"
A laugh burst out of your throat as you follow the blonde man back home.
Later, over cups of wine, you explain that you came here for a reason, like the ghoul you banished tonight.
"A powerful and old magic draws us here." You say. "But like a timeworn tree neither the leaves nor the roots can sustain it anymore, so it's decaying on the outside and clotting from inside, and it becomes host to fungus and parasites until nothing remains inside. This kind of sullied magic only attracts the bad and the evils ‒ they want it to be more powerful, to be immortal. I'm teaching Stiles to protect himself and you if ever they get pass me. I taught him about protective charms and placing them strategically around the manor. The strength of the spell grows with him."
John takes a sip and looks at you. "Won't you be curing it ‒ the 'tree'?"
You sigh. "Whatever it is, it won't be an easy fix. The 'tree' is dying, and it wants‒it needs something else to compensate it."
John is as wise as the mentor who took you under his wings. "A life for a life."
You nod. A moment later you note. "If you leave now you can still keep Stiles safe."
John stares blankly at his cup, but you know his mind is far from calm. He then downs all his wine. "I can't. Stiles can't. He needs to be here."
You chuckle wearily. "I know Stiles comes here because his prophetic dreams told him to, and I'm not as empathetic as him, but I can sense your kind. You don't alienate from one another, let alone coming out to see the rest of the world. So why are you here, John?"
John doesn't answer and you don't nudge. When morning arrives it brings along a sleep-muddled Stiles that asks who would be accompanying him to the market for eggs. There will be none for dinner later.
o.o.o₰o.o.o
You watch as Stiles wriggles fruitlessly to lie on his stomach, his frustration pout deepens when the infant realizes that his muscles aren't his to command yet. You pick him up and cradle his head on your shoulders before he burst into waterworks. Your son calms down, but the wriggles continue anyway.
Your son is determined.
Claudia walks out, her hair yet dried from her bath. Her smile blooms at the sight of a squirming baby and your efforts in not dropping your son. Only when Claudia takes over him that Stiles settles down with a yawn.
You frown, unimpressed, while your wife laughter echoes through the house.
She turns to the window and perches by the sill, one finger gently nudges Stiles to look out as she sings her lullaby. It's a different song every time.
Look at that cloud
As high as a tree
At least that's how it looks to me
How about you?
What do you see?
What if we see things differently?
Show me how the world looks through your eyes
Tell me about the sunrise
Let me see the star shine
Show me how the world looks through your eyes
And I can show you how it looks through mine
At night, with Stiles dead to the world between you and Claudia, you brush his downy hair and suggest. "We can go to the woods. It's summer, I'm sure the glade there must be filled with wild flowers by now."
You're certain that a smile cannot contain adoration to the brim. "Okay." You're wrong. "Let's see who Stiles likes to fly with the most." You're wrong too about eyes that twinkles with challenges are not adorable.
o.o.o₰o.o.o
"Stiles, no!"
But the boy doesn't hear the warlock over the beating of his frantic heart as he dashes towards his father, the man struggling with the demon that seeps into him, a battle inside his body to dominate his mind and soul.
For the past few weeks more ghouls and harpies and pixies have come forward to claim the corrupted magic as their own, but John and Merlin had successfully eliminated them away with arrows and magic. Stiles protective charms around the land help to fend off little critters too.
(When both of them are too tired to leave bed the next morning, two separate cartwheels knock on respective doors and bring in fresh tea and coffee and sliced fruits and sausages and croissant with eggs.)
But this demon is much smarter than any previous creatures, and hides itself inside one of the wendigos, patiently waits until the adults are weary from the attacks before tearing out from its host and heads straight line towards John, every intention of claiming the man as its new skin.
Amongst the struggle John's wings wither and fall. The feathers rotten to black.
Too fixated on the sight of the fallen feathers, Stiles doesn't notice until fingers come wrapping a dead clutch around his throat and slams him to the hard ground. His lungs are emptied of air, while his mind a jumble of hurt and vertigo. Amongst his disorientation he finds his father's eyes, black scuttling to overtake sky blue. John's teeth lengthen to sharp fangs, but when words fight their way out of his throat, they're still envelope in the gruff voice he fondly grew up with.
"…r-r-un..."
(Stiles remembers golden feathers that lift him up higher than any ancient oak trees, and hands that hold him tight and will never let him fall. Even if he does fall, those hands will surely catch him before he crashes and breaks.)
Merlin told him that his magic is of light, that he is capable of banishing the darkness within the souls of dark creatures if he wills it so. So Stiles calms his shaking hands and wraps them around John's wrist. Silver tendrils of magic curls and crawls up his father's arms and into his heart, one end enfolds to protect, while the other binds and forces the demon out of John.
The demon is out of John's body in a cloud of black mist and shrieks, John slumps to the ground like a puppet with it strings cut off. Merlin rushes to John's side, but Stiles' battle is far from over for him to divert his focus away from the demon. He tugs and pulls his power to the surface, the emotions that feed it to grow ‒ the frustration and the hurt and the anger and the relief and the love. Of his mother's songs and father's laughter and Fable's patience and Merlin's humor. Of nostalgia of old dreams and hopes for the future.
The silver tendrils circle and bind and squeeze until the demon can no longer maintains it form and burst into sparks. Even then Stiles' magic chases and makes sure that there is none left to come back to hurt anyone else.
Stiles lays panting on the ground, hard breath drags their way in and out of his lungs, his body aches even in the parts he never knows would and he needs a week of sleep. He can hears his father groaning back to conscious, but there is something still nagging at the back of his mind, so he sluggishly heaves himself up and let his heart leads him forward.
"Stiles! Stiles, where are you going? Stiles!"
There is a lake right next to the property. It's twice the size of the manor alone. Sometimes they would come here with Fable and strolls around. It's only a normal lake with random cattails or willows standing guard by the side, but Merlin seems mesmerize by it, always watching it with a daze, a moment where his mind is off faraway with king and knights and dragons. But often his stare is blank, as if he has been staring at the same picture for too long that all the details blurred together and nothing matters anymore.
"Stiles! Stiles, stop! Stop!"
The middle of the lake is a steep drop, so John is always more cautious when they swim there. He has a firm grip on his father's bicep, but John still keep a solid grasp on his wrist, his forehead wrinkles in fear that his son will sink like a rock and never floats back up.
He can feel his magic ebbs and flow with the water around, blending and seeping and expanding.
(In a land of myth and a time of magic, there was a king that died before his time. A young warlock sent him away with a broken heart, but inside the magic of the earth he remains asleep.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.)
"STILES!"
o.o.o₰o.o.o
[About where they'd been, or where they will go ‒ if they'll stay]
You find John in front of the hearth with his finger entwined, the fire inside dwindles to ember. With a flick of your wrist the flame grows back to glory as you sit beside him.
After a moment of silence you remark. "So, you mentioned that if Stiles ever gets hurt, no magic of mine can protect me from you."
(It was a traumatic experience for both father and tutor to watch as son/student wades into the lake, water climbing higher and higher and then swallows him whole.
John screams the fear of losing his last family, his last light.
Merlin is stunned quiet by the sight of the lake becomes another grave for someone he cares, someone he comes to love.
The water is at John's waist when silver tendrils abruptly surge out from the middle of the lake, ripples turn into rough waves that beat along the bank of the lake. You tried to drag John back to the land. The blonde man resists. You curse and about draw out your magic to move this stubborn man when the waves subsides and two pair of hands ‒ sloshing and dripping water in the shape of human limbs ‒ pull two bodies up from the lake's belly and gently pushes them towards John and Merlin.
John doesn't wait for his son to reach him. The water splashes violently apart as he frantically grabs for Stiles. His relief cries muffled as he buried his head between Stiles neck and shoulder, strong pulse drums beneath his fingers.
You grab him by the shoulder and heave him up to solid ground (he may have broad shoulders, but it's been a long while since you're his skinny servant). Your fingertip brushes with the water one before it blends back, and you lift you gaze towards the boy. Foolish, young, generous mage.
"Thank you." It doesn't matter who the gratitude is for.)
John doesn't reply immediately. When he does, there is a rasp in his voice that you don't examine closely. "You asked me why I'm willing to leave my kind, well, let me tell you a story this time."
He tells of a tribe that is born with wings and can live far longer than a common human. A tribe that only lives amongst themselves and is too paranoid to go out of the walls to see the world and thus ignorant and bigot of the diversity it produces. A tribe that fears the first baby that is born without wings and hates the child for no other reasons but old, baseless belief. A tribe that doesn't bother to share the child's sorrow in losing his mother at such a tender age, or watch as he cries and grieves before learning step by step to move on, to prepare breakfast and dinner and clean the house and wash the clothes. A tribe that seeks to harm that child, even if the child screams through the night of nightmares and wakes up the next morning pleading you to save whoever that was hurt in his dreams.
"I should have taught his to be more selfish, to not be a better person." John takes a deep breath. "But he's just like his mother ‒ too much damn love in him that he doesn't mind who he gives them to. And I can't ‒ I just can't watch him grows up angry and confused and hating everyone and everything around him. He doesn't deserve to, so I leave. I leave and I'd never look back since. You'd think that somehow there's a part of me that will pine or regret, but I don't. I just want him to be happy, that's all."
You sigh in a resigned matter. "Stiles is lucky, to have you as his father."
The corner of John's lips twitches. "And your king is lucky to have you. At least both of you won't be alone after this."
Far in the horizon light begins to wash away the dark.
o.o.o₰o.o.o
Today father and son head for the town together ‒ John to work, Stiles to the market ‒ both idly swaying on Fable as she ambles along the path.
"Dad."
"Yes, Stiles?"
"Is it okay to leave them alone?"
John chokes in a snort. "I'm sure they want some private time to catch up. It's been a while since they last seen each other. Pretty sure there's a lot to talk about and it won't be polite for us to be around."
Days passed before Stiles woke up from magic exhaustion of fighting the demon and sacrificing himself to cleanse away the tainted magic that was apparently caused by safe-keeping the Once and Future King. Even magic ripe and rots, especially magic from the earth, for nothing is permanent. And in return of healing what has been hurt, the earth returns the two souls out of time back to their body.
A week after, it's Arthur's turn to wake from his deep slumber.
(Stiles is about to suggest a reenactment of a fairytale beauty that was cursed to sleep and a prince that kissed her awake. Merlin laughs himself silly.)
Stiles tips his head in an angle. "But is Arthur really a king? He seems a bit silly to me."
This time John doesn't bother restraining his chuckles. "I'm sure he's just disorientated. He's been sleeping for far too long. I'm sure when we return, Merlin will have everything explained to him."
Stiles hums. "But he'll be fine though, because he has Merlin." He then pauses before adding. "But dad, why are they naked in bed together?"
John splutters and curses and vows to give those two adults an earful for their indecency before young mind.
o.o.o₰o.o.o
A week before autumn watches as the warlock and the king out of time travels north, their promises to visit echoes through the plain and manor.
"So, they aren't the ones to stay?" John notes as he perches against the fence, both arms circling his son's shoulders.
"No," Stiles' head bobs to the song in his mind. "The others are still lost and wandering, so Arthur and Merlin need to go and gather them back first. It'll take a while."
"Think we can meet them?"
"Sure!"
o.o.o₰o.o.o
Some nights John dreams of Claudia ‒ both perch on the sycamore with fingers tangled.
"I miss you," He would say. "Stiles miss you too. He's a handful and needs more than one parent to take care of him."
Claudia brushes a kiss on his cheek, then the shell of his ear, whispering with the softness of the dawn's wind. "You're doing fine, John. And you're not alone. Someday it'll be like Stiles' summer blanket."
o.o.o₰o.o.o
[It's the small gestures of looking at the same sky]
Ironically, Stiles wasn't expecting the second person. At all.
It's been a while since Arthur and Merlin left the Stilinskis, and occasionally fairies or satyr or nymphs come to the manor, but they don't stay for long.
And Stiles doesn't have dreams about as to who they'll share the rooms in the manor with yet.
His father had warned him that morning before they left the house that a caravan is stopping by at the edge of the town. It's a caravan that trades slave for money and they can't be restrained from passing by, but that doesn't mean they are welcomed.
"Don't go near them, Stiles. They have their ways in obtaining fresh slaves, and not all of them are justified."
When they neared the gate Stiles saw the caravan and the men lounging around. There are four of them. And Stiles craned his neck to catch the last one by the side of the caravan before the wall curtained it off.
It was a man with wings.
o.o.o₰o.o.o
"I know, I know Fable," Stiles pats the mare. "But there's something about him and you know I can't leave things just the way they are. My instinct will drive me crazy if I don't listen to it."
Fable flips her head to the side ‒ the human equivalent of rolling her eyes in exasperation. But at least the hem of his shirt is not in between her teeth anymore.
"Thanks, Fable. I'll be quick." Stiles pecks her nose and then he's off with a bag over his shoulder, slipping through alleys and staircases until he's out of the gate. (The patrolling guards have no qualm about shipping him back to his father like a naughty kitten with its scruff held.)
This time the men aren't around, but Stiles doesn't make a peep as he nears the kneeling man. He lifts up his chin, and the sunlight glints off the collar and chain around his neck. His torso is littered with old scars and fresh scabs, while his wings droop desolately behind him.
Stiles procures a clean cloth from his bag and waters it with alcohol, "This is going to sting," and reaches towards one of the wounds when fingers wraps his wrist in mind air, not hard enough to break it, but effectively rendered him from moving any closer. Stiles huffs impatiently as he tries to tug free. "Your wounds aren't going to heal anytime soon, and I can't magically heal physical injuries, so we'll have to use the old method of cleaning with alcohol and bandaging it. Now can I please continue before you suffer from further infection?"
His wrist has yet to be released while liquid copper eyes studied him. Then the man asks. "Why." And winces as if he shouldn't have said that word.
"You know, there is an intonation when a sentence is meant to come out as a question." Stiles grins, and the man's shoulders ease a fraction. "And you'll feel better. Trust me; I'd gained a fair share of bumps and bruises growing up." The man's eyes flash with alarm and concern. "Nothing to be worried about, I have too much energy and not enough limbs coordination. Accidents are bound to happen around me. You should have seen the pottery and glasses, poor them."
Finally the man releases his wrist, so Stiles carries on with his task. The man's body tensed at each swipe of the cloth on his would, but he's otherwise quiet and Stiles becomes the center his attention. Stiles dampens the cloth a few more times to pat around cuffed wrists and ankles and the fabric now stains crimson.
Stiles is in the middle of applying medicated salve on some of the open cuts when a growl beside his ear jolts him back to his surroundings. By that time it was too late for Stiles to realize that they're no longer alone. An arm circles around him and he's shove behind a wing as the man bares his teeth and a menacing growl vibrates his whole torso.
"'ey, look what the dog brin'in!" From the man's slur words and heavy scent of alcohol, Stiles can be assured that he's drunk.
"Isn't it a bit too early to be drinking?" Stiles mutters as the other remaining men join him.
"What are you doing here, kid?" A redhead demands.
"Don't care about that," One with a jagged scar on his cheek scoffs. "Can't you see, he's our new gold mine!"
"Wha-" Someone got hold of the collar and hauled him into a chest before caging him in place with meaty arms Stiles tries to claw off him while jamming his heels into flesh that is sure to bruise later. "L-Let me go!" A thunderous crack sounds and Stiles eyes widen at the whip lashing over skin, resulting in a line of angry red welt that threatens to spill blood.
But despite having his chains yanked and his body whipped, the man thrashes every step, every crawl towards Stiles with clenched teeth and burning passion in those eyes. And Stiles doesn't want him to be in anymore pain. "Stop! Stop hurting him!"
Bony fingers clench his chin and force him to face the man with the cheek scar, a haughty smirk bends his lips. "See here kid, you have a look I'm sure many would pay a hefty amount for. So why don't you gladly follow us, or we can kill your friend here."
Stiles halts and gives the man a bewildered stare. "…kill? Isn't that too much?"
The man shrugs nonchalantly. "He's bad for business anyway, more of a liability than a money-maker. He came out wrong, ya know. He's a dog, but he doesn't listen well to orders, so he's sold for a loss. We're thinking with you in our hands, might as well dispose him. There's no need to feed an extra mouth."
At those words Stiles resumes his struggles. "You are crazy! I'm not going anywhere with you, and I'm sure as hell won't let you kill him!"
The redhead that is the one holding the chain sniggers. "Ooh, what'd he offered you kid? I'm sure we can do better than this mongrel."
The moment the meaning of those words make sense to him, Stiles nearly retches out his whole stomach. "You sick crazy old bat!"
"Enough talking. All his screaming is bound to attract a patrol guard." The man with the scar hisses and points at the man caging Stiles. "Bind him tight, especially his mouth. We'll take care of the dog and then we'll be leaving."
"What! NONonono‒"
"Stiles, still!" Stiles freezes his flailing in time for a loud bang to shake the air and a bullet to enter the flesh next to his ear. The next scream finds him tumbling to the ground and rolling to a stop. When his eyes roll to position, the sight of a familiar guard aiming his flintlock gun at one of the men brings a smile back to Stiles lips. "Booth!"
"You all right, Stiles?"
"Yeah. Nothing's broken."
"Good. Go to the side, Stiles. Fable's fetching the Sheriff and the rest of the guards."
"Great…"
"What are you doing!" The man with the scar shrieks. "He's only one guard, get him!"
Before the redhead can move, Booth swiftly fires two more round, one hitting the redhead in the shoulder, while the other embedded in the man with the scar's thighs. Before Booth can fire another at the drunk, the man with the wings leaps to his feet and tears the drunk's throat out. With his teeth. And two pairs are much longer and sharper than the rest. Oh, and they can shrink back, a little.
Booth and Stiles are too stunned to move as they trail blood dripping from the man's jaw to the ground. It's another moment later when the boy's name is heard.
"Stiles!"
o.o.o₰o.o.o
"Stiles." The boy winces at his father's sigh. Its part fond, part resigned, part upset, part disapproving and all frustration. "What had I told you this morning?"
"…That I have to help someone in trouble…?"
"Stiles."
"But he is in trouble, and hurt! You taught me never to ignore them!"
The words that ready to leap from John's tongue are swallowed back when the door to his office opens and Parrish pokes his head in. "Hey Sheriff, hey Stiles. Geyer's done with the examination, if any of you are interested…?"
"I am!" Stiles springs from his seat and bolts out of the room, nearly tripping Parrish in the process.
"Stiles!"
o.o.o₰o.o.o
Some night Stiles dreams of storm clouds and lightning weaving in and out while his ankles submerged in a pool with ruby pearls bumping into each other.
o.o.o₰o.o.o
Despite their efforts to be as subtle as a mouse running through the street, your ears can't help but picking up those ugly words and accusations.
"He's born without wings ‒ the first!"
"Poor John. Poor Claudia. And they'd always wanted a child, but instead that came out."
"Something must have gone wrong. Oh, I'm not saying it's John or Claudia's fault, but that baby is obviously a mistake."
"Haven't you heard? The baby is a demon in disguise!"
"What, why?"
"Our lore, remember? We have wings because we're entitled to fly with the Angels and Gods, while the Fallen Ones have their wings stripped and burned, and their sins and hatred turned them into dreadful monsters. So a baby without wings means…"
"That baby is a bad omen!"
"That baby is evil!"
"That baby will bring the whole tribe misfortunes!"
"The baby is a monster, and it will have us all killed!"
You return home after a long day of work, and Claudia's asleep, but on the table a warm broth waits for you, as well as your bright eyes son.
"Hey, you're supposed to be accompanying your Mama to Dreamland too." You pick your son up, gently arrange his flailing limbs (you can see the moment he masters walking, he'll be running through the whole village and then towards the forest) before taking a seat at the table.
(All other infants master flying first before taking their first step on the solid earth.)
You and your son see eyes to eyes, his dark caramel reflects in your sky blue. You lift a finger, and instantly two chubby hands latch onto it, firm yet oddly tender. The words of the day came flowing to the fore of your mind, but all you can see is a child in your arms with his damnable unconditional trust ‒ his damnable unconditional love for nothing and for all ‒ and you do the only thing that came to mind at that moment.
Your son's laughter wakes Claudia, and your wife and son team up to tickle you in return
o.o.o₰o.o.o
[Searching for that silver lining]
"Thank you Mr. Geyer!" Stiles hollers and hops into the room and face the man who now is free of bonds and chains and has his injuries cleaned and bandaged. "You'll need to shave a little, or tie your hair up or you'll end up looking homeless."
The man's lips tilts minutely, behind him his wings rustle softly.
"I am." His raspy voice no louder than a whisper.
"What?"
"Homeless," The man dunks his head. "I'm without a master, and I don't have anywhere else to go."
Stiles stares for a moment before taking a seat beside him, his legs folded and secured by his arms. After another short pause he says. "You know, we haven't exchange our names. Hi! I'm Stiles." His voice trails off and meant to be picked up, but either the man doesn't get the clue, or‒
"I don't have a name."
"Oh, well, good then," Stiles is given a wry smile. "Hey, it's a good thing ‒ that means you can have any names you like and no one can make fun of."
"Like Stiles?"
Stiles sends back a dry glare (and maybe a pout) and a jab on the man's bicep. "I resent that."
The man's hesitant snickers are cut off by John pops his head in. He takes a look at Stiles with his obvious pout and the man with his lips frozen in an awkward curve and arches a brow. "Having fun?"
"Ivan is a mean guy." Both of Stiles eyebrows scale to his forehead, and the man shakes his head while John strolls closer.
"That your name, Ivan?"
"No…sir."
"No, it's not dad." Stiles shakes his head to emphasize. "We're on a manhunt for a name of his liking though, you can join in. Dominic?"
John crosses his arms and purses his lips. "I think Nick suits him. Nicholas?" This time two heads give him the negative so he shrugs and comes around them. "Well, we'll have time to figure it out later. For now I need you to spread your wings for me."
Stiles instantly snaps towards said-wings. "Something's wrong?"
"That's why I'm here to find out." John bends to peruse and his fingers comes close enough to trace but not touch any stretched feathers. "Have you ever try flying before?" The negative reply is expected. "Of course, since most of your primary was stripped."
"What does that mean dad?"
John doesn't reply, instead he slides off his coat before expanding his wings. The man is fairly startled by someone else having the same feature as him, but John's attention is on Stiles instead. "See any difference, kiddo?"
Stiles scoots closer for a better look at the golden and rusty-brown wings. "Your outer feathers are longer, he…doesn't have them? That's why he can't fly, because he doesn't have the right feathers to lift up!"
John curves a proud smile and ruffles Stiles' hair. "That what bird owners commonly do to keep their pet from escaping: they clip away the feathers ‒ particularly these primary feathers since they function as thrust and balance. But feathers molt and new ones grow, so the birds aren't entirely damaged. But Theodore (?) here has his mostly removed, which is downright cruel, since it takes a long time for them to grow back, practically years. And even then we can't be certain that they can perform properly or normally."
The room is stiflingly quiet. Then Stiles reaches out to John's fingers and clasps them. "But it's not impossible to teach him, right dad?"
A groan rumbles and shatters the previous air. "Stiles…"
"I don't mean now! I know how busy you are," Lanky limbs flail around until John had enough and get a hold of them. "We still need to wait until Connor's (?) feathers grow back. Oh, and in the meantime he can stay with us, so you aren't homeless anymore!" The last part Stiles directs at the man with a beam. John buries his face in his palm.
o.o.o₰o.o.o
[Smiling as the pieces are picked up ‒ even if neither match]
It is easy of you to be a part of the Stilinskis not long after moving into the manor. You're bred as a slave and absolute obedience to your master. But you came into the world as a runt and half-albino, so they deduced something must have went wrong in the fetus stage and you're cast off as a failure.
(They say you're too iron-willed and a rebel, but you find no wrong in refusing irrational commands.)
Father and son don't treat you as their slave ‒ no kneeling required or be the first in waking up and preparing breakfast or clean Fable's stall ‒ and their every word and gestures assured and ensured you that there's no need to place them in a higher pedestal.
Or rather simply just be a part of the family. (A part of a pack you never had, never born into.)
You choose one of the many rooms in the manor, the one next to Stiles' overlooking the vast green that surrounds this home. (It's primal instinct to keep the youngest cub safe between adults.) On the days that Stiles doesn't follow his father to town both of you are busy with sprucing up the rest of the manor that Merlin ‒ a warlock that had left with his king, Stiles recounts ‒ can't manage to complete. You watched, entranced, by the tools that frolic around, polishing and dusting with each sway and swish while you lug out the heavier wood or masonry. With the dust and debris gone, the rooms are left as they are for now.
"They can redecorate as they see fit." Stiles explains. Every day you understand more about Stiles' magic, so you don't ask for more clarification.
Both of you catch a break when Stiles starts to tire from his magic, and spends the day recuperating by lounging in the library or taking a dip in the lake or taking Fable for a stroll.
Stiles and John (when he's around) teaches you to read (you find the name Caine from an adventure book about pirates and kept it since) and swim (John is extra cautious with Stiles, so you do too, much to Stiles' exasperation) and riding (your heart once again beats in excitement of meeting another creature with wings).
Sometimes you follow John to work and train with the other guards on offensive and defensive fighting techniques, how to handle and block sharp weapons, how to properly load a flintlock and fires with accuracy. Parrish claps you on the back at the end of the day and says that you're welcome to the team anytime.
Sometimes the pair of you do nothing and lay on bed all day, and it's okay. You close your eyes and listen to each steady breath in the still room from either you or Stiles. Wind slips in from the opened windows and brushes by your beard (they're trimmed to a neat length but you left your hair as it is for now) while outside the leaves rustles and insects chirps. For the first time in years the relentless energy in you doesn't threaten to vibrate out of your skin.
(Later Stiles pokes you in the abdomen and asks if you're ticklish. Stiles smirks mischievously and soon it turns into a tickle attack. John comes back to the middle of a pillow fight with feathers snowing around you. He sighs fondly and orders the two of you to clean the mess up, without having magic involved.)
(Later John gives you a lesson and extra tips about flying and you practice and practice and practice and you never knew a smile can split the face in half as wind slaps your skin, Stiles laughter a tremor in your bones.)
o.o.o₰o.o.o
Stiles dreams of the town fountain and a seal pup splashing in it. Dreams are rarely logical, so he disregarded the pup's red eyes and walks closer to the fountain, stopping to take a seat once the pup notices him.
They don't break their stare. Then the pup sidles forward and gives him a wary sniff. Then the pup barks until Stiles angles down and bumps nose with it, whiskers tickling his cheeks and the pup sneeze obnoxiously. The boy laughs as he rubs over the damp pelt.
"Yeah, we're the best of friends."
o.o.o₰o.o.o
Stiles is three years of age when you notice he's different. Another kind of different other than his back bare of wings.
When the wind blows, he halts in his steps and listens. Sometimes he continues to play; sometimes he rushes to collect the clothes and brings Fable back to her stable. When you ask him why, Stiles only shrugs and says, "They told me there will be a storm, and our clothes and Fable will get wet if they're not under the roof."
"Who're they?"
Stiles stares at you, his nose scrunched adorably in confusion at your question. You don't think it's ridiculous, but your son does. Your smile is fond. "The wind and the trees, Papa."
Some days your son greets you in the morning while extracting a promise from you. "Don't go to the well with the tree, Papa. I don't want you to get hurt."
(You don't go to the well with the oak tree at the side. Later your colleague tells you about a broken branch that fell over the well and that fortunately no one has been there today. You go home and Stiles hugs you hard. You cradle him back with the same intensity.)
o.o.o₰o.o.o
[And little else matters]
"Do we have all we need?"
Stiles takes a look at the list again. "The last item iiissss…fertilizer! Then we're done!"
"Okay, I'll get them. Don't go anywhere." Caine jogs off.
"I'm not a child anymore!"
"I know!"
Stiles huffs as he leans on the cart that's filled with gardening tools and seeds and sprouts. They'll be starting a small garden soon, since the manor is largely mended and they have been through most of the books in the library. There are a few books in agriculture, so Stiles suggested in during dinner one night to start on a small plot of land for vegetables and fruits. They can spend less in the market and they can sell off extra harvest before they gone bad.
John and Caine agreed on it after a couple more persuasions, and Caine helps him in gathering all needed gardening tools and materials. They have marked the plot of land in front of the manor where it's full of sunlight and close to the source of water.
They're at the fence when Caine picks up the sound of yelping from the direction of the lake. Then water splashes are heard. He lets go of the cart and sprints forwards, a confused Stiles trying to keep up. The sight at the lake clears the puzzlement up straightaway.
There's a burly man forcefully pushing something else under water while keeping angry rants of "You monster, I won't let you be an adult! Die, die, die‒"
Caine throws his whole body and tackles the man, both rolling away from the edge of the lake, giving Stiles the space needed to reach forward and wrap his fingers and pull‒
A seal. Specifically, a seal pup. Stiles hugs it closer, managing to calm its whining and trembling but not stopping them.
"What are you doing!" The man elbows Caine in the ribs and escapes the loosen grip before charging towards Stiles, but he's only on his second step when Caine wrestles and this time succeeds in pinning him to the ground.
"Are you out of your mind, killing a pup!" Caine growls so deep that the seal pup hunches more into Stiles, whimpering.
"You don't understand!" The man continues to struggle and writhe underneath Caine, but the blonde doesn't move an inch, only his growls increase with each word. "He's a selquh. Adults kill and eat human! Don't let the child grow up, we need to kill him NOW!"
"And I'll be taking you to the Sheriff department now!" Caine roars, his fangs bearing menacingly. Then with a softer tone he turns to Stiles. "Go into the house now. We can take care of the cart later."
Stiles doesn't stay long enough to see Caine hauls the thrashing man down the road as he dashes into the manor with the seal pup. He doesn't know what else to do to comfort the pup, so he brings the pup to his bed and let the blanket embrace them, keeping them in its reassuring cocoon.
When the pup is dry enough the pelt shed off to his waist, the boy within sobs and hiccups.
"I d-don't unders-stand...I didn't do anything wrong…I was b-born like t-this…I didn't do anything…"
o.o.o₰o.o.o
The winter this year is harsh, as the cold that came too soon brings along an epidemic influenza that causes the death of one third of the tribe. This time the people forgoes whispers, their words as bitter as the icy wind while their glares a silent allegation.
You never ask if they forget that you lost your wife in that winter too. That you share the knowledge of losing the light of your life, but not their loathing towards an innocent child.
Your son lost his mother, but Claudia left with a smile, and a promise that you'll take good care of him.
And that's all that matters to you.
o.o.o₰o.o.o
That night Caine returns home with a pissed off Sheriff and an agitated physician aid. She came to the station to report about her missing son, and once both Sheriff and Melissa were informed about the man's crimes, John is merciless in his prosecution (the other guards don't sympathize) while Caine consoles Melissa that her son is safe with Stiles, John's son.
On the road home, the silence that accompanies them home is so thick that a knife can slice through. Then John lips come apart and he shares his past with Melissa and Caine. That Stiles is born different, that he leaves behind everything so Stiles won't grow up misunderstood and feeding petty hatred. He wants Stiles to understand that the world is different and contains so much that it's a shame to just tolerate them; instead he should be celebrating these varieties of life.
Because beauty doesn't just comes in one shade of color.
Then it was Melissa that slides down her wall and tells them about Scott, a son born after she was seduced by a man she met by the seashore one night. The man never shows his face a second time, and she's capable and skilled enough to raise Scott on her own. But she knew the moment Scott comes to the world that he's a special child. But sweet, nonetheless.
She just didn't realize that others could hate him for it.
When they come home to a dark manor, John's hackles instantly raised. He's restraint from rushing in by the hand on his shoulder as Caine sniffs the air, "There's no one else in there," before tracking the scent and leads them towards the library, where faint glows of light can be seen as they neared the entrance, as well as soft singing.
…never need
To face the world alone
They can have the world
We'll create our own
I may not be brave or strong or smart
But somewhere in my secret heart
I know love will find a way
Anywhere I go
I'm home
If you're there beside me
Like dark, turning into day
Somehow we'll come through
Now that I've found you
Love will find a way…
Tears pool and pour down Melissa cheeks as the three adults peek from the door at the sight before them. Books (John recognizes all has the theme of fairytales and far voyages) a fortress around them as a ball of light dangles lazily above two boys. Three pairs of eyes meet each other before nodding and retreating.
They can come by later to put the boys back to bed.
o.o.o₰o.o.o
Scott remains to sleep with Stiles while the room next to John is given to Melissa. The adults find them with tangled limbs each morning, or Scott helping Stiles with breakfast.
(Sometimes they come into the kitchen to find the boys plastered from head to toes with sticky flour.)
Melissa hides Scott's pelt in the cupboard in her room, but the boys still found it and Stiles and Scott go for a dip in the lake. Scott is terrified of the lake at first, so Stiles is indomitable, if not patient with him until the boys can enjoy themselves by splashing water at each other faces.
(Melissa fits seamlessly into their life, especially with two handful boys that fall from tall branches or scrap their knees and bumps their head when rolling down the stairs from chasing each other. Once the physician aid is justifiably horrified upon finding them both in one of the stalls with their hair dyed bright purple and yellow. Fable nickers understandingly ‒ she dolefully allow them to dye her tail red, it's when they dye the tip of her left wing that she nips them on the ear.)
Stiles enlists Scott to help him with the garden too, and together with Caine turned the earth for the vegetable and herbs patch and finds other spots to plant the apple and peach tree, and some for the berry bushes. They dutifully water the plants twice a day, and sometimes sit at the windowsill a whole day just watching at the patch with wide, hopeful, impatient eyes.
(John starts to see a pattern here ‒ he needs to find the right words for the fourth occasion and so on ‒ with Caine as the eldest son and impish twin running the adults ragged. Some days as he heads to the town with Melissa by his side, he would turn to take a last glimpse that the manor then at the boys as the garden. His mind floats back to the patchwork blanket Claudia made for summer-used and smiles in a longsuffering manner. When he returns his gaze back front and meets Melissa's identical grin, he laughs. At least he won't be alone. And there may be others joining into the fray and they could share the headache and a cup of drink at night after the children are all in bed. Soon.)
Scott likes the library too, and especially likes it when Stiles reads to him because the boy's snarls and snores and sniggers whenever the event of the story needs him too. There are other books too ‒ books about constellation and ballads of battles won and heroes lost. Tales of foolish kings and shrewd farm boys. Of faraway cities and folklores of magical creatures (he learns that a male selquh may seduce women who had had shed seven tears into the sea, but they rarely kill them, and then he cries the whole night in Stiles' arms).
They find that selquh has the ability to call upon storm and lightning (when there is a storm at sea, it's the wrath of Leviathan. But when there is lightning amongst clouds, it's the wrath of selquh) so they train. Or rather Stiles finds ways to draw out the lightning and when succeeded, Scott learns in creative ways to control them.
(John and Melissa forbid them to try it out at the lake, the kitchen or the attic. There is a burnt patch on the boulder next to the raspberry bushes.)
In winter the lake is frozen, so they all put on skating boots. None of them knows how to skate though, and all ended with bumped crown and sore bottom. Laughter keeps them warm. Snow balls are thrown and at night they all snuggle close to the hearth, cracking fire and hot drinks lulling them to sleep.
(It is the same lake that the baron's blind son and the baker's son meet and learn to see the world through each other's' eyes. Brad is still meaner than Alex though, for teasing at Stiles for flailing too much and falling on his face on ice too many times. He later made up with cinnamon buns so Stiles forgives him anyway.)
In summer they collect the many kinds of wild flowers around the property ‒ daisies and cosmos and bluebells and buttercups ‒ and knit them into flower garlands. Then along with cups and milk and mixed fruit jams they make offerings to coppices (the dryads guide them through).
(One remaining garland sits on Caine and he became a king for the day. He's rather bashful for a king, and is desolate when the flowers wilted days later, so the boys promise to knit him another one next year.)
o.o.o₰o.o.o
That morning, Stiles drank his milk and gives you a solemn stare. "Papa, is bleeding bad?"
You fasten your boots while contemplating. "You bleed when you're hurt, so yes, it's bad." Then you think for another while. "But all babies come out to the world covered in blood, so not all bleeding are awful."
Stiles nods. Then he adds. "Papa, can you go and visit the girl with long red braid and black flecks on her wings?"
"Okay, I'll go." Stiles doesn't tell you why, and you don't ask. You ruffle his hair and he gives you a pout. Then you're out for work.
Later in the evening you go and visit Natalie, and find a trigger string that leads to a set of traps on her doorstep. Your experience told you that the setting is meant only to be a prank, but a snap in the wrong direction could mean the end of a functioning wing.
Natalie comes out to find you in the middle of disabling the traps, and curses the Wirkwoods brothers for their unscrupulous method of attracting her attention. She thanks you for your vigilance.
(You don't tell her that she's giving her gratitude to the wrong person.)
That night, you come home to broken windows and busted door. Your heart drops and your lungs burn and your stomach hollows and your mind a storm and long last your feet moves, each step accompanied with a glance around your house (this cannot be yours and Stiles' home anymore), taking in the damages that bloom like wild flowers in summer.
Broken glass and woods. Rotten vegetables and fruits and eggs. Bricks and stones and whatnots.
And in the dark of the house, your son is nowhere to be seen. Your heart stops, like the day light finally leaves your wife's eyes.
"STILES!"
There is rustling from the side, and Fable trots out with Stiles under her right wing. You stumble forward and hugs your son until your throat no longer fell like choking from swallowing your heart, only then do you check him for injuries. Your mind calms when you find none.
Stiles pets your head, like when he's soothing Fable when she's having a temper tantrum, and you choke out a laugh. You don't let it all out, because then it'll turn hysterical and you don't want to scare Stiles more. You hug him back, chest to chest, his pulse thrumming strong under your fingers. "What happened?"
"I don't know, Papa." There's a trembling lilt in Stiles' whisper, and you hold him closer, harder. "Just that Fable wants me to come to the stable and stay with her until you come home. Then there's a lot of shouting and things breaking! I swear I didn't do it!"
"No, no you didn't." Stiles is quick with his hands, but growing limbs mean that he always trips around and knocking into things. But breaking cups and bowls are different from trashing an entire property. "I know you didn't."
You straightens up, one hand wraps around your son's shoulder while the other pats Fable on her neck. "Thank you. And good work, girl."
Fable nickers.
You don't stop her when she follows you back into the house. You let Stiles stay with her as you pick up a rock with a paper wrapped around it.
It reads 'DIE YOU DEVIL!'
The other reads 'YOU SHOULDN"T BEEN BORN'
Another reads 'YOU"RE NOT WELCOME MONSTER!'
You can't remember the day Stiles' grandparents come to visit their only grandchild. You can't remember the day Stiles follows you to town to buy supplies for dinner. You can't remember having other children around to play with your son.
(You remembered Claudia's smile ‒ as faint as a ghost ‒ as two pinkies twined. "I can't imagine life without Stiles anymore. Promise me John, promise me you won't give up on him and take care of him. Take care of our son.")
(You remembered the day Stiles clutched both hands tightly around your shoulders as you soared up the sky and glided above the trees. Stiles' smile is about to split his face in half. It has been a while since your golden wings flew with this much joy.
You asked your son if he'd wished for wings of his own.
Stiles scrunched his nose. "But I like flying with you, Papa. You find the best views.")
The papers float to the floor in shreds before the twilight wind sweeps them away. "Stiles, go saddle Fable and wait for me, I'll join you when I'm done here."
"Okay, Papa."
You wait until Stiles and Fable are out of the door before packing up the essentials in a satchel. There's nothing much to fill the bag to the brim, and you don't know how long is the road ahead, but for now you don't care for anything else as long as your son is safe.
As long as he can be happy, especially in the future.
(No one knows where or when this tribe is born, but your people are known as Dhalion and have the lifespan of three hundred years.)
You pick Stiles up and settle him on the saddle ("don't swing your legs too much ‒ Fable may be patient, but she's not a saint") and you tug the rein so Fable starts moving. When you pass the gate, a wind brushes by with a kiss as soft as a lover's that grazes your temple.
You smile and never look back.
o.o.o₰o.o.o
[When happiness is already in the palm of your hands]
There's an abandoned manor at the end of the path, which ironically is the beginning of the land that surrounds the building.
"It's a big house."
"It is, Papa."
"Do you see the land around it? This is a lot of land."
"Yes, Papa."
"And it's abandoned. Why would someone abandoned it?"
"Hmmm…my dreams don't tell me that much."
"Are you sure this is the right one?"
"The colors are right."
"That manor can house a hundred of tenants, and you'll still have room to waltz around."
"Oh, I didn't count properly, but I'm sure it won't grow more than fifty yet."
"…"
"Can we go in now, Papa?"
"We need to do proper paper works first, Stiles."