Stiles Stilinski, a man who would come to be known by names, was born of humble means in 1769 to a peasant family in Faverolles, a commune located in northern France. His parents were goodly people, Claudine and Alain, they were prayerful and hard-working. For the short time they were together, the family lived on a small farm. Their rustic property was lined with large trees, and the sounds of the leaves rustling was a lullaby to Stiles's as a young boy. He was, perhaps, a bit attached to these trees. He would climb them everyday, and he would beg his father to tell him absolutley everything he knew about trees. Well, his father didn't know very much about trees, so Stiles was forced to satisfy his need for knowledge with his mother's tales of trees. She would tell stories of how the trees grew so tall or how they became stumps. Stiles hung on to her every word. And it could be said, that Stiles Stilinski had a happy childhood, but that was cut short. When he was eight, the influenza virus ravaged the small village. His parents did return to God. Stiles was eight and alone, a condition he would become acutely familiar with.
As an orphan, who was not fit to take of himself, he was sent to live with a dear friend of his mother, Lydie Martin and her husband, Aiden. The young couple had eight young children, all of whom worked with their father pruning trees, and Stiles worked with them. It hurt Stiles to snap the trees's branches, killing pieces of a vibrant and lively creature, it shattered the durable vision he had of the world around him. It was here, working in the trees, that he found that life could ergeiously lonely and unfair. The beacon of hope in his days was Lydie. The woman was an angel to him. She had fair skin and strawberry blonde hair. She was intelligent with a warm smile. Despite being very poor, Lydie had a large library, and it was in that very room that she taught Stiles how to read. First, in french, then, in latin. However, the bliss of his formative years ended, when Aiden died in a factory accident. Stiles, being the oldest of all the children, was now the sole adult provider of the house. The familt little money, but they were happy, or at least they tried to be. But it in was the winter of 1796, that the family became desperate.
For months, the economy was growing continually sour, and with that, there had been less and less food on their table, not nearly enough to feed ten people. Stiles worked as much as he possibly could, every hour possible, at every business posibble, but the family could not make ends meet. It was sure and dismal fact that they would not all survive the winter. It was never discussed, neither he nor Lydie could quite bear to discuss it, but they did mourn through glances, knowing that, in their current conidtion, the littlest among them were close to death. When the littlest children, Adélaide grew ill, Stiles was besides himself. He worked even harder, in hopes of providing the sick girl with food and medicine, but payments on a day's work decreaseddaiky.
It was Christmas Eve. Stiles was walking home from the factory, he had been lucky to find a day's work in. The snow was heavy, and he wrapped his tattered scarf more tightly around his neck as he trudged through the little town. Night had already fallen, and the shops surrounding him were encompassed with darkness. There was one shop that caught the man's eyes, Decaulion's Bakery. Deucalion's bakery was owned by Gideon Deucalion, a vain man with a penchant for street fights. Each day, Gideon would arrange and immactulate display of pastries and fine breads, before leaving the shop, to spend the day fighting with anyone gullible enough to challenge him. The bread taunted Stiles. Mounds and mounds of bread, and not a single person around. And in lapse of judgement, he smashed the window of the shop and grabbed the largest one, savoring its fresh smell. Unfortunately, Stiles had neglected that the smashing window would rouse the occupants of the apartment above the shop. It woke Deucalion in a jolt, and as he saw the thief running, he yelled for the police. Stiles Stilinski was not a fast man, and it was inveitable that he would be caught.
And that is how Stiles Stilinski came to be in the galleys of Toulon. He stole a loaf of bread and was charged five years in the galleys, plus fifteen additional years for each of his failed escapes. Stiles became prisoner 24601. He would spend nineteen bone-chilling year in Toulon, full of agnozing work. The construction made Stiles strong, stronger than any man in the Bagne of Toulon. But the daily routine of prison was something even Stiles didn't necessarily have the strength to endure. Not physically, but emotionally. The prison's monotonous schedule gave Stiles a deep sense of apathy for the deep suffering around him. The prisoners were to awake early in the moring, at least an hour before light, and assemble themselves in their ragged uniforms. After assembly, they would be taken row by row to their chain work. As the sun rose, the heat would become unbearable. Stiles was always drenched in sweat before mid-morning, though he cared little about how much he did sweat. "Christ," he'd mumble, "It's like standing in your own goddamn grave."
Then, around high noon, was when the wailing would begin. And old man, Monseiur Blanc, may have been the worst of them, especially since his work station, was directly besides Stiles. Monseuir Blanc would shout for hours, as if in Stiles ears, "I've done no wrong! Please, let me go. I pray to you Lord Jesus, hear this prayer. Let me go." It would take all of fifteen minutes for Stiles to get annoyed and yell to Blanc, "You know, I think it is pretty damn clear, that Jesus could care less." This would only stop Blanc for a moment of two, and each time Stiles reprimanded the man, it hardened his heart.
The next offender was usually Monseuir Mahealani. Mahealani had only recently been incarcerated, and he told lavish tales of his many lovers, especially a man named Ethan. He believed Ethan would wait for him. He liked to reassure his fellow convicts of this at every meal. He'd sit down at the table, with the scraps of food that passed a meal in Toulon, and he'd bellow loudly of the man who'd wait for him. Stiles was positive that this Ethan man had already forgotten all of Mahealani, Stiles longed to forget him, however his loud mouth made it quite impossible. It was at times like these that Stiles was happy to be considered the strongest man in the galleys, because it meant that was to leave dinner early, to bring down the flag mast. It was repreive for the idle chatter of sweethearts that he could barely endure. In times of solitude, he often mocked the bouncing, feminie flow of the jibbering men's voices. However, this night, was not a normal night. As he finished fixing the flag, he heard a command, something unheard of for the time of night.
"PRISONER 24601," he heard the guard shout from across the galley, dejected, he follow the man's voice. He met the man, a young guard, in front of the prison office.
"Yes sir," Stiles breathed to the young waif of a man at the door.
"Inspector Argent requests to see you inside," the young voice booms and Stiles slips through the door, into Inspector Argent's office. Inspector Alison Argent was a woman, about the age of Stiles himself. She had sweeping dark hair that was bunched on top of her head. She wore a tight police uniform and had two guns on her person, one secured on each hip. Her hard eyes were squinted, focused on Stiles.
"Prisoner 24601?" She questioned coldly, her voice carried much authority, enough authority that Stiles may have trembled in her presence at the beginning of his sentence. It did not faze him now. He nodded. She continued, "You're time is up and your parole has begun." She dug into her pocket, in search for his yellow ticket. When she retrieved the ticket, she sauntered over to him, and asked, hissing, "Do you know what that means, sir?"
Stiles face crumpled with happiness, a foreign feeling. "Yes, " he smiled, "It means I am free."
Appalled, Argent stood down, crossing her arms, "No," she barked, "It means you get your ticket of leave. This ticket identifies you as criminal, and you must show it. You are not free, you are a thief."
"I stole a loaf of bread," Stiles snarls.
"You are a criminal all the same, 24601." She sneered the number as she placed the paper in his hand.
He gripped the paper and protested, "My name is Stiles Stilinski."
"And I am Alison Argent. Do not forget my name," She uncrossed her arms, took out her gun, cocking it every so slightly, as a warning. She gestured towards the door. "You are to report in three days, 24601. And if you do not report, I will find you and drag you back here myself." Her threats were cold and convincing.
"My name is-" Her glare cut him off- and he decided not to fight. As he leaves the room, he sees Argent turn to the crucifix on the wall. She crosses and repeats her code; one Stilinski would learn well, "Honest Work, Just Reward. That's the way to please the Lord." She snaps the gun back in its holster, as he hurries towards freedom.
Stiles leaves Toulon with nothing but his papers and piece of beard. He feels more alive than he ever has. He treks the mountainous countryside, he feels the waning rays of sun against his skin and the gentle caress of the wind. As he feels the rushing hope of freedom, he makes a vow to himself, to never forget the cruelty he has endured, to never forget that life is not fair.
But this is not a story of vengeance, dear reader. It is the story of how Stiles Stilinski relinquished his hatred, and learned to breathe freely again. It is how he became, what we consider, an honest man