Chapter 2
When Stiles woke up the next morning, he was surprised to realize that he had woken up before Scott. A glance at the clock showed it to be eight in the morning. Stiles gaped. It had been ages since he woke up on his own before ten or so. Usually once he was asleep, he would keep sleeping for hours, catching up on all the sleep he lost by pulling late nights and all-nighters. As it was, he only got a little over six hours that night.
Despite that, he was surprisingly awake. He wasn't really sure why, but he wasn't planning on looking a gift horse in the mouth. He glanced at Scott, debating on waking him up, but decided that he'd let the werewolf sleep. After all, his friend wasn't as used to not sleeping as Stiles was. However, letting Scott sleep opened up a new problem to Stiles. He was going to be bored.
He couldn't use the computer, because with Scott's wolfy hearing, he'd wake up for sure at the sound of the keys. He also couldn't leave the room, because again, wolf hearing. Stiles bit his lip as he scanned around the room looking for something to occupy him. As his eyes drifted over his side table, he suddenly remembered the book, and sat upright. How had he already forgotten it? He was nearly obsessed with it yesterday after only half an hour of knowing it existed.
Now that he'd thought about it, Stiles couldn't come up with anything other than the journal to entertain himself with. Even his computer didn't sound as interesting anymore when he thought about the story someone from hundreds of years ago was telling. That was something even the internet couldn't offer as authentically as holding a book from several hundred years in the past.
Quietly and carefully, Stiles slid open the drawer holding the black journal. There it lay, as unassuming as ever. He picked up the book, not bothering to close the drawer again. It would make more unnecessary noise, and it didn't really matter at the moment. Stiles opened it back up to the page he had left off on, and found the paragraph he had been reading when Scott barged into his room last night.
My story begins in early spring. The snow had melted only a fortnight ago, but the trees and flowers had already begun to bloom. The winter had been harsh that year, and our village had lost several of our elderly and children. Most survived despite the cold and hunger, and were already beginning to work the fields for planting. Such is the cycle of life when there are families to feed and work to be done.
One unfortunate effect of the winter was an illness that settled deep in the chest. Guide claimed it came from liquid entering the lungs, making it difficult to breathe. I suppose he must have been correct in his diagnosis, for he is the town healer after all, and by then all but one of the ill had recovered with his help.
The one who had not was Grandmother. She is not truly my grandmother, but that is what she has been known as by everyone in the village for as long as I can remember. She is well liked by all, and the children simply love her. Everyone was concerned when she fell ill, and if we lost her, everyone would mourn her passing.
Guide told us all that she would need daily care from someone, and that she would need to be given a tonic every day until she was better. Everyone wanted to help, but nobody could do it. Despite their love for her, the planting season had arrived, and within days they would be in fields from daybreak until dusk. With nobody else able to help, the job fell to me.
Unlike many, I lived alone. My parents had been taken by fever only two years prior, and I had no siblings or other family. I was old enough to live alone at the time, even if just barely. By the time Grandmother needed caring for, I had only myself to care for. I lived by myself in my father's house, the one he had built for my mother. It was a beautiful house, though simple, and I could not bear to even think about leaving it despite Grandmother's condition. So I took the path through the woods to care for her every morning and evening, in spite of the amount of time that took out of my day.
The morning everything changed, and on which our tale truly begins, was made bright by sunshine and was full of color. The wind was crisp still, but it was nothing a thick cloak would not fix. The baker's son, J, had given me an additional loaf of bread the previous evening when I bought the first. He told me it was to repay me for the carrots I had given him the week before. I knew that the real reason was that we were close friends – nearly family, as we often joked about being cousins born into the wrong families.
Whichever version of events you believe, mine or J's, the fact of the matter was that I had an extra loaf of bread that I had decided to bring to Grandmother. It usually did not take me very long to prepare to go and visit her, nor did it that morning. However, those few extra moments I took to carefully wrap the bread in cloth and add it to my basket were just enough to change my fate.
I set out by early morning, wearing a simple dress and my shoes that were worn by use throughout the years. As a last minute decision, feeling the chill in the air, I had decided to wear the rose-red cloak Grandmother had made for me as a thank you gift. I had yet to wear it, and had decided in that moment that it would bring a smile to her face to see me use it. In truth, the gift was probably as much for her benefit as mine, for if I fell ill in the cold, she too would suffer as I was her caretaker.
The shortcut through the woods had become slightly obscured during the long winter months, but by the time several weeks went by, my daily visits would soon reestablish it. Grandmother often had many visitors as well, and the tramp of their feet would assist in marking the path again.
It was slightly dimmer under the trees, but the light coming from between the leaves provided more than enough light to see by as it dappled the ground. The woods are peaceful in the spring – especially in the morning. That morning, though, that peace only lasted half an hour, until I was fairly deep in the woods.
I had been listening for the birds, hoping to catch sight of some that might have already returned when I heard the sound. I was confused, because at first it sounded like raised voices, but when I listened closer, I thought I was hearing dogs fighting. The only dogs in town were Leader's. Leader's dogs were as important to him as his family, and they came from a prestigious lineage. If they were fighting, I had to try and break them up before they were injured too badly.
Following the sounds of snarling and growling, I came upon a clearing in which two writhing animals appeared to be fighting to the death. They were far bigger than I had anticipated, and from that alone I knew that they were not Leader's dogs. The only conclusion that I could come to was that the two animals were wolves.
The entry ended there, and Stiles stared at the page blankly. What on earth was he reading? It seemed like a twisted version of some fairytale or another. A young woman goes out into the woods alone carrying a basket and wearing a red cloak to go visit her 'grandmother' and comes across wolves? Really? Deaton had said that this was a factual account of a human packmate, not a warped version of Little Red Riding Hood. A sudden sound from Scott drew Stiles out of his thoughts, and he closed the book while making a mental note to go visit the vet soon to get clarification.
Scott opened his eyes, and several moments later sat up. He glanced over at Stiles and jumped when he noticed that his friend was already awake and watching him. Stiles let out a laugh at Scott's expression, and Scott glared at him despite the fact that he wasn't truly angry.
"Dude! Don't watch me like that, it's creepy. How long have you even been awake?" He glanced at the clock, then blinked at the time. Scott turned to Stiles with a rather concerned expression. "It's barely nine in the morning. Are you feeling alright? Please tell me you weren't up all night." Stiles shook his head in response.
"Relax, Scott. I was asleep soon after you were, I just woke up earlier than normal for whatever reason. I've only been up since a little after eight." Scott's anxiety drained away as he nodded, and he looked a little relieved. Stiles felt his lips twitch in amusement. His friend could be such a worrywart about some things, and then be completely fine about things that were truly life-threatening. Scott suddenly stiffened and turned to Stiles incredulously.
"Wait, have you been watching me for over an hour? Why didn't you wake me up?" Stiles grinned widely at the werewolf's indignation, and held up the black journal. He didn't realize that he had kept the scarlet R on his side of the cover until a moment later, but brushed it off as a coincidence.
"Even I'm not that weird, dude, and that's saying something. I was reading the book Deaton gave me yesterday, remember? I didn't wake you up because it was still early, and you looked like you could use the sleep." Scott looked sheepish, and a little embarrassed, at jumping to the conclusion that Stiles had been watching him sleep.
"Sorry. Anyway, we should probably eat and then get going if we're going to be meeting with the pack at eleven." Stiles nodded, setting the book back in the drawer and closing it. The two boys then got up and made their way downstairs to eat some breakfast. Scott settled into his usual place at the counter easily, already well aware that he was banned from even making cereal in the Stilinski kitchen – especially after the incident with the spoiled milk getting spilled everywhere. Stiles had complained for weeks about the smell.
Stiles on the other hand got out several pans and ingredients from the cupboards around the kitchen. He felt his mind settle as he worked. Cooking was one of the only things that calmed his hyperactive mind. He had no idea why, but he wasn't exactly going to complain. Privately, he thought it probably had something to do with it being something he had done with his mom. It had been their thing, and she had been the one to teach him how to cook at all.
This morning he was making waffles, and by the way Scott perked up several minutes into the process, he knew it too. The next fifteen minutes were filled with a rare but comfortable silence between the two. Once the batter was made, it didn't take long for a huge pile of waffles to form on one of the plates Stiles had gotten out. He took five for himself, and left the rest for Scott, knowing that his wolfy metabolism meant his friend ate even more than he did.
Their silence ended once they began to eat, and before long they were in a heated debate about whether or not Wolverine was better than Quicksilver. Neither of them realized how long they had been discussing the topic until Stiles glanced at the time and cursed.
"Oh man, we're going to be late! Erica is going to kill us, and if Lydia is there we'll wish we were dead!" Needless to say, that realization got them both moving pretty quickly. They hurriedly got dressed, Scott throwing on the extra clothes he'd brought and Stiles throwing on whatever was closest. He grabbed his bag, and put a notebook and several pencils and pens in it. Scott was already downstairs by that point, waiting impatiently by the front door. Stiles hesitated, then grabbed V's journal from his bedside table and added it to his backpack.
"Stiles, hurry up!" Scott called up to him. Stiles rolled his eyes and closed the drawer before zipping up his bag and darting to the door. He clattered his way down the stairs, barely managing to keep from hitting the wall at the bottom as he flailed.
"Calm down, Mr. Impatient. I'm coming, I'm coming." He snagged his keys off the hook by the door, and dragged Scott through the door after him. "Now, how many traffic laws do you think I can break before my dad will be forced to give me a ticket?"
