Fic Title: Of Honour, Power and Wolves
Fic Acronym: OHPAW
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Fic Rating: M
Chapter Rating: PG
Fic Word Count: unknown
Chapter Word Count: 7,498
Beta: Bononoho
Main Character: Stiles
Pairings: Derek/Stiles, Scott/Allison, Lydia/Jackson
Warnings: none for this chapter
Summary: Stiles' life is about to be turned upside down by his curiosity of the mysterious prisoner in Duke Guaire's dungeon. You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat... perhaps in this case it is more like, curiosity set the cat out on a mad adventure dealing with magic and politics, wolves and villains, all to clear his father's name and expose a corrupt duke... but that is kind of a long phrase.
chapter two
The sun was shining brightly even from its low stance in the sky. The day was still young, but the heat of it was already beginning to grow uncomfortable. Stiles knew it was going to feel like a long day, but he was more anxious about how Scott was doing. Which was why he nearly tripped over his own feet when he saw his friend's profile across the field. He had been chatting with one of the other trainees as they waited for Armsmaster Finstock, but he stopped mid sentence, his eyes widening and his pace fumbling. He patted his companion on the shoulder awkwardly in some form of good bye before turning to jog toward Scott who was talking to one of his tutors.
"Thank you," spoke Scott just as Stiles reached the two.
"I will see you after training," said the elderly man, nodding his head and then giving Stiles a squinty eye before turning to leave.
Stiles made a face at the back of his head as he watched the man leave. Once he was gone, he turned to Scott.
"I had expected you to be in bed," he breathed out, keeping his voice low.
"So had I," replied Scott before giving Stiles a confused grin. He looked excited but also a little... worried? Stiles wasn't sure how to interpret his expression.
Scott pushed at his tunic to show Stiles where his bite had been. The key word in that sentence was "had".
"Wha..." Stiles opened his mouth to speak but instead just left it hanging in surprise as he reached out to poke at Scott's side. "Okay, honestly... what?"
"Exactly!" exclaimed Scott. He glanced around to make sure they didn't have anyone else's attention as the group of trainees trickled in around them wearing their gear and moving around to get muscles warmed up. "It healed!"
Stiles shook his head.
"Healed would be scar tissue and some leftover bruising of some sort," said Stiles. "It outright disappeared!"
"I don't understand it either," said Scott, his eyes wide with excitement. "At first I wondered if perhaps I had dreamed the entire thing, but you confirmed everything for me just now."
Stiles looked back down at the unmarred skin of Scott's torso before shaking his head.
"Consider the likelihood that we both dreamed it," he spoke, his voice sounding a bit strained.
"That's impossible," argued Scott.
"No," said Stiles, shaking his head before poking roughly at Scott's side. "This is impossible."
Scott opened his mouth to speak but was cut off before he could by the sudden presence of Armsmaster Finstock.
"Good morrow my pretty maidens," called out Finstock, patting Stiles heavily on the shoulder causing him to wince. He looked down at where Scott still had his tunic pulled aside before giving the two boys a scandalized look. Scott quickly dropped his clothing back into place.
"Foreplay on the field?" asked Jackson in a mocking voice as he sidled up to them, his best friend Dan in tow. "I'm not interested in your exhibitionism, boys."
"At least they're getting more action than you, Jack!" laughed a tall young man from the opposite side. "Lydia is such a..."
"...beautiful, intelligent, pure, talented maiden?" cut in Stiles helpfully.
The taller boy rolled his eyes at Stiles while Jackson glared murderously. Stiles frowned at him, hoping he looked menacing but figuring that he didn't considering he felt more intimidated than intimidating. He moved a bit closer to Scott. It was as if Jackson believed Stiles had been the one speaking ill of Lydia and not Jackson's idiotic friend - unfair.
"All right, lads," called out Finstock as the group huddled around him. "Let's get some training in before you need to leave for tea with your grannies."
Stiles patted his hands over his chest and shoulders, checking that his padding was in place, before turning his attention back to their armsmaster.
"Scott," bellowed Finstock, "take a wooden sword and stand center. We're going to practise our charges today."
"Why me?" grunted out Scott before turning to go grab up a wooden sword from the barrel near the storage shed.
"Because... Scott," ground out Finstock in annoyance, "it is going to be a long, hot day and I want to keep morale up. I don't know about you, but my spirits always rise when I get to beat on dumb animals."
"Why me?" repeated Scott, this time a little higher pitched.
"Eh," said Finstock with a shrug, "you have the best nurse maid... plus, I don't like you."
Scott looked to Stiles with a panicked expression while the other boys chuckled amongst themselves. Stiles couldn't really do anything so just grimaced and shrugged regretfully.
"Greenberg!" called out Finstock as Scott moved to the middle of the field. "On your feet, lad! Now, everyone line up!"
The group of young men lined up, Stiles sending Scott looks of regret from where he stood near the back of the group. Scott tightened his grip on the hilt of the training sword and hunched down a little in preparation for the first attack.
Jackson was at the front of the group; of course he was. He wouldn't miss such a perfect opportunity to inflict pain on the duke's son. Stiles held his breath as Armsmaster Finstock called out for Jackson to begin. He watched Scott brace himself as Jackson flew into action, running at Scott while pulling his arm back for a powerful swing.
Miraculously, Scott managed to duck in time and Jackson missed. Stiles breathed out in relief, but Jackson pivoted, recovering quickly from the surprise, and swung at Scott again. This time his wooden sword made contact with Scott, knocking him to the ground wheezing. Jackson stepped a foot on Scott's back with a smug look on his face. Stiles didn't hear what Jackson said to Scott, but he was sure it was cruel.
"Okay, next!" called out Finstock and Jackson reluctantly let Scott up.
Scott looked angry as he wiped a hand over his face, and got back into a ready position. Stiles thought his eyes flashed a strange bright golden colour, but he could have been mistaken. The next young man ran at Scott, this time he swiftly made the first hit. Stiles' mouth dropped open in shock. Scott moved out of the way with every lunge the other made and rewarded him with a clack on the shoulder, arm, leg, or sword with his own. He was able to knock the other to the ground seconds later.
Finstock was gaping. "Next," he choked out.
Every time someone ran at Scott, they were quickly defeated. Stiles watched in amazement. When it came to be his turn, Jackson pushed him aside so he could have another go at Scott. Even he was quickly disarmed and found to be lying in the dirt.
"Okay!" called out Finstock. "That's enough of that. Everyone go run the length of the field. I want you all to do four laps before returning to me."
"What was that?" demanded Stiles once they were finished training for the day and were back in the arms shed changing out of their training pads.
"I have no idea," answered Scott, shaking his head, his eyes similarly wide.
"You were magnificent!" exclaimed Stiles. "What happened?"
"Well, I have been training harder recently," said Scott as he rubbed a cloth over his damp torso. "I've been working on my physique even outside of training. I want to be all I can be by the time of Allison's arrival."
Stiles pushed back the urge to roll his eyes at the mention of Allison.
"No, this isn't simply you getting better, Scott," said Stiles. "Even with all the training in the world, you would not be able to move like I saw on the field.
"I find it insulting how you underestimate me."
Stiles scoffed at that.
"I'm sorry, Scott, but this isn't natural," he explained after a few beats. "And you were ahead of everyone when we had to run laps when normally you get out of breath so easily."
"I don't know what to tell you," said Scott. "One minute I was me, the next... I was still me, but I could do everything without feeling hindered by my lungs or muscles. They worked with me instead of against me."
"They always work with you, they are you...you wouldn't be able to move without...yeah... nevermind," sighed Stiles, feeling frustrated over his confusion at Scott's sudden improvement.
The other young men were giving them a wide berth, Stiles was resolutely enjoying it instead of feeling unnerved. Once their training gear was packed up, Stiles and Scott left together, walking side by side down the dusty dirt path. They didn't make it far before Stiles noticed his father leaving Tower Capalláidir. Curious, he patted Scott's shoulder in farewell before hurrying to his father.
"Hey, dah!" he called out, jogging awkwardly with his bag over his shoulder.
His father stopped and waited for him.
"What's going on?" asked Stiles once he reached his side.
"Did anyone ever explain to you about curiosity?" asked his father with a slightly perturbed look on his face.
"Yes," answered Stiles. "Repeatedly."
His father snorted.
"So, will you tell me what is going on?"
"Shouldn't you be headed home to get ready to meet with your tutor?" asked his father.
"No, I have plenty of time," replied Stiles, still waiting for some information.
"Stiles, you only see the tutor once a week. You can not miss a gathering; you will fall behind."
"Fine," sighed out Stiles, his shoulders slumping. "But I will be bringing this up again," he warned.
"I have no doubt," muttered his father.
Stiles managed to make it to the small group of pupils where they were gathered in their usual meeting spot near the old oak tree before master Cassius had started his weekly spiel. Still, he was the last to arrive and the elderly man gave him a sour look as he settled on the grass next to Issac. They were on a small hill that was not much more than a soft rise just outside of the castle, not far from the Cosain Tower. From where they sat, they had a good view of both the main road that led to the nearby town and the Tuaisceart Sea.
Seagulls cawed in the air, the long grass waved in the breeze, and men hollered at each other from the ocean port below the steep cliff. It all served as distractions for Stiles who wished he could be anywhere other than sitting at his tutor's feet having to listen to him drone on about the history of the kingdom's settlement in his nasally, monotone voice. Stiles didn't care how the duchys had come to be, nor the long line of lineage the current king had come from. He let out a soft sigh, turning his attention longingly to the castle. It also brought Jackson's face into his view and he noticed the other boy staring daggers at him. Unsure of what would have Jackson upset with him at the moment, Stiles scrunched his face at him before turning away.
As master Cassius droned on, Stiles' thoughts turned to the prisoner. He didn't want to wonder too hard at why he so quickly became as fixated on the man as he was. He simply played it off as the mystery and allowed his mind to drift across possible scenarios. The man was built like a miner, but being treated as a powerful creature; he was worth keeping locked up in the duke's special tower, but there was no talk among the townspeople. Was he a knight from another kingdom? Was he some sort of spy? Where did they capture him? Could he be a pirate? A high profile pirate captured at their port, why would they keep him secret? Perhaps they feared his crew coming for him and burning their town in revenge.
But his eyes...
How did they glow red?
Was he some sort of draíodóir? A wizard or some sort of seductive priest? A sagart? Perhaps the familiar of a kaillek? It would make sense that he be a demonic spirit of some sort with how they treated him with fear. If he were a familiar, though, wouldn't his kaillek come to him and -wait, who said seductive?
Stiles shook himself from his thoughts.
"...and if you take anything away from my talk today," spoke master Cassius, "let it be that."
Stiles cursed at himself under his breath.
"I will see you here again next week," he said in dismissal as he grabbed his cane and shakily rose to his feet. "May the Emerald Sisters watch over you."
The small group of boys from families wealthy enough to afford a scholar in the family got up and began to disperse. Jackson found Stiles, grabbing him roughing by the shoulder and swinging him around.
"Whaaa," stammered Stiles in surprise.
"Tell me of Scott," demanded Jackson, bodily moving Stiles and himself away from any curious ears. "How did he do it? Was it some special tea or potion? Did he go to a kaillek? Was it that creepy tutor of his, Allen Deaton?"
"What?" exclaimed Stiles. "I don't know! What do you mean Deaton?"
"Some say he is a draio of some sort," answered Jackson before remembering himself and expression turning even more sour. "Shut up, just tell me what Scott did to get so good."
Stiles closed his mouth and simply shrugged.
"Tell me, damn it!" hissed Jackson.
"You said to shut up," explained Stiles with a shrug
"Horse piss, Stiles," ground out Jackson giving him a light shove in warning before stalking away. "You should be a court jester!" he called over his shoulder as he reached the side of his friend, Dan.
Stiles was waiting for his father that evening to ask again about the prisoner just as he had promised. He was seated at the long table in the great hall, paging aimlessly through an old encyclopedia between sips from his bowl of soup while tapping his free hand against the table.
"Stop that," ordered Mistress Melissa as she walked past, reaching out to slap at his hand. "You'll wake the gods."
"Hah," scoffed Stiles, but he clenched his hand to keep himself from going back to tapping.
She set out a plate of fruit, cheese, and bread and a large wooden goblet before disappearing back into the kitchen. Moments later the front door swung open and Stiles' father stepped into the manor. He looked tired, with a heavy stance and stooped shoulders. He took off his boots and stepped into his turnshoes before entering the great hall.
"Stiles," he said in greeting as he took a seat at the head of the table.
"Father," answered Stiles in the same.
He bit his lips together to keep from asking right away, and turned his attention back to what he had been reading, though it really had little consequence to him. Mistress Melissa came in with a pitcher of wine and silently filled his goblet. Stiles didn't miss the way his father's face softened at her presence.
"Soup?" she asked.
"No, thank you," he said. "What's here is enough."
She nodded, smiling serenely and leaving.
"What are you reading?" asked his father, attention turning to Stiles once Melissa was out of the room.
"Uh," hummed out Stiles, turning the book over to read the title to him. "Diarmad's Encyclopedia of Native Plants and Herbs."
His father's eyebrow rose and corners of his mouth quirked at the sides.
"Okay," he said. "Have you learned anything interesting?"
Stiles shrugged, smiling at his father.
"Naw," he said. "Just some light reading while I waited for your arrival."
"I see," sighed out his father, setting down the hunk of bread he had been about to take a bite of. "Well, let's have it then. I know you want to ask."
Stiles was silent a moment, wanting to know everything he could about the prisoner, but also aware that his father wasn't about to sit him down on his knee to tell him a story that began with once upon a time. He needed the right question to get the most information. He wasn't sure what question that would be, though.
"What is to be done with the prisoner?" he asked.
"I am not certain," replied his father. "Duke Guaire has called for a meeting tomorrow to discuss that very thing."
Stiles hummed in response before taking a long drink of his soup.
"What were you doing in the tower today?"
"Checking on him," replied his father neutrally.
"Do you do that every day?" asked Stiles. "Don't you trust your men to give you reports?"
"This is a special case."
Stiles nodded thoughtfully.
Stiles knew he shouldn't be there, but he couldn't stay away knowing the answers to so many of his questions could be learned just by the simple task of listening in. So, he entered the hall of Sabhrick castle under the pretense of meeting Scott and then crept down the wrong corridor so that he could hide next to the decorative tapestry blocking the entrance to the meeting room.
"What shall be done about the prisoner?" he heard one man ask, though he was unsure of who it was.
"We should contact the king, tell him of the creature..."
Stiles furrowed his brow; what did they mean by creature?
"...perhaps there is use for him. You could use more reason to be in contact with the king."
"I concur, it will serve to open up a dialogue and perhaps we can learn about our standing in light of the mi-"
"With all due respect, I feel I must cut in," started a new voice, sounding a little gravelly with advanced age.
"What is it, Gerard?"
Stiles pressed closer against the wall, listening intently through the muffling of the tapestry next him. Gerard? Gerard Argente? The grandfather of Allison Argente and the most experienced and deadly of all hunters in the kingdom?
"Your prisoner will be only a source of trouble as long as it is allowed to live."
"Are you suggesting we kill him in cold blood?"
"I'm suggesting you let me put it down for you," Gerard countered. "It is evil, possessed by the blood of daemons straight from the womb of its bitch."
Stiles eyes widened, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. The words were harsh and spoken with even harsher passion. He didn't understand what he was hearing; were they really talking about the prisoner?
"It is secure in Tower Capalláidir," reasoned the duke.
"Not for long," replied Gerard.
"Nonsense," said someone else. "Let us send word to the king and have him decide what is to be done."
"You will not be able to hold it long, and once it is out, the gods help you," warned Gerard. "It will hold a grudge and so will every man, woman, and child who learn that it was your fault."
"Stiles!" hissed his father, suddenly. "You can not be here!"
Stiles cursed under his breath, nearly falling over in surprise as he whipped his head around to see his father leaning over him.
"What, whoa... hello!" he whispered.
"...wolves will devour you!" continued Gerard in the background. Stiles was caught between trying to continue to listen in and paying attention to his outraged father.
"Stiles, you have to leave... now!"
"Right, yeah, sorry.. just.. why are they talking about the prisoner like he is an animal?" asked Stiles, getting up from the floor and dusting himself off.
"Enough," commanded a deep voice from the other room, recapturing Stiles' attention. "Let us move on to other issues. The mine is still..."
"Stiles!" hissed his father, again.
Stiles let out a frustrated sigh but nodded his head.
"I'm going, I'm going," he said, before slinking away.
He moved swiftly down the empty corridor, feeling his father's eyes on him where the older Stillinski was still standing at the door he had been listening at. When Stiles came to the corner, he looked back over his shoulder at his father standing with his chin raised and his body at attention, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He looked like such a good soldier; the perfect man to lead the duke's personal regiment. Stiles would never be able to live up to the name. He turned, then, and sped into the large front entry of the castle's hall, nearly running into Scott.
"Stiles?" Scott asked in confusion, hands quickly reaching out to grab Stiles by the shoulders and keep him from falling. "What are you-"
"Just coming to see you, my dear friend," panted out Stiles, with a guilty grin.
"O...kay," said Scott.
Stiles noticed the other people in the room, then. Ladies and men looking at Scott and him with curious interest. He mentally flailed for a moment before coming up with something to say.
"Would it please you to go for a ride?" he asked. "My father's mare is in need of some exercise."
"I... but... yes, that would be... okay?" answered Scott, seeming completely lost that Stiles suddenly had the urge to pet his hair and offer him a bowl of milk like some sort of abandoned puppy.
"Splendid!" said Stiles, grinning broadly. "Shall we away?"
At Scott's nod, Stiles turned to leave the castle hall as quickly as he could without seeming any more conspicuous than he already did. He noticed an older woman whispering to a young handmaiden and cringed knowing they were assuming things.
That evening when Stiles' father returned home, he did not speak. They ate their nighttime meal in silence, Stiles struggling to keep himself not to fill the quiet with nervous tapping. He knew his father was upset with him. The next morning was much the same. Stiles entered the great hall to find his father already seated and eating. The man didn't acknowledge his presence when Stiles took his usual seat at his left. Mistress Melissa brought him a plate and cup, but Stiles couldn't eat seeing the tension in his father's jaw and the strain around his eyes that he knew his actions had put there. Instead, he had pocketed an apple from the bowl on the table and had bid Melissa goodbye before heading out early to his daily training.
He hated that his father was so cross with him; he hated that he had been the source of more stress in his father's already stressful life. He worried for his father's health, for his safety, knowing that the man was all he had for true family in the world. Despite his jest and jives, despite his dislike for the ducal guard, Stiles held his father in the highest of regards. He respected him and loved him dearly. He knew that his father was worried that his curiosity over the prisoner, that his inability to just let things lie, was going to get him and their entire household into trouble. He couldn't fault his father for thinking that, he kind of feared the same. So, why... even with his anxiety over his father's anger toward him turning his stomach... why was the prisoner back at the forefront at his mind?
By the time he made it into the first bailey of the castle, Stiles' stomach was rumbling indignantly at having skipped breakfast. The smell of Lydia's family bakery wafted to him from the castle fair. He was still quite early for training, so Stiles turned and walked down the incline, through the stone archway and into the castle fair. Lydia was there placing her pies out to sell when Stiles arrived.
"Come to purchase another pie for your beau?" asked Lydia.
Stiles blinked at her in confusion for a millisecond before he realized she was teasing him about the other day. He let out a choked scoffing sound, not in the mood for joking, before nodding at the pie in her hand.
"I would like one," he said simply.
Lydia looked thrown at his demeanor. He understood why; he was not blind to his own ridiculous behavior when he was in her presence. He had been pining for her since... well, since he was old enough to pine.
He handed her a coin and she passed him the pie. She waited silently while he sniffed it, letting the warm scent of freshly baked crust and meat fill his senses and make his mouth water. He took a bite and, truly, it was the best pie he had ever tasted. The crust was light and flakey, the juices of the meat rich and flavorful. He hummed his appreciation while he chewed. Still, Lydia stood with her attention on him. Having his crush's attention on him for so long was creating an itch under his skin. He wanted to fidget, to grin at her nervously, to fill the quiet with babbled words. He remained quiet, though, knowing that the only reason he was holding her attention for so long was because of his different manner.
Finally, Lydia got back to work and Stiles felt like he could exhale. He continued to stand there, though, slowly eating his breakfast while the castle fair came to life around him. Lydia busied herself with putting out more pastries, pies, and breads to sell. Stiles thoughts moved back to Tower Capalláidir and the prisoner it held as he licked the last crumbs of the delicious pie from his fingers.
"What if someone captured a doerg," he suddenly asked Lydia.
She paused as was about to place a tray on the standing rack in front of the bakery.
"That is a strange question," she said carefully.
"A wild doerg," continued Stiles.
"Is there any other kind?"
"A wild doerg who had lived his life quietly, doing the things doergs do," pressed on Stiles, not acknowledging Lydia's comment. "He had never bothered anyone, just lived off the land and took care of his bitch and pups."
Lydia set the rack down and turned to Stiles, giving him a stern look like she wanted him to get to the point.
"Along comes a hunter and decides to capture him," said Stiles. "He takes him home and locks him away in his woodshed. Then, a few days later, his wife tells him that he needs to do something with the doerg because she fears for their children's lives having it locked in the woodshed; she fears it could get out."
"Is this a riddle?" asked Lydia, but Stiles ignored her because he was on a roll.
"The hunter decides he will kill the doerg to keep his family safe," said Stiles. "Now, what if someone heard his plans? Perhaps one of his servants-"
"Hunters don't have servants, Stiles," cut in Lydia, starting to grow bored.
"-or perhaps one of his sons," pushed on Stiles. "It doesn't matter who, but perhaps they hear his plans and feel it unjust. What if that someone decided to set the doerg free?"
Lydia pursed her lips at that.
"If someone were to set him free," she said, slowly, as if thinking it through as she spoke, or perhaps thinking Stiles of unsound mind. "Then the doerg would turn and kill that someone. He would probably then destroy the hunter's home, devour his family, and shit on the carcass of his savior who was a complete fool for letting him go in the first place."
Stiles was taken aback at how she spat the final words of her response. It took him a few moments to swallow down his surprise before he grinned at her.
"That was crass, Lydia Martin," he said, grin only growing as he spoke. "I love it."
Lydia rolled her eyes at him and turned to get back to work. Stiles hovered nearby, thinking about the prisoner and wondering how close his analogy and Lydia's projected outcome were to reality. Why had they referred to the mysterious man as a creature? Why had his father, the first night, jokingly warned the two soldiers not to let the man bite them? Why had the prisoner growled at Stiles instead of speaking? Why and how had his eyes flashed red?
"What if the doerg didn't turn on his savior? What if he were thankful?" he asked when Lydia passed by him again, another tray in her arms.
She raised her eyebrow at him. It was written across her face that she thought him daft.
"Animals can not be thankful, Stiles," she said. "They lack the intelligence for such intricate cause and effect... as well as emotion."
Stiles sighed.
"It just isn't right to cage a beast and then destroy him because he is too risky to keep..." said Stiles, feeling defeated and frustrated.
Lydia set the tray on the rack and turned to Stiles, her expression slightly softer. Stiles had to appreciate her willingness to talk to him without asking what it was they were truly speaking about.
"You're right," she said, "it is cruel. The person who would do such a thing, and do it so thoughtlessly shows a terrible lack of character... but, do you have the courage, or the stupidity, to free the beast?"
She stared intently at Stiles for a few long moments, then. Stiles clenched his hands at his sides, refusing to fidget.
"Hmmm, yes," she said after what felt like an eternity, her eyes losing some of their intensity, "definitely stupidity. You are definitely stupid enough."
Stiles scrunched his nose up at that, frowning deeply.
"Uh, thank you?" he asked.
"You're welcome," she answered matter-of-factly. "Now, buy another pie for my trouble."
Stiles grinned and fished out another coin to hand to her. She took it from him and a devilish smile spread across her face as she grabbed another pie from the rack to hand to him.
"Enjoy," she said before turning her back to him.
Scott proved himself to not only to still remain completely well, though he should not yet be healed from the bite, but he was increasingly more athletic, quicker on his feet, and stronger than anyone else. Stiles didn't understand, neither did their armsmaster who looked completely baffled by the sudden change in his least favorite trainee. He seemed more pleased about it than concerned, but Scott agreed to take Stiles with him to the library where he met with Deaton, one of his tutors, in the afternoons, just the same.
"There have to be answers here," said Stiles, going immediately to the closest shelf of ancient-looking books and scrolls when they entered the room. "It is just a matter of finding the correct book."
He ran his finger along the spines of books as he read the titles to himself, trying to get a feel for the placement of the room. He heard Scott collapse in the armchair by the fire.
"Tired?" he asked.
"Not even a little bit," answered Scott. "One would think I would be after working so hard in training this morning, but..."
"Armsmaster Finstock really ran you through drills," said Stiles. "He seemed to be waiting for you to finally collapse, but you never did."
"I never did," repeated Scott in agreement.
"And you aren't tired?" asked Stiles, turning from the books to look at Scott.
Scott was lounging in the chair, but not in a defeated or tired way, just relaxed.
"This all started after you were bitten, right?" asked Stiles.
"I suppose..." said Scott hesitantly, a frown creasing his brow. "It could be coincidence, Stiles."
"There are few coincidences in this world," muttered Stiles as he turned his eyes back to the titles of the books at his disposal.
"Why would a wolf biting me make me stronger?" asked Scott. "It must be something else."
"I'm just trying to go with what we know," explained Stiles while reaching to grab a book from the shelf. "Has anything else strange happened to you in the last while?"
Scott frowned contemplatively. Stiles wanted to snigger at how he appeared to be in pain whenever he thought too hard on something.
"Nothing," said Scott, finally. "There was the wolf bite, then I healed overnight, and now I'm stronger and faster than I've ever been."
"Are you sure it was a wolf?" asked Stiles.
"Yes," ground out Scott. "I'm not an idiot, Stiles. I know what a wolf looks like."
"It could have been a doerg," suggested Stiles.
"A doerg?"
"You know, like a wolf but bigger than a wolf, hibernates like a bear... a doerg," said Stiles with an eyeroll.
"I know what a doerg is," ground out Scott. "I also know there aren't any doergs this side of The Great Forest."
Stiles shrugged.
"Oh! What if it was a kaillek disguised as a wolf?"
"They can disguise themselves as wolves?" asked Scott, looking horrified.
"They're magic, Scott," deadpanned Stiles.
Stiles turned back to the books, pulling a few from the shelf and moving to drop them to the table. He flipped through the pages, looking for anything that could possibly point him in the right direction. He had no idea what he was looking for.
"Gerard Argente is here," spoke Scott. "Do you think that means Allison will be here soon, too?"
Stiles didn't look up from the book where he was reading about diseases transferred from animal bites. He hummed in response. Scott was quiet for a bit and Stiles read about a sickness from an animal bite that could turn the victim mad.
"I wonder why Gerard came from Fásach so early... and without her," mused Scott, suddenly.
"Probably to take care of your father's monster problem," replied Stiles with a shrug, he paged through the book before stopping at an illustration of a large man being attacked by a wolf.
"What?" asked Scott.
"Wolves..." said Stiles distractedly, tapping his finger on the book. "This all began with a wolf."
"Did you find something?"
"Are you experiencing any headaches or nausea?" asked Stiles.
"No."
"Delusions?"
"I don't think so."
"Sleeplessness?"
"No, I sleep soundly."
"Shortness of breath?"
"No," groaned Scott, "I'm perfectly fine!"
"Hmm," hummed out Stiles before pushing the book aside and grabbing another from the pile he had started on the table. "Perhaps it wasn't from the wolf, perhaps the wound was infected another way."
"The wound is gone," argued Scott. "What monster problem?"
"They said something about wolves in the meeting as well," said Stiles, staring blindly at the open books laid out in front of him as if they would tell him exactly what he needed to know if only he stared hard enough. "It has to be connected."
"I believe you are looking for this," came a deep, smooth voice, startling Stiles.
He looked up to see Scott's tutor, Deaton, holding a small, dark green book out to him. Stiles slowly reached to receive it, staring at Deaton in shock.
"Uhhh," he stammered.
He hadn't heard Deaton come in, nor had he known him to already have been in the room. From the look of Scott behind Deaton, still sitting in the armchair, he hadn't known his presence until just then, either. Deaton's thumb was in the book as he passed it. Stiles flipped it open to the page and found a strange illustration of a wolf-like monster taking up one side while the other was titled "Irawolf" in large, scrolling calligraphic letters.
"Um, thank you?" stuttered Stiles, looking up at Deaton.
The older man simply smiled benignly before leaving the room. Once the door shut behind him, Stiles and Scott both turned to each other with wide eyes.
"I didn't know he was in here," said Scott.
"Nor did I," responded Stiles, shaking his head. "He just appeared as if from nowhere."
They gaped at each other for a few moments longer before Stiles finally looked down at the book in his hands.
"The legend of the Irawolf," he read aloud.
"What's an irawolf?" asked Scott.
Stiles turned the book around to show him the both stared down at the creature sketched in black ink on the page. It was monstrous, standing on hind legs like a burly, crouching man. Its face was a mixture of wolf features contorted on a human head. Its body was covered in fur, from its hand extended long claws, and its feet looked like large wolf paws.
"The irawolf is an evil daemon," read Stiles, "born from the womb of a human mother and the seed of a draíodóir or incubus. It is a shapeshifter with three forms; man, wolf, and irawolf."
"This must be a book of fairy tales," exclaimed Scott in response. "There is no way such a thing can exist!"
"It says that even as humans, you can tell an irawolf because they have glowing eyes," said Stiles before pausing as realization hit him.
"What does this have to do with me?" asked Scott.
Stiles bit his bottom lip as he read further. The next sentence explained that in human form the irawolf was stronger and faster than was considered possible for humans. He swallowed heavily then looked up at Scott with a faked smile.
"It doesn't," said Stiles with a shrug. "Let's go, I'm starving."
"Okay," said Scott, giving him a suspicious look before seeming to shrug off his worries.
Stiles slipped the little green book into a pocket inside his tunic once Scott's back was to him before following him out. He felt like he was only a few sentences away from learning exactly how everything fit into place.
That evening Stiles stayed up reading by candlelight. He read through the section of the little green book Deaton had given him about the irawolf and realized that it was precisely what the mysterious prisoner in the tower must be. It was no wonder the soldiers were scared of the prisoner. Stiles' stomach turned at the memory of the man's eyes glowing red at him.
Stiles couldn't sleep. He laid in his bed tracing the image of the irawolf drawn in the book with his finger while wondering. Man or beast, Stiles truly felt that the prisoner did not deserve the fate Gerard Argente had in store for him. He had to grin at himself, though, when he thought back to the talk of the doerg he had with Lydia that morning-he had been closer to the truth than he could possibly have imagined. Was he even a man in any way? Could he even speak? Was he just a monster in a man's skin? If Stiles were to free him, would he be damning the entire town?
He couldn't take it anymore, Stiles got out of bed and pulled on some clothes. He would go to the tower and look upon the face of the irawolf. If he could find even a hint of humanity in the prisoner, he would set about freeing him that very night. He had no idea how, but he would.
Stiles cursed at himself as he approached the castle in the darkness. The flickering light from the torch by the heavy door the only thing lighting his path. He tried to be stealthy as he edged along the stone wall separating the baileys. He had absolutely no plan and he was only going to get himself into more trouble. He had already put his father on edge by listening in on the meeting in the duke's hall, if he were to be caught that night, he would surely be whipped. As he got closer to the tower, though, he heard the muffled sound of snoring coming from within. Perhaps fortune was in his favor.
Random apologies and excuses already waiting upon his lips, Stiles pushed open the door and stepped into the tower. The night guard was slumped over in the corner, snoring loudly. Stiles glanced around, there was no one else except for the prisoner who was staring at him intently from behind the bars of his cell. Stiles closed the door behind him, wincing when the guard stirred at the noise it made, then tiptoed down the steps and across the floor.
"Hi," whispered Stiles as he reached the supposed-irawolf's cell. "I.. uh... have come to.. rescue you? Perhaps?"
Stiles wasn't sure what he was doing now that he was there. He had wanted to see the prisoner, thinking that seeing him would help him determine whether he were human enough to deserve freedom. Standing in front of his cage, though, Stiles didn't know what sort of test he should put the prisoner through to determine such a thing.
"But it isn't just humans who deserve freedom," said Stiles, suddenly. "Anything that breathes deserves that... don't you think?"
The prisoner's eyes flashed red in the flickering light cast by the torch.
"You're an irawolf," spoke Stiles, his voice always low because of the sleeping soldier.
The prisoner didn't growl when Stiles got closer to the cell bars, unlike last time. Stiles squinted at him, moving closer and closer to the cell until his hands were wrapped around the bars. The prisoner bristled under Stiles' scrutiny, showing long fangs where human eye teeth should reside. Stiles took a step back.
"You've got to work with me, here," hissed Stiles. "Do you even understand anything I'm saying?"
He stared at the prisoner for a few beats.
"Blink once for yes and twice for no," said Stiles.
That got a low growl out of the prisoner. The corner of Stiles' mouth twitched at that. He would try a different tactic.
"I don't think I will let you out, afterall," sighed out Stiles with a shake of his head. "They are planning on killing you; putting you down like a dog. They say you are nothing but an animal. I wanted to free you so such a fate wouldn't meet you, but perhaps I was wrong to think you were more human that wolf."
The growling subsided at that. Stiles grinned triumphantly.
"Just get me out of here you little prick," ground out the prisoner in a deep, low voice.
"So you can talk."
The prisoner's eyes flashed red in obvious annoyance.
"What's your name?" asked Stiles. "Can you really change into a wolf?"
"That idiot soldier could wake up at any moment and see you in here," said the prisoner. "Do you really want to be found out, or could we perhaps save our introductions for once we are safely away?"
Stiles glanced back over his shoulder at the guard.
"You may have a point," said Stiles. "Okay, how do I get you out?"
"You don't have a plan?" asked the prisoner. "What kind of idiot-"
"Considering that you're the one sitting in his own feces and piss in a dungeon cell and I'm the one free as a bird out here," cut in Stiles, "you may find it wise to keep the insults to a minimum."
The prisoner shut up at that, his jaw clenching and his eyes flashing red once again. Stiles nodded approvingly at his silence before straightening and surveying the room. There was no expectation that someone might want to free the wild creature, so there would be no need to safeguard the cell key.
"Aha," breathed Stiles victoriously when he spotted the ring of keys hanging from a wooden peg on the opposite wall.
He swiftly crossed the short distance and grabbed up the keys. They clinked together and Stiles froze. He glanced over at the guard who was beginning to stir. He mentally went through the entire list of curses known to him while turning and running on tiptoes back to the prisoner's cell. The snoring came back in full force and Stiles breathed a sigh of relief before attempting the first key on the ring. It did not work, but there were only three more.
The prisoner crept closer to the cell door. Stiles tried the second key and it fit. Before he turned it, though, it suddenly hit him that in a second the person behind the bars would be free. The person who was possibly some sort of wolf-like creature, who supposedly feasted on human flesh. He shuddered and looked up, his eyes finding the prisoner's.
"Will you kill me once I let you out?" asked Stiles.
"To find out, you will have to turn the key," responded the prisoner in a low whisper
Stiles licked his lips nervously. He looked over the figure of the prisoner standing in the shadows. The man's body was tense as if every muscle was flexed, ready and waiting. He looked impatient, his breathing a little too heavy for someone so stationery.
Stiles glanced down at the key in his hand and then back up at the prisoner. Lydia's words from earlier came to him. Yes, he really was stupid enough to free the beast.
Stiles turned the key.