Author's Note: Glad you guys are really enjoying this! As I said, this is my first story for this show, so please forgive me if anyone seems too out of character. Enjoy this chapter!

"Winds in the east, mist coming in

Like something is brewing, about to begin.

Can't put my finger on what lies in store,

But I feel what's to happen all happened before."

—Colin Farrell, "Chim Chim Cher-ee (East Wind)"

Lydia used to pretend she was a princess once.

She would read herself fairy tales—her parents were always fighting; so loud and scary—and her numerous stuffed animals would be her audience. She'd put on her sparkly, plastic tiara and put her hair in messy pigtails before wrapping a sash around her dress. She'd steal some of her mother's heels and she would parade around her room, waving gracefully to her adoring fans. What a beautiful princess, they'd remark. How wonderful is she? How blessed are we to see her? And Lydia would beam and graciously reply that she was the one truly honored.

Her favorite story was Sleeping Beauty—though now she realizes that no, she does not need a prince to come and save her, thank you very much. Still, she'd be lying if she didn't admit that she always got butterflies at that point. The valiant prince would rush to his beloved's side and with a kiss, all would be restored back to the way it was before. My prince, the princess would whisper with a grin, I dreamt about you. Then, the prince would take her hand and they'd live happily ever after.

Yes, Lydia Martin used to believe in happily ever after. She used to believe in a love that could be eternal. All that had changed with her parent's divorce though and then there was the whole Jackson experience. To be frank, she hasn't felt that butterfly feeling since middle school.

But with Stiles . . . she knows that it could be something. Maybe not true love, but there is something there. Lydia can sense it deep within her. He's not a prince, but then again, she's no longer a princess. They are just two people—two teens thrust into a battle that they have no business being in. Their relationship is built upon secrets whispered and fleeting touches exchanged. She's saved him just as much as he's saved her.

So, maybe—just maybe—there's a chance that the two of them could forge their own happily ever after.

Lydia likes to believe in that.

"How is she?" Alison is a wreck, eyes red and puffy, mascara askew. Yet, her voice is even, her tone carefully measured. She regards Stiles with warmth, something that astounds him. How could everyone so easily push past what he had done—to Lydia, to all of them?

"Last thing we heard they were taking her to surgery." Scott manages to reply and the huntress nods her head. Shakily, she sits down on the other side of her former boyfriend. He offers a hand and she gratefully takes it. There's nothing romantic about it—just an offering of strength; something that Alison needs if she's going to make it through another vigil. "Isaac?"

"They discharged him." She runs a hand through her messy air, fingers getting stuck in a few knots. "He's perfectly healed." She laughs bitterly and then pulls her knees up onto the chair. With her free hand, she wraps an arm around them. "He's getting food." She's breaking—anyone with eyes can see that—and suddenly, Stiles is out of the chair and in front of her. "Stiles—?"

"Hit me." He orders and her expression alights with confusion.

"Stiles, what—?" Scott tries to interject, but Stiles holds up a hand for silence.

"Hit me, Alison." She shakes her head and looks away. "No, I deserve it, okay? I mean, c'mon, it was me that choked Isaac and me that stabbed Lydia, and fuck, she might die and I'm to blame—" The air is getting incredibly thin and his mind is racing a mile a minute, the words spilling out faster than he can process them, but he has to be punished for this—he needs to be punished—and since he knows Scott won't do something, maybe Alison—?

The slap is unexpected and it echoes through the hall. He meets her gaze, shocked. He places a hand to his stinging cheek.

"Stop." Alison hisses, voice deadly and utterly malicious.

"Alison—" Scott's gaze alternates between the two of them, but it's obvious that he won't be allowed to interfere.

"Stop blaming yourself." She growls, stepping into his space. "We all know you were possessed, okay? We all knew what could happen. Just like Lydia knew the risks." Her voice twinges with grief. "But she made a choice, okay? And her choice brought you back. And right now," She lowers her voice, down to almost a whisper. "You're disrespecting her choice."

"She could be dying because of me!" Stiles protests.

"Not because of you!" Alison roars. "Because of the monster that had control over you and let me tell you something, Stiles." Scott's expression grows increasingly wary as Alison's face is now only mere inches apart from Stiles'. "Lydia would die for you, just like I know that if someone walked in here and said that in exchange for your life Lydia could live, you would take that deal." A lone tear snakes its way down the huntress' cheek. "So, here's what's going to happen, okay? You are going to let go of whatever it is you blame yourself for because it wasn't your fault." He glances away. "It wasn't your fault, Stiles. Say it with me."

"It wasn't . . ." His voice falters.

"Stiles." She snaps.

"It wasn't my fault." Deep down, he knows that, he really does, but there's her blood crusted onto his fingers. There's the picture of her face and the way it twisted up with agony as his hand pushed to the knife into her. How could none of that be his fault?

"No, Stiles," She whispers. "It wasn't."

And then she pulls him into a hug.

"You doing okay?" Stiles nods his head as Isaac awkwardly attempts to cover up a sleeping Alison with his coat while not waking her up. Scott's asleep as well. Dimly, he wonders how long it's been since his best friend has gotten a decent night's rest. And Alison, who he remembers was suffering from visions of her dead aunt, how long had it been for her? "I . . . um, got some food."

"Thanks." He whispers as Isaac hands him a tin foil wrapped burger. The smell stirs hunger up within his stomach and mechanically, Stiles begins to eat. He glances sideways at the werewolf. Only a small, red mark remained around his neck, barely noticeable. Yet, Stiles could see the faint outline and knew what it was—his hand—and it sickened him to no end.

"Stiles?" He snaps out of it and meet's the werewolf's gaze. "You can get some sleep if you want. I've got watch." Indeed, one of them it seems has been awake ever since they had gotten here almost six hours ago, just in case news about Lydia should emerge.

"Are we okay?" Isaac's eyebrows rise.

"You and me?" He clarifies. Then, gesturing to his neck, "Over what? This?"

"Yes."

"We're good, Stiles." Isaac grins. "Truth be told, I'm just glad you're back."

"The whole 'me almost killing you thing' really doesn't bother you?" He asks in disbelief. The werewolf huffs a laugh.

"You couldn't strangle me even if you wanted to, Stiles. Now, you powered up by some evil supernatural demon and augmenting your strength?" He tilts his head to the side and grins. "Honestly, that's the guy I'm pissed at." He smiles softly. "But, hey, that's not you, is it?"

I'm going to pull you back.

Lydia meant that. She knew it wasn't him hurting her. She knew. She forgave him; he could see it in his mind's eye. Lydia knew and she went to save him even though the risks were great. She had brought him back.

She had saved him more than he ever could've realized.

"Family of Lydia Martin?" Instantly, Stiles is up. The doctor—older man in a rumpled trench coat meets his gaze—and Stiles knows that look the medical professional is giving him; has seen it in this same hospital so many years ago. The doctor calmly walks over to him and Stiles can feel Alison's hand coming to rest on his shoulder, can sense Scott's presence behind him. He's not alone in this, not like last time. He's got people here to help him.

"How is she?" It astounds him that he's even able to get the sentence out, his words all tumbling over each other. The doctor clears his throat and Stiles holds his breath.

And that's when the doctor tells them of the blood loss, of the punctured lung, of how slim her chances for recovery are and how it's a miracle that she's even still alive now. Stiles can hear the truth behind the sugarcoated words though—Lydia probably wouldn't make it through the night.

She's dying.

When Stiles trusts his voice not to break, he forces his gaze to meet the doctor's.

"Can we see her?"

"Of course." He leads them through a maze of hallways and then finally, to a small room in the back. "It's best if you go one at a time." Stiles nods his head and then enters the room. She's beautiful, even like this. Her hair fans out behind her and if the lights were off, he could almost pretend that she just fell asleep after a long night of researching. She'll wake up any second now and she'll toss a pillow at him and laugh and accuse him of being a creep. Then, he'll beam and admit the feelings that he's felt since that day in the third grade.

He loves her.

But . . . she's not just sleeping. There's been no research.

She's dying, or so the doctors think. A lost cause, that's what they call her in their medical jargon. He hesitates before picking up her hand—it's so cool to the touch; she needs some more blankets—and he lets his mind be set at ease with the steady rhythm of the heart monitor.

"Lydia," He presses his lips to her knuckles and it's cheesy, but he doesn't know what to do anymore. She's leaving him, going somewhere he can't follow. He won't accept this—can't accept this. Lydia Martin can't die, not like this. "You fight, okay?" She survived rogue werewolves and becoming a banshee. This isn't how her story is supposed to end; he knows it. A girl like her, she deserves her happily ever after.

"Please, Lydia."

And the princess just sleeps on.

Author's Note: It's going to get worse before it gets better, but don't panic, okay? I'm a sucker for happy endings. Please review if you have a second! Thanks.