Chapter 4 - Korcari Wilds
"The owls are not what they seem."
- The Giant, Twin Peaks
Though the contingent of the Guards is not large, Elric has no trouble securing an extended leave. He has been a Guardsman for almost thirteen years and is in good standing with the Captain.
He leaves Stiles under the care of the elder Miriam. Andraste once said that even if she looks older than dirt, that woman will outlive them all. Elric's lips twist at the cruel irony. Still, Stiles is in good hands with her. He is certain nothing bad is going to befall his son while he is away.
Elric visits Andraste's grave. He debates the merits of talking to her, but in the end decides against it. If she can see him from her place at the Maker's side, she knows what he has to say anyway. He places new flowers under the headstone, brushes his fingers over her name, and, with a heavy heart, silently promises to take care of their son. Shouldering his backpack, he leaves the graveyard to start a long journey down the Imperial Highway. Somewhere in the Korcari Wilds there is a witch he has to find.
The Highway is well travelled; his walk is swift, no bandits dare tread where the Guards patrol. He greets passing acquaintances, nodding and waving when they salute him with their swords. Twice he even stops to talk.
The first time he is stopped by Ser Leonas, who asks after his family. Elric hasn't seen him since his last visit to Lothering, about three months ago. They had a great time reminiscing the days of their youth in Denerim, exchanging news of their mutual friends while ale flowed in abundance.
Andraste, he remembers, laughed at him when he stumbled back home, singing a bawdy song he heard in the tavern, and told him not to wake up Stiles. She liked Leonas and made him promise to come by more often. Leonas liked her as well; everyone did, really.
When Elric tells him of her death, he says, "The sun was dimmed with her parting," closing eyes and lowering his head. He doesn't say 'sorry for your loss', and Elric is absurdly grateful for that. They part amiably soon after.
The second time he sees a familiar face, it's on the third day of travel, more than half-way to Ostagar. He is deeply surprised to meet Chanter Devons here, so far away from Lothering. Of course, asking him what he is doing here was a moot point, Elric thinks, listening to Devons reciting the Chant. He, unlike Stiles, doesn't find trying to converse with the man funny.
Andraste, on the other hand, loved talking with him, quoting the Chant right back. It was great fun, she said. Elric sighs and one more time tells of her death.
"The one who repents, who has faith,
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,
She shall know true peace," Devons cites.
Elric nods and wishes him a safe journey. Abruptly, he realises that he needs to send word to Kylon and makes a mental note to write to his friend at the earliest opportunity.
He makes it to Ostagar at noon of the fifth day. The ancient fortress looms over the road, magnificent and sad in its abandonment. He stops to admire it from a distance, then steps off the road and walks into the Wilds. No one knows where Flemeth lives; there are only rumours of the great and terrible Witch, but people say she always knows when you are looking for her.
He isn't sure how to go about it, but he also has no desire to wander aimlessly for Maker knows how long when he is missed at home. So, feeling like a fool, Elric says, "I'd like to speak with the Witch of the Wilds, please." His voice is loud and precise, it carries across the forest, and he hopes that somehow the message will get to her. Then he does wander aimlessly, repeating his request from time to time.
Once, he is sure he sees a rabbit looking at him strangely. Maybe it will hop to Flemeth, he muses, then snorts at the notion. How will it tell her anything? A crow caws overhead. Elric looks up and is startled, meeting its gaze. The bird watches him with too intelligent eyes. He raises a hand to wave at it, but the crow flies up, having seemingly lost interest in a strange human.
It would be a pleasant walk, he thinks some time later, going around a swamp, if not for the bloody cold, mist, and midges. Here what would be a balmy Bloomingtide evening in Lothering feels like a Wintermarch night. The dampness doesn't help any. Every so often he sees a Wilds Flower. They are in abundance here; it is yet one more reminder of what is forever lost.
Tired and hungry, he plans to make camp as soon as he can find a secure spot. He has already had to refuse becoming a dinner twice and doesn't want to fight wolves again, especially not in the middle of the night. He glimpses a promising place between roots of a huge tree and walks to it, but as he sets backpack to the ground, he hears a rustling sound.
Cautiously turning, he unsheathes his sword. A wolf is standing on the fallen log no more than five steps away. Swallowing, Elric adjusts his stance in preparation for a fight, but the wolf doesn't move. Their gazes lock, and a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold runs down his back. No mere animal can possess the intelligence that he sees in this creature.
The wolf seems to study him, evaluating his worth. Studying it right back, Elric patiently waits for it to come to a decision. It's lean and obviously young, with paws that are too long for its frame. Beautiful, he decides, admiring its black fur and bright yellow eyes. Then he says so.
Startled, the wolf blinks, and the moment is broken.
When it doesn't move from its place, Elric raises an eyebrow and says, "So?"
The wolf snorts — amused, Elric thinks — and walks away, but soon stops and glances back at Elric. Then it shakes its head in a motion that, if it were a human, Elric would interpret as an invitation to follow. It is, however, an animal.
"What?"
Either his mind is playing tricks, or the wolf has just rolled its eyes at him. Great, even an animal finds him exasperating. Maybe Flemeth can speak with animals, he muses, or just enchant them in some way. The wolf repeats the gestures, this time slowly and deliberately telegraphing the movement, as if for a small and not very bright child.
Instead of getting offended, Elric grins — for the first time in days — and shoulders his backpack. "All right, lead the way."
The wolf huffs and disappears into the thicket. Alarmed, Elric rushes after it only to discover that it's waiting on a hidden trail with a distinctly smug expression on its muzzle. Elric smiles at it.
"You are not just a wolf, are you?"
He decides to take the flick of its ear as an answer.
The wolf trots ahead, then waits for Elric to catch up, and as soon as he does, starts moving again. They travel this way for some time when Elric says, "You know that we can actually go together, right? The path is wide enough." He pauses. "And I'm not going to harm you if that's your concern."
The wolf slants him a disdainful look but slows down to a walk. Resisting the urge to pat its head, Elric smiles.
The way takes the better part of three hours. The wolf leads him across and around swamps and ancient chasind ruins, choosing tracks Elric barely can see. Several times he spots the same markers and a suspicion that the wolf deliberately wants to confuse him forms in his mind.
It has become completely dark a little over an hour into the journey, and Elric stops to light the torch. The wolf goes ahead, not realising that its human companion stayed behind, and has to trot back.
"You are almost invisible in the darkness," he says to it. "Besides, I need light to see the way."
In the warm glow of the burning wood, it scowls at Elric, annoyed.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you want me to stumble into a bear trap," he says with a lopsided grin.
The wolf huffs, its eyes glinting in the light.
Finally, walking down a narrow path, they reach a small patch of land in the middle of a swamp. He can see a hut, but not much else. The mist is especially thick here. Turning to the wolf, he says, "Thank you." And discovers that his guide has already disappeared into the night.
He sighs and goes to knock on the door. It opens before he has a chance, though. A woman throws it open. She stand on the steps, illuminated by the light coming from the hut, and just for a moment Elric sees two curving horns on her head. He blinks, and the vision is gone.
"Why do you seek old Flemeth?" she asks in an ageless voice that can belong to a young woman or to a hag, her face hidden by the darkness of the outside world.
"I was hoping to ask for advice." He steps closer, and the light of his torch dispels the shadows.
"Don't you know what people tell of terrible Witch of the Wilds? She is worse than a demon they say, she will demand your soul as payment," the woman says with a slight curiosity to her voice. She is past her prime, but her face still holds the marks of beauty, black hair turning grey at the temples. Her simple clothes are clean and lack embellishments. She doesn't look like the terrifying witch of legends.
"People say a lot of things, not all of them worth believing. Besides," he says, glimpsing a vaguely familiar face in the window and taking a gamble, "I know your daughter." He shrugs. "You can't be that bad."
The witch cackles, throwing her head back. The sound seems too loud; it disturbs the quiet of the night. Briefly, she looks back inside the hut.
"I heard about your wife. Oh, the irony!"
Elric can't decide what her tone is suppose to mean. He chooses to think it is sad, just for the peace of his mind — he doesn't want to bristle and alienate a powerful mage when he still needs her help. Maybe not ever.
"Come inside," she says, opening the door wider. "We are letting all the heat out."
The hut is small but not claustrophobically so. Two beds stand on one side, a wooden chest beside each; a dresser in the corner; a table near the window, white cloth laid over it; on the walls there are shelves with pottery; and a large pot with something bubbling is over the fire; a straw screen in the back hides the rest of the room.
Everything smells strongly of elfroot and something else that he can't identify, sweet and rich. Looking up, he sees dried herbs that hang from the beams.
"Well? Say hello to our guest, girl," says Flemeth to a young woman that he saw earlier.
She still stands near the window, one hand clutches the hem of her tunic, the other limp by her side. Startling yellow eyes meet his. "Hello."
Flemeth closes the door with a deliberately loud thud. "You wanted my advice? Ask away, but be prepared to pay the price."
Elric turns to face her. "I'm looking for an apostate."
"Oh? Whatever for?" She arches a brow. "No one can bring your wife back, not even a demon."
He sighs, irritated. "I wouldn't do it even if it was possible, Andraste wouldn't want that. I need a teacher for my son." Despite being in a company of a known witch, the confession feels like he has to rip it out of his throat, along with tongue and vocal cords. He swallows.
"Andraste's son is a mage," Flemeth says with delighted incredulity and cackles again.
He can see her point but finds her reaction distasteful. Her daughter, he notices, stays silent.
"I know who can help your plight," Flemeth says when her laughter died down. "You will go to the Chasind in the south and speak with the shaman. He won't turn you away."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet, Guardsman." Something ancient, inhuman lurks in the depths of her eyes. "I have no need of you right now; you will, however, owe me a favour."
"You have my word."
"When the time comes, be sure to fulfill the promise." Though she says it in an even tone, the words sound ominous.
Elric nods, vowing to never regret this decision, no matter what the which asks of him. "Where do I need to go?"
"Bah, we are not savages! Stay the night, and tomorrow Morrigan will show you the way."
Flemeth's daughter — Morrigan, he corrects himself — starts to say something, but the witch shushes her with a sharp word.
"Serve the stew, girl, it is ready."
-[break]-
He sleeps on the floor near the fireplace and dreams of yellow eyes and wildly beating wings. When he wakes, Flemeth is already gone. Morrigan warms yesterday's stew while he freshens up behind the hut; the morning air is clear of the mist. They eat in silence and soon are ready to go.
For the first half-hour of the journey Elric looks around, trying to impress landmarks into his still not fully awake mind. Morrigan projects an aura of distress, like she wants to say something but doesn't know how to start.
"Lovely weather," he says.
She glances at him, then look straight ahead. "I knew your wife. She was… nice. I regret her fate."
It is like a gust of Haring wind in the face. The loss of Andraste feels like a gaping wound in his heart. He does not, can never forget but the only way he can function is by not actively thinking about it. Too little time has passed.
"Was she a mage?"
"No. Why do you think so?"
Morrigan shrugs. "She talked to me at the market. Sometimes she said strange thing. Besides, magic is often hereditary."
Elric pauses but doesn't see any harm in her knowing, so he says, "She was gifted — or cursed — with prophetic dreams."
For a moment Morrigan goes completely still, and Elric barely stops in time to avoid colliding with her back. Then she resumes walking, a twig breaks under her foot. "And her dreams always came to pass?" she says in a seemingly disinterested voice.
Andy must have told you something unexpected, he thinks but doesn't say. "As far as I know, yes."
They fall silent again. A bird chirps overhead, he can hear a splash made by a frog's leaping into the swamp to their right. Sunlight peeks through the dense foliage. The forest is peaceful, he can see no sign of danger. Morrigan is lost in thoughts, and Elric returns to the landmarks.
Some time later, he says, "So you are a mage, too, like your mother?"
She seems cautious, ready to bristle. "What of it?"
He decides to be blunt. "Do demons bother you often?" Only when it's gone does he notice the tension — by its sudden absence.
Her face relaxes imperceptibly, like she was expecting some nasty remark instead of a simple question. "Not overly so, but yes, they do." She turns to glance at him, her long braid flies over her shoulder. "They whisper promises." Her voice is calm, serious. "They assume familiar faces. When I was young, there were times when I couldn't tell a demon right away."
"How do you resist them?"
"Demons lie. I have no need of their false aids." She stops and looks at him fully. "Tell your son that all their promises will come twisted and perverted, and that they cannot give him what he wants."
He shivers, feeling like that time Kylon shoved a lump of fresh snow under his collar. "Thank you, I will."
They reach their destination shortly after midday. Morrigan stops, putting a hand up. Elric looks at her, but before he could ask anything, two men appear from behind the trees, swords drawn. They wear furs over leather armour and warpaint on their severe faces.
"Speak," one of them says, voice low and commanding.
"The Witch of the Wilds sends her regards," Morrigan says with dignity worthy of a queen.
The man considers it, staring at her without blinking. Then he nods. "Come."
They are escorted through a peculiar settlement — it's made up of houses and huts that are built on stilts and sit on top of each other — to a door with the image of an eye. The speaker goes inside, leaving his companion with them.
Morrigan keeps a lofty expression, though Elric catches her casting surreptitious glances at their surroundings. With a mental shrug, he openly looks around. Though here and there he sees a head full of ginger or black hair, the Chasind, he discovers, are prevalently blonde. They look tough and austere, much like the climate of the land they inhabit.
The man that walks out of the house is the polar opposite of anyone Elric has seen so far of this tribe. He is bald and bare faced when all others are long haired and have beards to rival the elders' in Lothering. His skin is dark, darker than Elric has ever seen. He stands out like a mabari in a field of fresh snow.
"Greetings." His voice is mild, gentle even, but his eyes are wild as the force of nature. "What can I do for Flemeth's daughter?"
"I am a mere guide through the Wilds." Morrigan inclines her head in Elric's direction. "'tis his plight you can help to resolve."
He turns his gaze to Elric. It feels like he is looking straight into his soul.
"My son is a mage," Elric says without preamble, figuring that it's better to be frank, "and he needs a teacher." The shaman says nothing, so he continues, "And the Circle is not an option. Flemeth said you could help. Will you?"
For the longest moment he studies Elric, and Elric is afraid he will turn him down. The shaman, however, seems to make a different decision. Wordlessly, he gestures at the door, inviting them in.
After a lengthy discussion, they come to an agreement. Elric is to provide the tribe with grain and flour, a valuable commodities in these parts, and in return the shaman, whose name is Alan Deaton, will take Stiles as an apprentice. The schedule takes the longest to work out. The distance between the settlement and Lothering makes it hard to travel back and forth too often, and Elric refuses to part with his son.
In the end, he concedes that Stiles will have to stay here for a month because, as Deaton points out, untrained, he is too vulnerable to demons. After that his study sessions will become less prolonged — two weeks every three months. It is not perfect, but for now, it's the best option.
Through it all, Morrigan, his 'mere guide', stands beside Elric. She doesn't contribute to the discussion. Despite her neutral, edging toward bored expression, he suspects that she listens very attentively. There is no apparent reason for her interest, but he doesn't mind her presence, indulging her curiosity.
They part with the shaman with a promise of return in two weeks' time. A warrior will meet Elric and Stiles near Ostagar and show them the way. It's amiable enough, though he gets the feeling that the warrior in question, the same taciturn blonde man that escorted them to Deaton, isn't very happy with his assignment.
He and his silent companion lead Elric and Morrigan back the same way they came. Word of their visit must have gotten around because there are a lot more people — and stares — this time. It makes him slightly uncomfortable, but he supposes that they don't have a lot of newcomers, so he shrugs it off.
Morrigan, on the other hand, seems deeply uncomfortable with the attention but quickly hides it under facade of indifference. Her aloofness is back with a vengeance.
"Thank you for your help," he says when they are outside of the settlement. He means it as a goodbye, prepared to make his way through the Wilds, but she surprises him with an offer to show him the way to Ostagar.
"I thought you'd just point me in the right direction."
She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. "I have time."
Not one to look a gift mabari in the mouth, he thanks her again. Lost in thoughts, he doesn't attempt to start a conversation until he sees familiar landmarks. They are close to Ostagar, he knows, and it took only a four hour walk.
"Impressive! I thought we were much farther. You must know the woods extremely well."
Looking pleased with his praise, she says, "I lived here my whole life."
He thinks about it for a while. "Does it get lonely?"
Morrigan twirls the end of her long braid and taps the ground with her staff. It's simple and could be easily mistaken for a walking stick. "I have animals to keep me company. And sometimes I visit Lothering."
It's as good as an admission. Thinking about Morrigan living with a mother that doesn't even call her by name, he feels sadness for her. The trips for supplies must be the only way she comes into contact with the outside world.
"Well, when you come to Lothering, if you don't see me on the streets, stop by the compound to say hello."
"I will," she says after a pause. They part ways shortly after that.
Halfway to Lothering Elric meets a traveling merchant that offers him a ride in his cart. It speeds his return by a day, though it still feels like too much time was spent away from home, from his son. With the question of a teacher resolved, worry over Stiles has free reign of his mind, and when he finally sees the familiar shape of the mill, he barely stops himself from jumping off the cart and sprinting to Miriam's house. He knows it won't be faster, but Delvin's horse seems to slow down more and more with each step.
They enter Lothering, and he thanks Delvin for the ride and for the sweets and books he bought off him on the way here. The walk isn't long — their village is relatively small in size — and soon he stands on the elder's porch, ready to knock. He doesn't need to do it. Like an uncoiling spring, Stiles barrels out of the doorway and jumps into his arms, almost bringing Elric down. He hugs his son back, smiling into his hair.
-[break]-
Elder Miriam is a nice woman, but she is so old and boring.
Stiles has been quiet and withdrawn for the first week, battling with the voice in his head that made a comeback to taunt him with promises and possibilities and mourning his mother, but his capacity for emotional suffering isn't endless, and eventually his mind jumped to other subjects. It doesn't mean that he forgot about her or that it doesn't hurt anymore. He is quite sure the pain will always be here, in the depths of his heart, waiting for a quiet moment to remind him of its presence. But in the last three days his energy returned with a vengeance, and he couldn't sit still for more than a minute. Or so Miriam says.
She insists on staying indoors despite the nice spring weather. And so Stiles stays cooped inside her stuffy little house, where he can't turn without sending some knickknack tumbling to the ground. It's not on purpose, and no matter how he tries, something always seems to find its way under his elbow. At least, she isn't angry with him. Though it makes him question her sanity all the more — it would make sense to send him outside. It's not like the streets are dangerous, he scoffs inwardly. Well, they are, but only when he imagines that it's the time of the Occupation.
In order to minimise the area of destruction — Miriam's words, all right? — Stiles spends a lot of the time sitting near the window overlooking the main street. That's how he sees his father coming. He jumps from his seat, inadvertently overturning the chair. Something crunches under his foot, and he grimaces, knowing that yet another trinket has died the death of the brave. He runs to the door just in time to open it before his father can knock and can't decide what to say first. There are 'What took you so long?' and 'How did it go?' and 'Did you find her?' and 'What's she like?' to choose from, but what makes it past his lips is a quiet, "I missed you."
-[break]-
The preparations for the journey take the rest of the day, and in the morning they are on the road. Dad takes the Guards' horse, one of the few they have for long-distance patrols. Apple is a gentle creature, the calmest horse there is, and Stiles falls in love with him instantly. He stuffed his pockets with chopped apples and carrots before they left and now feeds the horse at every opportunity. Dad looks at him with a wistful smile.
They spend the night at the clearing by the side of the road that's used by Guards and rare travellers so often, it has a stone circle for fire with a pile of wood stacked by its side.
Dad snorts at his gawking. "It's convenient."
With a shrug, Stiles plops down on the sleeping bag. After just a day on horseback he is so sore, he thinks he will never get up. Dad has other plans. He tells him to stretch and doesn't take no for an answer. Grumbling, Stiles complies. He does feel marginally better after that. Maybe because he is so tired, or maybe because his father is next to him, but this is the first time in a long while when he doesn't have nightmares.
They reach Ostagar by the next midday and have to leave the horse at the small Guards' outpost. The fortress is huge and impressive even from the distance, and more so up close. Some crumbling walls and scorch marks just add character, Stiles decides.
"That's fast," Stiles says to Dad when they walk away from the Highway and into the Wilds. "Why didn't you take Apple the first time?"
Dad scratches at his neck, looking to the side. "I didn't think of it," he says at length.
"That's fine, Dad," Stiles says, adopting a sage expression. "We all have our stupid moments."
Dad laughs.
"What did you tell the Guardsmen?" He couldn't eavesdrop, reasoning that saying goodbye to Apple is more important, and anyway, Dad will tell him everything interesting.
"I'm taking you on a hunting trip."
Stiles looks at him like he is being silly. "I'm eight, Dad."
With a straight face, Dad says, "It is never too early to start!" Then he smiles. "We will have to work on that either way, so I didn't lie to them."
Stiles nods, serious. "Lying is bad."
Equally serious, Dad nods back.
The forest is damp and cold, and Stiles is very glad he listened to Dad and put extra warm closes into his bag. Of course, Dad also put a lot of Stiles' clothes into his bag, but carrying his own stuff makes Stiles feel better and like he is a grown-up. Besides, he is helping.
They walk for about an hour going down a well travelled dirt road when he spots a fallen tree. It broke in the middle and formed a V-shaped arch.
"Look!" He points at it, jumping a little. "Is it The Spot?" It totally warrants the capitals.
Dad squints. "Yes, I believe it is."
"I don't see anyone near it."
With a chuckle, Dad ruffles his hair. "It's quite a distance away, son. Our guide will be there."
He is right, of course. His Dad usually is. When they get closer, Stiles notices a man standing near it, leaning on the trunk. He looks just like Stiles imagined: huge and savage, with enormous axe in one hand and a bow and quiver slung over his back. Stiles grins at him, it feel manic as if it's going to overcome his face and be forever stuck on it.
"Hello, are you waiting for us?"
The surly man looks startled to be addressed with such enthusiasm, but nods.
"Awesome! Are we going to fight wolves? Dad said there are wolves here, and that he fought them! Do you fight them often?"
Surly just blinks at him. Maybe he is slow or something. What if he doesn't understand him? What if they speak a different language? He didn't think to ask Dad and now it would be rude.
Dad puts a hand on his shoulder, calming him a little. "Hello," he says to the man, "this is Stiles."
Stiles waves in greeting. "What's your name?"
Surly stares at him. Maybe he really doesn't understand them? But then he finally says, "Olaf." His voice is gruff, it suits his appearance rather well.
"Nice to meet you, Olaf." Stiles dutifully replies, for once, mindful of his manners.
Olaf says, "Follow me," and starts walking down the road.
Making a face at his back, Stiles decides that no, he will continue to call him Surly, no matter his actual name.
They walk for the rest of the day, making stops whenever Stiles is tired. Eventually, they come to a road that looks like a long bridge, which leads to the village that Dad told him about. It is decidedly strange: a wooden maze with many levels is hovering above the ground on long sticks. He has never seen anything more bizarre.
When they enter a large house with the eye on the door, he sees the shaman sitting on a strange chair in front of a fireplace. It has animal skulls on top of the backrest. The man inclines his head just slightly at Surly, who nods back and silently walks outside, and then turns to Stiles and catches his gaze.
"Hello, young man."
Stiles swallows. "Hello, ser."
"Alan, please," the shaman says with a kind smile. "You must be tired."
Though it's not a question, he nods anyway.
"Tonight you will rest, and tomorrow we will start your education at first light. My apprentice will show you where you will be staying."
It seems to be a signal to end the audience since a moment later a dark haired boy peeks inside the house. Stiles and Dad say goodbye, and soon they are outside again.
"Nice t' meet you." The boy looks at Dad with curiosity, but then zeroes in on Stiles.
Stiles waves at him.
"What's your name?"
"Stiles."
"Stiles? What kind of name is it?"
He frowns, ready to take offence. "Mine." He thought it up himself and is kind of proud of it.
"Not very Fereldan," the boy says with a dubious expression on his face. "I'm Scott."
Stiles scoffs, "As if you have room to judge! Scott isn't very Chasind, either." It is a guess, but a very good one. Sometimes his intuition tells him things that turns out to be true. It was always like that, so he thinks nothing of it, not realising that it can be just one more manifestation of his magical talent.
"Fair point." The boy shrugs and then smiles, showing a gap between his front teeth.
And yeah, all right, he seems nice enough.
"I'm so glad you'll be studying with me! All other mages are old —" he says it like it's an unforgivable crime "— and other kids spend all days hunting, fishing, or training. 't will be great!" He doesn't notice Stiles' lack of enthusiasm or wait for response. "You will be staying with me and Ma, we've room since Da left."
"Great." He doesn't mean it, but maybe it will be fine, after all. Even if he doesn't really want to study how to use magic all that much, only how to control it.
"Want me to show you around?"
"Not tonight," Dad says.
The boy nods, "Tomorrow, then."
And Stiles is secretly relieved: he is too tired to even think about walking.
Scott leads them to a hut on the third tier — "You wouldn't believe the view!" There a tired woman leads them to a small room. She asks to call her Melissa and offers dinner, though she and Scott have already ate.
Throughout the meal Scott chats non-stop, only pausing to take a breath before starting on another topic. By the end of it Stiles' head is full with new names and village gossip, and he is rather impressed. Nobody have ever talked his ears off before. Scott's eagerness is endearing; he looks like a puppy that's let out to play for the first time. And listening to him recounting "that time I caught a frog and wanted to keep it," Stiles decides that he is going to like him, even if Scott is three years older and a bit too oblivious.
He and Dad fall asleep on the benches covered with furs, full with food and impressions, and the last thought he has is, "I wish mom could be with us. She would have liked it here."
He doesn't know it yet, but in the morning Alan will start teaching him meditation. It will be the most valuable lesson in all the years he will spend under his tutelage.