Stiles sat down at the table and Scott started taking out pans and ingredients. Stiles slumped down in his chair, trying to make sense of the day so far. Not 24 hours ago, he had been blissfully unaware of his feelings for Scott, and therefore felt not compulsion to impress him, he hadn't dreamed of his mother in years, and he was firmly of the belief that mirrors did not spontaneously change into a liquid state. Now, all of these factors in his life had changed drastically.
Something about his dream nagged him. Did all of these strange changes have to do with what his mother was talking about in his dream? Maybe it all boiled down to the way in which his mom's side of the family was different. He didn't know anyone else on her side of the family very well. Most of them lived either on the East coast or in Germany, so he didn't see them much. What could be so different about them?
His train of thought was interrupted by Scott gently setting a plate of eggs and toast in front of him on the table. Stiles looked up, caught off guard. "Oh, thanks Scott," Stiles said, daringly only to allow his eyes a brief second of contact with Scott's.
"No problem," Scott replied, sitting down across from him with his own plate. They both ate quietly for a moment, but there was a definite sense of tension. "So... are you going to tell me what's going on?"
Stiles looked up, swallowing a mouth full of dry toast. "What do you mean?" he asked, crumbs flying from his mouth. He blushed and started wiping them off of the table and onto the floor. Normally, he wouldn't care if he spit food all over Scott, but somehow things had changed since realizing his true feelings. He felt like he had to maintain some sort of posterity in order to impress him.
"You've been weird all morning," Scott said, looking concerned.
"Well, my mirror started melting while I was looking at it, so yeah, I think I may be just a touch on the weird side right now," Stiles countered.
"You were acting weird before that," Scott said, starting to lose confidence in his pursuit. "Why did you want to change in the bathroom? And why did it smell weird in there? And why didn't you-"
"What the hell is this?" Stiles barked, annoyed at all of the inconvenient questions. "If you're looking to stage an inquisition, then just skip straight to the thumb screws."
"I'm just... worried about you, Stiles," Scott said, making the pale boy simultaneously blush with love for his friend and frown with guilt from having snapped at him. "Is it about your mom?"
"Well, yeah, kinda," Stiles replied, measuring how much he gave away. It was always a good bit more difficult with a werewolf who could hear your heart beat and breathing patterns. "It's just been... tough, dealing without her."
They were both silent for a minute. Scott stood up. "Well, if you need to talk you know you always have me," he said, gathering the plates and putting them in the sink.
"Yeah," Stiles responded as his friend gathered his things and started making his way toward the door. "And, uhm, thanks for being there for me. I really appreciate it."
Stiles didn't need to be a werewolf to notice how much more cheerfully Scott started walking after hearing this. He practically skipped out of the house. The warm sun felt good on his skin as he walked down the street, grateful to be leaving early enough that his bare feet wouldn't have to endure the pain of a hot summer sidewalk. He was in high spirits, and would have let out a joyful howl if he hadn't been in a residential neighborhood. Smiling broadly, he stepped into the woods, his heart bounding with joy. At the time, Scott had only wanted to make sure that his friend was okay. Now, he wondered if it had scored him a few points toward becoming Stiles' boyfriend. He already knew that Stiles was his mate, but he wasn't sure if the feeling was mutual yet. Especially just after he woke up, since his morning wood seemed to put Stiles off so much. He was worried that it made things awkward between them, and began worrying if he'd maybe been mumbling Stiles' name in his sleep again. After all, he'd been dreaming of Stiles when he got the boner. Waking up with it grinding against his ass was an unexpected pleasure.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
Stiles turned around, getting half way down the stairs before stopping. Turning his head back toward the attic door, he bit his lip. He had to look. Yes, it was stupid and would probably lead to nothing, but he had to know. The possibility of a repressed memory coming out in a dream wasn't entirely impossible, even if he'd had no reason to repress the memory. Clenching his fists, Stiles turned around and marched up the stairs, firmly planting a hand on the doorknob.
Once again, he faltered. Going into the attic was hard for Stiles, especially now, the day after the anniversary of her death. The entire room seemed to breathe her energy. He could still remember the long hours they spent in the little room, him helping her to string up bundles of herbs to dry, labeling different jars, her teaching him the names of all the plants. Steeling himself, he pushed through the door and up the final stairs.
He stopped short at the last step, looking around. Somehow, all of the anticipation had made him expect to see something happening, like her ghost taking down bundles of dry herbs. But the room was remarkably still, with a heavy silence weighing down on his shoulders. It was almost oppressively uneventful. Climbing the final step, his feet slid through the dust of the old wooden floors.
It was obvious that the space had remained relatively untouched for some years. Dust settled thickly on everything, with big chunks floating through the shafts of morning light coming through the skylight. Stiles lifted the edge of his t-shirt over his nose to try to keep from sneezing, though he did end up sneezing a few times. He looked around the room for the first time in years, curious. He touched some of the old drying herbs, which crumbled under the slightest touch. His mother would have been appalled that they'd let perfectly good herbs go to waste. The current overgrown state of the garden would have given her an aneurism.
The room was simple, with wooden floors, a few cabinets tucked away in the back, a table with two chairs, and a large steamer trunk where they'd put most of her things when she died. He opened one of the cabinets on the far wall, looking for the jar of rosemary. All of the shelves on this cabinet were covered with crystals, rocks, and gems. Stiles couldn't recall ever having seen his mother use anything like that. However, a memory from his dream flashed through his head, in which she was holding a clear stone. Looking over the array of minerals, he found the crystal from his dream. He picked it up and examined it, convinced that it looked exactly like the clear rock in her hand, shapeless and jagged. Without thinking, he pocketed the stone and moved on to another cupboard.
These shelves were filled with jars of herbs, and Stiles started on the arduous process of going through all of the dusty bottles with handmade labels, looking for the rosemary. Some of the herbs seemed strange, and he couldn't remember them ever having been in their garden. Others he could remember helping his mom grow and dry, storing them in little jars for future use. He went through two more cabinets before finding a jar with a faded label reading "Rosemary." He set it on the table behind him and started pressing on the shelf where it had been sitting. Eventually, he found a little hole. Pulling up on the odd indentation, a piece of wood came out of the shelf, scattering some of the jars that had been on top. Nestled inside the hollow within the shelf was an old looking book. He slid his fingers into the space between the book and its resting place, feeling as if he were exhuming a dusty grave as he wrenched the ancient tome from the place it had been hiding for years.
He could feel a certain power within the book as he set it down on the table. Somehow, there was a definite and indefinable weight in the moment. He could feel the importance of what he was doing. Stiles considered putting the book back, going downstairs, and pretending the whole thing had never happened. Fighting the familiar urge to run away from heavy situations, Stiles instead sat down and looked at the book. It was old, cracked brown leather with dark, simple letters imprinted into the cover. The bits of faded, shiny gold along the edges of some of the letters suggested that it had once been written in gold leaf, but had been worn away through many years of use. They were difficult to read, but he could make out the word "Stilinski" on the cover.
Lifting the cover, he was surprised to see that the pages inside looked like they had come from a brand new book. The paper looked old, but not aged, in a style quite unlike the cheap white stuff he was used to seeing. On top there was a folded letter, written on paper that looked much more modern. His name was scrawled on the front in black ink. He recognized his mother's handwriting. With shaking hands, he opened the letter, realizing that he was about to find out the secret that had lain dormant in his mind for years.
Dear Stiles,
I've thought about how to start this letter for a long time, and I've decided that it would be easiest to just come out and say it. Some of the fairy tales that you've heard are true, or at least have some truth to them. There is almost always a kernel of truth in the myths and legends that have been passed down for generations. Our family, along with others of our kind, has inspired many of these stories. We are witches. You, Stiles, are a witch. I don't mean in the religious sense of the word; there is a distinction between the two, since somehow paganism has gotten intermingled with our lore. I mean that you are one of the few people with the ability to manipulate elements and reality.
This book, our family grimoire, should help you discover your distinct abilities and harness them to our control. Our grimoire is quite old, so treat it with respect. It has survived some very tumultuous times in our family, including the Trier Witch Trials. But I will leave the history up to your other relatives, who I encourage you to meet. Up until recently, you've been bound so that you wouldn't discover your powers. I knew that I would not be there to help you understand and use your magic, so I thought it would be safer to keep them from you until you needed them. And now you do, Stiles.
One of my abilities is to foresee the future. That is how I knew that I would die before I could teach you about our family. That is also how I knew that you would need your powers in the future. A few small things have probably bubbled up to the surface before I allowed you to remember, like having dreams that come true, but now your powers are unleashed. My visions are far from exact, they're more like symbols that need interpretation. When I first brought you home from the hospital, I saw the clearest vision I'd ever had.
You were running through the woods. I knew it was you, even though you were older. A wolf was with you, running. You both stopped when you came across a larger wolf. A crack appeared in the ground, running from the larger wolf to the smaller one, threatening to swallow the one you were running with. But you pulled him out and cast the larger one in. I'm still unsure of the specifics, but I remember it quite clearly even now. You had a black snakeroot in your hand, which symbolizes protection and strength for the weak. You'll find that many herbs and plants are useful for amplifying your innate powers; they were something of a specialty for me.
Stiles, I want you to know that I treasure every moment that we've spent together. You are my moon, and your father my sun. Know that I will be there to watch you grow up, even if you can't see me. The love of a mother never dies.