**I know, it's been forever, I'm really trying whenever I can, but I've got two jobs and full time school, so chill. I won't be dropping the fic any time soon. It'll just be slow going for a while. But I'm still here for you!**
Boyd groaned as he stepped out of the Jeep. Though the vehicle appeared spacious at first, sitting in it for hours had caused the boy to resent his confines, especially considering his abnormally large stature. Opening his door, Stiles hobbled out amongst a waterfall of candy wrappers and soda bottles. Even though the entire trip had taken less than a day, Stiles had a need to munch as he drove, especially since Boyd provided relatively little conversation to occupy him. The pale boy scowled as he straightened painfully, his spine stiff and crooked. After allowing blood to flow back to their muscles, the pair looked at the old Victorian house.
Although it didn't look out of place while driving up, the subtle differences stood out now that the two were giving it a proper look. For one thing, there was a larger yard surrounding the house than the neighbors. Instead of the typical tiny patch of grass, a yard surrounded both sides of the door and either side of the house. And instead of having ornamental flowers, like the other houses on the street, the High Witch's house was bedecked with useful herbs and spices. Large bushes of lavender and rosemary were accompanied by spiky ginger leaves, woody thyme, chive stalks, and numerous herbs that Stiles had never seen before. Boyd could smell the heavy cloud of spicy aromas surrounding the old building. He could hear the animals living among the plants; many more than any of the neighbors in the somewhat urban location. The house itself looked older but better maintained than any around it, like a historical landmark that had been preserved as a museum. Overall, Stiles and Boyd agreed that there was no doubt that they had the right place. There was a definite air of magic.
Entering through the wrought iron gate, bells from the arch above their heads cheerily announced their arrival. Smooth, translucent moonstones paved the way to the dark wooden porch, which creaked loudly beneath Boyd's heavy footsteps. They held their breaths as Stiles went to knock on the blue and white door, but found that it was already open before he could rest his knuckles on it. The man had a calm, deeply wrinkled smile. He was old, but not nearly as old as his aura seemed; something about him seemed to imply an age beyond years. His eyes belied his sharp mental prowess. He was dressed simply and modestly, with only a tigerseye amulet around his neck to add any magical impression to his white button down shirt and tan slacks.
"Ah, Stiles and the wolf," he said, his eyes shifting from one to the other. "I suppose it would be a bit cliché to say that I've been expecting you."
Stiles smiled. "I suppose I should've realized that you would know we're coming," he said, still having trouble adjusting to the thought that others had power as well. Boyd wore his usual mask of imperturbability, with his arms crossed over his chest.
"Well, I guess I should welcome you in," the man said, taking a step back to allow the pair entrance. They filed in, both immediately regretting having worn tank tops and shorts as their skin grew goosebumps. Except for the temperature, they were both surprised by the lack of magical aura within the house. It felt comfortable and quaint, but hardly the lair of San Francisco's High Witch. There was simple blue wallpaper and modest furnishings, all with the same old but well-kept quality to them. The High Witch ushered them onto a couch and then took his place on an upholstered chair. Stiles crossed his legs and Boyd shivered as he drew his arms closer around himself for warmth.
"Sorry about the temperature," the High Witch said, causing both boys to nod and smile in agreement of their discomfort. "It's always just a touch too warm in this house."
Stiles stared at the man for a moment, his brain taking a moment to comprehend that the old man thought the house was too warm. He opened his mouth to contradict him, then thought better of it and instead introduced himself. "I'm Stiles, and this here is Boyd," he said, reaching a hand over the coffee table.
"I'm Alfred, the High Witch of San Francisco," the man said, taking Stiles' hand. When their skin touched, smoke rose into the air, trailing up in the shape of a long, wispy snake slithering toward the ceiling. All three men watched the serpent coil and twist its way from their hands to the ceiling, where it found a crack between the decorated tiles and slipped in. The three men stared at it for a long moment in silence. "Well, that can't be good for house..."
Sitting back down, Stiles stared at his hand for a moment. Boyd peered over as well, looking for anything that could have caused the strange occurrence. Alfred chuckled slightly, amused at how easily impressed the youths in front of him were. "So," Stiles started, drawing out the syllable to turn the conversation around to the subject at hand, "we're here about Scott. And the hunters."
"Ah," Alfred commented, crossing one leg over the other and stroking a hand through his well-groomed, white beard. His deep eyes considered Stiles, seeming to look into the past, present, and future of the boy sitting in front of him, shivering in his sleeveless shirt.
Stiles squirmed under the unsettling attention. "Right, well, basically Scott got kidnapped by the hunters. I don't know how to get him back, since they seem to already be a step ahead of me. They know more about magic than I do, and can block me at every turn. Time is running out until the hunters get here, and I don't know what to do," his voice grew more ragged and desperate as he spoke, a surge of adrenaline rising in his stomach and making his breath shallow and nerves oversensitive. He could practically feel the encroaching deadline sliding its fingers around his neck and tensing his muscles as time slipped ever forward.
Alfred's ensuing smile seemed like a juxtaposition to the panic welling inside Stiles. "That is a predicament," the High Witch said.
"That is an understatement," Stiles retorted, his patience wearing thin as he fought for Scott's life.
A dark cloud passed over Alfred's expression, mottling his happy demeanor for a moment. Stiles immediately regretted his insolence, and was relieved when the man seemed to snap out of the momentary gloom, a smile lighting his face once more. "Well," he said, sitting forward, making Stiles and Body anticipate a lengthy explanation, "would anyone else like some tea?"
Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it and simply shook his head. Boyd followed his friend's lead, gritting his teeth as the man slowly lifted himself up out of the old horsehair cushions and shuffled into the kitchen. He exchanged annoyed glances with Stiles, both boys feeding of of each other's impatience as they waited for the old man to slowly go about his business. Time seemed to be slipping through their hands like sand, grains wheedling between their tightly gripped fingers as the High Witch made a pot of tea.
The pair watched, their breath hitched in their throats and their toes curling as the man shuffled back into the room. He set down a tray of what looked to be a random assortment of tea ware. The platter was wooden, with a vaguely Asian-looking metal teapot, a dainty blue porcelain cup with a thick black saucer, a crystal sugar bowl, and a white ceramic creamer in the shape of a cow. Given the orderly and neat appearance of the rest of the house, the odd collection of items seemed out of place. After a grueling process, the High Witch had finally managed to fix his cup of tea and settle back into his chair.
"So," he said, breaking the tension, "what brings you to San Francisco?"
Stiles stared incredulously at the man for a moment. He didn't seem to understand that anything was amiss. "Uhm, Scott? The hunters?" Stiles reminded the old man.
"Oh dear, time is running rather short for all of that, isn't it?" he replied. "Of course, the important things do have a way of working themselves out in their own time, don't they? No, the big things can't be rushed or slowed down. They'll happen just as they're supposed to, no matter how long you take."
Stiles sincerely wished he could share the man's optimism, but the risks were far too high to experiment. The most important thing in the world hung in the balance, and Stiles wasn't up for wasting any more time. "So," he said, as calmly as possible,"how do we set about fixing it?"
The man thought for a moment, took a sip of tea, and rested his eyes back on Stiles'. "Things often need to come to a head before any resolution can be found. In your case, I'd say you're like the pinus contorta."
Stiles looked at him, confused. "You're saying I'm a... bug?"
Alfred smiled slightly to himself as he withdrew a pine cone from a decorative bowl on a staircase beside him. Holding the spiky, geometrically patterned object in his fingertips, he held it in front of the two boys' faces. "No, not a bug, a plant. A tree, conifer specifically," the old man said, his eyes twinkling. "The only way that the species can survive is under duress. The cones won't open and spread their seeds until they're exposed to incredibly high temperatures."
As he spoke, fire erupted from his palm, roasting the dense little cone as the flames licked its sides. The geometric scales separated from the cone, extending outward to make the size of the cone double.
"You see," he said, tipping the cone over so millions of tiny, almost invisible seeds poured onto the carpet below, "only when the cone is all but destroyed is its true power released."
"So," Stiles said, looked at the man, dumbfounded, "I'm supposed to... plant trees?"
Alfred smiled, putting the steaming pinecone down on the table beside him. "You'll understand," he said. "Just wait."
"But Scott is about to-" Stiles started, jumping out of his seat. In his anger, he'd knocked over the porcelain teacup, which had somehow made it over to his side of the table without his noticing. In springing out of his seat, he'd managed to tip the cup and saucer off of the side of the low coffee table in front of him. It landed on the hardwood floor, smashing into hundreds of small pieces which scattered all across the room.
Stiles' lips drooped open as he looked down at the destruction he'd caused. Surely the cup was quite old, and it may have even had sentimental value for the man who was nice enough to take the pair into his home and give them advice. Sitting back down, Stiles stared down at his bare feet, the hairs adorning his toes raising in goosebumps, now not just from the cold. From the periphery of his vision, Stiles saw Alfred draw his fingers together in a fluid motion, gesturing in the area where the cup fell. The pieces gathered together, forming a cup once more, but now with noticeable cracks, and chips missing. Stiles now openly stared, as did Boyd, as Alfred held the cup in suspended animation.
"Anger is destructive in its nature. It feeds off of tearing things apart," picking up the teapot, Alfred began pouring tea into the broken cup. "Though amends can be made with time and effort, what's broken can never truly be repaired."
The pair watched tea pour out of the cracks and holes in the little cup, spilling onto the wooden floor below. Stiles watched the demonstration contemplatively, understanding slowly seeping into his consciousness as the tea seeped into the floorboards. With another gesture of his hand, the entire spectacle disappeared, and Alfred was simply holding the teapot. Boyd looked rather startled, as he had yet to see the power of magic. Stiles, however, was more impressed with the message. The anger welling inside him was slowly mottling his love for Scott, making him impatient and clumsy. These attributes wouldn't help rescue Scott, and would only serve to deter him on his quest to do so.
"Now, why don't you boys get on your way, since you're in such a hurry?" Albert said, setting the teapot down and lifting himself from the chair. "You'll get where you need to go, but it's best not to keep destiny waiting, hm?"
The man raised his thin white eyebrows in expectation of an answer. Smiling, Stiles nodded enthusiastically. Boyd set his mouth in a grim line as he stood, seeming rather to accept fate than embrace it. The High Witch showed them to the door, where they each thanked him for his guidance and hospitality. Tired, the pair shuffled over the threshold into the night air, a chorus of crickets embracing them.
Once on the porch, however, both boys stopped, staring at the world around them. Suddenly, the sun was shining once more, and they both felt as if they'd awoken from a long, deep sleep. Their skin felt warm once again, as if they hadn't spent over an hour in a freezing cold house. Looking at his watch, Boyd confirmed that they had spent less than a minute in the High Witch's house. Turning around, Stiles couldn't see anything through the windows. They were dingy with dust and grime. Indeed, the entire house appeared to be falling apart, as if it hadn't been lived in for years.
Wordlessly, the pair made their way across the porch, cautious of rotting boards, and followed the overgrown path to their car. Both realized that they felt rejuvenated and well-rested, as if they had spent the night eating well and resting. The only exchange between the pair was a brief meeting of the eyes, with which they saw a reflection of their own amazement and confusion. Somehow, talking about it seemed to only cheapen the almost religious experience. Instead, they entered the car, determined to continue on back to Beacon Hills, where they could use their new found knowledge to somehow get Scott back.
**Again, sorry it's been soooo long. I'll keep updating as often as I can! Please bear with me! I appreciate all of you, and I hope you're still liking the story!**