Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles isn’t ready to go home.

The late afternoon sun is beating down on his neck, arms swinging by his sides, sweat dampening his shirt. It’s been a really good day for Stiles, spent outside in the grassy green fields on the outskirts of town, being relaxed and frivolous with his best friend, Scott, getting plenty of dirt under his fingernails. His pants have long grass stains from sliding down the overgrown knolls and he smells slightly of dung from where he fell into it earlier, but he couldn’t be happier.

Beside him, Scott looks as carefree as Stiles feels, curly hair matted with dried mud and a smile on his face that seems immovable. Together they amble along the dirt road that leads up towards Beacon Manor, their feet dragging so as to extend their time for as long as possible, rocks digging into their soles. All of today's memories have already wormed their way into the untouchable parts of his heart, stored away until Stiles wants to revisit. But for however wonderful of a day, the diminishing rays of the sun should not feel like a metaphor, Stiles thinks, shoving his hands into his pockets and kicking a stone out of his way.

It’s the day before his eighteenth birthday. That should feel like a cause for celebration like all the birthdays before it, but instead it feels like a signed and notarised severance from his youth. In many ways it is, he infers, with society officially deeming him an adult and the added responsibilities of someone of his age and title will mean little time for novelties. He doesn’t know when - or if - he’ll have another day like this; free to do what he wants, where he pleases and with whomever he chooses.

He sighs forlornly, slipping his hands into his pockets and bumping shoulders with Scott.  

“You’ll have to come visit me,” he tells Scott for the hundredth time that day.

Scott dutifully rolls his eyes and claps Stiles on the back. “It’s not that bad,” he assures. “You’re not on house arrest.”

“Might as well be,” Stiles mutters.

“Oh come on, who knows? You might enjoy it! Y’know, find a beautiful wife, have children, get some fat on your bones.”

The thought of fatherhood makes Stiles blanch. “Ugh, no thanks.” It’s not that Stiles disdains the thought of domesticity and responsibility, but he wish that those things were choices he had made for himself rather than ideals he'd had to forcibly inherit.

Before long they are met with the imposing steel gates of the manor, just over ten foot tall with wicked sharp ends. Erected only six years ago, they remain open for the duration of the day and are closed and locked at nightfall, the metal still gleaming as if it were brand new. Stiles hates them and every time he passes through them he can’t help but reminisce on the days where the residents of the manor and the townsfolk could essentially come and go as they please. It seemed a waste to have the beautiful, sprawling gardens hidden away.

“C’mon,” Scott says, squeezing Stiles shoulder.

He walks with Stiles along the dirt and stone path, through the immaculately kept gardens up to the heavy double doors of the manor itself - an imposing structure that makes Stiles good mood deteriorate the longer he looks at it.

Scott gives him a tight hug farewell and whispers of plans to sneak Stiles out if he doesn’t see him in one month. Stiles watches him leave until he disappears behind the gates before heading inside, wrenching back the doors and entering the foyer with an increasing sense of heaviness in his body.

Stiles doesn’t want to create more work for what house staff is left and removes his dirt-caked boots at the door the makes his way upstairs as quietly as possible feet padding lightly on the stair rug. He crosses paths with a couple of maids, one carrying laundry in a pile nearly twice her size, slipping as quietly as possible into his bedroom. Once he’s secured the door closed behind him he strips himself out of his dirty clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and heads to his bath. It appears to be clean but he doesn’t have the energy or inclination to have it warmed so he climbs into it at room-temperature. It makes him shiver a little but the tepid water feels nice on his overheated skin, the pressure feeling like ghostly fingers through his hair as he sinks down further and further until only his face is above water. It’s comforting, feeling like he is suspended and embraced all at the same time, lulled by the chirping of birds outside and the sound of his own breathing.

Once upon a time there would be a liveliness about the manor that would permeate into every room, a hive of energy and activity; footmen at the door, kitchen maids carrying silverware, the old grumpy house steward, the ever-tanned gardeners. Someone would have taken his soiled clothes and pre-warmed his bath - not that he  minds  doing these things for himself, but he keenly misses the hustle and bustle. He misses hearing footsteps and the bells, misses the variety of faces and personalities. Sometimes it feels like there is no pulse here anymore.

He scrubs his face and soaps his hair, cleans down the length of his body to wash away the sweat and grime of the day. He doesn’t want to lay in his own filth for longer than necessary so once he’s sud free he steps gingerly out of the bath, drying his relaxed body with a towel. In the mirror hanging from the wall Stiles catches sight of his reflection. His face is still pink from the suns attention, the short hairs of his eyebrows are askew from where he has been rubbing at his face, so he smooths them down. He sticks his tongue out at his mirror self but his reflection only does the same and doesn’t smile.

Stiles is still in a somewhat morose mood when he glances out the window at the orange and pink clouds, contemplating whether or not to just go to bed without dinner in spite of the growling in his stomach. He decides against it however, very much not wanting tomorrow to begin and wanting moreso to speak with his dad before it does. He retrieves clean clothes from his chest of drawers and dresses quickly.

Out in the hall there is no one again, no one at all. Stiles walks to the end of the hall to his father's bedroom, knocking lightly three times before entering. Shutting the door behind him he notes his father lying asleep in bed, his aunt Lady Julia sitting at his bedside.

She looks up at him when he enters and smiles. “Welcome back, Stiles.”

“Aunt Julia,” he greets, taking the seat on the other side of his father's bed. “Any change?”

She grimaces, brown eyes sad when she looks to Stiles who has taken his father’s limp hand in his own. “None, I’m afraid.”

He nods back grimly, stroking his thumbs over the back of his father's hand. It’s the same question he asks everyday and, despite always getting the same answer, a stubborn part of him believes that one day he will walk into these doors and it will all be different, his father will be out of bed, awake, and it will all be like it used to.

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” she says softly, pressing a kiss to his father’s forehead before rising out of her chair and exiting the room.

It was three years ago in the summer, after Stiles’ fifteenth birthday, that his father began to fall ill. Since his mother's death a few years prior Stiles, in a constant low-grade state of anxiety, had kept a persistent watch on his father's state of health. Even to him, however,

it was barely noticeable, odd weak spells, a sporadic cough. John Stilinski was a solid man, his body weathered from his fighting days and his eyes were arresting when stern. After the tragic death of his wife, a young child to care for and with the heavy burden an entire town and manor to oversee, John Stilinski seemed larger than life. Stiles had seen his father break up fist fights between neighbours having an altercation over land, seen him holding a grieving woman who had lost her son at war, watched him stare down men of a higher station than himself who tried to take control of the estate after the death of Stiles mother.

The illness progressed slowly, then suddenly. The family physician said at first it was a sickness of his lungs, it’s acceleration causing his father intermittent bouts of fainting sometime over a year after the initial symptoms. He later corrected his stance as a disease of the blood when the migraines and fevers began. His father being as stubborn as Stiles ignored all orders of bedrest, even from his son, until he could no longer. Over the following year John slept a lot - for all of the summoned doctors and herbalists and spiritualists and even an exorcist, they all came and none could help.

John slept longer and longer each time - up until one night six months ago, when he fell asleep in his bed and has not woken since.

It’s been six months since his father has opened his eyes or spoken to Stiles or hugged him - and no one can figure out why. When Stiles hasn’t been researching remedies and roaming the countryside for cures he has been at his father’s bedside - or with Scott, trying to forget it all. With his father’s hand warm underneath his, pulse beating steadily, he almost can. But the longer he stays, the more the quietness of the house grows louder - and he is again bitterly reminded of how much everything has changed.

Especially tomorrow, when he turns eighteen, finally of age, and officially begins to take over his father’s duties.

“Scott and I went out into the fields today,” Stiles recounts to his father. “We passed old farmer Perry’s niece on the way, she’s just turned twelve.”

In his mind's eye this is when John responds with interest and maybe a story, a probing question about Stiles’ behavior. But his father stays stays unmoving.

“Melissa caught Scott kissing that girl from the tavern and scolded him about being appropriate in public. Did you ever think out of the two of us, it would be Scott getting a lecture about decent behavior?” His father remains motionless, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Tomorrow is….a big day. I always kinda thought you’d be walking me through it, y’know, steering me on the right course like always. You always know what to do.”

Stiles sighs.

“I just...I can’t do this without you. I don’t want this.”

His father doesn’t stir despite the quiet distress in Stiles voice. Stiles wished his life were like books or plays, where the penultimate moment alters the story so it ends happy, everything always gets restored to the way it was. In those stories this is where his father would wake up all bleary-eyed but nimble enough to fix everything.

Recounting the remainder of his day in animated whispers, Stiles stays with his father until a maid comes in to administer the tonic. She bows politely at the door and announces to Stiles that she is give to give his father his medication and that Stiles may stay if he wishes.

He doesn’t. He always hated needles.  Instead, Stiles rises from his seat, bids her goodnight with a polite nod and decides to call it a day and go to bed. He doesn’t need a candle to navigate through the winding hall back to his own bedroom but he wishes he had one anyway to make the walls seem less bleak.

In his own bed, snug under the covers Stiles tries for a long time to fall asleep but can only toss and turn for what feels like hours. It’s not like he didn’t know this day would come or as if he hadn’t prepared for it, but it still feels like the days and years have crept up on him without warning, like he closed his eyes for just a moment and time ran away. He knew that one day the Estate would be passed to him, but when he closed his eyes and imagined it, it was always much later in the distant future, when all traces of adolescence had vanished from his face and childhood ambitions fulfilled.

Undoubtedly he would change a lot about his life if he had the power to do so, this being the least of all his worries. With that in mind Stiles slowly manages to fall asleep, despite the worry that swells up his throat every time he closes his eyes.

-----

The following morning, despite being Stiles eighteenth birthday, is just like any other. He maybe stays a little longer in bed than usual but he absolutely does not procrastinate and read four chapters of the book on his bedside table, he would never. After convincing himself to leave the safety of his room Stiles dresses and he goes downstairs for breakfast. It’s not all bad though, despite the dread in his gut - to be fair, Nina the old cook did give him extra bacon and added a freshly cut flower to his plate. She even ruffled his hair affectionately and whispered  happy birthday my lord , to him when collecting his plate. She is one out of only two of the original staff members from before his mother died. It warms him some and brings a smile to his face.

Afterwards, he slips out into the garden for fresh air. It is still early, the sun having just risen, so no one is really expecting him yet and Stiles wouldn’t be himself to not take advantage of that. The cool air feels good in his lungs though. Ambling slowly and yawning widely, Stiles comes across one of the newer gardeners tending to a patch of violets, a young man named Ed or Fred or something, he thinks. It’s hard to keep track, okay? They haven’t had much luck with gardeners lately, none seeming to last longer than a year before Stiles is informed that they have either quit or retired. No longer with a steward and now of age, the role of hiring any new staff will begin to fall on Stiles shoulders, he realizes with a wince.

Nonetheless, Stiles waves and grins at him before the guy can politely divert his eyes, jogging over to him.

“Good morning, my lord,” the man says, placing his trowel in the soil and standing up. He’s young, maybe a couple of years younger than Stiles himself, and fumbles when he goes to bow.

Stiles waves him off, holding out his hand. “Just Stiles, please.”

“Ted,” the young man says, shaking Stiles hand.

“You’re up early,” Stiles comments, shielding his eyes from the piercing rays of rising sunlight with his hand.

“Gotta be,” Ted laughs, running a soil-covered hand through his mousy hair, “there’s a lot of ground to cover here.”

“Yeah, no kidding. You’re new right?”

“Yes, started last week.”

“You like it here?” Stiles asks, genuinely curious. It must pay as well as any job in town, if not more, but he can’t imagine it being any more enjoyable. Not the way the staff used to love it, how they would smile and gossip instead of being hushed and drawn like they seem to be now. Ted may be too new to tell, but he seems young enough to have options.

“A garden here is as much the same as a garden anywhere else,” Ted shrugs. “Besides, your father helped out my family a lot when my sister was sick a few years back, so...”

“She okay now?”

The guy grins to himself, eyes growing fond. “Yes, she’s strong as a horse now.”

Stiles smiles and claps the guy on the shoulder, wishing him a good day. He takes his time idling around the grounds of the manor for a half hour more, spending most of his time looking through the back boundary fence at the fields that stretch far and wide. Cows roam lazily, tails flicking against the wind and a stable boy runs by, wild and breathless with laughter as he chases after a wayward chicken.  The air smells of hay and fresh cut grass and Stiles wishes he could stay out here all day. If anyone had asked, he’d say the idea of going back indoors makes his breath quicken unpleasantly and the food in his stomach sour. He shakes away the thoughts the best he can but he can’t help but feel untethered and unsettled by the way his life has turned so far off course.

Ever since Stiles was a little boy all he wanted to do was travel the world once he was old enough. He wanted to see the ocean, smell the salty sea that the wandering strangers would write songs about. He wanted to see the Red Lands to the east, named for the dry, arid conditions and the sands. He wanted to see all of the things the scholars wrote history books about. Stiles never wanted to stay gone, but he’d planned to be gone long enough to feel like he’s learned something, until he was no longer jealous of the visiting soldiers with their tales of visiting towns and cities Stiles had never even heard of.

Stiles had already re-calibrated his vision of his future after his mother passed away eight years ago and now again that his father is indisposed at Stiles coming of age. He kind of always thought that at least one of his parents would always be around, it didn’t occur to him that the burden of the estate would fall onto his shoulders alone at this time of his life.

Not entirely alone, he supposes, watching the grass and tree branches sway in the breeze. He has his Aunt Julia too.

Lady Julia was his mother's younger sister and only sibling - both noble in title as second cousins to the current heir of the crown, far enough removed to barely be considered to be in line for the throne, but close enough to still hold land and duties. When his mother had passed when Stiles was ten, his father grief stricken, Lady Julia Stilinski had come to the manor as a representative of the crown, assisting in the management of the estate until Stiles was old enough.

It wasn’t a technical requirement, nobody from the crown would particularly care if John had been left to run Beacon by himself, but Julia in her own grief said she had felt compelled to come to the aid of a mourning father and son.

She had held her own lands, a small town called Lykinthrope to the south-east, past the Dark Forest. She travelled back there often and insisted that her own husband and the caretakers were more than capable of caring for the town in her absence. She had spent the majority of her time in Beacon ever since. She was the reason so many things had changed - the gates for extra security, the reduction in staff to control cost, all in an effort to maintain efficacy. It wasn't a stretch by any means to say that Julia and Stiles were very different people, despite sharing blood - and would never be considered friends were they not related. Stiles was all brash impulse and barely reigned attitude, where Julia was prim and proper and suffered no fools. She tried her best though, Stiles thought, even if he didn’t like all of the change.

Things would change again now, though. With that thought in mind Stiles sighs and starts to head back inside, waving to Ted again as he passes. He removes his shoes again at the door and is halfway to the library when Julia’s maid-in-waiting approaches him.

The young girl keeps her eyes diverted, brown hair tied neatly in a bun. “Lady Julia has asked to see you in her office.”

Stiles, hoping to have a little more time to read and relax, tries not to let his shoulders slump in disappointment and pastes on a smile. “Thank you, I’ll head there now,” he says. She bows stiffly and takes her leave, feet shuffling quietly across the floorboards.

So it begins, he thinks with dread festering in his chest. Stiles quickly checks his appearance in the mirror of the foyer, lest Julia chastise him for any dirt or grime that would make him appear unseemly. Satisfied he will pass, he heads right towards her office stopping just outside the closed door, hesitating - he’s not entirely sure he will like what waits on the other side, particularly when family is business.

Inhale, exhale. Okay.

Julia beckons him to come inside after he knocks on the door, smiling warmly at him from her seat on the sofa. “Come,” she says, patting the empty spot beside her.

When Stiles sees her smile, the way her eyes crinkle at the sides, he can see a lot of his mother in her. Though, she seems to have inherited Stiles’ grandmothers eyes, where Claudia had her father’s. Despite this, the likeness between the sisters was evident, so much so that rumours thrived in town that the only reason why Julia had stayed in Beacon for so long was because John had grown attached to her resemblance to his late wife. Out of all of the rumours and half truths he has heard in circulation, Stiles hated hearing that one the most. It wasn’t true - his father still hadn't taken off his wedding ring before he fell asleep.

He takes a seat next to her, resting his clasped hands politely on his knees to keep them from fidgeting. “Good morning, Aunt.

“Good morning, Stiles. Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you, Aunt.”

She tucks a silky lock of dark hair behind her ears, exposing her bony wrist. “I know it goes without saying, but your parents would be very proud. You’re a man now.”

Stiles nods, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. “I’m the same person as I was yesterday,” he mumbles. “I’m as much as a man today as I was then.”

Julia pats his hands and affirms with patience, “Not in the eyes of the law.”

If Stiles’ father were awake right now he would say  yeah, well I am the law . It makes him feel a little sadder even as the old humour makes his lips quirk upwards. “Law, shmaw,” Stiles says, leaning back on the sofa cushion, prompting an eye roll from his aunt.

“Now, I know you’ve been worried about taking over for your father -”

Stiles waves a hand dismissively. “I’m fine.”

“Really? I could have sworn you have been withdrawn and quiet for weeks.”

“Fine is a strong word,” Stiles says casually, scratching his nose. “But it’s okay, y’know, I’ll manage.”

“I will still be here to teach you, it won’t all be placed on your shoulders straight away if that’s what you’re thinking.”

It kinda was what he’d been thinking. Everything else important in his life has already been unceremoniously taken from him, why would his independence be anything different? Self-pity aside, he’s relieved nonetheless that he won’t be thrusted fully into his new role wholly unprepared. But the idea of this being his life now makes his skin itch uncomfortably. When he thinks about being confined to the manor with all of it’s properness and pleasantries a sharpness furrows into his chest, right where his heart is.

Before he can express his relief a knock comes from the door, followed by Julia's maid-in-waiting carrying a tray of hot tea. She enters in and sets the tray down, head bowed.

“Thank you,” his aunt says softly as her maid bows and then leaves, closing the office door behind her. “Drink,” she prompts Stiles, reaching for her own cup of tea.

Stiles doesn’t like tea, really, but his throat is dry and his nerves are squirming relentlessly. When he picks it up he presses the hot porcelain into his palms, breathing in the light herbal scent. He takes a sip, nose scrunching at the taste but swallows anyway.

“So, it’s not going to be all fire and brimstone straight away?” Stiles asks tentatively.

Julia shakes her head, placing her own cup back on the tray. “No, but there will be many things I will need you to start thinking about from today.”

“Like what?”

“The way you interact with people, mostly. Who you’re seen with, who you’re connected to. Being a child is one thing, but it’s not going to be proper to have the man of the house be seen playing in the mud with the stable boys.”

Even if Stiles expected this he still didn’t like it, the implications and the way the words  proper  and  playing  both felt like accusations for different reasons. “Okay,” he breathes, taking another sip of tea, “so, grow up is what you’re saying. What else?”

“Marriage.”

Stiles stomach jolts, his fingers and toes going hot. Dread washes over him like being submerged in cold water and if  properness  taught him anything it was to purse his lips and not say the first thing that comes to mind. He’s suddenly thankful that he has something to occupy his hands and mouth while his heart races.

“Marriage?” he croaks. “Already?”

Julia turns to him, a frown on her face. She says, apparently displeased, “You should have already started courting when you turned seventeen, but with your father…well, we had other priorities.”

“So what,” Stiles asks, unable to hold back, “now I’m eighteen my father is as good as dead and I can be married off?”

Her frown turns into a severe expression, her jaw clenching firmly and her eyes sharpen on him. Before he can pull away she has reached out and grabbed Stiles’ wrist with her thin hand. The movement causes him to jostle, spilling some of the still hot tea on his legs and hands and he winces as it burns his skin.

“Don’t you dare be ungrateful,” she whispers lowly. “You have been allowed more time to fool around than most others of your station. Your  mother  was married at your age because she understood it was what was expected of her.”

Bringing up his mother is a low blow and he hopes the glare he directs his aunt is caustic enough to convey his thoughts on it. He wrenches his wrist from her tight grip whilst managing not to spill any more of the hot drink which he places down on the table, the slight trembling of his hands making the porcelain clink together.

“Do you understand?” She asks, hands joined on her lap like she’d never moved at all.

“Yeah, I get it,” Stiles seethes. “But I’m not going to marry the first idiot that comes along, okay? Expectation or not I still have the right of choice.”

Julia stands up and walks to the window, her long, dark hair falling from her shoulders and down her back. “You want to marry for love?” she enquires lowly, patting down her skirt.

“Didn’t you?” Stiles challenges, however genuinely curious.

She turns her mirthful gaze to him briefly, studying his face. “Believe it or not the world is not that clear cut. Sometimes your choice is a matter of the least bruised apple.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Regardless of what you had to do I’m not going to settle for second best.”

An dry, amused look comes over his aunts face, a hum coming from her smiling mouth. She walks over to where he is sitting cups his cheek briefly before standing tall again. “You, Stiles? Out of whoever you marry, who says it will be  you  that will be settling for second best? Did you suddenly become a catch overnight?”

Stiles clenches his jaw to hold back any further scathing remarks as hurt laces like ice through his veins. He knows better, now, than to retaliate with whatever harsh comebacks are sitting on his tongue, despite how badly he wants to release them and wound her back just as much.

Aunt Julia sighs and Stiles can’t tell if she’s pleased or disappointed with his silence. “I didn’t think so,” she says softly, walking out of the office. She turns to him at the door, hands resting on the wooden frame. “Finish your tea. It’s imported.”

-----

Stiles has a somewhat complicated relationship with his Aunt Julia.

For the first few years after she arrived Stiles was mostly too young and sad to do anything more than stay out of her way. She’d always seemed so tall, so regal with her long neck and delicate hands and flawless pale skin - Stiles was just some grubby child that couldn’t sit still, mole-blemished and lanky.

Julia had been politely distant at first, keeping to herself and keeping the manor and town running while Stiles and his father recovered from their loss. If Julia experienced the same sorrow after the loss of her sister she hid it very well under a stern, no-nonsense veneer - but she broke it sometimes too - rolling her eyes and sharing a giggle with Stiles when John said a terrible one-liner or sneaking him candies when she returned to the manor from the monthly visit to her town.

He’d never really seen any flare of her temper until a couple of years ago as his father started to show worsening symptoms of his illness and the burden of responsibility fell solely upon her shoulders. Stiles, sixteen, had walked in on her kissing a young, visiting soldier in the office, their hands all over each other. She’d instantly rounded on Stiles, grabbed his wrist and told him with such fury that if he could not ask to enter a room he would not be allowed to ask to leave one. He’d been locked in his bedroom for one whole day without food and the gates to the manor had been shut for a week. His father had been in one his prolonged periods of unconsciousness and was none the wiser - and Stiles, well he was never going to say anything about it while his father was so perilously ill. There were other priorities.

Whilst it didn’t occur between his parents to Stiles knowledge, it wasn’t like affairs were uncommon in noble households, but ever since then her patience with him grew thinner and thinner, her remarks more scathing, her touch firmer. Stiles tried to give as good as he got, but mostly he was confused. Had she always been this way and he’d just been to young to see it? Or had she grown colder over time?

Overwhelmingly, Stiles just wished his father would wake up and make everything all better again. Julia could go back to her own estate and Stiles could evade the axe of noble adulthood for just a little longer.

Life after his eighteenth birthday continued, albeit with many small changes. The bulk of those small changes were in the form of paperwork - and he means a  lot  of paperwork. Like a mountain of it, like a veritable volcano about to erupt of documents and duties. Requests from the townsfolk, taxes, harvest and livestock figures, letters, more taxes, strategy, more requests, more taxes. In his first week alone Stiles had to settle a dispute between two townsfolk wanting to build on the same land, both of which were denied because it was crown protected land anyway. At least then they were mad at him instead of each other.

Stiles signed very few documents without the watchful gaze of Julia and the times when he got to leave the manor were far less - and always for official business. Over a period of three months he saw Scott once, in passing. He’d gone to raise his hand and yell out to him but his wrist had been seized by his aunt, fingernails digging into his skin. Her words on her birthday about who he was to be seen with had rushed back to him and, in outrage of the thought of shunning his oldest friend, he’d tried to call out anyway but Scott was already gone.

Stiles was not yet included in the afternoon political discussions with the advisors and other nobles, nor was he allowed any classes in weaponry or foreign language. He'd tried on more than one occasion to offer his input on the various topics, analysis and opinion on the tip of his tongue, but each time he was shut down. Excluded, like it was some right he'd yet to earn. It would seem that for now, his life was all quills and papercuts.

And then came the suitors.

For months and months on end it was a rotation of both men and women, some young as thirteen, others old enough to be Stiles’ grandfather. They would appear once or twice or month, some with their families or entourage and some on their own, each vying for Stiles’ attention. Some came bearing gifts, tokens, all of which Julia always takes away after they leave, saying that if he kept any of them he would be seen as playing favorites. Stiles disagreed, it’s not like anyone sees him at all.

He tried to take it seriously in the beginning, keeping his composure and smiling when it was polite to. But the more prospects he met, the harder it became to maintain his interest or his ability to withhold his searing sarcasm. Even disregarding the ones who were too young or too old, the suitors seemed too snotty or bland, or arrogant. None had caught his interest at all. Stiles didn’t care for the wealth of the men and women who came for his hand, or the size of their lands or the size of their….whatever else… almost none seemed happy to address him without also aiming for the favor of his aunt and for the others, there was just no  spark .

To be fair, Stiles never made much of an effort to compensate for his so-called deficiencies, either. He would turn up to lunches with the suitors smudged in ink or “accidentally” spill wine onto their laps, blaming his own clumsiness.

“Pity,” he would utter placidly when each suitor left without a promise to return. He’d sip the tea the maid-in-waiting would bring him, pointedly ignoring the displeased looks from Julia.

Guilt nagged at Stiles for every bit of distance that grew between him and his aunt. That isn’t to say that they were very close to begin with, they weren’t, but it didn’t hurt to try and make things a little easier on her though. Sometime after his birthday he’d tried to take in interest in her interests, she was always reading science journals and large tomes in Latin and all sorts of things.  Julia would often have those ‘things’ imported to the manor - crystals, strange herbs, incense. She explained she was exploring alternative medicine when Stiles enquired as she’d placed black opals around his father's bedroom, entranced by the colorful stone. It would act as a conduit of energy, she explained, presumably Stiles thought, to draw the “bad energy” away from his father and into the stones. It sounded pokey, but intriguing nonetheless.

Ever curious as he was, he’d gone to poke at one, stopped only when she slapped his hand away. “Don’t,” she’d snapped. “You’ll jeopardize it.”  

Chastised, he tried not to be disheartened and attempted once more to engage with her on a later occasion.

She’d been in her office, carefully adding drops of yellow liquid into a beaker resting on the desk. The beaker was full of some kind of moss green concoction and it smelled terrible, like rotting garbage, all away from across the room. He tiptoed into the room, making enough noise to let her know he was there but not to startle her. Or so he thought.

“What are you making?” he’d whispered.

“Tonic,” she’d replied shortly, not looking up from where her eyes were concentrated on applying the yellow liquid carefully to the beaker.

He was about to ask what the hell the noxious liquid could be used for when he accidentally knocks into a vase, sending it shattering to the polished floor. Cringing at the mess, he looks up to see a murderous glare on her face - evidently having startled her enough to have caused her to tip the beaker all over the desk.

“Oh my  god , I am so, so sorr -”

“Get out.”

He’d backed away slowly, trying to not step on any sharp pieces of the broken vase, hands up in apologetic surrender. Guilt sat heavy on his ribs, “Sorry! I’ll leave you alone -”

“Out! Stiles, good God you are testing my last nerve these days. Don’t come back in here, you hear?”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

----

After that, the rift between Stiles and his aunt seemed to grow wider and deeper. Between them there had always been a sense of disconnection, however easily bridged by John or memories of Stiles’ mother. Now, with just the two of them, it seemed like the divide fractured so much that there was no longer any common ground between them. Their days were spent coldly addressing one another over paperwork and disagreements about their visitors.

Stiles knew that he was plain, that he was not a natural beauty like her, or strong and solid like his father had been. No one was going to write odes or sonnets about his moles or be helplessly charmed by his inability to focus on one thing at a time. Still, despite Julia’s increasingly scathing commentary on his desirability, he held hope that he could find someone who he connected with, someone who he could feasibly vision spending his days with.

His stubbornness came between them a lot. Every suitor turned down only increased her frustration with him as if she couldn’t understand why he was being this way. He became lonelier over time too, not even the staff willing to accommodate his need for company. Every time he would try to strike a conversation they would avert their eyes, suddenly very timid, and hastily find somewhere else they needed to be. He missed his family and friends - his father still lay asleep, kept alive only with the liquid injections, still no closer to a cure or even a diagnosis. Stiles met more doctors, more suitors, all as useless as the last. He'd even begun vetting all of his suitors for their connections, trying to scope out if they knew any physicians or spiritualists - anyone that could assist. There was no one that had not already come.

He'd spent good use of his time studying, researching, helping Ted in the garden sometimes or helping Nina in the kitchen. Well, he tried to help in the kitchen but Nina would usually smack his arm with a wooden spoon and tell Stiles that he was "as useful as tits on a bull", burning water more than once. In the late evenings surrounded by the buzz of cicadas, Stiles would look out his window at the moon and stars, dreaming up scenes of travelling by ship or horse to far away lands, of men and women who might care for more than just his name, of his family being closer to whole again. 

One day, nearly six months after his eighteenth birthday, Stiles was sitting in his father’s room, reading aloud a humorous letter from a potential suitor that, in flowery prose, assured Stiles that her daughter on offer was both supple and fertile. His father slept on, but Stiles knew it would be enough to make the old man laugh were he awake.

There was still no change to his condition, whatever it was.

His reading is interrupted by a knock on the door. When Stiles turns to see who it is he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face and the happiness rising in his chest.

“Scott!” he exclaims, jumping up to hug his friend. “I’ve missed you, how have you been!”

His friend returns his embrace, strong arms wrapping around Stiles back and squeezing tightly. “I missed you too - man, it’s so good to see you!”

“What are you doing here?”

Scott looks around the room suspiciously for a moment before leaning in close to Stiles and excitedly whispering: “We’re breaking you out!”

Confused, Stiles huffs a laugh. “Who’s doing what now?”

“Me, Lydia, Allison - we’re sneaking you out for the night!”

“It’s already ten!” Stiles whispers, gesturing to the clock on the wall. Scott simply rolls his eyes and grabs Stiles hand, tugging him across the room.

“Oh no,” Scott teases, squeezing Stiles fingers, “is it your bedtime already old man?”

“Shut up,” Stiles mutters as Scott leads him to stop in the open doorway. “The Godwin family will be arriving early tomorrow morning and I have to be there. Julia is making, like, a really big deal out of this.”

“Why?”

“I think something to do with a trade or a big investment. I’ve been warned about my best behavior, like, twenty times.”

“Relax,” Scott says, pulling him out into the hall, crouching slightly by the railing and peering over the banister for any observers that may catch them on their ‘jailbreak’. “I’ll have you back  way  before then.”

Nervous and excited at the same time, Stiles stops his friend with a punch to his arm. “What about Lady Julia? She isn’t going to let me just walk out of here.”

“She’s asleep, I checked!”

“And the guard?”

Scott waves him off. “I got your back, brother. We have a decoy.”

“A  decoy ?” Stiles asks incredulously, heart pounding as they tiptoe down the stairs, peering cautiously around corners like they did when they were kids playing hide-and-seek. “Who even are you?”

The decoy turns out to be Scott’s cousin, Liam, weeping loudly and dramatically over his lost pet rat, swearing up and down that he had seen it scurrying through the gates and into the garden. The guard stands nervously over the young teen who is sticking his arm into a shrub to pat over the ground. Although it is mostly dark, Stiles whole body thrums with nerves and adrenaline as he and Scott sneak past the guard as quietly as possible, sticking close to the fencing. It’s chilly outside and beyond their dragon breath the full moon shines fat and full overhead, crystal-like stars salting the black night sky. They slip through the small opening of the gate and, grinning at each other, bump fists and head down the hill. Promptly afterwards, Stiles hears Liam give up his search and thank the guard for his assistance.

The adrenaline in Stiles veins has him feeling exhilarated, free as a bird and feeling more alive than he has in months. His step has a skip to it and Stiles can actually feel himself getting lighter the further he gets from the manor.

In the far distance he can see the tall figures of Allison and Lydia waiting for them by the flagpole on the town outskirts and with renewed energy he takes at a light run with Scott and Liam towards them. His cheeks are flushed when they come to a stop, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, but the girls don’t seem to mind, hugging him just as tightly as Scott had.

“So,” Lydia smirks when she pulls back, hands going to her hips, “you ready for a night out?”

----

Turns out Stiles was actually ready and maybe, perhaps - no,  definitely  overdue for a night out to let loose and be surrounded by his friends, the people who do not care if he is or is not  proper .

Wrapped up in each other, they’d gone to the tavern where Allison works in the centre of town, crowded and rowdy with patrons at the late hour. The interior is illuminated by firelight and loud with raucous laughter, heady with yelling and music and smoke - and Stiles is  thrilled . They find themselves a table and that’s when the night truly begins - he’s only a few miles away from home but he might as well be a thousand light years away for how long ago it seemed he was at his father’s bedside.

After Scott had brought the first round of drinks over, the rest of the night flew by in a symphony of drunken felicity. His friends traded stories around the table of things Stiles had missed, of what they were up to now. Scott and Allison were officially courting and Lydia, brilliant Lydia, had received an admission to medical school that she would start in the next month in the Capital.

“I’m going to miss you,” Stiles had slurred sometime in the night, wrapping his arm around her delicate shoulders. She kisses his cheek, leaving a red rouge imprint.

“No, you’re not,” she’d replied, knocking back the rest of Stiles drink in a single gulp. “You’re gonna come visit me. You’re gonna travel and you’re gonna come see me.”

He’d shook his head sadly, feeling very warm all of a sudden. He unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt and fans his face, catching the eye of a pretty barmaid carrying drinks to another table. Her hair was gold and in tight ringlets and when she smiled at him her cheeks dimpled so Stiles, delightedly waved his arm for another round of beer. When she had brought the drinks over to their table she’d ruffled up Stiles hair and pressed a playful kiss to his neck where he had craned it sideways to allow her more room to place down the beer. She’d then walked away with a wink, Stiles couldn’t tell if it was an invitation or not, but nothing further came of it, despite the full-body flush it gave him and the southerly re-direction of his blood. In the end, he lost count of how many drinks he had, how many dances he had. Everything was bubbles and blur after his fifth pint. 

Stiles received several more kisses on the cheek from women he drunkenly danced with, some from the men too, and from Allison and Lydia when they’d said their goodbyes. It was the best night he had had in a very long time, one he didn’t plan to forget soon.

Scott walked Stiles back to the manor just before sunrise, eyes sore and limbs heavy with fatigue. He’d stopped drinking a few hours ago but the cool morning air helped sober to him up

“You’re the best,” Stiles tells him, eyebrows wiggling meaningfully. The sky is beginning to turn a dull grey-blue and a rooster crows in the distance and they’re already near the gates. The long metal spikes has dread start creeping along his spine again, but it can’t overcome the warm dregs of euphoria still being pumped out around his chest.

“Are you still drunk?” Scott laughs.

“Nah,” Stiles says.

“You are a mess though.”

He looks down at his beer stained shirt. “Yeah."

When they come upon the gates, which have already been opened for the morning, Stiles thinks the groundskeeper must have started early. He bids Scott goodbye at the gate, exchanging another hug and promises to see each other again soon, emboldened by his time with his friends. For the first time in months he squares his shoulders and strides with his chin held high, already thinking of ways he can change.He rounds the curve of the fountain, eyes searching for the groundskeeper. It’s in his distraction that he fails to notice the sleek green carriage pulled up by the manor entrance, it’s occupants dressed to the nines and being welcomed by Aunt Julia.

When Stiles turns his head back and notices the visitors his stomach drops and cold washes over him.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters, trying to back away but it’s too late, they’ve already heard and noticed him. He runs a shaking hand through his hair in an effort to tame it and then down his tired face. His hand comes back smeared in lipstick still left over from the night and he scrubs at his face and neck hastily with his fingers.

It occurs to him that he must look absolutely crazy, swaying slightly on the spot from exhaustion, lipstick over his skin and his beer-stained shirt. In spite of his best efforts, he can’t help but feel a growing apprehension in his gut with the way Julia has gone pale, her jaw clenched tight with fury he can feel from here.

“Is that...Mieczysław?” Asks a tall, greying man, cane clutched in his hand.

Julia tilts her head so she is staring at Stiles square-on and when he locks eyes with her his heart drops. He’s never seen her eyes so cold or dark. “No,” she declares. “That’s just our servant, Stiles. Mieczysław will be absent during your stay, I’m afraid.”

He furrows his brow, unsure if she is giving him an out. The eldest woman, draped in a fox-fur coat, purses her lips and sends Stiles an unimpressed look. “You let your staff carouse until dawn?”

“Absolutely not,” Julia states firmly, eyes still trained on Stiles’. “This one knows better and will be punished accordingly.”

----

Things changed for Stiles after that.

Punishment was swift and sorely met. It came in the demeaning form of no longer being allowed to stay in his childhood bedroom because, according to his aunt, servants didn’t have bedrooms so neither should he - if he wanted to act like ‘a no good delinquent’ he would be treated like one.

Were it not for his father, Stiles would have turned around and left to go bunk with the McCalls - as it were, he could only accept his so-called punishment with barely withheld anger and sarcasm. To add insult to injury, Julia had said that Stiles made the other staff uncomfortable - so instead of being housed in the servants quarters in the small building adjacent to the manor, he was locked in the basement cellar each day and night for the entire duration of the Godwins’ week long stay.

At first, incensed and outraged beyond belief, Stiles had railed against his aunt, throwing things and beating against the heavy cellar door - but he went unheard each time. His boredom grew in equal measures with his anger over the days. It was too dark to read properly - not that he’d had any books to read anyway - and he’d tried every weakness in the walls and the door. There was no way out of the cellar.

Despair began to burgeon when Stiles was not allowed back into his room again even after the Godwins had left. Julia visited him each night bringing candlelight, some bread and cheese and lastly, hot tea. At first he ignored her in his anger, spilled his teacup over and threw the food in her face.

She had gripped his wrist tightly then and reminded him that whilst he was unmarried, and while she was still alive, she was the senior ranking member of the family and that her will was a good as law. She had gripped his chin roughly with the other hand and reminded him that as long as he was down here, the wellbeing of his father was in her hands and that he  best remember that.

The implication was enough for ice to spread in his veins. All this for having a night off?

Without the guiding cycle of the sky it was difficult to tell how long he had been down the cellar in total, it was always dark and it was always cold. He’d begun counting down the times he was visited and brought food, mentally calculating it a measurement of a day or two. He went nearly delirious with hunger and thirst after a couple of days and eventually gave in to her offerings, taking what little he could to stay alive and aware, eyes blinking painfully every time she brought the candle light after so long seeing nothing but black. It was hard to tell in the dark but he was sure he was filthy, unable to bathe or change his clothes. Stiles could see the way her nose would wrinkle anytime she got too close to him which only infuriated him more - what was the point of keeping him down here? Stiles knew she was a harsh, strict woman but this seemed to be madness - and for the first time he could not see any likeness of his mother in her at all.

“I really tried,” Julia says one night down in the cellar with him, bringing him tea and more bread. He was getting very tired of tea and bread and the terrible mattress on the floor and in fact this entire damn room where he had nothing to do.

He didn’t know what she was talking about and he didn’t really care. He sipped idly at his tea and watched a rat scurry along the wall in the dim candlelight.

“I wanted to make the best of this situation, you see. Do you think it was easy for me, coming here after my sister died?”

Stiles hasn’t had more than scraps of bread for what he thinks must be over a month now, he’s still not used to the way the brittle fingers of hunger extend long and sharp from his stomach. He’s too afraid to answer her, lest he do something degrading like begging for food.

She continues anyway. “I didn’t want to have to do this. I wanted to like you - to love you,” she scoffs to herself, eyes focused on the dripping candlewax. “I can’t even begin to tell you how hard you make that possible.”

Stiles laughs lowly, tipping his head back and rolling his eyes. “So, what - you decided I was unlovable, fine - therefore I must then be your  prisoner ?”

She runs a finger over the rim of her tea-cup. “I expect so little of you and yet you still can’t meet me halfway. Do you have any idea how important that meeting was with the Godwins? Five seconds in and you already managed to nearly ruin it. Five seconds - I couldn’t have you there.”

“What was so important? They left weeks ago and I’m still down here!”

“They had something very important to me,” she admits quietly, standing up. “Something I have been looking for for a very long time and they were finally willing to trade.”

Anger laces through him, he standing up to full height and snarls through the light headedness. “Are you kidding me?! All of this is because  they had something you wanted ? I’ve been living with rats and haven’t slept the night through in weeks! For what - some trinket? Has anyone ever told you that you are a selfish sack of - ”

He’s cut off abruptly by a pressure on his windpipe cutting off his air flow. Panic surging up his chest, Stiles splutters as he tries to drag in a breath, face going red and eyes watering -- and it’s then it’s suddenly over as quickly as it came. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, sweating, hands trembling as they go to cradle his throat.

“Oh dear, you must have choked on your food,” Julia says from across the room.

His eyes fly to her and even with his tear-blurred vision it looks like her eyes are glowing a bright white. He blinks, fear trickling down the back of his neck. When his vision cleared everything appeared normal again. The air around them, already cold, feels practically arctic.

“What -” he coughed, his throat burning.

She approaches him slowly. “You poor thing,” she murmurs, “perhaps you have been down here too long after all.”

What was her first clue , Stiles thought wildly, watching her warily as she held up her hands placatingly, shadowed in the dim lighting.

“How about this,” she says, clasping his hand between hers gently. “You help me and I help you. You help me do this one, small thing and,” she clicks her fingers, “everything can go back to how it was. You can come back upstairs and we can work all this out.”

“What  thing ,” Stiles asks, eyes narrowing as suspicion cobwebbing into his brain. What could he possibly do for her that she was unable to do - or buy - for herself? He wracked his mind for all sort of possibilities, however he wasn’t sure if there was anything nefarious enough that would have him refusing to leave his confinement.

“I’m making another tonic, but I’m afraid I am just three ingredients short.”

“A tonic,” he repeats, deadpan. “You want to make all of this go away,” he gestures around the room, “all of it just disappear - for some juice.”

“Is it too hard for you? You don’t have to do it, you can stay here if it suits.” She asks, picking up the candle holder and holding it up. He ignores the question.

“What’s it for and why is it so important? Is it some bullshit elixir of youth or something?”

“It’s for your father, actually,” she says and smiles when she can see that it has grabbed Stiles attention. “A medicine I’ve been working on for months now. I think I finally have the components down perfectly.”

Hope bloomed in between the cracks of his hunger and exhaustion. “You’re not a doctor, though,” he says, voice raspy. She hands him his unfinished drink and watches him take a sip to ease his throat.

“No, she admits, “but for all the doctors in the world none have helped so far. Aren't you willing to try something, anything, that might help someone you love?”

“Yes,” he whispers, his heart throbbing from carrying the old heaviness.

“So, will you help me?'

She extends her hand between them and Stiles only takes a moment of hesitation before gripping her hand and shaking it.

“Yeah, it’s a deal.”

----

Any lingering suspicion in Stiles mind promptly dissolved upon being allowed back into the manor.

His eyes burn, unaccustomed to the light after so long, but it doesn’t stop him from running upstairs to see his father as soon as he is allowed to enter again, his wasted muscles burning with the strain. Heart aching terribly, Stiles cries a little when he sees John for the first time in a month and crawls on top of the bed covers to lie beside him, resting his head on his father's shoulder. The familiar scent and warmth comforts him immensely and he stays there for a long time, long enough to fall asleep and doesn’t awaken until the following morning.

When Stiles wakes he is stiff and sore from being curled up so long. He stretches and stands, joints popping and bones creaking with the movement, spares a lingering look down at his father and takes his hand, squeezing it.

It occurs to Stiles with a sense of deep sadness that there must have been nobody here to speak to his father in the weeks he has not been here, no one to hold his hand like Stiles does, no one to make sure he has company. Something in his mind holds him back from blurting out the events of the last few weeks, of the severe actions from his Aunt. Loneliness and heartache have a stickiness about them that obstructs his throat even thinking about it. But it’s all going to change, he hopes - he is going to do what he can. Instead, he tells his father about his rat friends and how much he loves him.

Back in his room Stiles readies himself a bath and takes immense pleasure in getting clean, wiping all the soot and dirt and what might actually be droppings from his body. He’s sorely tempted to take pleasure in his lower body too but is turned off by the dark, muddy brown water that remains after he has scrubbed his skin clean.

Stepping out Stiles rubs his hair with a towel to rid it of excess water and then ties it around his waist. Due to the perpetual darkness of the cellar he hasn’t looked at himself properly in weeks and is startled when he catches his reflection in the washroom mirror. He approaches the mirror with weak steps, taking stock in his appearance.

The first thing that Stiles notices is that his skin is incredibly pale, more so than usual, and it makes the darkness of his moles and eyelashes stand out in striking contrast. Worse still, Stiles notices that has lost a significant proportion of weight - the lingering childhood plumpness of his cheeks has disappeared, leaving his face more sharp and angular than he has ever remembered seeing it. His clavicle juts out jarringly as if they were trying to break past his skin, any roundness he had on his lanky form has gone.

Uneven patches of hair decorate his chest, stomach and face. With fingers he doesn’t remember being so bony Stiles prepares and begins to shave his face from the sparse stubble that has appeared. It is a good thing that being clean shaven is in fashion at the moment - he doesn’t think he could ever grow a full beard if the patchy hair on his jaw is any kind of indication.

As he’s wiping away the residual cream from his face, he frowns at his pronounced hip bones and resolves to eat properly now that he has the chance.

Once dressed, Stiles slinks down the stairs, a careful hand on the bannister for legs that still feel weak and notices something strange as he moves towards the kitchen. There is a profound silence, he observes, more marked than before and certainly for this hour of the day. His footsteps echo along the tiles of the kitchen, coming by Nina who abandons all ceremony as soon as she spots him, crossing the room to wrap him in a tight hug.

“Nina,” he breathes, relieved.

“Look at you,” she says, pulling back and gripping his elbows, “you’re all skin and bone. Come on now, let me fatten you up a bit.”

Stiles smiles sincerely, nodding and allowing himself to be herded to the kitchen bench where he is parked on a wooden stool. “You won’t hear me complaining, fatten away.”

She smiles, brandishing a bowl and whisk from nowhere. It’s warm in the kitchen, perpetually heated by the stove and it smells amazing after all that time surrounded by mold and mildew. “I’ll make the pancakes you like.”

“You’re the best, Nina. Hey - everything been okay?”

“Oh yes,” she nods, already mixing up a batter in a bowl. “Don’t you worry, Mischief, we’ve been keeping busy.”

He watches her break eggs and add carefully measured flour into the mixture, her hands coated in the white dust. “It’s so quiet...where is everyone?”

“Sent home, I’m afraid.”

Stiles frowns. “What? Why?”

Nina waves a hand in the air and shrugs. “Not much point in employing a full house of staff when there’s only one person been living in it.”

That’s...not quite accurate, Stiles thinks, but it has enough truth in it for him not to argue the point. Outside of the regular staff, Julia has been the only active occupant with John still comatose and Stiles in isolation. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, like all control has slipped out of his fingers. Any familiarity between the manor now and the one from his childhood has all but disappeared, the heart of home gone and leaving a cold pit in his gut.  He stares as Nina works, listening to the sizzle of the pan as she pours the batter in. This at least is familiar.

Later, he asks: “Do you know anything about these ingredients Julia needs?”

“Not a damn thing,” she said, stacking up the pancakes and placing the plate in front of him, “and you best not speak to me about it, either. I’ve had enough - I don’t want to know what other kooky stuff she gets up to.”

Kooky , Stiles wonders, feeling on edge. He doesn’t ask though.

----

Later that afternoon Stiles is once again summoned to Julias office by her maid-in-waiting, this time from where he had returned to his father's room where he’d been reading him a book.

“You’ve cleaned up,” his aunt comments as he enters from where she is sitting at her desk. “So you  do  take some pride in your appearance.”

He ignores her and takes a seat on the opposite side of the desk, slumping against the cushion in a display of casualness that would normally have him reprimanded. If Julia notices his posture she doesn’t say anything.

That’s fine, Stiles thinks, if she’s not paying attention to him then maybe he can try and figure out exactly what her angle is. She appears to be finishing writing something and Stiles notices the mess of papers and books strewn across the desk. It’s in what looks like Latin so he can’t make out what it all says from where he sits, but the diagrams are strange and advanced calculations litter every page. He taps at the armrest restlessly, well and truly ready to get this stupid task underway.

He speaks from where he is biting around his thumbnail. “So, what are these three ingredients and where do I find them?”

Two of the three ingredients, Julia explains, will be easy enough to find. A merchant in town has custom ordered two and they are ready for collection, though she has been unable to leave the manor unattended in order to collect them.

“So, just like, go to town and go to market, pay the guy.”

“Yes, they have already been paid for.”

Curious, if not slightly worried, Stiles asks: “What’s the third ingredient?”

“I’ll tell you when you come back,” She counters, considering him with a purse of her thin lips. 

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Why not now?”

“Because not telling you now will ensure you do come back.”

He scoffs. Of course he is going to come back, he’s doing this for his father, not for her. Nevertheless he agrees, not in the mood to play games - he just wants to get this done. He doesn’t even know if this tonic of hers is even going to work and what will happen to him if it doesn’t. Do they go back to the status quo where Stiles fends off suitors whilst poring over salt tax? Or will he go back to the cellar maybe, in the dark where the walls close in and the wind rattles the door making it impossible to sleep, summoned only when he is useful.

The thoughts plague him on his way into town, distracting him. He’s wearing a cape with the hood drawn up over his head, unwilling to be recognized more than he wants to talk with people - which is a lot. After spending so long with only himself as company he is equal parts happy to be around others and, unexpectedly overwhelmed by all of the noise and open space. Have there  always  been so many people in Beacon?

Julia had set him a time limit - he must be back by sunset. It leaves him no time to seek out his friends - Lydia having left town by now, Allison likely working at the tavern on the other side of town and Scott working with Farmer Perry in the fields. He’s very tempted to go and camp out at the McCalls house, bury himself under Scott’s bed like he did that one time he ran away from the manor after his mother died. Except that time it was his father who found him - Stiles doesn't think he will be so lucky this time.

He quickly locates the merchant where Aunt Julia said he would be, on the eastern side of town where the market is. At this time of the day the hustle and bustle is at its peak, crowd swollen with people carrying goods and rushing around, children crying or yelling, dogs barking in the distance. It’s a lot of stimulus. Stiles hurries when he sees the person that fits his aunts description: the merchant is a short and seedy-looking man, black beady eyes that rest uncomfortably on Stiles’ pale face when he states his business.

The man hums in slow recognition and crouches down to retrieve the order. When he hands the items over to Stiles his fingers linger on Stiles palms, tracing over the gentle arch of Stiles thumb. He wrenches his hands back, skin crawling. The items are already paid for so Stiles feels no remorse in swiftly turning away and leaving with an unimpressed glare, inspecting the goods as the merchant laughs at his discomfort.

One of the items is a jar of some type of dried herbs and sealed tightly. The other makes his stomach turn when he reads the inked label: pheasant claws.

With more than enough disgust to last a lifetime, Stiles places both in the pocket of his trousers and makes the trek back to the manor, jogging lightly as he goes. It’s hard to believe that such a short time ago he was making the same journey back after having one of the best nights of his life. How quickly things change, he thinks wryly.  He makes it back through the gates just before sunset. Relief courses through him when he enters the manor, personally delivering the items to Julia. She is still decidedly tight lipped about the final task she has for him in exchange for his freedom. He can’t believe he even needs to say that -  his freedom . This is the house he grew up in! Sure, by rights the lands fall into her name until Stiles marries, so what she says goes, but they’re family for goodness sake. He hates feeling like a stranger here - these floors are the ones he skidded on when he ran too fast, the walls where he once felt safe behind. Every room is soaked in memories of his family.

Melancholy quickly replaces relief, his chest tight with unresolved feelings. He decides to spend time with his father again, reading aloud from a novel about a boy who flew across the skies on an eagle.

Sick of the sound of this own voice, Stiles retires shortly thereafter. Stiles is sitting up in bed from where is reading by the candlelight when a knock comes to his door. Frowning and dog-earing his book, he’s surprised when Julia enters carrying a tray of food and drink. There’s something akin to a grimace on her face when she sets the tray on his side table and sits gingerly on the edge of his bed, hands resting in her lap.

Confused, Stiles straightens his back and peers at Julia's face, trying to read her expression in the orange light of the candle flame. She’s looking down at her hands when she speaks.

“I know we haven’t always gotten along and I -” she stops to clear her throat, “- I regret that that we couldn’t find a way to see eye-to-eye.”

Well he wasn’t expecting that.

Stiles carefully thinks about her words before responding, moving his gaze to his own hand. He wonders how much she regrets the bruises on his wrists every time she would seize them or the way the cellar door would pulsate when he threw his body against it.

“Maybe we just have very different visions of the world,” he says.

“Yes,” she agrees softly. She raises her hand and Stiles holds himself still and tries not to flinch, but she only brings it down to rest on his head, brushing her fingers gently through the strands. She seems almost solemn as she cards her fingers through his hair, an echo of childhood coming back to him.

“Your mother and I were the same,” she comments, eyes drifting over Stiles face. “You remind me very much of her.”

It makes his chest feel funny to hear it, so he simply nods, avoiding her eyes.

“Well,” she said, taking her hand back and standing. “You best finish your meal and get to bed. You’ll have a big day tomorrow.”

Stiles, a little off guard, bids her goodnight and stares out into the room long after she leaves thinking about their exchange. It felt like an unusual display of tenderness from his aunt who had not so much as hugged him since he was ten years old, creating a palpable shift in the air between them. It’s weird. Really weird. He tries not to let the small burst of hope that things might change flare too bright and instead tries to focus on what is to come. What he can do now.

And what he can do now is eat a proper meal and go to bed.

New worries means that Stiles keeps his window open at all times, now that he’s out of the cellar. Now that doors are no longer considered escape routes. As he’s deciding whether to resume reading his book or going to bed, a gust of cool night air bursts through the window opening and extinguishes the flame on his candle. Smoke rises in a thin plume before the last tiny ember on the end of the wick darkens. 

----

The following morning Stiles is roused from his slumber much earlier than his fatigued body would like. When he squints into the harsh daylight, he’s startled by Julia’s maid-in-waiting who stands over him, shaking him gently, her face inches from his own - her large brown eyes dull and unfocused.

Heart pounding he sinks back further into the mattress to recover some personal space. “Okay, wow - I’m awake, I’m awake already.”

She leans back, blinking rapidly like she has something stuck in her eye. He’s half-asleep still but hears her distinctly tell him that he is expected downstairs before turning around and exiting the room. Stiles groans, body weak from sleep and warm under the heavy blankets and it makes him reluctant to leave. He does so, only because his desire to get this final task finished and out of the way is marginally stronger than his desire to stay in bed. Only marginally. He was having a  really  good dream. Like, really good - like so damn good he’s glad that he had his thick blankets to cover the evidence of just how good it was.

Stiles quickly takes his robes off and washes in the bath, taking some time to stroke his body into completion, indulging in the release that he found little impetus for in recent weeks. It feels good when finally spills over his hands, the stress and visual dream motivation putting him on a hair-trigger. He hasn’t been told yet where they’re going or what they’ll be doing so he’s not entirely sure how to dress for the occasion - he ends up deciding on a pair of brown linen breeches along with a white linen shirt, the chilled wind coming through the open window prompts him to fasten a hooded cloak over his shoulders. As he’s lacing up his boots Stiles hears the heavy front doors of the manor creak open and then shut close.

Curious, he heads out into the hall and leans against the rail to look into the foyer. His expression brightens when he spots the grime-covered figure of their gardner and waves down at him.

“Ted!” Stiles exclaims, smiling at the young man, nearly tripping on his way down the stairs. “Long time no see, man - how have you been?”

Ted bows stiffly and keeps his gaze to the ground. “My lord,” he murmurs softly.

“Hey,” Stiles says with what he hopes is a reassuring grin. “It’s just Stiles, remember? What can I do for you?”

The mousy haired man straightens, arms firmly at his side. “I’ve been asked to help you procure the third ingredient.”

“Oh! Okay that’s actually - wow, I actually get to have some company for once, it’s an actual miracle. So, where are we going? What are we doing?”

Ted blinks as if he’s unsure how to answer the mouthful of queries and maintain a respectful manner. “I’ll tell you on the way, follow me.”

Stiles blinks. “So much mystery,” he mutters to himself, but follows the gardner as he holds open one of the double doors, cold air blowing into the foyer. It’s strange that he hasn’t seen Julia yet this morning before they commence their task, for all of the weight she put behind its importance. It doesn’t bother Stiles either way - whatever moment was had last night didn’t erase all of the bad blood between them - she didn’t even acknowledge or apologise for the fact that she had basically  imprisoned  her own nephew.

Before he exits he turns around to scan the stairway and foyer, his neck prickling. It takes him a second to notice it, but in the far corner he spots Julia’s maid-in-waiting watching him with an unnervingly fixed gaze, brown hair falling into her face.

“My Lord?” Ted prompts.

“Just one minute... I’ll be back in just a minute,” Stiles says distractedly, not taking his eyes off the maid. He quickly approaches her with light footsteps, taking in her clenched jaw and heavy breathing as he gets closer.

“Woah, are you okay? You look -”

He’s interrupted by something cold and heavy being shoved into his hands. “Here,” she says quickly, hands disappearing into her sleeves again. “Take this. You’ll need it.”

He looks down to see that she has handed him a simple ballock dagger, it’s firm wooden handle in his grasp and the steel blade sensibly pointed away from him. It looks to be very sharp, he thinks, surprised at the turn of behavior.

“What -”

“My lord?” Ted calls out again from the front.

“Don’t ask me,” the maid says behind clenched teeth. “Just go.”

Utterly bewildered, Stiles furrows his brows but nods, taking one last look at her before heading out the door. He slips the dagger into one of the loops of his belt and conceals it with his cloak. He’s not sure why he does it as he approaches Ted outside, probably for the same reason why the maid chose not to give him the weapon with an audience.

He sets his puzzling thoughts aside for the time being, walking in line with Ted who leads them through his meticulous gardens. “So,” Stiles begins, “you gotta tell me, I’m dying to know - what’s the third ingredient?”

“The heart of a deer.”

Stiles rears back, instantly understanding why they waited until now to tell him. “Woah, woah, woah - wait. What? A deer? Like an  actual  deer? Why?”

Ted just shrugs. “I didn’t ask.”

Stiles has sudden visions of having to dissect some poor dead doe, it’s black eyes looking at Stiles accusingly, disappointed in him from the grave. Oh my god, there is going to be so much blood, he thinks. He thinks he’s going to puke. No, no, if he has to see blood and viscera he is definitely going to puke. It’s just going to be very messy for everyone involved. Maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to this. Stiles knows why he has the dagger now and when he looks properly at Ted, he can see a shiny black crossbow secured to his own belt.

There’s only one place where they might find any wild deer and that’s the Dark Forest - aptly named for its sheer size and density. The trees are so tall and thick that barely any sunlight reaches the ground and it is rife with wild, dangerous animals. The forest stretches for miles upon miles and barely anybody bar soldiers, hunters and the daring ever go in there. It was spoken of as a means to scare children into obedience sometimes, parents scolding their children when they misbehaved, threatening to abandon them in the forest if they did not do their chores.

Stiles heard the old tales of the beasts deep within, his friends telling him ghost stories of spectres seen between the trees. He’d only ever been on the fringes of it, fields still in plain view when they would pick berries there as children. As a child he’d dared and been dared on more than one occasion to go in there and only got as far as the outskirts before snarling and howling would spook him and his friends away.

“I’m not sure if you know this,” Stiles begins as they trek through the fields towards the forest, “but I am a little squeamish. I don’t do very well with this sort of stuff at all - I mean, I can’t even eat meat unless it’s so well done it’s practically burned. It’s the blood.”

“Don’t worry,” Ted says from somewhere behind him, “I’ll handle the hard part.”

“Thank god,” Stiles exhales. He can’t believe his luck, honestly, there’s probably a good reason he was never allowed to practice weaponry or hunt with the other noble families, namely being a monumental klutz with a weak constitution. He once saw his father put an injured bird out of its misery and Stiles had fainted.

They continue to walk in silence, Ted seemingly more quiet and reserved than their previous interactions. Perhaps he also was as unenthusiastic about this whole thing as Stiles - he’s a gardner after all, not a butcher, he handles plants and soil - not body parts and nope,  nope , he’s going to stop thinking about it right this second.  Some twenty minutes of silent walking later they’re at the edge of the Great Forest where the trees are their sparsest. Stiles is sweating lightly and a little out of breath, wishing that he’d thought to bring a flask of water along with him.

“Come on, let’s get this over with,” he says to Ted, gesturing to go forward, the man's steps rustling the grass behind Stiles. He’s got no idea what he’s doing. Do you lure a deer somehow or do you just hope to find one stumbling across your path? He’s pondering this over as they enter the threshold, the temperature several degrees cooler under the shade of the towering trees.

“I didn’t know you could hunt,” Stiles comments, ducking to avoid a low hanging branch. “Kinda cool though, it would be a handy skill to have. Once upon a time before you started working for us, we used to have our own hunter on the books. His name was Bill or Bob or Terry or something.”

Ted stays silent behind Stiles, save for his breathing and Stiles takes this as a cue to continue. “Anyway, that was before Aunt Julia made all of her staff cuts - y’know,  wham , a lot of people just gone before I had the chance to say goodbye. It’s terrible. So now it’s been left up to you to do the dirty work, literally, in more ways than one. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

“Me too,” Ted whispers and then Stiles hears a tell-tale  click .

He whirls around quickly, heart stopping at the sight of the crossbow aimed at his chest, Ted’s grip white-knuckled.

“Whoa, wh-what are you doing?!”

“I’m sorry!” Ted says, voice shaking. “I’m sorry... I have to do this!”

Sweat beads down Stiles’ neck as his breath hitches, everything sounding distant. His ears are ringing. “Ted, Ted - you don’t have to do...you don’t have to do this. Let’s work this out, okay?”

Stiles goes to raise his hands up but all it does is spook the gardner, tears filling his blue eyes as he tightens his grip on the bow, raising it higher. “I  can’t , I can’t stop, I’m sorry - please...”

Stiles takes a deep breath, willing himself not to react impulsively or run. “Yes, you can,” he nods. “Okay? Look at me. You can do this - put the crossbow down and we can talk. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Ted shakes his head and whimpers, sweat dripping down his forehead. “I don’t have a choice.”

“What about your sister? My father?” Stiles pleads, trembles wracking his body. “You don’t want to do this, please.”

“I can’t stop,” he croaks, tears steadily dripping down his face. “She...she’s making me.”

Bewilderment overtakes Stiles for a moment before coming to a realization that turns his stomach to stone. He swallows, throat dry and blinks back some of the wetness on his lashes.

“The third ingredient isn’t the heart of a deer….is it?”

Sniffling, Ted shakes his head again, aiming the crossbow at Stiles heart. “No, Stiles. I’m sorry.”

A loud howl rips through the forest in the distance sending birds scattering from their branches with a screech. Stiles uses this moment of distraction to rush at Ted, using his weight to push him to the ground, grunting as they hit the forest floor.

Ted yells out as Stiles tries to wrestle the weapon from him, jerking his knees up to try and hit Stiles in the back. Heart pounding in Stiles ears, they fumble around the ground, each with their hands on the crossbow, tugging it back and forth until it goes skidding off some ten feet away. Ted snarls and writhes on the ground, thrusting his knee into Stiles stomach.  Winded and gasping in pain, Stiles falls to the side heavily, forearm bearing the brunt of the fall. Ted is immediately over him, gripping a handful of Stiles’ hair from the back of his head and pulling. He scrabbles his hands backwards in a vain attempt to seek purchase on Teds’ wrist, scratching at the skin before Ted slams his head into the ground, pain exploding in his head.

Stiles neck cranes back as his head is lifted again and sent crashing to the ground, his forehead hitting something very sharp, searing white hot behind his eyes. “Stop,” he rasps with a mouthful of dirt, blood warm and wet trickling down his eyebrow.

Stiles thrashes with all of his strength trying to dislodge Ted from where he is straddling Stiles back and holding him down. His vision has blurred and he can’t see where the crossbow has gone.

Heart beating triple time with panic, Stiles presses his hands desperately along the dirt floor for something to grab when he registers the pain in his hip from where it is being pressed into something hard and sharp. With one hand he throws his fist back trying to land a desperate hit, the other going to his belt to retrieve the dagger still hanging on it. Relief pierces through him when his fingers grasp the handle and slithers it up between his body and the ground.

His head is slammed into the ground again and feels his a white-hot lancing pain in his lip as it splits, blood streaming into his mouth, down his chin. He cries out, swivelling his torso and swings his arm holding the dagger, aimlessly slashing. He’s rewarded when his arm hits something solid and Ted gasps from above him, releasing his tense hold on Stiles’ hair. Stiles tastes copper on his tongue, gasping for breath as he scrambles through the dead leaves, struggling to get his feet under him properly when he goes to stand up, dizziness making him hunch over.

With shaking hands Stiles brandishes his dagger towards the direction of the other man, stumbling slightly with the movement. Ted gets to his feet with a groan, rivulets of blood running down his face from a deep gash that extends from his left ear to his nose and, noticing the weapon in Stiles hands, Ted takes off at a run.

For a second Stiles thinks Ted is fleeing before he realizes he has gone to retrieve the crossbow from where it rests nearby.

“ Shit ,” Stiles whispers, turning around and sprinting the opposite way.

Twigs and branches assailed his face as he frantically darts as fast as he has ever run in his life, thighs burning, feet pounding heavily against the ground. Fear grips him again when he hears the sound of thudding footsteps close behind him and makes a split decision to turn sharply right, leaping over a large fallen branch.

The sound of a click and then a  whoosh  splits the air behind Stiles before his left shoulder blooms with excruciating pain. He cries out but doesn’t slow down, running as hard and fast as his straining legs can take him. The trees get denser the further he runs until the sky almost disappears completely, leaves crunching underfoot.

It takes a long time for to stop mistaking the sound of his own racing heart for footsteps and by the time Stiles stops to catch his breath, gasping with the effort, it seems he has truly outran his assailant. He leans against the wide trunk of a large oak tree, sinking to the ground, his head utterly spinning with what has just happened.  The ground feels solid and reassuring underneath him as he catches his breath. When the adrenaline begins to subside Stiles starts quivering violently, the movement reminding him of the pain in his shoulder. It throbs and feels hot even without looking ait it and when he turns to inspect it he hisses, observing a deep gash that has thick, sticky blood running down to his wrist in rivulets. Still trembling he sheathes the dagger back into his belt carefully and unclasps his cloak, bundling it up with one hand to press it gently against the wound on his shoulder.

Stiles doesn’t know how long he sits there, eyes unfocused staring out at nothing. Thoughts flit in and out of his mind like hummingbirds, fluttering away as quickly as they came. Trying to wrap his mind around what he just escaped from and its implications feels like trying to hold onto a handful of water, impossible, slippery.

Did... his aunt really just try and have him  killed ? Is that not what Ted meant when he said that ‘she’s making me’?  Why ? Why did Ted’s eyes glow like that?

It dawns upon Stiles with a sinking feeling that  he can’t go back  - he doesn’t know where he is and he injured with no belongings of his own. He’s tired and thirsty and can’t even see the sun to tell east from west.

He doesn’t know what to do.

The snap of a twig nearby leaves him little time to think about it. Startled, he abandons the cloak on the forest floor and runs.

----

Stiles can’t feel his feet anymore.

When he could no longer carry on running, he slowed to a walk and when he thought about stopping again out in the open without any cover his mind flashed to the crazed look in Ted’s eyes - so he continued walking. It’s difficult to measure the passage of time this deep into the forest, but his entire body is numb and cold, the temperature has dropped significantly - he is in fact less walking than he is sliding one foot in front of the other and hoping he doesn’t trip - again.  He’s searching for shelter, a suitable place to rest for the night that might keep him safe from both the elements and the animals, but bar from a few hollowed out tree trunks there is little to offer. The time spent aimlessly wandering has given him ample time to analyse everything though, even if he has come up with few answers.

So, Stiles’ aunt tried to kill him, probably - okay. Julia’s behavior towards him has always been cold and he could even say acrimonious as of late, but actually downright wanting him  dead  so much that she would go so far as to orchestrate his murder? That was pretty farfetched, even for Stiles’ stretched imagination - That couldn’t be right, right? Then again, Nina had mentioned that she had been acting  kooky  - but why have Ted do the deed? And what did he mean when he said he couldn’t stop himself?

His vision blurs with unshed tears when he suddenly thinks of what is going to happen to his father and hopes to god none of her ill intent comes is directed towards him in anyway.

She better hope no harm comes to him , Stiles thinks darkly. Stiles knows his father would want him to be safe no matter what, but if Stiles knew his father had been hurt he would charge straight into the line of fire to protect him. The anger drains out of him almost as quickly as it came when he stumbles over a branch that he didn’t see - he has other worries right now.

Time passes strangely without the guidance of the sun. It’s hard to tell by the scarcity of daylight - but Stiles thinks hours later, maybe it’s dusk when he sees the cottage.

Hunger has been gnawing like scurrying rats in his stomach for hours making him lightheaded and so he blinks a few times to make sure he isn’t seeing things.  From where he is some one hundred feet away the cottage looks to be small and quaint, light brick and almost completely shrouded by shrubbery. Stiles only noticed it because he had been staring blankly in that direction for the last ten minutes. He wonders, hope rapidly rising, if the people there will allow him to stay for the night, even give him some food maybe. At this point he would eat the meat off of an old skunk -  surely  they will help him out?

With newfound energy he drags his injured body along by placing one heavy, blistered foot in front of the other one, welts pressing painfully into the leather boot, blood slick between his toes.

The closer he gets to the cottage he sees that there is no smoke coming from the chimney or any fire-light from the windows; in fact as he gets closer he notices the windows are not even intact and broken in several places. There is no garden to speak of, the grass long enough to need to stomp through, ivy crawling up in wild tangles all over the front brickwork of the cottage. In fact, it doesn’t look like anybody lives here at all Stiles realizes glumly. Trembling from the cold and exhaustion he cautiously ascends the wide stone steps and, with bated breath, knocks on the front door.

Silence.

Nervously Stiles knocks again, just in case and waits, but no answer comes from within. He looks around him, half expecting some angry old man to come rushing over demanding Stiles to state his business but the trees are motionless and the birds trill quietly just as they have been all day. For all intents and purposes Stiles thinks the cottage must be abandoned. He’s not exactly sure if he should just  enter  though, unsure of what he might find inside, if anything. He stands there at the front door deliberating when he hears the rustling of a nearby bush which makes the decision for him. He needs shelter at the very least even if he cannot find food and water. He’s parched though, just the thought of having to find clean water makes him want to curl up and cry.

His hands are rusted with dried blood when he turns the handle of the front door, relieved to find it unlocked, and pushes it open. The interior is in darkness when he peers in and he ducks to avoid some low hanging cobwebs as he enters.

“Hello?” he calls out, “Is anybody here?”

Stiles’ footsteps echo loudly on the floor as he crosses the room. “Hello?”

The only sound of acknowledgement is of a rodent scraping its claws across the ground as it skirts a wall. It seems like once again it’s just Stiles and the rats.

Trying not to be too disturbed by the recurring theme, his shoulders sag. A weak orange ray of the wilting sunlight comes through a window to the side and Stiles can see enough to know that there are undefinable lumps of things everywhere, debris all over the floor which he tries to avoid stepping on as he deepens his path into the room. It’s almost completely dark and he can’t see well enough to see if there is anything to eat or drink, and the relief of finding relative safety in the shelter has quickly drained the last remnants of energy in his body.

With great care of his injured shoulder, Stiles finds a corner away from the still open front door and the windows that are bringing in a draft and slides down the wall to sit, drawing his knees up to his chest. Finally his body has been given permission to rest and all of the pain from his wounds makes themselves immediately known. In the back of his mind panic and distress buzz loudly like angry wasps, but he is too tired to make sense of any of it, too tired to give into it.

He rests his temple against the wall and closes his eyes.