Setting Goals
Dust particles were slowly settling on the shelves, gliding to the surface like snowflakes. They were highlighted by the thin stream of sunlight that came through the small hole in the window shutters that were drawn down and had plunged the room into darkness. Only that small ray of sunlight had made it their mission to break into the room regardless of the wish for darkness the person in the room might have harbored.
Stiles pondered over its courage for a while until he became aware of how ridiculous that was. Light would always prevail over darkness once it had found a way in. There's no courage in that. It's just a simple fact.
His open eyes wandered over to his desk where a folded newspaper lay underneath his school books. He should have thrown it away immediately instead of taking it back home with him. The only interesting thing to him was the headline, anyway.
"Hellfire - Dangers Of Doing the Devil's Bidding"
For a newspaper that strived to be taken seriously, the headline was rather tacky and dramatic. It told more about the way the article was written than it ought to.
Speculations. With a few facts strewn in between. That was all that it was.
Not to mention the paragraph that addressed the rumors coursing around school concerning Stiles' involvement in the incident. His refusal to give a comment was mentioned in a way that didn't merely suggest that there was something shady going on with him, it was outright announced that his behavior indicated that it couldn't be a coincidence that he returned with scars and a broken leg to school shortly after that horrific occurrence in his hometown.
The last paragraph read: "As long as we're given no facts, the mystery around that fateful night may continue to haunt the halls of St. Joanna's Academy. Maybe this is the start of a new legend, a story told to freshmen to scare them off from leaving god's path. What is certain, however, is that this incident will leave its imprint on the people who have heard it. Some of us may even find that its ghost has hefted itself on our heels."
Stiles shook his head. "Not very professional, Bertha. Bringing religion into this. I guess being objective isn't a requirement for your paper, huh?"
To Bertha's credit, she didn't actually drag his name through the mud as he would have expected her to do. Though the way she wrote about him did in no way present him in the proper light, she didn't portray him as badly as her threats had made him believe.
Maybe she really could have been able to turn his reputation around for the better. He'd never find out.
Not that he really cared about that anyway. His reputation was the least of his worries.
Haunted, he thought. That's an accurate term for it. And the ghost didn't just heft itself on my heels. It became my freaking shadow.
With that thought in mind, he finally dropped the sheet over the mirror in the bathroom, glad that the absence of light made it easier to ignore his own reflection.
It was a childish notion - to cover it so he didn't have to look at it anymore - but after another nearly sleepless night, he was grasping at straws.
When it was done, he drew in a shaky breath, his hand still hovering in front of him. He didn't know why he was hesitating to retract it.
His heart was thumping loudly against his ribcage as he slowly moved his hand away from the mirror. His eyes were focused, he was even afraid to blink.
He only felt safe when his hand was back at his side. He turned around to leave, only to freeze immediately in his step.
The shock caused him to stumble, losing his footing on the tiles. He caught himself on the door frame but his cane fell with a loud clack to the ground.
His eyes had closed themselves at their own accord, his fingers gripping onto the door frame so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. He told himself that he had to turn around, to look and make sure - to keep an eye on it. It was not safe!
But it was the laugh of a child that made him open his eyes.
"I totally managed to scare you!"
Ray was holding his tummy because he was laughing so hard. His blue eyes were sparkling with mirth as he showed a toothy grin. The grin was all the more charming because of one missing upper tooth.
Stiles managed a shaky smile. "Yeah, you got me good! I thought I'd have a heart attack!"
Ray's grin became even more pronounced as he looked up to Stiles. He was leaning on his own cane - something he had hated at first but was now proud that he had in common with the older boy - but still he bent forward to pick up Stiles' own and hand it over to the teen.
The once broken bone may not hurt Stiles anymore, but the muscles in his thigh were still too weak and underutilized to carry his weight so the cane was still needed.
As much as that annoyed him, at least he was able to walk around without experiencing any discomfort or pain anymore. The ointment had really performed wonders.
"So," Stiles started as he limped back into his room, "Not that I'm not glad to see you, buddy, but what brings you to my humble abode? You missed the fox, didn't you?" He threw a quick, accusing glance toward the animal who just stared back at him with firm eyes which must mean that Burly was rather proud of his popularity.
Ray giggled and sat down on the bed, patting the spot next to him. Burly didn't need to be told twice and jumped up to get the attention he so much desired. The kid's hand immediately started to scratch behind his big ears.
"Your sister is sending her little minion now to fetch me?"
Ray nodded vigorously. "Yeah, she says she's too mad at you to face you. She'll probably make you ride with me in the back, too."
Stiles really should have expected that Lindsay had seen the headline too. It was likely that she had read the entire article. From what Ray told him he gathered that she didn't like how he had handled the situation.
"I'll survive," Stiles told him. Then he fetched himself a hoodie from his closet and grabbed the folder with sheet music that sat on his desk. "Are you ready, Mr. Simmons? The carriage is waiting or so I hear."
Ray was about to jump off the bed when suddenly his eyes widened in realization. Instead of going to the door he took out a folded sheet of paper from his jeans pocket.
"I nearly forgot! I made this for you!" he exclaimed hurriedly. Then he gave Stiles the paper. "Since Christmas is right around the corner and it's the season of giving and all..."
Stiles unfolded it. "It's a list. With things to do?" He was unsure what he was supposed to do with it. Did Ray just hand him the wrong sheet of paper?
"Yes, I know," Ray agreed, the smile returning with vibrancy. "Lindsay, mom, and dad got one too! You can choose one of those things and we'll do it together. It'll be like... an early Christmas present. Or a late one."
Stiles eyed the list thoroughly and discovered that - against his expectation - it was not a Christmas Wish-list. It was a general Wish-list. The only bullet point that was appropriate for the season was the fourth on the list which was to go sledding.
"Don't you know that you normally make a list on New Years? It's called New Year's resolution," Stiles joked but his voice lacked the joy and teasing character for it to work. His fingers had already begun to fold the paper again. He tried to channel all his thoughts into the action.
Ray watched him with a frown on his face. "You remember the really nice lady that me and my family sometimes talk to at the hospital? She said I should try it. There's nothing wrong with setting goals, you know? Making the days count. Or something."
Stiles gritted his teeth in anger at the lady he had never met but already hated with a passion that was usually reserved for a lifelong arch-nemesis.
How dare she treat the boy like he had to make the best of his last days? How dare she give him the feeling that he had to do everything he desired as fast as possible because she could already see the sand in his hourglass running out?
"There's no need to stress about these things," Stiles told the boy, already putting the wish-list away. "We'll do all of those things. And even more. We'll do everything one can possibly do without breaking the law. And once mankind has made it possible, we'll make a trip to the moon. Don't worry about it, okay? We have time."
They have time. Ray was just eight years old. He deserved to have time. Years, decades. Half a century and more. He deserved to live a full human life with everything it had to offer.
And Stiles would make sure he would. No matter what that counselor lady or any of the hospital staff may think.
"But- but Stiles!" Ray spluttered, stomping his foot in distress. "I want to start now! We'll even start slow, okay? Just one goal for now, one wish! I let you choose! Please! Why can't I start now?"
Because I don't want to give you any reason to think it's okay to go now, Stiles thought, just as distressed as the boy sounded.
"Okay, okay," Stiles gave in. "I'll think about which goal we first try to accomplish, okay? But now we need to go. I bet your sister is tempted to just leave us here because we're taking so long! You know that she can't stand it when her schedule gets messed up."
Calmed down now that Stiles had promised to go along with the Wish-list, Ray finally nodded. Together they made their way downstairs, their arms linked like they were a victorian couple taking a stroll in the garden.
Ever since they both had to walk around with a cane, they had joked about looking like gentlemen in Jane Austen movies.
Going along with their joke, Stiles opened the car door for Ray to which the boy bowed gratefully before he jammed himself onto the small backseat of Lindsay's car.
***
The basement of the Simmons household had always been a lively and crammed place to be on a Tuesday afternoon but never had it held as many people as it did nowadays.
Lindsay's band called "Ray of Light" - so named after her little brother Ray who had been diagnosed with leukemia when he had been just five years old - also included Zoey - who was her older cousin and Laura Hale's girlfriend - Chandler the drummer, Zack the bassist and Stiles, the songwriter and pianist as of late. Once, Lindsay's boyfriend Brad had been a band member too, but he was no longer welcome after they had broken up.
Additional to all the band members, Cora, Burly, and Ray were also present whenever the band came together to practice.
Sometimes, Cora even joined them, playing either her violin or the tambourine. Ever since the first time she had joined them, Stiles always made sure to include her in the score. Surprisingly, a violin went well with most of the songs he had already written.
Which were two; the newest one he was working on not really finished yet.
Right now, they were playing a cover of "Florence + the Machines"' Dog Days Are Over, a song choice that caused Stiles and Cora to share a knowing smirk.
Instead of Lindsay, Zoey was decided to be the lead singer for that song since it fitted her voice rather well. Her voice was deeper and sharper than Lindsay's. It sounded more mature and so she was able to perfectly deliver the message of the song.
Once they were satisfied with their performance (or rather, once Lindsay ran out of things to criticize), they decided to call it a day.
"Wait, can I request a song?" Ray asked.
"Sure, little dude," Chandler answered with a shrug, swinging one of his drumsticks around between his fingers.
Encouraged by Chandler's answer, Ray hopped from his chair and stomped with his cane on the floor to get everyone's attention.
"My request is The Bare Necessities and I'd like to sing this song with Stiles," the boy announced then, causing everyone to grin in glee with the exception of Stiles who nearly choked on his own spit.
"It's part of our repertoire," Zack said, already nodding. Lindsay was the one who pulled the music sheets out a thick folder and handed them out to the musicians. She literally had to press the sheet into Stiles' hands, though, because the teen was still trying to weasel his way out of it.
"Don't worry," Ray told him when they were standing next to each other in front of two microphones. "We're a team. You're not going to lose with me on your side."
It wasn't all that reassuring but there was no way to back out of it now so Stiles just gulped down his anxiety and tried to control his breathing.
He nearly missed his cue to start singing.
At first, his voice was barely audible. He was shy, all too aware of all the ears that were listening and all the heads that were probably thinking about him derogatorily already.
A few lines into the song, it became easier. Once they sang the chorus together, Stiles was even able to smile.
When the song was over, he was surprised to realize that he had actually enjoyed it. As the other's clapped and expressed their compliments, Ray and Stiles fist-bumped and shared a grin.
"First goal: Singing with a friend in front of others. Check," Ray exclaimed full of joy.
Realizing that he had been part of a ploy, Stiles started to laugh and ruffled the boy's hair in retaliation.
Maybe he should have read the whole Wish-list before he had stuffed it away.
***
"Why do I have to come with you? I have better things to do with my free time!"
Derek rolled his eyes as he made his way through the front of Deaton's practice. Dogs were cowering in fear and cats were hissing with their hair standing on end as he passed their cages. They could sense his predatory dominance and the dogs acknowledged his alpha status.
The animals' reactions would have drawn attention to Derek and Jackson but seeing as the practice was already closed, nobody was there to witness it.
Both werewolves entered the backroom of Deaton's practice where he usually treated his supernatural clientele, hidden from the common view.
"Ah, Alpha Hale! And Mr. Whittmore. You're probably here for the result of the analysis I ran on the ointment," Deaton greeted them, looking up from a file he had been filling out. "I think you'll be quite surprised by it."
Derek crossed his arms in front of his chest as he looked expectantly at the vet.
"You needn't worry, Alpha Hale. The concoction is absolutely non-threatening to any skin type and werewolves. It was prepared with basic ingredients for an ointment such as olive oil, shea butter, lanolin anhydrous as an emulsifier, tee tree oil for conservation and - the most important ingredient - unicorn saliva. As you probably can guess, unicorn saliva has an unmatched instant healing power and is also very hard to come by."
Jackson raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "Did you just say unicorn saliva? As in the spit of a mythical creature that only exists in fairy tales?"
Deaton opened a drawer that had been locked and took out the jar with the ointment in question. He handed it over to Derek who accepted it after a moment of hesitation.
"Oh, they do exist, Mr. Whittmore. They're a dying species, nearly hunted down to extinction and robbed of their homeland but there are still recent sightings recorded. Whoever gifted you with the ointment was one of those lucky people, I believe."
Jackson scoffed at that. "So Stilinski made friends with someone as nutty as him, huh."
Derek ignored Jackson's comment, voicing his suspicions to Deaton instead, "Do you think he's a hunter? Or a collector of some sort? For him to have something as rare as this..."
Deaton nodded thoughtfully, thinking it over. "It's possible. I have never come across anyone who could claim to have even seen a unicorn, let alone got close enough to one to obtain their saliva. It is rather strange for a man his age to have something of that value. You did describe the man as young, as far as I can remember?" Derek nodded and Deaton continued, "Well, then. Maybe you shouldn't eliminate the possibility that there is a hidden agenda to the gift. And he gave it to Stiles, you said?"
Derek nodded grimly.
"Well, it is also entirely possible that the man has no ill will towards him. A gift like this is of high value. Even a human can heal as fast as an alpha werewolf with the help of unicorn saliva. I imagine that Mr. Stilinski's injury is healing fine now?" Another nod, "Well then, whatever the intention the gift was given with, its effect is nothing short of miraculous. Sometimes it can't hurt to simply be grateful when fortune smiles on us, wouldn't you say?"
Sometimes, Derek wondered what kind of drugs Deaton took to be this calm all the time. There was no way the vet was just born with nerves of steal.
The alpha exhaled through his nose, trying to remain patient. "Anyway, thanks for your help, Deaton."
The vet smiled enigmatically. "Anytime."
"What about the other thing I asked you for?"
Hearing that made Jackson perk up. Was there another reason for their visit?
"Ah," Deaton said, unlocking another drawer from which he produced a thin folder that he slid across the desk towards Derek. "They were quite agreeable. I don't think you should encounter any problems."
Derek took the folder, "I see. We'll take it from here." The alpha was about to go, Jackson following him with a confused expression when Deaton's voice suddenly halted them in their steps.
"Derek, there is one thing you should know." The alpha turned around again to face the vet who was looking rather serious, " They'll do anything to achieve their goals. That's what the Order is all about. It's dangerous to get in their way."
To Jackson's surprise, Derek seemed to actually understand the cryptic message because his face immediately hardened.
"You've done enough for us already. I owe you," the alpha answered, both in appreciation as in farewell.
The vet smiled. "As is my duty as the Hale emissary."
Then they left and Jackson was more confused than ever. He had to wait until they were in the car, though, before he could shoot all his questions at the alpha.
"What the hell was that?! What's in that folder? And what was the other thing you asked Deaton for?"
Derek sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, the other on the steering wheel.
"One week ago, a Kitsune came to me to ask me for permission to settle in our territory. Seeing as she was obviously not posing a threat, I couldn't decline her request. She's not alone, though," He took the next turn so sharply that Jackson actually had to brace himself on the dashboard in order not to fall over, "They call themselves The Order, because they devoted themselves to keeping balance between the supernatural and the natural world. Apparently, they've existed for centuries, though my pack has never had any business with them before."
"So, this is the first time their business brought them to Beacon Hills?"
"No," Derek said curtly. "Last time they've been here I was about two years old. They said they were here to fix a dying power source they called the Nemeton. It was an unsuccessful endeavor and so they left."
"What's a-"
"You can read about that later!" the alpha snapped, running out of patience. Jackson took the cue to move on. "Deaton has set up a meeting between our pack and the Order at their request and my agreement. They wouldn't come back for nothing, they're here for a reason."
Jackson couldn't really see what the big deal was. So those guys were here because they had some goal to accomplish. What did it have to do with them and why was Derek so agitated?
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"Because," Derek started, taking a quick glance at his beta, "doing negotiations with a Kitsune is always tricky. They're smart and cunning. And the Order has no qualms to go over bodies when it comes to achieving their objectives. You're the closest thing to a lawyer we have."
Jackson scoffed at that. He was just as much a lawyer as any other high school student. Just because he might have picked up a few tricks from his dad and skimmed a few of his books from university, he wasn't qualified to accept that position, no matter how trivial the matter of the negotiation. It did, however, very much appeal to his ego.
"So you want me to make sure that them achieving their main objective doesn't contradict our own objective." Jackson told himself not to feel smug at the alpha's nod. He didn't need anybody's praise. "And our objective is to keep the pack safe, I assume. But from what you have told me about them, I don't see any conflict. That is, if they really care as little for a pack of werewolves as you've let on."
Derek gritted his teeth in obvious annoyance. "We're not just a pack of werewolves, Jackson."
Lydia.
"I'll do it. Give me every information you have about them."
***
Cora accompanied him to the door while Zoey was waiting for her in the car. They had shared a meaningful glance before Cora had exited the car which was probably all it took to come to an agreement between the two of them.
"You look awful."
"Aww, thanks, Corey-kins! I hardly ever get compliments from you anymore! I was already thinking our love was dead!"
The werewolf rolled her eyes and flicked him on the cheek. Pouting, Stiles rubbed the affronted part of his face.
The glare he received wiped the smug smile off of his face.
"You can call me anytime, Stiles. Even in the middle of the night. Just be aware that you'll have to deal with me verbally assaulting you," she huffed, looking away. "No, but seriously. If you can't sleep, call me. Or... you know... if you just want to talk."
She was more embarrassed by saying that than he was annoyed at hearing it.
But he was also feeling warmth bloom his chest.
"Well, at least you're still talking to me. Makes it easier to deal with the cold shoulder Lindsay's showing me." Stiles tried to make it sound like he didn't mind. But he did.
Cora's brows furrowed, like she was blaming him for her following words. "You know, she might be a bit vain, and calculating, and fussy, but she's one who works really hard for the things she wants in life. She's ambitious but she made sacrifices, has put you before her goals. She probably thought you'd think about how your choices would affect her too, for once."
Stiles felt the icy regret flow through his veins and he shuddered slightly at the reminder of Lindsay's disappointed anger that was directed towards him.
He remembered the warning Bertha had given him, remembered that some students had enough influence in this school to affect his future career. He hadn't cared about that at the time because he was haunted by his past and could barely stay awake to register the present. What did he care about the future?
But not only his future was on the stake here. Cora and Lindsay had decided to stand by him which meant that if he was standing in a sea full of shit, so were they.
Whatever his facial expression conveyed, Cora seemed to instantly pick up in which direction his thoughts had wandered.
"I don't care whether you're popular or the most hated person in school. What I can't stand is your indifference to it all. You took the path of not giving a shit what others say - okay fine. But freaking own it! If you think I'll let you disappear into yourself, you're damn wrong."
Shame was causing his cheeks to colour slightly so he looked to the ground.
"So, it's time to make operation Show them all a go, isn't it?" He slowly lifted his gaze, trying to gauge her reaction. Probably hearing his nervously beating heart, Cora took great lenghts at keeping her expression emotionless.
He was almost sure that he had messed it up somehow, when a sly grin started to spread on her lips. "It's about time!" Her relief was almost physically palpable in the way that she seemed to have grown a few inches.
"See you tomorrow, loser! And be prepared to do the 'Devil's Bidding'." She flashed him a quick grin once more, punched his shoulder and left him standing on his porch.
The light steps with which she bounced back to the car were more than enough indication that he was finally on the right track again.
Setting goals, he thought. Ray is right. We shouldn't only do that on New Years. What's wrong with starting right now?
With that thought in mind, he went inside and upstairs to pull the sheet off of the mirror again. There was no way he had heard a shrill scream coming from it. It must have been Ray, squealing in excitement at the prospect of scaring Stiles.
It was just ridiculous to be afraid of it, after all.
***
The thing about fear is that it exists for a reason. It keeps us alive. If you had nothing to fear, you probably also didn't have anything left to lose.
Veins pulsing with the adrenaline of being so close to the edge, he could taste the endlessness of the abyss on his tongue and already feel the vertigo from the freefall but he refused to close his eyes. Because seeing the end required to actually face it.
The man in the cloak felt the fear run down the jagged skin of his scars, fleeting across the broken flesh like a lover's soft caress to wish him farewell.
"No," he hissed. "Not like this. Not this way!"
His hand was shaking under the weight of what he was about to do. He balled his left hand into fist and started to cut with the other. His teeth gritted together in anguish, lips pressed so tightly together that they were turning white. But he couldn't afford to let loose the scream that was building up in his throat.
"I won't hand him over to the Order. Not so easily," he mumbled incoherently, the pain numbing his tongue.
His lightsource was limited, a lone candle nearly burned down but its countless reflections made it seem like he was in a room with lit candles.
The blood was steadily running down his arm, pooling in his slightly crooked palm. When he deemed it enough, he dipped a finger in it and wrote a single name onto the surface in front of him, a surface that seemed to surround him, cage him in.
It was his very own prison. Always had been.
Swietomierz
The man fell to his knees and let his head fall back. If he were under the night sky right now, he would be looking at the stars right now, lost and broken.
"Forgive me, father."
***
On the other end of town, police men were standing in front of a house where a small area of the garden was seperated from the rest by a bright yellow police tape.
The blue lights were submerging the scene in a ghostly pale light every so often.
"That guy's been dead for at least two months, judging by the state of decomposition," a man said, crouched down in the lawn.
Sheriff Stilinski rubbed his temples, squinting at the corpse even through the waves of his headache.
He didn't even need to ask for identification of the man. A sudden appearing corpse without arms and legs could only mean one thing. His nightmare had made its reoccurence tonight.
"Sheriff Stilinski? I would've preferred to meet you under different circumstances."
A black-haired small woman appearing to be in her early forties - but it was hard to say in the harsh light the flashlight offered - walked gracefully but determined towards him.
Her eyes were almost as black as coal as she smiled politely at him.
"I'm Private Investigator Noshiko Yukimura. The owner of the property where the victim was found has called me in for this case. I was hoping to count on your cooperation." Her explanation should have surprised the sheriff or at least made him question whether she was all that she appeared to be. No Private Investigator has ever been consulted in a crime happening in such a small town as Beacon Hills.
But this case... this case was clouding his judgement. This wasn't just a case to him. It was his own personal hell.
"I think I've found something of interest. You should take a look at it. I've found it over here, at the exterior wall of the house," she said as she was already leading him and a deputy with a camera in hand to the backyard.
Sheriff Stilinski's hand was shaking ever so slightly as he directed the light cone produced by his flashlight to the wall. The blood immediately froze in his veins at the sight.
Written in red - maybe blood? - one sentence stood in stark and crass contrast to the white wall: For little knows my royal dame that Rumpelstiltskin is my name!
The deputy by his side looked puzzled at the message, wondering why anyone would leave such a random sentence on a crime scene. He probably didn't know that it was a quote from a Grimm's fairytale.
He's back, was all the sheriff could think about.
The woman at his side regarded the message with cold precision, taking in every detail.
No one asked her how she was able to spot it without a flashlight because no one paid that much attention. And no one noticed when she picked up a small piece of fabric from the ground, either.
***
A scream tore itself through his throat, much like the one he had been startled by earlier that day.
Stiles sat up in his bed, his hands immediately flying to his head to shield it, his mouth still open in horror.
His lungs were hurting from the ragged breaths he was taking in, his chest complaining about the heavy pounding from his frantic beating heart.
It took him a while to realize that the heavy grip he felt suffocating him was just the tight shackles of a nightmare that were still holding him captive.
Desperate to get free, he fumbled for the lightswitch of his bedside lamp. When he finally found it, he had to squint his eyes at the painful brightness. As the pain rose like a wave in his head, he became aware of the state of the rest of his body.
He was coated in sweat from head to toe, his legs painfully tight entangled into the sheets like he had been rolling around and kicking out in self-defense.
His throat felt raw and dry - probably because he had been screaming for longer than he had realized.
At last, he became aware of the dull throbbing in his left palm. Almost scared to inspect it, he held the trembling extremety under the lamplight.
What he saw actually caused him to whimper, his eyes immediately closing again as if they could burn the sight out of his memory if they just refused to take it in.
His silver scars - the half hexagon on each palm, the symbol only complete when he held both hands next to each other - were no longer the same.
The hexagon was still clearly visible, each corner connected to the opposite one placed on the other palm by a thin line.
But on his left palm, where there were supposed to be six lines of silvery scar tissue, two of them were now a sickly black.
Before he could even attempt to conceive what was going on, he turned to the side, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the floor.
With his last bit of energy, he made a grab for his phone, dialling the only number that came to mind.