Stiles watched as Kali threw Isaac across the lightly wooded area. The young wolf seemed to soar in slow motion before slamming back first into a blackened oak tree. Jennifer had gone down in an eruption of blood and flying bits of flesh before ever telling them where she had hidden his father. Scott, eyes filled with the same emptiness of hope that Stiles felt, crumbled to his knees while the battle raged around him.
It's all my fault.
Deucalion moved with fluid grace toward him. His eyes, huge red orbs that filled his entire socket, zeroed onto Stiles' broken form. His knee had collapsed beneath him when Peter pushed him out of the way from the twins attack, sending him twisting across the dust and into the remains of an old tree stump. He had tried to stand but his leg wouldn't hold him, folding beneath him like balsa wood.
It's all my fault. If I hadn't forced him out into the forest, made him look for a body in a crime we had no business sticking our noses in, this never would have happened. He's here because of me.
The cane came up like a sword, the red tip disappearing to reveal an arrow like tip. Looking at Scott he could see his friend's horror, the knowledge that he would have to watch Stiles die, skewered on a blind man's walking stick. Scott reached out as if he could stop time; freeze the moment in order to save his friend's life but Stiles knew there was nothing that could be done.
His hands closed around an exposed root of the old tree, the bark brittle and crumbling beneath his hand. Deucalion smiled as he closed the last few feet; arm pulling back for the final thrust that would end Stiles' life.
It would have been better if Scott had never met me. My father would still be alive if not for me. I wish…
The tip pierced flesh. There was no pain just a sudden coldness and the feeling that the air had been knocked out of his lungs. It was strange to see the cane disappearing into his skin and muscle when he looked down.
I wish I had never been.
From the point where his hand touched the root a blue light erupted outward. It passed through Stiles like a whisper in a large room before expanding outward in a blast of light and power. For Stiles it was like a huge boulder had been thrown into a pond, a second of time as all the water is pushed to the side from the rock before rushing back in to fill the vacuum left by the stones passing.
Stiles was carried along with the light, pressed downward as space and time closed the gap behind him. The world tumbled and turned. Once as a child he had been caught in the rolling backwash of a waterslide. For seconds he had been lost, unsure of which way was up, which way to swim, until finally as the last of his breath had been used up he broke the surface and swam to the edge of the pool.
Much like that child, Stiles breached the surface of the storm of blue light, breath gasping into his lungs. The stars above spun in lazy circles as the energy flowed from his body into the leaves below. With the last of his strength he reached a hand across his chest to feel for the wound left by Deucalion's cane but only found the smooth expanse of his t-shirt. No rip, no wound.
Fingers curled in leaves where before there had only been blackened dust. Everything hurt. Everything was numb. He had a moment to wonder at the dichotomy of that before, sapped of strength, he slipped into sleep.