Scott McCall's cheeks twitched, in an involuntary and ultimately futile attempt, there was no denying what was happening. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it only served to expel more moisture, the stubborn droplets of salt water running down his cheeks in slow, hot rivulets. They clung to his skin, seeping back into his pore. An endless cycle. The crying. The shaking. No matter how hard he tried to keep his grief intrinsic, his body betrayed him. The grief had snowballed, an expanding and abysmal pit forming in the depth of his stomach, and it was too much to contain. Each time he tried to push it out, from his eyes, from his pores, it crept out and was once again swallowed by the abyss. He didn't know what he wanted, he didn't know what he was feeling – all he knew was that his mother's strong arms were wrapped around him. Her serpentine grip was surprisingly strong, and he couldn't help but feel as though the condolences she occasionally whispered in his ear was her way of saying "right now, I'm your anchor."
The words stopped coming, and soon, Scott's tears followed suit. There came a time when all was exhausted, and nothingness took over. Without his vision muddled, his ears ringing, he found clarity. He wondered if perhaps, he had misinterpreted the intonation of his mother's voice, the vice like grip she held on him, and he turned around, pushing himself up from the chair he had been sitting in to hug his mother. This whole time – Melissa McCall had been pleading, "please be my anchor" in the only way she could. By providing her son with comfort. It had taken Scott a long time to realize it, but he was just like his mother. His humanity, his empathy, the intensity at which he cared kept him grounded, while giving those around him the things they needed to navigate the world that had seemed to be growing colder with each lunar cycle.
"Mom," he managed, pulling her into his chest.
Why hadn't he seen it sooner? Why couldn't he have felt it sooner? The death of a child always affected parents. And that's what they were – children. Allison Argent was a child, and a warrior, and…a fallen soldier. Allison was a hunter, an Argent…but she was also a McCall. He knew his mother was thinking that it could have been him, but he knew that she was mourning the death of a child she had considered a part of her family. A member of the pack. Scott felt his knees buckle, but he recovered, locking his knees in position as he loosened his grip on his mother's now trembling form. He stepped back, moving his hands to her shoulders. He knew it was no use, but he tried to take her pain.
He thought he felt pains shooting through his chest, another physical manifestation of grief, but he didn't know for sure whom the pain truly belonged to. All he knew was that it wasn't growing stronger, no matter how hard he focused, and Melissa's shoulders were still rounded and pulsing as she struggled for composure. Either he was truly helpless, or his body could not physically house any more pain.
Another moment of silence passed between the two of them.
Their eyes met and shared a silent conversation, an agreement that a cyclical exchange of grief would only do more harm, and exhaust their already dwindling energy sources.
Melissa took another step back and smiled at her boy, her hand raising from her side and crossing her chest to grab Scott's hand, which was still lingering on her.
"Let's try to get some sleep," she whispered.
Scott responded with a small nod and dropped his hands, slowly pulling one out from beneath his mother's warm touch.
"I'll leave my door open," she ventured. "Just in case…I don't know. Just in case."
And then they parted ways, as much as two people both climbing the same staircase could, separating to turn into their respective rooms, Melissa leaving her door ajar, and Scott quietly closing his before falling into his mattress, gripping a fistful of sheets as elongated, sharpened nails buried themselves in the flesh of his palms.
The pain that had once quelled the wolf within was having an adverse effect tonight, and Scott struggled to swallow a guttural growl as it crept up his throat. His body convulsed, the growl becoming absorbed into a sob that wracked his entire body, and he adjusted himself on all fours. Knees pressing into the mattress as his hands sought for purchase, nails ripping the memory foam mattress-topper his mother had bought for him as a congratulatory gift for making the lacrosse team. She'd said he'd need the extra comfort after being hit so much. If only it could wrap him in an envelope of warmth and safety now.
He could feel the peak of his ears becoming prominent, tufts of facial hair that he could have never grown on his own sprouting from lycanthropic follicles. This was what he needed. His mother was safe. He had done what he could for her, as she had done what she could for him…but this was what he needed. Scott leapt from the bed and swiftly crossed his room, fingers prying open his bedroom window before he leapt out, casting a shadow over his dimly lit yard before hitting the ground, and running as fast as he physically could.
As he passed the threshold of the woods and felt encapsulated by the wall of trees and foliage, he allowed the wolf, the alpha, to truly take charge, to mourn the loss of his beta. Sadness was primal, it demanded to be felt and it pillaged his innards, like swallowing wolfsbayne, like walking on hot coals. He roared, the gruffness cracking in the middle, mixing with a whimper and ending with a swell, a hollowed out growl that resonated, shaking the branches of the trees and sending nocturnal wildlife scurrying into the darkness.
With his throat raw, Scott heaved. He wasn't sure how long he'd been disturbing the forest, but the wolf was sated, or exhausted. He didn't feel wild, he didn't feel feral…he just felt lost. He wasn't ready to be Scott McCall just yet. He couldn't. He needed to run, growing aware that his roar might have attracted the others – and he wasn't in the mood to be found. Scott planted his foot in the dirt, and kicked it up, an explosion of speed propelling him through the forest, wisps of thorns whipping his arms and legs until a searing hot pain shot through the sole of his foot and up his leg. He tumbled to the ground, rolling down a small hill until his fallen form wrapped around a tree trunk. He groaned, pulling his foot close to him, squinting as the moonlight illuminated a piece of metal, shining brightly beneath the lunar glow. He took a few deep breaths, steadying himself, before digging his claws into his foot, fishing out the object that had nearly fully embedded itself inside of him.
As he pulled it out, he surveyed the object.
His voice hitched in his throat as he tried to speak, disbelief permeating off of him.
It was an arrow.
It was Allison's arrow.