Originally posted on 25/05/14 on my other account, GideonGraystairs, which I have decided to use only for the Shadowhunter Chronicles stuff now, hence the moving of this fic over to my dump for all things not based off the works of Cassandra Clare. So, if it looks familiar to you and you're wondering why when it's clearly only just being posted, you probably saw it then. It's since been changed to an author's note over there, but shall be deleted entirely from that account on July 1st.
Thank you and enjoy some very angsty, upsetting Sterek with a weird writing style that kind of accidentally just happened. I tried to write something happy for once, I swear. It just... didn't work out like I'd intended.
It's on the longest night of the year that it happens, that everything left even remotely whole crumbles into pieces and is washed away by the sweet cadence of a final breath. It's on the night where the wolves run wild into the wonders of the forests they've yet to explore, their howls and bays a symphony of sound in the silence of the earth. It's on the night where the moon hangs dead in the sky for a time that stretches on longer than any before, it's weeping soul lighting up the night. It's on the night that the end is far out of sight when it happens.
There's no single cause for it, no one thing that can be blamed. It's an accumulation of many that bring it about, hundreds of little reasons that amount to much more than any single greater one could ever be. It's the whispers underneath the words, the attacks underneath the hugs. It's the darkness blocking away all light but one, and it's that single burning flame turning away from him without a single glance back. It's the cold of holes that used to be filled by loved ones overpowering the heat of those still there. It's a heavy feeling in his chest as the night stretches on with no end near enough that causes it.
It is water gone cold running over the rusted edges of an old bathtub. It's black pen to white paper under yellow light, words he hasn't had the time to say. It's shivers and a pale body sinking into the tub, a soaked bathroom floor around it. It's the sharpness of a knife covered in more than just rust, hushed heavy breaths echoing louder than anything before, and clear water turning red. It's gentle whispers of pleas for no one to hear and apologies for no one to accept. It's soft tears dripping away from him, forming a path between cinnamon eyes and the red water below. It's choked sobs, a familiar sound, and then scarred wrists sinking down, fresh wounds providing an exit for the life inside of him. It is the end.
There are ten sets of pawprints tramping through the woods that night. Dew drops on coloured pelts of all different shades glint in the moonlight as they race against the wind to the highest point in their own private section of the world. Yipping and baying, barking and howling, they are wild and free, unbound by the troubles humanity brings to them. When they've reached the clearing at the top of the hill they stop running, nipping at each other's heels and rolling around on the fresh forest floor. There are ten wolves in the woods that night, and they don't know what's yet to come.
It does come though, regardless of whether or not they are expecting it's arrival. It comes in the form of a howl cut off halfway, nine glowing eyes turning to their alpha as he freezes suddenly and then lets out the most awful, pained whine they will ever hear. There is no pause after that, no hesitation before ten sets of paws are heard racing through the forest once more towards an average seeming house on the edge. They can feel it through their alpha, the sharp pang of someone else's pain. It sits heavily inside them as the near their destination, bleeding out into a different emotion they refuse to acknowledge.
The alpha is the first to shift, black fur smoothing into tanned skin, and the rest follow quickly though they don't move as he does when he begins scaling the wall to the open window on the second floor. They watch in hushed fear as he slips inside with the shadows.
The first thing he notices when his feet touch the worn carpet floor is the smell. It's heavy and thick, something dark in it that puts him on edge. There's the faint tang of copper underneath it all and that is what he focuses on as he follows it to the bathroom door. He can still feel the weight in his chest from before, a constant reminder that he failed to protect his mate from whatever it is that's harmed him.
He's not expecting it to be his mate himself who did it.
His chest heaves for the air he's lost as he sinks down in front of the tub, pulling a cold, pale body out of the bloody water and into his lap. His eyes burn from the tears he has no right to shed because he did this. This is his fault. He sent him over the edge. He was the last little reason after the first hundred others.
He shouldn't have abandoned him. He shouldn't have done what he did; shower the boy with his love only to suddenly take it away, replace it with harsh words of feigned cruelty he can never take back. He shouldn't have turned his back and left his mate scrambling in the dust just because he wasn't getting everything he wanted out of him. Just because he couldn't give him back a family, even though he was really all the family the alpha needed.
It's a mile too little, a lifetime too late for him to realize this, though. He's already gone.
It's during the worst downpour of the year that it's mourned, that long night so long ago that ended with the sweet cadence of a final breath. It's during the time where the wolves stay inside their familiar dens, silent demonstrations of love for each of their other halves fading into the background of the loud world outside. It's during the time where the sun chokes silently on the dark clouds keeping it from brightening the world up with it's happiness that beams in rays around it. It's during the saddest, most fitting day of the year that it's mourned.
Cold, bony fingers ghost over the soaked marble gravestone with a gentle touch. A bouquet of white carnations for remembrance and lilacs for love is set softly on the stone, somehow remaining undamaged against the storm. A tan body curls up against the grave, huddled in as tight as possible. Words drift across the air, carried by the wind, and unlike the other wolves' love they don't fade into the background. They are loud and clear, the questions that were once written finally being answered with spoken truths.
No one is surprised when he falls asleep there and never wakes up.
Reviews are food. Nom nom.
Also, according to my original author's note on this fic (since I don't remember actually writing it or said note) I "loved the first part, liked the second and didn't know about the third." Interesting. I should go through and check out works I don't remember at all more often. Except the first one I ever posted over on my other account *shivers* I legitimately cried re-reading that one it was so horrendously bad.