The wind softly blew through Allison's hair and the air stung her lungs. She didn't know why snow had started to fall in Beacon Hills, but she could sense that it wasn't as pure as the snow itself seemed. Scott had once told her that it never snowed in Beacon Hills.
Allison couldn't imagine a life without snow. Her family had moved all over the country, sometimes more than once a year, but every winter she had ended up someplace with snow. It was one of very few constants in her life. Her friends changed, her home changed, she changed, but every December she would wake up one morning to a lawn covered in white.
It crunched under her feet, and a trail of red followed where she went. Her right arm was numb. She almost wished she could feel the pain, just so she could feel more than the cold. Even when it was summertime she was cold. When all of her friends were running around in shorts and tank tops, Allison froze from the inside out.
Scott and Stiles were already at the tree: the Nemeton. They both looked to be in better health than she did. The long strip of cloth missing from Scott's side and the dried blood on Stiles' hands made her feel better about not needing help.
She clutched the knife in her left hand. If the visions were tricking her again, she wanted the protection. Her arrows were already spent, the empty quiver discarded only after the bow had been destroyed.
"You made it," Stiles said, looking concerned but not relieved. They had no time for relief. Something needed to be done: something only they could do. Allison did not know what it was. She knew nothing other than she had to be at the Nemeton. It had called to her: pulled at her until she thought she might die. There was no ignoring it. It was more a part of Allison than she was.
Scott said nothing. He just looked at her, something broken in his eyes. It was impossible to tell if it had always been there or if it was new. All Allison knew was that she had seen the same loss in herself. She had seen it in Stiles. Nobody else could see it.
When Isaac would hold her close, their bodies naked and glistening with sweat, she would look into his eyes and see love and wonder and joy and life and wonder why she couldn't see it in herself. As much as she tried, Allison could never feel for Isaac what he felt for her. She could no longer feel anything. She couldn't remember feeling anything other than the cold.
"I'm here," she answered cautiously, eyeing the other two as if they would attack at any moment. Her knife was held protectively at her front. Neither moved to attack. It was obvious they wouldn't, because Allison could sense it within them. She could feel the cold from them that she felt in herself. If she were capable of it, Allison would have hated them. She would have hated herself. It wouldn't even allow her the hate.
"We haven't been waiting long," Stiles told her, his voice as distant and wrong as his eyes. "Your arm."
"Will heal." There was no way for Allison to know if it would, and she didn't. But she did not want them to pity her if she could not pity herself. If they could even still feel pity. She did not know if they were still able to feel something other than the cold.
It had already been part of her. The darkness in Allison's heart hadn't been put there by the Nemeton. She had put it there herself: when her mother died, when she had lost her mind in her grief and became a monster. She had become the monster that she claimed to hunt. Scott and Stiles hadn't known darkness before. Perhaps they had a resistance that she did not.
"Does it hurt?" Scott reached out to touch her. His hand was shaking and she stared at it as though she had never seen a hand before. It was a reflex. She stepped back and raised her knife. The broken look in Scott's eyes became one of death. If she could have, Allison would have felt sorrow and regret. But still all she felt was the cold. It was all encompassing and she wrapped it about herself as if it were armour.
"What do we do?" Stiles asked, climbing atop the stump. Allison and Scott both looked to him. He was almost alive. He still fought it, still tried to grasp at something. For a moment, Allison wondered when she stopped fighting. She couldn't even remember ever fighting it. Fighting was futile, but wasn't that why they had come together? Hadn't they come to fight something?
The wind picked up, biting into Allison's cheeks like so many invisible insects. All around them, the snow drifted and rose and fell but never touched them. It was as if it knew that they were no longer of this world and it feared them. Nature itself had come to fear Allison, but she could no longer recollect what fear was. It was as foreign to her as the words Isaac would whisper in her ear after they had finished rutting like beasts. This thing, this love that Isaac held for Allison confused her. She did not hate him, nor did she hate the apparent love he held for her. It was just as foreign to Allison as an ant's thoughts were to a god.
None of the assembled had an answer to the question Stiles posed. He looked out at their surroundings, and Allison followed his gaze. The dangers that had blocked her path had all been slain like wheat at the harvest. None dared follow where she tread.
Her legs were tired, and Allison had a vague recollection of what that meant. She sat upon the Nemeton. Something pulsed around her. It was rhythmic and dangerous: it rivalled the darkness in her heart. The foreign thing was warm. Allison hadn't felt warmth in so long that she had forgotten it.
She looked to Scott, who was leaning against the Nemeton. The snow around them became more violent, the wind harsher and louder until all Allison could hear was a void. Stiles crouched next to Allison and laid a hand upon her shoulder. The warmth outside her flowed inward at his touch. Every place it reached rose back to life. Allison remembered fear. She wanted to scream and run and cry but all she could do was watch as Stiles also touched Scott.
Inside of Allison, things long since dead began resurrecting. The cold fled from her. Snow began to slam into the three of them, but they did not move. They did not relent.
When Allison dropped her knife and grabbed at Stiles' hand she remembered love and everything it was. She looked into Scott's eyes and saw the dead, broken thing revived and intact. Her heart swelled as she remembered loving him once. Perhaps never stopping.
The world around them began to beat in tune with the warmth inside Allison. She felt herself becoming a part of the things around her. Her hand tightened on Stiles' and she breathed deep, the biting wind losing any power it had. The snow receded into the earth. Mud and greenery reigned.
Stiles lips on her own were new and unlike anything she had experienced. She pushed into him. He leaned into Scott, who held them both. When it came to Scott, Allison slipped back into the kiss like she had never left. It was familiar and full of the warmth that flowed through her body. Stiles lips found the back of her neck and she reached around with her good hand to touch the side of his face. She watched as Stiles kissed Scott, as new and natural and eternal as existence itself.
Then she remembered Isaac. She remembered the feel of his hands on her skin, his lips on her back, and she broke away from Scott and Stiles. They looked at each other before looking at her, and she felt the cold begin to creep back in. Allison hugged them both with words of thanks, the warmth flaring back up. She knew.
As long as she was alive, Allison would always have the cold. But as long as she had Scott and Stiles, as long as she could touch them and love them, she would be safe from it overwhelming and destroying her. She whispered words of gratitude to the Nemeton. And Allison ran. She ran to the one who loved her even when she could not love him. Her arm finally began to hurt and she pushed it from her mind. Because he was waiting for her to return.