"And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise."

- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

Beacon Hills, Calif. Present Day

A grey sky stretched over the graveyard. Solemn headstones decorated the freshly kept grass. Flower arrangements and other tokens of love lost were set preciously around headstones. Others stood bare and silent, facing the soft wind that carried through the yard.

The graveyard was large and set on flat land, the back of it lining up to the woods of Beacon Hills. Rows upon rows of plain white chairs were colored by a sea of black. Mourners spoke quietly, somber faces worn by many. There were hardly enough chairs to hold the crowd. There were swells of people, trying to respectfully avoid standing on any graves around the plot of land, but also trying to make space.

Lydia wasn't surprised to see so many people show up. She sat in her car, hands secured to the driving wheel. She felt as though her shoes were suddenly filled with lead, unable to move her feet or make herself get out of the car. She stared at the masses of people. Everyone from school and more had come to give their condolences to the Argent family and their friends.

Some of the harder parts were already over. Lydia had already walked down an empty hallway at school, a ghost of regret and pain haunting her all the way. She had already put in the locker combination with shaking hands and unsteady breath. It had taken her two hours to clean out Allison's locker. Countless times, she had found herself sinking to the ground, unable to bring herself to take one more possession from the locker.

Everyone always said funerals were the difficult part. You had to thank people for coming. You had to speak your piece. You had to be collected, but emotional at the same time. It was nothing compared to cradling a box filled with Allison's things to her chest. It was nothing compared to walking into the silent apartment to set the box on an empty bed.

Lydia could barely look at Chris Argent in the eyes. She could barely stand to see a man who had lost everything. A wife. A daughter. A sister. No connection to his father.

No, funerals were not the hardest part.

Steeling herself, Lydia got out of her car. She was parked in front of the hearse. A body of people stood around the car, dressed in black. These were the people who shared her burden. These were the friends whose hearts bled just like Lydia's. There was something about shared pain that made the burden lighter.

As Lydia approached, Stiles looked up. He was dressed in a fine suit of all black. He had dark circles under his eyes and his skin was still pale. There was no smile on his face and no gleam in his eye. The spark that usually lit this boy from the inside out was completely gone. Pain and exhaustion and something a little darker hung around him like a cloak.

Despite the obvious weight sitting on Stiles' mind, he came over to Lydia magnetically. There was no doubting that he would walk to her. He opened his arms and she hugged him tightly, feeling her eyes close automatically. Here was someone who had been on the brink of death, who was so haunted by the things he had seen that he was sure to feel the same way as Lydia did.

But that was impossible. No one could feel death the way Lydia did. No one could understand what it was like to physically feel your best friend leave the world, to feel her life slip from her body. It was something only Banshees could understand.

The tight embrace helped sooth the pain. Stiles smelled like he always did: faint body wash, a small taste of hair gel, warm clothes. Lydia pulled away, trying to force a smile to her face. It failed and she didn't try again. She didn't have to force anything with these people. They understood.

Kira touched Lydia on the shoulder but said nothing. Her jet black hair was pulled into a bun, her almond eyes soft, comforting. Her other hand was on Scott's shoulder. His lip was pulled between his teeth, dark eyes cast to a faraway though. Lydia had only seen Scott in a suit once. It had been at the homecoming dance freshman year when he was dancing gently with Allison.

Allison.

Isaac stood with and without the group. He said nothing, he looked at no one. His face seemed to be made of marble. Lydia hated that Isaac looked so natural in his grief. He wore it like it was second nature. Grief suited him, and she was unsure of how to comfort him. Chris walked up and cleared his throat. Lydia hated that a small part of her was relieved that she hadn't had to say anything.

"They're-" Chris broke off slightly and cleared his throat again. His normally blue eyes were grey, like they had been drained of color. "They're ready for the processional. Would you boys- would you be willing to carry it- her?"

"Of course, Mr. Argent," Stiles said. He sounded a lot more confident than Lydia had expected. "Kira can help us. She's more than capable."

"It would be an honor," she agreed, bowing her head.

"Thank you." Lydia could tell Chris meant it. "Lydia, I'd like you to walk with me, if you don't mind."

"Of course."

The group carrying Allison's casket surged forward. Lydia moved around and stood back with Chris, two silent statutes watching as the procession went underway. Normally it would take several people to carry Allison down the procession aisle. It was easy for three supernatural creatures and Stiles.

Allison's casket was beautiful. It was sleek and black with gold trimming and gold grips for Allison's closest family and friends to do the honor of escorting her to the gravesite. Lydia felt sick to her stomach as she looked at the black box. She suddenly felt like everything was distant. She was vaguely aware of wrapping her arm with Chris'. She could hardly feel herself fall behind the procession.

It didn't feel real. It felt like Lydia wasn't in her body. She wondered how she got to wear she was. This was surreal. There was no way that she was walking behind the casket of her best friend. She could see the back of Isaac and Stiles in front of her, holding the weight firmly, but she didn't understand. Allison couldn't be in there. Not really.

Everything felt opaque. She couldn't even find it within herself to cry. She was so distracted by the absurdity of it all that she was simply a shell of Lydia, walking down the aisle but not feeling. The pain was gone, leaving only a vague awareness of where she was.

Lydia didn't come back until she was watching them lower the casket into the ground. Her heart sank with it and she squeezed her eyes shut. Tears escaped still, coming at their own will. Lydia began to die inside. It went lower and lower. The girl who had been killed trying to save Lydia. Who died protecting her friends, in the arms of someone she loved, in front of those who loved her.

The only thought that kept coming in waves was why. Why were things like this? Why did evil always come to Beacon Hills? Why was so much taken from Lydia and her friends again and again? They were just kids- just people who were trying to live another day. But they were losing, and losing and losing. It never stopped. Death was always there, always waiting.

Allison wasn't the first to have been lost. She hadn't been the last. There was still another funeral to come. Still another life to mourn for Aidan. Lydia had mourned enough, it was second nature to her now. It never stopped hurting, and it never stopped happening, and it wasn't fair.

Lydia just wanted it to stop. But she would take the pain every single day, she would bear the weight of death as her shadow, she would follow the reaper to the destruction, and to those who had passed without ever complaining again if it meant she could have Allison back. She would embrace the Banshee, the proclaimer of death, if she could just have Allison back.

But she couldn't.

The Martin's lake house was filled with people who had attended Allison's funeral earlier that day. Allison's funeral. It was weird to think that even in death, she had something that was hers, despite the fact that she was no longer there to claim it. The absurdity of it disturb Isaac. He knocked back the rest of his drink before slipping from the room.

It was hard to be in a room with so many people. Isaac was unfamiliar with large crowds to begin with. School was as comfortable as he got with them. There, he knew the faces around him, and everyone was too busy with their own tasks and world to pay any mind to him. He preferred to remain under the radar.

Standing in a room with more than half the community was suffocating. He felt pressed up against the walls and haunted by the pictures of Allison looking out into the crowd. Pictures that held more life than she ever would again. It bothered him to no end, forcing him to find is way to the boat house that rested on the placid lake.

A silver crescent of a moon carved into the night sky. The lake house was far enough away from the main part of Beacon Hills that Isaac could see the stars. He stood on the very edge of the dock, the toes of his shoes hanging over the edge. The lake was so calm and black in the night that it looked like slick oil.

Trees stood around the lake, dark sentries in all their pine glory. It was quiet out, though Isaac could easily hear the party dimly through the night air. He focused on other sounds like crickets moving in the sand a few yards away, or an owl shuffling its wings from the rafters of the boat house.

The Martin's had a beautiful place. It was large and stood in solidarity, other houses on the far side of the lake to the north or down a ways where it opened up into another basin at the food of a small but rocky mountain. Being on the outskirts of the city was a new world entirely. Things out here were calmer, rougher and more natural.

Isaac cast his eyes down. There he was, standing on the edge of a lake with a beautiful night unraveling its secrets before him. He couldn't find it within himself to appreciate any of it. He didn't really admire the way the owl's wings were smoky shades of grey to blend into the night. He didn't care that the cricket was singing, trying to find a mate. It all paled in comparison if he couldn't share it with Allison.

Would she have even wanted to be here with him?

Over and over again Isaac had thought about the last words she said. Isaac had been there, watching from his knees on the cold pavement as Allison sputtered, clinging to life for a few seconds as she told Scott that she loved him. Scott. She loved Scott. Isaac felt the dagger of heartbreak slide between his ribs.

Footsteps warned him that someone was approaching. He turned over his shoulder though he already knew it was Scott. They hadn't talked about anything in depth since the altercation with the Oni and the night that Allison died. They still had to rid themselves of the nogitsune, a fiendish opponent.

Now things unsaid stretch between them as vast as the ocean.

Scott stood next to Isaac without saying much. He was no longer in the suit jacket he had been wearing earlier. He was a still statue of tan skin, white shirt rolled up to the elbows. Through the fabric of the shirt, Isaac could see the two, thick-black tattoo lines that created a band around Scott's arm.

"How are you doing?" Isaac looked at Scott. Scott's voice was soft, layered with colors of concern. His dark eyes searched Isaac's face. Isaac didn't hide the pain- he didn't need to. Scott was like a brother. "You know you can talk to me… even after."

"I know," Isaac agreed, nodding and looking down at the water again. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I know that. You're a good friend."

Scott nodded and didn't say anything. It seemed like there was something he wanted to say, so Isaac waited. "She loved you too," Scott murmured eventually. His eyes were looking across the lake, unfocused. "Allison saw something in you I think no one else did, and she really loved that about you."

"Maybe."

Scott looked at him severely. "Sometimes you can love two people in very different ways. I don't think it means that she loved you any less- ever."

"I could never be you, though, could I?"

"She wouldn't have wanted that."

"Yeah, I also don't think she would have wanted to die saving me inches from death."

Scott grabbed Isaac by both of the shoulders. Isaac's jaw flexed angrily. He wasn't upset with Scott, not in the slightest. Being upset with himself was a different story. He remembered Allison coming to his rescue, his warrior in battle armor, the snap of her bow and the sing of her arrow like a warning from the Muses as Allison stormed the Oni.

"Don't think for a second she would have regret her decision," Scott said roughly. There was a raw intensity in his face that was unique to Scott. "Allison died saving her friends, and she would die every day if it meant saving her friends. That's the kind of people we are- we sacrifice for one another."

"What kind of friendships are those?" Isaac's voice was hollow as he pulled away from Scott. "Killing ourselves for one another, walking the line between death and insanity because can't live without one another." Scott seemed hurt. Isaac felt guilt pit in the bottom of his stomach. It wasn't his intention to hurt Scott's feelings.

"We're just a bunch of matches," Isaac mumbled. "Lighting ourselves on fire to light the way for the people we love. What happens when the matches run out, Scott?"

There was no reply because Scott didn't have one.

AN: I really wanted to do something that essentially erased everything after season three. I don't really like anything plot wise from then on, so I've taken it upon myself to change what happens. This includes but is not limited to: editing character arcs, changing some of the mythology of the show, and going in a different direction than Jeff Davis & writers intended. I sincerely hope you enjoy this.