Stiles couldn't shake the feeling that he'd forgotten something. It hovered at the edge of his thoughts and then vanished whenever he tried to just reach out and touch it. His father had always said that the brain was vast, sprawling warehouse and all he needed to do was send someone away to find the memory he wanted. Stiles wasn't sure that this had ever worked for him. He'd always replied that his mind was more like a chaotic library and the librarian definitely wasn't using the Dewey Decimal system.
Around him he could see only trees, thick and heavy with moss. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remember that moss meant water nearby, or at least that was what the survival documentary his father had forced him to watch before their first camping trip had said.
The ground crunched under his sneakers as he followed the boot worn path through the woods until he could hear water rushing and smell the fresh scent of damp earth. In a rush the memory of this place came back to him and for a moment he smiled, because for once his frail, ancient librarian had actually found what he was looking for.
He had been here before with Lydia. When she had first brought him here she said it was a secret place that he wasn't allowed to tell anyone else about. She told him that he was the only boy she would ever bring here, but now, as he clambered over the low wall that separated the woods from the slope down to the river, he could see that she had lied.
As Stiles slid closer to a jut of rock hanging over the river, Lydia threw her head back and let out a tinkling laugh. Stiles marvelled at the way it seemed to compose a melody with the rustling of the trees and the gushing water.
She placed a hand lightly on Jackson's shoulder and pushed him away lightly when he leaned over to nip at her ear with his teeth. He snuggled closer to Lydia on the rock and pulled her into the crook of his shoulder confidently.
Stiles' breath left his lungs in an audible whoosh and his hands began to shake with jealousy. He ran a hand over his face in the hope that when he opened his eyes again he would be waking up in his own bed beneath a swirl of strawberry blond hair.
He wondered if this was what dying felt like as Lydia pulled Jackson's lower lip into her mouth, giggling low in her throat seductively. He decided this was akin to drowning. He struggled to suck in slow, deep breaths but all he could feel was pressure crushing his lungs into lumps of useless flesh.
Stiles guessed he'd been frozen in place for little over a minute before the fog in his head began to clear. Something tugged insistently at the back of his mind, like a fly he just couldn't swat away. It was almost with this realisation that an icy, paralysing ache began to seep deep into his bones, stabbing at his heart, until finally there was nothing but peaceful quiet, earth beneath his knees and Lydia's hands fisting Jackson's hair in her tiny palms.
He'd always known it would be this way. It was only a matter of time before she became bored with him. Lydia Martin was a glowing beacon of hope that even the most average of men might have a chance to know her. Stiles knew he had already been luckier than most. Perhaps his memories of her were all he was ever destined to keep of her. How many men could say they truly knew her? He had glimpsed the inner workings of Lydia's mind and he knew he couldn't possibly deserve more.
He was weak, neurotic at times, clumsy and lanky, and distinctly un-Jackson-like. He would never be good enough.
"They're just stunning together, don't you think?"
Stiles head whipped up as Jackson and Lydia dissolved into the air. Instead, reclining languidly where they had been entwined was a figure Stiles prayed he was imagining.
"No," he whispered softly, "no, no, you can't be here. You can't be here!" Stiles finally shouted as the man smirked and climbed somewhat awkwardly to his feet.
His eyes were rimmed with dark crimson circles like he hadn't slept in days and his cheeks were pale and grey. He rubbed hastily at the gently upturn of his nose and studied the blood that smeared the back of his hand curiously.
"You're starting to remember, Stiles. That's good. The fear always seems to taste sweeter once they start to remember."
Stiles stumbled as the ground began to quake beneath his feet, softly at first and then more violently until he was forced to clutch onto a tree to keep himself upright. The wind whistled through the branches and tugged at Stiles shirt.
The Nogitsune took a shuddering step forward, blood seeping between his lips. He dropped to one knee and retched hoarsely before his eyes met Stiles' again.
"I wasn't sure if you'd really do it, you know," the Nogitsune rasped, "but once I got inside your head you seemed perfectly happy to offer yourself up as a sacrifice for the cause. Scott was a surprise, too. Saint Scott - the true Alpha - willing to let his brother die for what? A small victory?"
Stiles shook his head slowly, blood pounding in his ears.
"It was your idea?" he asked simply.
He wished he sounded braver but all that came out was a choked whimper.
"Take away the mortar and the whole wall falls down. Scott might be the Alpha but you're the one holding the pack together, Stiles. Unfortunately, The Banshee proved to be more of a challenge. She just wasn't willing to let you go. I guess I should have known she would have saved you somehow."
The Nogitsune spat, crimson staining the earth.
Stiles considered whether he might be able to kill him whilst he was like this. He was weakening by the second but the thread that had been tugging at his mind began to unravel and soon Stiles saw the Notisune for what he was; an illusion.
"You're not real," Stiles murmured to himself. "None of this is real."
No sooner had the words passed his lips, the forest began to melt. The leaves became dark paint, streaming down upon a canvas of tree trunks and crunching dirt. The Nogitsune disappeared into a swirl of ashen smoke.
Stiles turned and ran as trees began to fall in all directions, crashing to the ground in a symphony of splintering wood. The creaking whoosh as they fell was deafening around him. For a second he was aware of a tree branch swinging towards him and then there was nothing but darkness.
When Stiles woke again he could hear Lydia arguing frantically with Scott as her fingers raked gently through his hair.
"He'll wake up when he's ready, Scott," she was saying sternly.
Stiles opened his eyes slowly to find her hair pooled over his chest and her wide eyes watching his every move. Lydia let out a long breath of relief and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. He could feel the weight lifting from her chest as if it were his own. Or perhaps it was? They were one in the same now.
"You okay there, buddy?" Scott asked cautiously when Stiles pushed himself to his feet with Lydia's help.
Stiles shook his head as if to wake himself fully and Lydia slipped her hand into his reassuringly. Through the heat of her palm against his Stiles thought he could feel a simmering anger seeping into his veins but as she held on tight he decided it was drowned out by a pulsing longing to forgive him.
"It was the Anuk-Ite, he got inside our head. The plan, the sacrifice, the war. It's all him and this place," Stiles gestured around them, "I think he created it. It said the fear tastes better when you start to remember that it's not real. He wants the fear, he's feeding off it."
"So every time we go through the doors he gets stronger?" surmised Theo.
"Not necessarily. When I started to remember it was like the whole world collapsed and he started dying. I mean, blood everywhere... it was actually kind of horrifying," Stiles trailed off.
"Look, do you know how we get out of here or not?" Jackson asked impatiently.
Stiles shook his head but it was Lydia who answered.
"What if it's like a test? We conquer the fear, weaken him a little each time and maybe that'll break his hold on this place."
Scott nodded and Malia stripped of her flannel shirt and tied it around her waist, pulling in tight.
"Well, right now, it's the only plan we've got. So who's going next?"