Make me a means to an end
oh make me an ending in sight
make me insightful again
what I can't see, I can't fight
Post War Blues – Dan Mangan
The next morning, I went out with my sketch book and pencil into the woods. The therapist that I had at the asylum decided that I needed to focus my energy and thoughts on something over than my loss. Running didn't cut it, as much as I loved to run, it gave me too much thinking time and I usually just ended up on the floor, broken down. So I drew, mostly birds. With my werewolf hearing, I could tell where they were and approach them quietly. Most of the time, I got a quick sketch before they flew away, in search of something better. I always hoped that they could find their better place.
This time, I decided to look for new birds, the only ones that I seemed to have been able to see before were normal sparrows, blue tits and the like. I didn't mind drawing them, in different stages but after a while – I got bored. So instead I turned my attention to the people around me, the faces of others. The girl banging her head against the wall, the Ann Frank wannabe or the staff in their simple scrubs. I had acquired quite a few faces but birds were my real love.
It didn't take long for me to find a different type of bird; I spotted the pinkie red breast of a bullfinch perched on a nearby tree branch. I set myself down on the forest floor, luckily, there were no leaves to give a way my presence. Before I got to draw, I looked around and noticed the house.
It must have been beautiful once upon a time, with fires burning in grates and laughing children running around the garden. Like mine used to be. Now it was a shell of its former self, dilapidated and grey. Was this the Hale house? Did the family die inside? Nobody was in from what I could tell but I knew that people still resided there from old scents. Derek? If he turned up, I could just run.
Mustering up as much courage as possible, I climbed the singed, simple staircase leading up to a porch. You could tell that the house used to be beautiful, a classic family home. As the door was wide open, I stepped into the burnt down home. I could smell the smoke and fear still; even after all of the years that it had been that way. I walked into what must have been the family living room, with a tired and worn couch in the centre and a hole – in the floor? Before I could investigate further, a strong hand grabbed my arm and whipped me around to face them.
"What the fuck are you doing? Huh? This is private property!" A man stood before me, clad in black leather in biker boots. He was a werewolf. Was he Derek? When did he arrive? How did I not notice him before? "Hey!? What are you doing here she – wolf?" Oh no, not good. He knew. About me. Would he tell Scott? Did he even talk to Scott? Would he tell hunters? Did he know about my family?
He brought up his hand to slap me from my thoughts and I flinched. He wouldn't seriously hurt me, would he? Oh god, he could kill me right here. I would die in this old building. But then at least I would be with my family – at last. If it was Derek, Derek slammed me into a wall, up in my face, fangs bared, ready to rip my throat out. Even though I was waking I welcomed it, death. I could finally leave this hell on earth.
DEREK P.O.V
I was about to rip up her face for intruding when I realised she was shaking. She was scared, of me? Couldn't she just fight back? No, she had gone pale, sweaty, her eyes closed. Instead of killing her, I dug my claws into her arms to show her that I was the dominant in this position. As if that wasn't obvious.
She was on the floor, sobbing before I could even realise that I had let go of her. Peter burst in. to me, over this girl, with fangs and claws out. "What the fuck Derek!? What did she ever do to you?" he pushed past me as I shifted back to human form. I heard him speaking to the girl who was leaning into Peter, probably glad for an escape.
"She's a wolf and she was snooping around your hole," it was a shit excuse and I knew it, I shouldn't have done it to her, and she was practically shitting herself.
"Really Derek? Can't you see how bloody scared she is?" He did make a good point, so I just stormed off, past Peter, past the girl and her pathetic sobs. Into my car and through the forest.
ELYSIUM P.O.V
The man, Peter, was speaking to me. That it was okay, that his nephew was just a bit protective about the house, that I should have fought back. I shook my head rapidly, thinking about what they would do to me if they found out. If they found out that I was the last remaining silver wolf. They would turn me over to hunters for sure. In exchange for their own safety.
But it was too late. I could feel the change coming. Not now! This couldn't be happening, my secret was out. Already. Alas, it was no use; my bones were moving and popping and fur formed on my body, my clothes ripping off. I was a wolf. A silver wolf. And now he would give me to hunters.
As soon as this thought came into my head, I was out the door. Unfortunately, I didn't think about him wolfing out and attempting to make a grab for me, which he successfully did. Peter had me by the scruff of the neck, holding me in place. I did the only thing I could think of to get out, I bit him – hard. Luckily, this loosened his hold enough for me to escape.
"Isaac!" Peter roared from behind me. Another one! How many more were there? A boy with curly blonde hair and blue eyes came streaking into the room. When he saw me, I'm sure he did the only thing that came to his mind – Isaac lunged for me but I quickly dodged his clumsy strike. I ran out of the house and into the woods, hoping that Derek stayed in his car.
PETER P.O.V
"What the hell was that?" it looked like Isaac hadn't been able to get hold of her either. What a surprise. I didn't think that the silver wolf pack was real; I had certainly never seen any of them before. But what were they doing in Beacon Hills? Where were they hiding?
"Well, Isaac, she was a silver wolf. From the only pack in America where all of them are able to fully transform into silver wolves. I thought that they were a myth, something to be told around campfires. But from the looks of her, looks like they aren't, no matter what anybody else says."
Wooo! chapter three! So yeah, Elysium likes to draw, and run. And don't worry, the sketchbook is not forgotten. Also, for later reference, this story takes place between season two and three, so no Boyd and Erica for the time being.
-Effie