A hospital, usually a place of refuge, felt like the eye of a storm—deceptively calm but surrounded by chaos. The air in the corridor was thick with the antiseptic sting of disinfectant, mingling with the undercurrent of fear and tension that seemed to cling to the walls. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their harsh glare casting stark shadows that seemed to pulse with the beating hearts of those they concealed. As I regained fragments of consciousness, Stiles' urgent voice pierced the haze, trying to rouse Derek from a similar state of disorientation. The story unfolded quickly once Derek was alert; Jennifer had vanished into the night with Scott's mom in tow, leaving devastation in her wake. Stiles' panic was palpable, his words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "We need to go, we need to leave, now," he insisted, the fear in his voice mirroring the pounding of my heart. I couldn't respond, trapped in a liminal space between awareness and oblivion, until Derek's strong arms offered an unexpected solace, lifting me from the ground. As I lay in Derek's arms, barely conscious, a storm of thoughts raged within me. The weight of recent revelations pressed down, suffocating in its intensity. "How did we get here?" I wondered, the line between right and wrong blurred by the chaos Jennifer unleashed.
The world outside the hospital was a blur, scenes slipping past the car window like watercolours washed away by rain. I awoke fully only as we pulled into my dad's driveway, the familiar surroundings anchoring me back to reality. Without hesitation, I reached out with my mind, calling to the shadows for a glimpse of Stiles. They showed me a snippet of him at the hospital, his interaction with an FBI officer whose aura sparked an inexplicable recognition in me. The mention of "Argent" etched on an elevator door only deepened the mystery, intertwining our fates further with the unfolding supernatural drama.
In the aftermath of the tumultuous confrontation at the hospital, we found ourselves huddled in the dimly lit corner of my father's study, the silence around us a stark contrast to the chaos we'd just endured. The air was thick with the residue of adrenaline and fear, yet beneath it, a shared sense of relief pulsed quietly, a gentle reminder that we had survived, at least for now. As Allison and my dad busied themselves, Stiles slumped against the wall, his gaze lost in the middle distance, processing the night's events with a furrowed brow. I leaned beside him, my own thoughts a whirlwind of emotions and revelations.
The room felt heavy with unspoken questions and reflections on the choices we'd made, the paths we'd chosen in the heat of battle. The reality of our situation, the weight of the sacrifices and the secrets we'd uncovered, hung between us, an invisible barrier that both connected and isolated us in our individual experiences. It was in these quiet moments of introspection that the true cost of our fight against the supernatural began to dawn on me. The realization that our actions, driven by a desire to protect, to survive, could have consequences far beyond what we'd anticipated.
As Stiles finally met my gaze, his eyes a mirror to my own turmoil, a wordless conversation unfolded between us. There was an understanding, a shared acknowledgment of the burdens we carried, the fears we harboured about the future. It was a moment of connection, forged not in the heat of battle but in the quiet aftermath, where the echoes of our choices resonated with the most clarity.
In the shadows of the room, we allowed ourselves to be vulnerable, to voice the doubts and the hopes that flickered like dim lights in the darkness. It was a necessary pause, a chance to breathe and to realign with our core selves before stepping back into the fray. This reflective interlude, brief as it was, served as a reminder of our humanity, of the strength we drew from our bonds, and of the resilience that defined us. It was a grounding force, a beacon of hope that, despite the uncertainty of the path ahead, we would face it together, fortified by the lessons learned in moments of quiet reflection.
Stiles' warning about our dad potentially being the next sacrifice target sent a shiver down my spine, yet his concern also wrapped around me like a warm blanket. In true Argent fashion, our response was to plan, to strategize, to fight. But as my dad and Allison prepared for the battle ahead, Stiles' gentle inquiry cut through the façade of readiness I had donned. "Dude, what did she do to you?" His question was a key turning a lock I hadn't realized was closed, opening a floodgate of fears I had yet to voice. "She was in my mind," I confessed, the words barely a whisper, "I tried to fight her, she's too strong for me." Stiles' vow of protection felt like a lifeline, a promise of safety in a sea of uncertainty "We should keep you as far away from her as possible, I'm not going to let her harm you".
"Stiles, there is something I need to tell you…" I started, just as Issac arrived, offering his help which ended the brief conversation. But long enough for me to promise him I wouldn't join my family. Joining Stiles instead to include Lydia, we delved into the mystery of Jennifer's intentions and her peculiar interest in Lydia as a banshee. Each piece of the puzzle Lydia provided felt like a step closer to understanding the web Jennifer had woven around us.
As the dim light of dawn crept through the gaps of Lydia's bedroom curtains, the urgency of our situation became palpable, hanging in the air like a thick fog. Stiles paced back and forth, his movements sharp and erratic, a physical manifestation of the tension that crackled between us. "We're running out of time," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, but his words cut through the silence, a stark reminder of what was at stake. "Jennifer has my dad, Scott's mom, and possibly going after Andrew's dad. If we don't find the Nemeton soon, we might not get another chance to save them."
I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, heavy with unspoken fears and the burden of leadership he'd never asked for but had risen to meet time and again. "Every minute we waste, Jennifer gets closer to completing her ritual. We can't let that happen," I added, my voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of desperation. The reality that our parents' lives hung in the balance, dependent on our ability to decipher ancient clues and outmanoeuvre a foe who always seemed one step ahead, was overwhelming.
Lydia, her expression grave, nodded in agreement. "The Nemeton isn't just a location; it's the epicentre of her power. If she completes the ritual there, there's no telling what she'll be capable of." Her words underscored the enormity of our task, the gravity of our mission not just to rescue our loved ones but to prevent Jennifer from unleashing untold horrors upon Beacon Hills.
The room fell silent, each of us lost in our thoughts, the stakes of our mission etched into our minds. The urgency to act, to find the Nemeton before Jennifer could complete her ritual, was a fire that burned within us, fuelling our determination and our resolve. This wasn't just a battle to save those we loved; it was a fight to protect the very fabric of our world from being torn apart by darkness. With every second that ticked by, the urgency grew, a relentless pressure that drove us forward, united in our purpose and unwavering in our commitment to stand against the shadows that threatened to engulf us all.
The next morning, we were making our way to class, trying to pretend like nothing was out of the ordinary when the revelation that my father, along with the other guardians, had been taken for sacrifice, landed like a physical blow. The possibility of losing him, so soon after my mother's death, was a nightmare unfolding in real-time. Stiles' subsequent panic attack in the locker room was a mirror to my internal turmoil, his struggle for breath a manifestation of the fear we all felt. Lydia's attempts to comfort him, though well-meaning, missed the mark, leaving us in a shared moment of helplessness.
"Oh god" said Stiles slackly "What is it now?" Lydia sighed. I hadn't let the information fully set in yet. Jennifer had my dad, she planned to sacrifice him. I'd already lost my mother, I couldn't lose him, too. As panic started to set in, Stiles' voice pulled me back into the moment "I think I'm having a panic attack."
"Just try and think about something else, anything else" Lydia panicked "Like what?" Stiles rebuffed weakly, struggling to catch his breath. Uh, happy things. Good things. Uh, friends, family." Both Stiles and I turned to her, unimpressed. "Oh, I mean... not family."
The boy I loved was in turmoil, struggling for breath, panic gripping him. I wanted to hold him in that moment, to comfort him, to relax him, to promise everything would be okay. Except, how could I know that? The knowledge that my own father could be taken from me at any moment froze me in place.
"Andrew!" Lydia snapped, now staring at me, Stiles Hyperventilating in the background.
"Wha…what?" I zoned back in. "We have to get him to slow his breathing, do something!" she begged me. I looked at him in that moment, hunched over clutching his chest, grasping for a breath that would not come. The heartache the image caused will stay with me forever, Stiles needed me. I leapt into action, kneeling before him, taking his face in my hands, "Shh, shh. Stiles, look at me. Shh, look at me. Shh, Stiles" his panic filled eyes met mine. The moment before our lips met, the world seemed to hold its breath. It was a pause filled with the tumult of my racing heart and Stiles' laboured breathing, a thin veil of uncertainty that fluttered between us. When I finally bridged the gap, the warmth of Stiles' lips against mine felt like the first rays of sunlight after a relentless storm—unexpected, yet profoundly comforting. The chaos around us faded into a distant murmur, leaving nothing but the singular focus on the connection that sparked to life with that gentle press of lips. It was an admission, a revelation, and a promise all at once, whispered in the silent language of touch.
In the aftermath of our lips parting, a deluge of thoughts rush through my mind, a chaotic symphony with a single, poignant refrain: this was not the kiss I had envisioned. I had imagined our first kiss countless times, each fantasy painted with the delicate strokes of intimacy and mutual longing, not the jagged edges of fear and desperation.
There in the cold sterility of the locker room, amidst the tremors of panic shaking Stiles' frame, our lips met in a moment borne of necessity. It was supposed to be different. It should have been under an umbrella of stars, with laughter lingering in the air, not with the metallic tang of dread on our tongues. I had hoped for our eyes to close softly, not clamp shut against a surge of anxiety.
And yet, this kiss, imperfect and impulsive, was etched into the canvas of my memory, indelible and haunting. It was the paradox of tender warmth against the chill of panic, an anchor in the tempest of our current reality. It was his lips whispering a tale of what could be amidst the narrative of what must be done.
I can't shake the feeling that the kiss, though a lifeline to Stiles in his unravelling, was also a beacon of truth for me. It was a confession of my feelings, unspoken but deeply felt. Even as I try to reconcile the tumultuous circumstances, a part of me cherishes the connection, flawed and sudden as it was. In the chaos, it was real, it was raw, and it was ours.
As the moment lingers in my mind, it's a bittersweet bookmark, marking the page where our story truly began. It will be a memory that lingers, that defines. And though born from panic, it's a promise of potential, a first step on a path we've yet to travel together.
The first kiss is said to be a doorway to the heart, and despite the shadows that framed ours, it opened a door I feared would remain forever closed. It was not the kiss I had dreamt of, but it was a kiss that will resonate through my life, a pivot upon which the axis of my emotions will forever turn. It was a collision of fear and love, a fusion of what we needed and what I secretly desired.
In that one, uncontrollable moment, we laid bare the vulnerability and the strength that interlace the human heart. It was the kind of kiss that novels are written about, not because it was perfect but because it was transformative. The kind that changes everything, that marks a before and after, and in the seismic shift of our lips touching, I feel the landscape of my soul rearrange.
Despite it all, I found solace in the truth that it happened. We crossed a threshold, and no matter where we go from here, that kiss, born out of panic, will always be a harbinger of my hope for 'us.' A hope that our next kiss will be one of choice, not circumstance, a testament to mutual desire, not necessity—a moment just as memorable, but for all the right reasons.
Stiles' question, "How'd you do that?" was laden with a mixture of awe and lingering panic, his eyes searching mine for answers I wasn't sure I had.
"I, uh... I read once that... Holding your breath could stop a panic attack. So when I kissed you... You held your breath."
"I did?"
"Yeah, you did."
"Thanks. Really Smart."
"Thank god," Lydia interjected, bringing us back into the room "that was really smart, and if I was that smart, I would tell you to sign up for a few sessions with a guidance counsellor."
"Morrell" Stiles muttered as we all looked at each other having the same realisation.
As we rejoined the fray, armed with newfound determination and the echo of that kiss lingering like a secret promise, I couldn't help but feel that something fundamental had changed. The way Stiles glanced at me, a mix of gratitude and something deeper, unspoken, hinted at the complexities we were yet to navigate. But in that moment, despite the looming threats and the weight of the world on our shoulders, it was the silent understanding that passed between us that spoke volumes. We were allies, friends, and perhaps something more, bound together not just by circumstance, but by a choice made in the most vulnerable of moments—to reach for each other, to find solace, and to offer comfort without reservation. It was a foundation on which something new could be built, a beacon of light in the darkness that promised, no matter what came next, we wouldn't face it alone.
As we burst into Morrell's office, Stiles and Lydia began looking for clues, while I paused, concentrating on trying to find our parents in a way only I knew was possible, reaching out through the shadows to find them. It didn't help that it was daylight, but I was betting they were being kept somewhere dark. Ultimately, I failed, Jennifer obviously blocking my attempts to track them. Fear for my father's safety gnawed at my insides, a relentless reminder of the potential cost of our battle against darkness. Yet, amid this turmoil, a sliver of hope flickered—ignited by Stiles' unwavering determination and Lydia's newfound revelations. Their courage, in the face of overwhelming odds, bolstered my own.
Stiles discovered Lydia's drawing in that moment…I gasp without realising I'd spoke "the Nemeton."
"It must be on a telluric current," Stiles said "or maybe even at the axis of two or where they all intersect. I just know it's where Derek took Paige to die."
My dad and Gerard were there once. But Gerard said it was years ago, and he couldn't remember where it was. And my dad obviously isn't here to tell us now." Allison replied.
"Then how do we find this place?" Issac questioned.
"There might be a way" interjected Deaton "but it's dangerous. We're gonna need Scott."
It became imperative to understand the foundations of the supernatural forces at play. The ancient magics we encountered, rooted in centuries-old traditions and rituals, governed by rules as complex as they were mystical. For instance, the shadows that responded to my call, a legacy of the Sorciers de l'Ombre, were not merely darkness to be manipulated but a connection to a world beyond our own, each movement requiring a balance of will and respect for the energies borrowed. Similarly, the ritualistic sacrifices orchestrated by Jennifer, though abhorrent, were bound by a code that dictated the choice of victims and the power gained. Such powers, while offering tremendous potential, came with limitations—restrictions rooted in the very essence of the supernatural world itself. Understanding these constraints, the delicate dance between power and penalty, was crucial, providing a framework that made the incredible feats we witnessed and performed more tangible, grounding our experiences in a reality where every action had its equal and opposite reaction, as dictated by the ancient laws governing our existence.
"How'd you guys find out?" asked Scott.
"Lydia. You?" replied Stiles.
"Morrell. None of the other alphas know where it is either."
"So, if this works, are you gonna tell them?"
"I can't stop Jennifer without them."
"How about we concentrate on finding your parents first?" Deaton cut in.
"What's the plan?" I asked.
Deaton replied "Essentially, Scott, Allison, and Stiles need to be surrogate sacrifices for your parents."
"We die for them?" Scott rebuked.
"But he can bring us back. You can... you can bring us back, right?" enquired Stiles, nervously.
"You remember the part where I said it was dangerous? If it goes right, the three of you will be dead for a few seconds, but there's something else you need to think about. This is a dangerous thing for more reasons than one. You'll be giving power back to the Nemeton, a place that hasn't had power for a long time. This kind of power is like a magnet. It attracts the supernatural, the kind of things that a family like the Argents can fill the pages of a bestiary with. It will draw them here, like a beacon."
"Doesn't sound any worse than anything we've already seen."
"You'd be surprised at what you have yet to see." warned Deaton. "It'll also influence the three of you. You won't be able to see it, but you'll feel it every day for the rest of your lives. It'll be a kind of a darkness around your heart, and permanent, like a scar."
"Like a tattoo." Replied Scott.
As we prepared for the ritual, the atmosphere shifted; the sterile chill of the vet clinic was replaced by the earthy scent of ancient herbs and the metallic tang of freshly cleaned tubs, ingredients laid out with reverent precision. Setting up the three ice baths in preparation, I knew deep down this was a bad idea, I could feel it. "There's more at play here than just finding the Nemeton," I murmured, my voice tinged with uncertainty. "The shadows whisper of deeper darkness, one that's been waiting, biding its time." Stiles, always the sceptic, shot me a questioning look, his brows furrowed in concern. "What does that mean? What else are we dealing with?" His question hung in the air, unanswered, as we all contemplated the unknowns that lay ahead. "We're not just fighting Jennifer or even the Alphas," I finally spoke, my voice low. "There's something else, something older and more powerful at the heart of the Nemeton. Awakening it... it could change everything." The realization that we were on the cusp of disturbing a delicate balance, one that had maintained the supernatural order for centuries, weighed heavily on me. The prospect of facing an ancient entity, dormant yet potent, added a new layer of complexity to our already daunting task. "How could you possibly know that?" Allison quizzed me with a confused look that mirrored everyone else's.
The unresolved tension in the room was palpable as we each grappled with the implications of our mission. The knowledge that our actions might have far-reaching consequences beyond the immediate crisis with Jennifer and the guardians loomed large, a shadow that stretched into the uncertain future. As we prepared to embark on our perilous journey to the Nemeton, the knowledge that we were stepping into a much larger, more dangerous game was a silent spectre that accompanied us, a reminder that the challenges we faced were just the beginning of a larger battle, one that would test our bonds, our resolve, and our very understanding of the supernatural world.
"We don't have time for this." Deaton interrupted. Setup now complete, I took my place behind my sister, ready to be the anchor who pulled her back. "Andrew, Lydia…" Deaton paused as we turned to look at him "how about you both switch places, Andrew you switch to Stiles, Lydia you with Allison." "Wait…" Allison said worriedly "but he's, my brother?" "Trust me." Deaton reassured her as we did as he asked.
The prospect of losing Stiles to this ritual, the boy whose laughter could cut through my darkest moments, that anchored my swirling thoughts. The possibility of his loss, more than anything, steeled my resolve. "I must fight," I silently vowed, not just for survival, but for the chance to right the wrongs we'd stumbled into. This internal monologue, a turbulent sea of fear, hope, and determination, became my silent anthem as we prepared to face whatever lay ahead, together. As I placed my hands in the ice-cold water atop of Stiles shoulders, he looked up at me. I winked in reassurance "Master Yoda, I am" but before he could respond, I zoned out, my consciousness pulled from my physical body. Before I knew it, I was standing before the shadow council. "Beware, child of the shadows," they whispered, their voices a melding chorus of caution, "the path you tread leads to realms beyond your ken. Such powers, unmastered, may rend the fabric that binds all. A reckoning awaits should you disturb the ancient equilibrium. Heed this, lest sorrow be your only harvest." Anger flushed through me, so far their cryptic messages and non-responses had been of little to no help. "I love him" I replied in a harsh tone "I will not abandon him." There was a pause, all I could hear was their muffled whispers. "So be it, chosen of the dusk," they intoned, their voices fading like mist at dawn, "your will be the architect of what is to come."
"Andrew?" Stiles' voice pulled my vision back into focus, I was still looking down at him. "Where did you go?" "Nowhere, I'm right here." I reassured, giving his shoulder a squeeze of support as I submerged him under the water.