Chapter 12: Shadows of Trauma

Stiles:

"Um, surprise?" I managed, feeling heat creep into my cheeks. The pack stared, a mix of shock and curiosity painted across their faces. Liam was the first to break the silence, a grin spreading wide. "So, that's new," he quipped, his tone light but supportive. Malia, ever blunt, added, "About time," with a knowing look that suggested she'd pieced it together long ago.

"Yeah, Andrew and I are...together," I admitted, still feeling a bit surreal saying it out loud. "It's recent, but, you know, it's serious." I added the last part quickly, wanting to cut off any probing questions or jokes at our expense.

"Dude, you're the last to know." Scott smirked. "Alright, enough about that," I redirected, eager to shift focus from my newly disclosed relationship to the more pressing matter at hand. Yet, amidst it all, my thoughts lingered on Andrew, on the silent vow I'd made the moment he disappeared: to stand by him, in battle and beyond, no matter what the future held.

I forced my focus to Scott in that moment, seeing him battered but essentially himself again brought a mix of relief and urgency. "Dude, are you okay?" The question felt stupid the second it left my lips, considering the chaos we'd just survived, but it was all I could manage.

Scott, still recovering from his ordeal, gave me a look that was both tired and determined. "Yeah," he said, his voice rough, "but we can't stay here. We need to get everyone out, now."

His words snapped me back to reality, reminding me of the immediate danger still looming over us. The aftermath of the battle left no room for rest; the priority was clear – ensure the safety of the pack and evacuate the area before any more threats could emerge.

Nodding, I rallied the others, echoing Scott's command. "Let's move, everyone. We can't linger here." The weight of Andrew's absence, I was unprepared for, but forced to accept in the face of necessity.

As we moved, a part of me couldn't help but hope for a sign of Andrew, a miracle that would bring him back to us unscathed. But with each step away from the battle site, the reality of him facing this threat alone, the possibility of the unthinkable, weighed heavier on me. We were leaving, but a piece of our heart, our family, might remain behind, lost in the shadows.

The tremors underfoot grew stronger, a palpable sign of the struggle unfolding deep beneath us. "Andrew's down there, trying to stop Tēolōtl," I explained, my voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside. "If he doesn't succeed, it could mean the end of everything we're fighting to protect."

The pack absorbed the gravity of my words, their faces etched with concern and determination. Malia's eyes met mine, a silent promise of support. Liam clenched his fists, ready for action. "This isn't just another enemy," I continued, the ground beneath us a indication to the immense power at play. "Tēolōtl is a deity, ancient and malevolent. Andrew's the only one who can stop him because of his connection to the shadow powers."

Questions hung in the air, unspoken but palpable. I could see the concern in their eyes, not just for the battle ahead but for Andrew, for the burden he carried alone.

"He knew the risks," I said, more to convince myself than them. "He's doing this for us, for all of us." …for me, the last word hung heavy, a confession of the depth of what Andrew meant to me, the ache of lost time and opportunities threatening to resurface.

As we broke through to the surface, relief washed over us at the sight of Derek, stronger and more powerful, his evolution a stark contrast to the battle that raged below. But it was Kate's escape that twisted my gut, her shadow lingering over our victory. Peter lay sedated at our feet, a temporary solution to a permanent threat, his betrayal too deep for simple forgiveness.

Then, my eyes caught Andrew's dad, Chris Argent, his face a mask of panic and fear. The absence of Andrew among us spoke louder than any words could, and his distress mirrored the dread that had been clawing at my insides. "Where's Andrew?" he asked, his voice tight, trying to mask the fear that was evident in his eyes.

I struggled to find the words, the hope I'd been clinging to that Andrew would emerge, triumphant and safe, suddenly faltering under the weight of Chris's gaze. "He... he went to take care of Tēolōtl," I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper, each word laced with the fear and uncertainty I felt.

The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that suffocates, filled with unspoken fears and worst-case scenarios. Derek's hand on Chris's shoulder was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes, a silent promise that we were in this together, no matter the outcome.

Signal restored to my phone, it buzzed from my pocket. As Lydia's words echoed in my ear, a cold dread settled over me. "I don't like this, Stiles, something isn't right." Her intuition, a banshee's grim foresight, sent shivers down my spine, amplifying the unease that had been gnawing at me since Andrew disappeared into the shadows.

I swallowed hard, trying to quell the rising panic. "Lydia, just... stay safe, okay? We're heading back shortly. I'll call you the moment I have any news." My voice was steadier than I felt, a facade of calm over a tumult of fear.

Hanging up, I shoved the phone back into my pocket, the fear Lydia's words had stoked, now a roaring fire within me. Andrew's decision to face the darkness alone, a choice I'd reluctantly (and stupidly) accepted, now felt like an error too grave to rectify.

I forced myself to breathe, to focus, but the edges of my vision blurred, the onset of a panic attack palpable. Memories of Andrew, his smile, his determination, flooded my mind, each a piercing reminder of what was at stake.

"I should've insisted," I muttered under my breath, the guilt and fear a potent mix that threatened to overwhelm me. Andrew had always been the one to anchor me, to pull me back from the edge of despair. Now, with him facing an unimaginable threat alone, I felt unmoored, adrift in a sea of uncertainty and dread.

"Stiles, you okay?" Scott's voice cut through the fog of my panic, grounding me for a moment in the reality of our escape.

I nodded, unable to trust my voice, my thoughts consumed by Andrew and the silent plea for his safe return. The drive to protect, to save our friends, had propelled us forward, but in that moment, all I wanted was to rewind time, to stop Andrew from stepping into the shadows alone.

"We have to go back," I said, the decision firm in my mind despite the unknown dangers that awaited us. "We have to find him."

Chris nodded, his resolve hardening. "Let's move," he said, and we mobilised, a united front driven by the singular goal of finding Andrew, of bringing him back from whatever darkness he faced alone.

Descending into the ancient ruins beneath La Iglesia wasn't exactly what I'd call a top-tier life choice, but here we were, because apparently, Beacon Hills couldn't take a week off from apocalyptic threats. Andrew had faced Tēolōtl alone—not because he wanted to, but because he was self-sacrificing and annoyingly heroic like that. Now it was our turn to fight for him, because there was no way I was leaving him behind. Not again.

I stood among the pack, their faces a mix of determination and grim resolve. "This was Andrew's battle," I began, my voice unsteady, but I pushed through. "But the war is ours. Together, we go down there, we find him, and we make sure this whole 'ancient deity apocalypse' thing stays firmly in the nope column. Got it?"

Scott nodded, and so did everyone else—because how could they not? My pep talks were legendary.

As we moved toward the gaping maw of the ruins, my heart thudded in a way that wasn't just cardio-based terror. My mouth kept moving because silence? Bad. Overthinking? Worse. "Okay, guys, real talk," I said, as the ground trembled beneath us. "If these ruins have, like, Indiana Jones-style traps, I'm calling dibs on running second. You know, behind Scott. Best friend perks."

Malia groaned. "Stiles."

"I'm just saying!"

Scott gave me a look, the one that said I see you're spiralling, but now's not the time. "We're going to find him, Stiles," he said, his tone steady.

I nodded, swallowing hard. "Right. Finding Andrew. Saving the day. Got it. No problem."

The ruins didn't look like death incarnate, but they sure felt like it. With each step down into the labyrinth, the air grew colder, the shadows thicker. It was like the earth itself wanted us gone. Super welcoming.

The architecture got older the deeper we went, shifting from vaguely creepy stone tunnels to full-on ancient cult vibes. Symbols I couldn't read but definitely didn't trust glowed faintly along the walls. My fingers twitched with the urge to document everything—or to run screaming. I did neither.

"Do these runes scream 'ritual sacrifice' to anyone else, or is it just me?" I asked, my voice bouncing off the walls.

"It's always just you," Malia muttered, but there was no bite to her words.

Scott stopped suddenly, his head tilting in that wolf senses tingling way. I held my breath as he closed his eyes, clearly tracking something I couldn't see.

"Anything?" I asked.

"Andrew," he said softly. "I can feel him. Faint, but he's there."

Relief flickered in my chest, followed immediately by dread. If Scott could still sense him, that was good—right? Unless it wasn't.

We split into groups to cover more ground. Scott and I took one tunnel, the familiarity of having my best friend at my side calming the rising tide of panic clawing at my throat.

The silence in the ruins was suffocating. Every step echoed in a way that made my nerves jangle. My usual strategy of babbling through the tension didn't feel right anymore. Instead, I focused on Scott—on the way his eyes scanned the darkness, on the quiet determination in his every movement.

"I've only just got him, Scott," I admitted, breaking the silence. "Andrew, I mean. And now... this. It's not fair."

Scott stopped, turning to face me. His hand rested on my shoulder, grounding me in the moment. "We're going to find him, Stiles," he said firmly. "You're not going to lose him. We've got each other's backs, remember?"

I nodded, though the words didn't quite settle the gnawing ache in my chest. "Yeah, backs covered. No problem. Totally fine."

The tremors stopped abruptly.

The sudden stillness hit like a punch to the gut, every instinct screaming that something was wrong. Scott and I exchanged a look—hope flickering briefly before dread set in.

"Did he do it?" I asked, my voice a whisper.

Scott's brow furrowed as he extended his senses. When he opened his eyes, they were shadowed with uncertainty. "I don't know. But we need to find him. Now."

We pressed forward, each step heavier than the last. The air thickened, oppressive and cold, as we approached the heart of the ruins.

When we entered the chamber, my breath caught, the air seizing in my lungs as if the room itself had stolen it away.

Andrew lay in the centre, cradled by the dim glow of ancient runes etched into the stone floor. The faint light of the runes flickered weakly, like a dying pulse, their energy fading into the stillness. Tendrils of dissipating shadow curled around him, reluctant to release their hold, as though even they couldn't accept what had happened.

He was still. Too still.

"No," I whispered, the word tumbling from my lips unbidden, a fragile protest against what my eyes refused to believe. My legs moved of their own accord, carrying me forward as my brain struggled to catch up.

I fell to my knees beside him, the impact jarring but distant, the ache in my chest drowning out everything else. My hands hovered above him for a split second before I gripped his shoulders, shaking him gently, then more forcefully.

"Andrew," I said, my voice cracking under the weight of his name. "Come on, man. You're not—this isn't how it ends. Wake up."

My pleas echoed against the cold stone walls, swallowed by the silence of the chamber. His body remained limp, unresponsive, and the panic that had been bubbling beneath the surface surged forward like a tidal wave.

"Andrew!" I shouted this time, the word breaking into a sob as I shook him again, harder now, desperate for any sign of life—a twitch, a breath, anything.

Scott knelt beside me, his presence a steadying force that I didn't want. His hand landed on my shoulder, grounding and unbearable all at once.

"Stiles..." he began, his voice quiet, heavy with the understanding I couldn't yet bear to face.

"Don't," I snapped, jerking away from his touch as if it burned. I turned my focus back to Andrew, my hands trembling as I reached for his face. "He's not gone. He can't be gone!"

Tears blurred my vision, hot and relentless, streaking down my face as I leaned over him. My fingers brushed against his cheek, cool to the touch. A sob caught in my throat, choking me as I pressed a kiss to his forehead, then his lips.

Each kiss was a plea, a prayer whispered against the silence. "Come back," I murmured between gasps for air. "Please, Andrew. You're stronger than this. You're—" My voice broke, splintering into a cry that echoed through the chamber.

But the silence remained.

Time seemed to lose meaning. Minutes, hours—it didn't matter. I stayed there, clutching him, my forehead pressed against his. The world had narrowed to this single point, this unbearable stillness that stretched out endlessly. The grief was suffocating, an anchor pulling me down into a darkness I couldn't escape.

The flickering runes around us dimmed further, their glow fading into nothingness. The shadows that had lingered over him dissipated completely, leaving only his still form behind.

I don't know how long I sat there, surrounded by inescapable grief, before the ground began to quake. The tremors were sudden, violent, splitting the chamber floor into jagged cracks. Dust rained down from above, and the ominous groan of shifting stone filled the air.

Scott's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and urgent. "Stiles, we have to go!"

But I couldn't move. My arms tightened around Andrew, as if holding him closer could somehow keep him here. As if I could will the earth to stop stealing him away.

"No!" I screamed as the floor beneath Andrew gave way. His body began to slip, sliding toward the gaping void that had opened beneath us. "No, no, no!"

I lunged forward, my hands grasping for him, but Scott's grip on my arm was iron.

"Stiles!" Scott shouted; his voice raw with desperation. "We have to go!"

"I can't leave him!" I cried, fighting against his hold with everything I had. But Scott was stronger, and the ground was collapsing faster than I could react.

Andrew's body disappeared into the void, swallowed by the darkness below. My scream tore from my throat, fractured and broken, as if it had been ripped from the deepest part of me.

Scott pulled me back, dragging me away from the crumbling edge as the chamber began to collapse entirely. My legs gave out, my strength failing me as my heart shattered into a thousand pieces. I fought him every step, my arms reaching out in vain, the image of Andrew slipping into the abyss burned into my mind.

By the time we surfaced, I was numb.

The weight of Andrew's absence pressed down on me like the ruins themselves had followed me up to the surface. My limbs felt heavy, my chest hollow, every breath a struggle against the crushing emptiness that had settled inside me.

Scott stayed close, his hand lingering on my shoulder as if afraid I might collapse entirely. I didn't speak—I couldn't. My thoughts were a mess, fragments of disbelief and anguish tangled together in an endless loop.

And then it hit me. All of it. The grief, the guilt, the overwhelming nausea that came with knowing Andrew was gone, lost to the void. My stomach churned violently, the raw emotions churning like a storm inside me, and I barely managed to stumble a few steps away before I fell to my knees and retched.

Scott was immediately at my side, his hand firm on my back, steadying me as I gasped for air. "I've got you, Stiles," he murmured, his voice soft, grounding. "Just breathe. You're okay."

But I wasn't okay. I would never be okay again.

I barely registered the sound of the others climbing out of the ruins—footsteps on the crumbling stone, voices calling to one another. Lydia, Malia, Liam... they were alive. They had made it out. But Andrew hadn't.

Scott's hand gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before he stood. "Stay here," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "I'll tell Chris."

My heart twisted painfully at the thought of Chris Argent, Andrew's father, waiting for news of his son. My stomach heaved again, but this time nothing came. I could only sit there, gasping for breath, staring at the dirt beneath my knees as Scott walked away.

The moment Scott reached Chris, I heard it.

"No," Chris's voice, sharp and disbelieving, cut through the quiet. "No, that's not... he's not..."

Then came the yell. A raw, guttural sound of pain and anguish that ripped through the air, so visceral it made my stomach twist all over again. My breath hitched, my vision swimming as the weight of Chris's grief piled onto my own.

I couldn't handle it. I couldn't process the sound of a father losing his son, couldn't bear the knowledge that I had been there, that I had held Andrew and still let him slip away.

The edges of my vision blurred, darkened, the world tilting as though the earth itself was caving in beneath me again. My chest tightened, and the air refused to come, panic clawing at me from the inside out.

Chris's cries echoed in my ears, growing distant and muffled as everything began to fade. My body gave up, my knees buckling beneath me as I tipped sideways into the dirt.

The last thing I registered before the darkness overtook me was Scott's voice shouting my name, his hands gripping my shoulders as he tried to pull me back.

Back in Beacon Hills, the world felt wrong.

Before I fully surfaced from the haze of unconsciousness, I felt a touch—gentle, careful—against my arm. Malia. Even half-awake, I recognized her hand, the grounding strength behind her movements.

"He's still out of it," Malia's voice murmured, low and gruff with concern.

There was a pause, and then Scott's voice came, quiet but steady. "We're here."

The words pulled me closer to awareness, the fog in my mind beginning to lift. The familiar scent of the Jeep, the hum of its engine, and the muffled sound of tires crunching on gravel anchored me in the present.

For a fleeting moment, the pieces didn't connect. We were home. We were safe. Everything was fine—right?

But as the Jeep rumbled to a stop and the engine cut off, the sharp edge of reality began to press in.

The first thing I registered was the familiar rumble of the Jeep pulling into the driveway. The sound was so normal, so utterly mundane, that for a fleeting moment, a small part of me allowed itself to forget. To hope. My stomach churned as the engine cut off, replaced by the soft shuffle of footsteps approaching.

Through the fog of my daze, I heard my dad's voice.

"You okay, Scott? You look like you've been through hell," he said, concern lacing his tone as the two figures approached the house.

Scott's reply came, quiet and sombre. "It's not me, Sheriff."

The words stirred something in me, a faint prick of unease, but I still clung to the thin veil of denial. Maybe they were talking about someone else. Maybe everything was fine.

For one blissful, fleeting moment, I forgot what had happened. I let myself imagine Andrew waiting inside, sprawled across my bed like he always did, teasing me about how I snored or pretending to read while secretly scrolling on his phone.

But then I heard Scott's voice again, the words cutting through the haze like a blade:

"Andrew didn't make it."

The world crashed back into focus.

"What?" My dad's voice, sharp and astonished, carried a mix of disbelief and dread. "What do you mean?"

The sound of the Jeep door creaking open brought me fully back to reality. I didn't need to see him to know it was my dad who pulled me out of the backseat. His hands were firm but gentle, and when I stumbled against him, he didn't let go.

"Stiles," he said, his voice breaking on my name.

That was all it took. The tenuous thread holding me together snapped.

Tears welled in my eyes, hot and unstoppable, spilling down my face as I leaned into him, clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping me from shattering completely. My shoulders shook, the weight of everything—the loss, the grief, the guilt—crashing over me all at once.

"He's gone," I choked out, my voice muffled against his chest. "He's gone, Dad. I couldn't save him."

My dad wrapped his arms around me, holding me tightly as though his strength alone could shield me from the pain. "I'm so sorry, kid," he murmured, his own voice strained. "I'm so sorry."

I clung to him, my sobs breaking the stillness of the night as he held me like he used to when I was little and the world felt too big, too overwhelming. For a moment, it was enough. For a moment, I wasn't alone in my grief.

Scott lingered nearby, silent and solemn, giving us the space we needed. His presence was a quiet reassurance, a reminder that I wasn't just surrounded by loss but also by people who cared.

Eventually, my dad pulled back just enough to look at me, his hands resting on my shoulders. His eyes, glassy with unshed tears, searched mine. "Let's get you inside," he said gently.

I nodded weakly, letting him guide me toward the house. The hoodie Andrew had left behind was still clutched in my hand, a small piece of him I wasn't ready to let go of.

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