❛ if the monster always dies at the end of the book, why am i still alive? ❜
A thunderclap cleared the sky of all darkness, pulling away shadows from the moon and casting an illuminating source so bright his vision whites out for a moment.
It all just barely tucked Stiles’ voice away into its pocket, trying to mask the confession away.
Somewhere, a wendigo screamed to goad them on and out.
“Because you’re not a monster.” Talking is a risk, but the weather has come to their aide. When a friend had beckoned, Derek had answered, traveling to the far mountain sides of Banf. Stiles has insisted, and Derek knew no such refusal when it came to him: the kidmanpunk would find his own way if he was keen enough. “I thought it was obvious.”
The next interval brought a loud rumble. It crawled through the air, like fingers pushing through grass in the summer to find the best patch to pluck. Down his spine it went, and up went his hair, stark alert to every noise. He couldn’t smell the wendigo, but the race of his heart told him it would find them.
(He couldn’t remember the last time they had fought something so strong.)
Derek glanced at Stiles, to get an idea of where he was. Lost in thought eyes met his, and Derek inclined his head, bowed at the chin, and brought his brows together for sincerity. Pulled his legs up underneath him and crawled beneath a battered window to cross, cover, the space between them.
“The things you’ve endured do not make you a monster.” Laura, in a dream, settling her most handsome gaze upon him - dressed all in white, a color she never thought to even look at in her life. “The things you’ve done do not make you a monster.” Paige, sitting there, with her patient smile and those warm, inviting eyes. Hands sprawled with a half-open book, that told the stories of the lives he lived without her.
“A monster does not regret.” Peter, and the way his maw looked, coated with tendrils that had belonged to Laura’s skin and small intestine.
The sky painted itself bright once more, loud in color where it lacked in sound at present time. Derek squinted to see Stiles through it, from where it bled in from the window.
“You are not a monster,” It came out louder than intended, and suddenly, the woods snapped into life. Derek ducked his head, and stiffened: felt his fingers buck into odd shapes, the formation of claws. “And this is not the end of your goddamn book.”