Wyatt Lykensen Imagines

Foresight (Part Six)

You knew this moment was coming. You saw it in your visions, then replayed it in your head about a hundred times over. Still, nothing comes close to the hurt that crashes over you in waves, knocking you down again and again. As a banshee constantly on the run from hunters, you have been shot, stabbed, and tortured. Yet nothing hurts the way this does.

All you can see is Wyatt lying on the ground before you, deathly still except for the pool of red growing around him. He fell, and you swear that you fell with him, were it not for the fact that you can still feel the ground underneath your feet.

The scream that issues forth from your throat is unlike any sound you've ever made before. You know what it sounds like when a banshee screams, but this is different. It is so wholly broken, so wrong, that it tears at your throat and leaves your eyes stinging.

There's a cracking noise, and you look up to realize that the hunters have been thrown back a few paces from the scream, even though it wasn't directed at them. The sight of those men, bows and arrows still in hand, makes you so furious that they start to turn and run from the look in your eyes alone.

It does them no good, of course. Usually, you try to avoid outright killing hunters, even when they come after you, but this time you want them dead, so that is what they become. When you're done with them, the hunters are little more than mangled assortments of flesh and bone. You've never seen a banshee inflict so much damage on a human body; you didn't know it was possible. Now, through your anger, you do, and they are dead.

Dead. Your wrath leaves you in a rush and you run back to Wyatt. You kneel on the ground beside him, heedless of the dirt and now blood staining your legs. Your hands flutter towards the wound in his chest, but even now, you don't know what to do. Do you apply pressure, or does it even matter anymore?

Tears cascade down your cheeks, the drops falling mutely from you. Your voice is a broken sort of whisper, so quiet after the screams. "Come back to me, Wyatt. Don't leave me like this. Please." 

He does not answer, and were it not for the faintest fluttering of his eyelids, you would believe him to be already dead. He hovers over the threshold between life and nothingness, and you have no idea how to pull him back to the land of the living.

You hear the sound of footsteps approaching and raise your hands, ready to take on more hunters. Let the entire town of them fall to you, who cares? You have already felt more pain than they ever could. Yet the people coming near you aren't more hunters, but your friends.

The McCall pack stops at the edge of the clearing, looking between the fallen forms of the hunters at their feet and you, crouching beside Wyatt's body. Their faces drop as one. Stiles is the first to speak; he always is. Even this slight aspect of normalcy isn't enough to make you feel better.

Stiles stumbles over his words, which is somewhat unlike him. He can't stop staring at the bodies of the hunters. "We heard screaming- thought we should see what was happening- we didn't know-"

Lydia moves past him, eyes wide with horror and understanding. Her voice is softer. "Is that Wyatt?"

You'd told her about Wyatt and everyone back in Seabrook when you first arrived in Beacon Hills. At first, it had been nice to share all the things you loved about the place, but now, you almost find yourself wishing that you had kept it all to yourself. Some selfish part of you wants to only allow Wyatt to live within your own heart, like Lydia doesn't get to look so heartbroken now because she doesn't even truly know him.

This, however, is a foolish thought, and does you no good. You nod slowly, and Lydia's face crumples. "Y/N, I'm so sorry." 

Her platitudes, however well-meant, do not do anything for Wyatt, so you turn to Scott instead. "Help him. Please. Take his pain or something, I don't know, just-"