Devil of Wolves

Chapter 16 (Achilles Come Down)

Let's just pretend I haven't been gone for nearly three months because life has been kicking my butt (sorry). Anyway, I sort of wrote this chapter on a whim, so it's not my best and I probably made it more angsty than necessary...also this is a slowwwwww burn, if you couldn't tell ;)

Enjoy!

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Stiles is tired.

Mind stretched and pulled paper thin. He feels beyond wearied, fatigued to his very core.

It's no longer just words in his head anymore, a constant shake of his hands, or a heavy weight settling behind his eyes, permanently threatening to keep them closed.

He could probably sleep for years and still feel this tired, no amount of rest could ever fix this. It's far too late.

This is a type of tiredness that sits in his soul and mind, it's probably been stewing there, festering for years. It's a kind of fatigue that tells him his body is done fighting this all-consuming magic inside of him that wants to control and destroy everything he's fought to keep.

He's done trying to pretend everything is fine and this could be fixed. It wasn't just his mind and body that were broken but his spirit too.

Stiles has lived a life where he's been knocked down to his knees over and over—constantly fighting for the will to keep going because maybe tomorrow will be better.

That's always the hope, right?

Except there is no tomorrow in this case. Stiles doesn't want there to be a tomorrow anymore. He is tired, god but he's so tired. He's tired of trying to keep that semblance of normal on his face, he's so fucking tired of having everyone worry about him because he's so weak.

He did this to himself. He caused this pain and hurt that just never seemed to go away. He can't do this anymore, he can't see the bright side beyond the darkness that swirls inside of him, eating away at his core and will to keep going.

He just can't.

At least, that's what Stiles thought. It was right now when his weakness brought him to his knees once more and his mind repeated over, this is it - we're not getting back up after this, but something stopped those thoughts.

A voice stopped his plummet. A voice that was panicking, shouting over other yells, screams and hurt. Hurt he caused.

Stiles couldn't tell if his eyes were open, everything was so dark. It was a good representation of his mind right now. The lights were being shut off, the door locked for good, and the key tossed out where no one could find it again.

This was the tiredness everyone warned him about, the kind he read about in books, so difficult to understand. It wasn't sleeplessness—it was defeat.

It's his body and mind telling him no more, this fight is one we cannot win, and he has nothing left to give.

I'm sinking.

Stiles has been broken down more times than the human spirit could probably stomach, his own at least. He's seen violence, blood, pain, monsters, death, and now he's done. The monster inside him won, but he was a fool to think it wouldn't.

Yet in his despair, when the world was blacked out and his thoughts were hollow, Stiles still heard that voice. It never stopped saying some jumbled words over and over, all while his body felt numb and not his own. Something remained wrapped around him as if it would protect him from breaking apart into little pieces that'd float away.

Just stop. Just let me go. Let me float away.

The voice beyond his head said otherwise. Stiles couldn't make out the words, his ears were ringing louder and louder like a jackhammer being brought down against metal. It hurt. But it didn't at the same time.