I

MATTER

"She was the bravest person I had ever known," Scott said before his voice cracked. He gripped the lectern, shutting his eyes, and a drop of cold settled in Stiles's heart. He made that happen. He had destroyed his best friend. Stiles's fingers began to shake, anxiety coursing through his nerves, and he dug his fingers into his palms. The microphone carried Scott's breathing through the room, and every inhalation he drew chafed against Stiles's ears. Scott, the best person Stiles ever knew, was the last person who deserved such grief. And Stiles was a monster for creating it.

Stiles's heart squeezed at the guilt of what he'd done. His cowardice. His selfishness. Because had he been willing to die, none of this would have happened. Allison would have still been alive. Still, it was still easier to focus on his shame than the crushing reality that Allison was dead. Even after everything, all Stiles could think about was himself—the pain he'd caused, the things for which he was culpable. Allison was dead, and here he was blaming himself rather than grieving. He was the most selfish person in the world.

"Stiles?" Lydia called beside him, her voice like ice water being thrown on him. She always had that effect on him, to draw him out of any reverie. Because she was his reverie—had been for the past eight years—and this past year of getting her to know him had been the brightest part of the hell they all went through.

They'd been falling so close. So close that Stiles could have deluded himself that maybe... maybe he stood a chance. Maybe he deserved her, and she'd think that. But Allison was a reality check. Stiles fucked things up. He'd fucked up his mom, which fucked up his dad. He brought Scott into the preserve that night, fucking Scott up. Then that was the beginning to everything—Lydia being tormented, Jackson becoming the kanima, Erica and Boyd dying, the Nemeton's revival, Stiles's own possession... Allison.

But Allison was more than that. He'd personally fucked her up. Everyone else had been caught in the chain of events he'd set forth, but Allison... Stiles personally killed her. He should have thrown himself off Eichen House that night when he'd been himself, but instead he prayed that Scott would find another way. He wanted to survive it. He wanted to live. Now he knew he should have died. If he died, he wouldn't have been able to fuck up more.

Maybe he could still die.

"Stiles."

And a consequence of Allison was Lydia. He'd been hiding it from her all this time, trying to sell himself to her. He had feared her seeing the wreck he was beneath—no, not the wreck, but the wrecker—and now it was there in plain sight. He'd ruined his chances with her. And he certainly didn't deserve her.

Hands—hands Stiles used to dream about—folded over his, prying his fingers apart. It wasn't until then that Stiles noticed he was bleeding. Blood crusted his fingernails and was smeared over his palms. He heard Lydia take a sharp breath beside him.

"Why did you do this?" she asked, her voice tense. Stiles looked at her, unseeing. Why did you do this? He wished he could say. Maybe she was asking about the blood, but Stiles only heard her asking about Allison. Stiles glanced away. Lydia knew that wasn't a question he could easily answer. She was just goading him, as she had the right to.

A hand cupped Stiles's cheek, turning his gaze toward her. "Stiles, hey look at me." Her eyes were so green, like the oceans. They should have held storms, but somehow they swirled like the drift of wind-borne leaves. Sedate, gentle, slow. "What are you thinking about?"

I'm thinking about myself. What I've done. What I want. What I can't have. The words wouldn't come.

"Speak to me, Stiles." Her voice was so soothing. "Don't do this to yourself. Open up; let me in."

"I killed her."

"No." The answer was immediate. "No, you didn't."

"You know I did."

Her face came closer, pants coming from her lips. "No, I don't. Care to explain?"

Stiles held her eyes for a second before closing his own. "No."

"No?" There was a pause. "Well then. Since you can't substantiate your claim, I'll have to treat it as invalid."

Stiles opened his eyes, and Lydia was staring at him. She cocked an eyebrow, challenging him, and he sighed. If there was one person who could make him speak no matter what, it was Lydia. Or Scott. "I could have died, Lydia. It wasn't like I was possessed the whole time. After the letharia vulpina, I could have done something. I could have killed myself. I could have made plans with my father and Scott—contingency plans if they failed in finding a cure. Why did I even commit myself to Eichen House?" Stiles shook his head, a bitter laugh searing his tongue. "I should have been saying my farewells. I should have been telling them to kill me if it came to it. My father never should have stopped Argent from shooting me. If Argent had pulled that trigger... he would have saved his daughter and—"

"And you would have died!" Lydia hissed. A tempest erupted in her eyes. "No more of this Stiles, no more of this! You're right. You could have died and Allison would have lived. Instead Allison's dead and you're alive. In both cases, Scott and I would still have lost someone who meant the world to us." Stiles could feel her breathing heavily. After a pause, she added quietly, "And I can see where this is going, Stiles. You've contemplated it, haven't you? Suicide?"

Suicide. The word sent chills down Stiles's spine. "Yes," he whispered.

"Because you feel that that's only just? Because you should have been the one to die, not her, so you're going to make sure you still die in the end too?"

"Yes."

The heat that came from Lydia's glare burned and Stiles couldn't bear looking at her any longer. "Fuck it, Stiles." He'd never heard her sound so angry before, but she was just on edge. No other death had ever affected her so. "Just fuck it. Fuck you and your fucking martyr of a heart."

"Lydia—"

"Shut up, Stiles!" she nearly screamed, though her voice was still low. "Just shut up this once and listen to me! I would be furious at you for making this about yourself. Allison is... is dead." Her voice wavered. "Yet you're beating up yourself rather than thinking of her. She died for you, Stiles. She died for all of us. If you kill yourself, you dishonor her. And that's all that remains of her now—her legacy, her memory, her honor. Forget about Scott and myself, and how we'll be fucking devastated if we have to lose her and you. No, think about Allison. If you die, she will be devastated, because she would never want this for you. And she wouldn't want you blaming herself. None of us blame you, because if there's any blame to be had, we share it all. All of us."

And there Lydia went, crushing every wall he tried to build around himself. Staring into her eyes, knowing green flames burned brighter than red, he couldn't resist believing her. And it wasn't just her and her influence over him. He always wanted to believe it, that he wasn't to blame. Who wouldn't? But it still didn't mean it was simple.

Stiles opened his mouth, but couldn't respond to that. After a while, he finally said, "You don't blame me." Thankfulness crept into his tone and the guilt came against him again. He was such a coward, unable to bear the pain of others hating him. Of Lydia and Scott hating him. Despite all his self-hatred and talk of alienation, he knew deep down their rejection would have killed him. He still deserved it, though.

"No," Lydia affirmed. "Because if I do, then I must blame myself for not making the messages clearer. I must blame Scott and all the rest of you for not heeding it. I must blame Allison for coming to save me. I must blame us all because if we didn't exist, Allison would still be alive. There's no point in blaming ourselves, Stiles. The logic becomes circular."

"Doesn't mean we don't blame ourselves still," Stiles said quietly. He eyed her carefully. "I'm never going to stop thinking that she didn't need to die. I'm never going to stop feeling that I should have died instead of her. We aren't creatures of logic, Lydia. If we were, we'd all be cold."

She clasped her hand around his, squeezing gently. "I know."

"And you're right, Lydia. I'm making this about myself. I've always known that, but I can't change my nature like that. I'm fucking selfish. I always have been. It's gotten us into this, yet still I hold on to it. I'm incorrigible, and I'm sorry."

Lydia sighed. "You aren't selfish, Stiles. All the things you've done for Scott, all the things you've done for me... how could you say that you're selfish?" Stiles opened his mouth but Lydia laid a finger on them. The gesture sucked the air out of him. "You're grieving, Stiles, just like the rest of us. You're making this about yourself because it's too hard to face the real agony of her absence. God, you're so selfless you have no idea. You were thinking of suicide because of her."

"But not then," Stiles mumbled. "Not when it mattered."

"Then you're all the more selfless for doing something that won't change anything simply because you feel it's right. You're one of the best people I've ever known, Stiles." Stiles drew a sharp intake of breath as a weight slid off his chest. She still wanted him. She forgave him. She didn't blame him. The full implications of that were just beginning to dawn on him."Don't ever let me lose you, body or soul. Don't go down that path, alright? Do that for me?"

For the first time in days, Stiles smiled. Sitting there, holding hands with Lydia, he could almost blot out the loss of Allison, the guilt in his heart, and his self-loathing. And he could believe Lydia, fully and completely.

Allison didn't blame him. She wasn't his fault. He wasn't a terrible person.

And they had to live for Allison. They had to smile for her. Not because she passed, but because she graced their lives for the sliver of time that they had together. Because she taught them how bravery looked like. Because today was her day, and Allison would not have them spend it in tears.

"I'd do anything for you," he said, squeezing her hand.

Lydia smiled back. "And there you go again, being selfless."

Stiles sighed and rested his forehead against Lydia's. He didn't know what possessed him to do it, but Lydia didn't flinch. In fact, she seemed to press back. A warmth started to repress the coldness that was all Stiles felt for the last few days. She was always his support and she didn't stop now.

"Thank you," he whispered. "You know I love you, right?"

Lydia's breath hitched, or perhaps Stiles imagined it. "Yeah, I do. I love you too."

But not the way I do.

And that was completely fine; it didn't make Stiles love her any less.

—

"Leave me!" Scott yelled, his eyes glowing red. "Or I swear to fucking God I will kill you myself."

"Scott, please," Stiles sobbed, trying to burrow his back deeper into the wall. Hairs began to sprout from Scott's face and his bone structure started to morph. Those eyes, blood red, radiated hate. "Don't do this."

"You killed her. The one girl I loved. Is this revenge for all those years ago when I kissed Lydia?" Scott slammed a foot into Stiles's chest, ripping the air out of him. "You are petty, Stiles. You've always been so fucking petty. You never change. You're incorrigible." Another foot cracked into Stiles's face, and his world blurred into white and grey. "Fuck you, Stiles." Another kick. "Fuck you so much."

Vaguely, Stiles heard claws unsheathing. No, no, please don't do this, Scott. I'm so sorry.

Then they tore into his throat.

Stiles woke up screaming, his father restraining him as he flailed.

He could believe Lydia when she was right there in front of him, smiling that radiant smile, but at night... at night it was different. At night he was alone with his demons, and he had not the strength to drive them back.

You killed her.

No, I didn't, Stiles wanted to say. Lydia said I didn't, and she said you didn't blame me. Was that not true, Scott?

A thought occurred to him and he stilled. He never actually got confirmation that Scott didn't blame him. That meant the possibility that his nightmare reflected reality wasn't as small as Lydia led him to believe. But Scott wouldn't do that, would he? Lydia maybe, but Scott—his best friend since forever—wouldn't ever hate him.

He should.

Stiles wanted to scream until his throat tore apart. He'd been happy this afternoon, going so far as to laugh at Lydia as she tripped over those ridiculously high heels of hers. And now... everything was becoming undone. He was returning to misery, and he couldn't fucking help it. All that laughing and smiling had been an act for himself; in the deepest roots of his soul, nothing had changed this afternoon. He was still culpable.

And he hated it. He wanted that laughter to be genuine. He missed those times when it had been.

"You think you can sleep again?" Stiles's father asked, jolting Stiles out of his thoughts. He'd almost forgotten where he was and whom he was with.

"Yeah," Stiles lied, panting. "Yeah, I'll do just that."

Stiles's father paused, looking down. There was so much pity in those eyes that Stiles ached. He didn't want his own father to commiserate with him. He wanted to be chastised, to be put in his place. He wanted to be disciplined.

"Are you alright?" his father finally asked. "I don't know much about possession, but I can't imagine it doesn't leave its mark on you."

Possession, Stiles thought, scoffing. What matters of possession when Allison Argent fucking died?

"I'm fine, dad," Stiles seethed. "Now let me go to sleep. I've got school tomorrow."

Stiles's dad sighed. "If you say so. Good night, then."

"Night."

A while later, Stiles heard the door shut. He waited out five minutes before reopening the door, stalking into the bathroom. Flipping on the light, he turned on the tap, letting the water stream down before him. He purposely avoided his reflection in the mirror, knowing how terrible he must look. Taking a deep breath, he splashed his face with some water. God, it was refreshing.

It's a comfort you don't deserve.

Stiles slammed his fist down on the counter. He knew all that already. He didn't need the constant reminder from his mind.

You deserve searing pain. You deserve fire. You deserve to have your face charred off because even that feeling doesn't measure up to having an Oni's blade in your heart.

He needed the voices to stop. He was starting to understand what Lydia felt when she had those voices in her head.

He threw water against his face again, willing the chill to drive out his demons. The voices... it was almost like the Nogitsune was back to torture him.

You deserve to feel pain.

He threw water against his face.

Fire, not water.

He threw water against his face.

You deserve to burn.

He cupped his hands under the water, shaking his head. Then something left him, as if the blood in his veins had drained out from his fingers.

Flames tore across his palms. Stiles wrenched his hands back, terrified as he watched a torrent of fire descend from the faucet and swirl about at the bottom of the sink. There, the white porcelain had been charred black, and the damage was quickly rising. Immediately, Stiles dashed to the shower, aimed the head at the sink, and threw the tap open. Water exploded in the room, spraying off the walls and mirrors, dousing the flames and Stiles alike. Once the fire had died, Stiles shut off the shower, fully soaked and breathing heavily. His mind spun.

What was that? He'd been thinking about fire, and then the water had become flame. Exactly as his demons had wanted.

But they had wanted to burn him. Stiles looked down at his hands, completely unscathed. Somehow his wellbeing frightened him further.

What was happening to him? Kitsunes controlled the elements, and the Nogitsune was a kitsune—did that mean the Nogitsune was still in him?

That would mean that Stiles needed to die. If some piece of that spirit was still lodged inside Stiles, all his friends were in danger. And he couldn't have another Allison. Not again. He'd been too much a coward previously to take his own life and do the right thing; now he'd learnt his lesson. This time he would die.

Or, of course, he was drawing the wrong conclusions. He'd seen the Nogitsune trapped in the triskele box. But if this wasn't the Nogitsune, then what was this? Stiles shook his head. He was being selfish again. He'd sought alternatives back then, and he was seeking alternatives now. Ultimately, Allison's death failed to change him. Incorrigible.

Either way, he'd have to tell Scott and Lydia. He couldn't endanger them. If he had to die, he'd need them to be on board with it. Lydia was right; he couldn't mindlessly desert them now that Allison had gone—not without good reason.

Or maybe that was again his selfishne—Enough.

Stiles shook his head, warding off that cloud of darkness. He hated the emotional wretch that he was; there was work to be done, and he needed to proceed with logic. Cold logic, but logic nonetheless.

First off, the sink. He had just ruined a perfectly good sink, and it'd take lots of money to get that fixed. His father and he were in financial straits, indebted to Eichen House (which was, again, Stiles's fault), and Stiles had fucked up yet again. As if life wasn't looking down already; now he had to make sure his family was broke.

He ran his fingers along the blackened porcelain. Why did he have to ruin everything? Why couldn't he, for once, repair rather than break?

A trail of white flowed behind his fingers as they moved. Stiles froze, taking a closer look. Perhaps he was just wiping off soot, but the damage was way worse than that, wasn't it? He couldn't just scrape off a charred layer and call it a new sink. And if he was removing layers, why was the rest of the blackness perfectly level with the white? Why did his hand suddenly feel so heavy?

Stiles gingerly touched the whiteness, his fingers sluggish. It was smooth and level. It was, in fact, like brand new porcelain, generated from his fingertips.

Something tugged at Stiles's memory, something old. A line from Einstein, inscribed on a car's license plate. A parking lot and a sack of mountain ash, lacking in volume.

Imagination is more important than knowledge.

Imagination. Faith. He used to have so much of that, compounded especially by his trick with the mountain ash. In that moment he had felt powerful. He'd felt special.

Now he had none of it.

Imagine Allison alive.

Stiles closed his eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks. Why did this memory need to surface now? The wound was still too fresh, too raw. He didn't insult added to injury.

Imagine her alive, Stiles.

Imagining would have done nothing. Mountain ash was one thing; a living being was another.

They're both organic. If you can manipulate flora, you can manipulate fauna.

But he would never bring back a soul.

What is a soul but a series of electrochemical signals? A beating heart, a functional brain, and the soul returns.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. This was the Nogitsune tempting him, drawing him into that place where only failure awaited. Restoring Stiles's faith only to rip it all apart again. No, Stiles wouldn't play the demon's games again. Never again.

He opened his eyes, staring at the sink. He wouldn't imagine Allison, but he could imagine the sink repairing itself. That would give him more insight into what was happening with him, though he was fairly confident now that his power, as it were, did not come from the Nogitsune; after all, he had demonstrated it with mountain ash far before the Nemeton's reawakening. But the voices in his head... he wouldn't follow their instruction. The Nogitsune's weapon was manipulation, not raw power.

Stiles splayed his hand against the sink, imagining white and pristine porcelain. He channeled every ounce of his energy into constructing that mental picture—a perfectly good sink, unburned, unscathed, shining white...

His eyelids slowly lifted.

Before him was a perfectly pristine sink. Stiles drew in a deep breath, awe and fear and guilt spiraling into him.

Then a mountainous wave of fatigue crashed into him, as if built from months and months of sleepless nights. The world tilted, and became black.

—

Stiles had been so exhausted his brain had completely locked down. Or that's what he thought, because he completely missed out on REM sleep.

(A part of him felt guilty for not experiencing the nightmares he knew Scott and Lydia faced last night.)

As he sifted through his memories of the hour before he collapsed, the image of a sink prominent in his mind, he came to a startling realization: he had fallen in the bathroom but was now in his bed. That meant his dad had found him. Stiles shuddered to imagine what his dad had thought just then; he had already caused his father too much grief and worry to last a lifetime.

A knock sounded on the door, and Stiles wondered how his father knew he was awake. It was probably a coincidence, really, but after last night—hell, after the last year—Stiles was willing to question everything.

"Come in," Stiles said.

The door slid open and his father poked his head in. His expression was a mixture of concern and... puzzlement? "Hey," he said. "There's a visitor here to see you. And I'm pretty sure she's psychic. I told her you needed rest, but she said the meeting was urgent."

Stiles raised an eyebrow. "Okay? Let me see her, then."

His dad pursed his lips. "Are you sure you're up for that? After last night—"

"I'm fine, dad. Bring her in."

His dad sighed and withdrew, the door falling shut behind him. A moment later, the door opened again and in came a woman Stiles did not want to see.

Marin Morrell.

Instantly, Stiles threw the covers off his body and moved to his window, trying to get as far from her as possible. The last time they'd met, she'd threatened to kill him.

Of course, he should have let her. Why was he so frightened now?

Cowardice.

"Morning, Stiles."

Stiles glared. "Morning."

Morrell came a few paces closer, and Stiles's breath hitched. "You must be wondering why I'm here. Don't worry. I don't have any lethal poisons with me, and I know the Nogitsune has been defeated. Well done on the execution, I must say."

"Fuck you," Stiles said before he could think. "Don't you say that to me. Allison died."

"Tragedies always happen."

"But not to her."

"She came from a family of hunters. Her mother died, as did her aunt. Tragedy was unavoidable for someone of her lineage."

Stiles clenched his fists. She spoke of Allison with such nonchalance, such flippancy. It made his blood boil. He wanted to insult her, but something else climbed out of his throat instead. "You should have killed me."

At that, Morrell raised an eyebrow. "Should I? You seemed quite distressed about that."

"You said you would take me out if Scott didn't find a solution after the wolf lichen wore off. He didn't, and the Nogitsune came back. You should have done your duty and killed me." Stiles's teeth chattered in rage. "Why didn't you?"

"You took off too soon."

"And you're so incapable of moving around? Popping up in places where I don't expect you?"

Morrell was silent for a minute. "Point taken. Maybe I just knew things would work out eventually. I had seen the chessboard and foresaw you winning, once you had the scroll. It was likely that there'd be casualties along the way, but then again casualties had always been likely—from the very moment Scott was turned. I thought your pack would manage to once again defy my expectations, as you always have." Contrition flicker briefly in her eyes. "It is a shame you failed this time around, and you do have my condolences. If you insist, you may blame me for her death; I will not deny any involvement in it." She paused, staring Stiles dead in the eye. "However, if you are to control your transfiguration, we're going to have to see past our differences."

Stiles's eyes bulged out of his head. "Transfiguration? What are you talking about?" But of course he knew what she was talking about, and by the look she was giving him, she knew that too.

"Water to fire. Burned porcelain to new porcelain." Chills ran down Stiles's spine. How could she know? "It was impressive—the second transfiguration, in particular. It's one thing to unwittingly call forth your power, but another to carefully utilize it. Though from what Alan's told me, I believe you've had practice." She smiled. "With mountain ash."

"How—how did you know?" Stiles asked, unsure what to feel. Residual umbrage from the way Morrell spoke of Allison. Fear of what Morrell could know. Reassurance that maybe he wasn't on his own, or that he wasn't insane. Curiosity.

And what of the Nogitsune? Morrell had mentioned it was gone, but Stiles still heard it, didn't he? Or maybe it really was just Stiles himself—his own demons, his insanity.

Morrell stepped closer, still smiling. It was a warm smile, Stiles had to admit. It was part of what made him trust her back when Jackson was on his rampage. And it wasn't that he didn't trust what she said still; say what he will of Morrell, she wasn't a liar. Ruthless and someone of whom he ought to be wary, but not a liar.

"I knew because I sensed it. I don't go around looking for imbalances in the supernatural realm, Stiles. I can sense when one occurs, or when one looms. Likewise, I can sense when emissaries I know come into their own."

Emissary. Immediately, Stiles thought of Jennifer and the elemental power she had. She had wreaked destruction over Beacon Hills, kidnapping Stiles's father, Allison's father, and Scott's mother. She was the reason why Stiles's mind needed to be open and why the Nogitsune was able to return.

It seemed like there was an endless list of people to blame for Allison's death.

And now Stiles was one of them, if he was hearing Morrell right. An emissary, like Jennifer and Morrell. Killers. Suited him right, he supposed. But he still couldn't stand to join their guild. Just because he considered himself guilty did not mean he wanted to associate with such ruthless, unfeeling people.

But then there was Deaton. He wasn't a bad emissary, was he? Then again, he'd always stood on the sidelines, helping only when they required his help. He could have done more to stop the Nogitsune too...

"So what do you want from me?" Stiles asked, tense.

"I want to help you, Stiles. Emissaries were given powers to maintain balance, and I can't afford you going rogue, can I? I wouldn't want another Julia Baccari running around."

Stiles gnashed his teeth. "I am not Jennifer. Don't you dare compare me to that killer!"

"No, but you have potential of being her. As I do. Now that your soul has cracked, your power is only going to gush further out. The crevice will expand, and you will need to learn control. You are a powerful emissary, Stiles. I can sense it. You inherit the gift from your mother."

Time stopped, and all else grew muffled. "My... mother?" Stiles sputtered. His mother was the last thing he needed to think of. His very first failure.

Morrell looked down. "Yes. Claudia. She was our leader—our coordinator, so to speak. She was the one who assigned us roles and packs to supervise. She, herself, however, was emissary to no pack. Her role was more of an emissary to an organization of emissaries." Morrell's gaze returned to Stiles, though there was a bit of hesitance in it. "She was very powerful, Stiles. The transfigurations she performed... oh, if only you could have seen. Her power was just as great as Baccari's, but for her it was natural—she didn't have to harvest the energy of sacrifices."

There was so much pride, so much deference, in the way she spoke of Stiles's mother that Stiles couldn't help but feel a surge of rapport with her.

"Yet..." her voice trickled down. "Despite all the control she had, it was still too great for her to bear. She demonstrated control beyond anything I'd ever seen, yet her imaginings were still too immense for her brain to handle. Frontotemporal dementia was the result of the stress of her powers."

Stiles didn't want to hear any more. "So this power is going to kill me," he snapped.

"If can kill you," Morrell corrected. "It will kill you if you don't control it, and it may also kill others. You see, water and fire and porcelain aren't the only things we can transform. We can calcify blood; we can turn muscle into soil. Place your hand on the body, imagine the wrongest of thoughts, and that person becomes no more."

"I won't let that happen." No, killing someone else was the last thing he'd do.

"I will be the one to make sure that doesn't happen. By helping you gain control." Morrell smiled. "So what do you say, Stiles? Shall we begin today?"

A/N: So this was just something written for fun. Review and all that, and we'll see if I'll continue? Idk. (Got work to do, yo!)

By the way, the concept of this was STRONGLY inspired by Soulcasting in The Stormlight Archive by Brandon Sanderson. Like STRONGLY inspired to the point of nigh plagiarism. His books are amazing though, so you better check them out. (Just giving credit where it's due. ;P)