So @bashfyl linked me to this and it got me thinking about a world in which Stiles is what we thought he was leading up to in S2 – that his spark was something meaningful, that he’d end up becoming an emissary or a mage or something.
And while I was thinking (shh, yes, it happens), this image made me consider Stiles’ hoodies. Once he’s got his magic under control, nothing really changes much. He still uses his bat more than anything (and if it’s covered in runes that make it almost more magical than he is, that’s a whole other story) because magic has a price.
Do unto others is an idea that runs through most major religions, after all.
But when he has to take a stand, when too much blood gets spilled by his friends and family and PACK, Stiles puts down the bat. He puts down the bat and raises his hood, and that’s when you know that shit is about to get so fucking real.
The hood comes up and the wind starts to blow and clouds grow thick in the sky above the Preserve. Lightning crackles and the air gets almost too heavy, weighing everyone down. The wolves of the Pack scatter. It’s animal instinct to them – get out of the way of whatever this is. Run and hide.
Maybe whoever it is that got injured to the point that Stiles felt the urge to call forth his magic is still on the ground, whimpering and cringing into the soil, trying to escape through the earth. They all know, in the human part of their brain, that Stiles would never hurt them. But they can’t convince the instinct that’s from a time before humanity.
So Stiles, hood raised, fingers crackling with magic, gives their enemy one last chance. “Turn around,” he says, and his voice is Other. His eyes are dark – not like those supernatural shows on television, with the all-over black. Instead it’s like the light no longer shines on them or in them. They’re dull, glazed. If the eyes are truly the windows to the soul, Stiles has drawn the blinds over his.
“Walk away,” he offers, his lips starting to curl. Because they’re idiots, of course, they don’t.
They raise their weapons, they bare their teeth, maybe they face Stiles with their own fingers crackling with energy. But this is Stiles’ territory. This land knows him and has feasted on his blood. It is that bond with the earth under his feet that he calls upon.
It’s not showy, what he does. It’s horrifying. The land comes alive, the ground swallowing the pack’s enemies whole. It’s over too fast, in seconds, and as the energy leaves Stiles, he screams and collapses, deep gashes appearing on his leg.
The land is thirsty and wants its due for helping him.
Magic always has a price.
shealwaysreads 