Work Text:
To know of the sickness that runs throughout the preserve, to know of the death circulating and all life the forest cannibalizes without fail—that’s one thing; it’s another entirely to see the physical manifestations of the Nemeton’s final stages of decay: to see the way its rot begins to consume Stiles, stealing all that it can.
At the base of the Nemeton, Stiles rests against its gnarled bark, eyes closed and quiet. In light of all of Stiles’ exhaustion, his offering of coffee feels... juvenile, useless⸻because what they both know, but can’t acknowledge:
There’s nothing they can do.