Twice. He’s died here twice now and both times have been under similar circumstances. Loss of his mind, loss of control, subsequent death to prevent him from harming others. The first time it had happened he’d died alone and woken up alone, that wasn’t the case this time around. He can remember Stiles being there, he can remember the teenager being the one to put him down. If the nearby heartbeat pattern is any indication, then he’s probably the one sitting off to the side now.

There’s the heavy scent of emotion in the air, circling around his grave. Guilt, sadness, frustration, anger. It’s enough to make his nose twitch and fingers curl into the dirt, right now he’s still too drained to actually push himself up out of the ground. He’s still healing, that much he can tell, attempting to mend injures that have already disappeared and stop the dull pain running through his limbs.

He doesn’t bother to open his eyes before speaking, voice hoarse from disuse, “It wasn’t your fault.”