dear christopher

by vwritesaus

Summary:

Grief is a funny thing, and it works in many ways.

For Thomas, especially in the past few weeks, grief has been a driving force to keep busy. It’s gnawed at his heart, his soul, but he’s shoved it aside in favour of making himself useful. To do anything, anything, humanly possible to spare anyone else being torn into jagged rags by these sharp shards edged with ice. He’s like his father, in that way. Perhaps he’s unconsciously picked up some habits from him for Gideon, in his worry and grief over his son’s sickly status as a child, never sat still.

And Thomas hasn’t had ample time to grieve properly.

Now, however… now he has all the time in the world to.

And for the first time in his life, Thomas doesn’t know what to do or what to feel.

Chapter 1

Notes:

i'll keep this short, but this is essentially my fix-it fic/my love letter to thomas and his grief and his bond with christopher 💔 cassie did gloss over a lot of things in chain of thorns, especially in regards to grief (i mean she did address it, but not as deeply as she could've, yknow?). so i guess this is my attempt of giving thomas's grief the attention it deserves, and for some other characters too (gabrily for a start...)

i definitely cried writing this and am in dire need of a hug ngl. but i hope i did our boy justice

This is a lot worse than Thomas imagined it being. This is so much worse.

      He’s no stranger to death, or to funerals. That’s how it is when one is a Shadowhunter. Death is a fact, and a matter of when, not how.

      He’d said goodbye to Barbara a bit before Christmas, and he and the rest of the Enclave—in the days following Belial’s takeover of London—paid their respects to the Shadowhunters who’d been murdered, not having had the chance to do so earlier.

      Basil Pounceby. Filomena di Angelo. Lilian Highsmith. Elias Carstairs.

      The first few were easy, or as easy as funerals get. Lilian Highsmith’s was admittedly upsetting, given the woman had been nothing but kind to Thomas and his friends when they were growing up, and Filomena’s because she’d died so tragically young. But theirs and Basil Pounceby’s funeral had nothing on Barbara’s.

      They had nothing on Elias Carstairs’s, either.

      Cordelia and Alastair were emotional wrecks, in their own ways. While Cordelia sought comfort in her mother and in James, putting on a brave face for the Enclave during the funeral, Alastair stood silently before his father’s pyre, his eyes swimming with a pain so palpable that Thomas felt his heart split in two. It was only afterwards, when they’d sent the last of those passing on their condolences away, that Alastair dragged Thomas into one of the drawing rooms of the Lightwood’s manor, and allowed himself to break.

      Only now does Thomas realise that those funerals, Alastair’s grief over his father, the deep pang of having lost Barbara, were just distractions. Momentary pauses in which Thomas could forget, just for a little bit, about his own soul being ripped to shreds.

      There’s no hiding from it now as he stands with his family, donned in white and marked in red. No pretending it never happened as his aunt Cecily openly weeps, his uncle Gabriel gasps shakily, and his cousin Anna grips his hand like a vice, her stony expression cracking at the edges when the Silent Brothers appear with a bier.

      On it lies Christopher.

      Thomas feels the ground open up beneath him.

      This is so much worse.

      So much worse.

 

---

 

Emerging from Westminster Abbey, Alastair by Thomas’s side and, behind them, Matthew and Cordelia carrying a bleeding, exhausted James, the scene that greets them is a familiar one, albeit strange.

      Puppeteered Watchers lie crumpled on the ground, their strings long cut, and the stench of ichor and the iron tang of blood fill the air. The Shadowhunters of the London Enclave are in various states of almost mechanical disarray: nursing wounds, applying iratzes, staring in sombre silence at the world around them, and talking idly with each other. Thomas barely notices any of it as he desperately seeks out the faces he’s known since childhood, an odd mix of fear and hope broiling in his stomach.

      Eugenia. Anna. Lucie. Christopher—

      His gait staggers, almost the same as it had earlier when a Belial-possessed James flung him backwards. He vaguely registers the gentle hand on his arm and the soft voice murmuring his name—Alastair, there’s no doubt about it—but Thomas finds his throat too clogged up to speak.

      Grief is a funny thing, and it works in many ways.

      For some, it harrows the soul for years and years, and ultimately makes one bitter, like Tatiana Blackthorn. It’s sometimes a dull, pounding ache deep in one’s chest, choking them despite them still breathing. Other times it’s a shroud, a veil, a piece of cloth covering a person like one does a birdcage, shutting the world out in favour of darkness and despair. And sometimes all it does is stay stagnant for a long, long time, growing and growing like a snowball rolling down a hill, until it reaches a tree and smashes into a million pieces.

      For Thomas, especially in the past few weeks, grief has been a driving force to keep busy. It’s gnawed at his heart, his soul, but he’s shoved it aside in favour of making himself useful. To do anything, anything, humanly possible to spare anyone else being torn into jagged rags by these sharp shards edged with ice. He’s like his father, in that way. Perhaps he’s unconsciously picked up some habits from him for Gideon, in his worry and grief over his son’s sickly status as a child, never sat still.

      ‘As your uncle Gabriel once said, your father must have something to do when bad things happen,’ Sophie, his mother, used to say when Thomas asked her why his father was always running around. ‘And because he loves you so much, he’ll do anything to ensure that you stay with us for a very long time. As do I.’

      Although Sophie never said it out loud, Thomas knew she, too, had grieved in her own way. Grief came to her in gentle touches and shadowed hazel, shaking fingers and trembling breaths, and a smile with a slight downward turn at the corners.

      He was too young then to understand why his parents were grieving and not just simply worried.

      He does now.

      And Thomas hasn’t had ample time to grieve properly for his sister. Barbara’s death came too suddenly, too soon. Belial’s antics to rule their world and Tatiana’s plot of revenge and malice made sure of that, eating into any sliver of a moment where he could’ve sat down and thought about his older sister; where he could have gone to Idris with his family, held his mother’s and Eugenia’s hands, and sat in silence with his father, head on his shoulder and eyes staring out the window at the demon towers of Alicante.

      Now, however… now he has all the time in the world to grieve. For Barbara… for Christopher.

      And for the first time in his life, Thomas doesn’t know what to do or what to feel.

      ‘...Thomas? Tom!’

      Snapping out of it, Thomas catches Alastair gazing worriedly at him, his dark eyebrows pinching severely in the middle. He tries to smile, to reassure Alastair that he’s alright, but finds he cannot.

      After all, is he, really, alright?

      He doesn’t know the meaning of the word anymore.

      It takes him a second to realise that he doesn’t need to do anything for Alastair is pointing at something close by and saying, ‘Look, Tom, over there—they’re okay. They’re alive, and I’m sure they know where the others are.’

      Fondness floods Thomas’s chest. Bless Alastair Carstairs and his sharp eye.

      He takes Alastair’s hand and squeezes it, hoping his gratitude shines through the touch. He then squints at the crowd, following the direction Alastair is pointing in. When he sees it, he freezes.

      His heart soars, lighter yet so much heavier than before.

      Uncle Gabriel… Anna…

      They’re seated together on a low wall, gear covered in ichor stains and dried blood, their hair streaked with dust and dirt in shades of beige and grey, and they’re alive. Curled into each other, visibly exhausted, weapons laying at their feet, and they’re okay.

      But the idyll picture of a father and his daughter basking in the aftermath of a victory is shattered by their expressions.

      In all his life, the amount of times Thomas has seen his uncle cry can be counted on one hand, and out of those few times, only two fingers can account for him having been genuinely sad. However, seeing him like this puts those instances straight into the gutter.

      Gabriel is by no means a small man. As a child, Thomas always thought his father and Uncle Gabriel were the biggest men he’d ever seen in his life: Gabriel tall and lean, and Gideon, though shorter than his brother, broad and stocky. And now that he’s several inches taller than everybody else in the Enclave, Thomas is still of the opinion that they are the biggest men he’s ever known—and that’s with Charles in mind, too, who himself is tall and lanky.

      But the manner in which Gabriel rests his head on Anna’s shoulder, their elbows interlocked loosely together and eyes set on their shoes, he has never looked smaller. Even from where he’s standing, Thomas can see the new lines etched deeply into his forehead, the corners of his mouth, and under his eyes—lines attributed to someone having experienced a terrible loss.

      Thomas is familiar with those lines. He has seen them on his own face, and on Eugenia’s, and more so on his father’s and mother’s: acute, cavernous lines like valleys and mountain ranges tinged with an impenetrable darkness.

      After all, there’s no greater loss for a parent than losing their child.

      Gabriel’s head shifts slightly on his daughter’s shoulder then, his gaze lifting and flickering absently over the crowd. When it lands on Thomas, it stops, stunned, and Gabriel’s expression ripples with thousands of emotions that change too quickly for Thomas to catch a single one.

      The next thing he knows is his uncle’s flown from Anna, staggering clumsily to his feet, and is racing towards him, shouldering past any Shadowhunters who are in his way. Thomas has no time to swap a look with Alastair, or see where Matthew and Cordelia have gotten to with James, for Gabriel crashes into him and clings onto him like his life depends on it. Thomas places his hands tentatively against his uncle’s back, and the sheer solidness of him is almost enough to undo him.

      ‘Uncle…’

      ‘Thank the Angel,’ Gabriel rasps, and his fingers dig deep into Thomas’s gear. ‘Thank the Angel you’re alright. I was so worried you—’

      He breaks off, his voice thick like tar. His hands are shaking as he steps back and holds his nephew’s jaw in his palms. The green of his eyes are glassy, shiny, like the surface of a lake, and the edges are laced with red.

      ‘I could not bear the thought of having lost another. You reckless boy. You absolute foolhardy—’

      Thomas draws him in and wraps his arms around him tightly this time, too overwhelmed to do anything else. He tries to breathe, if not for Gabriel’s sake, who is gasping raggedly against his shoulder, but it’s proving to be an arduous task.

      ‘I am not sorry for doing what I did, Uncle,’ Thomas confesses, forcing the words out through the lump jumping in his throat, ‘but I am sorry for worrying you.’

      ‘I know,’ Gabriel whispers, and his tone hardens somewhat as he adds, ‘but if you’d died, what do you think that would’ve done to your parents? That between our two families, we have to bury not one but two sons?’

      Thomas sucks in a harsh breath and squeezes his eyes shut.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he rushes to say, ‘I’m sorry—’

      ‘Hush now, it’s alright.’ Pulling back a second time, Gabriel runs a hand through Thomas’s hair. A knowing smile forms along his lips, and Thomas listens in a daze as he says, ‘Raziel knows what we all did at your age. While we cannot lay claim to fighting a Prince of Hell, we can certainly attest to fighting an enemy who sought to inflict evil and harm on us all. I know what it’s like to feel helpless, Tom. To fight for ourselves because there’s no one else to watch our backs. But bloody hell, child, you have support. You have us, your family, if no one else. Always.’

      ‘I know…’ Thomas murmurs. He hangs his head. ‘I’m sorry… I’m sorry about everything, about Chris—’

      Gabriel leans in and kisses his forehead, surprising Thomas and causing him to stammer into silence.

      ‘I’m sorry, too,’ Gabriel says in a low, wavering voice. He then lifts Thomas’s face by his chin, forcing him to look him in the eye. ‘Anna has vaguely mentioned what transpired between Tatiana and Christopher, and the rest of you at the Institute and outside of it. Whatever the specifics are, it wasn’t your fault. Do you understand me?’

      But it is my fault, Thomas thinks. I should’ve been with him. With all of them.

      ‘Thomas Lightwood,’ Gabriel enunciates sternly, ‘do you understand me?’

      Clearly Thomas’s thoughts are shining through his face, plain as day. Not trusting himself to speak, he simply nods.

      ‘Good. Good…’ Gabriel says, more to himself than to his nephew as he lets go of his chin. His eyes dart to the left of Thomas’s face, and he visibly pales to a near ghostly pallor in less than a second. ‘Bloody Christ. James—’

      ‘He’s alright,’ Thomas tells him hurriedly. ‘I know he doesn’t look it, but he’s alright. We all are, I promise.’

      Turning around and seeing James, Matthew and Cordelia trudging up the street together towards them, Thomas can sympathise with Gabriel’s reaction.

      James looks awful.

      It goes without saying that he looks as though he has been through Hell and back—which, in reality, he has. But compared to the rest of the limping, bleeding Shadowhunters, James’s pale skin, unrulier-than-usual hair, purple eyebags, sluggish pace, and shadowed gaze are next to none.

      And Thomas tries not to stare at the large patch of drying blood over James’s heart. He really tries.

      He’d listened in muted horror to Cordelia’s soft, detached explanation of how James stabbed himself to kill Belial, and how for a fleeting moment she thought he’d died alongside him. Matthew immediately fretted over his parabatai, hands shaking and expression caught between showing his true fear and a bout of nonchalance, as if James stabbing himself is a regular occurrence. Alastair inhaled sharply through his nose and grabbed Thomas’s wrist, looking vaguely sick as he’d gazed sympathetically at his sister.

      Thomas merely stood there, frozen, heart skipping madly and the execrable thought of James nearly having joined Christopher in death rolling around in his head like a wayward marble.

      He knows what it’s like to be alone without his closest friends, his family. He’s aware of the suffocating silence, locked within and settled in the Institute walls, the ghosts of laughter echoing up from the depths of the crypt to the rooftop. He’s become acquainted with the gaping hole in his soul, endless yet constricting, one which only blond hair and outrageous waistcoats, bookish wit and shrewd smiles, and harsh chemical smells and lavender eyes can fill.

      He doesn’t want to go through that ever again.

      It would destroy him. Thomas knows that with ironclad certainty.

      So he’ll take James’s frightening appearance with open arms. He’ll take that stained spot over James’s heart with a prayer and a whisper of gratitude along the lines of thank you for sparing him. Thank you for not taking another.

      It’s a miracle they all got out of this alive. If it were another set of circumstances, Thomas is sure they, save a couple, wouldn’t have survived.

      He shudders at the idea.

      Clearing his throat slightly, Thomas faces his uncle and repeats, ‘He’s alright,’ and hopes this time it’s with a bit more conviction.

      ‘I believe you,’ Gabriel says, his green eyes serious, ‘but that still doesn’t excuse him from receiving the same treatment I just gave you.’

      Thomas’s lips curl in an automatic smile as Gabriel pats his arm and moves towards the trio. Angel knows how many times in their lives they’ve been on the receiving end of Gabriel’s stern but logical scoldings, often relating to them climbing trees too high or running around with scissors, and often with Aunt Cecily laughing loudly and telling her husband to forgive them in the background—

      Thomas suddenly grabs Gabriel’s arm to stop him as the thought crosses his mind.

      ‘Aunt Cecily—’ he croaks the moment his uncle’s confused gaze meets his troubled one. ‘The others—’

      ‘Cecy and Alex are in Idris,’ Gabriel says softly, gravelly, ‘with Christopher. As is Henry. Charlotte and the others are here, and they’re all okay.’

      The ball consolidated of almost nothing ballooning in his chest is expelled through a breath Thomas didn’t even realise he was holding. Though a rock quickly replaces it, settling deep in his gut, unmoveable.

      ‘Thomas.’ Gabriel sounds regretful as he turns half away from him. ‘Go find your parents. And Genia. They’re worried sick about you.’

      With that, he leaves, and Thomas’s hand falls uselessly to his side. The facts congeal in his head, sticking to him like glue, and Gabriel’s calm voice roams in his ears.

      Parents… Genia… worried sick…

      Alive… they’re all alive…

      ‘Oh, thank Raziel,’ he gasps, and clutches a hand to his chest. He turns and says, ‘Alastair, love, they’re—’

      But Alastair is not there.

      Thomas blinks, perplexed.

      ‘Alastair?’

      It makes no sense. He was just here.

      Where has he gone?

      Alarmed, he examines every face in the crowd. At each familiar and unfamiliar person he sees, concern coils into a tighter and tighter knot deep in Thomas’s stomach—and it only unravels when he locates Alastair in the near distance a minute later. He appears to be having a serious conversation with Ari, their heads close together and expressions grave. Ari looks as wrecked as Thomas feels: her dark hair is escaping the confines of her hairpins and curling along the edges of her jaw, her stature is slightly slouched, clearly exhausted, and her gear is tattered and spotted red. But aside from that, she appears to be fine, despite what’s transpired in the past couple of days.

      Almost as if knowing Thomas’s eyes are on him, Alastair glances over and aims a small, understanding smile his way. Thomas breathes out a sigh of relief at the sight.

      I thought you’d need a moment alone with your uncle, Alastair’s eyes say. But I’m still here.

      There’s no knowing if that’s exactly what he’s trying to convey, but Thomas’s eyes start to sting. How did he get so lucky to have someone as selfless and empathetic as Alastair in his life?

      He returns Alastair’s smile with one of his own and inclines his head. Alastair then returns to his conversation with Ari and Thomas seeks out his family.

      Anna stands by the low wall she and her father had sat on, her body stiff with apprehension. There’s no doubt she watched the entire exchange between Gabriel and Thomas, and Thomas frowns at the thought of her simply standing nearby and not coming over as well. Despite this, Anna’s eyes are trained on him as he approaches her, and he’s sure he sees some of the tension leaving her shoulders.

      When he comes to a stop in front of her, neither of them say anything for a moment. The question is burning in deep blue, glaringly bright like witchlight, and Thomas knows the answer even before she asks, ‘Is he…?’

      ‘Dead,’ he confirms. ‘No doubt about it.’

      Blowing out a short breath, Anna drops back down onto the wall and grips her knees.

      ‘So it’s over,’ she says slowly. ‘It’s really over.’

      ‘Yes. He can’t hurt us anymore, at least not more than he already has. He’s gone, Anna, just as Tatiana is. James and Cordelia killed him.’

      Anna closes her eyes, taking it all in, and worries her bottom lip between her teeth. Thomas, with all the graces of a baby deer, takes a seat next to her and ignores how the edges of the wall dig painfully into his hamstrings.

      Silence follows, but Thomas’s mind roars. There’s so much to do, to say, to accept and understand, but he can barely settle on a sole thought, let alone try to make sense of it.

      That is, bar one.

      He swallows and wipes his damp palms against his trousers.

      ‘Anna—’

      ‘Don’t,’ she spits. She regrets it immediately, her expression spasming into a grimace as her eyes open. ‘Don’t, Tom. Don’t say you’re sorry.’

      ‘But I am,’ Thomas says gently. ‘Irrevocably so.’

      Anna sets her piercing gaze on him, and the bitter twist to her mouth sends the bottom of Thomas’s stomach plummeting somewhere unreachable.

      ‘Why?’ she asks him shortly, though not unkindly. ‘Why, in Raziel’s name, are you sorry? You didn’t kill Chris. You weren’t responsible for this insanity. You didn’t cause our bleeding aunt’s mad descent into consorting with a Prince of Hell. You weren’t the one who made James and Lucie targets. So please enlighten me, Tom, why you are sorry, because I cannot find a single reason for you to be.’

      She cannot be serious, Thomas thinks miserably. How can she not see?

      Shaking his head slowly, he wrings his hands in his lap and says with utmost severity, ‘For being so selfish that I’d leave you all behind at the Institute when you needed help the most.’

      For the first time in what seems like the longest while, Anna’s blank façade bursts into life: her eyebrows shoot high up on her forehead, her eyes grow alarmingly wide, and her jaw falls open.

      ‘Selfish?’ she repeats incredulously. ‘What, for helping Alastair with his breakdown? That’s selfish?’

      Thomas gapes at her. ‘How did you…?’

      ‘He may have mentioned it,’ she informs him offhandedly, ‘though not in great detail.’

      ‘When?’

      ‘When he said to me exactly what you just did. That he was sorry for not being there to help when Tatiana made her move on us at the Institute. It was while you were resting,’ Anna explains at his baffled look, ‘after the chimera attacked you at Paddington. Before Ari and I left for the Silent City’s old entrance at St. Peter Westcheap.’

      Thomas accepts this with a solemn nod, and stares at his hands. The lines of his palms are dark with dirt, the crescents of his nails blackened like ink stains. There are new blisters forming at the ridges where fingers meet palm, sitting on top of hardened calluses and old blister scars from years of training.

      They’re large hands now, no longer fragile with paper-thin digits incapable of throwing a mere dagger.

      And yet they couldn’t save his best friend. They didn’t even get the chance.

      Thomas thinks he’s going to be sick.

      ‘Thomas, look at me.’

      When he doesn’t, Anna grabs his hand, filthy and all, and crushes it to the point of pain.

      ‘Look at me,’ she reiterates, and when he does, says, ‘and listen. Retrospection in a situation like this is a cruel notion, and an even crueller master. But believe me when I tell you that there was no way on this earth that we were all getting out of that fight alive. If you and Alastair had been there, yes, perhaps our chances would have been higher, but not absolute—we were outmatched and outnumbered. And it was certainly not without the very likely prospect of resulting in more than just Christopher’s death.

      ‘Cordelia could have died if not for him stepping in front of her. Lucie could have died instead of Christopher if she’d stepped in front of her parabatai-to-be, or both of them simultaneously—perhaps even James or Matthew or Ari or myself. Alastair, if he were there, definitely would have, because like us, he puts his family above everything else. And we cannot say that Tatiana would not have turned her attention on you. The woman was hell-bent on revenge, and I doubt causing Barbara’s death would have been enough pain to inflict on Uncle Gideon, in her eyes.’

      Thomas flinches, but doesn’t make the effort to disagree. She’s right, of course, about it all. There really is no way of knowing how events would have turned out had Thomas and Alastair been a part of the fight.

      But—

      ‘I still feel as though I failed you all,’ he whispers. ‘That I failed him.’

      Anna sighs heavily, and a dark cloud passes over her features, transforming her eyes into glass marbles: frigid, blank, but full of swirling vehemence Thomas knows is aimed at herself.

      ‘You and me both, Tom,’ she murmurs, and the confession is like a knife to his heart. ‘You and me both.’

      Before Thomas can protest, to tell her that she hadn’t failed her brother, Anna lets go of his hand and stands again, brushing some dust off her trousers. She shoots him a smile, more like a sketch on paper than an actual movement of her mouth, and gently pats his cheek.

      I love you, the actions say, and my heart aches with yours, but I need a moment alone.

      So he makes no move to stop her, just grabs the hand on his cheek and kisses the palm in goodbye, and then watches her walk away. She goes not towards Ari and Alastair or her father—who is rebuking a sheepish James and gesticulating wildly—but into the crowd, where she disappears amongst tattered gear and crumpled parchment robes and white gowns belted with demon-wire. Thomas only moves to save himself from his own mind, afraid that it’ll paralyse him if he sits still. Yet not even the dull ache on the backs of his thighs as he rises from the low wall, or the action of stepping away from the bricks, are enough to quell the storm in his head.

      He looks over at Alastair and Ari, at Gabriel and James, Matthew and Cordelia, and turns away from them all. He can talk to them later. Right now, Thomas needs to find his parents and Eugenia.

      His eyes look ahead, on a mission, and the crowd becomes a blur around him—and it’s amazing how even now, he continues to really hate crowds.

      How is he going to find them in this mess? There’s so many—

      ‘Thomas! Thomas!’

      His heart flies into his mouth at the shout, and he swivels around to see both Gideon and Sophie Lightwood running towards him, barging through the crowd with no care in the world for politeness. There’s something climbing up his throat, something wild and grateful and bone-shattering, and it escapes as a garbled cry. It’s a noise he’s not made for years, but Thomas finds himself not bothered by the likelihood of sounding like a pathetic little boy as he takes a step on a shaky leg, desperate to meet his parents halfway.

      Sophie reaches him first. She throws her arms around his neck, Thomas’s name bursting from her mouth in a mimicry of a sob, concealed in a breath, and her hands find purchase in his hair. Gideon follows suit a second later, his arms wrapping around his wife and son, and his soft endearments in Spanish hit the shell of Thomas’s ear. Thomas embraces them both tightly, crushingly, and buries his face in his mother’s shoulder.

      He hated being fussed over as a child. He hates being fussed over now as a young man on the precipice of adulthood. It makes him feel as though he is that tiny, helpless thing again, confined to his bed with his lungs rattling around in his chest and his heartbeat fluttering like a trapped bird; as though he is that small, invisible boy no one except his family, friends, and Alastair took seriously.

      Yet there lies a huge difference between being sickly and small, and nearly dying through the actions of a Prince of Hell, and demons in the shapes of Silent Brothers and Iron Sisters.

      So Thomas, without complaint, lets his parents run their hands through his hair, press kisses to his temple, his cheeks, his forehead, and grip onto him as if he’ll slip through their fingers like water otherwise. He lets them sob against his neck, scold him like Gabriel did for being reckless and stupid, praise him for being so brave and selfless, and thank the Angel that he’s alright.

      He doesn’t take note of the fact that they’ve all sunk to their knees on the ground, or that the person kissing the top of his head is Eugenia, having bolted to her family the second she saw them, leaving a bemused Rosamund and Catherine in her wake. Not until it’s evident that his parents are of a similar height to him, and that Eugenia’s face is right in front of his, covered in grime but sparkling with life.

      Relief floods his entire being.

      Thank the Angel. Thank you. Thank you…

      Thomas pulls away and sniffs greatly. But Sophie’s watery gaze and Gideon’s trembling lips and Eugenia’s proud expression undo him, separate him piece by piece, and bare him open. He grabs onto his family, whatever he can reach, and allows himself to quietly fall apart.

 

---

 

Thomas doesn’t realise he’s crying. He doesn’t realise he’s stopped breathing. He doesn’t realise he’s clawing at his chest and grasping his shirt with a tremor in his hand and that his knuckles are turning an odd shade of white.

      Not until Alastair reaches out and grips his hand tightly, fearfully; until Eugenia cards her fingers through his hair and presses a lingering kiss to his shoulder; until Matthew and James are in front of him with tears rolling down their faces, their voices soft but firm and begging him to breathe—breathe, Thomas bach, breathe—

      The first breath feels like there’s broken glass embedded in his lungs.

      The second burns like he’s swallowed fire.

      The third comes through in a sob, ragged and deep and shaking his core.

      The fourth is a gasp, soft, barely-there, hastily covered up as Thomas rips his gaze away from the Silent Brothers setting Christopher’s bier on his pyre.

      He’s thankfully spared from being forced to watch as Lucie steps in between her brother and Matthew and gently cups Thomas’s face in her hands. Her eyes are swimming with tears, rimmed in the same shade of red as the runes on their clothes.

      ‘Focus, Thomas,’ she whispers. ‘You don’t have to look. Alright? Focus on me, if it helps.’

      Barely anyone thinks about or even considers the bond Thomas and Lucie have, not when Lucie has James for a brother and Cordelia as her future parabatai, and when Thomas and Christopher were joined at the hip. Not quite cousins, many assume they’re amicable with each other at most, or family only by association or because their parents are related to one another in this-and-that way.

      They can’t be further from the truth. Lucie and Thomas are so much more than that. Lucie is the younger sister Thomas never had, the outspoken, mischievous and confident counterpart to his reserved, sensible and bashful self. Thomas is the one who keeps Lucie’s chaotic ideas in check—where James, Matthew and Uncle Will would only indulge her—and Lucie the one who helps bring Thomas out of his shell at parties and social gatherings, where he would otherwise stay in the most convenient corner.

      They talk constantly of poetry, of art and of writing, and the woeful nature of being creative. They encourage each other in their studies of the Persian language, brainstorming ways to remember difficult sentence structure and pronunciations, and holing themselves up in the Institute library to practise with rudimentary, handmade flashcards of individual characters from the Alefbâye Fârsi. They’re keen opponents when it comes to food, their unspoken competition always in play whenever there’s a large spread at hand—and just as well that the others don’t have as large an appetite as Thomas and Lucie do. Matthew, especially, finds their antics thoroughly entertaining, and even acts as the judge whenever the opportunity arises.

      Only, that’s merely touching the surface. Lucie is the only one who knows Thomas writes, and writes well. Thomas is the only one who knows Lucie bakes at midnight when everyone else is asleep. Lucie is the only one who’s sat with Thomas on the rooftop of the Institute and observed his ability to wax poetic about the mundane with a genuine smile on her face. Thomas is the only one who has permission to critique her stories on the basis that he gives out honest and fair comments. Not that Lucie would ever admit this out loud to anyone, and the thought makes Thomas smile every single time.

      He knows her, and she him, and he’s grateful for her in this moment as he lets go of Alastair’s and Anna’s hands, wraps his fingers around Lucie’s slender wrists, and looks directly into eyes the colour of a clear summer sky.

      ‘It’s not fair,’ he states under his breath, his voice so soft only Lucie should be able to hear it. ‘Luce, how is this fair? Why him? Why Kit?’

      Lucie’s expression crumbles, and a sob of her own wracks her tiny frame. But she doesn’t remove her hands from Thomas’s face, doesn’t blink as tears spill over her bottom lashes, doesn’t flinch when Thomas’s hands slide down her arms and wrap around her shoulders. She only leans into the touch, her forehead meeting Thomas’s chest and her body trembling under his equally shaky palms.

      Over the top of her head, Thomas watches as Cordelia runs a hand through Lucie’s hair. Her eyes, full of sympathy and a pain only those who’ve lost someone carry, meet Thomas’s, and her smile is sad as it stretches across her lips. They aren’t particularly close, not like she is with Lucie, or him with James and Matthew—not yet, by any means, though Thomas knows they will be, in time. They’ve got the others in common, at the very least, especially Alastair. But in this moment, Thomas feels as though he knows Cordelia through and through, and can read the shattered remains of her heart in her gaze and in the pull of her lips as though they are pieces of a story in a novel.

      I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Thomas.

      He tries to smile, but fears he can only manage a grimace, one outlined by fat tears streaming down his cheeks.

      What a frightful sight he must be.

      Thomas has never been a loud crier. In fact, no one in his family aside from Eugenia are loud criers. They all cry quietly, silently, in solitude or as far away from prying eyes as possible.

      But they make up for that silence in intensity. Thomas knows how his father’s shoulders heave, how his eyes are covered by a shaking hand, and how his breathing is reduced to haggard, reverberating gasps. Thomas knows how his mother’s cries are soft, though deep and heart-wrenching when a whimper or a sob slips out, buried in a handkerchief or the crook of her elbow or the palms of her hands, shying away from the world and begging for a moment of privacy. Thomas knows how Barbara used to press her lips into a thin, defiant line, daring anyone who saw her to comment on her “hysteria”, how she’d hug herself or run her fingers through her brother’s hair or play with her sister’s ribbons to calm herself down, and how her sniffles were paired with hiccups and harsh rebuttals of, ‘Oh, stop it, Barbara, you stupid girl.’

      He’s no different. When Thomas cries, it’s like he’s being flipped inside out, baring himself for the world to see. When he cries, he cries deeply; feels it deeply, raw emotion aggressively clawing its way out of his soul and leaving destruction in its wake. And he thinks, if he’s feeling like this, he cannot begin to imagine what his uncle, aunt and Anna are going through right now—

      Guilt rears its head, like a dragon poking its head out of its lair and baring its teeth, and Thomas draws in a sharp breath.

      How dare he? Who the hell does he think he is?

      Who is he to cry like this when Cecily and Gabriel have lost their son? When Anna has lost her brother, the one whom she’d frantically tried to save and watched life leave him so violently with her own eyes?

      What right does he have to fall to pieces like this when his family needs someone to be their anchor? Gideon is doing it with grace, an arm slung over his brother’s shoulders as silent tears trail down his cheeks. Sophie holds Cecily flush against her side, her hands gripping Cecily’s tightly, and her expression so grim the scar on her cheek paves a jagged, shining path to dark, glassy hazel.

      That’s what Thomas should be doing. He casts Anna a quick side glance, seeing a face void of emotion, but eyes alight with confliction and grief. He should be standing by her, like his parents are with her parents, be that unmoveable presence should she have the need to hide or break or take her frustration out on something. Ari is doing just that, not touching her in any way aside from their hands being loosely interlocked in between them. She’s saying nothing, but her presence alone speaks volumes. Thomas should mirror her, and not just stand here snivelling like a child and rely on other people to make him feel better.

      There’s nothing else for it. It takes everything in him to do it, but he steps away from Lucie. He offers her a small smile when she looks up at him in confusion, mouths, ‘I’ll be alright, thank you,’ and avoids meeting narrowed, reprimanding blue eyes. Lucie, however, lets him go and moves to the side, but not without reassuringly squeezing his arm as she goes.

      And from there, Thomas pats his cheeks dry with the cuff of his jacket sleeve, tries to curb any further tears from forming, and forces himself to look directly at the pyre. It’s the only way to stop this nonsense. He needs to look reality dead in the eye. Once he accepts that, then he can be there for Anna without any hindrances.

      Or so he thinks. Something slams into the centre of his chest at the sight of Christopher’s still figure, and his eyes sting in protest.

      Enough, Thomas. Enough—stop this madness. Pull yourself together, man. Anna needs you.

      It’s unbecoming for a man to show any trace of emotion, let alone cry in polite company, or so the mundanes say. Thomas is thankful that Shadowhunters have, at least, forgone this trait, because there is no possible way he would be able to stop himself otherwise.

      Thomas, at this particular moment, wishes he was still small, that he’d never had his insane growth spurt, that he still had the ability to conceal himself behind his mother’s skirts and dry his face in the folds of wool and satin, and that it was his friends who towered over him, and not him over them.

      Despite being so sickly, being small wasn’t all that bad. It was easier to be out of sight, to be unnoticed, to go about his day without being ogled at or scrutinised, to live in the shadows of those far better and far greater than him. He didn’t mind it. Truth be told, sometimes he preferred it. Being tall and broad has its advantages, of course, but not when it acts as a glaring signpost for all and sundry—and if there’s one thing Thomas absolutely abhors, it’s being the centre of attention.

      Strangely enough, Thomas’s mind wanders, and he finds himself yearning for the days where he could fit under a table without knocking his head on its underside, giggling madly with Lucie as they stuffed their faces with a small selection of miniature Bakewell tarts and biscuits and ices with fierce competitiveness, hoping they don’t get found out by Cook, or Bridget if they were at the Institute. Where they’d both laugh at the loud smack James’s head made when it collided with the table as he’d crawl in after them and join in, where they’d shush each other at the sound of footsteps, their faces turning red from forcing down explosive cackles at the unladylike swearing from Cook or Bridget upon discovering the missing portions of the desserts, all of which would be tucked away in three bellies. Where Matthew would sidle in not long afterwards with a grin like the cat who got the cream and green eyes alight with furtiveness, producing a spread of cranberry scones and clotted cream and a special jar of vanilla-spiced jam from the depths of his jacket, and where Christopher, smelling of smoke and bleach, would wonder in a raised voice why they’re all under this one table, and who they’d quieten with a plethora of lemon tarts and harried hisses.

      Christopher, who would usually be the one who gave them away after loudly announcing the results of his latest experiment around a mouthful of lemon curd. Christopher, who’d share his tarts only with Thomas, not even his own sister. Christopher, whose pockets were full of the treats he’d stuffed down them while the others got told off by Cook or Bridget, and who’d present them in the drawing room once they’d all gotten kicked out of the kitchen.

      Christopher, who’d whisper in Thomas’s ear that he’d seen the recipe for trifle lying in wait on the kitchen bench, and they should try and sample some later tonight when everyone was asleep.

      Christopher, who’s lying flat on his back, dressed in white, eyes bound with silk, and no longer breathing.

      Thomas squeezes his eyes shut and buries the sob bubbling up his throat somewhere deep, deep in his chest.

      What he would give to return to those days. At least Christopher is there, alive and unapologetically himself, bright and inquisitive and always with a new idea ready to be tested with a vigour none of them can replicate. At least there Thomas can look into his face and see his cheeks warmed with colour, not ghostly white and cold and a shadow of what they once were.

      Oh, shut up, Thomas. Shut up, you stupid man.

      Traitorous tears fall, and Thomas hastily wipes them away.

      He has to stop.

      He needs to stop.

      He cannot cry.

      He can’t, he mustn’t, it isn’t fair.

      Stop, stop, stop it, just stop it, just stop it—

      Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Anna’s voice erupts in his ear, harsh and snapping at him like a cornered animal, and it startles him so much he physically jolts.

      ‘If you are seriously thinking that you do not deserve to be crying as you are because Christopher is not your son or your brother, then you’re a bigger fool than you are tall.’

      Someone, Thomas is not sure who, hisses out a horrified, ‘Anna!’ but he pays them no heed. He simply stares at his cousin with round eyes, tears beading along his lashes and too startled to fall.

      Her gaze is fire, burning hot on Thomas’s skin as it roves over his features. Her mouth is a vicious slash across her face, contorted at the edges and quivering from a restraint Thomas can only associate with wanting to break everything at hand. Not that he would blame her for doing so, if she did.

      ‘Don’t hold back. Don’t you dare. Cry, Tom. Cry for those of us who can’t, because if we do,’ Anna demands, her voice cracking and dropping to a whisper, ‘we will break beyond repair, and we will have no way of returning to a semblance of normalcy no matter how hard we try.’

      Something indescribable crashes over Thomas, cold and shivery and all-encompassing, like someone has thrown a large bucket of ice water over his head. Gasping, he sweeps his cousin into a tight embrace. Anna breathes out shakily and clutches onto him for a few seconds before pulling away. Thomas lets her, knowing if he doesn’t, she might just shatter into a thousand pieces right there in front of him.

      They say nothing. They do not watch as the Silent Brothers step back from Christopher’s pyre. They care not for the pitiful stares from those from the Enclave. They barely acknowledge the gentle hands and whispered assurances from their loved ones.

      Thomas simply cries and Anna trembles from the tears she cannot shed.

Notes:

i'm sorry thomas, my beloved... i'm so so sorry. but i need to do this for you. for everyone ;;;; and pls don't blame yourself darling oh, but he does. silly man

btw i know that shadowhunter funerals are combined/for more than one person at a time, generally speaking. cassie's said so, and i know she said that christopher would share his with those who were killed before i.e. Filomena and co. and anyone who died at Westminster. but for the sake of this particular fic, i am disrespectfully ignoring all of that, okay? okay ♡

if you cried/felt your heartstrings tug, drop a comment. or just drop a comment in general, i'd love to hear your thoughts and queries and rambles and opinions of chain of thorns!!

i'll try and post the next chapter sometime next week/in the next fortnight, but no promises. i'll do my best ♡

in the interim, come yell at me on tumblr @vwritesaus !

Chapter 2

Notes:

*sweats nervously* so... hi...

it's been, what... eight months since i posted the first chapter? what can i say, it's been CHAOS. the work/life balance has not been kind to me this year. but not to worry!! things are easing up (finally) and hooray for the end of year break :') i have not abandoned this fic, far from it, and huge apologies for the delay in posting this chapter, gah

so without further ado, hope you enjoy! ♡

Thomas drops a handful of broken timber planks onto the ground with a sigh. Sweat pools at the back of his neck and at his hairline, ice cold against his skin. The sun has decided not to make itself present today, hiding behind dour, blackened clouds that promise a frigid, windy afternoon. Not that it bothers him in the slightest. Thomas prefers to be out at the Institute, sorting through debris in a cracked, stained courtyard in poor weather than sitting around doing nothing at all. 

      After all, sitting around doing nothing at all gives way to dangerous thoughts barging into his head, ones he doesn’t want to think about lest they crush his soul more than it already has been.

      No, it is better to be productive. Better to be busy. Better to be surrounded by people he knows and loves than to be at home alone.

      His family is out for the day, Eugenia in search of a new set of embroidery needles, and Alastair—the one whom Thomas wants to see more than anyone else when his mind is like this—is babysitting Zachary in Kensington. As per the letter he’d gotten yesterday, Thomas has been invited to see them later on in the day, but the gap between the morning and the afternoon is a long time, indeed. So when James and Matthew’s fire message came to him that morning requesting (namely, begging) his assistance with cleaning up, Thomas rushed out of his home in Golders Green without a backward glance.

      At the present moment, both Matthew and James are kicking at loose rock and dry leaves in the distance. The trees bordering the London streets and the Institute seem to have dumped all their broken branches into the courtyard, creating a crooked, spiny cemetery circled by dust and dirt and withered foliage. Shattered roof tiles, odd riff-raff from horse-drawn carriages, ripped shop awnings and jagged pieces from window panes, and general rubble and dirt make up the rest of the unfortunate picture. But Thomas finds himself really not caring about the mammoth clean-up task left to the Shadowhunters of the London Enclave.

      It’s easier not to care, he’s found. It helps with this evidently everlasting numbness.

      He turns his attention to the handful of broken planks he’s dumped onto the ground and forces himself to count each individual ringed spot and dark-stained grain.

      Focus. He must focus—

      The sound of footsteps draws Thomas out of his own head, and he looks up to see James and Matthew approaching. James’s hair is wild as ever, flicked up at the ends and falling around his face, and his eyes are bright, if not a little tired. The bags under them have improved immensely since the whole saga with Belial commenced, but there is still a tinge of purple bordering gold. Thomas thinks, however, that the smile on James’s face is like none he’s seen in several years: bright, large, and most of all, extremely genuine. There is sadness embedded in it, as it is in all of theirs, but it’s the realest thing yet.

      Matthew, too, has changed. He now reminds Thomas of that carefree and boisterous boy from their Academy days, more present and less reliant on that flask tucked away in the depths of his coat. There’s a sparkle in his eye, and blond hair—perfectly styled as always—lies in waves over his forehead. His cheeks are a little pink, and he blows out a short breath as he reaches into his waistcoat pocket the moment he and James come to a stop.

      ‘Cor,’ he says by way of a greeting, dabbing at his face with a monogrammed handkerchief, ‘is it just me, or has this poor courtyard become even messier than when we began?’

      Thomas casts a quick glance over their surroundings, taking in the huge piles scattered around the edges of the Institute. There’s a few other people about—the Wentworths and Townsends, for a start—picking away near the gates and the steps leading up to the front door. But all in all, the courtyard is looking a little better than when he’d arrived a few hours ago. Just a touch.

      ‘It’s a mess, sure,’ James supplies, pushing his hair away from his eyes, ‘but at least it’s an organised one.’

      ‘Hm, I suppose you’re right,’ Matthew muses, gazing around ruefully at it all. ‘And I do have to say that this is a lot better than that absolute maelstrom we had to clear up in Soho.’

      ‘By which you mean the Hell Ruelle?’ James teases.

      ‘By which I mean the Hell Ruelle,’ Matthew repeats morosely.

      James pats his parabatai’s shoulder. ‘Worry not, Math,’ he says soothingly. ‘I’m sure Kit will be able to come up with some genius plan on how to remove all this clutter in…’

      His voice trails off, but the damage is already done. Matthew’s face crumples, the momentary comfort wiped clean away. James’s eyes glisten, pained, and Thomas wonders if falling through a hole in the ground would hurt less than the iron fingers squeezing around his heart.

      ‘...no time,’ James finishes softly.

      Thomas can’t look at either of them. If he does, he’ll cry. He knows that, and he can’t cry. He mustn't. So he drops his gaze to his shoes, and by consequence, James’s and Matthew’s. It amuses him slightly that Matthew, with all his bravado in his fashion sense and assurances that every article of clothing remains in a pristine condition, is wearing a polished pair of black Oxfords. Though now they have a fine dusting of dirt across the toes and laces, as do the cuffs of his trousers. James’s and Thomas’s aren’t faring much better, either. 

      But it’s a good focal point. It’s enough to help some of the pain ebb away into a dull ache.

      ‘Well,’ Matthew begins, his voice low and surprisingly level. ‘I suppose our darling boy wouldn’t want us moping about like this.’

      ‘No,’ James concurs, ‘I suppose not.’

      Thomas chews on the inside of his cheek, willing his tongue to work, to state something in tandem with James’s and Matthew’s statements, or mildly witty. 

      ‘I imagine,’ he says, and forces himself to look up at his friends, ‘that he would be rattling on about inventing a machine of sorts to help move huge piles around without lifting a finger.’

      ‘What, like a crane?’ Matthew muses.

      ‘Yes—though perhaps something that is not as bulky and tall and static, but rather flexible and efficient. Manoeuvrable and lightweight.’

      ‘This is very true,’ James states with a nod. Then his face brightens and a soft smile tugs at his lips. ‘Oh, and I would bet you five pounds that he would be rummaging around collecting bits and pieces to take back to the laboratory.’

      ‘Oho, quite! Why, a whole bag’s worth!’ Matthew crows, and laughs. ‘Perhaps two!’

      The image of Christopher carrying a bulging travel bag over one shoulder, huffing and puffing from the excessive weight of rubble and sticks and broken bits of glass, proves too much for Thomas to remain straight-faced. Fondness blooms in his chest, and for a short minute, it’s as though Christopher stands at the gates of the Institute grounds, grinning madly, glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose, and trying to move his hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head.

      But when the laughter peters out and the weight of Christopher’s absence returns, the three young men gaze at each other meaningfully. It is, after all, up to them to ensure that some of Christopher’s behaviours remain alive in their minds.

      They might be down a member, but the Merry Thieves will always thrive, and always, always, be alive. Thomas wants to make sure of that much, if nothing else.

      The topic of Christopher—though apparent and thick in the air—morphs into what his invention of a crane-like mechanism could have been. They bounce ideas off each other as they continue to help clean up the grounds, shifting more piles from one end to the other in an imitation of perfect organisation. As he lugs around the heavier portions of the mess, Thomas finds himself grateful for the background chatter.

      After about an hour, however, the topic shifts into something else. Thomas begins to wonder how much longer he’s going to remain grateful as the conversation, strangely, turns to a person who once would have been discussed with contempt and twisted sneers.

      ‘No Carstairs today?’ Matthew asks Thomas blithely. ‘I’d’ve thought he’d come by and lend some of his muscle—or at least to admire those currently on display.’

      Thomas fights the urge to lovingly roll his eyes and cross his arms over his chest. But that doesn’t stop his face from turning a slight shade of pink.

      ‘Not today,’ he says. ‘He’s looking after Zachary. Mrs Carstairs and Cordelia are running some errands with Risa, so he’s at home. I’ll be seeing them both later.’

      Matthew’s eyebrows quirk upwards in mild surprise. ‘I see,’ he says. Then he adds in an exaggerated tone of awe, ‘Well, if you’d told me three years ago that Alastair Carstairs would be undertaking the role of a household mistress, I would have fainted from laughing so hard.’

      ‘Dear me,’ Thomas mutters dryly, ‘we couldn’t have had that, surely? And I’m of the opinion that Alastair is undertaking the role of a household master rather than mistress.’

      ‘Not husband?’ James inquiries plainly. ‘Yours, in that regard?’

      Thomas gawks at him, cursing himself by the way his heart stutters horribly. ‘What?’ he whispers. ‘I—what? Husband? Where on earth did you get that idea?’

      ‘Oh, sweet Thomas, look at you! You’re as red as an apple!’ Matthew coos, smiling hugely as he pinches Thomas’s burning cheek. James is grinning wickedly behind him, amused with the damage he’s inflicted, and Thomas glares heavily at him.

      ‘Be quiet, the pair of you,’ Thomas hisses weakly. ‘You’re ridiculous—’

      ‘But to be fair, Jamie, they need to be engaged first,’ Matthew tells his parabatai conversationally, as if he hasn’t just interrupted Thomas. ‘In which I fear Alastair will be the one to propose first lest our darling Thomas stammers himself into oblivion and hides behind a lady’s brise fan to save face!’

      ‘That’s oddly specific, Math… and yet I can see it happening just as you describe,’ James muses while rubbing at his chin. ‘Alastair is sensible enough and good at keeping a neutral expression—and he’ll be able to keep calm should Thomas start crying in pure joy.’

      ‘You’re awful!’ Thomas exclaims. He’s now utterly certain his face no longer resembles an apple, but rather a beetroot. ‘Both of you—absolutely awful!’

      Undeterred by the insults, Matthew gazes seriously at Thomas.

      ‘I’ll be honest with you, Tom,’ he says. ‘It still baffles me how the whole situation between you two occurred, but… oh, you silly sod, I’m happy for you.’

      Thomas smiles shyly. ‘Thank you.’

      ‘Even Alastair?’ James pipes up.

      Matthew scowls, though there is no heat behind it. ‘Yes, yes, even Carstairs,’ he moans, ‘the little bastard.’

      ‘Hang on, easy,’ James says, ‘that’s Thomas’s future husband you’re slandering.’

      ‘James!’ Thomas protests. ‘Stop it!’

      ‘I shan’t, because the thought alone makes you happy, doesn’t it? And besides,’ James adds in a murmur, ‘we could all do with some happiness.’

      Thomas goes quiet, mulling the thought over. James is right. The thought does make him happy. The notion of spending the rest of his life with Alastair may be sending his heart into an absolute frenzy, but it’s not unpleasant.

      ‘Well said, Jamie!’ Matthew crows. ‘I wholeheartedly concur! Oh, and Thomas—I claim the future position of your celebrant whether you like it or not. Your wedding shall be absolutely glorious, and if it isn’t, I’ll eat my best hat.’

      ‘Alastair would be most upset if you eat your best hat,’ Thomas tells him, ‘given he’s constantly telling us off for not wearing hats in the first place.’

      ‘And you’ll need your best hat for the wedding,’ James adds sagely, ‘lest your favourite hatter cannot make your desired hat in time for the big day. Or are you implying that you’ll eat your best hat on the day in question?’

      ‘Thomas, I no longer care what Alastair thinks of me,’ Matthew counters, eyes sparkling with delight, ‘and Jamie, I’m appalled by the suggestion that I would purchase a new item for the sake of a wedding.’

      ‘Are you saying you wouldn’t?’ James asks in bafflement. ‘Mr Matthew Fairchild, attending a wedding without something new? It’s an absurd assumption.’

      ‘Truly absurd,’ Thomas agrees with a smile. ‘As is the implication that you’ll eat your best hat should my wedding day not be the most glorious day of all. Though would you do it before or after the ceremony?’

      The words “my wedding” causes an eruption of butterflies in Thomas’s stomach. Though he doesn’t have the chance to properly study the sensation for Matthew doubles over in laughter, the image of such an event transpiring proving too much to handle. James starts laughing as well, though he does a poor job of trying to contain it as a sensible chuckle instead of a raucous outburst. Thomas watches them both be in absolute stitches with a wide grin on his face.

      Wiping a tear from under his eye, Matthew sucks in a short breath and lets out an irritable sigh. ‘Goodness me—while I would love to continue this conversation, and it pains me to say it, but we best get cracking. The wedding plans can wait for the moment. The quicker we finish all this cleaning palaver, the quicker we can start preparations for your birthday, Tom. It’s in the next fortnight or so!’

      Thomas pauses, and his smile falls from his face.

      ‘My birthday…’ he echoes vaguely.

      Truthfully, Thomas forgot that his birthday is fast approaching. It’s hard to believe that January is only around the corner, the start of 1904 and the end to this treacherous year coming up in the next few days.

      Was Christmas only just last week? Can’t have been…

      It seems a foul thing to do, to celebrate his life when his best friend’s own is over, especially when the funeral is fast approaching. But if it means seeing something close to content on James’s and Matthew’s faces, then the least he can do is swallow it down, grin and bear it. For their sakes. This might just be their way to grieve productively, and who is Thomas to deny them that closure?

      ‘Sure,’ he ends up saying, hoping his voice doesn’t sound defeated or, Angel forbid, reluctant. ‘Sounds like fun.’

      ‘Marvellous!’ Matthew slaps a hand on Thomas’s shoulder and squeezes the muscle. For a moment, though perhaps he’s imagining it, Thomas believes it’s a tighter grip than usual. ‘You won’t regret it.’

      Nothing more is said—though what is there to say?—as Matthew’s hand slips from Thomas’s shoulder and as he moves away to continue working. Yet after a mere hour of shifting debris, Matthew makes a comment in a rather dramatic tone about how his poor shoes have suffered enough for one day, and that the courtyard’s miserable appearance can be dealt with once more tomorrow. James, ever the loyal best friend, suggests a trip to the Devil’s Tavern as a reward for all their hard work. Permission now granted, that’s enough for Matthew to turn on his heel and glide towards the gates, though not without throwing a purposeful look over his shoulder at Thomas as James falls into step next to his parabatai.

      Thomas sighs and follows them, kicking at the pile of planks as he passes them by.

 

Alastair’s hair is extremely dishevelled when he opens the front door. It’s the first thing Thomas notices as he stands on the threshold of the Carstairs residence in the late afternoon, and it takes quite an effort to fight back a growing smile. Whether Alastair notices this is unclear, for his expression remains neutral and his movements cordial as he steps aside to let Thomas enter the premises. His tone is polite when he says, ‘Hello, yes, come in,’ and Thomas thinks for a short moment he’s in trouble, though for what reason, he has no idea. 

      But as soon as he shuts the door behind him, Thomas is pulled forward by the lapels of his coat, and Alastair places a sound kiss on his lips. Not hesitating to reciprocate, Thomas’s hands land in thick, dark curls and the small of Alastair’s back. He still finds it dizzying how perfectly they fit together: Alastair’s body curls naturally against his like the final piece of a jigsaw, his long fingers cradling his face as though they were made to fit there by a sculptor. Michelangelo, perhaps, whose statue in Florence Alastair believes he resembles.

      Maybe one day they’ll be able to see it together, and Thomas will stand before it and thank the artist for everything. No doubt he will go red in the face, armed with the knowledge that Alastair views him in the same light as David, and Alastair will tease him over it and drag him into a side street to kiss him—

      But he's getting ahead of himself. And as Alastair pulls away, his dark eyes alight with an adoration Thomas only used to dream about, Thomas’s heart swells.

      By the Angel, he is so in love with this boy.

      ‘I’ve been waiting to do that all day,’ Alastair groans out. His arms settle on Thomas’s shoulders and their noses bump as he rests their foreheads together. ‘What took you so bloody long?’

      Thomas is anything but late, a fact the pair of them know. His time at the Devil’s Tavern had been short and sweet, the excitement of seeing Alastair more potent than sharing a drink with his friends. But he hums out a thoughtful sound and grins at Alastair’s disapproving tut.

      ‘Ah, well… to quote Matthew,’ Thomas says matter-of-factly, ‘I was putting my muscles on display.’

      ‘Were you now?’

      ‘Yes. In fact, there was a comment on why you weren’t there to admire them.’

      ‘I can admire them now,’ Alastair casually informs him, ‘within the privacy of my own home where I can do delicious, sinful things to them.’

      Thomas chuckles, though it’s quickly muffled as Alastair pecks his lips once, twice, thrice—

      He would consider the thought of how wonderful it is to see Alastair acting like this, if not for James’s and Matthew’s theory of Alastair proposing first ramming itself into his head the moment Alastair moves back. And much to his horror, as does the possibility of Matthew being their celebrant on their wedding day. 

      Sod them, Thomas curses, bloody sod them—

      Oh, he hopes his face isn’t turning red again. He can’t bear the embarrassment.

      In an attempt to curb the fanciful ideas, Thomas leans back and grabs a piece of dark hair that falls right into Alastair’s eyes, looping it around his fingers. ‘Is “messy but attractive” the latest from Paris?’ he asks cheekily.

      Sniffing greatly, Alastair says seriously, ‘I believe it’s Zachary’s debut into the world of fashion. He told me he’ll label it as “demanding attention from my brother” and plans to sell the design to a rather illustrious fashion house on the Rue de la Paix.’

      Laughter bursts from Thomas before he can stop himself, though it quickly peters out into repressed giggles when Alastair tells him off for being too loud.

      ‘I’ve just put Zachary down,’ he states firmly, ‘and I do not wish for him to be disturbed.’

      Thomas’s eyes light up. ‘Can I go up and see him?’

      Alastair grants him permission, but not without a stern warning that Thomas needs to be quiet. They climb the stairs leading up to the nursery together, and Thomas carefully opens the door and approaches the cot sitting in the middle of the room.

      Zachary is sleeping soundly, both hands in fists by his head and body wrapped securely in a light pink blanket. Thomas barely holds in a coo and the urge to reach in and play with a lock of his hair—so very black and thick for a newborn—Alastair’s cautionary words still fresh in his mind. The little one reminds him of when Alexander was born, tucked away in his cot much the same and full of so much innocence.

      How drastically things have changed in so little time.

      In fear of shedding sudden tears, Thomas looks away from adorable baby Zachary and stares at Alastair instead. There’s a soft calmness imbued in the curl of his lip, and Thomas catches a wealth of affection shining in his expression. He had been there when Alastair saw his baby brother for the first time, and he’d had the same look then as he does now, albeit with misty eyes and a quivering bottom lip.

      Thomas wonders if Barbara and Eugenia and Anna looked like this when he and Christopher and Alexander were born, and his throat tightens at the thought. He directs his gaze back to Zachary sharply, and unfortunately for him, it’s enough of a movement for Alastair to notice and let out a confused hum.

      Bugger.

      Luckily, Alastair doesn’t say anything straightaway, giving Thomas a chance to collect his thoughts. They stand in silence for a minute or two, lovingly observing each minute flicker of Zachary’s eyelids as he dreams.

      But then Alastair’s soft voice cuts through with the tentative question, ‘Penny for your thoughts?’ and Thomas has to face the music.

      He doesn’t look at him, but he holds his hand out in a wordless gesture. He pretends that his heart doesn’t dance when Alastair’s fingers slide, sure and true, across his palm and interlock with his. The words, ‘They’re not worth half as much,’ lie frozen on his tongue, a phrase he’s sure would be met with a disapproving look from Alastair should it be released into the air. So what else is there left to do than to say exactly what’s on his mind?

      Zachary’s little fingers uncurl from his fists and wiggle in his sleep, and Thomas grips the edge of the cot tightly with one white-knuckled hand.

      ‘I mourn over the terrible fact,’ he whispers, lest his voice cracks upon speaking louder, ‘that Alexander no longer has his brother to watch over him like you do Zachary. Anna and Uncle Gabriel have tried to explain to him that Kit’s not coming back, but he’s so young… He’s still under the belief that Kit’s alive. Just that he’s—well, that he’s gone somewhere far away.

      ‘I mentioned it to him as well, last I saw him. But he refuses to acknowledge any of it. He even asks his mam every chance he gets, though last I heard, poor Aunt Cecily has barely said a word about it all. Not that I blame her… So I gather Alex takes her silence as confirmation that Kit’s not dead.’

      He chances a look at Alastair, and sees nothing but overwhelming understanding flashing in his eyes. It’s almost enough to break Thomas, and he’s not sure how he does it, but he manages to keep talking despite the fractures lining his soul.

      ‘I don’t know what to do, Alastair. Everyone’s falling apart, and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to help Alexander understand and have the time to mourn his brother. I don’t—I just don’t know…’

      Thomas trails off, and the weight of the confession drops onto him like the world on Atlas’s back. He’s aware of how pathetic and lost he sounds—and in front of Alastair, too—but he finds himself unbothered by it. He might in a day or so, but right now, he doesn’t.

      And neither, miraculously, does Alastair, who holds his gaze steadily.

      ‘Not to sound like every predictable ahmag, but… only time can help you here, Tom,’ he says. He kisses the point of Thomas’s shoulder through his shirt, short and sweet, and rests his lips there for a second or two. ‘And you can’t fix everything. I know you wish to and you feel it’s something you need to do, but you can’t… especially not right this minute when you’re hurting as well. Alexander will understand, eventually. Perhaps he already does and this is his way of coming to terms with it.’

      Sighing softly, Thomas finds himself nodding in agreement.

      ‘You are right, of course, as usual. But the fact remains that Alexander is three years old, and by the time he’s our age, he won’t remember Kit at all. I don’t know which of those is worse: that he can’t let go of Kit now, or that he won’t remember him in the future.’

      Alastair squeezes his hand. ‘We’ll help him remember,’ he murmurs. ‘All of us.’

      Unable to help himself, Thomas cracks a small smile and looks at his beautiful, wonderful Alastair.

      ‘Does that mean you and I are going to be together for that long?’ he asks shyly. ‘Even when Alexander is old enough to be told all about Kit?’

      ‘Really, Thomas,’ Alastair mutters in distaste, wrinkling his nose in a way that makes Thomas’s heart flutter. ‘I thought that was obvious—and even longer, still. I’m not letting you go anywhere, if I can help it. O-Only, that is, if you wish to stay—’

      Thomas kisses him. It’s not enough to convey the overwhelming surges of gratitude, hope, and the realisation of Alastair spending the rest of his life with him as a fact and not a simple imaginary notion, but it will do for now. And as Alastair kisses him back, fingers grazing his jaw and the promise of a lifetime slowly threading together between them, Thomas thinks that, in time, it will all be okay.

      It will be okay.

 

---

 

Someone is speaking at the front of the crowd of gathered Shadowhunters, and has been for the last few minutes. Thomas doesn’t know who it is—Brother Enoch, Uncle Jem, Aunt Charlotte—nor does he really care to find out. Anna’s hand had shot out and gripped his again as soon as the talking started, and she hasn’t let go since. Not that Thomas would have let her. It is the only thing that is keeping him grounded to this realm.

      If she lets go, he’ll plummet towards madness, of hell decorated with shadowed walls and shuttered windows, where only his grief lies in wait. Her grip allows him to stare directly at Christopher without giving into the weakness in his knees.

      There’s movement amongst the crowd, a ripple of a collective something, and whoever is at the front of the congregation comes forth with a stick that glows brightly.

      Fire.

      Thomas inhales sharply, and he’s sure the circulation in Anna’s hand cuts off as he squeezes it hard. She makes no comment or sound at the action. If anything, Thomas is certain she returns the favour, but he’s too numb to acknowledge it.

      Voices float through the crowd, and the soft crackling of burning wood booms through the valley. His mind knows what’s coming, that awful, practised phrase every Shadowhunter knows, as does his heart—and something seizes him and rips away a portion of that numbness clouding his throat.

      He needs to feel those words in his mouth, needs to say them at the same time as everyone else.

      He needs to say goodbye.

      The words echo through the valley like the clock chime of Big Ben back in London, though discordant and unsynchronised.

      For whom the bell tolls—

      ‘Ave atque vale, Christopher Lightwood.’

      —and Thomas chokes on the first word.

      Anna says it, as does Alastair, Lucie, and everyone else around him, gently and sincerely. Their final farewell to their dearest friend.

      Thomas has to do the same.

      He tries again.

      But…

      ‘I can’t—’

      He looks imploringly at the others. They must understand, to see in his eyes what he wants to do. His voice is nothing above a whisper, but judging by the sympathetic gazes he gets in return, Thomas knows they hear him loud and clear.

      ‘I can’t say it.’

 

---

 

The aftermath of Elias Carstairs’s funeral is not something Thomas will forget quickly.

      In one of the drawing rooms within Lightwood Manor, Alastair and Thomas sit side-by-side on the floor with their backs against a wall, alone. The rest of the family are elsewhere in the manor, no doubt keeping an eye on Cordelia, Sona, and baby Zachary.

      But in that drawing room away from prying eyes and under the soft light from a tasselled lampshade, Alastair cries into Thomas’s neck until his throat is raw; until his sobs turn into the occasional sniffle and his shoulders heave with each uneven breath he takes. Thomas holds him, rubbing slow, soothing circles between Alastair’s shoulder blades and rocking him gently. His lips stay pressed against dark hair, murmuring sweet nothings in hope of providing some small, verbal assistance. Alastair continues to cry, hiccupping and clutching onto Thomas with shaky fingers all the while.

      ‘I hate him,’ he says some time later, after the tears have dried on his cheeks and with his head nestled comfortably in the crook of Thomas’s neck and shoulder. His voice is hoarse, but it has a hard edge to it as he speaks. ‘I hate him, but I love him—and I, being the fool I am, miss him.’

      ‘He was your father, Alastair,’ Thomas tells him. He presses a kiss to his temple and whispers against the skin, ‘Complicated though your relationship was, there were times which were good, and I believe it is those times which you mourn the most.’

      Alastair says nothing for a moment, sniffing miserably instead. His breathing is unsteady but warm as it hits Thomas’s neck, and the puffs tickle the skin when he decides to mumble, ‘I find it slightly horrifying that you can read me so well, Lightwood.’

      Thomas grins into his hair, and he forgets himself for a second as the heady scent of wood fire smoke—having permeated their clothes from the funeral pyre—invades his nose.

      ‘You’re a lot easier to read than you give yourself credit for,’ he states casually.

      Alastair gasps. ‘Lo, that is terrible news. I must rectify that immediately. I cannot have my emotions be so readily available upon my countenance.’

      Thomas, despite everything—the grief, the tears, the unmovable weighted sensation of irreplaceable loss—laughs loudly.

      ‘Is it so horrible,’ he jests, ‘for the world to see you as you really are, Alastair Carstairs?’

      ‘Absolutely,’ is Alastair’s blunt reply, and it sends Thomas into a silent fit of giggles. ‘I have an image to uphold, and I urge you to ensure that it’s firmly in place beyond the walls of this room. Oh, do cease your laughing—Thomas, please—stop it—’

      But Thomas cannot stop, though he tries. A second later, he feels Alastair laughing too, his shoulders shaking against his. Their laughter fills the drawing room, like shop bells and wind chimes in a breeze: quiet, soft, but clear. There is still a heaviness in the air, saturated by woodsmoke and loss, but it’s brushed aside for now, if only for a minute or two.

      It’s strangely the most liberating feeling Thomas has felt for some time. He glances over at Alastair, watching that lovely face be crinkled with laugh lines, and thinks to himself how wonderful it is to have a moment of brightness in such a dark period of time, and how privileged he is to spend it with the light of his heart.

      For the first time, his inner voice stays silent.

      Once the laughter dies down—a minute or two, at the most—Alastair shifts, parting briefly from his place against the wall and angling his face to Thomas’s. He leans in and kisses him. It’s short, chaste, but it lingers as Alastair moves backwards a margin and whispers a fervent, ‘Thank you.’

      Thomas says nothing, just smiles at him. He slides a hand along Alastair’s jaw and brings him into another quick kiss, but one full of fervour, one reciprocated in full as he feels Alastair’s fingers clutch the nape of his neck. When they pull apart, they simply gaze at each other, and Thomas has the fleeting thought (oddly said in Matthew’s voice in his head) that they must look awfully in love—terribly so, sickeningly so. 

      He’s so glad he can think like this now, however. That he’s in love, and that he’s loved back by the one who owns his heart, and that they haven’t been doomed to a love they have to hide, or believe they’re undeserving of, or think they’re in a dream that can only last a few hours at night.

      Oh, shut up, Thomas. It’s not the time or the place, for Raziel’s sake…

      Clearing his throat slightly, Thomas manoeuvres his train of thought back to where the conversation began.

      ‘Tell me about them.’ At Alastair’s raised eyebrow, he elaborates, ‘The good times. With your father. Tell me about them.’

      There’s a pause in which Alastair gapes him, wide-eyed and slightly stunned.

      ‘Surely you have better things to do with your time than listen to trivial matters of the past?’ he asks eventually.

      His voice is so small, so confused, that Thomas feels his heart crack right down the middle. Reaching out, Thomas tucks a loose lock of dark hair behind Alastair’s ear and strokes his cheekbone: he watches Alastair’s eyelids flutter at the touch, but the amazement embedded in dark brown remains.

      ‘Trivial or not, Alastair,’ Thomas murmurs seriously, ‘I have all the time in the world to listen. For you, always.’

      Alastair swallows thickly, and Thomas’s eyes follow the movement of his Adam’s apple as it rises and falls. 

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Always.’

      A wistful, coy smile blooms into being on Alastair’s face, though shadowed by several emotions at war with each other in his gaze. His voice is low when he starts to speak, almost innocent, as young children who see no faults in their parents are, and Thomas listens. 

      He learns how Elias used to pronounce Esfandiyār with a soft, adoring lilt, and how he’d read to his children from a peeling hardback copy of The Shahnameh until the candle reached a knobbly stub in its holder, and how he’d then reach into his pocket and pull out a witchlight to be able to finish the chapter. Thomas smiles at the retelling of a six-year-old Cordelia begging her brother and father to train with her—training, in this instance, being done strictly with sticks—and how they had to pretend to be big demon monsters so she could slay them. Elias had carried Alastair on his shoulders, and the pair chased Cordelia around the house, growling and hissing and laughing all the while. It was one of the first times Alastair had seen the world from so high up; one of the first times he could roam the skies with a feeling of invincibility coursing through his body and with the notion that he could take on anything and anyone with his father’s unwavering support.

      ‘I can show you that world now,’ Thomas declares cheekily. ‘I’m strong enough, and taller than your father ever was.’

      ‘Don’t tempt me,’ Alastair states with a groan and a poorly-contained grin, ‘or I’ll fear I’ll exploit you for that for at least two decades.’

      Alastair talks and talks, and Thomas listens and draws patterns on the inside of Alastair’s forearm. Alastair recounts the best moments of his childhood with a sad tinge to his smile and stars in his eyes. Thomas watches them blink to life with the sole thought that the same man who’s bringing them into existence now was the same one who caused them to fizzle out all those years ago.

      And he wonders how long it will be before his own eyes tell the same story when he speaks of Christopher.

Notes:

you know the drill, kids. kudos/comment your emotional state after this chapter. i'm a solid 'sobs at the thought of thomastair spending the rest of their lives together'

chapter 3 WILL be up a lot sooner than this one, and it's gonna be focused on the lightwood-collins fam, so get excited???

in the meanwhile, come yell at me on tumblr @vwritesaus !

Chapter 3

Notes:

this is a whopper of a chapter and for that, i am sorry not really. it's literally 10k+ of dialogue so prepare yourselves. i just love the lightwood-collins family so so much......

also my spanish expertise is Zero, so if the phrases i have used in this chapter are incorrect, please let me know!! ♡

There are days where Thomas misses Barbara terribly. They come upon him without warning, sending him into a state where the smallest things remind him of her and force him to recall all the moments of their youth.

      Today is one of those days.

      He’s at home, staring out of his bedroom window and twirling a fountain pen in between his fingers. It’s the better part of the early afternoon, soft sunlight streaking through the window panes and casting patches of light on the carpet. Thomas’s journal is lying open on his writing bureau, where the evidence of early morning ramblings are visible in black ink.

      Thomas woke up with his eldest sister on his mind. Whether it was because he had dreamt of her during the night or because his last thought before he’d fallen asleep was about her, he’s not sure. What he does know is that Barbara is all he can think about today.

      The echo of her laughter, the lingering smell of her perfume, the ghost of her fingers stroking his hair, even when he grew too tall for her to reach him. Her favourite breakfast, her favourite colour, her favourite crocheting hook, her favourite phrase she would aim at her younger siblings when they were misbehaving.

      Her love. Her hugs. Her scoldings. Her smile. Her scowls. Her eyes.

      It’s the little things that cause the most pain, Thomas has found.

      And with her death, he thought he’d know what to do and exactly how he’d feel in the aftermath of Christopher’s. He thought he knew what to expect.

      Boy, was he wrong.

      Nothing could have prepared him for this consistently empty sensation in his body, his soul, the place Christopher once occupied.

      Thomas is almost glad they never agreed to be parabatai. He cannot begin to imagine that type of pain on top of the one he’s already filled with. He’s aware of it, of course, having listened many times as a child to Uncle Will’s retellings of his youth: when he fell in love with Aunt Tessa and when, simultaneously, he lost Jem, and how even on his way to Cadair Idris, he’d felt the bond break and rip him apart. Thomas has also seen it first-hand with Matthew and James. He’s seen the way Matthew’s knees buckle whenever James was on the verge of death, clutching madly at his chest and breathing shortly, as though all the air in him had been knocked out by an invisible fist. He’s seen James rubbing his shoulder and rolling it in discomfort, more often than not whenever Matthew had too much to drink—that is, if Thomas has to hazard a guess as to the reason why.

      Christopher and Thomas could read each other like no one else could. In a way, they had their own equivalent version of a parabatai bond, one that got viciously ripped away the second Thomas entered the Sanctuary and saw his best friend laid to rest on a bier.

      There had been no rune snapping on a place on his body, or blood staining his clothes as it began to fade prior to his arrival to signify his best friend was dead. But the sight had been enough. The candles and the white silk and the stony faces of his friends were enough—

      Sighing deeply, Thomas throws the fountain pen and watches it clatter obnoxiously against the smooth surface of the bureau. It deposits a few ink blots on the wood as well as on the open pages of his journal, the dark spots growing larger as they seep into the paper.

      Despite his scowl, he really cannot drag it out of himself to be bothered, even as one precarious blotch edges dangerously close to a line he rather favours. Thomas thinks Alastair would approve of it, and would be most disappointed if it were to disappear into a dark abyss of ink.

      Perhaps he should write it again on a new page—

      ‘Tom?’

      Jolting at the voice, Thomas whips his head to the door of his room. Eugenia stands there, one hand wrapped around the handle and the other half-raised to the wood. She must have knocked, but Thomas did not hear it in the slightest.

      ‘Yes, Genie?’ Sudden panic spikes in his chest. ‘Is everything alright?’

      She nods and enters the room fully, shutting the door behind her.

      ‘Everything is fine, Tom. Do not fret. I merely came to see you.’

      ‘Oh.’ He shrugs and smiles gently. ‘There is not much to see, truth be told. I’m… away with my thoughts.’

      ‘I can see that,’ Eugenia deadpans, but there is a grin on her lips. ‘What wax poetics are you indulging today?’

      Raziel, it was a mistake telling his sister about the song lyrics he writes. He tells her so, paired with a perfect glower that becomes deeper at the downright wicked glint in her eyes.

      ‘Really, it’s nonsense,’ he adds with a half-hearted gesture to his journal. ‘I do not know what the words I write on the page mean anymore. Yet on that note…’ He picks up his pen and hastily rewrites his favourite line on a new page before it’s lost forever.

      Eugenia doesn’t say anything, but her expression is amused as her brother raises the journal to his face and blows gently at the paper to quickly dry the ink. Once he is satisfied that the ink is dry, he closes the journal and puts his pen down a bit gentler this time.

      ‘Are you sure everything is alright?’ Thomas aims at his sister. ‘There isn’t anything that is the matter?’

      Shaking her head, Eugenia says, ‘I have no ulterior motive, brother dearest. I really just came up to see you. Though if I’m to be honest, I thought you would be out. Are you no longer helping out with the clean-up at the Institute?’

      Thomas feels the bottom of his stomach drop.

      ‘It’s mostly done,’ he replies, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. ‘Well, sort of. They don’t really need me.’

      Eugenia stares at him blankly, expectantly, and he baulks. He never could lie properly to his sisters, much less to Eugenia. She’s always been able to see through him like no one else, even more than their own mother sometimes.

      ‘Aunt Tessa advised me to remain at home,’ he confesses in a murmur. ‘No doubt she felt it would be better for me to wallow in my grief in the privacy of my room than to be productive and assist.’

      His tone is sour and it matches his mood. There is still a fair bit to do at the Institute despite the main clean-up nearing its end, starting with restoring the gardens and Aunt Tessa’s beloved flowerbeds in the courtyard. Thomas’s fingers itch to dig into fresh soil regardless of the morning frost that greeted London that morning. But much to his displeasure, the fire-message that materialised in front of his nose as he’d sat down to lace up his boots saw Tessa’s beautiful handwriting. She detailed her concerns of her nephew not resting as much as he should be, and it was enough to quash his former desire into dust. He’d chucked his boots by the door in a fit of irritation—rather childishly, he has to admit it—before he’d returned to his bedroom and buried his nose in his journal.

      ‘She would be right in thinking that, Thomas,’ Eugenia says sternly, frowning. ‘You’ve not given yourself a moment to grieve properly.’

      ‘I’m fine,’ Thomas insists. ‘Keeping busy is part of it.’

      He would say more, come to his own defence more, if not for the sudden fire blazing across his sister’s face. Thomas’s jaw shuts with an audible click and Eugenia crosses her arms tightly over her chest as she glares down at him.

      ‘Feel free to lie to yourself, brother of mine,’ she bites, ‘but do not lie to me. For Angel’s sake, Tom, I have eyes. I know you feel as though working yourself ragged will help fix things, but you can’t keep going like this. It’s killing you, and Christopher nor Barbara would have wanted you to be—’

      ‘And how do you know what they wanted?’ Thomas snaps, words full of venom.

      Eugenia recoils and gapes at him, completely surprised by his hard tone.

      ‘How do any of you? How do we? Barbara kept her inner thoughts to herself until it was too late, and even then it was revealed in the smallest morsels. Everyone seemed to breathe easier whenever Kit was placid and away from naked flames, and most never took his wild ideas as genuine. They took him for granted. We all did. I did. So please don’t tell me they wouldn’t have wanted me to act like this or “kill myself” in my bloody grief because you don’t bloody know what they would have bloody thought!’

      He doesn’t know where the anger has come from, but the only place it wants to go is out. He’s powerless in stopping it, and in the words tumbling from his mouth and the white-hot snake slithering through his veins. The chair rattles wildly against the floor as Thomas nearly knocks from how fast he stands up, and he runs his hands through his hair in frustration, tugging viciously at the strands.

      ‘I am tired,’ he spits, ‘of being treated as though I am seconds away from falling apart. I am grieving. I am missing Barbara and Kit. I have cried—and cried and cried and holed myself away in darkness, and it hasn’t bloody worked. It just makes it worse. I sit here with nothing to do, and as a result, my mind wanders. It asks me the hard questions, like why I wasn’t there to save Kit from Tatiana. Why couldn't I have done more to save Barbara, worked with Kit earlier to create and administer the cure quicker? Why was I out and about with—oh, it doesn’t matter who—instead of fighting with my friends at the Institute? So in an attempt to escape those questions—simply due to the very nature of wretched hindsight being my worst enemy—I work through it. I use my hands and my strength and my mind for more practical things because that is all I am able to do at the moment. Why can’t you understand that? I must be busy, or Angel forbid, I will enter a place of despair that not even the strongest magic in the world will be able to extract me from it. Is that what you want? Tell me, is that what you all want from me? Because I don’t know what else to do anymore that will satisfy the lot of you!’

      The following silence is deafening.

      Thomas feels every limb of his body turn into lead: heavy, stiff, immobile. His chest heaves with the breaths he’s trying so desperately to keep level, but each one comes out shaky and hoarse. His last words—though not echoing—linger uncomfortably in the air between him and Eugenia. He’s barely looking at her, having delivered the last outcry to her before averting his gaze hastily to the floor. The fury burns still, hurts still, but it’s slowly starting to ebb away into a quiet hum.

      It’s been some years since he’s yelled like that. A short yet severe outburst.

      Yet what’s more shocking than that is Eugenia’s lack of rebuttal.

      He takes the risk and looks up.

      Eugenia hasn’t moved from her position in the slightest, and all of the fight seems to have left her, vaporised into nothingness like a morning mist. Her bottom lip trembles slightly, and everything about her—her posture, her gaze, her hands—is as though it’s just being held together with baker’s twine. One more harsh word from Thomas might be enough to shatter it and spill her resolve into the space between them, no matter how strong she is.

      Cold, icy shame floods Thomas’s body and he collapses against the wall.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he gasps. ‘Genie, I’m so sorry.’

      Eugenia shakes her head, her expression warm and understanding. Thomas wants to cry.

      ‘It’s alright, Tom.’

      ‘No, it’s not. That wasn’t fair.’

      ‘Tom—’

      ‘You’re allowed to be angry at me,’ Thomas says imploringly. ‘Be angry at me, Genie. Please—’

      Eugenia huffs and walks towards him, only to shove his shoulder roughly. ‘Will you shut up? I’m not angry.’

      ‘Yes, well, you should be,’ Thomas mutters, sulking. ‘You came in here with nothing but good intentions, to check on your brother and his well-being, and instead you get yelled at.’

      ‘Yes, that has occurred. But I’m not angry. It’s alright.’

      She says it so simply and Thomas feels guiltier. He’s about to apologise once more but is cut off by Eugenia’s raised hand.

      ‘You’re grieving. We all are, and we do so differently. But this is why I’m begging you to talk about it. You’re bottling all your emotions up… and the more you do so, the more violent the explosion will be when it finally reaches its breaking point. Even more than just now.’ She grasps Thomas’s hand, her hold tight and her gaze firm. ‘Many of us have lost at least one person close to us. Barbara—she was mine. And while I loved Christopher as though he was my second little brother, I wasn’t as close to him as I was to Barbara. But you, Tom… you were close to them both. Kit especially. You’ve lost two people… so I believe that gives you a right to be irrationally angry sometimes. But for the love of all things holy, don’t push the rest of us out. Let us be there for you the way you’ve been there for us, and don’t even think about arguing with me on that, Thomas Lightwood. I know that you put others before yourself—I’ve seen it first hand.’

      Eugenia pauses, her eyes darting from one side of Thomas’s face to the other. It’s as though she’s trying to focus on one point but cannot decide which one to stay on. Thomas watches those eyes—so like their mother’s—and waits with bated breath.

      ‘I know you want to fix everything, Thomas, but…’ she continues softly. ‘There are things that are unable to be fixed. It is also no use for you to blame yourself for events which have already transpired and are of no fault of your own. I do not know the details, only you do, but I do not doubt for a moment that you are innocent of any wrong-doing. Barbara’s and Christopher’s deaths are not yours to carry on your shoulders. It was not you who made deals with demons, and it was not you who threw the knife. And so what if you were there at the Institute when it all happened? Hell, Thomas… it could have been you who Tatiana killed. You cannot know for certain that your presence would have prevented anyone’s fate.’

      Letting go of his sister’s hand, Thomas’s eyes land on the floor once again and he lets his arms hang limply by his sides. ‘Anna said something similar,’ he says in a hollow voice.

      ‘And she’s correct,’ Eugenia emphasises. She sighs gently and Thomas strains to hear her as her tone lowers to a near whisper. ‘And just so we’re clear, I don’t expect anything from you. I certainly don’t expect you to wallow in your own misery that you reach a place unreachable to the rest of us, and where we won’t be able to help you out of it. But I am allowed to worry about you—and you bastard, I am allowed to be your stern older sister who will drag you kicking and screaming if it’ll mean peace and restoration for you. Don’t you dare think otherwise. Alright? Am I clear?’

      At first, Thomas says nothing. He merely slides down the wall and ends up on the floor, his legs outstretched and his soul heavy as iron in his body. Eugenia’s words echo in his mind as he covers his face with his hands, and after a moment or two, Thomas laughs wetly into them.

      ‘What is it?’ he hears Eugenia ask.

      ‘Nothing.’ He lifts his face and looks over to see Eugenia has joined him on the floor, her skirts pooling around her. ‘It’s just… you sounded just like Barbara. I think she would approve.’

      Her eyes immediately fill with tears, but she’s smiling as her head drops onto her brother’s shoulder. He rests his head on top of hers and wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to him.

      ‘Thank you,’ he murmurs, ‘and I’m sorry.’

      Tutting, Eugenia mutters something along the lines of Thomas needing to stop apologising for nothing and if he keeps trying to, then he’ll be sorry.

      ‘That aside… I do wish you had joined Mama and Papa and came to Idris when Barbara died,’ Eugenia continues almost immediately, interrupting her brother’s spluttering. There’s a soft sniff and her hand settles on his knee. ‘I missed you during that time. I thought of you often.’

      ‘I thought of you all often as well. I wanted to come,’ Thomas says earnestly. ‘Believe me, I really wanted to. But I felt I was needed more here. I—I had to do something, Genia.’

      Humming softly as if she expected this answer, Eugenia says, ‘I know. You and Papa, both. He was in and out of the house as though he was being chased out, haunted by ghosts Mama and I could not see—and when he wasn’t, he was sitting in the parlour staring at nothing with tears on his face.’

      The image of Gideon Lightwood slumped in an armchair in the deep red parlour room in Lightwood Manor is a sorry one, and Thomas’s heart pangs painfully for his father.

      ‘They haven’t—’ Thomas pauses, trying to find the right words. ‘They haven’t spoken about it much… since you came home. Mama and Papa.’

      ‘About Barbara, you mean?’

      ‘Yes. Her and the rest of it.’

      ‘Well… it’s not as though it is a topic as simple to bring up in conversation as that of the weather,’ Eugenia states matter-of-factly, and rather sadly. ‘They lost their daughter, after all.’

      A thorn pierces Thomas’s chest, sharp and stinging. ‘I know…’

      He cannot fathom the idea of losing a child. Losing his older sister and his cousin—his best friend—was bad enough. Raziel only knows what his parents, Aunt Cecily and Uncle Gabriel are going through.

      ‘I don’t know how exactly, but I wish to speak with them about it,’ he confesses. Eugenia’s words sit at the forefront of his mind, begging him to speak, begging him to be open with his emotions, and for once, he yields. ‘Because I miss her, Genie. I miss her so bloody much.’

      Eugenia’s voice wobbles horribly. ‘As I do. Every day.’

      ‘I miss Kit, too.’ Thomas rubs his chest over his clothes, the buttons of his waistcoat catching on the edge of his family ring. ‘There’s a hole deep in my being which will never be filled again. It grows bigger with every reminder of them. Barbara’s favourite novel that’s still sitting in her room. Pieces of Kit’s laboratory set still in our room in the Devil’s Tavern. Barbara’s perfume, Kit’s notebooks… They’re endless, Genia. And I cannot escape them. Not truly, and it bloody hurts.’

      He hates feeling like this, hates how pathetic he sounds. He hates that it reminds him of that day with Alastair in Zachary’s nursery, and hates that his voice cracks.

      But so many things have changed, and none of them are reversible.

      There’s a shaky sounding exhale and a murmured, sympathetic, ‘Oh, Thomas…’

      Eugenia slips out from under his arm before Thomas can fully register the action and embraces him tightly. He doesn’t hesitate to hug her back, gasping softly and fighting back the burning sensation behind his eyes. His efforts fail, however, when a few tears slip out and slide down his cheeks, disappearing somewhere into the fabric of Eugenia’s dress. She’s crying too, judging by the way her body trembles under his palms, and it’s confirmed by the sob she tries to keep back.

      They stay in that embrace for some time, saying nothing. None of it is resolved, and neither of them are near a state of closure. Yet for a short moment, Thomas feels as though everything is going to be alright in the future.

      His sister is the first to move away. Thomas doesn’t protest, afraid that if he holds on, he won’t be able to let go at all. Eugenia then hastily wipes her eyes with the palms of her hands and blows out a short breath.

      ‘I still find it hard to believe you’re this large. You went off to Spain a little boy and came back a mammoth of a man. It’s rather strange,’ she tells him, poking the muscle of his shoulder for good measure before she resettles against her brother just as she’d done before. It’s a clear attempt to steer the conversation away from their parents and Barbara, that much is obvious.

      ‘Funnily enough, growing taller was not on my list of attributes I wished to improve on my travel year,’ Thomas states dryly, going along with the topic change and grinning at his sister’s amused snort. ‘Becoming stronger, yes. Being more fluent in Spanish, yes. But not taller.’

      ‘Y sin embargo, aquí estás,’ Eugenia says softly.

      ‘Sí,’ Thomas murmurs. ‘Aquí estoy.’

      When his children were very small, Gideon Lightwood saw it as his duty to teach them as much Spanish as humanly possible. This was done much to their mother’s approval, but also exasperation, particularly when they would gang up on her and whisper secretively to each other in the language. Although Barbara and Eugenia didn’t go to Spain for their travel years as their brother had, their level of Spanish was close to immaculate. Thomas was jealous of his sisters for a long time because of that. It was always unfair how quickly they’d managed to pick it up when Thomas struggled with certain words and sentences. His sisters’ excuses were usually something along the lines of how Thomas was very young, and therefore his brain wasn’t as mature as theirs were, and that girls learned quicker than boys, all of which irritated him greatly.

      So when Barbara went to Brussels and Eugenia to Rome, Thomas vowed he’d go to Madrid when it was his turn to travel, a sentiment Gideon enthusiastically shared with him. He was going to be better at Spanish than his sisters for the first time in their lives and he couldn’t wait for it to happen.

      Now he wishes Barbara could tease him alongside Eugenia about his growth spurt, and speak Spanish with them like she used to.

      It’s another thing to add to the list of things that cause him to miss Barbara more. But he’s taking it in stride, as much as he can.

      ‘I’m certain many of your admirers approve of this change,’ Eugenia informs him lightly. ‘Though I must say I’m rather astounded no one has declared their undying love for your shoulders in the public eye.’

      But he has in private, Thomas thinks giddily to himself and immediately feels his cheeks warm.

      ‘Perhaps they think it’s too much,’ is what he says to his sister. ‘Perhaps they fear for their toes should we waltz. Perhaps I don’t have as many admirers as you all seem to think I do.’

      Eugenia makes an unladylike sound that makes Thomas smile into her hair, almost as though a horse is braying nearby.

      ‘I bestow upon them my commiserations for their lack of imagination and appreciation,’ she laments wearily. ‘What miserable lives they must live.’

      ‘I doubt their lack of imagination or acts of admiring my physical attributes warrants a miserable existence, Genie,’ Thomas tells her sagely.

      ‘By the Angel, Thomas, must you be so modest all the time?’ Eugenia grumbles. ‘Just accept that you’re a handsome bastard.’

      ‘I refuse,’ he rebuts playfully. ‘One might call me vain if I were to do so.’

      ‘In which case, I shall correct them in their prejudices most swiftly.’

      ‘Should I be worried about a re-enactment of Jane Austen in that scenario, Genie?’

      ‘And who would be Mr Darcy? Or Lizzie Bennet, come to that?’ Eugenia considers musingly. ‘Why, I think—’

      ‘Please don’t finish that sentence,’ Thomas interrupts with gusto. ‘I cannot bear to think of who you cast as whom lest I read the book again and see not Mr Darcy and Miss Bennet, or Mr Bingley or George Wickham, but those who you allocate their mannerisms to.’

      Eugenia laughs loudly. ‘I believe Matthew is rubbing off on you, you dramatic little boy.’

      ‘Not so little now, remember?’

      ‘Oh, do be quiet.’

      ‘A lack of a witty rebuttal? I daresay that makes me the winner of this round.’

      ‘I wasn’t aware we were keeping count,’ Eugenia states casually, and Thomas sees her studying her nails with the airs and graces of an unperturbed cat. ‘I thought that was a game for children, so if you’re still partaking in such a thing… I believe the implication is rather self-explanatory.’

      Thomas, in lieu of a “witty rebuttal”, shoves Eugenia away from him with his shoulder. Instead of being offended, Eugenia mutters dryly, ‘Oh yes, very witty of you, Tom,’ before bursting into a series of giggles. She pokes him back with a sharp nail and he pouts at her with a weary mutter of ‘Ow—that hurt.’ Then he decides to rest his head on his sister’s shoulder this time; she lets him and cards her fingers through his hair. He melts at the touch, his eyes fluttering closed.

      ‘Let me say this, Tom. Whoever decides to be the owner of your heart,’ Eugenia whispers after a moment, her tone serious, ‘I hope they’ll make you the happiest man alive.’

      ‘A wish I also hold for you,’ Thomas tells her earnestly, ‘and not of the likes as those of Augustus bloody Pounceby. You deserve better.’

      ‘Augustus was a moment of weakness. I know better now than to seek out pathetic rats like him,’ Eugenia says heatedly, and then sighs. ‘I never thought he’d do such a thing—but then, I suppose, I have been wrong before. I should have seen it coming, really.’

      ‘None of that was your fault, Genia. Don’t ever think that. He’s an annoying, smarmy little so-and-so with an ego, and if he ever comes within five feet of you, I’ll do what James did and throw him into the Thames.’

      Despite the serious mood, Eugenia cackles heartily.

      ‘I don’t doubt that in the slightest, Tom. And I would like to be present should the situation arise to see it occur with my own eyes.’ She sniffs loudly and adds with utmost seriousness, ‘But you needn’t worry, for I will not step out with another man for as long as I shall live. I’ll cater to my many cats once I acquire them, and will bother you and your beau until we’re old and grey.’

      The image is a short one, but as vivid as a painting: Alastair, Eugenia and Thomas sitting in a parlour together with a small army of cats running around their legs and sprawled in their laps. They would discuss the weather and city gossip over cups of steaming chai, with grey in their hair and the sounds of a new world beyond the window panes, roaring like motorcars. They would laugh and cry and reminisce about their reckless youth, Eugenia would tease her brother and Alastair about how in love they are, and the door would open and Eugenia’s beau would enter after a hard day’s work, a bunch of flowers in their hands and adoration blindingly bright on their face.

      It makes Thomas smile wider than perhaps it should.

      ‘There is someone out there for you,’ he says to his sister, ‘and it’s not Pounceby. Someone else. Someone who’ll love you and treat you with all the care and affection in the world, as you so well deserve. And no, I’m not of the opinion that your vision of acquiring many cats is a false one, and yes, those cats will be your family, as will myself and my beau. But it will be us four, Genie, not three.’

      A brief pause settles over them, one that’s charged, full of promise.

      ‘I quite like the sound of that,’ Eugenia says wistfully. Her tone turns practical, stern, like a librarian telling a bunch of adolescents to be quiet, and claps her hands. ‘But until that future decides to grace us with its presence, let us do something now. Namely, would you like to make some scones with me, Tom?’

      Thomas nods into her neck.

      ‘Wonderful! We can give some to Papa and trick him into thinking they’re simply bread rolls with jam and cream.’

      Thomas laughs outright at that. ‘I think Papa can smell a scone from Soho and know not to come home, so I don’t think we’ll be successful in that particular endeavour.’

      Although he can’t see it, Thomas knows Eugenia’s eyes are sparkling with mischief, and her voice alone proves it as she proclaims, ‘I accept the challenge.’

      Lifting his head from her shoulder, Thomas shoots her a look. Eugenia simply bats her eyelashes at him and pats his cheek lovingly.

      ‘Come on, then,’ she announces, groaning in effort as she rises to her feet. ‘Let’s pull out a few jams, and perhaps we can make our own lemon curd.’

      ‘Sounds lovely,’ Thomas says as he does the same. ‘And we need to make sure we have orange marmalade in our selection as well.’

      Eugenia’s smile is small, sad, but she nods in agreement as they set off to the kitchen. The sentiment goes unsaid, but it’s alive in the air.

      Lemon curd for Christopher. Orange marmalade for Barbara.

      They spend the rest of the afternoon rattling around in the kitchen and getting under Cook’s feet. Though she grumbles to herself about having her space occupied, the siblings know she doesn’t really mind having them in there. Although Thomas gets threatened with a wooden spoon when he accidentally spills the bag of flour on the huge table in the middle of the kitchen and a fond scolding of, ‘You’re my favourite Lightwood boy, young man, but please refrain from disposing half the mill on my floor or this’ll meet your backside instead of tonight’s dinner!’ Eugenia laughs her heart out and ends up with jam on her cheek when Thomas smears his fingers across it in retaliation. He ends up with a handful of flour in his hair for that, but he deems his actions worth the white dusting.

      It’s a small miracle Cook doesn’t end up kicking them out for causing a tiny albeit chaotic mess, but when they’re left with a tray of perfectly baked scones and a fragrant lemon curd poured into a ceramic jug, the likelihood of being smacked with that terrifying wooden spoon disappears into a faint cloud.

      Though it must be said, as per Thomas’s prediction, they do not manage to convince their father at tea time that they’ve prepared fresh bread rolls with jam, marmalade and curd, much to the amusement of their mother and Eugenia’s annoyance. But they hide their tears when Gideon, unprompted, grabs one scone slathered with orange marmalade and clotted cream and puts it right in the middle of his plate.

 

---

 

Later that night, Thomas gets another knock on his bedroom door. It is not Eugenia this time, but his father, still wearing his dinner jacket. The golden glow from wall sconces in the hallway spills into the otherwise dim room, the only other source of light being a lone lamp by Thomas’s bed. His father’s face is cast half in shadow, but his expression is bright, if not a little hesitant.

      ‘Are you up for a walk?’ Gideon asks. ‘You’ve been in the house all day.’

      Thomas glances out of the window, seeing no sign of snowflakes, and considers the proposal.

      ‘Why not?’ he replies. ‘Some fresh air might do some good.’

      Ten minutes later, both Lightwood men find themselves outside in the early evening air. It’s cold tonight, frostier than normal, and Thomas wraps his green scarf snugger around his neck. Even now it still retains a hint of spice, almost floral, that clings to Alastair.

      He remembers the moment he’d been given this scarf, how Alastair unwrapped it from his neck and looped it around Thomas’s. He should naturally return it, so Alastair would no longer be a scarf short, and yet… he can’t quite part with it just yet.

      Gideon has swapped his dinner jacket for a thick wool overcoat, dark grey stark against the brownish blond of his hair. Out of both his parents, Thomas still finds it amazing how he and his father are almost the spitting image of each other, while Barbara and Eugenia look exactly like their mother. There are small differences, of course, such as how none of the children inherited their father’s greyish-green eyes, or how Eugenia has a smattering of freckles at her hairline she did not get from Sophie. But the resemblance between the two men is staggering regardless: hair the colour of sand that changes with the seasons, stocky build, skin painted with pale freckles that darken during the summer months.

      When he was confined to his bed as a child, Thomas’s mind would sometimes wander and dream of being as big and tall as Gideon. Never did he consider that it would come true, such thoughts reserved for the night-time when Thomas closed his eyes and let his imagination run wild. He would picture what the world would look like from up high, peering over rooftops and clock towers and church spires; he would chase demons, seraph blades held tightly in his hands, and have overwhelming triumph swell in his chest as those weapons would glide through the demons like butter.

      He was strong. He was capable. He was the same height as his father when they stood side-by-side, and Gideon would gaze at his son with pride shining in his eyes.

      Thomas always woke up feeling invincible after those dreams.

      Now… he might not be invincible, but if his younger self could see him as he is, he would be amazed.

      Yet it is not only Gideon’s and Thomas’s physical appearances which are alike.

      As they walk away from their home and down the street towards the main crossroads in the distance, silence surrounds them. A perfect blanket of thoughtfulness shrouds them both, paired with the empty neighbourhood and a particular kind of tranquillity that comes with winter. They understand each other, understand that conversation is not a necessary action to take and that the company is more than enough.

      But there is something brewing in the air, a hint of anticipation spiking up in the space between father and son, and it is Gideon who clears his throat first some time later.

      ‘Tell me, mijo,’ he starts softly, his breath leaving his mouth in a puff of white. ‘How are you?’

      Thomas cannot help the soft snort that leaves him.

      ‘Dear Papa, I hope this is not an attempt at small talk,’ he says cheekily. ‘You do know how I cannot partake in it, nor can you.’

      Gideon laughs and shakes his head. ‘Not as such. I would say it’s more of an initiation into a deeper topic of conversation.’ He looks at his son thoughtfully. ‘Eugenia mentioned an outburst.’

      Tucking his hands into his pockets, Thomas sighs. He should have known Eugenia would say something to their parents despite not wanting to worry them.

      ‘It was nothing,’ he tells him. ‘Well, not nothing, I suppose—but nothing to be worried about. I’m… It’s better now.’

      Gideon raises an eyebrow at him. ‘Is it?’ he asks incredulously, and Thomas feels caught-out.

      Bollocks.

      ‘Well…’ Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth for a second or so, Thomas says seriously, ‘I suppose it depends if you want the short or long answer.’

      ‘You can tell me both, if it helps.’

      He slows to a stop in the middle of the footpath. His father does the same alongside him, though while his gaze is on his son, Thomas’s is on the night sky above them. The moon is hidden partially behind the rooftop of the building they’re standing next to, casting soft beams on the streets below amongst the streetlights. There are few stars out, most covered by thick clouds or tucked away by tall buildings. He studies the moon’s greyish spots and remembers a mundane film played in a small cinema in the middle of Paris.

      It’s a good focal point. It’s the sight from his childhood dreams where he felt he could be and do anything. It’s the promise of something new brought to life through a screen and a dark-haired boy in the City of Lights.

      It’s enough to give him the strength to speak.

      ‘The short answer is, “I’m fine.” That’s the appropriate and expected answer, should I need to save face in polite company and not submit a poor person to my personal woes. The long answer?’ Sucking in a deep breath, Thomas looks at his father and shrugs helplessly. ‘The long answer is I don’t know how I am. I don’t know what I feel or what I should feel the majority of the time. I have this aching numbness that occasionally becomes grief and pain and anger rolled into one. But it doesn’t help in narrowing it down in a general sense given everything feels so…’

      He trails off, not sure how to describe it.

      ‘Hopelessly normal?’ Gideon offers after a moment.

      Thomas nods.

      ‘Yes… precisely that. But it couldn’t be further from normal. It’s anything but normal. And I don’t know how I feel about that. I just—I can only think of whom we’ve lost. Barbara, Kit… and it hurts, Papa. It really hurts. I suppose that is all I feel which I can label accordingly.’

      He’s not sure how he manages to do it, but he ends up telling Gideon what he said to Eugenia earlier that day. His voice shakes despite his best efforts to keep it level, and his eyes dart from his father’s face to the ground to the night sky and its moon. Gideon says nothing while Thomas talks, but the wealth of sorrow in his expression is enough to cause Thomas’s soul to fracture.

      Gideon reaches out and squeezes his son’s shoulder when he stops. ‘I know that wasn’t an easy thing to do,’ he murmurs, ‘so I am grateful you could tell me. And I am sorry, Thomas. I’m so sorry this has happened.’

      Swallowing thickly, Thomas tries to smile.

      ‘Yes, I am as well… But I offer your own question back to you,’ he says in as light a tone as he can muster, not really wanting to delve further into his feelings. He’s done quite enough of it for today. ‘How are you? I know Aunt Tatiana wasn’t the best of people—obviously—but at the end of the day, she was still your sister…’

      Gideon throws Thomas an unabashedly surprised look. Thomas wonders for a horrible moment whether he should have said such things, but then Gideon smiles gently, and the feeling vanishes.

      ‘You are one of very few people who has asked me that,’ he murmurs. ‘Your mother, Will, my brother… The others understand, of course. Of course they do. They’ve known us for so many years, but they haven’t asked outright. In a way, I’ve been glad for it. I hate lying, and I wouldn’t have wanted to inflict even more pain to those who’ve been directly affected by Tatiana’s actions by telling the truth.’

      ‘But… you have as well, Papa,’ Thomas protests. ‘It’s because of Tatiana’s actions that Barbara was killed in the first place. If she hadn’t made deals with Belial, there wouldn’t have been a demon attack during the day or a lack of demons in London or any of it.’

      ‘Yes, naturally. But she didn’t kill our Barbara directly. Not like—’ Gideon chokes on his words for a brief second, and Thomas feels an answering pull in his chest. ‘Not like Christopher. Good grief, Thomas, how can I tell Cecily or Anna or Alexander or anyone else that I mourn my sister, and that while I do not in any way condone what she did or love her as I once had, a part of me still holds the little girl she once was close to my heart? It’s unfathomable.’

      Frowning in disagreement, Thomas opens his mouth to rebut his father’s statement but stops. Gideon’s expression is closed off, blank, but his eyes betray him: there’s a thousand conflicts sparking in them, and Thomas guesses it has everything to do with Gideon imagining each scenario of telling his family members his true feelings about Tatiana.

      Gideon sighs, and his voice is very low and very, very sad. ‘I abhor the hold she has on me, Tom. I despise what she’s done to us all, and the people she’s taken from us. If I could take it all away, I would. But I can’t.’

      ‘You’re only human,’ Thomas says softly. ‘We all are. It perhaps makes no sense logically, but when have we ever been truly logical?’

      ‘That rather sounds like a logical answer to me,’ Gideon states with a smile, ‘if not a touch whimsical.’

      ‘Ha, I suppose.’ The words Thomas wants to say are poised on his tongue, and after a second of hesitation, he states, ‘What I mean to say is… it’s a far more complex situation than others. I think we’re allowed to feel things like this purely because it is so grey. I think you can be excused from having emotions that are outside what is ridiculously perceived as the conventional.’

      There’s a pause.

      ‘Well, now I know for certain you got your brain from your mother,’ Gideon tells Thomas.

      ‘Papa!’

      ‘I speak nothing but the truth!’ he continues through a laugh. ‘Such wisdom was not in this brain of mine at your age. Far from it! But your mother… she’s a very clever woman, indeed.’

      Thomas pouts. ‘That does not mean you are not clever yourself, Papa, despite what you say.’

      ‘Perhaps.’ Running a hand down the length of his face, Gideon sighs tiredly. ‘But you are right in what you say. It is a shame that not everyone thinks the same as you. So I shall have to keep my thoughts about Tatiana to myself and the select few who understand, lest the conventional hold it against me in the years to come.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Thomas whispers miserably.

      ‘I’m sorry, too,’ Gideon echoes.

      The conversation ends there, and it’s a wordless confirmation to resume their walk. The blanket of thoughtfulness returns, though weightier now with everything that was discussed between them. The main crossroads greets them when they turn a corner a little while later, as well as a few people milling about as they make their way to their homes or the nearby pubs.

      A clock tower chimes faintly from several streets away, and pulling out his watch from his pocket, Thomas’s eyebrows fly into his hairline at the late hour. Gideon, having done the same as his son, exclaims ‘Goodness, is that the time?’ and turns quickly on his heel, no doubt to turn back the way they’d come.

      Then he faces Thomas and returns his pocket watch into his coat. ‘Come,’ he says, and holds out his hand towards his son, ‘let us go home. Before your mother sends out a search party.’

      It comes out in a joking manner, but Thomas can see clearly in his mind’s eye that Sophie Lightwood would, in fact, gather as many Shadowhunters as she can to find her husband and son should they not come home on time. After everything that’s happened, Thomas wouldn’t blame her for doing so.

      Without a word, Thomas grabs his father’s hand and lets him lead the way back through the illuminated streets. Just this once, he’ll allow himself to be that little boy who was in awe of broad shoulders paving the way through large London crowds, and who followed him home with stars in his eyes. To lose himself in memories of days past may just be what he needs, even if it’s only a comfort for a moment or two.

 

---

 

      ‘Thomas, love, could you come and help me for a minute?’

      Poking his head into the main drawing room, Thomas finds his mother standing on a stool with a wicker basket of dried ivy leaves. One end of a branch hangs precariously from the picture rail and Sophie holds the other in between her fingers, no doubt having taken it down from the wall sconce that’s right next to her head. When she sees Thomas walking towards her, she shoots him a smile and gestures to the picture rail.

      ‘I’m afraid I’m a touch too short to reach,’ she says to her son in sheepish tones. ‘Your father has ducked out to see his brother—he received a fire-message a few minutes ago—and I’m not as tall as I used to be.’

      ‘Why, are you saying you’re shrinking with age, Mama?’ Thomas jokes and dances out of the way when Sophie swipes playfully at him.

      ‘Cheeky boy,’ she scolds. ‘It’s evidently the stool. It’s used so often that its legs have clearly worn away.’

      ‘Clearly.’

      ‘Oh, get over here before I clip you one behind the ear, Thomas Lightwood.’

      ‘If you could reach, I’d be more afraid, but since you cannot...’

      Sophie laughs as Thomas walks over to her, and he yelps in surprise when his mother makes true on her promise and flicks her fingers behind his ear.

      ‘Do not underestimate your mother, Tom,’ she informs him sagely as he stares at her with round eyes. ‘Mothers are known to move in mysterious ways.’

      Before he can say anything in response, Sophie bends and kisses the side of his head. She then steps down from the stool and wordlessly passes the dried branch to Thomas. He obliges, moving the stool aside with his foot and beginning to carefully pry the rest of the foliage that’s been hooked onto the picture rail, feeding it into the basket his mother holds.

      Christmas seems as though it happened in another life and not just a month earlier. The withered decorations serve as the only reminder that it took place and of the time that has passed since. The tree which stood in the corner of the room was carried out only yesterday, though the cardboard boxes of the wooden ornaments and shiny baubles that hung from its branches and the smell of pine needles are yet to be dealt with. Even the odd mistletoe branches Gideon placed in some areas of the house—purely as an excuse to kiss his wife at every opportunity—are gone.

      The thought barges in before he can stop it, but Thomas realises that it’s only a matter of days before Christopher’s funeral. Thankfully, Sophie’s voice fills the air and stops the spiralling sensation of horror and dread from overtaking Thomas’s senses.

      ‘Tell me, Thomas,’ she starts. ‘How would you like to celebrate your birthday this year? I imagine James and Matthew have something up their sleeves.’

      ‘You would be right,’ Thomas says dryly and with a smile as he glances at his mother, recalling Matthew’s detailed plans spilled over glasses of lemon squash and cups of coffee in the Devil’s Tavern some days ago. ‘I believe it involves a rather illustrious theatre and an Oscar Wilde play.’

      Sophie looks surprised. ‘Is that so?’

      Laughing, Thomas shakes his head. ‘No, but I imagine Matthew would appreciate such an event for his own birthday celebrations. It is a mere picnic outing, Mama. Nothing horribly special—at least that I know of.’ Recalling Claribella the reverse mermaid at James’s bachelor party, Thomas hopes no surprises like her show up at this picnic. Though knowing his friends, anything is possible.

      ‘That sounds lovely,’ Sophie says. ‘No doubt you’ll all have a marvellous time. Though make sure you pack accordingly should it snow. We don’t want any of you getting sick. You’ll need blankets and some umbrellas—oh, and take your overcoat. The navy one. It will keep you warm and you look so handsome in it.’

      Fighting a blush, Thomas clears his throat and mutters out, ‘Yes, Mama, will do.’

      Sophie harrumphs, but there’s no heat behind it. ‘Boys. There is nothing wrong with keeping yourself warm. No one will think you lesser for it.’

      ‘It is not that,’ Thomas protests. ‘I merely find it stifling. I don’t get as cold as I used to, and only need a couple of layers to fight the winter chill.’

      ‘Be that as it may, you are still my little boy, Thomas, even if you do tower over me now,’ Sophie tells him sternly, but there’s a sparkle in her gaze that makes him smile. ‘It is my duty to mollycoddle you, and I will continue to do so even when you are in your senior years.’

      Thomas groans out a laugh and Sophie merely grins at him. But the topic of his birthday continues to press at the forefront of his mind, and Thomas decides it is perhaps best to say what he really thinks. While he can pretend everything is fine and dandy around James and Matthew—to a degree, at least—he doesn’t have to around his mother.

      Besides, if there was anyone who could see through him despite his attempts to lie or be someone he isn’t for the sake of politeness…

      ‘Mama. About my birthday…’ At Sophie’s curious look, Thomas chews on his lip before he asks, ‘May I be honest?’

      ‘I would prefer it. What is it?’

      Sucking in a deep breath, Thomas states frankly, ‘If it were up to me, I’d rather not celebrate it at all.’

      He expects his mother to look sad or shocked by such a bold comment, and is stunned when all he can see on her face is understanding.

      ‘If that is what you wish, we can do nothing for it. I understand, Tom,’ she says gently, and something deep inside jars Thomas horribly.

      ‘No, Mama, surely—’ Running a frustrated hand over his face, Thomas adds hastily, ‘Forgive me, I’m not making sense. What I mean to say is… if I had the choice, I would do nothing for it. Just… let it pass by this year. However, I can understand that others need a reason to celebrate and forget the unfortunate reality we find ourselves in, even if it is only for a short while. Especially since it will take place after the funeral… So if they wish to use my birthday as an excuse to do just that, who am I to deny them that reprieve?’

      It hurts to contemplate the thought of celebrating, but not allowing his friends and family to have some fun leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

      But Sophie is shaking her head, and her hazel eyes are so bitterly sad as she shifts the basket onto one arm.

      ‘Silly boy,’ she murmurs, and she absently fixes her son’s shirt collar. ‘I should have known you would say such things. You always were one to think of others first and not of yourself.’

      ‘I had a good teacher,’ Thomas says sweetly, and bats his eyelashes as his mother very nearly rolls her eyes. But her mouth betrays her, quirking up in a smile.

      ‘Well, this “good teacher” has another lesson for you. While thinking of others and their needs is important, it is also paramount to think of yourself and your needs. Set yourself boundaries, Thomas. Ask yourself what it is you really need. In the case of your birthday, ask what it is you desire most.’

      It’s perfectly sage advice. Thomas cannot argue with any of it despite a rock forming in the pit of his stomach. The last time he thought about his needs—or, really, his desires—his friends were fighting for their lives and Christopher—

      No, he tells himself. Strangely, the voice in his head sounds a little too much like a mix of Alastair, Anna, Eugenia and Uncle Gabriel. It’s not your fault. None of it is your fault.

      Sighing softly, Thomas lowers his hands and the branch he holds, trying to collect his thoughts.

      What does he really desire?

      A picture starts to form in his mind: there’s a winter blanket thrown over damp grass, a chill in the air and a soft fog in the distance. There’s a basket of overflowing food situated in the middle, and a sizeable group of people sat around on the blanket. Matthew and James, the instigators of this whole event, are certainly present, as are Lucie, Anna, Cordelia and Alastair. No doubt Ari and Jesse would be as well, perhaps even Grace, complicated though everyone’s relationship is with her.

      Matthew would complain about the less than fortuitous weather, and snowflakes would start to fall. Alastair would scowl and state that they are ruining his hair, and Thomas would admire the sight of white snow glittering against black hair and as they get caught in long eyelashes. Cordelia would make a comment—no doubt about her brother’s lack of a hat—and banter between her, Matthew and Alastair would ensue, James and Lucie and Anna pitching in every so often, and Ari, Jesse and Grace watching wryly. Then Thomas, at some point, would lean over and kiss Alastair on the cheek, or his hair, or the corner of his mouth, and smile as surprised brown eyes land on him.

      And then the inevitable teasing statements of, ‘Good lord, you lovebirds, there are children present!’ and ‘I believe there is an available room in that inn nearby for your needs…’ and ‘Ugh, look at you two… you might just cause me to give love another chance,’ would come out of everyone’s mouths and Thomas would laugh and say clearly that it is his birthday and therefore he shall do as he wishes—and if that is kissing his boyfriend in their presence, then so be it.

      Though with that thought in mind… Thomas recalls the grilling he’d received from James following the events at Westminster, particularly about how Thomas kissed Alastair in front of everyone with no care in the world for their opinions. He’d been confused, wondering when exactly a relationship of this nature bloomed between them. Thomas, terrified of James’s reaction, told him that it was a recent development but that he’d been in love with Alastair for quite some time.

      James was quiet for a short while, but then he’d patted Thomas on the shoulder, smiled widely and said, ‘I’m glad, Tom. It’s wonderful to see you happy. And I don’t blame you for falling for a Carstairs. They’re rather amazing, you see.’

      And it is this attitude which would be present at the picnic, James joking around with his brother-in-law and gazing lovingly at his wife, and Thomas’s heart would swell in pure joy.

      There would be a bittersweet note to the air, naturally, the absence of Christopher and his penchant for spilling drinks and setting a small fire—which even in this winter weather would be a more likely possibility than one would think—be a rather heavy and glaring reminder. They would make a toast to their departed friend, make a promise to live life to the fullest in his name, and Thomas would be forced to cut into a cake while praying that his friends haven’t hidden anything ridiculous in the batter this time.

      It would be a rather marvellous day.

      And Thomas comes to the realisation that this will be the first outing with everyone involved where there are no secrets between them.

      How can he not go through with the celebrations with that fact hanging over him?

      Thomas looks up at Sophie, his mind clear.

      ‘I can’t let them down, Mama,’ he whispers. ‘They would do the same if it were me.’ He pauses, mulling it over, and adds, ‘It would make me happy to see them smile, and I will be able to survive a few hours of festivities. But at home, I would rather not partake in anything. Perhaps a cake, but nothing more. If that’s an alright compromise…’

      ‘I think we can manage a cake,’ Sophie says after a short pause. ‘Just about.’

      She winks at Thomas and he grins, thanking her softly. She waves him off, saying something about it being no bother, anything for her boy, and pats his cheek. It’s an obvious end to the conversation and that they should get back to the task at hand that is bringing the room back to its normal façade, but there are questions brewing in Thomas’s head.

      His desires surrounding his birthday is one thing, but there lies a deeper issue.

      And he supposes that his mother would be the right person to ask about how to handle the grief that’s chipping away at him as the days go by. So he broaches it with a tentative, ‘Mama?’

      ‘Yes, love?’ is his mother’s instant reply.

      ‘Does it get easier?’

      Sophie stares at her son in confusion. ‘Does what get easier, Tom?’

      Swallowing thickly, Thomas fiddles with the stem of the branch and says softly, ‘The change. The grief. The emptiness. All of it… does it ever become bearable?’

      An odd expression flutters over his mother’s face, making her scar stand out even more than usual. There’s a war happening behind her eyes, a thousand emotions sparing with each other. But she quickly tries to regain her composure, and Thomas’s heart breaks at the sight of it.

      Her voice is quiet as she speaks. ‘The truth is, Thomas, I don’t know. If you had asked me this question a year ago, I would have told you that it does get easier. It does become bearable. But now with Barbara gone, and Christopher…’ She shakes her head forlornly. ‘I’m sorry, love, I know that isn’t the answer you were perhaps hoping to hear—’

      ‘Don’t be silly, Mama,’ Thomas tells her. ‘I want an honest answer, and that is what I received.’

      In lieu of a reply, Sophie aims a tight smile at him. She then lowers herself into an armchair and sets the basket down by her feet. It’s bordering on overflowing, some of the branches hanging over the edges and grazing the floor. But she pays them no mind, wringing her fingers in her lap for a moment or two. It seems as though she wants to provide Thomas with a better answer, a better understanding of what she’s feeling, and Thomas stands before her, waiting with bated breath.

      ‘I thought I knew grief when I lost my friend,’ she tells him gently. Her tone is clear, but something in her eyes suggests her thoughts are somewhere far, far away. ‘When he died protecting us and the Institute. I was close to him… and his death hit me very hard. I thought I knew grief when Jem left us and became a Silent Brother, or when I realised that the dream of being with your father would never come true. I thought I knew loss when my former master slashed my face and gave me this—’ She runs her fingers over the ridged scar that pulls her face sideways. ‘—and when I gave up my former life to work at the Institute, and then again when I Ascended. But then my little girl was ripped away from me—’

      She chokes on her words and tries with everything in her to keep her resolve intact. Thomas has guilt pooling up inside him, twisting around like a writhing snake, and he wishes he’d never brought the topic up in the first place. But Sophie clears her throat and straightens her back before she continues.

      ‘The optimist in me says that it will. We’ve been through it before and will go through it again, as is the fact of life and being a Shadowhunter. Things will never be the same, certainly, but they will be easier to carry. Easier to… accept, and live, and move on, just as we’ve been able to do in the past. However, the mother who has just lost her first child says otherwise. So I’m sorry, Thomas, I cannot give you a proper explanation. Not when it—’

      But it seems Sophie cannot continue any longer as she clutches at her chest and heaves in a shaky breath. Without a second thought, the branch falls against the wall as Thomas drops it and he flies to his mother, scooping her into a tight hug. He immediately feels her arms wrap around his back as well as an answering pull in his chest the second she starts to cry freely into his neck. There’s pressure behind his eyes, and for once, he lets it take over, allowing several tears to fall down his cheeks.

      The rest of the sentence goes unsaid, but it booms in the room nonetheless.

      Not when it hurts so much.

      ‘We needn’t discuss this any further today,’ Thomas whispers, biting on his bottom lip savagely at the soft sob Sophie lets out. ‘I’m sorry for bringing it up, Mama. I do not wish to cause you more pain.’

      Pulling away—and rather abruptly, at that—Sophie grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him slightly. Thomas gawps at her, stunned into silence.

      ‘Do not apologise for bringing it up, Thomas,’ she scolds. Raising her hands to cradle his face in her palms, her thumbs stroking his cheeks, Sophie smiles at him as best as she can with the tears dripping off her chin. ‘For such a clever boy, you can be incredibly dense sometimes. I am glad you asked me.’

      Thomas blinks. ‘Glad?’ he echoes.

      ‘Yes, glad,’ Sophie stresses. ‘Oh, Thomas, I’ve been so worried about you. You hole yourself up in your room, and when you are not, you are out and about doing god knows what. If there ever was a habit to pick up from your father…’ She gazes at him reproachfully, but it’s soothed by her soft tone. ‘What I am trying to say is that I’m happy you are talking about it now. I want to know these things about you, Tom. Your thoughts, your feelings… your sorrows. Even if I’m not able to give you all the answers or, indeed, all the promises that things will improve in due course. But I am your mother, and the very least I can do is listen and provide a shoulder to cry on and all the hugs in the world if they’ll help.’

      Thomas is quiet for a moment.

      Eugenia, his father… they’ve both said similar things, and now his mother. He knew he was pushing them away as a means to collect his thoughts and understand his feelings a bit more, but has it really been this bad?

      It’s not like him at all. He’s never seen a reason to not be honest with his family.

      Well, aside from the obvious small matter of his affections for men and for Alastair Carstairs.

      But that’s not important right now.

      He grips Sophie a little harder.

      ‘I promise I’ll do better,’ Thomas vows. ‘Or at least try to.’

      Sophie kisses his forehead fiercely and cards her fingers through his hair. ‘That is all I want to hear. My dearest boy.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      She shakes her head. ‘No, none of that now. There’s no need to apologise.’

      Throat tight and tongue thick in his mouth, Thomas leans forward and kisses her scar. ‘I love you, Mama.’

      ‘I love you, too, Thomas. More than you’ll ever know.’ Running the back of her hand under her eyes, Sophie sniffs and rises from the armchair. Her voice is light despite the redness blotting her face and eyes, and Thomas wishes he could make things better for her—or at least easier. ‘Right, we better get back to it. These branches won’t clear themselves.’

      Saying nothing, Thomas stands from the floor and returns to his position by the wall. He picks up the branch once again and follows his mother’s lead. They spend the rest of the afternoon unhooking ivy and yew in weighted, meaningful silence that is sometimes broken by short conversation.

      However, for the first time since Barbara’s death, and even Christopher’s, Thomas’s shoulders are starting to feel a little bit lighter.

Notes:

chapter 4 is coming to you soon, but it's not nearly as finished as i would like it to be so... perhaps in a couple of weeks?? tbh it's been hot as shit here lately ToT like it's been over 30C for the past few days, sticky and humid and disgusting, and i am MELTING. so sadly, writing has not been happening :)

but for now!! comment!! kudos!! tell me your thoughts!! i live for them!! ♡

until next time, if you feel like it, come yell at me on tumblr @vwritesaus !

Chapter 4

Notes:

... i know i promised this next chapter back in january, but what can i say? it's been a thrilling mix of sleep deprivation, busy work days and writer's block until recently agh

but as compensation, it's another long chapter haha, so i hope you like!! ♡

The front door to the Fairchild residence in Grosvenor Square opens with a slight creak. Matthew stands on the other side of it and his face immediately brightens at the sight of his friend waiting on the threshold.

      ‘Thomas! There you are, old chap.’

      Shaking some snow out of his hair, Thomas grins at him. ‘Here I am.’

      He enters the house after Matthew waves him in impatiently, muttering something about not standing outside too long or he’ll catch a cold, and how Aunt Sophie will never let him hear the end of it should such a thing occur.

      ‘I wasn’t sure if you had received my message,’ Matthew states airily once Thomas is safely inside. He then casts what Thomas likes to refer to as the Look over his shoulder while he closes the door. ‘Or if you were coming.’

      Thomas crosses his arms and returns Matthew’s look with one of his own.

      ‘Of course I did. Do you doubt Kit’s fire-messages?’ he asks loftily.

      ‘Not at all,’ Matthew grouses. He raises a singular eyebrow and adds, ‘But I do know of your ability to lose the occasional invitation in the post.’

      It is true, as Thomas does “lose” his invitations to certain social events he deems unnecessary to attend. Never ones that concern his friends, however, or those annoyingly compulsory ones where he needs to show his face for the sake of politeness and being a part of the “community”—such as the famous Musicale hosted by the Townsends. The more he can avoid, the better. Why waste energy on something that will no doubt be terribly boring or fill him up with so much anxiety he feels it rolling in his stomach for several days afterwards?

      However, in this instance…

      ‘Some invitations are worth ignoring,’ Thomas tells Matthew quietly. ‘Not this one.’

      Matthew smiles, but it’s tight.

      The nature of Thomas’s visit today is not, in fact, a cheerful one. It is one of necessity, and it concerns the laboratory and all the items it accommodates.

      James, Matthew and Thomas have spoken about it a few times, as one might expect in such events, for the question of what to do with Christopher’s things is one which begs for an answer. In the end, they decided to store everything at the Devil’s Tavern until further notice, and until they can find a good moment to pass it all onto Christopher’s family. There is currently a couple of boxes by Christopher’s old bench, all the things he’d used in their room above the pub packed carefully away.

      The task hadn’t been easy, James having to leave the room for a minute or two to collect himself several times throughout the process, Matthew staring blankly at one of Christopher’s many notebooks, and Thomas trying his hardest not to succumb to the urge to throw everything into the fire. But they managed somehow.

      Now the main horror remains, and that is cleaning out the Fairchild’s laboratory of Christopher’s remaining belongings.

      It clearly took quite a bit of effort for Matthew to bite the bullet and send Thomas the fire-message detailing his desire to do it all today, if the shaky handwriting was any indication. When it materialised in front of Thomas, the words came like a punch to the gut and he had absentmindedly taken a sheet of blank paper to let him know he was on his way.

      But once he looked at it, Thomas froze. He stared at that piece of paper for close to an hour, willing his hand to work and write a decent reply to Matthew’s invitation. Or, at the very least, a simple, ‘I’ll be there’. His stele was laid on the table ready to be used, the Communication rune drawn onto it impossible to miss. Yet his fingers trembled, his vision blurred, and his heart screamed a resounding, ‘No!’

      He couldn’t do it.

      He couldn’t, for every time he tries, he can only think of Christopher.

      Whenever he receives one—mainly from Matthew or James or Alastair, sometimes Eugenia and his parents—all he feels is a surge of pride that yes, it was Christopher who invented this. It was Christopher who agonised over formulas and numerous failed trials to see this idea through. It was Christopher who went against all negative opinions and persisted in his theory day in, day out.

      It was Christopher who believed in Grace, regardless of her actions, to put the final pieces together and ensure his invention reached completion.

      But that pride quickly transforms into bitterness. The grief Thomas pushes aside returns with a vengeance, the thoughts of how the brother of his heart never lived to see his invention thrive pelting his mind with the force of heavy rain.

      So in the end, Thomas never replied, deciding to simply show up on Matthew’s doorstep and hope for the best. Though now that he stands before him, guilt is well and truly alive in his stomach, rock hard and heavy.

      ‘I apologise,’ he murmurs, ‘for not responding with a fire-message of my own. It’s…’

      Difficult? Impossible? Painful?

      None of those words seem to summarise the emotion that broils deep within Thomas’s gut whenever he attempts to write one.

      But Matthew shakes his head. ‘Do not apologise for that, Tom.’ He pauses, then says in a low voice, ‘I think of him too.’

      It hasn’t escaped Thomas’s notice that, since he died, Christopher’s name has not left Matthew’s mouth once. It’s always ‘Our boy’ or ‘Our lad’ or some other general moniker he uses to refer to him. Not that he can blame him. Thomas also finds it hard to say. Yet even in his silence, Matthew’s grief is palpable, and Thomas doesn’t doubt for a second that Christopher is on his mind as much as he is on Thomas’s, or James’s, or anyone else’s.

      Matthew clears his throat slightly and claps his hands decisively, his expression brightening considerably. Thomas blinks at him in mild surprise.

      ‘Well, there is no use moping about,’ Matthew declares with a jolly tone, though it teems with underlying sadness. He gestures to the stairwell leading down the laboratory. ‘Shall we?’

      At Thomas’s silent nod, the pair start to descend. Thomas goes first, though Matthew follows close behind, and he can hear the soft, amused snorts he makes at Thomas’s attempts to not bump his head on the ceiling.

      ‘Say, is James joining us?’

      ‘Just yourself and I today, Tom,’ is Matthew’s reply, and he tuts disapprovingly. ‘James and Lucie are required to be at the Institute for something important, though what that is, I have no idea. I don’t believe even Jamie knows.’

      Lucky bastard, Thomas thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud. Just as well, for when they reach the bottom, all the breath in his lungs leaves him with the force of a gale.

      The laboratory is messier than he remembers it being. Various pieces of equipment and tools—Bunsen burners, beakers, test tubes, wrenches and screwdrivers and a hammer—are scattered all over the benches, along with several piles of papers and well-loved notebooks. Though that’s not even half of it, for there is a shelf of vials filled with odd substances—demon ichor most likely, if Thomas has to hazard a guess—and another packed with books, journals, dictionaries and encyclopaedias. He can also see the evidence of Grace’s harried work in finishing Christopher’s research into the fire-message, but her station is a lot neater than the rest of the space.

      Angel, this is going to be a lot harder than Thomas anticipated.

      He glances over at Matthew and finds him stiff as a board, his gaze darting everywhere all at once and unable to settle on a single thing. There’s panic in his eyes, mixed with such dire melancholy it breaks Thomas’s heart to see. But staunch resolution blazes fiercely on his face, and the rings on Matthew’s fingers glint in the soft lighting as he curls and uncurls his hands. Thomas watches him as he carefully approaches the benches, glaring intensely at every item but making no move to touch a single one.

      Thomas can sympathise. Everything in this place is a harsh reminder of Christopher and who he was and everything he was capable of. It makes his death so much harder to bear, and it’s an emotion that is felt deeply in the Fairchild residence, and not only by Matthew.

      Charlotte has been oddly quiet about Christopher’s passing, her expression crumbling by the mere mention of him. She tries her best to be composed, though she’s not always successful. Yet one can safely say she’s doing a lot better than her husband.

      Though Thomas has not seen him, he can understand exactly what Henry is going through. This is his laboratory, after all, and the place where he taught Christopher so many things. He was his mentor from day dot, the pair of them with their heads together and mulling over problems or theories ever since Christopher showed a keen interest in science and experimenting. They were extremely close to each other.

      Sighing, Thomas asks Matthew gently, ‘How is Henry doing?’ genuinely wanting to know the answer.

      Matthew shakes his head forlornly at the question, and the smile he aims at Thomas is beyond strained.

      ‘Not well at all,’ he says. ‘It’s bad, Tom. He‘s devastated, and that is putting it mildly.’ He sweeps an arm at the laboratory. ‘He cannot even come down here without succumbing to a bout of weeping. To be fair, neither can I.’

      ‘Nor I,’ Thomas whispers. He swallows thickly and wills the prick of tears to go away. ‘Still, it needs doing.’

      Matthew’s expression shifts, empathy radiating off him in waves. If he were here, Christopher would liken it to the research of the Curies, and Thomas would smile as a means to show his understanding despite not really understanding at all. A hairline fracture goes through Thomas’s heart at the thought alone.

      ‘Tom.’ Matthew’s voice is soft, but there’s something in it that makes Thomas want to yield and fall to his knees and drag Matthew down with him to weep into his neck. ‘I know you’ve come all this way to assist, but if it’s too much…’

      He trails off, but the implication is thick in the air: if it’s too much, there is no need to torture yourself. But Thomas determinedly squares his shoulders as best he can with the weight of Christopher’s absence sitting on top of them.

      ‘Everything is too much, Matthew,’ he says honestly, and curses himself as his voice breaks. ‘But the world doesn’t stop because “it’s too much”. We—We must look forward… no matter how much it hurts.’

      A pregnant pause settles between them. Thomas can see each individual fleck of dark green—so dark they look brown in this light—that make up Matthew’s eyes, and all of them are embedded with a wealth of compassion. Thomas’s resolve quivers from the magnitude.

      ‘You’re right,’ Matthew says. ‘Of course, you’re right, Tom.’ His tone turns hard and firm, and scolds almost like Thomas’s father would, ‘That doesn’t mean you should plough through when you’re splintering at the edges.’

      The words stick and Thomas can only smile sadly.

      ‘Yet that’s exactly what I must do. Now,’ he starts with false cheer, ‘these beakers aren’t going to move themselves, are they?’

      He purposely looks away from Matthew as his face changes into one of utter sorrow and instead focuses on Christopher’s former workbench. He’s right: there are a number of beakers scattered all over the surface, some filled with old concoctions and others sparkling and pristine. If there was one thing Christopher kept clean, it was his instruments, never mind that his clothes were always in some kind of disarray—burnt holes, ashen streaks across the fabric, mismatched patches at the elbows of shirt sleeves, cracked lenses in old pairs of glasses. He treated each piece of equipment with the utmost care. When they didn’t explode on him or catch fire or melt away due to a spill of some kind of demon ichor, that is.

      To know that these were left dirty and that none of them will be used by Christopher again is a slap to the face.

      Thomas tries to keep his voice level as he asks, ‘Where are the boxes for all this, Math? And old newspapers to wrap the glassware in?’

      Matthew doesn’t reply, but there are fingers encircling Thomas’s wrist which pull him gently towards the corner of the room. There, he sees, is a tower of empty boxes waiting to be filled, and a stack of old newspapers bundled with twine right beside them. Without a word, Thomas grabs the first ones on each pile, returns to the variety of beakers at the workbench, and gets to work.

      It’s bizarre to think how such a task comes naturally to him now. The room at the Devil’s Tavern served as a practice-run, an introduction to the act, and all the horrible emotions built up during the process were let out in the open. Now he can grab every single object, clean them as best he can, wrap them in a page or two of a newspaper, and pack them away without batting an eyelash.

      There is an answering pull in his chest, however: a sort of numb ache to which he can only succumb.

      Closing the flaps of his first box and picking it up, Thomas places it in the corner, grabs another box, and repeats the process.

      He and Matthew work in silence for a little while, the only sounds heard being newspaper pages crinkling and clunking of objects hitting each other as they’re placed into the boxes. The benches become increasingly tidier and emptier, and it’s a sorry sight indeed.

      Thomas just works faster, willing the ache to go away.

      But as he sets down another full box with the rest of the stack, he realises something. Only his tower of boxes are here, and not a single one of Matthew’s. He knows that it’s been a good twenty or so minutes, at the very least, and yet…

      He turns to face his friend.

      ‘Matthew, are you alright—?’

      But he quickly stops.

      Matthew is frozen in his spot, not listening, and his fingers are curled around what looks like a soft toy. Thomas frowns at the sight of it, wondering for a second why there is a soft toy in the middle of a laboratory, but then he recognises it: a small teddy bear with golden fur and a purple satin ribbon tied around its neck. There’s a patch of dirt on one arm and its eyes are a very dark brown, oddly shiny given the environment it has been sitting in.

      It’s Alexander’s.

      ‘He’s gifted it to me,’ Thomas remembers Christopher telling him many moons ago. ‘So I don’t get lonely while I work. A guardian to keep an eye on me.’

      ‘Is that what he told you?’ Thomas asked incredulously at the time, finding it hard to imagine a two-year-old being so verbose with his wording.

      ‘No,’ Christopher said. He laughed and gazed at his cousin conspiratorially over the top of his glasses. ‘He just said “For you! A friend for Chris!” How could I reject such a gift?’

      Something in Thomas shakes like an earthquake. The obvious solution would be to return the bear to Alexander since Christopher doesn’t need it anymore, and it would be a way to remember his older brother. But with the way Matthew’s grip seems to suddenly strengthen around the toy, perhaps the true solution lies elsewhere.

      ‘Math.’ Thomas places a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. It stiffens under his touch. ‘Keep it. He’d want you to have it.’

      Though he can’t see his face, Thomas has a feeling he’s fighting back tears.

      ‘And I can do this on my own if you need a moment to yourself,’ he continues. ‘It’s more than alright.’

      To Thomas’s surprise, a strangled-sounding laugh bursts from Matthew’s mouth. He looks up at Thomas: his eyes are rimmed red, tears streaking his cheeks, but he’s smiling.

      ‘No, Tom,’ he says, ‘it’s alright. As you say, the world doesn’t stop because you feel overwhelmed.’ Glancing fondly at the bear in his hands, he runs his thumbs over its furry cheeks. ‘Besides, we need to honour our lad in some way, don’t we? Even if it’s simply giving his things a new purpose. Not the bear, of course. I shall keep it in a safe place.’

      To emphasise his point, Matthew tries to tuck the toy into one of his waistcoat pockets. It sticks out rather comically, its poor legs squashed and half its body slumped over the edge. But its new home is sure and true.

      ‘And who knows?’ he adds. ‘There might be another mad scientist in the next generation who’ll find these quite useful.’

      ‘Goodness, it’s certainly a possibility, but just think of all the new fires we’ll have to put out if there is,’ Thomas says wearily. ‘We better hide our best clothes now, lest it be too late when the time comes…’

      This time, Matthew’s laugh is clear, ringing in the laboratory like a shop bell. Thomas joins him and they resume cleaning up, though the thought of the next generation is at the forefront of Thomas’s mind.

      What will the world look like for them all in the next few years? More marriages, by all accounts. New horizons to explore, what with James and Cordelia’s, Anna and Ari’s, and Matthew’s plans to go abroad in the making. No doubt Thomas and Alastair will eventually do the same. Children, perhaps, like Anna and Ari and their desire to adopt—and maybe that soft teddy bear will be owned by one of Matthew’s children, if he has any.

      What will the world look like for their future children, if and when they come? It’s already so vast for those like Alexander and Zachary, already so vast for Thomas and his friends, despite everything they’ve been through since the conclusion of summer.

      Thomas can only hope it’ll be bright and not shadowed by death, fancifulness be damned. And as he boxes up a stash of Christopher’s scribbled-in notebooks, smiling at the sight of familiar, rushed handwriting, Thomas thinks they can all do with something good to look forward to.

 

      ‘Henry?’

      The drawing room is lit-up from a lone lamp in a corner and the crackling fire in the hearth. Henry Fairchild sits before it, a tartan blanket draped over his lap. There’s a book in his hands and a pair of reading glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose, his expression one of deep concentration. The flames cast flickering, golden light over his face and the carefully thumbed through pages, and his hazel eyes glow a bright gold when they settle on Thomas’s lingering figure by the door.

      ‘Thomas! How lovely to see you,’ he crows. He straightens himself in his bath chair and gestures for Thomas to enter and take a seat opposite him. He sets his book down on a small side table beside him and clasps his hands together in his lap. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

      Thomas baulks at the question, arrested in mid-motion. He sits down on the lounge rather heavily, his mind whirling as it tries to conjure an answer that doesn’t include mentioning his and Matthew’s task of clearing out the laboratory downstairs. The last thing he wants to do is upset Henry even further.

      ‘I was in the area and thought I’d come by and see how you are,’ Thomas lies. Well, half-lies. He did want to come by and see how Henry is doing in light of Matthew’s fire-message, but not so much that he was in the area. After all, Golders Green isn’t exactly around the corner.

      And judging by the way Henry grins at him, he can see right through Thomas’s tale. But he says nothing about it, only nods sagely.

      ‘I’m quite alright,’ he tells Thomas cheerfully. ‘In fact, I was reading an article last night about the latest updates of the wireless—truly riveting stuff, I tell you!—and I’ve many ideas on how we can utilise something as extraordinary as that in the day-to-day. The whole notion is that it goes beyond paper and that it happens in real-time, and to a large number of people at once! And, as far as I’m aware, it will be a voice on the other end, not simply words put to a page. Since we now have our own in-the-moment communication phenomenon, imagine if we can upgrade it to include speaking to everyone all at once, just as this wireless proposes. Can you imagine it, Thomas, if we could alert all the Institutes across the globe at the same time in the event of a large-scale demon attack? The outcome would be unparalleled! Lives—saved! We could assemble a small army in a matter of minutes! Oh, I do need to ask Christopher what he—’

      Henry cuts himself off sharply. Thomas is dazed by the sudden stop. He was trying hard to keep up with Henry’s newest vision, taking mental notes as best as he could. As the words sink in, so do the connotations, and Thomas’s stomach drops.

      ‘I’m sure he’d love it,’ he says thickly.

      Henry’s face crumples like paper and his bottom lip wobbles horribly.

      ‘Such a brilliant mind,’ he laments in a broken tone. ‘Such a wonderful, wonderful boy. What a waste.’

      Thomas doesn’t know what to say to that. He can only nod in agreement and pray he doesn’t burst into tears then and there.

      But then Henry states, ‘You must miss him,’ and Thomas blinks rather fast.

      ‘Terribly,’ he admits softly. ‘No doubt you do as well.’

      Henry doesn’t respond, but his expression says it all. He is not the type of man who drowns himself in what he refers to as “negative emotions”, preferring to see the brightness and positivity in every little thing. He would tell the story of how he ended up in a bath chair, and that his first thought was how to make his life in it more fun. ‘Make the best of a bad situation,’ has been one of his many mottos for as long as Thomas can remember. ‘Learn to adapt and life shall be easier and plentiful,’ is another. Sometimes Thomas wonders if Henry found them in a book somewhere and decided to make them his own.

      So to see grief lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and the emotion bleeding through hazel is a surprise as much as it is upsetting.

      ‘I know how close you were with him,’ Thomas continues in a murmur. Fiddling with his fingers, he pauses for a second. ‘We’ve cleaned out the laboratory.’

      Henry frowns at him, some of the sadness melting away. Confusion is rife in his voice. ‘Cleaned it out? Of what? Who?’

      Thomas swallows. ‘Of Kit’s things. Matthew and I. That’s part of why I came here today.’

      ‘I see…’ Henry pauses, no doubt mulling it over. Then he asks, ‘Are you taking everything to Cecily and Gabriel?’

      Shaking his head, Thomas tells him, ‘We’re taking everything to our room at the Devil’s Tavern for now. We feel it is not a great time to cause Aunt Cecily and Uncle Gabriel more grief… But we plan to pass it all on to them when the right moment comes.’

      What he doesn’t mention is how such a plan came to be. Of course Christopher’s things will eventually go into Cecily’s and Gabriel’s hands, perhaps even Anna’s. That is a given. But Matthew, James nor Thomas had the courage to physically take those boxes out of the Devil’s Tavern. Not yet.

      So at the conclusion of their clean-up, the trio left those boxes exactly where they are now and will continue to be for the next little while: on Christopher’s former bench, with enough space next to them for all the boxes Thomas and Matthew will take from Grosvenor Square.

      Henry nods solemnly at Thomas’s explanation. ‘Thank you, Thomas,’ he says earnestly. ‘Really. I know how hard that must have been.’

      ‘It was… oddly therapeutic.’ Smiling to himself, Thomas looks into the fire and remembers Christopher after a small explosion, black ash streaking across his face and clothes. ‘For a moment, it was as though he was in there with us, making sure we left nothing behind. Only his legacy.’

      And what a legacy it’s turned out to be.

      When it began, Christopher and Thomas were together in that laboratory. That particular day was an odd one, filled with Christopher’s many attempts to create a working fire-message. Thomas’s letter to Alastair was written carelessly and genuinely, armed with the knowledge that Alastair would never actually receive it, let alone be able to read it. He remembers the elated feeling when Alastair did get it—all his teasing over Thomas’s request of not telling anyone he brushes his teeth aside—that Christopher’s efforts resulted in success. And yes although that success was arbitrary in nature, it was a victory nevertheless.

      It was the proof they needed to say that this was something that could work. That this was something that could change their lives forever.

      And it has.

      Thomas smiles at Henry. ‘If there is anything you wish to keep to remember him by, do let us know before we leave with the boxes later.’

      Matthew is in the process of recovering from the ordeal of carrying all the boxes up the stairs from the laboratory, having waved Thomas off weakly with a muttered, ‘My back hurts, I need to lie down.’ It’s a front, for Thomas knows Matthew better than that and that carrying a few boxes is nothing to him. Their days at the Academy come to mind, where Matthew used to wax poetic about the woes of being a Shadowhunter and his desire to not take part in any of it, only to turn around and be the most graceful warrior in the entire school. The teddy bear was in his hands as he’d left in the direction of his bedroom, and Thomas felt it necessary to let him go.

      This is his time to digest what that empty laboratory means now, and if that small soft toy and being alone is the answer then Thomas isn’t the one to deny him those things. They will go over to the Devil’s Tavern later when Matthew is ready, boxes in tow.

      Henry sighs softly, shaking his head. ‘I cannot think of anything at the moment, Tom,’ he murmurs. ‘It’s… it’s too much to bear.’

      Placing his hand on Henry’s knee, Thomas whispers, ‘It’s alright. Whenever you’re ready. We’ll have everything in safekeeping until then.’

      He gets his fingers squeezed by way of an answer, of silent gratitude, and Thomas allows the matter to fade into the background. His mind, on the other hand, is working overtime.

      Henry’s idea of a revolutionary paperless messaging phenomenon echoes faintly in his head. If anyone has the ability to see such an invention through, it would be Henry. It would not only see a new generation of Shadowhunters in a larger net of safety, but it would honour and utilise Christopher’s fire-message as a blueprint. And to know that every single Shadowhunter has taken to fire-messaging without so much as blinking an eye is heart-warming.

      Every Shadowhunter except Thomas, it seems.

      No. No, this simply will not do.

      He’s stronger than this. He is.

      Straightening up in his seat, Thomas collects himself and sucks in a breath.

      It’s time to face his demons once and for all.

      ‘May I use your writing bureau for a moment, Henry?’

      ‘Of course you may,’ Henry says, and Thomas doesn’t dawdle. With a soft word of thanks, he crosses over to the handsome bureau by the door and immediately takes a seat. That, and a piece of blank paper of which he rips off a small piece.

      Thomas glares at it, his shaking hand, and the offending stele branded with the Communication rune he sets down next to the paper.

      Please. Oh, please.

      Grabbing a pen, Thomas forces himself to write the name of the person he’s addressing this to and a sentence. Just one, made up of five simple words, and he signs his name at the bottom. It’s not his best handwriting, but it’s legible, at the very least. He folds the paper in half, drops the pen and picks up the stele.

      Do it, he states firmly to himself. Do it. Do it now. Do it—

      He won’t let the demons win. Not this time. Not ever again.

      Squeezing his eyes shut, Thomas hurriedly draws the fire rune onto the paper from memory. His heart thunders in his ears, and he’s struggling to catch a breath. Thomas doesn’t even know if he’s drawn the rune correctly, or if he’s missed the paper completely and has just drawn a fire rune on the writing bureau. But he refuses to open his eyes to check, regardless of a potential hazard in the making.

      Not that he needs to, thankfully, for there’s a small whoosh sound and a short burst of warmth by his fingers, along with the tell-tale scent of smoke. When he does pry open one eye after a moment, Thomas notices that the piece of paper is gone and that the writing bureau is safe.

      He heaves in a lungful of air.

      He did it.

      He did it.

      There’s something bubbling up his throat—a cry of victory? A gasp? A sob? He doesn’t know.

      Almost a minute later, something materialises in the air before him: a small flame, followed by another piece of paper, this one slightly larger. Swallowing thickly, Thomas plucks it out of the air and carefully unfolds it. He reads the words written in beautiful cursive and freezes.

      A beat passes.

      Two.

      Three—

      And Thomas bursts into tears.

      They come on thick and fast, clawing their way up from depths in his chest he didn’t know existed. Invisible fingers grab onto his shoulders and shake him, shove him over the cliff edge and into an abyss of sharp, jagged darkness. There’s something stabbing him like a knife, twisting the blade in a wound so deep—and he realises only after it happens that it’s his soul, already so fragile, being carved into tiny, irreparable pieces.

      He doesn’t have the time to consider how pathetic it is, how pathetic he is, to cry like this over a piece of paper. It crunches in his hand as his fingers curl into a fist; a grating sound, a resonating reminder of the words written on it. Thomas covers his eyes with his other hand, trembling and unsure where exactly to fall on his face, and leaving the tears gushing down his cheeks and jaw in full view.

      Henry’s hands on his shoulders come as a shock and Thomas vaguely registers his low voice saying something to him. He hears none of it. He just lets himself be pulled into Henry’s arms, and the gentle fingers carding through his hair cause him to cry harder. The angle is awkward, Henry’s bath chair a touch lower than Thomas’s seat, and the arm of the chair digs into Thomas’s side as he leans over it. Right now, however, he cares not for any of it.

      Thomas cries into his hand, into Henry’s shoulder, and presses the letter firmly to his chest, hoping a part of it can mend some of the cracks in his heart.

 

---

 

      My darling Tom,

      I’ll be home and you are always welcome here. You needn’t ask.

      All my love,

      Alastair

      P.S. I know what this is truly about, but I thought I should say it regardless:

      I am so extremely proud of you. Nor do I have a single doubt that Christopher is as well.

 

---

 

The fire rises to a deafening roar. Thick, raging flames engulf everything: the pyre, the bier, Christopher, the sky, the sun.

      When it comes to these things, no one talks about how hot the fire burns, or how quickly smoke sticks to the clothes. Thomas’s eyes are watering, and not simply due to the nature of his heart being ripped out. The heat of the flames washes over the crowd like a wave, stifling and heavy and choking. The smoke, too, is potent and ruthless in its path, like a storm cloud upon the horizon.

      Thomas is strangely thankful for it. At least he’s feeling something other than grief, something other than absolutely nothing.

      At least he can see this as Christopher’s final goodbye, hugged and taken in the trails of the element he loved so much to play with.

      For so many years they all watched Christopher burn his clothes and fiddle with Bunsen burners and stick his hands into hot embers all in the name of science. ‘You cannot change the world without a little bit of danger,’ he used to say, pouting all the while as Thomas or Anna drew iratzes on his latest injuries. ‘A little burn is miniscule in comparison to a revolutionary discovery!’

      How apt a discovery it has turned out to be.

      Most of the congregated Shadowhunters take a couple of steps back to combat the scorching heat. Thomas doesn’t. None of his family or friends do either.

      They stand still, letting the smoke and the fire’s hot touch embrace them.

 

---

 

Four days before the funeral sees the Lightwood manor in Idris in a state of restlessness. Despite it only housing both sets of Lightwood families and Ari under the one roof, the Herondales, Fairchilds and Carstairs continuously come around to keep them company, and ensure they are well-fed and taken care of in the face of what is a horrible event to come.

      Thomas is grateful for this fact. Not only are James, Lucie and Matthew around, but so is adorable baby Zachary, charming everyone with his huge brown eyes and gummy smiles. As is Cordelia, her boisterous personality and competitiveness over a game of chess a welcome distraction. That’s not to mention Alastair, his calm, supportive aura and witty tongue in close proximity.

      In all truth, Thomas nearly fainted from the excitement of Alastair being under the same roof as him for days at a time.

      And everyone else too, of course, but that is not as important.

      Especially not with the anticipation of Alastair sneaking into his bedroom every night to converse with him and hold his hand, which has been a regular occurrence since they came to Idris a week ago. His main excuse is to escape the unfortunate reality of his sister and James being glued to each other’s sides, and engaging in what he refers to as an “unhealthy amount of canoodling”.

      ‘This is what happens when the Herondales are the hosts, I suppose,’ Alastair stated in dire tones late one night, completed with a fabulous scowl. ‘They allow for inappropriate acts to be performed under their noses.’

      ‘And what of the noses of my parents?’ Thomas rebutted. ‘Imagine their faces upon discovering the polite and charming Alastair Carstairs sneaking about in the night and taking residence in their son’s bedroom. I daresay Cordelia is not the only Carstairs performing inappropriate acts.’

      He had gotten a swat on his arm for the comment, and they needed to stifle their laughs in fear of waking everyone up. They have yet to be caught, though Thomas imagines there is a very low chance of it happening, least of all by Sophie and Gideon Lightwood. Not when their attention is elsewhere, for obvious reasons.

      During the day, life is unusually normal. There is sadness in the air, yes, and in every heart still. Yet the manor is full of people, food is eaten, conversations are had, laughter fills the halls, the rooms and the garden out the back. The sun shines, and when it snows, there are fights amongst the children with snowballs and a snowman with a top hat built proudly by Alexander with whatever little snow he can gather. Walks in Alicante before tea are walked, tales of the past told by Uncle Will are told, and games vigorously played in the parlour room after dinner are played.

      It is the nights which are the most trouble, a dive back into harsh reality. With the shadows come the truths, the silences and the allowances for deep considerations; for trips down memory lane that are fenced with wire and wilting flowers, and sleep plagued by grief. Barely anyone in Lightwood Manor is able to rest, and whatever little they manage is broken and littered with nightmares. Everyone is alert, dreading the worst, and tonight will be no different. Of that, Thomas is certain.

      Now that all the guests have departed for the day, he is currently on his way to see Anna, a book tucked under his arm and a cup of tea balancing precariously on its saucer. It rattles slightly with each step he takes, and he’s watching it warily while walking down the stairs towards the drawing room. Anna has taken to spending this isolated time in the evenings by burying her nose in whatever books she can find, drinking copious amounts of tea and holding Ari close to her side as they sit by the fire. It’s become a ritual of sorts, one Thomas feels the need to participate in for a little while, or at least until Alastair is able to return through Thomas’s bedroom window. Eugenia joins in as well, through with her needlework and her case of assorted embroidery floss, scissors and thimbles. She is no doubt already with Anna and Ari right now, and quite possibly chatting up a storm as a means to keep the mood light. Or, most likely, to provide a distraction until Thomas arrives.

      Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Thomas turns the corner, heading down the corridor leading to the drawing room with a quicker pace. There are some small tables pushed up against the walls and some other doors, ones leading to the dining room, the parlour or the games rooms, and Thomas has a feeling there’s someone in almost all of them. When he passes by the door to the parlour, his suspicions are confirmed: given the late hour, he can hear low voices in deep discussion through the wood, ones he recognises as his father’s and his uncle’s.

      He stops in his tracks. Tea sloshes dangerously in his cup.

      ‘I don’t know what to do, Gideon,’ Gabriel is saying, his tone morose. Thomas can visualise a downward turn to his mouth vividly in his mind’s eye. ‘I don’t know how to help her.’

      ‘She needs time,’ Gideon murmurs.

      ‘I know that, and I’ll give her all the time in the world, as much as she needs. It’s more…’

      Gabriel hums, as though trying to piece together the words he wants to say.

      ‘She won’t speak to me,’ he states.

      Gideon makes an alarmed sound.

      ‘Surely Cecily does not think you are responsible for this?’

      ‘No, not at all,’ Gabriel amends hastily, and groans in frustration. ‘I more meant she won’t speak with me. About Christopher or the funeral or any of it aside from organisational matters. Nothing more than that. It’s as though her mouth has been sewn shut on the topic. Ever since—’

      There’s an odd choking sound, no doubt from Gabriel, followed by a soft curse. Thomas can make out something rustling—perhaps his uncle taking a seat?

      His uncle’s voice is strained when he speaks again. ‘Ever since the exile, when they brought Christopher's body back to Alicante… since we broke the news to Cecy… she’s become completely lifeless. Yes, she acts accordingly—whatever accordingly is these days—and she talks to people about everything and anything when the situation calls for it…’

      He trails off, sounding terribly confused and lost.

      ‘Except Christopher,’ Gideon finishes gently.

      ‘Except Christopher,’ Gabriel repeats sorrowfully. ‘And it is not as though I expect her to. It is hard for me to talk about him too. I just—I worry. It’s been weeks of silence, Gideon, and I do not know what is going through Cecy’s head. I have not heard or seen her cry, or sleep properly, or go anywhere near Christopher’s room, and each time I try to bring any of it up in conversation, she merely smiles at me and says nothing. Just nods or pats my arm or embraces me—which are things I am not complaining about, really.’

      There’s a heavy sigh. Thomas’s heart aches for his uncle, aches for his aunt.

      ‘She won’t speak to Will, either.’

      ‘Yes,’ Gideon murmurs, ‘he did mention something along those lines.’

      ‘About being frustrated?’

      Gabriel’s tone is light, teasing almost, but there lies a morsel of bitterness in the undercurrent.

      ‘More sad,’ his brother elaborates. ‘They talk about everything, being brother and sister. So with Cecily not opening up to him as she usually would, Will is a little lost, but mainly sad for her.’

      ‘It’s understandable. We both find ourselves at an impasse.’

      ‘Also understandable.’

      There’s a short pause.

      ‘You don’t think she will…’

      Gideon hums uncomfortably, and Thomas can feel his nervous energy even through the wooden door.

      ‘She’ll what, Gideon?’

      ‘That she will do something…?’

      The beat of silence that follows shakes Thomas’s bones, as does the astronomical weight of the implication in his father’s question.

      ‘No,’ Gabriel says eventually. ‘No, she wouldn’t. But I do understand why you would ask.’

      The relieved breath that leaves Gideon’s body is hard to miss. Thomas finds himself doing the same, bracing himself against the wall with a hand. Unfortunately, the book that was tucked under his arm falls to the ground with a spectacular thud, and he winces violently at the sound. Whether his uncle or his father notice it or the soft swears Thomas mutters under his breath as he hastily picks up the book is impossible to tell; but the next thing Thomas knows, Gabriel is speaking once more, seemingly oblivious to his eavesdropping nephew and his falling books.

      ‘Despite it all, I also don’t expect it all to go as it has for you and Sophie. We all grieve differently, and we seek solace in different places. But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t envious of the openness between yourself and Sophie… Oh, do forgive me for my continuous moaning, brother. You too have lost a child. Not to mention there are others out there who have far worse matters to handle than that of an uncharacteristically silent wife.’

      Gideon barks out a sharp, ‘Gabriel,’ and Thomas feels the hairs on his arms rise. No doubt his uncle’s do too.

      During Thomas’s youth, there were a handful of times when his father had the same tone, impervious to any nonsense he was presented with: Barbara’s woes about not being good enough for Oliver Hayward, Eugenia’s self-deprecating lamentations following the fallout with Augustus Pounceby, Thomas’s sullen grumblings about being too weak, too sick, too small to be anything remotely close to a Shadowhunter, just to name a few. One snap of their names and it was enough to make them sheepishly rethink what they said. It was always soothed with a kiss to their temples or a tight embrace—and judging from the noises coming from the other side of the door, Thomas believes Gideon is hugging his younger brother very tightly.

      ‘Perhaps there are others who have it worse, as you say,’ Gideon says quietly after a moment, ‘but that does not excuse your situation or your feelings, nor does it make them any less overwhelming and true. As for Sophie and I… There was a time where I couldn’t speak of Barbara. The very act of saying her name was too much for me. I would break down in a fit of tears with each attempt. You remember.’

      Thomas assumes his uncle nods at the statement.

      ‘It’s not an easy rift to pull oneself out of, and no matter how much Sophie tried to do it for me, she couldn’t. All she could do, and what helped immeasurably, was give me time. Time, and love, and a shoulder to cry on when it was needed, knowing I would do the same for her. And I did. All this to say, Gabriel, that Cecily will come to you when she’s ready—or, indeed, if. Until then… just be there. Hold her, love her, and mourn with her in whatever way that is. She will show you, and in a way, she already has.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘She wishes to be silent, to not talk about it. But has she specifically asked you to not speak about it? Or walked away when you have?’

      ‘No, I can’t say she has…’ Gabriel mutters in a soft kind of awe.

      ‘Then keep mentioning Christopher, however much you’re able to. I’m sure she’s listening, and when she’s ready to talk, she will. When she’s ready to cry, she will, and she will ask for you. I know it.’

      Gabriel says something in response, but it is too soft for Thomas to hear. He thinks that he’s heard enough of the conversation, so he takes his leave. When he reaches the end of the hallway, however, he stops again.

      Everything his uncle and father discussed Thomas has seen with his own eyes. With Anna’s reluctance to talk about Christopher, he’s thought a few times just how similar Anna and Cecily are to each other: quiet in their grief, stout, but fraying at the edges. While Anna is drowning herself in prose and tea, Cecily is…

      Thomas realises now that he hasn’t seen her at all today.

      She’s taken all her meals in her room, and though Thomas swears he heard her voice coming from the library around teatime, he cannot be certain it was her.

      Has she been in her room all this time? With no one checking on her?

      No, surely Gabriel has been to see her? Even with her lack of wanting to discuss their son?

      Something skitters under Thomas’s skin. He glances down at the book and teacup in his hands and comes to a conclusion. Anna and the others can wait a little longer. He doubles back the way he came, depositing the book on one of the small tables in the process. The teacup rattles the same tune upon its saucer as he scales the stairs two at a time, though he hardly can find the means to care about it when he reaches the landing and passes by his room, Anna’s, his parents’—

      Thomas comes to a slow stop in front of his aunt and uncle’s bedroom door. It’s closed, but there’s soft lamplight spilling out from the crack. Cecily must still be awake.

      Squaring his shoulders, Thomas knocks, and when no one answers immediately, gingerly decides to open the door.

      Cecily is sitting by the window in a rocking chair, Alexander in her lap and her eyes cast beyond the glass panes. Alexander smiles when he sees Thomas standing in the doorway, but as if aware of his mother’s mood, doesn’t make a sound; he only raises his arms towards his cousin, a clear demand to be picked up and swung around. Thomas wants to oblige him, wants to shield him from the grief that’s settled all around their family, wants him to have a childhood free of the hanging cloud of death, but he knows it’s impossible.

      So all he does is smile and slightly shake his head, whispering to him, ‘Later, okay? Before bed, I promise. I need to talk to your mam right now.’

      Alexander pouts heavily at him and his arms fall back down. A second later, something seems to go off in his mind, his whole face lighting up as he scrambles out of his mother’s lap. Cecily doesn’t move or show any acknowledgement that her youngest son has left her embrace. She just continues to stare out of the window with a terrifying blankness.

      Just narrowly missing the side table that’s by the rocking chair—where most of Cecily’s dinner remains untouched—Alexander totters over to Thomas and grins hugely up at him, announcing, ‘I’m gonna find Chris!’

      Before Thomas can say anything—though what would he say that he hasn’t already said a hundred times? How Christopher’s gone? How he’s not coming back, now or ever again?—Alexander is already racing out of the room. Thomas watches him go with his heart heavy in his chest, and it only becomes heavier when turns his attention away from his littlest cousin and over to Cecily.

      He clears his throat. ‘Aunt Cecily?’

      To his surprise, his voice seems to break her out of her stupor, and she turns her head to him.

      ‘Thomas.’ Cecily’s voice is soft, if not a little surprised. There’s a smile on her face, small but warm. ‘Have you come to see Alexander?’

      ‘As a matter of fact, no,’ Thomas says. ‘He’s got business elsewhere.’

      His tone is conspiratorial, an attempt at being humorous, and thankfully it works for, after realising Alexander is no longer in her lap, Cecily shakes her head fondly.

      ‘He’s always a busy boy,’ she states. ‘Much to do, much to see.’

      ‘The world is huge, indeed,’ Thomas agrees. ‘Though I imagine he’s in search of sustenance.’

      Whether that sustenance is in an eating or being in Christopher’s company kind of way is left unsaid.

      ‘So if you are not after Alexander, then why are you here, Tom?’ his aunt asks, gratefully oblivious to her nephew’s cryptic answer. ‘Surely it isn’t yet time for bed?’

      Thomas blinks at her. ‘No. I’m here to see you, of course. If I won’t disturb your peace?’

      Cecily shoots him a weary but affectionate look, one that says very clearly that Thomas being in her space isn’t something to be apologetic over, and waves a hand at the chair opposite hers. He hands her the cup of tea before he takes a seat, and is pleased when she takes a small sip. He won’t miss it. He’ll steal some of Anna’s later on when he sees her. Right now, Thomas is just glad his aunt is getting something into her system, even if it is just a measly cup of lukewarm tea.

      There’s no avoiding it: Cecily looks haggard. Though she tries to smile at her nephew as they launch into quiet conversation, it does nothing to hide the lines at the corners of her eyes, her lips, in the dips of her nose. Her dark hair, peppered with grey, falls all around her face, escaping the confines of a haphazardly put-together braid that is slung over one shoulder, and it only highlights the haze covering the dark blue of her irises.

      Gabriel has every means to worry. Thomas can see it, plain as day, and armed with what he'd heard in the parlour between the two brothers, there’s no evidence to suggest the contrary. Cecily Lightwood, despite her efforts to appear unaffected or, indeed, normal, is drowning. But as they engage in the topic of Thomas’s travel year in Madrid—enthusiastically proposed by his aunt, for she still hasn’t heard of his grand adventures!—Thomas doesn’t have the chance to consider the appropriate means to help.

      A kind word? A promise to offer comfort whenever she needs it? An apology?

      He gets even less of a chance when, as she turns her attention to the world beyond the window, Cecily hums thoughtfully.

      ‘There is something I wish to ask you, Thomas,’ she says.

      Gazing curiously at her, Thomas clasps his hands in his lap. ‘Yes?’

      ‘Where were you?’

      He blinks. ‘Pardon? You mean in Madrid?’

      Cecily’s eyes are suddenly on him, the piercing blue of her irises stark against her black hair. Thomas represses a shiver that wants to rack his spine. He has never had cause to fear Aunt Cecily, having found her witty tongue and fiery passion for life awe-inspiring, especially being someone who is very shy and soft-spoken.

      But now, the tiniest spark ignites somewhere in his chest for the first time in his life.

      ‘Anna said that you weren’t at the Institute when the fight broke out with Tatiana, but she didn’t know where you’d gone,’ Cecily elaborates, her tone matter-of-fact. ‘Nor have you mentioned it to her since. She’s only aware of the reason you left. So where were you?’

      Thomas forgets how to breathe.

      That tiny spark transforms into a raging inferno, and he kicks himself for believing nothing about Cecily could frighten him.

      It all comes out in a rush before he can stop it, the words stumbling over each other, and Thomas wonders if Cecily manages to understand any of it. He tells her of their confrontation with Charles, about Alastair needing to get away for a while, and the pair of them going in a carriage away from the Institute, about how they’d seen firsthand the initial shroud that had fallen over London’s mundanes and their mechanical, marionette-like behaviour, and how they’d both made their way back to the Institute post-haste.

      Thomas tries not to think of the exact moment he and Alastair entered the Sanctuary to find their friends in complete silence, and Christopher on the bier surrounded by candles—

      He gasps softly and violently shakes his head.

      ‘I know I should have remained at the Institute with the others,’ he states through gritted teeth, cursing himself for the way his eyes start to sting. There are protesting voices rising up from the back of his mind, all of the sage advice he’s received from his loved ones bubbling up into existence, but they are too faint to comprehend this time. They merely merge into one aimless, droning sound. ‘I know I should have stayed and watched Chris’s back. I should’ve been there. I shouldn’t’ve—Angel, I’m—it’s my fault, it’s all my fault—’

      Whatever Thomas was expecting, it was not Cecily’s hands grabbing his, nor her fingers tightening around them firmly. Her voice is nothing short of alarmed as it cuts through Thomas’s rambling like a butcher’s cleaver, to the point where the white noise in his head peters out like a demon which has just been slain by a seraph blade.

      ‘Thomas, bach, that’s enough! That’s not what I meant by my question at all. Silly boy…’

      Glancing up, Thomas swallows thickly and searches Cecily’s expression for any indication of a lie. When he sees none, he whispers, ‘You… didn’t?’

      ‘Of course not,’ she tells him sternly. She sighs then, weightily, and pain flashes across her gaze like a comet. ‘Thomas… I’m glad you weren’t anywhere near the Institute when the fight went down. I’m glad you were safe—or as much as you could be, given the circumstances. I just wish you all had been… We were so sure the Institute was the safest place for you children, and that’s why we were comfortable in leaving you there. To think that Tatiana and Belial could violate our own former Iron Sisters and Silent Brothers to do their bidding and cross the threshold of the Institute’s wards… None of us saw that coming, bach.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘There are no buts, Thomas Lightwood,’ Cecily says sharply, and Thomas’s jaw shuts with a sheepish click. ‘The only person to blame for Christopher’s death is Tatiana, and I’m only sorry that I didn’t get to kill her myself.’

      The statement hits Thomas like a sack of bricks. He has no doubts that Cecily would not have hesitated, even with Tatiana being her husband’s sister and fellow Shadowhunter—and he remembers all of Uncle Will’s stories about him and Cecily growing up, about Cecily’s strong personality and inability to back down from a fight.

      And Thomas can see in his mind’s eye his aunt’s graceful form twisting in the air, murder in her eyes and a blade in her hands that edges closer to Tatiana Blackthorn’s surprised expression and unsuspecting chest.

      It would have been a grotesquely poetic end to Tatiana’s life, a type of full-circle moment in which the family she tried so desperately to avenge and simultaneously remove herself from was also the one to see to her demise. Thomas mourns the lost chance for his aunt: an eye for an eye.

      He immediately pushes the thought out of his head. Christopher would not approve of that. He would have given Tatiana a chance at redemption, like he had Grace, no matter how unlikely it would be to end on a positive note.

      So instead of replying in tandem with Cecily’s sentiment, he asks, ‘Then… why did you ask where I was?’ in a soft, tentative tone.

      ‘I wanted to know what was so important that you would go against Will’s wishes for you all to stay within the Institute and not venture out of it until our return. That is all,’ Cecily states promptly. She smiles at him, a tight and strained thing, but Thomas detects a warmth behind it nonetheless. ‘I know you, Thomas. I know you like my own children. You would not go against anything or anyone unless you felt it was absolutely necessary—and for you to be there for Alastair Carstairs in his hour of need just proves to me that you are still the kind-hearted, selfless young man I know you to be.’

      Thomas ducks his head and removes his hands from Cecily’s, the sudden pressure behind his eyes too great to ignore. It is of some comfort to know that his aunt does not blame him for what happened to Christopher, or that her perception of him has changed in light of his explanation. He has yet to believe any of it wholeheartedly himself, and there’s very little cause to doubt that there will always be a piece inside him gnawing away at his subconscious, hissing that it’s his fault, his doing, his incompetence that killed his cousin.

      Perhaps one day he will discover the proper arsenal to fight it.

      He laughs shortly at it all. When he looks up and sees Cecily’s confused expression, he says, ‘I came up here to comfort you, and yet…’

      How does it always end up like this? First Anna, then Alastair, then Henry, and now Cecily? Shame courses through him like a raging fire. But before he can open his mouth to continue his apology, Cecily’s gaze falls from his face and lands on the floor.

      ‘That is sweet of you, cariad, but I cannot have comfort. There is no comfort in this.’ Her voice trembles, the ends of her words barely spoken. ‘My son is dead. My son is dead, Thomas, and I’ll never see him again. How can I ever move on from this—?’

      She breaks off with a gasp. Thomas slides to his knees in front of her, taking hold of her hands and pressing his lips to her knuckles. Cecily lets him and Thomas feels his heart splinter into a thousand pieces.

      But he’s come up here for a reason, as he’s just told her. It may result in nothing, the situation remaining the same as it already is, but he has to try. Cecily did the same for him and he was so grateful for it at the time. He hopes he can provide a fraction of the help, if nothing else.

      ‘I’m going to tell you what a wise woman said to me once,’ he tells her, his throat tight, ‘when my world was crashing down and I didn’t know which way was up. When I was too focused on making sure everyone else was alright and forgot about myself.’

      Cecily’s lips curve into a dry smile, obviously aware of what Thomas is referring to. ‘And what piece of wisdom did this woman bestow upon you, Thomas?’

      Thomas tells her verbatim, in an almost casual manner as one does when stating what’s for tea. He says it clearly and firmly and with as much passion as he can muster, because that’s how much he believes in the words. They meant so much to him all these months, and they continue to mean so much to him now.

      At first, when the words settle in the air between them, nothing happens. Cecily merely gawks at him, her eyes round, startled. Thomas gazes at her beseechingly.

      Then, a single tear beads along Cecily’s bottom lashes and falls, landing somewhere on her lap. Then another follows.

      And another. And another.

      Cecily Lightwood covers her mouth with her hands, but makes no move to rid herself of the tears streaming down her cheeks, dripping off her chin and trailing along her wrists. Thomas fists his hands in her skirts as a whimper rises from her throat, a low, agonised sound that rips through him like a blizzard.

      ‘Thomas,’ she sobs. ‘Bach, I need Gabriel. I need—please—’

      He doesn’t hesitate, getting to his feet in a rather ungainly fashion, and launches himself at the door frame. He yells for his uncle, propriety be damned, and doesn’t stop until he hears hurrying footsteps coming up the stairs.

      Gabriel flies into the room not even a minute later, Gideon close behind, his hair a mess and his eyes round in concern. His gaze glides to Thomas, alight with confusion, and Thomas merely glances over at Cecily by way of an explanation. It seems to be enough for he hears his uncle suck in a sharp breath and the softest rendition of his wife’s name passes his lips.

      At the sound, Cecily turns her head, and chokes back a sob when she sees her husband. She holds her arms out to him imploringly, begging to be held, and her cheeks are streaked with fast-falling tears.

      ‘Gabriel—cariad—’

      The rest of the sentence is pure Welsh, too fast and broken and indistinct for Thomas to understand a single phrase. Not that it matters for Gabriel hurries over to her without word or pause, instantly diving to his knees and bringing her close to his chest. Cecily wraps her arms around his neck, his chest, hopelessly trying to get a hold of her husband; her fingers pass through his hair, across his shoulders, before they limply clutch the back of his jacket. She cries into his chest, her body no longer able to keep her emotions contained under lock and key.

      It hits him suddenly, but the thought of Will not being here to witness this and extend that helping hand to his sister he’s been so desperate to provide is like a boulder on Thomas’s shoulders, as is the sight in front of him.

      ‘I don’t know what you said to her,’ Gideon says from next to him, pulling him out of his own head, ‘but I’m glad you did. She needed this.’

      ‘I merely repeated her own words back to her.’ Thomas knows his father is shooting him a puzzled look, so he explains it all in a whisper. ‘When Barbara died, Aunt Cecily gave me some advice. It helped more than she realised, I think. So I wanted to do the same for her. It’s the least I could do.’

      Gideon stares at him sadly and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. Nothing more is said as they turn away from Cecily and Gabriel, closing the door behind them, but their hearts are heavy. That, and their souls are crushed by the sound of Cecily’s heartbroken wails gushing out from the crack under the door.

 

---

 

      ‘Let it hurt. Let it rip you apart. Let it claw its way into your soul and bury itself there. It’s the only way you can then start to heal. Only when you are truly broken can you pick up the pieces one by one and start to put them back together.

      ‘It will always hurt, bach, and those pieces will never fit back together the way they used to… but unless you let yourself break, there will be no way forward. Unless you yank off the cap of the bottle and pour its contents out, there’s no way to refill it with something new. The more you force it down, the worse it will be when it’s finally let out.

      ‘So cry, my child. Cry, and cry, and cry until you cannot cry anymore.’

Notes:

i'm so glad i finally got this chapter out. the matthew and cecily scenes were some of the first ones i wrote when i started on this fic a year ago HOW THE FUCK, so to see them now fully done and posted is honestly such a victory TwT

not to mention there's now one more chapter to go!? unreal, i never thought i'd make it. like the matthew and cecily scenes, the final final scene was another i wrote very early on, so i hope you are looking forward to it as much as i am!!

in the meantime, you guys know what to do. drop a comment, kudos, bookmark away!! i'd love to know what you think hehe ♡

see you in the next (AND LAST) chapter soon, and if you feel like it, come yell at me on tumblr @vwritesaus until then !

Chapter 5

Notes:

so after much sleep deprivation, a raging flu, sobbing my eyes out in relief after getting a permanent position at work, i won't say much other than this: WE MADE IT!!

hope you enjoy this final chapter ♡

The deep red glow of fire is beautiful to look at. Most of the pyre has burnt away now, the foundations having collapsed into a blazing heap some minutes ago. The crash was tremendous, a cacophony of cracking logs and splintering timber as the structure fell into itself. It was enough to see a handful of the congregation move away and start to leave the funeral, the whites and reds of their mourning clothes stark against the billowing black cloud of smoke and ashes.

      Not for Thomas and the other Lightwoods. Not for their close family and friends either. Gabriel and Cecily are approached by those leaving, politely offering their condolences and sympathies. Gabriel takes them in stride as best he can with his heart crushed on his sleeve for the world to see. Cecily stares stonily at the remains of her son’s pyre, clutching Sophie’s hands like a vice as every commiseration falls on deaf ears.

      Flecks of black float up towards the clouds and settle on the frosty grass of the Fields. Thomas watches them, thinking how stark they would look should it start to snow: white snowflakes burning in the sky, swallowed by the mouth of a dark, foggy beast.

      There is something oddly beguiling about it. As is the nature of Shadowhunter funerals themselves. The fallen rise to the heavens through raging flames and black clouds: phoenixes awaiting their return beyond the river’s banks.

      It’s a whisper in the wind, sounding strangely like Will Herondale, but it rocks the world underneath Thomas’s feet.

      Pulvis et umbra sumus.

      We are but dust and shadows.

 

---

 

Winter in Idris is very different to the one that descends on London, Thomas has noticed. There’s a softness about it that’s absent from the harsh iciness of the grand city, where windy, tunnelled alleyways and small side streets are replaced with open fields and cosier homes. The days are warmer, the nights colder, and not as much snow or rain pelts the land as much as they do the city.

      It’s also a lot quieter.

      Back in London, the nights and early mornings have noise coming from the streets regardless of the late hours. People prowl about after having had too many at a public house as a means to keep warm, or duck in and out of establishments to escape an impending gale or storm while shrieking their lungs out, or heading home after a long night out at the theatre. Here in Alicante, Thomas can hear himself think, which is both a blessing and a curse. Tonight it’s a curse.

      He sits on the steps leading up to the front door of Lightwood Manor, letting the cold air coat his face, hands, and his ankles from where his pyjama bottoms ride up. His breath leaves him in puffs of white, his nose stings every time he inhales, and his fingertips are a touch frozen, but he doesn’t care.

      All of it is welcome. It gives him something else to focus on other than the problem at hand.

      He cannot sleep. Thomas tried, of course. He tried for hours. The pillow under his head was flipped over countless times, beaten into shape, or removed and hugged close to his chest. The blanket was not thrown to the side as it usually would be, lest poor slumbering Alastair get hit in the face as a result, so Thomas had to suffer it being twisted around his legs like a snake as he tried and failed to make himself comfortable enough to drift off into sleep.

      After what felt like the thousand-and-fourth time of willing his pillow and blanket to yield to his wants, Thomas stopped trying. He gave up, got up, and left the bedroom. He needed some air.

      In truth, Thomas was ready to sit out here without so much as a coat or night robe, but decided in the end to double back into his room and pull a wide-striped jumper over his head. The last thing he needs is his mother chastising him for catching a cold because he’d sat outside in his shirtsleeves—or worse, have Alastair tut at him in disappointment for not doing better to take care of himself.

      The jumper itself is nothing extraordinary, but it’s warm. It’s comfortable. It’s helping to ease the tight ball in his chest. It’s something to focus on as his fingers find the hem and fiddle with a loose, fraying thread. He can touch the individual interconnected loops with his thumbs and wonder how the person who knitted it could achieve such a flawless piece in their craft. He can marvel over the art of wreathing countless balls of yarn around needles to create something like this, for he cannot fathom doing it with his own hands, as there is no doubt that his poor jumper or scarf will end up as a misshapen lump of knots. He can ponder the science behind the dyeing and the threading of the yarn itself.

      Thomas can think of all that. He wants to think of all that. It’s better than thinking and facing all of—

      No. No, he can’t. He mustn’t. It would defeat the whole purpose of sitting out here in the cold before the crack of dawn. He cannot sleep because of it, and hasn’t been able to for weeks. It would—

      ‘Thomas? What are you doing out here?’

      He jolts. Turning around, Thomas finds Alastair halfway out of the front door, clad in his pyjamas, a thick, periwinkle blue night robe, and a pair of red, embroidered slippers which can only belong to Cordelia. His dark hair is a tangle of thick curls sticking up around his face, and there are deep pillow lines streaking his cheeks. The sight has Thomas’s heart singing, even though he would prefer to see Alastair sound asleep in bed rather than out in the cold like he is.

      But Alastair has other ideas. The moment he closes the door behind him, he hisses through his teeth and wraps the night robe tighter around himself, crossing his arms over his chest.

      ‘It’s bloody freezing. You’ll catch your death out here,’ Alastair grumbles as he takes a seat on the step next to Thomas. ‘Why you would leave the comfort and warmth of your bed, I have yet to understand. This is awful.’

      ‘And yet, here you sit,’ Thomas joshes, ‘out of the comfort and warmth of said bed.’

      He doesn’t need to look at Alastair to know he’s rolling his eyes, and he doesn’t bother to fight the grin that tugs at his mouth as Alastair playfully bumps his shoulder with his.

      ‘The things we do for love,’ he mutters dryly.

      ‘And you do love me,’ Thomas agrees sagely.

      Alastair’s smile is soft when Thomas glances over at him.

      ‘Yes,’ he whispers, his dark eyes shimmering with what Thomas can only label as pure affection, ‘I do.’

      Thomas traces that lovely face with his eyes and aching fondness blooms wildly in his chest.

      Alastair, once again, climbed through Thomas’s bedroom window after everyone had retired for the day. It was a tricky endeavour, given no one is able to sleep properly tonight, what with the funeral being early the next morning. He managed, however, and he and Thomas spent a long time talking softly amongst themselves before drifting off. How Thomas hadn’t woken Alastair up before with all his tossing and turning amazes him, but he was glad to have been able to tip-toe out without Alastair stirring. Or so he thought.

      ‘I’m sorry if I woke you,’ he says. ‘I had hoped not to disturb you.’

      ‘You didn’t,’ Alastair says earnestly. ‘Well, not due to you sneaking out of bed.’

      ‘Then?’

      It’s a surprise to see, but Alastair looks shy.

      ‘I was cold,’ he murmurs, ‘without you beside me. When I found a cool pillow and not the warmth of your back, it was enough to wake me.’

      Thomas coos and leans in to kiss Alastair's cheek, apologising gravely for his crime. He can see Alastair attempting to keep his face straight, but fails miserably when Thomas bumps their noses together.

      ‘You’re sweet,’ Thomas tells him.

      Instead of agreeing, Alastair decides to comment, ‘This is nice,’ as his fingers rub over the sleeve of Thomas’s jumper.

      ‘A subtle transition.’ Thomas peeks down at his jumper. ‘It’s something.’

      ‘It looks good on you.’

      ‘Does it now?’

      ‘You look like a handsome labourer from somewhere in the Cotswolds, or even Scotland,’ Alastair states frankly, ‘so I would say it does.’

      Thomas laughs outright. ‘Somehow, that is not what I expected you to say.’

      Brown eyes glint with mischief as they lock with Thomas’s hazel ones, and there’s a matching grin curling along Alastair’s lips. ‘That was the idea.’

      He knows what Alastair is doing, and it works because he laughs again, as does Alastair. Though the laughter quickly peters out into a short, contemplative pause. Thomas feels his brief grin fall from his face and the tightness in his chest returns with a vengeance.

      ‘I can’t sleep,’ he says in answer to Alastair’s earlier question.

      ‘I garnered as much.’ Shifting closer so their thighs are flush together and their exposed ankles are touching, Alastair peers up at Thomas’s face and asks gently, ‘Is it the funeral?’

      ‘I don’t know. It’s everything, I suppose,’ Thomas confesses.

      ‘Too much?’ Alastair offers.

      ‘Confusing.’ Scrubbing a hand over his face, Thomas sighs heavily. ‘Terrible. Aimless. Empty.’

      ‘That’s a lot of adjectives, Tom, and yet I hear no nouns to which they are attached.’

      There’s another laugh bubbling. He can feel it rising from the depths of his stomach. But it gets stuck in his throat, a hard and useless ball, and he fears it will come out as a strangled cry rather than something joyful. Thomas swallows it down and hangs his head.

      ‘Every time I close my eyes,’ he whispers, ‘I see him. Be it when we were children, running around this house with no care in the world, or back in London in the Tavern or the Institute or in the laboratory—it doesn’t matter. He materialises before me, happy and curious and alive. And then all of that transforms into that horrible moment—’

      He chokes on the words and stops, and his fingers curl into the fabric of his pyjama pants. A sob nearly escapes him when Alastair’s hand lands on top of his.

      ‘It becomes worse the closer the funeral gets,’ Thomas somehow continues. ‘Last night was almost manageable, but tonight? He’s here every second. There is no escaping him.’

      It’s a terrible thing to say, to want, but Thomas cannot lie about this. The images—memories, really—flashed in his mind in quick succession as soon as the lamps were turned off and the curtains drawn, not giving Thomas any chance of reprieve. The moment in the Sanctuary, especially, repeated itself countless times, and each time it did, a new detail popped up, as though a light was shining upon it:

      The stained tear in Christopher’s shirt where Tatiana’s knife slashed it. The exact shade of white of the silk held between Anna’s equally white fingers. The starkness of Christopher’s Lightwood ring—the very same one Thomas has, and Anna, and Eugenia, and all the Lightwoods—against his cold, lifeless skin. The warmth of Alastair’s lips on his face and eyelids when the ground became quicksand under Thomas’s knees. The weight of the silence, the shroud it had been, when they’d walked in with the news of London’s mundanes thick on their tongues…

      It’s a special kind of torture.

      ‘So I stave off sleep in hope I can stop seeing him for a little while. Up until tonight, it was easy. A few hours here, a few there… But I have no chance of it tonight.’ He shrugs helplessly. ‘Thus, I came out here to keep myself awake. To stop thinking about it. To… run away from it, because really, I’m a coward, aren’t I?’

      ‘That are you not,’ Alastair snaps, and Thomas is surprised by the harshness of it. He lifts his head and sees that Alastair’s mouth is a thin line, thoroughly unimpressed. ‘We all have demons, Tom, and we are only human. It is natural to run from things that scare us. But that does not make us lily-livered. If that were the case, I would be crowned as king for everything I have run from, or pushed away, or ignored for my own peace of mind. Do not critique yourself. You’ve every right to seek distractions, no matter the cause.’

      Thomas doesn’t know what to say to that. Deep down, he knows what Alastair says is true. Right now, however, he doesn’t know what to believe. So he stays quiet and hopes Alastair sees it as him being thoughtful.

      He doesn’t, that much is obvious, for Alastair can read Thomas like a book. But he doesn’t push him on it. Instead, he brushes away some hair falling into Thomas’s eyes.

      ‘What can I do to help?’ When all Thomas does is stare at him blankly, Alastair adds, ‘To help you sleep, or to quell the noise in your head. What can I do?’

      Despite everything, Thomas smirks and states with a type of faux innocence that would make Matthew proud, ‘I can think of a few things, but they all would result in either scandalised parents or Jamie and Math promising to avenge my lost virtue.’

      Alastair barks out a shocked laugh.

      ‘Thomas Lightwood! You absolute demon,’ he scolds, though his eyes are alight with mirth. ‘The cheek of you. You’ve been hanging around Fairchild for too long. Be serious!’

      ‘But I am serious,’ Thomas says plainly.

      ‘Thomas—’

      ‘It is you with his mind elsewhere, Alastair. What if all I wanted to propose was that you hold my hand while we share a bed, as we have done every night already?’

      Alastair opens his mouth and then closes it. Thomas simply bats his eyelashes at him in the way only the youngest siblings know how.

      ‘Git,’ Alastair grumbles, smiling a little as he lightly flicks the tip of Thomas’s nose. ‘You know very well that was not what you were proposing.’

      ‘I certainly was!’ Thomas quips. He grins at the magnificent eye roll Alastair does. ‘And it is not just Matthew I’ve been hanging around too long,’ he adds while casting Alastair a meaningful look. ‘I believe someone else has a rather sharp wit.’

      ‘I do not know who you mean,’ Alastair says playfully. ‘No one comes to mind at all.’

      ‘Surely they do!’

      ‘Not at all. I’m afraid I’m rather obtuse, and therefore, you must be clearer.’

      ‘Well, if you’re obtuse,’ Thomas repeats, and smiles at Alastair’s haughty expression. ‘Then I shall be clearer in the future.’

      Alastair doesn’t say anything in response to that, but the sparkle in his eyes says it all. Thomas takes it in, and the white puffs that leave Alastair’s mouth, and the red flush to his skin from the cold, and feels something heavy slide away from his shoulders. It turns into the same mist that their breaths do, floating off into the morning air.

      ‘I’ll be alright,’ Thomas whispers.

      Alastair throws him an unimpressed look. ‘Colour me unconvinced.’

      ‘I mean it, Alastair. I may not be fine at this very moment, or tomorrow, or the day after, but eventually, I will be—and it helps knowing that you’ll be there. It makes things a little more bearable.’

      ‘Of course I’ll be there,’ Alastair says firmly. He lifts a hand and glides his fingers over Thomas’s cheek, the fingertips only a touch warmer than the surrounding morning air. ‘Do not doubt that for a second.’

      Gripping his fingers, Thomas holds them against his face and shuts his eyes, focusing on the feeling. Alastair’s forehead meets his, and the action is so tender, so sweet, that Thomas’s heart breaks a little. He would dwell on it more, would thank Alastair for being here, for everything, for caring, but the trembling in Alastair’s hands and the slight chattering of teeth seize his attention.

      ‘You’re shivering, love,’ Thomas murmurs. Opening his eyes, he presses his lips against the skin between Alastair’s eyebrows and tucks one of those adorable sleep-mussed curls behind his ear. ‘Go back inside, back into bed where it’s warm.’

      ‘I shan’t,’ Alastair says mutinously, sniffing greatly. ‘Not without you.’

      ‘Into the same bed? Why, Alastair.’ Feigning hurt, Thomas holds a hand to his heart and pouts. ‘And just after that tongue-lashing you gave me for suggesting the same thing—’

      Squishing Thomas’s cheeks with both his hands, Alastair tuts loudly, mutters, ‘Be quiet,’ and kisses him.

      Thomas melts. His fingers wrap around Alastair’s wrist and he yields to the sensation of Alastair’s lips against his. It is still a case of awe, being with Alastair like this. All those stolen moments at the Academy Thomas snagged with him have transformed into this? Thomas’s younger self would never believe it.

      Thomas’s current self, too, finds it hard to believe. But Alastair’s kisses are real, his hands are real, his touch is real, and Thomas is soaring. His heart swells with emotion, unable to fathom its luck, that it can be given to Alastair Carstairs in full without breaking or falling apart.

      It’s blinding.

      Holding Alastair’s wrist a little tighter, Thomas pours everything he has into the kiss. And he would kiss him some more, make damn sure Alastair gets every single morsel of love he can give right here on the doorstep, but Alastair pulls away with a gasp and a curse. He hisses something fierce, his whole body shuddering as he moves back from Thomas and rubs his hands together.

      ‘I will go to the ends of the earth for you, Tom,’ he says gravely, ‘but god help me if I am to sit out here another minute. I fear all my appendages will turn to ice and fall off, and then you will have to feed me and help me to walk and tell me what the world smells like because I shall no longer be able to…’

      He continues rambling as he rises to his feet and demandingly holds out his hand for Thomas to take. There is absolutely no room for argument.

      Letting out a hearty chuckle, Thomas grabs it and stands up. He doesn’t argue about Alastair leading him back into the house, just allows those long fingers that are interlocked with his to guide him silently through the corridors, up the stairs, and back into Thomas’s bedroom. When they enter, Alastair merely shoots Thomas a weighted look as he shrugs off his night robe; an audible yelp fills the air as he does, followed by a series of disapproving grumbles that make Thomas smile.

      He really isn’t one for the cold, Thomas thinks.

      Seemingly knowing what he’s thinking, a blank expression encompasses Alastair’s face. ‘If you don’t stop smiling and close that door in the next five seconds,’ he warns, ‘I’m revoking your canoodling privileges.’

      Thomas doesn’t need to be told twice. He shuts the door and locks it for good measure. When he turns around, he finds Alastair already in bed, humming out a content sound and pulling the blanket up to his nose. He leaves plenty of space for Thomas to slide in beside him, and Thomas feels giddy from the thought that they have favoured sides of the bed. That, and Alastair knows which side of the bed Thomas prefers.

      His smile only grows larger as Thomas removes his jumper and drapes it over the foot of the bed. He chuckles softly at Alastair’s unamused, sulkily mumbled, ‘I liked that on you,’ as he joins Alastair under the blanket. Though leaning back against the headboard and grabbing his notebook from the bedside table, Thomas promises him that he’ll wear it again just for him. Alastair grins up at him, toothy and wide, stating that he’ll hold Thomas to that.

      At the same time, Thomas tries not to melt into Alastair’s body as the man snuggles into his side, terrified that if he does, the illusion will dissipate into a thousand pieces. It’s strange how even after all these weeks, Thomas sometimes is still under the impression that everything that’s occurring between them is nothing but a very long, very wonderful dream. Tonight is one of those nights where he fears he’s not ready to let go of it just yet. So instead, he runs the pads of his fingers over the leather-bound cover of his notebook.

      It’s a new one, unwritten in and possessing that very particular smell one associates with places like Hatchards. Spine intact, pages neatly cut and fresh, it’s waiting to be filled with Thomas’s thoughts. He finished his last one a few nights ago, and it’s sitting on the writing bureau in the corner of the bedroom, pages ballooning and the front cover dented in the middle from all the times Thomas’s fingers had pressed into it. Its last handful of pages are filled with Thomas’s thoughts regarding the funeral, Christopher and his absence, and the conversation he had with his aunt. Since then, Thomas hasn’t written a word.

      Just like now, he has picked up this new notebook, stared at it for a few minutes, or an hour or two, then returned it to the bedside table again without putting pen to paper. Even if he had, Thomas isn’t sure what he would write anyway. There is nothing but a thick fog in his mind, overcome by the knowledge that he’ll be saying goodbye to his closest friend and brother in a matter of days and hours, not years.

      Thomas entertained the idea of writing something down tonight, regardless of it being a mere sentence or so, just to document what is about to be another life-altering event, but found himself unable to once more. Instead, he’d spent hours trying to fall asleep, and look where that got him. Why he’s picked up the stupid thing for the second time is beyond him. All he knows is that the itch to write is there.

      But what?

      It takes everything in him not to let out an irritated sigh. Instead, he chooses to glance down at Alastair, and Thomas sees him already on the precipice of a deep slumber, and he would think him asleep if not for the fingers fiddling with the hem of Thomas’s shirt. Sensing Thomas’s eyes on him, Alastair shifts slightly and lets out a slow breath.

      ‘Thomas… will you sleep?’

      ‘Not yet, love,’ Thomas murmurs. Alastair’s face twitches, a ghost of a pleased smile gracing his lips. It’s enough for Thomas to bend down and kiss the corner of his mouth. ‘But I’ll be here.’

      ‘You better be,’ Alastair says sleepily. He opens his eyes a margin, setting them on Thomas and drawing him in through deep pools of brown. ‘I love you, Tom.’

      Beaming, Thomas whispers, ‘I love you too, joon-am.’

      ‘Wake me up if it becomes too much,’ Alastair mumbles, almost unintelligible now. He’s fast approaching sleep. His eyes can barely keep themselves open. ‘Promise?’

      Thomas nods. It’s a promise he will break, for the last thing he wants is to burden Alastair further, even if the predicted rebuttal will be that it isn’t a burden, and won’t ever be. He has a feeling Alastair is aware of this fact, but he whispers out a genuine, ‘Thank you,’ and runs his hand through Alastair’s dark hair.

      Alastair doesn’t respond. He merely leans into the touch for a fraction of a second before slackening against the pillow. Thomas watches as his breathing evens out, his expression softens, and his fingers become lax against Thomas’s hip. The first soft snores come quicker than Thomas anticipated, though not as a surprise. It is rather late, after all.

      Satisfied that at least one of them is getting some decent rest, Thomas, with his eyes burning, shifts his gaze to the window. The approaching dawn highlights the horizon, accentuating the rolling hills and thick forests of Idris in the distance. The sky is a deep purple, a gradient of fading stars and soft yellows and pinks, dotted with pulled cotton clouds the colour of liquid mercury. It’s not a sight one sees in the middle of London, and not one Thomas has seen for some years, yet it continues to take his breath away every single time.

      There really is no place in the world like Idris. A pocket of natural sublimity. An unreality to the naked eye cradling the boundaries of myth and the mundane.

      He catches a shadow in the distance—a flying bird, gliding over the treetops—and freezes. Something sparks alight in his head. The image is sudden and vivid, fresher than a blank canvas and a painter’s awaiting brushes, and so powerful that Thomas struggles for a moment to catch his breath. He can feel it humming through every nerve, every vein, every limb, nook and cranny in his body.

      It’s never been this strong. It hasn’t been for a long while.

      Yes… yes…!

      With shaking hands, Thomas frantically opens the notebook to the first page, grabs his fountain pen—a present he’d received from Lucie when she’d bought herself a stash along with some typewriter ribbons—and starts to write.

 

---

 

Loss is a cloud,
dark, black, and rolling
as a storm does over mountaintops.
Looming, ever-present,
a promise to descend at any moment.

But how is loss, so vague and
circumstantial, able to truly
encapsulate the gap,
a rabbit hole; an abyss; an
underlying current of a
raging, sick river,
which lies open in my chest?

How does one let go of eyes,
quizzical and bright,
the colour of lavender blooms
in the spring, fragrant and sweet
and young,
so soon?

How do I move on from never seeing those eyes again?

 

——An excerpt from a work in progress titled Dear Christopher.

 

---

 

The sun is high in the sky by the time the fire diminishes to a slow, crackling state of embers and charcoal. Though covered by thick clouds, its rays emphasise every piece of blackened wood, sooty remains, and curled edges of whatever the objects once were.

      There is nothing to suggest Christopher was there at all.

      It’s the final nail in the coffin, as it were.

      The vast majority of remaining Shadowhunters decide to take their leave now that there is nothing to stick around for anymore. As they pass their little group by, Thomas manages to catch a handful of phrases:

      ‘My condolences, Mrs Lightwood, Mr Lightwood…’

      ‘Such a bright boy. He will be missed…’

      ‘Hard to believe it still. He was a child. He was too young…’

      Anger violently rocks his gut when he hears those words.

      Of course Christopher was too young. He had his whole life ahead of him. And now? Now he’ll be forever sixteen, taken too soon into the arms of Raziel instead of living his life and bamboozling the Shadow World with his inventions.

      The words are on his tongue, ready to be unleashed—something along the lines of ‘How dare you?’—but they fall apart like breadcrumbs when his arms are taken hostage. He looks down to see both Eugenia and Alastair by his sides, one arm each linked through Thomas’s. They say nothing, acknowledge nothing, but their faces say it all:

      Calm down. They’re not worth it.

      No, they aren’t worth it, Thomas does agree with that. But Christopher is. He’s worth every damn morsel.

      Luckily—though for whom is up for debate—those particular Shadowhunters are gone. Thomas sees his aunt and uncle grip onto each other as they make what has to be the hardest movement of their lives: they start walking away. Cecily’s head is held high, cheeks streaked with dried remnants of her tears, and Gabriel’s expression is stony, though visibly cracking at the edges. Thomas’s parents are close behind them, as are Will and Tessa, acting as shields against any other commiserating Shadowhunters wanting to approach the grieving couple.

      Their decision to leave spurs movement amongst Thomas’s circle of friends. Anna is immediately surrounded with her own safeguard, including a fiercely glowering Matthew, who takes her by the arm and helps her, along with Ari, to start walking towards home. Thomas, also, is surrounded by his loved ones, though Eugenia and Alastair hold onto him tightly.

      With that, Thomas is about to turn his back on the ashen pyre once and for all, led by his sister and his beau, when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees her.

      Grace Blackthorn stands at the very edge of the diminishing crowd, straight-backed, unblinking and still: a porcelain doll. Her gaze is set on the pyre, watching the last bits of smoke waft up high towards the clouds in a kind of static vacancy. Bored, uncaring, aloof, as if Christopher was just another face in the crowd to be forgotten about.

      But Thomas has come to know Grace a bit better than that. He can see the way her hands are tightly woven in each other, her knuckles white against the ivory pallor of her dress and the blood-red mourning runes stitched into the fabric; the pinch in her brow, minute, almost invisible; and the faint tremble in her lip, a clear attempt to fight back a wave of emotions. It comes naturally, strangely even, but pity for her tugs painfully at his heart.

      That’s not to say confusion doesn’t run rampant in his mind when it comes to Grace. She’d violated his best friend in such a manner that it continues to make Thomas see red where she’s concerned. Then he’d recall Christopher’s words, about how hating her would make them no better than Tatiana Blackthorn, and the confusion and the anger dissolve somewhat.

      And Thomas knows it’s not up to him, or Matthew, or Lucie, or Cordelia, or anyone else to forgive Grace’s actions on James’s behalf. That’s for James, and James only, to do.

      It’s with that thought in mind that he gently extracts himself from Eugenia’s and Alastair’s grips, murmuring to them that he’ll be right back.

      Eugenia gapes at him in alarm as if she can’t believe he’s got anywhere else to be other than right next to them. But Alastair—after one look in Grace’s direction—ushers her away with a mumbled plea and a steady palm against her back. He casts Thomas a meaningful look over his shoulder as he steers Eugenia towards the others, his eyes dark and harbouring a million emotions. Thomas smiles at him, hoping his gratitude is evident on his face, and makes his way over to Grace.

      The smell of smoke is unbridled, unavoidable, as is the giant pile of ashes. Thomas does his best to ignore them both, focusing on reaching Grace before she decides to turn tail and go home.

      Thankfully for him, she doesn’t move. So, after smiling politely at some Shadowhunters who pass him by, Thomas comes to a stop next to Grace.

      ‘Miss Blackthorn,’ he greets.

      She peers up at him curiously for a short second before returning to her act of staring at the former pyre.

      ‘Mr Lightwood,’ she parrots.

      Silence befalls them, heavy and uncomfortable, neither of them taking the clear opening to speak.

      Ah, Thomas thinks. This is awkward.

      He never was an expert in initiating conversation—a fact, it seems, that is still very true. Neither is Grace, it appears. Though he was the one to approach her, therefore it makes sense for him to declare his intentions rather than her.

      So shoving aside the awkward curtain between them, Thomas says in a low voice, ‘I cannot say that I fully understand the nature of your friendship with Christopher—’ He tries not to choke on saying the brother of his heart’s name aloud, without much success. ‘But… I can see that you had a bond, however short it may have been.’

      For a long moment, Grace doesn’t respond. Thomas doesn’t blame her, and doesn’t really expect her to say anything—so it comes as a surprise when she rips her eyes away from the pyre and sets them on him, grey and round and brimming with unshed tears.

      ‘He was perhaps my only friend,’ she says. ‘One I did not deserve, though one I miss terribly. Not that it matters.’

      Thomas frowns. ‘Why do you say that?’

      He realises the answer to his own question the moment Grace averts her gaze and seems to pull herself up even straighter.

      ‘Because you believe your emotions to be null and void,’ he murmurs, ‘given your actions.’

      ‘Precisely.’ Grace sniffs and then sighs. ‘I do appreciate you coming by, Mr Lightwood, but you needn’t make any effort on my behalf. I know what Christopher means to you—meant to you. I’m merely a passer-by. Our bond was, as you say, short, and therefore insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But I thought it… appropriate to at least pay my respects.’

      The last part comes out quietly, almost coy. It’s enough, however, to cause something deep in Thomas’s gut to quake. He never thought he would feel anything other than anger and disgust towards Grace Blackthorn. The realisation only comes to him now: Grace really has been very alone all these years. Yes, she had James to manipulate, and not any sort of friendship with him. Yes, she had her brother, though as far as Thomas understands, their relationship has changed rather dramatically upon the revelation of her actions. There is an odd alliance between her and Lucie, though what exactly that entails, Thomas cannot say he knows. As for the others… there is nothing but general tolerance or animosity towards her, especially from Matthew. And Cordelia, though to a degree. Thomas isn’t privy to the details of what went down between her, Grace and James, but he’s conscious of the muddy waters.

      It is going to take a long time for those scars to heal, if ever.

      Though where does that leave Grace in all this?

      Only Christopher knew the answer to that. Perhaps that is why he reached out to her as he had. Thomas also guesses Alastair has some opinions on the matter. Whenever Grace has come up in conversation, he has taken a neutral tone, neither accusatory nor dismissive.

      And to be fair, none of them would have made it out alive if it weren’t for Grace’s determination to see the completion and success of Christopher’s fire-message through. And, well… Thomas supposes he has always been the bigger person, even with his sharp moments of pettiness and unruly sarcasm. He cannot leave her alone like this. Not now.

      So he tells her, ‘Come back to the house, Miss Blackthorn, for the wake.’

      Grace glances sharply at him.

      ‘I do not think that is a good idea,’ she says carefully, though not unkindly. ‘I wouldn’t want to intrude where I am not welcome.’

      ‘In that case, I’ll tell everyone you come as my guest.’ He sends a small smile her way as she gawks at him. ‘You’ve a right to grieve too. Angel knows why Kit took to you as he did, and you are by no means excused for what you did with Tatiana and to James, but… it does no one any good to grieve alone. And though you say you were an insignificant part of his life, I beg to differ. He cared for you, I could see that. We all could, even if we don’t understand the reasons. Not yet, at least.’

      Incredulity bleeds across Grace’s features, her grey eyes widening. Thomas considers the notion that this is perhaps the first time he’s ever seen her so.

      Her tone mirrors her expression, and tinged with what Thomas can only describe as bitterness. ‘Has anyone told you that you are perhaps a little too kind?’

      ‘Only every third day,’ Thomas jests dryly, and Grace’s lips curve upwards a touch at that. His voice turns serious, quiet, contemplative. ‘Look, I’m not here to fight, and I don’t want to fight. I’m not here to forgive you, either. That’s not my place. But today we remember Kit. We… We tell him goodbye, and we do that together.’

      There’s a moment’s pause in which they simply look at each other. Wind blows between them, ruffling the edges of Thomas’s coat and the hem of Grace’s dress. Smoke continues to curl from the stubby remains of the pyre, wispy and faint, like the aftermath of one of Christopher’s former explosions.

      ‘Together…’ Grace echoes softly.

      A single tear rolls down her cheek. She makes no move to wipe it away, much to Thomas’s surprise. After a second, Grace draws in a shuddering breath and lets it out slowly.

      ‘Thank you for the invitation, Mr Lightwood,’ she says politely—a picture-perfect image of a well brought-up young lady; a very small piece of Thomas pangs in sympathy at that thought. ‘I accept it… for Christopher.’

      Thomas nods. ‘For Christopher,’ he agrees. ‘And please… you can continue to call me Thomas when we’re alone or with friends.’

      Grace stares at him for a moment or so, states, ‘Then continue to call me Grace,’ and says nothing further, gliding past Thomas as she moves away from Christopher’s final resting place. Thomas watches her go, confusion rattling his ribcage—or is that him trying to catch his breath?

      He’s not sure.

      Once Grace is in the near distance, Thomas looks up at the sky. There’s a hint of sunlight peeking through the clouds now, casting a soft halo of white light down upon the plains and forests of Idris. He’s not sure why it reminds him of Christopher’s thin wire framed glasses, but Thomas can’t shake the image from his mind.

      Silver lining, as the saying goes.

      Smiling to himself, Thomas closes his eyes and focuses on that small bit of strength coming to life in his soul, regardless of the fact that it stings like hell.

      If he doesn’t say it now, he never will.

      So Thomas whispers to the wind, ‘Ave atque vale, Christopher Lightwood. I love you,’ before he turns and follows Grace up the hill towards Lightwood Manor.

      Hail and farewell, my brother.

Notes:

before i go into my usual wishy-washy rambling... if you're here and stuck with me to the end, i just wanna say thank you. thank you for reading, for the support, and for going on this journey with thomas and i. tbh i never thought i would actually get to this point where i can say that the fic is completed and that i'm satisfied with what i put out there. so thank you, truly ♡

the scene with grace and thomas was going to go in a different direction initially, but i'm happy with the way it turned out. this was actually the first scene i started working on after the opening scene in chapter 1, so to come full circle now? it's so wild to me. i just hope i did it every single part of this fic justice.

kudos, comment, bookmark away friends. i wanna know what you all thought!!

catch you all later in the next fics, and until then, come yell at me on tumblr @vwritesaus !