Chapter Text
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.