poly_chromatic | ( 02 ) ( audio. )

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the infernal devices - william herondale

( 02 ) ( audio. )

[ the following is uttered blandly, tiredly, as if it's all a great deal of effort. ] But, like the skeleton at the feast, that warning timepiece never ceased,— "Forever—never! Never—forever!" [ a pause, and he lets out a huff of breath before continuing, sounding a great deal more animated. ] I feel as if I've gone quite mad. In fact, I feared as much when I awoke this morning, lying there — not in a bush, for those curious — staring up at the ceiling. I thought to myself that I must be hearing things, that the countdown to or for my life was drawing to a close and that this was my warning.

Of course, it wasn't until I saw fit to move that I discovered that a vast majority of the city is encountering the same. Perhaps, then, it's the end of days. I'm tempted to say that we ought to spend the entire day in celebration and joyous ceremony, although I also believe that my instinctual reaction to spend the entire day in bed, demanding nothing but the best company and, I think, food, to have been the correct one. There could be nothing worse than to spend my final day on Earth or wherever this ridiculous city is placed, than in the company of people I detest.

Imagining scenarios relating to them receiving their comeuppance is only entertaining for so long, I've discovered. I've had plenty of experience in the matter — it transpires that vocalising such thoughts tends to be frowned upon in polite company.

[ the paper's of a good quality, and the writing is carefully formed cursive, clearly written with a fountain pen. whilst it's relatively neat, the type of handwriting that is the result of writing frequently; there's the occasional splatter of ink, darker and heavier splodges where he's hesitated with his words and pressed the pen harder against the paper than was necessary. the ink of the words hasn't been smudged, though, making it seem likely that after writing it, he let it sit a while before folding it and placing it in an envelope and delivering it. ]

Tessa,

I said I would tell you — explain, I suppose — for you deserve that much, and it is not only for my own peace of mind, or a respite from your asking as you imagined. I imagined telling you in person, as I did before — and will do, from your perspective — but as I told you just the other day, it's not a conversation I have any desire to repeat so soon. It is the easy way, but as this city seems built on easy methods and convenience, I like to think that it's not too out of place. I also know that in a letter, I can say everything that I mean to say, and nothing that I do not.

You're familiar with Hamlet, I know, and I wonder if it's cheap to quote it — to quote him: I must be cruel, only to be kind; thus bad begins and worse remains behind. One word more, good lady. Perhaps it is apt; there have been times that I've wondered if I was mad after all.

I've had time to think since that conversation, and since the ones we've had here, so I realise now that I was wrong — that it shan't be the same as it was then and as it will be, but it's remarkable how logic has no place when it comes to matters of the heart and of feelings, isn't it? But I still stand by the rest of it, and as such—: due to the nature of the city and the way that the people here come and go, I ask that no matter how you might feel about any of this, any of it at all, that you mention none of it to James should he find himself here. You're not to tell him.

You know that I came to England when I was twelve, that I left my family, that my sister — Ella, that Ella died. What no-one else knows — except Magnus, but I required his help, and I almost believe that Magnus exists solely to be an exception — is that she died after I opened a Pyxis hidden in my family home. I know you'll be sat there reading this and wondering why there was a Pyxis in my home, but the answer is that I don't know; it was my father's, and he had hidden it, and that is all I know. As little boys are apt to do, I made a point of exploring every nook and cranny that adults would sooner I didn't, and I found it. And then I opened it.

You know what a Pyxis contains, of course. I remember explaining it to you, and I know you've near memorised the Codex regardless. The demon within it cursed me — or I believed it cursed me. The difference hardly matters, not now. Not when the results were the same. It claimed that anyone who loved me would die. That night, my sister died. You can imagine, I think, how it must have looked to my eyes at twelve. Even now, I think that I might find myself believing such nonsense if I had no way of knowing better.

I didn't want to be cruel to you. To Charlotte, to Henry, even to Sophie and Jessamine. But I believed it to be necessary, so I was. I couldn't risk it being any other way. I sometimes thought that it would be easy to live caring about others whilst ensuring that they didn't care about me. I suppose I've always been a fool.

—What this amounts to, then, is an apology. I'm sorry, Tessa. For making it seem as if I hated you. For making you [ the next word is scribbled out and unreadable. ] I don't deserve anything, I know that. Whatever my reasons, my actions were my own and they should be judged for and by that and that alone. Nothing is in vacuum, without influence, so I suppose in some ways whilst this is the barest of explanations, it is also the most honest. I hope that without the knowledge of what happens before we have this conversation in London, you can still find it in your heart to allow us to be friends.

You didn't believe me at first, you know? You thought my desire to talk to you nothing more than a cruel joke. I imagine you'll think the first few lines of this to be the same. Hopefully you shan't believe it by the end — do you remember that not long after we first met, you told me how awful I was at lying? In spite of the way that you seemed to believe so much of what I told you, even the blatant nonsense.

W. Herondale

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[ she thinks perhaps she should have written a letter as well, now that she tries to find the words and does not know where to start, in which way to order her thoughts. on paper, she would have been able to try and try again until the words took the right shape and order. but this-- this is more honest, perhaps, and more immediate, and all the more difficult for it. ]

Do you truly-- [ no. ]

I am sorry. That you had to believe such a thing. [ to think that no one could care for you--

and immediately after those words, because there are just as important, for her own peace of mind if nothing else ] Do you not believe me a monster? [ someone to look down on, good at best to be a mistress but nothing else. she's struggled with this image of herself for so long, she needs to know. ]

[ there's a slight laugh at that — disbelief tinged with amusement. condolences don't seem important — it was what it was, and it can't be changed now — but equally, he's surprised that the first question she asks him is whether he thinks her a monster or not. he doesn't. he couldn't, and part of him wonders why she needs to ask. ]

Tessa, after the time you have spent at the the Institute, the time you have spent in the company of humans, Shadowhunters and Downworlders alike, have you not realised that it is one's actions that make them a monster? How could I think you a monster? You've done nothing. You're more— [ a pause. ] No. I don't believe you a monster.

[ Oh. ] But I am a Downworlder.

[ But does it truly matter? It does to her, yes, but he's said that he does not believe her a monster and it is not as though she wants to fight with him, or argue. he has apologised, and perhaps he never realised how much his -- feigned -- disregard for her has tinted her perception of herself. it shouldn't matter. ]

So it was all [ a beat ] because you felt that I cared too much? For you.

[ "you're different." it's what he wants to say. he wants to comment on how tessa had seemed to change so much in him, made him want to try and change what had once seemed like an inescapable fate, but in light of her engagement (to jem), he can't. won't allow himself. even if, for her, it has not yet happened, and even if jem is not here. ]

That's the simplest way of putting it. You did or you might have done, and I couldn't— to watch someone die, to have their blood on your hands—.

[ silence. ] If that death is avoidable, unnecessary, then it should be avoided at all costs.

Edited 2012-01-26 10:44 (UTC)

Will— [ how can she find the right words. she wants to apologise, again, for what she said about not truly knowing if he cared for Jem or not, it seems even more cruel in light of what she knows now; and yet she cannot imagine that Will would appreciate talking of it again. ]

I always wanted for us to be friends.

[ she always wanted for them to be more than friends, since that moment she saw him and thought he was the most beautiful person she had ever seen. but in all this, friendship is what he asked for, nothing more. ]

I can't imagine you ever wanting to dislike anyone. Even someone as hideous as Gabriel.

Oh, but I do dislike him.

[ a mild, non-committal hum. ] But did you want to?

Why would anyone wish to dislike another person?

That was my point, I believe.

And we missed mine entirely, it seems.

[ a pause. ] Or perhaps I was choosing not to acknowledge it. I spent rather a long time hoping you would dislike me, after all.

I do not, though. [ dislike him. she feels that needs mentioning, whether he wishes to hear it or not. it is the truth, after all. ]

I can't say I've ever understood why. [ there's a moment of hesitation before he continues, somewhat hastily. leaving it at that makes it seem as if he wants an explanation, and whilst part of him does, another part of him very much doesn't want to know. ] Although in light of circumstances now, I can't — complain.

[ he exhales audibly. ] When you return to London, I think you'll— nothing is perfect, of course, but there's good news to look forward to. I think you'll be happy.

I am not always quite certain, either. [ she's smiling as she says it, though, and hopes that it will translate through, that he'll be able to hear that there is no accusation.

oh. tessa can think of too many and not enough things that he might mean. good news could be anything; finding out who she is, who her parents are, perhaps, but most of her thoughts circle around him now. ]

I hope that I will be. [ she does, she wants desperately to be happy, both in London when she returns but also now and here, in the City. ]

Charlotte and Henry are, Jem is. Even Sophie, I think. I can't comment on the new cook — we've got one, by the way. Irish. All she ever sings about is murder and betrayal. It's horrific, but I suspect the Irish find delight in misery and if so, then I imagine she's happy, too.

And what of you?

You imagine me to be unhappy?

I feel that perhaps I know you less than I might have thought, but even so, I cannot imagine you were happy to think yourself cursed. Are you happy, then, now that you know you are not?

[ still — and always — trying to understand ]

Yes, I'm happy to know that I'm not.

[ not a lie. ]

[ it may not be a lie, but it does not escape tessa that it does not wholly answer her question. ]

Thank you, Will. For telling me.

As I said: it was the least you deserved.

Perhaps, but even so.

Don't thank me, please.

But why not?

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