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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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?

Why should I be thanked for sharing a truth that ultimately serves to stop myself from feeling guilty? You're owed the truth because no-one deserves to be lied to, or led to believe that they're worth nothing.

[ he doesn't know, when it comes down to it, who he is anymore; he's afraid that he's told her the truth not because it's the right thing to do, but for the same reason he lived a lie in the first place: to protect his own feelings. ]

It's not selfless. My actions aren't selfless. And the truth— that should be what a person turns to first. It shouldn't be something that requires thanks, it should be expected.

Nevertheless, I am glad for it.

[ he doesn't respond for a few moments, aware of how differently this conversation has been to the previous one — by virtue, he supposes, of what has been omitted and what has not yet happened. ]

Yes, I suppose you would be.

[ after a beat, and somewhat more cheerfully (because changing the subject is a ~thing~.) ]

—Demon pox is real, you know. I was right.

Oh, truly? Did the discovery make you very happy, or were you the one to get it?

[ tessa is quite happy to go along with the subject change— for all that she has questions still, she feels it may be best for now to deal with topics not quite so loaded for both of them. ]

I sung a song about it, in fact. [ a beat. ] Benedict Lightwood has it. [ whilst his distaste at the fact that it exists and someone has it (and that he passed it on to his wife) is more than evident, his glee and smugness at it being someone like benedict lightwood is also entirely obvious. ]

I've no doubt you did, and surely it was quite inappropriate, too.

I thought it was in quite good taste, all considered.

Did everyone else think so as well?

For some reason, they didn't. Charlotte was quite unappreciative.

Perhaps you might consider that your defintion of appropriate and tasteful is a little different from that of other people.

[ pause. ] I have done on occasion.

And yet, you still sing songs about the demon pox.

The proof of its existence had me feeling remarkably vindicated.

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