Disclaimer: I do not own anything. All rights go to the wonderful Cassandra Clare.
A girl in an ivory gown stands over to the side of the funeral procession, gazing ruefully at the mourners. They wear mostly white, with a few spectators sporting black, both parties thinking that what the other side wears is wildly inappropriate.
It is anything but a small affair. Thousands have turned out to honor the famous Clarissa Herondale, though in retrospect, it may have been a better idea to have two separate ceremonies.
The young looking woman doesn't mind though. She makes a point to attend every local Shadowhunter's funeral, no matter how small or large. After all, only five had attended her husband's funeral, despite him being the exceptional man he was.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spots him. An adolescent dressed in a suit, the style of which has not been popular for at least fifty years, looking out of place, and yet like he had no where he'd rather be.
She makes her way over to the boy; he now has tears mutely running down his pale cheeks. No matter how old she gets, Tessa Carstairs knows a kindred spirit when she sees one.
Once the shape-shifter reaches the young man, she pauses, standing at his side as he mumbles words, beautiful, horrible words.
"You can't be gone Clary, you can't. Remember that day in third grade? Back when everything was," he laughs darkly through his tears, "so mundane? You told me we'd be friends forever."
He gazes up at Clarissa's gravestone as the crowds of people begin to depart. Almost silently, Tessa makes out one last phrase, "What happened to that?"
The immortal woman watches him with morbid interest. This had been her. Sure, it had been a few hundred years since she's mourned like this, but she knew what this boy was going through.
"My deepest regrets—" Tessa starts softly, before a startled glace from the young man (she really ought to learn his name) hushes her.
"Thanks." The teenager does not meet her gaze; he uses slang from decades ago, the shape-shifter notes.
Tessa tries again, "I understand what you're—"
This time, he quiets her not with a glace, but a glare. "All of my friends are dead." His voice is monotone. "They're dead, and all I want is to be dead with them. Hell, even the ones who weren't my friends are dead." His tone breaks, "She was the last one."
"I may not know of your exact situation," she begins, voice as gentle as a butterfly, "but it seems that you and I have quite a bit in common."
The boy snorts in reply. "I seriously doubt—"
"My husband," Jem's wife interrupts, "my best friend. My mentor, my parents, my brother, even my husband's dearest companion. They're all gone, and they have been for hundreds of years now."
His mouth opens in shock, "I—"
Once again, she ignores his futile attempts at conversation. "But I have not forgotten them. I still remember the exact tone of voice that Charlotte would use to scold Will. I know exactly what my Jem's eyes looked like when he was ill, and I know precisely what they looked like when he was not. I can tell you all about Sophie's broken beauty, and every time I hear a violin—" she stops, looking him in the eye. "And I'll bet you can tell me all of the same about this Clarissa."
For the first time that day, his voice is strong. "Clary. Her name was Clary. By the angel, she hated it when people called her Clarissa. Her hair was like fire, and her eyes were even brighter. She loved Jace, oh did she ever love Jace. We used to fool around all the time back when things were normal. She was the only one who would listen to my band play and—and I loved her. Like a sister. For a while, I thought it may be something more but, Clary was my sister."
She holds out her hand expectantly, smiling sadly. "I'm Tessa, Tessa Carstairs. And you are?"
"Simon, Simon Lewis."
A/N: So… I'm alive! I decided to try out a new style with this one, in an attempt to blend the styles of TID and TMI. I'm not sure how successful I was, but, rest assured, there was an attempt!
If you have the time, I would love to see what you thought!
-WOA