It was hot. It was unbelievably hot, even with his covers thrown off and the storm pounding at his window outside lowering the temperature. Each breath rattled in his chest painfully, and he swallowed to chase away an on-coming cough. If Will was still nearby, it would only bring him running. He didn't want to see the blue of his Parabatai's eyes filled with worry – it's not like he could help anyway.
It was hot, but it was oh so cold. The blood in his veins burned with a frozen intensity, caused him to writhe in pain because it was so cold, and the sweat on his back and neck was uncomfortable and he was hot. Silver eyes glazed over with fever stared at the box that sat next to his bed. Inside it normally contained the silver poison, but he knew it was empty now. Will had set out to get more, but James was positive that he wouldn't be finding anything in this weather aside from a cold.
As if he could have stopped him.
There was some bitter irony here, Jem thought, how he was dying and Will was alive, even though he was fairly certain that the blue-eyed boy would have gone suicidal long ago without the Institute. He knew that Will would give up his life in a moment if there was some way to trade it for Jem's, however unfair that was.
Jem's propped up on pillows, practically sitting, because he learned early on that choking on blood was much too easy if he lay on his back. A mirror hangs on the wall across from him, and he can see himself in it, his lowered eyelids and stunningly white hair, the expression on his face that just screams 'exhaustion'. And he is exhausted, but his body refuses to listen to him and let him sleep, because breathing is more important. Unjustly, his body is giving up one important thing for another.
He doesn't know when it strikes him, but he realizes that he's known that Yan Wang is closer to him than he thought. He thought he'd have a few more months at least, because he had a bad feeling that something huge was going to happen soon. He had hoped he'd be there to help Will get through it.
He's not so sure he can be now.
He gazes longingly at his violin, wanting to feel the comforting touch of the wood beneath his fingers and the sound wreathing around him. He shakily raises a hand to stare at it – it's pale and sickly looking, covered in a thin layer of sweat that he's sure the rest of his body is sporting. It shakes uncontrollably no matter how he tries to steady it, and he lets it drop back to rest on his stomach in exhaustion.
Jem knows he wouldn't be of any help to the Shadowhunters right now.
There's a tightening feeling in his chest, and the rush of icy fear that follows an attack strikes him and he's immobile for a brief moment before his hand flies to his mouth, his shoulders hunched at an almost impossible angle.
Blood drips through his fingers, and his hand fills with the red substance quicker than he anticipated. The coughs are harsh and wet and painful, so much more painful than the past few months. He resorts to gripping the covers tightly instead, ignoring how he's bloodying his white sheets. The blood that he expels from his lungs is thicker than normal – it clings to his tongue and the inside of his mouth, causing him to choke and panic. He can't breathe, and there's too much blood, way too much blood, and no one is here and –
James Carstairs realizes he is going to die alone.
William Herondale is greeted by Charlotte, who is desperately holding back tears, and his stomach plummets. His black hair clings to his skin – Henry hands him a hand towel almost as an afterthought, his expression far off and glassy – and he clenches the fabric tightly in his fist as he all but breaks down Jem's door. Sophie is there, brushing past him with bloodied sheets and sobbing quietly, and he doesn't really care as Jessamine points out that his dress shirt is bloody where his Parabatai rune is. It hasn't sunk in yet – it hurts and it is killing him, but Jem can't be dead.
Jem's pale, almost like a statue, and someone changed his sheets but hadn't change his clothes and Will can see flecks of red adorning his white sleeping clothes. They hadn't bothered to clean Jem up either, and his right hand is stained with red.
Will's legs suddenly don't work properly, and he feels the shock of the impact distantly as he slams into the ground on his knees beside Jem's bed, hands grasping for the pale hand of his Parabatai. The hand that should have gripped him back weakly, the hand that should be connected to silver eyes that would open and tell him to stop worrying.
Jem's eyes didn't open.
A sob is forcefully torn from his throat, and he cries out in utter anguish, hears it echoed back to him from the walls of the room. The cry of a man who had lost utterly everything in his life – he begins to cry, and they are harsh sobs that shake his body but refuse to bring tears, and it absolutely hurts but he thinks that it's somehow appropriate.
James Carstairs, his Parabatai, was gone. Will was now completely alone.