Conceit

There hadn't been a funeral. He hadn't been able to bear the thought of ceremony, of having her laid to rest while those who had regarded her as nothing more than a pet murmured empty consolations and whispered behind their hands. He stood now, staring at the flawless white marble tombstone, flowers already wilting as the rested on fresh-turned earth. The dates were unimportant, what was important were three words, chiseled into the polished stone. Burned into his heart.

Justine Raith
Beloved

It had been a conceit, to bury her with his name. His sisters had been furious, but he had been adamant. Even after his return, they had called him a romantic; for once he would live up to their expectations.

The wind carried to him the sound of footsteps, crunching heavily against fallen autumn leaves. He might have recognized the newcomer by the stride alone, but the scent of leather and ozone, of imminent magic, only cemented the fact. There was only one other person in the world who would come here. He tensed, ready to leave and leave the familiar figure to pay his own respects, but something stopped him. She wouldn't have wanted him to go. She would have wanted him to stay, to talk. But what did one say to a half-brother one hasn't seen in years, had explicitly broken ties with over a matter of principle?

"I'm sorry." Evidently, Harry had no such dilemmas. Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas watched as Harry bent over the grave, setting a bouquet of white roses tied with a wide red ribbon next to lilies. Thomas' lips twisted into a faint wry smile at sight, so temporarily lost in memories of happier times that he did not look away when Harry turned back to meet his eye.

"How'd you know I'd be here?" The words were flat, emotionless, but his voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't used it much. She would have been so disappointed. She had always thought so well of Harry, had always had such faith that Thomas could have been the brother he wanted to be. Such misguided faith in his strength, in his goodness.

Harry shrugged, turning his attention back to the headstone, offering Thomas whatever comfort in company he was willing to accept. "I didn't. Murphy flagged the coroner's report. Everything was filed through the proper channels."

Thomas nodded, keeping his own eyes on the flowers. "She didn't deserve to just disappear." Emotion was starting to creep back into his voice, a note of raw of pain that even hoarseness couldn't hide.

"She was…" Harry trailed off, as if unable to figure out how he wanted to finish what he'd began. "She loved you," he finally said.

Anger, hot and irrational, rose within Thomas at the three simple words. Three words that were forever his talisman and his cross. But the anger flashed bright and died as quickly, leaving behind a soul-deep ache that he couldn't remember ever being free from. Would it matter if he disappointed her again, or would it be an insult to her memory? "To the end, she believed things could be different."

Silence fell between them, and Thomas listened to the whisper of wind rattling the last autumn leaves on their branches. A car driving by on the main road honked, and someone shouted something rude in response, a reminder of life's relentless march onward even as everything changed. "She's right." Harry's voice held a deep unwavering conviction, the same promise that had been there when Thomas had last seen him at the zoo, years upon years ago. "She was right, Thomas. You can be better than this. Hell's bells, you are better than them. You're here."

He was. Weak and foolish and romantic. He was here, staring at the resting place of the woman he loved. She had been more than food, more than a doe. She had been Justine. His Justine, his constant cornerstone. Even in those years when he'd refused to speak to her, to listen to what she had to say, she had been there. She had been his compass, his silent guide. And he was here because he was lost without her. Without her steady belief in the goodness that he tried to deny, the seductive whisper of the Hunger rang loud in his ears and fear crept into his heart.

A warm hand landed on his shoulder, and the sudden touch made Thomas turn to Harry involuntarily. "Thomas, she was right," Harry repeated, eyes meeting his as if determined to make Thomas believe it. There was no soul-wrenching tug this time, though the intensity in his brother's eyes reminded Thomas of the time Harry had demanded a soulgaze. "Justine believed in you. Our mother believed in you. Don't you dare throw their memories away."

His mother had asked him to look out for Harry, to be the support Harry would undoubtedly need. Thomas had never told Harry about that, for fear of falling short, of not knowing how, of being not strong enough to do as requested. And what now? He had failed Justine by doubting her; could he leave Harry now, put one last nail of failure in the coffin of his responsibilities?

Thomas turned away, finding Harry's intensity too much on too raw a heart for now. "You still drive that idiotic car of yours?"

There was a flare of hope in Harry's voice, fading to wariness. "Yeah, what of it?"

The words were hard, echoing words he'd spoken to Harry long long ago. "You want to give me a ride?"

Hope again. Stronger, but still wary. "Where to, the mansion?"

"My old apartment."