In honor of one of the best pairings in this book, as well as the saddest. Ave atque vale, Thomas. Your death was too soon, and I wish you'd gotten with Sophie beforehand. I was rather heartbroken.
I don't do this often (in fact, I believe this is the first time), but it needs to be done. This is pre-series.
I don't think Cassie Clare gave Thomas or Sophie a last name, so work with me here. Also, I haven't read the book in a long while, so forgive some mistakes (like what Thomas and Sophie address each other as, what Thomas addresses others as, etc.)
Thomas. Sophie. Thomas and Sophie. Sophie. Thomas.
It was funny, but their names really didn't sound all that bad when pressed together. One would think that some names, when put in the same context, sounded bad (like Butch and Candice), but their names weren't bad. In fact, they were pretty good.
Thomas shook his head. Thinking like a girl on the job, McElderry?
Really, he had to lay off the sentimentality. It was getting to be too much. He shook his head again and set his mind to the repetitive task of cleaning the weapons in the armory. Squirt the cleanser, rub with the brush, shine with the rag. Squirt, rub, shine. Squirt, rub, shine.
His mind wandered to tonight's recent scrimmage and the state that Masters Will and Jem had returned in. Whereas Master Jem had been a little cautious and returned relatively injury-free, Master Will had felt the need to risk his own life again and had come back with blood and ichor practically dripping off his clothes. Missus Charlotte had thrown out the garments, deeming them too ill-worn to be used again, and had given Master Will a right scolding as Mister Henry and Miss Jessamine had watched in the background. Thomas himself had been busy helping Sophie with the drapes that night, but they had both lingered slowly enough to catch most of the reproof. Master Will himself had just walked off grinning, not a care in the world despite the incident. Then the drapes had fallen due to a faulty invention of Mister Henry's ("I swear, Charlotte, they'll suck the dust right off those curtains!") and Thomas had practically flown to Sophie's rescue.
Grinning at the recollection, he looked down at the serrated edge of the throwing knife to see a patch of cleanser still sliding lazily around the metal. He frowned and inspected the now-soapy brush, spotting a knot in the bristles. It was big enough to be a problem when cleaning, and Thomas sighed. He really was no good with knots. He set the blade down carefully on the table he'd been sitting on and dunked the bristles in the water-filled pail next to him, drawing it back up to look at the knot again more closely.
It was funny how a mess was connected to the word knot, but a beneficial or indifferent thing related to the word tie. Thomas's eyebrows raised almost involuntarily as his fingers started to work at the stubborn thing. For example, when there was a problem like this, people called the tangled mess a "knot". However, when tying their laces, the word "tie" was used. They were exactly the same thing, wasn't it? Yet he didn't find people calling a clump of string a "tie", or those annoying, choking neck accessories a "knot".
(Then there were the double-meanings, like marriage being termed as "tying the knot". Oh, how punny he could be.)
But actually, now that he thought of it much more seriously, why was marriage termed in such a double-edged way? It was like saying a "maybe" in the vows, or deciding to have a back exit during life. It wasn't exactly fair play, was it? Whereas two people were tying something (good), they were creating a knot (bad). It led one to wonder.
Would we be a tie, or a knot?
Thomas's fingers almost slipped off the wet bristles as the thought entered his mind. There was no call for such thoughts - Sophie Roberts barely knew he existed, much less wondered about stupid, hypothetical questions about knots and ties. Now this was the place to stop; he'd already gone far enough into restricted territory.
The door suddenly opened, sending a beam of light into the somewhat dim armory. Thomas looked up to see Miss Roberts herself, a candle in one hand and Church at her feet. "Thomas, what are you doing on the floor?" she asked, head tipped to one side.
"There's a rather large clump that the bristles have twisted themselves into, Miss Sophie. I've been trying to work it out, but..."
Sophie set the candle down on the edge of the table and smiled, taking the brush from his hands. "I've told you several times to just call me by my Christian name - "Miss" is so terribly formal."
Thomas hoped the heat in his cheeks wasn't apparent. "I couldn't address a lady without her title in good conscience, Miss Sophie."
She sighed good-naturedly. "I'll wear you down yet. Now, as for this mess..." She focused her gaze back on the brush. "What could have tied these bristles together so stubbornly?"
He fought back a huge grin. "I couldn't tell you, but that tie is quite a headstrong one."
Coincidence?
Of course not - I'm the damn writer. :D
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