Pretty unlikely but I don't care. I really don't.
The Carstairs' have always been a proud family. Not vain or arrogant like the Herondales, or pompous like the Lightwoods, but proud. They stood tall, yet spoke kindly, were thoughtful yet spoke truthfully.
Perhaps they were the most honourable family there ever was.
Perhaps James Carstairs was ashamed to be a part of it.
He had been dying, a drug addict, a weak shadowhunter, 'dead' at sixteen.
Oh, but Will had stood up for him. Before one joins the brotherhood they must first make people believe they are dead. So Will had told people he had died nobly at the battle of Cadiar Idris, not because of a lack of a drug that had been killing him since childhood.
Jem had feared that Carstairs would be a name shunned from history, reputation destroyed, thanks to him. But it had not happened. The Lightwoods had managed to build up a good name again, and the Carstairs' had never been shunned. Of course, not many people knew of James Carstairs of the London institute, 1878, who was engaged to a warlock and parabatai to a cursed, cruel boy. And those who did never mentioned it to the Carstairs'. It wasn't their side of the family, anyway.
But when Jem found that many Carstairs' played the violin, and that Emma was the best shadowhunter since Jace…
Emma. She was the true vision of what a Carstairs should be. Loyal. Independent. Caring. She cared for her parabatai as Jem had for Will.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
The knives hit the target, yet missed the centre, infuriating Emma even more than it should.
She growled in frustration. Longswords? Easy. Broadswords? She'd laugh. Arrows and a bow? She could hit the target blindfolded. Knives? Well…
She picked up another knife. Every Carstairs could through a knife, and well. People said they just had a talent. A gift.
Emma clearly hadn't gotten the gift yet. She didn't have this 'talent.'
She tried, one last time. All her anger went into the throw. She aimed, she threw.
It missed the target.
"That's not how you throw a dagger." A voice came from behind her, edged with amusement.
Emma turned. A silent brother stood by the door to the training room, and she didn't recognise him. He looked different to the others. His eyes were closed, not taken, his mouth shut, not stitched. He also had hair, but Emma didn't know why she was taking notice of that. It was black, a deep raven, and had a single streak of silver in it. He also looked young, he couldn't be older than twenty. Also, there had been emotion in his voice. Was that even possible in a silent brother?
The silent brother knotted his hands together. The hands had slim, long fingers, like hers.
Musician's hands, her mother had always called them. A tell-tale sign of either a Carstairs or a Herondale, the long fingers.
"Oh really?" Emma asked, trying for the bitterness that usually stayed strong in her voice around strangers, but found herself struggling to keep it. So odd, she thought. Why would this silent brother be up here? The infirmary's on the second floor, not the fifth.
"No, it isn't." He said, his voice calm, not devoid of emotion. It wasn't mocking either. "A dagger is thrown with calmness, and a clear mind. It's why they aren't a popular choice in a battle."
Emma weighed the knife in her hand. He'd called it a dagger, she mused to herself. "And I suppose you could have thrown better?"
He…no.
It couldn't be.
That's impossible.
He smiled.
It disappeared quickly, but Emma had noticed it.
"When I was a shadowhunter, they were my favourite weapon. I like to think I could have thrown it better."
Emma scowled. She was tempted to ask him to try, but this was a silent brother. You did not talk back to a silent brother. And they don't smile, or reminisce about knives.
"I was curious when they mentioned you were here, I'm sorry for intruding." He added.
Oh, now Emma was interested. "Why?"
The silent brother was silent (well no sh**, Sherlock) for a moment, before he gave his answer. "They say you are the best shadowhunter since Jace Herondale. I wanted to find out for myself. But still…Jace could throw a dagger…"
Now that is mockery. Emma thought, annoyed.
He shook his head slightly. "Relax, and let everything bothering you disappear. It's just you and the blade, ignore even the target. Just take a deep breath, and then let the dagger fly. You'll find it gets easier the more you throw."
He turned and left. "Goodbye Emma." He said, once he was out of sight. "Your ancestors would have been proud of you."
The second part was quiet, and confused Emma.
She looked at the knife with determination. Then, she imagined the world to be calm, just her and the blade.
She took a deep breath.
She took aim.
She fired.
It hit the target.
In the centre.
Emma didn't feel relieved. She felt confused. She had hit a target she'd been trying to hit for years.
She'd talked to a silent brother that had seemed more human than…silent brotherey.
She'd been told her ancestors would be proud of her.
Jem walked away from the training room in silence. Whether seeing Emma had been a good idea or not, Jem didn't care. He said her ancestors would be proud of her. He wasn't lying.
Jem, her how-many-greats-uncle, would be proud of her.
He knew her, and knew that she was the very being of perfect.
Emma knew him, but not as Jem. She knew him only as brother Zachariah, a silent brother different to any other.
Jem was proud to know that she was what she was. Jem was proud he was related to her.
And that he was.
Jem was a Carstairs, and no years of being in the brotherhood would change that.
Jem was Jem.
Not Zachariah.
Jem.
ALRIGHT! LAST FIC THAT IS CENTERED ON ZACHARIAH, I PROMISE!
Well, for a month. Or a week. Or a da-
No.
Sorry, but I had to write this one. I'll stop, I swear.
But Emma has to meet Jem.
In TDA, in the epilogue, if Jem doesn't come to her, as Jem, and praise her for being perfect, I'll be annoyed. VERY.
Disclaimer:
Me- You thought I'd forgotten? Nope. I own nothing accept-
Fan- DON'T SAY IT!
Me- Say what?
Fan- TELL ME YOU OWN THEM! CAUSE YOU WOULDN'T SPLIT UP MALEC!
Me- Yeah, but if I did own them, CoHF would just be all about Zachariah. Like, every chapter. And his cure would be half the book. And one page will be about them all killing Sebastian, the Asshat.
(HOW DARE HE HAVE WHITE-BLOND HAIR SO WHEN I SEE A DRAWING OF HIM I THINK ITS JEM! HOW DARE HE!)
Fan-...
Me- Fine. I own only the plot. HAPPY?
Fan- Cries because Malec feels.
* Still a Jillessa, but my obsession with Zachariah isn't going to stop. Sorry. But I'm working on a Wessa story, so don't abandon me just yet! *