One shot- Wessa
This is my first Fanfic EVER, just putting it out there... I hope it's okay! All feedback (negative & positive) would be loved (:
Rated K+ because I'm careful- honestly, there's nothing Disney wouldn't use
Disclaimer- All rights to the amazing Cassandra Clare!
Empty Memories
Tessa walked in the door and unwound her long knit scarf, toeing off her boots. The country air was cool, and a brisk wind had been blowing, so her hair fell in tangled curls about her face. She pulled her white kid gloves off, peeling each finger away from her damp skin before shrugging out of her heavy overcoat. "Will," she called. "You'll never believe what happened today!"
Her skirts swished as she padded into the kitchen of the Wayland Country Manor, where she and Will came when they needed to get away from the business of London and the Institute. Often, their children (and now grandchildren!) would accompany them, but Will and Tessa had decided to take this trip alone, as a sort of extra honeymoon. They went on a lot of honeymoons; to Paris, Peru, Germany, Ireland (Will never ceased complaining about the potatoes), and back to America.
She plucked an apple out of the fruit bowl. "Owen sent a letter- we have a great grandson! His name is Marcus, Marcus Herondale. I can't imagine why they picked Marcus; it's a bit untraditional. But the first thing he did when Isadore tried to pick him up? He bit her! Seems the Herondale taste in Lightworms doesn't improve with generations." She laughed at the memory, and pulled the letter out of her pocket. It was well-folded, a deep crease down its center, and ink blotches around the edges showed how tired its writer had been.
"Will?" Tessa called again, setting her untouched apple down. She walked back into the hallway, and poked her head into the drawing room. "Will?" Magnus sat in a high backed chair near the fireplace, his brightly striped waistcoat glinting in the light from the dying fire. "Oh, it's you Magnus," Tessa smiled. "Have you seen Will?"
There was a cautious sort of deliberance to his motions as he stood and faced her, his cat eyes dark and sad. "Tessa," he said, smoothing her shoulders.
The way he moved, the apprehension which clouded his features filled Tessa with unease. "Yes?" she asked, hesitant.
"Will's dead," he said softly. "He's been dead five years."
And the unrealness of it struck Tessa like a blow as she remembered. She caved forward, tears spilling down her cheeks, painful sobs wrenching up her throat. Her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor, buried beneath her fashionably voluminous skirts, and her grief was as fresh as the day he had passed. It would always be fresh, even if she lived a thousand years. Not a day would go by she would not find something to share with him, a joke or a tear.
That day she lived in her empty memory, it was a promise. "I love you William Herondale."
And through her grief shattered mind, she thought she heard a voice whisper back.
