''Cause though the truth may vary, this / Ship will carry our / Bodies safe to shore'

"Little Talks" Of Monsters And Men

ꕥꕥꕥꕥꕥ

Incessant knocking and knocking and knocking.

Go away go away go away, Tessa thought with every thump.

There would be times, when the sound blurred in her ears and she was able to doze off for a minute—or was it a second?—before it started up again.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

Soon, the firm voice of her grandson joined the hollow sound. 'Grandmother? Grandmother, it's me, Owen. Are you awake?'

No, Tessa thought groggily, not with you all but slamming my door in.

Still, she couldn't find it in herself to get up.

'Grandmother?' his voice turned urgent. 'Grandmother!'

Tessa groaned. 'Leave me be, Owen. I'm an old woman and require sleep to rest my weary bones.'

From her side, someone chuckled.

Tessa peeled her eyelids open, squinting in the dim light filtering through her curtains—brown muslin that surprisingly did a good job of keeping morning light outside.

Still, she could just make out the edges of her husband.

She closed her eyes again, intent on going back to sleep, now that the knocking had stopped.

'That sounded like something I would say,' Will murmured, both far away and close by. Tessa only found the energy to grunt in response.

She woke up to someone shaking her shoulder.

'No, Will. Five more minutes… I already told you,' she muttered, pushing his hands away.

'Mother?' a voice that was not Will's said. 'Wake up. It's mid-day.'

It was less of the time and more of the absence of her husband's familiar cadence that woke her up.

For a moment, with sleep still blurring her vision, she thought she had just misheard. It had to be Will, it was his dark hair, his thin face.

But it couldn't be. Will's features were young and this man's were lined, and even though his hair was dark and soft, it was streaked through with grey. And most importantly, where his eyes should've been a mesmerising, dark blue, his were a brilliant, shining gold.

James.

His name was James.

James—her son—loomed over her, his brows furrowed with worry. 'Mother?' he asked, his voice plummy with a fully British accent, not a hint of rolling Welsh to be detected.

Tessa blinked at him.

'James?' she asked, her tongue thick in her throat, worry building in her chest. 'James, where's your father?' She sat up, looking to his side of the bed. The side was empty—cold—and the bedside table was barren of any sign of him.

Her son was silent.

Anxiety flooded her veins, unbidden and for no reason. It's fine, she thought. He's just gone out for a mission or is in his study; James did say it was mid-day. No reason to worry.

The feeling only increased, causing tears to spring into her eyes and her heart to race. Something's wrong—Everything's fine—Where's Will?—He's been up for hours—Where's Will?Why does James look like that?—Everything's fine—Everything is not fine.

James laid gentle hands on her shoulders—thin hands, pianist's fingers, like his father—and told her, 'Mother, breathe.' He went on to demonstrate it for her.

'Breathe,' he repeated. He actually repeated it several times, all of which Tessa obeyed, but still she felt it. The anxiety. The wrongness.

'Why didn't your father wake me up?' Tessa asked between breaths. 'Is he out?'

Something flickered across James' face, a shadow of something—the wrongness.

'Breathe, Mother,' he instructed her, completely ignoring her question.

Tessa frowned at her son's disrespect and shrugged his hands off. 'James Herondale, we did not raise you to avoid authority.'

At this James grinned wryly. 'Oh?' he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Tessa only frowned more and put her hands on her hips. 'Tell me where your father is right now, James Herondale, I don't care if you're twenty or forty years old, you will answer your mother.'

The shadow passed again, stirring her stomach terribly.

James looked away, towards her night stand. On it was a clock, happily ticking away the hour. It was a quarter past one in the afternoon.

'It's quite late, Mother. Would you like something to eat? Beans on toast? Some fruit and cheese?'

On the contrary, she felt like if she ate anything, she felt as if she would be sick.

'James…' she warned. 'Answer the question.'

He swallowed, fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves. 'Mother,' he hesitated. 'I… Papa, er, Father…' He swallowed again. 'He's… he's gone.'

Tessa pursed her lips. 'I can see that, James.' Then she smiled at him, however much she could bring herself to, to let him know she wasn't being harsh.

He didn't smile back.

'Mother,' he said, trying again. 'I'm forty-six years old.'

Tessa's eyes widened. 'By the Angel!' She reached out, cupping his face. 'Lord, James, how did you get so old?' She smiled a bit, caressing his cheek with the pad of her thumb. 'You've aged well.' Then she frowned. 'I can't imagine how I've managed to forget that.'

James closed his eyes, leaning into her hand. He rested his own against it and continued, 'Mother, Father… he's gone,' he said it with such finality, as if it were the finality.

The wrongness.

Tessa dropped her hands. Did the maths. Will was twenty-six when she had James, add six and that's thirty-two, add forty and that's seventy-two.

Life expectancy isn't high for a Shadowhunter, even lower in these times with sickness running rampant.

Her brain connected the dots, the dots that shouldn't ever have to be connected.

And it clicked.

She choked on a sob, her throat closing up and tears running down her face, hot and fast.

No no no no no no no no.

How could she forget? How could she let it happen? How long has it been? How could she have forgotten?

'No, no,' Tessa said, shaking her head. 'He was right here. He was right here.' She stared at his side of the bed, saw his silhouette, all fine lines topped with a halo of dark fluff.

'Mother,' James said, softly. 'He's gone. Magnus says it's… it's hallucinations, of a sort. Illusions. Things you make real with your um, ability.' He shifted, making the bed creak.

Will used to make the bed creak.

The thought made her laugh and she heard his voice again, 'Miss Gray! How improper of you!' And then she swallowed the laugh. Will can't make the bed creak anymore.

She swallowed and clenched her eyes shut. 'Leave me, James,' she whispered. 'I… I can't… with anything at the moment.' She sniffed and wiped her eyes, trying to put on a brave face for her son. 'I just need a moment. To remember. Or at least figure out why I can't.'

James looked uncertain. Tessa wondered how many times this had happened.

How long has it been? How long has it been?

Tessa didn't know.

Hours passed.

The light had gone from a slanting noon to a dimming afternoon.

'Mother?' James asked, knocking. He seemed so far away, as if he were immersed in water.

Tessa saw him, in her mind's eye. Sitting on the floor of the attic, a dark angel, drenched in holy water and sarcasm.

'Mother?' James repeated.

Tessa couldn't find it in herself to respond.

~~~

Magnus called them hallucinations.

'It's easy to forget that he's dead,' he said flatly, 'when your brain is forcing you to remember him alive.'

'But how?' Tessa croaked. 'Why? Why is my brain doing this? How—'

Magnus lifted a hand, cutting her off. 'I don't know, Tessa. I'm not a doctor.'

Tessa pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, frustration bubbling in her throat. 'I hate—' not having him? Not knowing what's wrong with me? Not know what's real or not real? Being mad?

Magnus sighed, patting her shoulder. 'I know,' he said softly. 'And I hate to say it, but this is only the beginning.'