Fragile Hearts (TID - Will Herondale fanfic)

Chapter 63: The Knife and Blood

ELEANORA'S POV
Will had rode away shortly after the fight. I found him not long after, on the rise of a green hill, just out of sight of the Shrewsbury-Welshpool road. I can only see scattered farmhouses in the distance; he is curled up and has fallen asleep, heedless of the drizzle of cold rain that is still falling.

I am so so so tired. I wish for Caspian to be here, to comfort me. I wish for Jem. Jem to just be here. My heart aches.

I wrap my arms around my knees, bringing them up to my chest as rain soaks my hair.

And I wait for sunrise.

~

When the sun rises, I'm dry, surprisingly. I finish up my iratzes when Will wakes up.

He stands, his whole body seeming stiff, and I watch as he takes in his surroundings and then me.

His eyes widen and I stand as well, stretching out sore muscles.

"You need to clean up," I say, drawing out my stele.

"I am so sorry, Nora," Will says.

I shake my head. "You shouldn't be. Come here, Liam."

Will has this detachment to him. He walks up to me. I bring a hand behind his neck and pull him to me, pressing my lips to his. His arms snake around my waist, pulling me close to him.

"James," Will says, almost a cry against my lips. "He's gone."

I pull away slightly, resting my head against his chest as I hug him. He's bloody, I know, but I couldn't care less.

"There will be a next life. And we will meet each other there," I whisper.

Will cries then. Cries against my shoulder. And I let him.

~

Will takes off his shirt and I start tracing iratzes on him. His body is hard with muscles, and I can only think of the word beautiful to describe him. Beautifully broken.

When he's all patched up, with a strength rune and an endurance rune, he comes over and traces an agility rune on my neck for me. I can feel his body heat. He hasn't put on a shirt either.

I stare at his parabatai rune, a terrible feeling settling in my chest.

Then I change my tunic as he turns away.

  When we eat breakfast, Will stands and turns away from me.

  I hop up onto Xanthos.

  "I'll wait for you," I say, then start forward on Xanthos at a slow trot.

___________

Will brought a hand to where his parabatai rune was. Will could hear Jem's voice in his head, steady and serious and familiar: "And it came to pass. . . that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul. . . . Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul." They were two warriors, and their souls were knit together by Heaven, and out of that Jonathan Shadowhunter took the idea of parabatai, and encoded the ceremony into the Law.

  For years now this Mark and Jem's presence had been all Will had had in his life to assure him that he was loved by anybody. All that he'd had to know that he was real and existed. He traced his fingers over the edges of the faded parabatai rune. He had thought he would hate it, hate the sight of it in sunlight, but he found to his surprise that he didn't. He was glad the parabatai rune had not simply vanished off his skin. A Mark that spoke of loss was still a Mark, a remembrance. You could not lose something you had never had.

  Out of the saddlebag he took the knife Jem had given him: a narrow blade with the intricate silver handle. In the shadow of the oak tree, he cut the palm of his hand and watched as the blood ran onto the ground, soaking the earth. Then he knelt and plunged the blade into the bloody ground. Kneeling, he hesitated, one hand on the hilt.

  "James Carstairs," he said, and swallowed. It was always this way; when he needed words the most, he could not find them. The words of the biblical parabatai oath came into his head: Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee—for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried. The Angel do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.

  But no. That was what was said when you were joined, not when you were cut apart. David and Jonathan had been separated, too, by death. Separated but not divided.

  "I told you before, Jem, that you would not leave me," Will said, his bloody hand on the hilt of the dagger. "And you are still with me. When I breathe, I will think of you, for without you I would have been dead years ago. When I wake up and when I sleep, when I lift up my hands to defend myself or when I lie down to die, you will be with me. You say we are born and born again. I say there is a river that divides the dead and the living. What I do know is that if we are born again, I will meet you in another life, and if there is a river, you will wait on the shores for me to come to you, so that we can cross together." Will took a deep breath and let go of the knife. He drew his hand back. The cut on his palm was already healing—the result of the half dozen iratzes on his skin that Nora had drew up. "You hear that, James Carstairs? We are bound, you and I, over the divide of death, down through whatever generations may come. Forever."

  He rose to his feet and looked down at the knife. The knife was Jem's, the blood was his. This spot of ground, whether he could ever find it again, whether he lived to try, would be theirs.

  He turned to walk toward Balios, toward Wales and Tessa. He did not look back, even as he caught up to Nora.