#and 'IMAGINE WHAT ALASTAIR WOULD THINK IF HE ONLY KNEW ABOUT MY DREAMS-' *starts crying*

[agnes-draws]

poor little thomas....even in his dreams the pretty boy from the academy doesn't leave him alone :(

#i think i did alastair a bit too tall but since it's thomas's mind we are talking about....who cares hwsjjwk #also the girl who wakes him up is eugenia ofc 😂 #and after that dream thomas proceeds to moap around all day bc 'he is so foolish and embarrassing' #and 'IMAGINE WHAT ALASTAIR WOULD THINK IF HE ONLY KNEW ABOUT MY DREAMS-' *starts crying* #thomas lightwood #alastair carstairs #thomastair #eugenia lightwood #the last hours #chain of iron #chain of thorns #the shadowhunter chronicles #tlh #my art🌷

[alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer]

romeo must die

this one-shot is based on the song Romeo Must Die by Gabrielle Aplin, I highly recommend listening to it! shout out to @eugeniaslongsword for introducing me to it :) i even borrowed some lyrics from it haha. it is also inspired by the entire playlist I made, "being treated badly by someone doesn't make you love them more"

content warnings: past toxic/unhealthy relationship, the uncomfy 6-year age gap between Alastair and Charles

Masterlist | Read on AO3

"Alastair, may I speak to you privately for a moment?"

Alastair looked up from what he was working on. He was in the library of the Institute, along with Cordelia, Thomas, James, Matthew, and Christopher. They were searching for any clue as to how Lucie had done what she’d done or what Tatiana and Belial were planning. Alastair wasn't entirely sure how he got roped into the ordeal, but it seemed as though Thomas suggested him as an extra set of eyes, and Cordelia latched onto the idea.

"No," he said curtly, returning to his reading.

"Excuse me?"

"I said no. I'm quite busy at the moment." Alastair spoke under his breath, not wanting to draw the others' attention. How many times had Charles barked the same words at him, swatting him away, hacking away at paperwork or planning his next step in his career? The words sat bittersweet in his chest.

"Surely you could spare a few moments."

"I certainly could. But I do not wish to." Charles had a way of getting into his head and twisting his words and his feelings. It was not an experience he wished to revisit. It was better here, with an audience. It had also been easier in the infirmary, knowing that he held all of the power. His father had made him feel the same way, he thought bitterly. He understood now that what he'd done at school was not only to protect himself from the bullies. He wanted to reclaim the power stolen from him by his father; he wanted for once in his life to hold power himself. He hadn't yet come to the realization that holding that kind of power did nothing but harm. It was of no use, anyways, because it didn't matter how much he perfected his tongue and his wit on the other students at the Academy, he was never able to use it when it counted. Not with Elias, and not with Charles.

"It's fine if you need to take a few minutes, Alastair,” Cordelia said gently. All of the eyes in the room had come to rest on the two of them. Now he wished he’d spoken louder.

“It’s alright, Charles was just leaving.”

He had hoped that Charles would give up and leave knowing that everyone was watching him, but he was determined. He grabbed Alastair’s arm. “It’ll just be-”

Alastair stood, but pulled his arm away. “Don’t touch me.”

In a flicker, Alastair saw it: the anxiety began to set in. Charles began to realize that he would not be able to play his usual tricks. “Why are you acting like this?”

“I believe I was quite clear when I told you I don’t wish to speak with you. You’re the one who can’t let this go.”

“Must you act so childish?”

He rolled his eyes. “Must you always call me childish for thinking for myself instead of catering to your every whim?”

“I don’t understand. You said we were fine.”

Alastair sighed. Perhaps for a moment, he thought that was true. For just a second, he thought there was a world where he and Charles could be friends. But Alastair had decided that he would no longer call people who hurt him his friends. “Yes, well, I lied. I wanted to let you down gently, but it’s clear to me now that it must be spelled out for you. How shall I put this? You and I are past our dancing days, Charles.”

“But-” He stammered, searching for words. “What happened with Grace Blackthorn wasn’t my fault.”

“Maybe not. But what of Miss Bridgestock? Am I to pretend that what happened with Miss Blackthorn was not the same as what happened two years earlier?”

“You told me many times that you took no issue with that, that you understood.”

“I understood what you told me, which we both know was never the full truth. I was a sixteen year old desperate for your affections, and the fact that you truly believe I never had any issue with your arrangement is proof that you never genuinely cared about me or listened to my thoughts. I told you in the infirmary that this wasn’t your fault because I thought it’d ease the pain, but I lied. And I don’t have time to sit here and watch you cry over it.”

Alastair wished that watching Charles become flustered would have been more enjoyable. Instead, all he wanted was for this to end. “You- you’re different than when we met. You’ve changed. You’re cruel and callous, I don’t understand how I could not see how heartless you were until now. You are everything that everyone claims you to be. How am I to even know what the truth is when it comes from your lips?”

There was a time when those words would have cut deeply into him, eating at his every insecurity, but Charles mistakenly assumed that Alastair was the same person he was last July, with the same insecurities. “When we met, I was fourteen years old. I’ve grown up, and it is time for you to do the same. It’s been six months, Charles. You need to stop writing me. If that makes me heartless, I don’t care. And if you wish to know the truth, the truth is that the moment you leave here, if I never see your face again, it still will not be long enough.”

Charles stared at him for a long while, unable to find a proper retort. In the end, it was Matthew who stepped in. “Charles, I believe it’s time for you to go.”

He obliged, finally turning to leave the library. As he began to walk away, however, Alastair knew that he was not finished. His heart beat a little bit faster at the thought of such a confession, and faster again when he realized who would hear it, but there was no piece of parting with Charles that he wished to regret.

“Wait,” he said. Charles froze and turned to look at him. “I know it’s unlikely that you have it in the cold depths of your soul to care, but let the record show that I would have given you everything. I would have given you my life, all of the love and trust that I had to give, and then I would have given more. And you gave me nothing. So the next time you’re pondering my heartlessness, you ought to wonder what that means for you.”

Finally satisfied, Alastair did not wait for Charles to turn and leave again to return to his seat and pick his reading back up. He waited for a moment, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of everyone’s eyes on him. He stood once more, opening his mouth to speak, but the words were caught in his throat. Instead, he walked out of the library in silence.

Finding the nearest balcony, he attempted to steady his breath.

“Are you alright?” He heard from behind him. Thomas. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He shook his head. “I just needed some air.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Alastair sighed. He backed up against the window and slid down to the floor of the balcony. “I know- I know that everyone sort of knew already, but… by the Angel, I feel so pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic,” Thomas told him, sitting down beside him.

“You were right, of course you were. I was so… taken with him, back in Paris. I couldn’t see him for what he was. I was so naive, so foolish. I just- After everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve been through, how did I not realize-”

Thomas put his hand on Alastair’s knee. “You wanted to see the best in him. After everything you’d seen and been through, you wanted to believe that there were still good and honest people in the world. And there are. I’m sorry that he was not one of them, but that does not make you foolish or pathetic. It makes you… kind.”

“I bet you’d never imagined describing me as such before.”

“It seems you’re full of surprises,” Thomas teased. “But that’s not true. I always saw the kindness in you, even back at school, when you did everything to keep it hidden.”

“As you can see, my ‘kindness’ has never gotten me very far.”

“You were out of practice. Following me on my reckless nighttime patrols, that was kind. More than kind. I don’t think I ever thanked you for that, for risking your life to protect mine.”

“I didn’t do it for gratitude.”

“And yet I owe you mine nonetheless.”

“I can’t go back in there, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can tolerate you and your friends hating me just fine. But if any of your friends give me even an ounce of pity- well, we’ll see just where the limits of my kindness lie, won’t we?”

Thomas stood up, offering Alastair his hand. “Pity comes from those who cannot even begin to understand what you’ve experienced. For what it’s worth, I don’t think my friends will pity you. But if they do, you can ignore them. For Lucie.”

Alastair sighed and allowed Thomas to pull him to his feet. “Fine. Let’s get back to reading.”

“Speaking of reading, do you have the entirety of Shakespeare’s canon memorized, or only the lines you believe may pop up in conversation?”

“Excuse me?”

“‘For you and I are past our dancing days,’ it’s Romeo and Juliet, isn’t it? It’s the only one of his works that I got through.”

Alastair froze. “You haven’t read Hamlet?”

“I tried.”

“Othello? King Lear? Macbeth? Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

He shook his head.

“That’s impossible. And James is friends with you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Wait until my sister finds out you haven’t read Hamlet,” he warned, starting towards the library with urgency in his step.

“Wait, don’t- I just don’t like Shakespeare! What’s so wrong with that?” Thomas’ attempts at reasoning were futile, however, a welcome distraction from all of their recent sorrows finally taking hold.

Thanks for reading!! This was self indulgent af lol. I'm not to sure whether some people only wanted to be tagged in my social media AU, so if that's the case I'm sorry & please tell me!: @stxr-thxif @chaos-and-starlight @lifewouldbebetteronmars @littlx-songbxrd @dianasarrow @eugeniaslongsword @bookswitchcraftandcats @jamesherondaleofficial @thomas-gaypanic-lightwood @livingformyself @anarmorofwords @foxglove-airmid @writeforjordelia @sapphic-in @thecodexsays @fortheloveofthecarstairs @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @shadowrunner2000 @thewarthatsavedmylife @fair-childd @icouldnotask @shadowhunting-hooligans @melanielocke @clarys-heosphoros @kiwichaeng @lightwoodsimp @thecrimsonsorceresss @theenchanteddreamer @adams-left-hand @yozinha-z @ipromiseiwillwrite @skirtsandsweaters @goodoldfashionednerd

#alastair carstairs #charles fairchild #if you're a charles apologist just block me #thomas lightwood #thomastair #tlh #the last hours #cw toxic relationship #coi spoilers #fanfiction #fanfic

[melanielocke]

Lost in the Shadows - Chapter 32

AO3

Taglist: @alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite @a-dream-dirty-and-bruised @alastair-appreciation-month

Previous Chapter: Chapter 31

Next Chapter: Chapter 33

Using what little time she could before they would enter the land of the thief, Lucie packed a small bag. She had no idea what she’d need, but it was best to come prepared. Her power so far had seemed endless in that world, the biggest limitation was that using magic exhausted her and in the worst case she’d pass out. The best she’d thought of so far was to pack lots of sugary snacks for a quick energy boosts. Luckily, aunt Sophie still had a lot of cookies she usually fed to the gnomes and her father had several packages of dextrose. She desperately hoped it would be enough. She wasn’t even sure if eating would help against the fatigue, but she didn’t have a better plan. Power naps whenever she was safe had helped so far, but she didn’t think she would find a safe enough place in the land of the thief, not with the schedule they were on.

She’d felt his power in that land. In between, there was more power, more darkness than here, and Lucie could harness it. In his realm, the power and darkness was even greater, even more unimaginable, but it was in his control. Lucie would have to fight him for dominance, and she knew it was not a fight she could win in the long run. Instead she would have to hold on long enough for Cordelia to use cortana and end his life.

Cordelia had packed lightly, only carrying a small bag with some food in case they’d have to stay long and a bottle of water. Lucie herself had gone for a bottle of lemonade so sweet it would probably make her teeth fall out. Everything for the extra energy, especially after tonight’s less than ideal sleep. If they’d had the time, Lucie would have chosen to sleep another night, but they didn’t. If they acted now, Alastair could still be saved.

Lucie had to admit she didn’t know Alastair as well as she wished. If only she could have foreseen he might do this, but it had never even crossed her mind. She didn’t even know he knew how to summon the thief. In between her recklessness, Cordelia’s heroism and Thomas’ stubbornness, they’d all thought Alastair was the cautious one, the one who thought things through and didn’t run into situations headlong. That was why, she presumed, her mother had urged him to be the voice of reason among the four of them. And she had a point, Alastair usually did think, but did thinking help when you started with some very wrong assumptions? Lucie did not think Alastair valued his own life very much. He would not risk her, or Thomas, or Cordelia unnecessary and that was why he was cautious, but he would easily sacrifice his own life because he didn’t think it mattered. Lucie didn’t even know where to begin with deconstructing such thoughts.

There were enough people Lucie loved deeply. Her parents, her brother James even if he annoyed her to death. Cordelia, of course. Thomas too. But she didn’t think she could trade away her soul for someone, nor did she think that was the kind of thing people you loved would expect of you. If they did, they shouldn’t, right? She imagined only selfish and horrible people would demand such sacrifice from the people close to them. Lucie would be horrified if anyone close to her would do this for her, and knowing Thomas, he would be too. Thomas already hated feeling like a burden, he hated it when people so much as inconvenienced themselves for his sake and Lucie expected he was going to be very upset when he found out what Alastair had done. Did Alastair believe that love meant sacrifice? She imagined perhaps being treated badly by people and being told that was love had caused him to believe that this was what you did when you loved someone.

‘Ready?’ Cordelia asked.

She was still wearing the crown hair braid Lucie had done yesterday, and although it was looking a bit messier it still held and would keep any hair out of her face.

‘I think so,’ Lucie said.

She didn’t feel ready, but she didn’t have time to wait. She didn’t think she’d feel more ready if she did. If anything, waiting and not doing anything only made her feel more nervous. Better to get this over with.

‘Whatever happens… In case we don’t make it, or the darkness gets the better of you. I love you,’ Cordelia said.

‘I love you too,’ Lucie said. ‘We will make it. Think positive. I’m sure that’ll help.’

Lucie struggled to think as positive as she wanted to. She knew it might not work out. She also knew the thief would have to be destroyed at some point. Her mother had lost her power and slept for 130 years just to seal him in, and if he broke through… Lucie wasn’t sure what he’d do, but she imagined it would be bad.

‘Are you ready, Lulu?’

It was her father, carrying one of Alastair’s dagger. ‘You know, my offer to come with you still stands. You’re far too young to go on such a dangerous mission alone.’

‘I’m not going alone,’ Lucie said. ‘I’m going with Cordelia. I think too many people would only make it more risky. Besides, I’m the only one who has the power to get to him, and we don’t have the time to wait until I’m older, or stronger.’

‘You’re right,’ Will said with a sigh. ‘I just got off the phone with James. He’s on his way here too, but won’t be there in time to see you. But you could call him before you go.’

Lucie nodded, and took her phone out of her pocket, calling James. She’d have to make it quick, but if she didn’t survive she would have at least said goodbye.

‘I’m in the bus right now, so not the best place for a phone call,’ James said. ‘I’ll be there somewhere this evening. I hope.’

‘I hope I’ll be there around that time too, but I can’t make any promises,’ Lucie said. ‘Listen, I don’t have much time. Daisy and I have to go, we have to defeat the thief of souls before midnight.’

‘I still don’t really understand what’s going on there,’ James said. ‘I’m starting to regret going on a holiday with Matthew instead.’

‘Don’t be sorry, Jamie,’ Lucie said. ‘I’m glad you and Matthew had fun. It would have been too dangerous for you here anyway. I have my powers to protect me, you don’t. I would even say, don’t come here, but I know you and I know you’re not going to listen.’

‘You guessed that right,’ James said. ‘I’m coming for you, Lu.’

‘Big brothers are the worst,’ Lucie said with a groan. ‘But I love you, Jamie. I hope I’ll see you when you arrive. And if not…’

‘I love you too, Lu. I wish you didn’t have to go.’

‘Me too, but the thief has to be stopped, and if we succeed in time, there’s still a chance Alastair will survive.’

Lucie didn’t know what her father had explained about the situation with Alastair. She knew James still didn’t like him, and she understood, but she hoped he would be a bit more empathetic now that he knew about the situation.

‘Dad told me about what Alastair did for Thomas,’ James said. ‘I never knew he had it in him to do something so selfless.’

‘I don’t think he should have,’ Lucie said. ‘I don’t think Thomas would have wanted him to. But I’m going to do what I can to save them both.’

Cordelia was signaling to her that they needed to hurry.

‘I really have to go, Jamie.’

‘Come back, alright,’ James said before hanging up.

‘James?’ Cordelia asked.

‘Yes,’ Lucie said as they left, walking to the ruins.

She wasn’t absolutely sure it was where the thief would be, but Lucie imagined it would be the best place to start their search. She desperately hoped he would be there. If not, she wasn’t so sure how to find him.

‘How is he?’ Cordelia asked.

‘Worried. Also on his way here.’

‘I hope that’s not going to be too awkward,’ Cordelia said.

‘I think he’s pretty much over you and likes you better as a friend,’ Lucie said. She hoped that was true. ‘Mostly, he’s hoping we don’t die.’

‘My mother lost it when I told her the truth. I didn’t have the time to explain everything. She fears I’m following too much into my father’s footsteps, but she is also terrified for Alastair, and very angry with him.’

‘She’s not also on her way here?’ Lucie asked.

‘She is,’ Cordelia confirmed. ‘Risa is driving her, she’s in no state to drive herself right now. They’ll also be there in the evening, I think. Apparently she considered coming before, but hoped Jem would make sure we were alright, and she wanted to give us space. Now there’s a very real chance Alastair might die, and I think she blames herself. She tries to hide it, but she feels like it’s all her fault, that she didn’t protect Alastair enough.’

‘But that’s true, isn’t it?’ Lucie said and then she realized how insensitive that might sound. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.’

‘No, it’s true. But it’s also not that simple, I think,’ Cordelia said. ‘She could have protected us better, and should have left Father much sooner. But she also loved him. He saved her life, that’s how they met. He was traveling in Iran, hunting a rogue vampire that had killed several people. Father had chased it all the way from Greece to Iran, and then in Tehran it tried to kill maman and he saved her and finally killed the vampire. That’s how they fell in love. Or at least how she fell in love with him. And for a long time, she tried to deny the problem, she wanted to believe he was still the hero who saved her. And I cannot blame her for that. Nor does Alastair, although I don’t think he understands how she could still love him. I think he always felt like it was up to him to protect her and take care of her and he did the best he could.’

Cordelia had started crying softly, and Lucie took her hand. She understood Sona a bit better now. Her father had also saved her mother from something dangerous once. Her mother had criticized his methods and his recklessness and Lucie had always thought that was terribly romantic. Many of her love stories involved her characters saving each other. She’d never considered how difficult it might become if your hero did change or had never been the person you thought they were in the first place.

‘We’re here,’ Lucie said. ‘I’m going to take us straight to his realm this time.’

She opened the gateway and stepped through to the gates of a castle. It was exactly like the one she’d dreamt off, this had to be it.

***

Thomas had no idea for how long he’d been walking when he encountered a castle. Time felt odd here, like it was slipping away with every step he took, like it moved sideways instead of forward. He gripped onto the few memories he had. He was Thomas Lightwood, and he needed to get out of here and get back to his family. He hadn’t yet figured out who the girl with the light brown hair and the boy with the dark eyes were, but he knew they had to be important too.

He kept thinking of that boy most of all. He had to be important, with how often Thomas thought of him. And he was so beautiful… Golden brown skin, black hair and eyes, sharp, but delicate features. There was a certain sadness in his eyes too, and Thomas wondered why. Was it something he’d done? It had to be, why else would he remember the boy as being sad? Whatever he’d done to hurt him, Thomas needed to get back and make it up to him. If only he could remember who he was…

The castle looked vaguely familiar, built in what he guessed was medieval style. It wasn’t a style he was particularly fond of, but he figured it was better to go inside than to keep wandering in the woods. Perhaps inside there would be some clues. Perhaps the dark eyed boy would be there, but Thomas didn’t think so. He suspected that boy might not like the look of this castle that much either, although he wasn’t sure why he thought that. Considering the clothes the boy wore, he expected him to have good taste.

Inside was empty. Thomas wandered through the halls and something about it was familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Had he been here before? Thomas didn’t remember much from before. He tried to think of the boy, unable to recall his name. Who was he? When had they met? And what had Thomas done to hurt him?

‘Why do you keep following me?’ the dark eyed boy demanded.

Thomas wasn’t sure how to answer. He had been following Alastair around a lot, because Thomas liked being near him, but he wasn’t about to admit that. At fourteen, Thomas didn’t think he was ready to come out and he wasn’t sure how Alastair would respond if he found out Thomas was in love with him. Better to admire him from a distance.

‘Are you going to answer, Lightwood?’ he asked. ‘Lost your tongue, perhaps?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Thomas said quietly, not meeting Alastair’s eyes.

‘I didn’t ask for an apology, I asked for an explanation,’ Alastair said.

Thomas didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what explanation he could offer other than being in love with Alastair. He liked being near him, even if Alastair wasn’t nice to him. Thomas had come to realize Alastair could be kinder when his friends weren’t around and he suspected Alastair was afraid his friends would turn on him. Thomas wished Alastair would see his friends sucked, and Thomas would be kinder to him than they ever hoped to be.

‘Clive has been whispering,’ Alastair continued when Thomas didn’t say anything. ‘He says you’re gay and that’s why you’re so obsessed with me. I told him that’s ludicrous, of course, but if you don’t back off he just might start saying it out loud. You know how rumors can spread, you wouldn’t want that, would you?’

Thomas didn’t know what to make of Alastair’s statement. Was it a threat? A promise? A warning, perhaps? Thomas wanted to think it was the last one. Alastair might be mean and snarky, but he wouldn’t out Thomas, right?

‘Listen, Lightwood, you’re nice. I can’t for the life of me figure out why you’re so insistent on following me around, but you’re starting to attract the wrong kind of attraction and you’re going to get yourself in trouble. Just move along, go back to your stupid little friends and leave me be.’

Thomas hesitated. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Alastair bit back. ‘I never asked for a little child to follow me around school.’

Alastair seemed upset. It wasn’t the first time Thomas had seen him get upset, Other people tended to miss it and thought he was just mean or difficult. But his eyes were always haunted, and no matter how cruel his words were, he said then with sadness carefully concealed underneath that bitterness he showed the world. Thomas was worried about him. He wasn’t so sure Alastair was alright. It felt different with him than the other bullies. Boys like Clive Cartwright seemed to enjoy themselves when they made fun of Thomas, they laughed. Alastair didn’t, not beyond that wicked smile that admittedly made Thomas’ heart skip a beat. He didn’t seem to have fun tormenting others, he didn’t think it was funny. It was as if he wanted to drive everyone away.

‘Is everything alright, Alastair?’ Thomas asked softly. ‘You seem very upset.’

‘You don’t know anything about me,’ Alastair yelled at him, raising his voice for the first time. ‘You don’t understand a thing. Get away from me, just leave me alone.’

Thomas couldn’t place the memory in a context. He’d been in love with Alastair then, and Thomas guessed he still was now, but he didn’t remember anything that had happened after this. He wished he could remember, wished he could be sure Alastair was alright, but this had been years ago, and anything after was blank.

Thomas heard voices, both female. There were people in here then, and they were willing to speak at least amongst themselves. Perhaps they could help him find his way home. He was now certain that not only his family needed him, but this dark eyed boy as well. He’d done something wrong, he felt. He needed to apologize, even if he wasn’t quite sure what for.

He encountered the two girls in a long corridor. One had red hair and the same brown skin and dark eyes as the boy from his memory. Alastair, he reminded himself. His name was Alastair. He didn’t recognize her beyond her similarities to Alastair though. The other girl he did recognize. He’d seen her face too.

‘Thomas!’ the girl exclaimed. ‘We’ve been so worried about you, thank the heavens we found you.’

She did know how him then, although he guessed that made sense if he could recall her face. She was a friend, right?

‘Who are you?’ Thomas asked.

The girl took a step back. ‘Do you not remember us, Thomas? Do all people here forget? Where’s Alastair when you need him.’

‘I do know my name,’ Thomas said. ‘And I remember my family, and Alastair. I remembered your face as well. But I don’t remember who you are.’

‘I’m Lucie,’ she said. ‘Lucie Herondale. We’re great friends. And you know Cordelia as well, don’t you? She’s my girlfriend, although that’s a pretty new thing and we haven’t had the chance to tell you yet.’

Lucie did ring a bell. Cordelia… he wasn’t so sure. He turned to Cordelia. ‘Do you know Alastair?’

‘He’s my brother,’ Cordelia said.

She looked sad when she spoke of him, and Thomas wondered if it had anything to with what he must have done.

‘You look like him. Do you know where he is? I think I need to apologize to him.’

Lucie frowned. ‘What for?’

‘I don’t know,’ Thomas said. ‘I feel he is very sad, and I thought maybe it’s my fault he’s so sad.’

Cordelia looked pained. ‘It’s not your fault, Thomas. You did the best you could. He’s been through a lot in the past, and you’re right that he’s usually sad although he hides it well. I think that’s why you remember him as sad.’

Thomas guessed that made sense. He remembered wondering at school, why was he like that, why was he so sad? His father had suggested once to invite Alastair over to their house, but Thomas didn’t. They weren’t actually friends, were they? He didn’t think Alastair liked his presence at all, although now he guessed what Alastair had said had been a warning too, to protect him.

‘Why can’t I remember?’ Thomas asked. ‘Where am I?’

‘We don’t have much time,’ Lucie said. ‘We’ll explain everything on the way.’

Thomas frowned. ‘Where are we going?’

Cordelia sighed. ‘That’s the thing. We thought he would be here, but there’s no one here but you. We’re looking for the thief, but if he’s not here we’re not sure where to find him.’

Thomas was even more confused. ‘What thief? What did he steal?’

‘You, Thomas. He stole you. Your soul, that is, and countless others,’ Lucie said. ‘If we do not find him and end his life, you will die and stay here forever.’

Thomas swallowed. He couldn’t die here, he needed to find his way back to his family, to Alastair. He began to remember Lucie. He remembered reading bits and pieces of her writing, although she was very nervous about letting him read anything. He remembered playing video games together, discussing story ideas. Thomas was more of a song writer than a book writer than Lucie was, but he’d written some songs to go with Lucie’s stories. He didn’t think he’d ever told her about his songs though… Why hadn’t he? They must have really sucked.

‘Where’s Alastair?’ Thomas asked. ‘Shouldn’t he be with you? And didn’t you say we needed his help?’

‘Alastair could help you with your memory,’ Cordelia said. ‘But we don’t know where he is. He’s in this world somewhere. He… he sacrificed himself for you. If we don’t kill the thief soon, he will die.’

‘For me?’ Thomas tried to imagine it, but he couldn’t picture the boy from school doing such a thing. He remembered something more, going on a walk with Alastair which can’t have been that long ago. Talking about all sorts of things. They were friends, maybe? Thomas didn’t doubt he still loved Alastair, but wasn’t sure where they stood right now. ‘Why would he do such a thing?’

There were tears in Cordelia’s eyes, perhaps Thomas should not have asked such a question.

‘He loves you. And he thinks it would be better if he died if that meant you would survive.’

Did that mean Alastair was his boyfriend? ‘But I would never want that,’ Thomas said. ‘I don’t want anyone to die for me. I… I can’t remember. Did I agree to this? Did I let him die?’

What sort of monster was he, if he’d allowed this? What had he done? Maybe that was what he needed to apologize to Alastair for.

‘I don’t think so,’ Cordelia said. ‘I think he made this decision alone, and never told anyone. You were probably already here, or at least in a deep sleep, when he did it. Don’t beat yourself up over it, it wasn’t your fault. Lucie, any ideas to find the thief now? Can the other souls help?’

‘They’re under his control,’ Lucie said, ‘but his power is spread thin. I think I can command some of his souls.’

Thomas wasn’t sure he understood what Lucie was doing when she started speaking to the souls once they were outside. They came to listen. Something drew them there. Thomas wanted to listen too. He wanted to do as she asked. Perhaps he was a soul too. Lucie could see ghosts, he remembered. She’d always seen ghosts.

‘I need you to find the thief of souls, and return to me. And if by chance you come upon Alastair Carstairs, bring him to me.’

‘Do they know who Alastair is?’ Thomas asked Lucie.

‘They don’t, but I do so that’s enough,’ Lucie said. ‘They take my commands quite well.’

‘That’s good news, but be careful with saving power,’ Cordelia said. ‘You’ll have to keep everything at bay while I fight him.’

Cordelia was carrying a golden sword, so Thomas guessed she would be the one who could kill the thief of souls. To do that, they had to find him though.

‘I’m not dead, am I?’ Thomas asked.

‘Not yet,’ Lucie said. ‘But if we don’t kill the thief, you or Alastair will die.’

‘If he hides from you, does that mean you can defeat him?’ Thomas said. ‘If he believed he could easily win this fight, he’d confront you and try to kill you. If he’s hiding, that means he’s scared, doesn’t it?’

‘Perhaps, but I’m counting on the worst until something proves otherwise,’ Cordelia said.

‘Or perhaps it’s because of the deadline,’ Lucie mused.

‘It won’t matter to him if he dies now or tomorrow,’ Cordelia said. ‘The deadline matters for us, because if we fail Alastair or Thomas will die. But their souls have no use for him if he’s dead. Nor do I think one more soul will tip the scales and make him too strong to defeat.

Thomas, if we find Alastair, I must ask you not to kiss him until after the thief dies. Alastair’s bargain is fulfilled when he kisses you and then he’d die.’

Thomas longed to kiss Alastair, had for a long time, so he was glad for the warning. Would Alastair kiss him when they reunited, without telling him what he’d done, never giving him a choice? He didn’t quite understand what Alastair had done, and most importantly, why. He would never have asked Alastair to die for him, he would never have wanted it. He wasn’t sure how he’d feel when he saw Alastair again. He would be happy, of course, if they both survived, but he was also upset about what he’d done. He knew it was sweet in a way, that Alastair had done it out of love, but it was too much. Thomas had never wanted anyone to die for him, least of all Alastair.

#Lucie Herondale #Thomas Lightwood #cordelia carstairs #Alastair Carstairs #the last hours #Thomastair #Lucelia #fanfiction #tlh

[thomaslightwood]

A Kind of Magic

Chapter one: One Vision

A dream of sweet illusion:

A glimpse of hope and unity,

And visions of one sweet union.

(recommend, but not necessary to read/hear the song)

•

In this moment Thomas had one goal and that was to make it to the Devil Tavern. As fast as possible.

It wasn’t because he was running from something but because he needed to be alone. This was the closest place he could think of where he could be alone for now. He knew that James and Matthew were training together in the Institute and Christopher was with Henry doing their new experiment with that ichor. So their room should be empty, right?

When he entered the establishment he barely looked at the people there. He smiled at Polly and nodded at a few other Downworlders but didn’t stop to chat like usual. 

Thomas tramped upstairs to their room, wanting air. He opened some of the old windows and looked at Fleet Street. It was almost lunch. He had to meet with Lucie soon. 

By the Angel, Thomas had to calm down and to put himself together. He couldn’t do anything in his current state. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. 

The problem was one particular person. One person with sharp tongue, fair hair and black eyes. His face was in front of Tom’s sight. This one vision he just couldn’t escape. 

The Carstairs arrival shouldn’t have been be surprising. At all. It was common knowledge that Lucie and Cordelia are gonna be parabatai. He just hadn’t thought about it much. Because thinking about the Carstairs means thinking about Alastair. And this always reminded him of Paris. And how confused he was after that. Thomas still was confused. Just less then before. 

Love is confusing, Thomas thought. And strange. Like some spell on you which makes you dizzy. Some dark magic that stretches your heart with killing hope. 

Yes, this had to be. A kind of magic. 

• 

When Thomas finally arrived at the Institute Lucie was already waiting for him in the emty ballroom. Many books and papers were in the big table which they usually used when they’re here.

“Sorry for being late” said Thomas guiltily. 

Lucie just smiled at him, clearly in a good mood. 

“Don’t worry. I’m not in hurry.”

Thomas pulled a chair to sit, facing Lucie. “You said you need help with a translation?”

“That’s right,” she said excitedly. Lucie bring in front of him few papers which he knew were drafts of Lucie’s tales. She liked this paper and used it to write on.

“So, you know about the Carstairs arrival, right?”

Thomas managed to nod. His heart was beating fast. “Anna told me about an hour ago.”

Lucie smiled happily. “I heard about it today as well. And wanted to do something special for Daisy.” Lucie took a few other papers and two books. Dictionaries, Thomas realized. “And I came up with this: to translate The Beautiful Cordelia in Persian.” 

Thomas raised eyebrows, distracted from his thoughts of Alastair for a moment.

“Luce, you have been writing it since you were twelve. To translate it all… it would take weeks. Months.”

“I know,” she sighed. “Four years writing. I know there no chance to do it before their arrival. But I thought it may be ready for our parabatai ceremony.” Lucie looked at all the paper on the table and smiled hopefully at him. “However, that’s why I wanted your help, Tom. With you beside me it would be so much faster! So… Will you help?” asked Lucie, pleading.

“Of course Luce!” said Thomas without hesitation. “No need to ask. But do you know when will be your ceremony?”

“No idea” said Lucie honestly. “But I believe we can choose the date. I will convince Cordelia to be in a time after we are ready.”

“You thought about everything, didn’t you?” Thomas smiled.

Lucie laughed.

“We are talking about my parabatai after all. Now, let’s begin!”

“Let’s begin,” Thomas repeated. There were a lot of work to be done. 

•

When Thomas entered the Devil Tavern for the second time this day it was almost evening. 

He was with Matthew and James. Together they left the Institute, already in gear, ready to hunt demons. They had to take Christopher before the fall of the night to start patrolling London’s streets.

“I just have to pick up some knifes I forgot last time,” James said. “It won’t take long.”

“Jamie loves his knifes too much sometimes” sighed his parabatai.

So now Matthew and Thomas were waiting for him. Matthew ordered one drink for himself but Thomas didn’t want. He prefered his mind to be clear before a battle.

His charming friend chatted with Polly who was already laughing.

Thomas asked  himself if he should take something to eat. He hadn’t eat anything since he met with Lucie. Maybe this could stop his thoughts to wander around Alastair Carstairs. 

“Hey Tom,” Matthew called him. Thomas didn’t realize when his conversion with Polly ended. “Isn’t Christopher the one who usually isn’t here?” he asked with a smile.

Thomas tried to smile back but Matthew was right. His mind was elsewhere.

“I’m fine,” he said. He hoped he was not a liar.

Matthew drank from the drink a little, still looking at Thomas.

“Is there someone special?” he asked, curious.

Thomas didn’t answer. 

“Is it that werewolf girl who was running after you for while?”

“By the Angel, Matthew,” he sighed.

Thomas still felt a little embarrassed thinking about the whole situation. Her name was Bella. She was chasing him for a few weeks and was absolutely shameless. In the end Thomas forced himself to tell her that he liked another person and didn’t want her hurt, which was true. Bella was very disappointed but said she’s fine. Asked about this person though but Thomas refused to tell her anything. It felt too private to share it with someone else.

He thought about Alastair again. For long, maybe longer then Thomas wanted to admit, the Persian was the only one he thought about this way. 

There was thousand little things about him. Flash of light in his eyes. The sweet illusion of his hands. His voice. His everything. One heart. One soul. He was the glimpse of the brightest dream in the dark rains.

Thomas felt breathless. The love wasn’t what he ever imagined it would be. There’s no black and no white. It was all the colors at one.

“Thomas!”

He startled and looked at Matthew. He forgot that his friend was still there.

“There is definitely someone,” Matthew said, already grinning. 

“Are you hungry?” Thomas asked, desperate to change the topic.

Polly came near them, rising an eyebrow. 

“Do I know this person? Is it a lady or a gentleman?” the blond kept asking, ignoring Tom’s question.

Thomas looked at Polly, trying not to blush.

“Just gimme fried chicken,” he murmured.

•

A/N: one big shout out for Teddy (@fair-y-child) who was so kind to edit my chapters! Thank you Teo for your help, it wouldn’t be the same without you ❤️

People who wanted to be tagged (thanks to every one of you, I didn’t expect so many people to ask for it): @christopher-lightwood-my-heart @panicatwallmaria @thomaslightwoodx @thomastair-paris @lavanyalol @lucexherondale @tom-carstairs @im-gay-for-cordelia-carstairs @vintage-morning-wine @ab-cedario @daisycordelia @crying-is-your-latest-fashion @a-very-gay-spider (btw I will keep tagging you if you don’t tell me to stop)

#thomas lightwood #lucie herondale #matthew fairchild #james herondale #mention: #christopher lightwood #henry fairchild #alastair carstiars #thomastair #cordelia carstairs #chog #chain of gold #cog #cog2 #tlh #tlh fanfic #the last hours #the last hours trilogy #tsc #tsc fanfic #the shadowhunters chronicles #cassandra clare #my fic #my fanfiction #fan fiction #fanfiction #fanfic #my post #sav's writing #a kind of magic

[antspaul]

happy holidays @lollercakesff !!! I wrote you a fic! I hope you enjoy it ~ and have a wonderful holiday season! 

I am posting the fic here, as well as on ao3, as it’s a little long (~10k). 

charity (who is helping who?) 

Summary: AU in which Anne is a little more poor but just as vivacious while Gilbert is a lot more wealthy and a little more cowardly. 

Based somewhat loosely on the book Daddy Long Legs, written in 1912 by Jean Webster. There’s a movie with Fred Astaire and a wonderful musical based on the book. I always thought that Jerusha, the main character, was very reminiscent of Anne. The title comes from the song “Charity” from the musical. 

PART I.

13 July 1899

Dear Ms. Shirley-Cuthbert, 

I am pleased to inform you that you have been selected to receive a full scholarship to the University of Toronto. This scholarship allows deserving young men and women invested in the arts to attend college in pursuit of strengthening their craft. You were selected on the basis of your imaginative and enjoyable writing, which the University hopes that you will pursue once on campus. 

The scholarship will cover your tuition and board for the four years it will take you to earn your Bachelor of Arts, provided to you from a very generous benefactor. There is also a small account in your name that will provide for your books. The funds in this account are stable and will not be replenished, so you are advised to spend very wisely. All additional details about your award are on the attached page.

In order to keep your scholarship, you will write your benefactor letters, at least once per month throughout your tenure at the University of Toronto, informing him of your progress, both academic and creative. Your benefactor will remain anonymous, and you may only address him as “Mr. Smith.” The address is provided below. You may use your book account to purchase postage, if necessary. 

Congratulations once again. We at the University of Toronto will see you come fall. 

Alastair Pendleton 

Director of Financial Aid and Scholarships

University of Toronto

1 September 1901

To my magnificent benefactor, 

I am sorry but I cannot address you as “Mr. Smith”, not when you have changed my life for the better in such a profound way. I can hardly believe that scarcely two months ago I was lamenting my future stuck on the farm and now I am here at the University of Toronto, ready to learn all there is to know in the world! And I have you to thank. 

Please don’t think that I’m an ungrateful child. I truly appreciate everything that everyone has done for me. Until six years ago I lived the sorrowful life of the unwanted child that I was. You see, Mr. Smith, my parents died when I was only three months old. Does knowing I’m an orphan make you think less of me? I hope it doesn’t. I imagine a man as generous and kind as you wouldn’t care. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be giving charity to poor girls such as I. 

Anyway, I lived in an orphanage, among other places, until I was thirteen and the most wonderful people in the world adopted me! Their names are Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert and they are brother and sister. I lived with them on a farm on Prince Edward Island. Have you ever been to Prince Edward Island, Mr. Smith? If you haven’t, you must go. I am quite certain it is the most breathtaking beautiful and splendid place on the planet. 

I was told when I spoke to Mr. Pendleton in person that you don’t need to know anything about my life beyond my schooling and my writing. But since I will likely be mentioning Matthew and Marilla quite frequently, I thought that I would tell you who they were. 

Will you be reading these letters? On the long train ride to Toronto, I thought long and hard about what I would do if I were a mysterious, filthy rich old man giving heaps of money to farm girls who couldn’t otherwise afford college. After a while I just gave up because I am not any of those things and could simply not put myself in your shoes. Marilla always berates me for my vanity, which leads me to think that I could not remain anonymous for very long. My opinion doesn’t matter, of course, but I do hope you read my letters. I intend to pour every speck of gratitude towards you that I possess onto these pages.

What is there left to talk about? Classes don’t start until tomorrow. I know that you wanted to know about my academics, but there isn’t any to talk about yet. I wanted to draft my first letter to you before homework became too overwhelming. Would you like to hear about my friends? My friendships certainly count as personal, but since I will mention them in the future as well, I will introduce them now. 

My best friend and roommate is Diana Barry. Oh, how to describe Diana! She is the most dearest girl in the world. I met her when I had just arrived in Avonlea and immediately recognized her as a kindred spirit. Sharing a room with Diana is a dream come true! Her parents are rigid and close-minded. Perhaps I shouldn’t have written that because they are also very rich and seem to know every other rich person in North America. I don’t mean to be harsh but I’ve seen them make her cry enough times that I think I am entitled to my opinion of them. 

Ruby Gillis is my second best friend. She’s also from Avonlea. She’s a wonderfully nice girl, maybe too nice for her own good. Ruby lacks imagination, perhaps, but sometimes an imagination as big as mine, I have found, can be a burden, as when you can imagine a beautiful future it sometimes leaves the present looking grayer than ever. 

Who else is there to mention? Jane Andrews is the only other girl from home who also got in to U of T (University of Toronto, as I’m sure you know — writing it like that gives me such a thrill!) but I doubt I’ll be seeing her much, as she’s taken residence with her aunt and uncle in town. I’ve also met some new girls and we’ve become fast friends. Their names are Priscilla Grant, Stella Maynard, and Philippa Gordon. As I have just come to know them, I can’t tell you much except I can already tell they are kindred spirits. It’s just something you feel. I feel that we are kindred spirits, too, Mr. Smith. 

I apologize if this letter has gone on too long, or if it’s not the type of letter you wanted me to send you. The letters that come from my desk usually go to someone I know very well, like my friend Cole or Diana’s Aunt Josephine. 

Oh, those are two others I’m sure to mention a lot — Cole is an artist and is the kindest, most gentle soul I have ever come across. Aunt Josephine is a rich old lady who is a sort of parent to Cole. Perhaps you know her, though when I asked Aunt Jo if she was acquainted with an old rich man who sends orphan girls to college to be writers, she said she knew of none. 

All that is to say that I don’t know who you are or what sort of person you are but I vow with all of the strength in my heart to do my very best to write these letters well. 

Until next month!

Your eternally grateful friend, 

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert

P.S.: I know you insist on remaining anonymous, but if I were to receive some sort of occasional acknowledgement that you are getting my letters, that would be more than welcome. I only thought I’d let you know. 

FROM THE DESK OF ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT

21 April 1902

To my beloved benefactor, 

 I have not been able to stop smiling all week! Priscilla tells me I look crazed, with this Cheshire grin stretching across my face but I simply can’t contain myself and it’s all because of you! I don’t know how you found out that it was my birthday last week but your gift came just in time. My handwriting has never looked more beautiful than it does underneath the words “FROM THE DESK OF ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT.” Just seeing it on my table sends a thrill down my spine knowing you so thoughtfully ordered this for me yourself. How I wish you would have sent some sort of personal note with it. I know you have never answered my questions before, no matter how many I have asked. I am sorry to tell you that you’ll just have to deal with it as I can’t help but want to know you. Can you really blame me? 

Classes are going much the same as in my last letter. I retook my geometry test and did much better, I am happy to report, due to Phil’s untiring help with studying. I even started to draft some short stories that I have been thinking about, though I find it difficult to put aside the time to write them as my studies keep me more than busy. 

Here, Mr. Smith, is where I get more personal so if you still feel obliged to ignore ramblings about my social life skip to the end of the letter now. 

As you know my birthday was last Thursday. Priscilla, Stella, Phil, Ruby, and Diana decided to surprise me and take me out for dinner! They escorted me to the most charming and expensive restaurant within five miles of our boarding house. At first I felt overwhelming unprepared and underdressed for such a formal occasion, sure that I stuck out like a sore thumb around all of the elegant ladies and gentlemen dining nearby. But soon the waiter brought out course after course of wonderful, delicious food and we were having such a pleasurable time that any insecurity slipped my mind completely. For a moment it seemed that nothing at all could tarnish such an impeccable moment!

But of course as soon as this thought entered my mind Gilbert Blythe showed up to ruin the dinner. As I have not yet mentioned Gilbert to you (that I remember, at least) here is all you need to know about him: he did something terribly humiliating to me when we first met in school at age thirteen and I have never forgiven him for it since. If he had left it at that we would be on better terms now but soon after he left Avonlea and on the few occasions we’ve seen each other since he has made a routine of offending me similarly. So as you can see why his presence at my special birthday dinner was less than welcome. 

Perhaps, had I not known what kind of person Gilbert is, it would have offended me less when he sent a bottle of wine over to our table and offered to pay for my meal. But no doubt he only intended to flaunt his wealth before us like some peacock parading its feathers! He likely thought we would struggle to afford our meal. I have no aversion to certain types of charity, Mr. Smith, as you know, but his assumptions, and that inappropriate bottle of wine, nearly had me storming out of the restaurant in a rage. Diana and Ruby calmed me down and we politely but sternly declined his offer to the waiter. I didn’t see Gilbert’s reaction but I wish I had seen the smugness drop from his face. 

It was a thoroughly exhausting affair. Emotionally, of course. 

22 April 1901

I’m sorry for the interruption. I heard Diana call for me and it sounded quite urgent— a bouquet of flowers, it turns out, had arrived at the front door and were addressed to me. Thinking they were a belated birthday gift I readily accepted them. Imagine my surprise when the note inside revealed they were from Gilbert Blythe himself! I wanted to scream from the nerve of him and throw the flowers out but they were still quite beautiful so Ruby convinced me to keep them. The note on the inside wished me a happy birthday and apologized for his impertinence on my birthday. It almost made me regret writing those harsh things about him above. Almost. 

Anyway, Mr. Smith, this is where my personal ramblings end if you don’t care to read them. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you that I spoke to one of the instructors here about my stories and she said they sounded promising and recommended that I submit one to the University literary journal! I might get published before the end of the term, if all goes well! If you care to read my work, I’ve attached the first four pages of a recent story to this letter. 

Yours, 

19 year-old Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, soon-to-be published author

FROM THE DESK OF ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT

5 February 1902

To my dear but frustratingly mysterious benefactor, 

Can you believe it’s been a year and a half since I found out that you had selected me for the scholarship? I can’t. Since this letter will likely be incredibly short (examinations are upon us and will start soon, so I have little time to write) I wanted to start this letter by offering my undying thanks to you. So here it is: thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! And I’m so horribly mortified that I wrote to you in the manner that I did in my January letter. At the time I felt horribly unsympathetic to the wealthy and took out my frustrations on you. I wish every wealthy person were as kind as you. I suppose I really don’t know how kind you are but something tells me you are wonderfully nice. 

Classes here are going well. I’ve said it before but I love being a sophomore! I finally feel like I truly belong at the University of Toronto. As much as I love Avonlea— have you visited yet? — I’m equally glad to be exploring the world on my own. As stressful as exams are, I love being at school. Even though I’ve been to only a few places in my life living in a city as large as Toronto makes each new day an adventure. I could explore this city for years and still find new nooks and crannies. 

Since time is running short, here are several quick updates: 

Ruby is still considering dropping out. Diana and I desperately try everyday to convince her not to, but our pleas seem to have done nothing to change her mind. It will be sad but not totally unsurprising to see her leave. 

Ever since Aunt Josephine intervened with Diana’s parents, she has more confidently pursued her music. If you’re ever interested in hearing beautiful songs played on the piano then she plays a concert once a month. You could come and I wouldn’t even know you were there! It would be worth it, I promise. 

Stella, Phil, and Priscilla are doing fine as well! Priscilla gets herself into trouble for pulling pranks on our new house matron, but scoldings never seem to bother her. Beautiful Philippa frustratingly has no shortage of suitors willing to do anything for her. It’s maddening in a funny sort of way to watch them trip over themselves to impress her as she pays them barely any notice at all. 

What else? I have started to write for the newspaper! Just as I did in school. I will put in the envelope my very first story. It’s only a little book review but seeing my name in print gives me the same thrill as it did last spring when my story was published. I hope this time my writing will be met with less harsh criticism. 

Well, that’s all I can think of to say today. I’ll try to send a longer letter next week if I can. 

Faithfully, 

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert

P.S. I forgot to ask— if it isn’t too much trouble could you send me more stationery? I’m almost out of the paper that you sent me for my birthday. 

FROM THE DESK OF ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT

10 May 1903

My deeply appreciated benefactor, 

I deeply apologize for the time it took me to write you this letter. I'm also sorry for how many of my letters start out with an apology. I realize it's been more than a month since I sent my last correspondence. Can it be called correspondence if you never write back? You've sent me gifts, which I cherish with all of my soul, but never once have you sent me a single word back. After three years you'd think I would just resign myself to the fact that all you'll ever be to me is a mystery shrouded in enigma, albeit one I'm relentlessly grateful for. But if you know anything about me by now, Mr. Smith, as you should if you've read any of my letters, is that I am as stubborn as a mule. Every person I've ever worked for or belonged to has said as much. 

As I wrote that above paragraph I've realized that some of my words to you could be considered rude. Would you mind terribly if I apologized again? It's just that this week has been one of the worst I have ever experienced. May I tell you about it? I suppose one of the good things about never hearing back from you is that you will never tell me I can't. 

As I write this it's Friday, and the dreadfulness started Monday. What makes everything seem worse is that the weekend was so wonderful. Ruby came for a visit, sporting gifts for all of us from her and Moody's recent visit to America. Seeing her glowing face (I think she may be expecting but if she is, I doubt she knows herself) and hearing about how happy she and her new husband are softened the blow of her departure from school last year and everyone had a delightful time. Then she boarded the train back to the Maritimes Monday morning and everything seemed to put on a shade of gray. 

For the rest of the day both me and Diana were terribly irritable in our sadness to see her go. Our crossness culminated that night when Diana and I had a horrible argument. I can barely recall how it started— I think that I made some offhand comment disparaging Gilbert and she jumped to his rescue, and everything devolved from there. We were shouting horrible things at each other that should never be said out loud, things we didn't truly mean but hurt regardless. We haven't spoken since and though I know we are both regretful I don't know how to approach her and I think she feels the same. Our friendship isn't over, at least, but I yearn for normalcy. Concentrating in class has proved near impossible, even in the classes Diana and I don't share, because I'm so distracted by my guilt and shame. 

To make matters worse, yesterday I checked my mail at the post office and what would be there but not one, but TWO rejection letters from literary magazines. I was reading them up in a secluded tree behind the library, thinking I was alone. The first was firm but polite in their rejection. We regret to inform you that we will not be accepting your work at this time, but please submit more work in the future. The kind of dismissal that comes with an impermanent sting. The next, however, was clearly more personal. The letter described my writing as infantile, superfluous, and shallow— I starting crying on the spot. In my twenty-one years of life, I've been on the receiving end of much harsh criticism, coming from my peers, my teachers, even those I considered my friends. I often turned to writing as a way of comfort and solace in those moments. The thought that I wasn't even good at my one talent was too much to bear. So in my privacy I sobbed harder than I had in years. 

But apparently my spot in the tree was not as concealed as I originally thought. Just as I was about to collect myself and climb down, I heard a man clear his throat and call up to me, "Miss, are you alright?"

I looked down and almost fell off the branch as I realized who it was. "Gilbert?" I exclaimed. 

He looked surprised to see me, a wonder since that day I wore a bright yellow dress and my hair is as red as ever. "What are you doing up there?" he asked me, knitting his eyebrows together in that infuriating way he always does. "Have you been... crying?"

I shook my head but I'm sure it did nothing to hide my frazzled state. 

"Do you need help coming down from there?"

"No," I said but he offered me a hand anyway and I accepted it. 

As I brushed the leaves and bark from my skirt he asked me, "Would you like a cup of tea?"

My meltdown had caused me to miss lunch so I accepted. At the tea house, he as always volunteered to pay for everything which I found frustrating but I've gotten more used to Gilbert over the years.

We talked idly for a while. I asked him about his classes. He's a medical student, did I tell you that? Not in medical school yet, but in a pre-medical program. With all of his money, I don't know why he needs a career but I suppose you have to do something to fill your days. Anyway, I knew this term he's had a number of terribly strenuous courses and I was curious how he was handling them. Everything was going well, he said but didn't appear that interested in talking about himself. 

"Do you want to talk about why you were so upset earlier?" he asked me suddenly. "I would understand if you don't, of course, but perhaps if you told someone you'd... feel better."

I sighed and pulled the letters from my pocket, handing them over to him. He scanned them quickly, raising his eyebrows. 

"Wow," he said once he finished reading. "How could they be so..."

"Blunt?" 

"Wrong," he finished. "These people clearly know nothing. "

I was a bit nonplussed at his reaction. "I should have worked harder on the stories, instead of rushing to send them in. I'm more angry at myself than at those who rejected me."

Gilbert shook his head. "Your work is far from shallow, Anne. If you wrote it, then I'm sure it was amazing." He scoffed at the letter. 

“I didn’t know you had read any of my writing,” I said. 

“I read your articles in the newspaper,” he was quick to reply. 

“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t judge my writing on those little book reviews in the newspaper.”

“No— I meant the newspaper back home. In Avonlea. Bash would send them to me here, and I always loved what you wrote. Everything you wrote carried so much meaning. That stuck with me.”

"Well, thank you, Gilbert," was all I really could say. I felt a strange burst of affection towards him at that moment and it struck me that we are truly friends. Close friends, as close as I am to Priscilla, Phil, and Stella. 

Gilbert has changed these last few years, too. It's the strangest thing. When I first met him and he was a boy of fifteen, he was much like every other boy I met back then— confident, rowdy, foolhardy. Then his father died and on the rare occasion he came back to Avonlea, he seemed to have retreated into himself. We blamed it on the grief and all of the money he came into with his father's inheritance (and, reportedly, that of a wealthy aunt). But recently traces of the old Gilbert, the one who defended me from Billy Andrews and called me Carrots, have resurfaced. I don't know really how I feel about all that. I just know that I was incredibly thankful to have him as a friend yesterday in the tea house. 

Anyways, I know that all of that might have been too personal. I'll stop myself now as I hear Diana coming up the stairs and writing this letter has motivated me to mend things with her. I’ll write more to you in a few days with updates on my courses and all of that (everything is well, don’t worry) but I simply wanted to tell someone. 

Thankful as always, 

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert

P.S. It’s Saturday now and Diana and I are on good terms again. I showed her the letters and she too thought they were preposterous. Diana has read the stories I sent in and liked them a lot. Because of her confidence and my talk with Gilbert on Thursday I’ve decided to send you one of my stories. I know you at least like my writing so perhaps someone will enjoy them. 

PART II.

“It still doesn’t feel real,” Anne told Diana as they walked, arm-in-arm, through the front doors of the lecture hall. “Can you believe that it was three years ago that we first walked into this building for our first class?”

“We were terrified, if I recall,” said Diana. “Look at us now— tall, beautiful, intimidating senior girls!” She struck a pose, silly and exaggerated and the two dissolved into giggles. 

They found seats, two right next to each other near the front of the room. Twenty minutes early as they liked to be to every class on the first day, only a few other students had yet arrived. 

“I remember being frightened of the older girls when I was a freshman,” Anne said, pulling out her notebook and pen and placing them squarely on the table in front of her. “Now that I am one, I don’t know what there was to be frightened of. I scarcely feel older than I did back then.”

“Do you think that there will be many lower-years in this class?” asked Diana. 

“I don’t know. If this course was offered my first term here, I would have stopped at nothing to take it.” Anne breathed out dreamily. “To think we’ll be studying only contemporary women writers— this is exactly the kind of course I envisioned taking when I first thought about going to college.” 

“It’s too bad that the others couldn’t fit this into their timetables.”

Anne sighed. “Such is the busy life of a senior. Everyone says that we’ll have loads and loads more coursework this term but I think that I’ll hardly notice if the extra work is something I enjoy. Don’t you agree?”

Diana nodded firmly, and the room started to fill up with other students, mostly girls but a few boys showed up as well. Their instructor, the soft spoken but kind Professor Abbott, arrived five minutes prior to the class’s scheduled start time. He walked through the front door, trailed by none other than Gilbert Blythe, and the two seemed to be engaged in conversation. As they approached the chalkboard and instructor’s desk, Gilbert thanked the man and they shook hands before Gilbert left him. 

“Hello Anne, hello Diana,” Gilbert said, standing in front of their table. “May I sit next to you?”

One of the only free seats in the room was right next to Anne, so she nodded, then asked, “You’re in this class?” 

Gilbert sat down. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Diana gently elbowed Anne for her rudeness. “We’ll be glad to see you at least twice a week now,” Diana said. “Last term we could barely catch a glimpse of you once a month.”

He chuckled. “Yes, the medical faculty keeps us quite busy. If this is how rigorous pre-medical program is, I can’t even begin to imagine the real thing.”

“You’ll get used to it, I’m sure,” Diana said. 

“I have no choice,” replied Gilbert, sardonic but Anne could tell he was in a good mood. 

Up front, Prof. Abbott ordered a red-faced sophomore boy to hand out papers with the reading list. He had prepared one paper for every three students, so Anne, Diana, and Gilbert shared a paper.

“Oh no!” Anne exclaimed as she read one title on the list. 

“What happened?” asked Diana. 

“I forgot to bring a book with me from home. This one here— Elizabeth and Her German Garden— I read it last summer and meant to bring my copy from home so I didn’t have to purchase another. But now I realize that I forgot to pack it, and we’re reading it next week.”

“Don’t despair, Anne, you can borrow mine when I’m done reading the assigned sections,” offered Diana. 

Gilbert cleared his throat. “Actually, I happen to have an extra copy, if you wanted it, Anne.”

Anne perked up. “Really? Thank you, Gilbert!”

After class ended, Gilbert and Anne said goodbye to Diana and started the walk to Gilbert’s nearby apartment. Gilbert leading Anne, they reached his street only a few minutes later, as Gilbert lived only a street or two away from the main campus of the University of Toronto. The houses that lined the road embodied wealth and luxury. Though she had never been there, Anne knew that Gilbert lived in a small but ridiculously comfortable apartment at the top of one of these red bricked buildings. 

She had never been on his street, either, but still the name— Sherbourne Street— felt familiar. As the two ascending the stairs of Gilbert’s building, Anne realized why: somewhere on the street, among its seven miles of fancy house after fancy house, live Anne’s mysterious benefactor. 

Anne laughed out loud. 

Gilbert turned around and threw up an inquisitive eyebrow. “Is something funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Anne. “It’s only that the world of the rich is so remarkably tiny, don’t you agree?”

“I suppose so,” answered Gilbert. “Why do you say that?”

They reached the top step and Gilbert pulled out his key to open his door. 

Anne told him, “I’ve realized that you live on the same street as someone I know.”

Gilbert paused, his key only halfway in the lock. “Oh? Who?”

“Well, I’ve never met him. This might sound strange, but he’s— are you going to open the door or not, Gilbert?”

“Oh. Sorry.” Gilbert let them in. “You were saying?”

“He’s an old rich man who’s been paying for my education. I’ve never seen him in person, you see, but I’ve written him letters for the last three years so I feel like I know him quite well.”

Anne followed Gilbert through his apartment, which was quite larger than it appeared on the outside, until they ended up in a large library room with a fireplace and massive chairs with vast, soft-looking cushions. It was exactly the kind of library Anne yearned to possess herself, where she could sit with a warm cup of tea on a cold winter’s day. 

“The book is over here,” Gilbert said, pointing to a shelf and directing her there. “So… your… old man has written you back often, then?”

“Well, not exactly. But I believe that you don’t have to know a person to know them.”

“That doesn’t make much sense at all, Anne.”

She pouted. “Never mind then. Maybe it isn’t meant to be understood by anyone else but me.”

He laughed, then, a soft chuckle that surprised Anne in its clarity. He pulled a book off the shelf. “Here it is,” he said, handing over his copy of Elizabeth and Her German Garden. 

As Anne took it graciously, she couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t have another copy on the shelf but decided not to mention it. 

~

The rest of the course was as enjoyable as Anne and Diana had hoped. Tuesday morning before class often brought Anne, Diana, and Gilbert together to a nearby tea house to eat lunch and discuss the week's readings. Anne looked forward to their meeting more than almost anything else. Gilbert seemed to appreciate the literature as much as Anne and Diana, even though the books were by women. He was able to offer both a male and medical opinion, the latter of which being particularly valued in their discussion of The Yellow Wallpaper. Both Anne and Diana thought his enjoyment curious, but their instructor was also a man after all. It wasn't so strange, and to have a man appreciating the words of a woman rather than the other way around was empowering to Anne as a writer herself. 

Anne had never seen Gilbert so relaxed as he was during their Tuesday morning book discussions. Usually, in most other occasions when their paths crossed, Gilbert always seemed to be in such a rush, stressed out about business, or class, or some other small thing. Anne had always felt sad for him because of this, but to see him truly at ease painted him in a different light in her mind. His presence became something welcome, more soothing than it had ever been. She had realized they were good friends less than a year ago, and she wondered if Gilbert's father had never died, if business had never kept him away from Avonlea, they would be as good of friends today. 

The term flew quicker than Anne had anticipated, as it was want to do, and soon Christmas was over and exam season was upon them. Anne barely caught sight any of her friends for those two weeks, as everyone boarded themselves in their rooms to study and write essays. The only person Anne saw with any sort of regularity was Diana, which only happened because the two shared a room. 

The Monday of the second exam week, Anne and Diana decided to take a much-deserved break, going for a stroll in a nearby park to clear their minds. 

"Have you seen Gilbert lately?" Anne asked Diana. 

"No," said Diana. "I imagine he is incredibly busy with his own exams. Studying for our exams is hard enough. Can you even imagine what his must be like?"

Anne shuddered. "I would rather not. While I find the human body and all its functions endlessly fascinating, I've caught a glimpse of his more complicated textbooks. I won't be joining the pre-medical program any time soon."

"At the very least, we'll see him at the exam for women's literature," said Diana. 

But when the day came, Gilbert did not show up. Diana and Anne showed up their usual twenty minutes early, expecting to see their friend, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

As the minutes to the exam's start passed, Anne became nervous for her friend. She rose from her chair and said to Professor Abbott, who was seconds away from starting the test, "Excuse me, sir, but shouldn't we wait until Gilbert is here?"

Professor Abbott fixed her with an odd look. "Mr. Blythe won't be sitting the exam."

Had something happened? Had Gilbert dropped the course last-minute? That couldn't be right. He had attended every class. 

Anne badly wanted to ask why, worried about her friend, but Professor Abbott gave her no room to do so, starting to read the instructions for their timed essay. She wrote a fine essay, though it took her longer than it would have had she not been so distracted by the empty spot next to her. When the exam finished, Anne wasted not a second to ask her instructor what he had meant. 

"Mr. Blythe was only auditing the course," was his answer. "Therefore, he did not have to take the exam. I thought you knew that, him being your beau." 

Heat rushed to her face. A younger Anne might have argued that Gilbert was not her beau in the least, but today she thanked him and left with Diana. 

On their walk home, Anne clung to Diana's arm and asked, "It seems very strange that Gilbert would audit a course." 

"It's not so strange," replied Diana. "Gilbert has always been interested in literature, and likely wanted an excuse to read more without having another exam to prepare for."

"Why do you think he didn't tell us?" asked Anne. 

Diana peered at her, a curious glint in her eyes. "I have a suspicion." 

When Diana didn't elaborate immediately, Anne stopped them in the middle of the walkway. A disgruntled set of girls behind them rolled their eyes to wind around them. 

"What is it?"

With a small grin, Diana answered, "I think Gilbert took the class because of you."

"Me?!" Anne said incredulously. "Why would Gilbert do that?"

"You really don't know?" 

"Know what? What is there to know?"

"Never mind," Diana said slyly, pulling them back into motion. 

"Diana, quit messing with my head and tell me." 

Diana laughed. "Are you saying that you really don't see the way he looks at you? He obviously loves you."

Anne didn't say anything, trying to wrap her mind around Diana's words. 

Sighing, Diana continued, "If you don't believe me, just ask him yourself."

Anne huffed, confused at her irritation. "I think I will."

It took a few days to pin down Gilbert, as his exams kept him busy and occupied at the few moments he was usually reliably free. But finally Anne managed to catch him at their favorite tea house, reading a newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee, and sat down without invitation. 

Gilbert looked surprised to see her there. "Anne, hello." He folded his newspaper and set it down in front of him. "Not that you're unwelcome, but what are you doing here?"

"Stella said she saw you here," Anne said.

"Oh," said Gilbert. "Well, do you want something? On me, of course."

"No. Actually, I have a question. An important question. Well, maybe it's not so important, but it could be. Depending on your answer."

"Anne— just... ask the question."

Gilbert looked a little nervous himself, shifting in his chair. 

Anne took a breath. "Right. Sorry. I was only wondering... why did you take the Women Authors course?"

"Oh." He was quiet for a moment and Anne studied his face. "Well, I wanted to educate myself, I suppose, about literature written by women. I felt I didn't know much about the subject."

Unsatisfied, Anne shot back, "You decided to take an extra class for no reason in your last year of the pre-medical program?"

"I wanted to read something other than dry medical books. I'm sorry... did you want another answer?"

Anne sighed and stood up, more dejected than she thought she'd be. "No. I was just being silly. I'm sorry for bothering you, Gilbert. I should go."

"You don't have to."

"No, I should. I have a letter to write."

~

FROM THE DESK OF ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT

1 May 1904 

Dear Mr. Smith, 

It felt right to address you in a more formal manner today because we have formal matters to discuss. As I graduate in three weeks, I imagine that this will be my last letter to you for some time. Don’t worry, I intend to tell you as soon as something big happens with my writing. You’ll be the first to know, before Marilla or Matthew or even Diana. I could never forget that you are the reason I was able to go to school and reach my full potential. Because of you, I’m not stuck at Green Gables, shoveling hay alongside Jerry or teaching at the small Avonlea school house and never seeing the world for the rest of my life. 

You’ve already given me so much, Mr. Smith, and it doesn’t feel right to ask for more but I can’t help it. It would feel even less right to graduate without you in the audience, watching me. 

Say you’ll come, won’t you? I know you wish to remain anonymous. Your decision to hide your identity has been my constant turmoil for the last four years and I don’t think I could bear to go out into the world without putting a face and a name to the man who has changed my life completely. 

Please don’t be afraid that you’ll disappoint me. Is it presumptuous to tell you that? For all I know, you don’t care about me one bit and haven’t read a single one of my many, many letters. But if you have, and if you have found any meaning in them at all, please tell me you’ll come. I already love you with all my heart. 

If you are brave enough to come, I have included in this envelope the invitation. Matthew and Marilla regrettably can’t make it so if you come, you’ll be the only one there specifically for me. If you aren’t, then I’ll try to forgive you. I’m not sure I’ll be able to, but I’ll really, really try. 

Hoping to see you soon, 

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert

~

“Perhaps he’s running late.”

Anne slumped against the stage wall. “There’s no use. He isn't coming." 

Diana pulled back an inch of the stage's curtain once more. She must have seen the same empty seat as before, as she said, "I'm very sorry, Anne."

"What are you two up to?" 

Anne and Diana turned to see Gilbert, dressed in the same black and white graduation robes as them. 

"We're trying to see if Anne's benefactor has shown up," Diana informed him.

Gilbert adopted a pained expression, a crease forming between his eyebrows. "No luck so far, then?"

"The ceremony starts in five minutes," said Anne miserably. "He isn't coming. I don't know why I expected any different. I've written him for four years with barely any response. I'm a fool for thinking today would be any different."

Diana crouched next to her, placing a reassuring hand on her back. "You're not a fool, Anne."

"Perhaps he got called away on urgent business," said Gilbert, with a tone perhaps meant to be reassuring but that came out with a slight irritation. "You never know."

"He's a coward," Anne declared, crossing her arms. "He never cared about me at all."

"You can't possibly know that," Gilbert said. 

"Yes, I can. I can just feel it."

Gilbert infuriatingly pointed out, "Just last month you could feel that he was a kindred spirit."

"Would you stop taking his side?" 

"I'm not taking his side," Gilbert insisted. "But perhaps your day wouldn't be ruined if you tried to consider things from his perspective—" 

"I'm glad to graduate. Then I can finally wash my hands of rich men trying to control my life!"

Gilbert was quiet for a moment. "Is that all you think of me? Just another rich man controlling your life?"

Anne huffed but before she could respond, the professor organizing students called for graduates with B last names. 

Diana stood up next to Anne. "We should probably go line up, Gilbert." 

As they walked away, Diana turned around to shake her head at the other girl, sympathetic but disapproving, a look Anne had been on the receiving end of many times over their nine years of friendship. 

Anne tried to compose herself after that, tried to still enjoy the moment she had anticipated for all her life. But as she walked across the stage, she couldn't stop her eyes from stinging or her heart from aching. 

~

After the ceremony, the University arranged for a banquet of sorts for the recent graduates and their families. When picturing the moment in her head in the weeks prior, Anne had imagined her and her benefactor, who showed up perfectly on time for her graduation and had instantly turned into a grandfather of sorts, walking arm and arm through the crowd so she could introduce him to all of the people she had mentioned in her letters over the years. But in the face of the actual thing without any new friend or grandfather figure, Anne wished to skip the ordeal altogether. 

Still, she had watched the graduations of other students older than her with jealousy for three years, anticipating her own shining moment. So Anne changed out of her robes, put on the new dress Marilla sent her as an apology for not being able to attend, a beautiful, soft blue thing, and resolved to enjoy herself. If she had to avoid Gilbert, then so be it. 

Anne, Diana, and Diana's family sat at a large table under the largest white tent that Anne had ever seen. The sunset cast a pink and orange glow about everything and the faintest chill of evening air had begun to take hold, bringing a divine atmosphere to the banquet. Anne had almost started to relax when Gilbert approached their table. He had something in his hand which he seemed insistent on hiding behind his back.  

He first greeted the Barrys, who always loved Gilbert Blythe, and then turned to Anne. "I was wondering if we could talk." 

Anne swallowed and nodded. Gilbert led her to a bench under a tree, away from the crowds of people. 

"Look, Gilbert, if this is about earlier today, before the ceremony..." Anne was quick to say, "I'm sorry. Really, I am. I had a horrible moment and ruined the day for you, too."

Gilbert shook his head. "I was trying to comfort you, but I only made things worse. And truly I am sorry that you were disappointed so sorely today."

"You aren't to blame," Anne told him. "It's Mr. Smith that I'm the most angry with."

"Right." He cleared his throat. "Well, I didn't bring you here to apologize. I mean not just to apologize. I mean— these are for you."

He held out a bouquet of flowers, beautiful pink camellias, which Anne only now noticed were the object he hid behind his back. 

"Oh, Gilbert, these are beautiful," she told him, eagerly taking the bouquet from his hands. "This is the most lovely apology I've ever received."

Gilbert looked down, a small smile forming on his mouth. "It's not just an apology. It's also a thank you." Then he looked at her, the smile growing to fullness. "You don't know how... valuable your companionship has been these last four years."

Heat rushed to Anne's cheeks as she thought of her reprehensible behavior towards Gilbert the first few years of her time at the University of Toronto. "Even after how horribly I treated you freshman and sophomore year?"

"I probably deserved that," Gilbert said, laughing. "After I left Avonlea, I barely spent any time with people my own age who didn't own at least three homes. I'm afraid I often forgot to act around normal people."

"Still, I could have been a little less harsh." 

"Perhaps that's true."

"So I'm a normal person, then?"

"You're anything but, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert." 

They were quiet for a moment. The wind rustled the leaves of the tree above them as the final few rays of sun sunk below the horizon. 

Suddenly, Anne had to ask a question with an urgency that surprised her. "Gilbert," she said. "This isn't a goodbye, is it?"

He looked at her in surprise. "No. Never." 

"Oh. Good," Anne said, relieved. 

Gilbert looked like he was about to say something, but at that moment a little girl with light brown skin and curly black hair ran up to him. She couldn't have been more than four. He laughed, picking the little girl up.

"Who is this?" asked Anne, not thinking about how disappointed she felt in that moment. 

"This is Delly, my friend's daughter," Gilbert said. He stood up and sighed. "I should probably get her back to her family."

Anne stood up as well. "Yes, probably." 

He walked a few steps away before turning around. Again, he looked like he wanted to say something. Instead, he picked up Anne's hand with his free one and kissed it. "I'm really proud of you, Anne."

Her heart beating loudly in her ears prevented her from making any response, and she was only able to watch him walk away, back to the crowds of people, as she tried to reckon with her own feelings. 

~

A | S | C

1 June, 1904

To my forgiven benefactor, 

I know I said that the last letter would be the last letter. I had thought that because I had imagined the last week would go a lot differently than it has. 

If you had come to my graduation, there would have been no reason to continue sending letters in this manner. As I intend to stay in Toronto for the foreseeable future, I had pictured us having tea once a week and discussing books and my writing and the weather or any number of other things. But, as we both know, you did not attend. Before it happened, I had thought that I could never forgive your absence. I know I said that I would try but I was already certain that I wouldn't be able to forgive you. But I have surprised even myself. 

I have realized that I don't know you at all, Mr. Smith, and have made my peace with this. I didn't come to this conclusion easily, that much is certain. I haven't the faintest idea why you never wanted to write back to me, or why you didn't come to my graduation. Perhaps you were busy. Perhaps you have not read a single letter I've sent. Perhaps you were as scared to meet me as I was to meet you. Whatever the reason, I'm afraid I have lost sight of everything you've given me. If our relationship, however one-sided it is, ends with scorn, then every time I think about University and all of the opportunities it has afforded me I would have to think about my anger. A younger Anne would have been content to live that life, but I certainly am not. So there you are, Mr. Smith. This young, foolish girl forgives you. 

I've only now realized how valuable writing these letters has been for my personal development. You are my closest confidant. You know things about me that even Diana doesn't know, which is saying a lot. Had you responded, then I doubt that I would have been as honest as I was. If you'll allow me to be honest one more time, I have quite the dilemma. You see, these letters have allowed me to sort through confusing feelings and I feel more confused right now than I had ever been. 

You see, Mr. Smith, I think I am in love. I wish you could help me. I could use some wisdom right now. As much as I have longed to be in love my whole life, I never thought to think about what it would actually be like. 

When I'm with him, time doesn't exist anymore. And then he leaves, I'm aware of how quickly time passes by and I want to sob. I want to share everything there is. I want him to be there in the morning when I make porridge and I want to be there with him when he's doing the most boring business possible. Every time I read a good book, or think a funny thought, I wish he was next to me so I can tell him about it. At night I hate the moonlight because it's beautiful and he isn't here to see it with me. Do you understand what I mean? I really, really hope that you do. I think anyone who has ever been in love would understand. 

Here is my problem and the source of my anguish: the man I am in love with is Gilbert Blythe. This may come as a shock to you, since I have frequently spoken ill of him in my letters. For this very reason, I am afraid I preemptively damaged my relationship with him permanently. We have since become close friends, but how could he forget how horrid I was to him, enough to love me back? I'm sure he'll also want to be with a distinguished woman from wealth, like that beautiful Winifred Rose I spotted him walking arm-in-arm with last February. I will forever be the red headed orphan girl who slapped him with a slate when I was thirteen. 

I know you won't respond, but I still have to ask you. What do you think I should do? If you could just read this letter and think your answer really, really hard then I am certain I will feel better. 

I will miss writing these letters and I will miss you, Mr. Smith. I will continue to think of you every day of my life. 

Sending you all the love in my heart, 

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert

P.S. In this envelope I have included my final transcripts as well as a check for $100. The check is not for much compared to all that you've given me but it's a start and I intend to pay you back every penny that you have spent on me. I received a small sum of money for a short story that will be published soon, and it's a start. 

P.P.S. Did you notice my new stationery? I bought it myself also with the money from the advance. 

A | S | C

6 June 1904

Dear Mr. Smith, 

YES! I will be there— Saturday at noon. I can’t believe that I am finally going to meet you. It doesn’t feel real. 

Love, love, love, 

Anne

~

Once Anne arrived at the address told to her by Mr. Smith, she recognized the building as the tea place she, Diana, and Gilbert went to nearly twice a week during the Fall term. Had her and her benefactor ever been there at the same time? Had they ever crossed paths before, said hello to each other on the street without knowing each others' identity? For the first time in nearly four years, how close they lived to each other truly struck Anne. She knew he lived in Toronto, even knew what street he lived on thanks to the return address on the stationery he sent her every birthday. But they knew about the same businesses, ate at the same places! 

All that time being so close and yet he still never made an effort to visit. Anne wondered if she would come to regret her choice to meet Mr. Smith here today. But she was too curious and had come so far. So she pushed her shoulders back in resolve and entered the tea house with as much confidence as she could muster. 

A waiter in a nice blue jacket greeted her immediately. 

"I'm here to meet with Mr. Smith," she told him.

Comprehension bloomed on the waiter's face. "You must be Ms. Shirley, then. Follow me."

He escorted her past large rooms with tables full of people eating lunch, past the kitchen door, past the restrooms, to a private tea room with a large window facing the park across the street. A large table sat in front of the window, meant to accommodate a large party of people. A single figure stood in the window, a silhouette in the face of the bright sunlight that streamed inside. This was it. She would finally meet her benefactor. Anne's heart stopped as the man slowly turned around. Only, when he did, he wasn't Mr. Smith. He wasn't even an old man. 

He was Gilbert Blythe. 

"Gilbert?" Anne cried. "What are you doing here? 

"Hello, Anne." He swallowed visibly. 

"You must leave now. I'm meeting someone very important and undoubtedly he'll be here soon, so if you could—"

"I know," Gilbert said. 

"If you know, then you know why you must leave," Anne told him, irritation setting him. She approached him to try and push him towards the door. "How you could possibly know is another thing. Did Diana tell you? I told her not to tell anyone."

"No, Anne—" He paused, firm in his footing and grabbed her gently by the shoulders. "I know why you're here because you're here to see me. I sent you that letter."

"Did you impersonate Mr. Smith?" 

"No, what I'm trying to tell you is..." he dropped his hands from her shoulders and moved one to scratch at the back of his head. "I couldn't impersonate Mr. Smith. Because he's me."

Well. Anne wasn't expecting that. She stopped in her tracks, mouth agape. 

"Please, say something," Gilbert begged, a tremor to his voice. 

"You?" was all that she could get out. 

"You're Mr. Smith." 

Blood rushed to Anne's face and she felt her heart and breath speed up dangerously. She grasped the back of a chair, tightly clutching the wood. 

Gilbert pulled out another chair. "Perhaps you should sit down." 

She did take a seat, but it wasn't the one he offered. "You're my mysterious, anonymous benefactor."

He gave a feeble laugh. "One in the same." 

"I don't understand. How can you be Mr. Smith? You're not even old."

Sitting next to her, Gilbert said, "I never understood why you always wrote about my old age. I certainly never said that." 

"Rich men who give orphan girls enormous scholarships are old. That just makes sense," Anne told him, nearing hysteria. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "They aren't pre-medical students I hit with a slate when I was thirteen!" 

"I owe you an explanation. That's why I—"

Anne's hands flew to her mouth in shock. "My goodness, the letters! Every horrible thing in the world about you I wrote in those letters!"

"You said a lot of things to me in person, too," Gilbert pointed out dryly.

"That's different! I didn't know I was insulting my benefactor to his face!" If it were possible, Anne felt her face growing even warmer. She surely looked like a tomato, with her face red enough to match her hair. "And you read my letters?"

"Every single one. They were the best part of my month."

"Every single one?" Anne echoed. "I suppose there's no hope that you skipped the last one, then?"

"I meant every one." 

She buried her face into the table. "If Mr. Smith had been my matron from the orphanage, it would have been easier to take."

He patted her back awkwardly. "Well, I'm not so bad, am I?"

Anne wanted to scream, taking a deep breath to avoid doing so. "Could you just promise to forget about the last letter and never mention it ever again?"

"I'm afraid I could never do that, Anne." 

"And why not?"

"Well, I— I just couldn't." 

"Why would you do this, Gilbert? I can't wrap my mind around it. I just don't understand."

Leaning back in his chair, Gilbert paused a moment before saying, "You wouldn't have let me pay for your education any other way."

"You still should have asked."

"Maybe so," Gilbert said. "But come on, Anne, I've known how stubborn you are since we were kids. I had the bruises to prove it. And when I heard that you had been accepted into the U of T but couldn't go because of money, well, I had to help."

"But why me?" Anne asked him. 

"You deserved it. And, well, maybe I was selfish."

"Selfish?"

He took a deep breath. "Maybe because I knew I was also going to Toronto. And maybe I wanted you there, too."

Anne didn't know at all how to respond to that. Her mind raced, replaying every moment they shared over the last few years. How her benefactor happened to know her birthday, when Gilbert had bumped into her at her own birthday party. How her benefactor didn't come to her graduation, when Gilbert was graduating himself. They even lived on the same street. Of course Gilbert was her benefactor. It made sense. 

"Why did you agree to meet now? Why not before?"

Gilbert exhaled loudly. "You don't know how many times I almost told you, or how many letters I started to draft but threw away before I could. I didn't know if I should be Mr. Smith telling you I'm Gilbert, or if I should be Gilbert telling you I'm Mr. Smith."

"Mr. Smith doesn't exist," she said. 

That made Gilbert go quiet. "I suppose he's not," he said finally. "Are you terribly mad at me?"

Anne sighed. "You lied to me and betrayed my trust for four years. I don't know how I could ever forget that."

"And yet?"

"And yet..." Anne was surprised to feel a smile forming and at last she laughed. "It's you, it's really you."

Hope or something like it bloomed on Gilbert's face. He grabbed her hand.

Anne told him, "You never answered my question."

Gilbert took a shaky breath. "Because," he said, "When I read your last letter, I realized you needed to know everything before I did this."

"Did what?" she asked, but she knew he was already leaning in. 

Gilbert kissed Anne, and while Anne had imagined her first kiss much more chaste, she put all of the emotions she felt into it. When they pulled back, Gilbert had a goofy grin adoring his mouth that she was sure matched her own. 

"Anne," he said urgently. "I love you."

"I'd tell you the same," she said, "but something tells me you already know."

~

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED 

TO THE WEDDING OF 

ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT

and

GILBERT BLYTHE

Saturday, October 4, 1904

3 o’clock in the afternoon

At the St. Andrew’s Church

Toronto, Ontario

Reception to follow.

 / fin

#annesecretsanta #kindredspiritssecretsanta #kindred spirits secret santa #lollercakesff #anne with an e #awae #shirbert #royalcordelia #tessa im tagging ur other blog in case something gets fucked up lol #i hope you enjoy this lollercakes! #i love ur fic a lot :)

[otheroutlandertales]

Anonymous said: In canon, Jenny and Ian thought Jamie was dead until his belongings arrived from Castle Leoch - what was their reaction?

Anonymous said: Imagine Jenny questioning why Lallybroch wouldnt ever be hers.

The Trunk

by @whiskynottea

A trunk. Old, big, and heavy. From Leoch, the lad had said.

He had introduced himself as Alastair MacKenzie. Jenny had never seen the man before, but he could just as well have been her cousin. She, in contrast to Jamie, had never been to Leoch. All she knew about the MacKenzie side of her family was based on Jamie’s stories and her ma’s tales.

It was late in the night when the MacKenzie rider arrived, worn from the road. Black circles adorned his eyes, and his boots were caked with mud. They offered him food and a bed, but he declined. He had to leave.

His words reverberated in Jenny’s head even when the echo of his horse’s hooves had died on the dirt, his figure swallowed by the night. “Jamie Fraser and his wife left Leoch a few days ago.”

Jenny stared at the trunk, unable to move. The frown between her eyebrows etched deeper with every passing moment, the words sounding surreal in her ears.

Jamie and his wife.

The wee gommerel was alive. Alive and married.

With leaden feet, she took a step towards the trunk, then stopped. Another step, then halted again. She turned to look at Ian, whose lips had curled into a wide smile. She met his warm brown eyes with her surprised ones to discover he was tearing up.

It wasn’t the first time Jenny thought her brother dead. She had assumed Jamie had died during his flogging at Fort William, when her da whispered his name on his deathbed. She had thought she was left all alone, when a few days after her father’s funeral the redcoats banged on her door, demanding her brother give himself up. Her heart had fluttered in her chest and she had hardly hidden her smile as she informed the soldiers that she had no idea about her brother’s whereabouts.  

Since then, Jenny had been waiting for a letter. Anything, to tell her how he was fairing. She knew that Jamie couldn’t return to Lallybroch as long as he was a wanted man, but he could surely send word under a pseudonym. He could even send a person he trusted to find her at Lallybroch - but maybe he couldn’t trust anyone after his escape from the English.

Jenny had wished she could search for him. She had a good horse and excellent tracking abilities. But she also had Lallybroch, and she couldn’t leave it for such a long time. It was true, what she’d said to the redcoats - she had no idea where Jamie was.

So Jenny stayed at Lallybroch, hoping that the estate’s tenants would eventually hear some news of her brother. She had repeatedly asked them to inquire about a tall, red-headed lad with slanted blue eyes in their travels.

Two years had passed, each day crushing Jenny’s hopes under the endless waiting for a few words - words written by his hand. For news that never arrived. She had ceased looking at the door, all her hopes lost, when Ian came back from France.

It was him, who had brought news that Jamie had been with him.

“We fought together,” he’d said, “I always take up his place on the right, guardin' the weak side. Keeping him safe, ken?” He had winked at her once, while recovering from fever.

Jenny couldn’t believe her ears. If Ian would have talked about Jamie a few days before that, she wouldn’t have given his words a second thought, sure they were just fevered dreams confusing his mind, his love for Jamie strong even when he was close to death.

But Ian had been getting better, and he knew what he was talking about. After that, Jenny had spent countless hours with him while he was recovering from his injury, and Ian regaled her with stories about their adventures in France, about Jamie’s bravery and recklessness.

With Ian back at Lallybroch, everything had changed. The pain and shock of the first days had slowly disappeared, giving their place to a warmth that flooded her soul. The cracks of her heart were slowly mended, the emptiness of her life filled with Ian’s merciless banter and his endless patience.

Ian’s news about Jamie had rekindled Jenny’s faith. Her brother might come home, at last.

More years passed, but Jamie never appeared at Lallybroch’s gate. The dogs never barked happily around him, his tall shadow never darkened the ground.

She didn’t dare admit to herself he might be dead. It was only now, seeing the trunk, hearing the lad speak her brother’s name, that she realized she hadn’t taken a deep breath in a very long time.

The moment Ian started shaking his head, laughing out loud, Jenny fell next to the trunk, crying her heart out.

Jamie was alive.

She felt Ian’s arms around her, his chest still moving with laughter. “I should have known,” he said. “I should have known Jamie would be too stubborn to be dead.”

Violent sobs wracked her whole body, but her heart was light as a feather. Light, but full.

“Hush, a nighean,” Ian murmured, placing soft kisses on her head. “Hush, tis good. Tis all good.”

It was. She wasn’t the last Fraser anymore.

It took Jenny a few long moments to find her composure again. “He didn’t write,” she said as they moved on the settee, and pressed her lips in a tight line.

“Aye, he didn’t. But maybe he couldn’t do so, Jen,” Ian said, rubbing soothing circles on her back.

“He couldna send a word, but he could find himself a wife?” She raised an eyebrow at her husband, challenging him to disagree with her.

Ian laughed again and squeezed her arm. “Ye ken Jamie. He can be impulsive.”

“Impulsive,” Jenny murmured. “Mmphm,” she added, crossing her hands in front of her chest. “And who is this lass, who married a man wi’ a price on his head?”

“Ye mean ye that wouldna marry me if I had a price on my head? My foot came wi’ a price, and you like it just fine,” Ian teased her, but Jenny only snorted in response.

“I’m serious Ian,” she said. “He’ll come home, d’ye think?” she asked, the harshness in her voice unable to disguise the hope shimmering underneath.

“I dinna ken, mo chridhe. But why would they send their clothes here, if they were no’ to come?”

Jenny frowned, her foot beating a monotonous rhythm against the floor as she was thinking.

Jamie and his wife, coming back home. What would they want?

Would Jamie come back as a free man, to take his rightful position as Laird Broch Tuarach?

Laird and Lady Broch Tuarach, Jenny thought, and smiled wistfully, thinking of her labor to keep Lallybroch standing. The fear, that the redcoats would come back again. The anxiety, that the food production wouldn’t be enough. The sleepless nights, before marrying Ian, when she had to stay awake and take care of the books.

All alone, and she had managed just as fine as her brothers would. She had cared for Lallybroch more than both of them and her father together. Since the day her ma had died, Jenny managed the house, cared for her da and raised her brother. She was always there, as Jamie came and went, first to Leoch and then to Paris. She was there, to tend to their da before he died. She was there because people needed her. There, because she had nowhere else to go.

Lallybroch was her home, even though it had never been hers. It wasn’t supposed to be, and if Jenny wanted to be honest with herself, she had never cared about titles. Lairds and ladies meant nothing to her. What mattered was the land, the tenants. And for that, she worked hard. She had taken care of everything time and time again. First alone, then with Ian at her side.

It was unfair, to give up the place that held her own sweat and blood, her tears and laughter. It was more than what she was doing, to take care of Lallybroch. It was who she was. Who she had been since she remembered herself.

And now that Jamie and his wife would arrive, everything would be different.

But Jenny knew that life wasn’t just. And yet, as long as she had Ian, things would be alright, and she would have a home.

Jenny took a deep breath and smiled at her husband. When Ian smiled back, she felt grateful for her luck, her family.

She had no idea if her brother would come back, what would he want, and how this wife of his would be. She knew nothing about her family's future with the laird back home, but she knew that her da had built a house big enough to accommodate them all. They would be fine.

“And who knows?” Jenny wondered, rubbing her swollen belly. “Little Jamie and the new bairn might have cousins to play with soon.”

She looked towards the door, leaning into Ian with a sigh. The night was quiet, the honeysuckle-infused air coming into the parlour through the open window with a promise of better days to come.

Her brother was alive. And he might come back home soon.

Jenny couldn’t wait to see him again.

#outlander fanfiction #otheroutlandertales #mod whisky #pair: Ian x Jenny #ch: Jenny #ch: Ian #canon compliant #book: outlander #category: mf #missing moment #oot #*