all of them

           "But darling, love like this is rough and fierce.
            It searches for cracks and holes in the walls
                  you've built around all these years."

"“Charlotte said that if I chose, I could cease to be a Gray and take the name my mother should have had before she was married. I could be a Starkweather. I could have a true Shadowhunter name.”

    She heard Will exhale a breath. It came out a puff of white in the cold. His eyes were blue and wide and clear, fixed on her face. He wore the expression of a man who had steeled himself to do a terrifying thing, and was carrying it through. “Of course you can have a true Shadowhunter name,” Will said. “You can have mine.”

    Tessa stared at him, all black and white against the black-and-white snow and stone. “Your name?”

    Will took a step toward her, till they stood face-to-face. Then he reached to take her hand and slid off her glove, which he put into his pocket. He held her bare hand in his, his fingers curved around hers. His hand was warm and callused, and his touch made her shiver. His eyes were steady and blue; they were everything Will was: true and tender, sharp and witty, loving and kind. “Marry me,” he said. “Marry me, Tess. Marry me and be Tessa Herondale. Or be Tessa Gray, or be whatever you wish to call yourself, but marry me and stay with me and never leave me, for I cannot bear another day of my life to go by that does not have you in it.”

    The snow was swirling down around them, white and cold and perfect. The clouds above had parted, and through the gaps she could see the stars.

    “Jem told me what Ragnor Fell said about my father,” Will went on. “That for my father there was only ever one woman he loved, and it was her for him, or nothing. You are that for me. I love you, and I will only ever love you until I die—”

    “Will!”

    He bit his lip. His hair was thick with snow, his lashes starred with flakes. “Was that too grand a statement? Did I frighten you? You know how I am with words—”

    “Oh, I do.”

    “I recall what you said to me once,” Will went on. “That words have the power to change us. Your words have changed me, Tess; they have made me a better man than I would have been otherwise. Life is a book, and there are a thousand pages I have not yet read. I would read them together with you, as many as I can, before I die—”

    She put her hand against his chest, just over his heart, and felt its beat against her palm, a unique time signature that was all its own. “I only wish you would not speak of dying,” she said. “But even for that, yes, I know how you are with your words, and, Will—I love all of them. Every word you say. The silly ones, the mad ones, the beautiful ones, and the ones that are only for me. I love them, and I love you.”

    Will began to speak, but Tessa covered his mouth with her hand.

    “I love your words, my Will, but hold them for a moment,” she said, and smiled into his eyes. “Think of all the words I have held inside all this time, while I did not know your intentions. When you came to me in the drawing room and told me that you loved me, it was the hardest thing I have ever done to send you away. You said you loved the words of my heart, the shape of my soul. I remember. I remember every word you said from that day to this. I will never forget them. There are so many words I wish to say to you, and so many I wish to hear you say to me. I hope we have all our lives to say them to each other.”

    “Then you will marry me?” Will said, looking dazed, as if he did not quite believe in his good fortune.

    “Yes,” she said—the last, the simplest, and most important word of all.

    And Will, who had words for every occasion, opened his mouth and closed it on silence, and instead reached for her to pull her against him. Her wrap fell onto the stairs, but his arms were warm around her, and his mouth hot against hers as he slanted his head down to kiss her. He tasted like snowflakes and wine, like winter and Will and London. His mouth was soft against hers, his hands in her hair, scattering white berries across the stone steps. Tessa held fast to Will as the snow swirled around them. Through the windows of the Institute, she could hear the faint sound of the music playing in the ballroom: the pianoforte, the cello, and rising above it all, like sparks leaping toward the sky, the sweet, celebratory strains of the violin."

                                                                                 Melissa.

the first dream

"Stars, hide your fires;

Let not light see my black and deep desires."

"They had been standing in the famous Whispering Gallery, Tessa leaning on the railing and gazing down into the cathedral below. Will was translating the Latin inscription on the wall of the crypt where Christopher Wren was buried - "if you seek his monument, look about you" - when Tessa absently reached to slip her hand into his. He immediately drew back, flushing.
    She looked at him in surprise. "Is something wrong?"
    "No," he said to quickly. "I simply- I did not bring you here that I might maul you in the Whispering Gallery."
    Tessa Exploded. "I am no asking you to maul me in the Whispering Gallery! But by the Angel, Will, would you stop being so polite?"
    He looked at her in amazement. "But wouldn't you rather-"
    "I would not rather. I don't want you to be polite! I don't want you to indicate points of architectural interest to me as if you were a Baedeker guide! I want you to say dreadfully, mad, funny, things and make up songs and be -" The Will I fell in love with, she almost said. "And be Will," she finished instead. "Or I shall hit you with my umbrella."
    "I am trying to court you," Will said in exasperation."Court you properly. That's what all this has been about. You know that, don't you?"
    "Mr. Rochester never courted Jane Eyre," Tessa pointed out.
    "No, he dressed up as a woman and terrified the poor girl out of her wits. Is that what you want?"
    "You would make a very ugly woman."
    "I would not. I would be stunning."
    Tessa laughed."There, she said. There is Will. Isn't that better? Don't you think so?"
    "I don't know,"Will said, eyeing her."I'm afraid to answer that. I've heard that when I speak, it makes American women wish to strike me with umbrellas."
    Tessa laughed again, and then they were both laughing, their smothered giggles bouncing off the walls of the Whispering Gallery. After that, things were decidedly easier between them, and Will's smile when he helped her down from the carriage on their return was bright and real.
    That night there had been a soft tap on Tessa’s door, and when she had gone to open it, she had found nobody there, only a book resting on the corridor floor. A Tale of Two Cities. An odd present, she had thought. There was a copy of the book in the library, which she could read as often as she wanted, but this one was brand-new, with a receipt from Hatchards marking the title page. It was only when she took it to bed with her that she realized that there was an inscription on the title page as well.

    Tess, Tess, Tessa.

    Was there ever a more beautiful sound than your name? To speak it aloud makes my heart ring like a bell. Strange to imagine that, isn’t it—a heart ringing? But when you touch me, that is what it is like, as if my heart is ringing in my chest and the sound shivers down my veins and splinters my bones with joy.

    Why have I written these words in this book? Because of you. You taught me to love this book, where I had scorned it. When I read it for the second time, with an open mind and heart, I felt the most complete despair and envy of Sydney Carton—yes, Sydney, for even if he had no hope that the woman he loved would love him, at least he could tell her of his love. At least he could do something to prove his passion, even if that thing was to die.

    I would have chosen death for a chance to tell you the truth, Tessa, if I could have been assured that death would be my own. And that is why I envied Sydney, for he was free.

    And now at last I am free, and I can finally tell you, without fear of danger to you, all that I feel in my heart.

    You are not the last dream of my soul.

    You are the first dream, the only dream I ever was unable to stop myself from dreaming. You are the first dream of my soul, and from that dream I hope will come all other dreams, a lifetime’s worth.

    With hope at last,

    Will Herondale

    She had sat up for a long time after that, holding the book without reading it, watching the dawn come up over London. In the morning she had fairly flown to get dressed, before she’d seized up the book and dashed downstairs with it. She caught Will coming out of his bedroom, hair still damp from the pitcher, and hurled herself at him, catching his lapels and pulling him to her, burying her face in his chest. The book thumped to the floor between him as he reached to hold her, smoothing her hair down her back, whispering softly, “Tessa, what is it, what’s wrong? Did you not like—”

    “No one has ever written me anything so beautiful,” she said, her face pressed against his chest, the soft beat of his heart steady beneath his shirt and jacket. “Not ever.”"

                                                                                 Melissa.

waste

"For this alone on Death I wreak

The wrath that garners in my heart:

He put our lives so far apart

We cannot hear each other speak."

"She looked up at that.“I think you are very selfless.”At his noise of disagreement she said: “Surely you must know that what you do is exemplary. There is a coldness to the Clave, it is true. We are dust and shadows. But you are like the heroes of ancient times, like Achilles and Jason.”
    “Achilles was murdered with a poisoned arrow, and Jason died alone, killed by his own rotting ship. Such is the fate of heroes; the Angel knows why anyone would want to be one.”

    Tessa looked at him. There were shadows under his blue eyes, she saw, and his fingers were worrying at the material of his cuffs, thoughtlessly, as if he were not aware he was doing it. Months, she thought. Months since they had been alone together for more than a moment. They’d had only accidental encounters in hallways, in the courtyard, awkwardly exchanged pleasantries. She had missed his jokes, the books he had lent her, the flashes of laughter in his gaze. Caught in the memory of the easier Will of an earlier time, she spoke without thinking:

    “I cannot stop recollecting something you told me once,” she said.

    He looked at her in surprise.“Yes? And what is that?”

    “That sometimes when you cannot decide what to do, you pretend you are a character in a book, because it is easier to decide what they would do.”

    “I am,” Will said, “perhaps, not someone to take advice from if you are seeking happiness.”

    “Not happiness. Not exactly. I want to help—to do good—” She broke off and sighed. “And I have turned to many books, but if there is guidance in them, I have not found it. You said you were Sydney Carton—”

    Will made a sound, and sank down onto a chair on the opposite side of the table from her. His lashes were lowered, veiling his eyes.

    “And I suppose I know what that makes the rest of us,” she said. “But I do not want to be Lucie Manette, for she did nothing to save Charles; she let Sydney do it all. And she was cruel to him.”

    “To Charles?” Will said.

    “To Sydney,” Tessa said. “He wanted to be a better man, but she would not help him.”

    “She could not. She was engaged to Charles Darney.”

    “Still, it was not kind,” Tessa said.

    Will threw himself out of his chair as quickly as he had thrown himself into it. He leaned forward, his hands on the table. His eyes were very blue in the blue light of the lamp. “Sometimes one must choose whether to be kind or honorable,” he said. “Sometimes one cannot be both.”

    “Which is better?” Tessa whispered.

    Will’s mouth twisted with bitter humor. “I suppose it depends on the book.”

    Tessa craned her head back to look at him. “You know that feeling,” she said, “when you are reading a book, and you know that it is going to be a tragedy; you can feel the cold and darkness coming, see the net drawing close around the characters who live and breathe on the pages. But you are tied to the story as if being dragged behind a carriage, and you cannot let go or turn the course aside.” His blue eyes were dark with understanding—of course Will would understand—and she hurried on. “I feel now as if the same is happening, only not to characters on a page but to my own beloved friends and companions. I do not want to sit by while tragedy comes for us. I would turn it aside, only I struggle to discover how that might be done.”

    “You fear for Jem,” Will said.

    “Yes,” she said. “And I fear for you, too.”

    “No,” Will said hoarsely. “Don’t waste that on me, Tess.”"

                                                                                 Melissa.

ploaie de amintiri

"You call it hope - that fire of fire!

Is it but agony of desire."

        Explicații. Gesticulări. Fraze scurte și neînțelese, scrise pe o tablă neagră mohorâtă. Un murmur se plimbă prin sală. Profesorul solicită liniște. Colegul din ultima bancă se cere la baie. Un comentariu ironic este oferit de măscăriciul clasei. Râsete îl acompaniază. Acele ceasului se învârt în același ritm lent, precum o faceau și cu un minut înainte. Purtată de un val de obosoală împletită cu nostalgie își îngăduie să alunece din nou în zilele de vară, când zâmbetul se prezenta singur, fără să fie forțat de o aparență. Chipul ușor îmbujorat, încrețit întodeauna de un rânjet încrezător și contagios, găzduind oceanele în care ea se înneacă veșnic, îi răsare în minte, luminându-i figura asemenea unui far într-un întuneric absolut.

        Cu puțin timp în urmă, el se prezentase într-unul din visele ei. Scenariul, fiind unul deosebit de neobișnuit, aduce elemente de pretutindeni. Pătura reprezintă terenul comun, strada reprezintă copilăria fetei, iar iarba verde, așezată pe alocuri, reprezintă colțurile de lume pe care el încă dorește să le viziteze. Băiatul cu părul bălai își poartă tricoul galben, semnul său distinctiv, culoarea care îi întoarce mereu capul fetei, în speranța că oceanele lui sunt în apropiere. Tolăniți pe pătură, joacă eternul joc de sah al privirilor, scânteiând a dorință. Se pun de acord să-și ofere unul celuilalt sinceritate, dezvăluindu-și sentimentele care nu vor fi rostite niciodată înafara somnului.
        - Îți amintești ședința aceea din februarie?
        Un surâs îi încolțește în colțul gurii. O zi de februarie bogată în evenimente, încheiându-se cu întâlnirea a doi ochi căprui care îl studiau curioși. N-au schimbat nicio vorbă în acea seară și nici multă vreme după, însă odată începută discuția cuvintele curgeau mai iute decât râurile.
        - Patru luni mai târziu îmi aminteam fructul tău preferat, dar nu și numele.
        - Totuși, l-ai ghicit.
        O privire vicleană o fulgeră.
        - Aha, ți s-a spus.
        Își muscă buza inferioară, cum mai făce uneori când este prins cu mâța-n sac. Cu un gest sigur îi mângâie obrazul. Spunea de multe ori că suferă de timiditate, însă ea se gândea că nu cunoscuse o persoană mai precisă în acțiunile sale sau mai creativă în soluți.
        - Dacă timpul ar fi fost potrivit, dacă spațiul ar fi fost corect și dacă visurile noastre ar fi zburat în aceeași direcție, aș fi putut păstra iubirea ta. Aș fi învelit-o într-a mea și aș fi dosit-o bine, să fiu sigur că n-am să pierd ghemotocul niciodată.
        Răspunsul o dezamăgește. Totuși, la ce se aștepta? Nisipul din clepsidră este pe sfârșite, are să audă în curând o altă bătaie nedorită la ușă și, înainte să-și dea seama, are să planeze spre alt pământ arid, altă glumă a universului.

        Scenariul se schimbă. Amintirea visului se pierde în favoarea unei întâmplări de pe pământ.
        Lidera de grup o roagă să aranjeze scaunele într-un cerc, pentru jocul de cunoaștere care va urma. Câteva minute, nu mai mult de douăzeci, depășesc ora de sosire. Nu va mai veni. N-ar îndrăzni.
        Așează ultimul scaun când o voce mult prea cunoscută îi salută pe ceilalți participanți. Un fior îi străbate șira spinării. Neliniștea i se instalează în ființă, cuprinzând-o într-o strânsoare fatală. Cu o lună în urmă, vocea spunea că își umple programul de călătorii. Budapesta, Busteni și încă ceva spontan. Plusuri, minusuri, argumente și contraargumente duc o bătălie în interiorul minții controverse a fetei. Gânduri irelevante scriu iar și iar pe hârtia ei: „Nu te întoarce. Rămâi unde ești. Dacă încremenești te vei face mică și vei dispărea.”
        Se răsucește și, surpriză, se izbește de cineva. Acel cineva. Acel cineva care poartă un zâmbet până la urechi, cald, care îi lasă picioarele moi.
        - Hey, spune și, înainte să apuce ceva, ea îl strânge într-o îmbrățisare așteptată de mult.
        - Întenționam să te sărut pe obraz, dar și asta funcționează, continuă, răzând vesel.
        Odată despărțiți el îi ia fața în mâini și, încet și cu încredere, îi depune pe fiecare obraz un sărut, lăsând în urmă pete roșii, arzând. Îi spune că i-a lipsit, iar ea se bâlbâie. Părăsește încăperea într-o manieră grăbită și netrebnică, răspunsul ei nerostit fiind „Și tu mi-ai lipsit.”
        Ședința începe cu jocul de cunoaștere pregătit de lidera de grup. Se numește Rețele, sau ceva asemănător. Ai nevoie de un ghem de ață și de o mulțime de persoane. Ții de ață, arunci ghemul la o persoană care nu a primit, îți spui numele și sportul preferat. Se formează o plasă de ață în interiorul cercului. El primește ghemul și îl aruncă fără ezitare înspre ea. Ghemul se rostogolește pe jos și ea se deplasează să îl înhațe. Se înroșește. Îl aruncă mai departe. Jocul merge înainte, între cei doi întinzându-se acum o fășie de ață de care el trage pentru a-i atrage ei atenția. Schimburi de priviri, zâmbete și îmbujorări. Ghemul ajunge la celălalt capăt. Prima persoană traversează plasa de ață, formând din nou ghemul și oferindu-l persoanei căreia i l-a aruncat împreună cu informația primită de la aceasta. El pășește spre ea. Se oprește înaintea fetei și îi întinde ghemul. Contemplează ironic timp de câteva secunde la numele ei. Ea continuă jocul absentă, urechile ei înregistrând un singur sunet, asemenea unei bătăi regulate de tobă. Un zâmbet tont îi împodobește chipul.

                                                                                 Melissa.