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For the first time in a very long time, Almas hated being alone.
The hallways of the London Institute seemed like an interminable abyss, the witchlight hanging on the walls pulsing weakly as if on their last breath, tired creatures. Every solitary step Almas took, the walls echoed back with a click and then another and another.
Contrary to her moving feet, her hands lay still in fists, four fingers digging into her palms and four brushing tenderly on soft fabric wrapped tightly around a persistent wound that had only started to scab in the morning. Thankfully, neither Anna nor Matthew had asked anything of it. After all, it wasn't uncommon for a Shadowhunter to not use a healing rune on a negligible scratch such as this one.
Speaking of the two, Almas now wished she had went along with at least one of them instead of wondering aimlessly around the maze-like halls like a lone duckling. Perhaps she'd be in some quiet corner having a chat with Matthew or stealing his booze or would already be on the dance floor on her third dance with a third distressed bachelor if she'd followed Anna. She had done none of that and it had been well over half an hour since she'd come here, not counting the fact that the three of them were already late.
Her steps quickened as she felt the seconds rush by, leaving her chest heaving with the aggressive pound of her heart as her mind pondered on the people that would be in that ballroom and the possibly safe faces that would greet her. Almas could conjure none in her silent frenzy when she caught a distinct flicker of light that could be easily mistaken for the witchlight. The girl, however, was all too familiar with the dead. Her steps hindered.
"Lost are you?" called a dainty voice.
"Not lost. Only scavenging." Almas paused, eyeing the ghost afloat before her. "Are you tailing me, Jessamine?" The translucent figure stilled before her and Almas could almost see the yellow of her bouncy hair atop her shoulders, her dress like a sail caught in a light breeze her skin could not touch.
"Always the paragon of civility, Almas," the ghost replied and Almas could swear Jessamine's lips held a tiny smile. "I was wondering when you'd come back."
"I'd give you a big hug for old time's sake, but I recall it didn't work the last time." Ironically, Almas truly wished she could hug her old companion and was reminded by how miserably alone she felt at the very moment.
Ignoring her comment entirely, Jessamine rushed towards her with startling speed, but Almas felt nothing but a slight chill that a flake of snow would bring. She heard her lilted voice behind her. "You'll be alright." And just like that, the snow stopped, replaced by the silky chords of cello and viola, reverberating from the walls and strumming through her bones. A light at the end of the tunnel.
Almas could make out the vast doors to the ballroom held ajar, could see the swirling shapes of colour and frill from inside. All was well. All would be well. But as she inched closer to the music, her stomach twisted, betraying her entirely. It wasn't like Almas was used to her solitude, she often had found that she enjoyed it like some wild beast. However, with the unity inside the ballroom, she truly felt the weight of it on her shoulders. Atlas carrying the weight of the sky, no anchor to aid with that terrible weight of solitude, a god cursed with that weight for eternity. Almas was no god. She was just a girl. Was this how it was supposed to be; how it would be?
