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Shadowhunter Academy, 1899
It was no secret that James Herondale had started to stick out like a sore thumb in the Shadowhunter Academy after his swift escape from death.
Almas wondered why it was named anything other than that. The rest did not matter as far as she or anyone was concerned. The boy was alive and the faculty and school could keep its beloved reputation a while longer, but no. The students and even the Dean, as Almas observed, made it quite clear that after the events of that training session in which James Herondale transformed into a shadow and saved his own life, he was no good.
Almas was not one to lie to herself often. That night of the event, plopped on top of her bed, she'd stared at the ceiling and wondered if she was afraid. Yes, she'd been afraid when that green wooden log had sailed right towards James Herondale's head, and she had remained afraid when she'd closed her eyes, waiting for that terrible sound of impact to match one singular beat of her heart. But there was no sound nor a chorus and when Almas opened her eyes, the boy was gone, swallowed by the darkness.
Listening to the faint sound of Esme Philpott's heavy breaths in the darkness of the room they shared, she listened for the echo of the fear she might have felt upon witnessing this 'horrid' transformation as she'd heard her peers described it. But she didn't hear a thing.
***
During their history lecture a few days prior, Almas had watched Esme's face pale when the unfortunate boy had turned to look at her, equally as nervous if not more. He'd asked for parchment. A bloody piece of parchment. But Esme gave him nothing but a pallid face and flittering gaze and that made that familiar rumble of anger swell in Almas. She had known that flittering gaze well enough to recognize it at first glance. It was the same one Ozan received because he looked different with his patchy skin of milk and rich honey. It was the reason why he refused to wear shorts when they were children and clung to longer sleeves even when the heat was unbearable. It was the reason he rarely let his necktie loose and tried to cover his face with his dark hair. She hated that he was embarrassed for being seen for who he was, and hated those that molded that embarrassment into being.
"Herondale," she'd heard herself say and was met with the boy's startled gaze as if he'd heard someone address him directly for the first time. She'd opened her mouth, wanting to say more but was interrupted by Professor Fell's slight annoyance at her own interruption.
"Would you like to share with the rest of the class what you are to share with Mr Herondale, Miss Morgenstern?" And every head had turned on Almas, which she'd found quite fascinating. No one had spared her more than a single gaze since she'd arrived at the Academy. None of her classmates, other than Esme, wanted to train with her due to the fact that she most likely presented 'little to no challenge for their improvement'. Even after Clive Cartwright had blatantly insulted her upon her proposal, she'd brought up the courage to request for Mike Smith as a training partner. When he'd also declined with little words and lesser acknowledgement, Almas had refused to ask anyone else. With every eye on her at least seeing her on a superficial level, Almas hadn't known if she'd wanted to scream in delight or agony. It was both a terribly victorious and repulsive experience and as the silent moments ticked by with every blink of an eye, she found the latter stood the most.
Gulping with her mouth dried to sand, Almas had snatched her last piece of extra parchment and held it out to James Herondale, the startled expression still plastered on his face. He looked down at it, almost inspecting it to find a catch of some sort. "You— he asked for parchment, Professor," she'd clarified.
"Well then," said Professor Fell. "It's best if he takes it, is it not, Mr Herondale?"
And the confused gazes had flitted a moment longer on Almas before heads turned away and the even voice of Professor Fell comfortably filled the wide corners of the room. Almas was leaning towards the boy's desk, this time finding herself empty-handed. Awkwardly sitting down she'd glanced at the almost fully equipped parchment before her. "What have you done?" Esme had whispered causing Almas' grip tightened on her pen, slathering ink all over her fingers.
She'd suddenly wanted to cry but had turned to Esme with a firm expression: "What anyone would do."
The glint of gold in the corner of her eye had made the girl turn to see boy looking at her over his shoulder. Dark curls falling softly over his forehead and framing his small face, Almas thought he looked like Adonis would have, carved of gods and stone, forged with heavenly fire, loved deeply, tenderly by the love herself. Feeling heat creeping up to her cheeks, Almas had looked down, hands wet with sweat and ink. She hadn't written anything after that.
That very night before her room's door, the girl had almost stepped on something that lay before her doorstep. Esme was still at supper, so she doubted it was her's as they'd left the room together. She'd crouched down to handle the mysterious piece of neatly folded parchment and had opened it apprehensively, looking right and left before as if she were to open something as forbidden as Pandora's Box.
But it was nothing horrid nor terrible. Almas saw slanted curves of ink scrawled upon the surface, filling the page to the brim. History notes. Ones she hadn't taken down. She held the parchment closer, scanning it in an automatic manner, confused, and finally turned it over to be met with lesser scrawls of ink on the centre of the page that seemed more daunting than the former page. It read short:
Dear Ms Almas Morgenstern, I copied my notes for you and hope they're sufficient. In spite of everything, thank you. Yours, J. Herondale
And since she'd stepped foot in the Shadowhunter Academy, Almas felt truly seen.
