#Peter Fairchild | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

caterpillarinacave · 1 year

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The Post TLH Children:

Zachary Carstairs:

Zachary is kind of living his best life.

He’s got a great brother, great sister, plenty of adults who love him, some really weird friends, some normal friends, a world to live in that he loves, and an entire universe to experience.

He gets along pretty well with most people, obviously loves him family a bunch. In his opinion, his brother is the coolest (though he’d never say it out loud.)

He’s got this deadpan sort of humor that not everyone catches onto, but genuinely means well, and when needed turns the sarcasm off for people he cares about. He’s very perky and optimistic, if not somewhat distractable.

He thought about going into politics, decided that would be too boring. He fully intends to move to Paris, Chicago, Rome or something of the like, and do something INTERESTING. Maybe be a reporter, a designer, or better yet, a food critic.

Mismatched socks, purple curtains, watching the sun set on a balcony, standing in solidarity with a crowd, sweet air, great skin, falling in love with life, city apartments, satin shirts, grinning to yourself, coffee with plenty of cream, the taste of grapes, golden handkerchiefs, being proud of your family, smelling like fresh linen, warm hazelnut and eau de cologne.

Alexander Lightwood:

He’s honestly just a pretty nice guy.

Blue eyed boy, straight black hair, pretty casual. Very loyal, very protective. He also is a music guy. He prefers band, specializing in brass, specifically tuba. You think the tuba doesnt give him rizz? Wrong, it does. So does the trumpet, but it doesn’t spark the same joy as the massive hunk of metal the size of a small child.

He can also sing, but doesnt pour his heart into it the way he does for instrument.

He really, genuinely, adores Peter, swearing to be his friend when he met him as a tiny little baby. He probably didn’t expect to become parabatai, but pretty quickly realized that he got along with Peter better than he got along with anyone else, and enjoys his company like no other. All deeper meanings aside, they just really mesh well.

Alexander doesn’t have the same obsessiveness Peter does, but he’ll come over to the Fairchild house for hours nonetheless. He’s content to sit in the room and read, draw, study, ect ect while Peter plays the same song thirty eight times.

He starts a marching band. A street band, and a pretty damn good one. Peter, much as he isnt a band kid, helps him as much as he can.

He runs around London a lot, usually with Peter. Botanical gardens, old graveyards, ancient churches, quaint coffee shops, patches of woods or flowers, he wants to poke around them.

He’s really big on the natural, forest academia type of vibe.

He’s also got his own anxieties, and some survivors’ guilt.

He really wants to protect everyone. He never knew Christopher, but he sees how much everyone misses him and is terrified he’s gonna lose someone he loves. When he was little he started having dreams of Peter dying, and they’ve continued for years. Even though Peters is pretty much fine on his own, he’s deathly afraid Peters is gonna get bored of him, or he’s gonna go and get killed.

He’s still got a scar on his chest from Tatiana; and while it’s never caused him a problem, at times it feels like he survived when he shouldn’t have.

Everyone older than him went through all this trauma but he just barely slipped past. What did he do that made him any better? Why did he deserve better? Why did he survive when his bother didn’t? Would it have been better if he died? If he had died, would they miss him as much?

Also he’s got a potty mouth. Considering how laid back and friendly he is, it’s a little jarring, but he walks into the room with his friends and swears like a sailor on a hot day.

Promises between friends, steel swords, creeks in the forest, misting rain running off of building, overgrown indoor plants, blueberry skins in your teeth, the scent of wool, protect those you love, falling asleep on your best friends shoulder, taking the stairs, swimming in lakes, walking around when the world is asleep, sharing your soul with one person, missing something you can't remember, running when you could walk, parades, the cacophony of a band, spit on your shoes, oil stains on your jeans, the perfect weight of a broadsword, stone sharpening a blade, warm milk, the scent of the forest, coffee, and wood, hundreds of voices mingling together in public until they are one with the world as the wind.

Peter Fairchild:

He was the last of the triplets to be born, and a surprise to end all surprises. With all the chaos Belials attack on London , Charlotte prenatal visits were mostly just “yep, no one’s dead in there”! So in a twist of fate that could only happen to the London Shadowhunters, bam, screaming baby boy.

Peter is super easy going, and joined at the hip with Alexander Lightwood. They’ve been besties literally since Peter was born. They bounce off each other well, and have spent multiple summers laying in the woods, swimming in lakes, and agonizing over music. They’ll end up teaching together in a music school eventually.

Building on that, the kid is a musical masterpiece. Probably because music is all he does.

Adding on that memory rune, he’s Mozart on steroids. His big three are singing, piano and composing.

His voice is amazing, three octave range, most comfortable in as a low bass. Genuine talent, genuine passion.

Piano was his first love, and he started it with Alexander.

His goal is composing, which he will eventually get to, and absolutely kick ass at.

All three of the triplets are the spitting image of their dad, it’s basically mini Henry 1# 2# and 3#. They inherited the red hair, freckles, eyes, and autism.. Peter is friendly, casual, so-so social skills, but he does try his best.

He’s got plenty of curls himself, but he doesn’t like to mess with his hair, so he just goes with hats. Particularly herringbone caps, which he wears regardless of being inside or outside.

Also, he really doesn’t like getting his clothes wet. He likes to swim, doesn’t mind bathing, ect, but he hates the feeling of wet cloth on his skin.

Tweed jackets, flocks of songbirds going up, summer night air, leather shoelaces, piles and piles of sheet music, blinding heat of stage lamps, clapping of a crowd you can not see, the familiarity of piano keys, chopin and mozart, carnations, lapel pins, august days with your best friend, conductors baton slipped up your sleeve, the scent of rosin, valve oil, and pen ink under the smell of almond cologne.

Thelma Fairchild:

She’s trying, bless her.

She is dripping with that special brand of autism. She doesn’t realize when people are being mean to her, and doesn’t know how to tell them to leave her alone. She’s just as weird and exuberant as Henry, so she’s a prime target for the asshats of the shadowhunter world. She’s honestly very friendly, but just as lonely.

Her poison of choice is dance.

When she was something like five, her mother took her to see a production of the Alice in Wonderland ballet and she fell in love. She’s tall for a ballerina, but the height standard for shadow hunter ballerinas is way higher than for mundane ones. The idea is seeing someone whose six foot tall dance en pointe is much more impressive than it is for someone a foot shorter do the same.

Thelma, weird as she may be, is a genuinely brilliant dancer. She’s downright ethereal, totally willing to work at it 24/7 at it, great musicality, excellent actor, and an amazing storyteller. She’s a student at a ballet academy in Idris- arguably the best school in the world, and certainly one of the most challenging.

She doesn’t love staying one her own, so she usually stays at the family residence in Idris as opposed to in the dorms at her academy.

She loves the color yellow, loves her family, is definitely a lesbian and is hopelessly enthralled with life.

Sunlight streaming over wood floors, snow on the steps of massive stone libraries, books and candles, beating in pointe shoes, bobby pins in every drawer, dancing on your own, golden hour, freckles on your arms, standing on a balcony during a thunderstorm, sun faded furniture, poetry, reciting shakespeare to yourself, watching your shadow move, yards and yards of fabric, nooks and crannies, hidden corners, being loved by your family, “You’re just like your father”, blisters on your ankles, bruises on your knees, bones and angles, alone in a crowd, sweet candies, twirling in flowery courtyards, costumes and dresses, yellow everything, carefully polished jewelry, secrets whispered in candlelight, falling asleep on the floor, the satiny scent of a ballet studio over the scent of beeswax, and something warm and orangey, like wassail or mulled wine, loving the world despite everything it throws at you.

Marigold Fairchild:

Mary, Goldie, Mary-goldie, whatever you call her, Marigold is the oldest of the triplets.

Her thing is carving. Particularly, marble carving.

She’s as obsessive as everyone else in her family and is really good at what she does. Probably because that’s all she does. She paints her statues, the same way ancient Romans did, though much updated.

She uses warlock pigments, fae powders, paints from every corner of the universe, and every piece of art is amazingly realistic. A fully finished statue is identical to an actual person.

Her carving studio is a particularly large garden shed, renovated. Originally, it was supposed to be for all the triplets to play in but she took it over. Good luck getting it back.

She likes blue. A lot. When she isn’t carving, she looks for color. She loves the ocean, and likes to wander around the coast, the more wild the better. Scotland, Norway, Iceland, Denmark, ect. Her favorite by far is Ireland. The only thing she may like as much as carving or preparing to carve, is probably staring at the Irish coast. The color, the feeling you get, the greenness of it all, what she would give to live under those waves, stand in the surf during a storm, see that color, experience it, live in it. Carving is the closest she gets to that type of living though, you know? It’s creating a person, freeing a form from its stone prison. Once you finish a carving you’re as familiar with that carving as you could be with any person in the world.

As an artist, she smokes a hookah recreationally. She’s the only one of the triplets to smoke, and none of them drink.

She’s got a dog, an English setter, named Mary Shelly, Shelly for short. They figured since Matthew named a dog after an author they might as well keep the theme going (It was Matthew’s idea).

Shelly was her sixth birthday gift, for her first rune. Peter got a nice piano (and the old one moved to his room) , Thelma got one of the spare rooms redone to work as a ballet studio.

She takes very careful care of her curls. All the triplets have lovely hair, Marigold just uses product, lets it grow, covers it at night, ect. It’s waist length, 3a, excellent volume, and lowkey intimidating.

Cold rain, paint on your forearms, pockets full of things, oversized clothes, nicks on your fingers, heather on the coast, bare feet covered in grass stains, sleet in the morning, tons of cardamom tea, dyed fingertips, sketchbooks, drawing on yourself, callused fingers, sore arms, marble dust sticking on your hair, watching the stars with your one true love, shopping the shadow market searching for new pigments, bitten lips, dog hair stuck on your pants, and the scent of sea salt and stone with an undertone of wildness.

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