#pls pls pls. and then reveal it to their companions and/or the audience with the worst possible timing

[schleierkauz]

The Color of Revenge: Chapter 4

Me: “This story is sooo interesting! Maybe we get to meet one of the witches next? Maybe a chapter from Roxane’s perspective? Maybe some insight into what exactly the Prince is up to? Maybe -” Cornelia Funke: “Anyway here’s Ironstone.”

(This is also your reminder to definitely listen to the official version once we get it because this chapter kinda kicked my ass. If any part of this just straight up makes no sense pls tell me. Enjoy!)

Chapter 4: An unpleasant Companion

Of course Ironstone had lied about his master. Orpheus was very much alive and healthy, aside from his chronically sensitive stomach and flights of migraine, which only served as an excuse to spend hours in bed. Meanwhile Rudolph washed his clothes, cooked, scrubbed the floors and worked himself to the bone with a thousand other tasks.

Orpheus had ordered him to visit Elinor. He had given very specific instructions regarding the order in which they were supposed to visit his old foes. Ironstone was almost done. Only Farid was still missing since he wasn’t in Ombra. He had hidden one of the wooden sticks that Orpheus had given him in the belongings of all the other people he’d visited – under the bed, inside of bags, shoes or clothes.

“What are those for?“ he’d asked as Orpheus had counted the small wooden sticks into the leather bag that had been strapped to Ironstone’s back like a backpack. “Do you want me to try my hand at arson? That’s hardly a good way to kill the Fire-Dancer.”

“It’s none of your concern what those sticks are for,“ Orpheus had answered with his usual air of importance. “Maybe they’ll catch you while you hide them and I don’t want you to be able to reveal my plan.”

Unsettling – but so far no one had caught him. And Ironstone was determined to keep it that way. Orpheus had impressed it upon him that the sticks had to stay with the person they were meant for for two nights. Under no circumstances were they to be discovered before then. So Ironstone had tried his best to find good hiding places. Orpheus could turn very nasty if his orders weren’t followed exactly as he wanted. He had almost drowned Ironstone in his ink once and a few times the glass man had had to visit the glazier for broken off limbs. Not to mention that fit of rage during which his master had chased him through his shabby chambers with a hammer. No glazier would have been able to fix that damage.

Ironstone couldn’t have explained why he stayed with Orpheus despite all of it. Maybe because it was nice to work for a master who was even more devious than he himself.

“Two nights, then you go to collect them again and give them to Baldassare so he can deliver them to their final recipient.”

Baldassare. The man on whose shoulder he’d travelled from Tyrola to Ombra was just as evil, devious and unprincipled as Orpheus himself. He would’ve sold him to the men who fed glass men to fighting dogs in order to sharpen their teeth had Orpheus not made it very clear that he needed Ironstone back unharmed.

Baldassare Renaldesci liked to brag that he’d been a master thief since his fifth birthday and since his eleventh also a very gifted murderer. He claimed to have sent over a hundred men and women to the afterlife – a place that was, according to him, similar to a giant pub, which meant he really just did his victims a favor. The wooden casket in which he kept buttons and belt buckles, cut from the clothes of his victims, was filled to the brim.

“It helps me to remember how many there were,“ he’d explained to Ironstone, obvious pride in his voice. “Most people have no idea how hard it is to kill a grown man and how fiercely some try to defend themselves.”

The casket also contained two gold teeth (Ironstone was grateful that Baldassare didn’t mention where they’d come from) – and a glass eye that was supposed to protect him from the evil eye.

Baldassare’s eyes were brown like those of a cow and most of the time they seemed so dull and disinterested that one might have mistaken them for glass as well.

But appearances could be deceiving.

Baldassare’s cow eyes didn’t miss anything, which made his claim that he’d once been a spy for the duke of Milan at least a little bit more believable.

Anyway – he didn’t bathe often enough, he liked lousy lodgings where the rats were bigger than Ironstone and he loved cheap prostitutes who thought glass men were adorable little pets. Plus, he enjoyed fighting, was constantly high on cheap wine, elf dust and cinderella lentils and wrote bad verses to worse melodies which he considered to be an expression of his untamable genius. To make it short: Ironstone was counting the days until they finished Orpheus’ tasks and he could get off of Baldassare’s filthy shoulder.

At least the weather was a lot more pleasant in Ombra than it was in Bruneck – and there were glass women. And a lot of troubadours and rich merchants who needed glass men. There had been moments when Ironstone had seriously considered not going back to Orpheus. But he had gotten used to him and his black heart. And it wouldn’t be easy to find another master who was so thoroughly supportive of his desires to do evil.

The abandoned house that Baldassare had claimed as their home still had the sign of the Black Death painted on the brittle door, even though it had been 20 years since the plague ravaged Ombra. The empty rooms behind it smelled like mold and rat dung and the glassless windows let in every biting smell that came from the dye baths of the tanners nearby. Flayed skin… Quite appropriate. Orpheus probably had something similar in mind for those who had foiled his plans, even though he kept the specifics a secret.

Baldassare was snoring on a bearskin he’d stolen from the tanners, his fingers white with elf dust. He was a tall, strong man who wore the blurred remains of past beauty on his puffy face. His black hair was a little too black (he dyed it with the foul-smelling liquid the tanners used for their skins) and you could always deduct his last meal by looking at his clothes.

Ah, the world was so unfair! Baldassare would receive a bag of gold for his services while Orpheus’ own loyal (well… somewhat loyal) glass man had to content himself with dry bread, hard cheese and sour wine.

Ironstone tiptoed closer to Baldassare’s sleeping form and pushed his tiny hand into the bag tied to his belt. Ah yes… A few coins were still in there. Surely he wouldn‘t miss just one. Judging by how he wrote down his verses, his skills for counting probably weren’t much better than his spelling. But Ironstone had only just closed his hand around the coin when dirty fingers grabbed him.

“And what do you think you’re doing there, Shard Head?” Baldassare slurred and held Ironstone up in front of his bloodshot eyes. His voice sounded like oil. Warm, rancid oil.

“Should I sell you to one of the travelling merchants who export glass men to Persia and Mauritania, where they have you fight snakes and scorpions? I hear there’s a great demand. Because there’s usual nothing left of your kind but a few splinters.”

Oh yes. Baldassare Renaldesci had a black heart. Maybe it was even darker than that of Orpheus. Ironstone knew that there were a few things Orpheus valued in this world. But he had yet to find anything that inspired such feelings in Baldassare. Except maybe himself, louses and all. And his bad verses.

“I haven’t had a proper meal since yesterday!“ Ironstone shrieked. “I have a right to at least one meal a day! And the sun is already setting!”

“It is?“ Baldassare scratched his paunch and struggled to get on his feet. ”Damn. The Black Prince is holding an audience for all troubadours who want to join him. I want to recite one of my verses.”

“Your verses? You have something else to deliver him, did you forget that?“

They had split Orpheus‘ list up between the two of them. The dead-and-buried-list, as Ironstone liked to call it. Of course Baldassare had made sure that he only had to deal with six of the 14 names on it. His argument had been that Dustfinger, the Black Prince and the young firebug were far more dangerous tasks than the bookworm woman or the old Inkweaver.

Ridiculous.

After all, the split made the Bluejay and his daughter Ironstone’s responsibility. But Baldassare had just given him a slimy smile and pushed eight of the wooden sticks towards Ironstone.

“Come on, Ire – you attract way less attention than I do“ he’d purred.

Ire, Shard Heard, Pipsqueak, Fog Face (a reference to Ironstone’s foggy gray limbs) – Baldassare had many names for Ironstone and he didn’t like any of them. But he consoled himself with the fact that the nicknames he used for Baldassare were even less flattering.

“Forget? I forget nothing and no one, Shard Head.“ Baldassare pulled the round silver mirror out of his pocket that he treated it with more care than any of his other belongings. “Baldassare,” he murmured as he spat into his hand and smoothed back his dyed hair. “You’re still one handsome devil.”

The silver offered a blurry improvement on reality and the elf dust probably did the rest – there was no other explanation for this judgement. Ironstone was continuously surprised how much vanity hid behind Baldassare’s sleazy appearance. He even owned an ivory comb and a brush for his teeth.

“Oh no, no,“ he said just as Ironstone was about to get comfortable on the bearskin. “You’re coming with me. It looks good when a troubadour has his own glass man.”

Wonderful. Ironstone had been up and about for almost four days and nights to finish his portion of the list.

“The Black Prince doesn’t like me at all!“ he protested when Baldassare grabbed him. “He won’t even want to listen to your verses once he sees me! And then what? Do you want to sacrifice your future fame for Orpheus’ old rivalries?”

Baldassare was usually a very suspicous man but when it came to his stilted verses he believed even excuses as absurd as this one.

“That would be too bad, yes. Ah, va bene, you’re staying here – but get me some new strings for my lute.”

Of course. It wasn’t enough that he tortured the ears of everyone around him with bad verses, he had to follow it up with even worse lute melodies.

“Get them? How?“ Ironstone held his hand out to Baldassare, hoping he would get the hint, but the man just sneered at him.

“How? Steal them!“

Ironstone glanced up to the worryingly fat spider that was lurking in its net under the moist ceiling. He decided to dedicate the rest of the evening not to Baldassare’s or Orpheus’ desires but his own. The street in which Ombras instrument makers worked was south of the tannery streets but Ironstone turned north, towards the seamstresses who made clothes for the wealthier citizens of Ombra… assisted by countless glass women.

(Next chapter)

[secret-engima]

Spoiler Snippet of Worlds Unseen (Calling You and Me) Chap 10

(I have literally no self control. Then again I’ve been sitting on this for literal months so maybe I have a little but it’s gone now so here we go. MAJOR SPOILERS for Worlds Unseen verse so pls, if you read, come screech at me, if you don’t want spoilers, then don’t click the read more. Assuming the read more works this time. Also this is ... LONG. Long snippet. Very spoilery snippet. You have been warned.)

...

     Luna walked slowly toward Drautos, the Ring of the Lucii pinched between two fingers while her other hand hovered near it. Nyx was hissing at her to run, to not be an idiot, but Bast could already see her plan in her grave, sorrowful eyes. She was going to put herself between them and the biggest threat —Drautos— and then she was going to put on the Ring.

     She was going to die for them.

     No.

     Not again. He’d already lost a mother, he’d already lost a father. He wasn’t losing Luna too.

     Bast waited until she was passing by, less than three steps away from him and less than ten from Drautos’s outstretched hand. Then he lunged, snatching her wrist with one hand and ripping the Ring from her fingers with the other. He could hear the guns coming to bear and the crack of bullets leaving chambers, could see Drautos’s sword coming up and over to cleave Bast in two. He didn’t care.

     He put on the Ring and the world turned blue.

     Everything slowed to less than a crawl. He spun in place, drinking in the surreal experience of seeing bullets inch through the air, slower than worms in a spring frost. He could see Drautos’s sword coming for his head, so slow he could have probably run a lap around the entire city before it came close to the ground. He could see Luna’s face twisting into terrified, heartbroken realization, so slow her expression was still mostly shock. Nyx was reaching for him, hand only a few inches from his side and splinted leg pushing him forward mere centimeters. Libertus was pulling Crowe toward the ground, one crutch hovering in the air as gravity took its sweet time dragging it earthward.

     Bast took a deep breath and looked back at Luna. Even though she probably couldn’t hear —maybe especially because she couldn’t hear— he whispered, “I love you, Luna, and I’m so sorry.”

     Then he straightened, a ward-prince before an audience and a glaive at attention, “Kings and Queens of Lucis, grant me audience.”

     The world around him vanished save the pavement directly beneath his feet. Luna, Nyx, Libertus, Crowe, everyone else disappeared from his sight. The air rippled with power-time-judgement, so strong he felt like he would drown in it. Then, like towering, burning silhouettes of ancient memory and timeless magic, they appeared. He could only see thirteen of them, arrayed around him like enormous pillars of judgement-power-who-dares. But he could feel the rest lurking in the darkness. A hundred generations of Ring-bearing rulers, all of them watching. Waiting.

     Judging.

     “You call upon the Wardens of this world’s future Mortal,” rumbled the first of them —Mystic, Founder King, oldest of the Ring—, “and if you come lusting for our power, you must first stand in our judgement.”

     Bast wanted to fold beneath the weight of magic pressing in on all sides, he wanted to scream and cry, crumble to dust if it meant escaping the painful, searing weight of power that was waiting for the slightest excuse to burn him alive. But he didn’t. He forced his knees to lock and his back to stay straight, made his voice remain steady as he looked up into their helmeted faces and made his plea, “It is true that I come for your magic, but not for my sake. Hear me, Kings and Queens of the Lucii! The Oracle stands in mortal peril and the Ring is inches from the enemy’s grasp! The Chosen King wanders the world unknowing of the danger and at risk of losing she who is to guide him and forge the Covenants in his name!” The magic curled closer, squeezed his lungs and Bast shuddered, fought for air and kept going, “Please. Please, I ask not for my sake. I ask for Luna, for Noctis, for Regis, for the world. Summon your Old Wall! Grant me the strength to see Luna to safety beyond Insomnia’s borders before it is too late!”

     The weight doubled, then tripled, and Bast collapsed to his hands and knees with a helpless wheeze under the weight of ancient contempt, “You presume to judge what time is ripe for our power? To presume our favor? Yours is not even royal blood. Your soul is not even of our star.” Not of … what?

     Magic like forests and old stones emerged from the ocean around him, cutting off his spinning thoughts as it curled around him like gentle hands on his shoulders. Bast’s head snapped around to face one helmet in particular as another king spoke, “Wait,” said Regis-not-Regis-but-his-memory-and-that-was-close-enough, “I know this soul. I watched him as he grew and taught him as he matured. I have seen what he is capable of. He too, seeks to safeguard the future. He too has sworn an oath to see the Chosen’s destiny through.”

     “Father,” wheezed Bast past the spinning pressure in his head.

     Regis —not Regis, memories of his magic preserved and given form as a warrior king, as the Father— did not respond, said nothing to Bast as the Mystic rumbled, “Very well, young king. We will weigh your ward-son’s worth.” The Mystic’s attention fell on Bast again, “But our boon does not come cheap. The cost … is a life.” The blackness around them curled away, revealing Nyx reaching for him, three bullets aimed for his heart and getting slowly but steadily closer. Behind him were Libertus and Crowe, Crowe almost to the relative safety of the ground, Libertus above her like a living shield against the hail of bullets coming for them, the hail that might miss, or might instead tear Libertus apart. The choice being offered was clear. Nyx or Libertus? Who would Bast sacrifice for the greater good? Who would he sentence to death in exchange for power?

     “Choose, Mortal,” intoned one of the other kings —the Fierce? It looked like the Fierce’s statue— “who’s life will you sacrifice for our power?”

     Perhaps if Bast had truly been royal blood, he could have chosen between them. Perhaps if he had been a real prince, he would have been able to swallow his guilt and make the sacrifice —like Regis had done to him, like Regis had done to all of Insomnia—. But Bast was not, and anger dragged air into his lungs and forced his back straight even though he was still on his knees, “No. No.”

     “You desire our power but refuse to pay our price?” Growled the Conqueror scathingly.

     Fury gave him strength to bare his teeth, “I will not bargain with that which I do not possess! You ask me what price I will pay for your power and then you command me to sell the life of a comrade? How is that just?”

     The magic around him rippled with disapproval, “A good king,” thundered the Mystic, “knows that sacrifice is necessary for the greater good.”

     “Oh, go throw yourself on Ifrit’s pyre!” Bast worked one leg underneath him in the startled silence that fell at his words, “I will not force others to bear my price when I am the one that seeks your boon!” He worked his other leg into place, shook like a leaf under the strain as he forced himself to stand. Wheezing and shivering, he tilted his chin in defiance, flicked his hand to banish the images of Nyx and Libertus and Crowe, “I … swore an oath … to protect Noctis, no matter what. But that … does not entail sacrificing others so that I might survive. That does not mean I will sacrifice Luna, or Nyx, or anyone else who has no part of my oath and whose lives are not mine to give.”

     Bast flexed his hands into fists to keep from falling as the magic around him grew even heavier somehow, “You’re right,” he choked out in a whisper, “I’m not royal blood, and I would not make a good king. A good king knows the value of sacrifice, of choosing who dies so that victory might be won. But,” Bast forced his voice to steady, pushed it out of his chest until it was strong again, “a true king protects his people above all. Even at the cost of himself. Like Regis, who held the Wall for years even as the strain killed him. Who held back the enemy long enough for Luna and Nyx to make their initial escape. Maybe he was a good king because he sacrificed Insomnia, sacrificed me, to save the Chosen King. But he … was a true king every time he sacrificed himself for the people he ruled.”

     Bast forced his head higher, made himself look into the glowing slits of the Mystic’s helmet, “I am Bast, ward-son of Queen-Oracle Sylva Nox Fleuret and King Regis Lucis Caelum. I am not of royal blood. I have no armies to command, nor magic to call my own. I have no kingdom or soldiers or wisdom or power to give you. But if a life is what you require for your aid, then I offer mine. Do with it as you please, just ensure the safety of my companions … of Luna. They are of dutiful heart, I know they will see your Ring to safety.”

     The silence lasted an eternity, and Bast closed his eyes as he waited for his fate. Then, from amid the circle of the Lucii nearest him, someone barked a laugh, “Well,” rumbled the Rogue —it had to be the Rogue, the voice was female—, “it would seem the Fulgarian chose wisely after all.” The … Fulgarian? Ramuh? What does she mean?

     “Agreed,” said another female voice, much lower in pitch, but also softer, “there is a spark in this one that even some of royal blood have struggled to match.” Magic curled around Bast, nudging aside the smothering weight, pushing it away like a shield and letting him breathe properly at last, “The Just supports his claim.”

     The shadows rippled, almost like a feminine laughter, and magic settled like cold steel in one hand, “Too long has it been since a mortal willing to give of himself before others has come to us for aid. The Rogue supports his claim.”

     The magic of the Father, still draped on his shoulders like hands, shifted, like fingers giving a comforting squeeze, “He is my ward-son, and I have seen the lengths to which he will go to fulfill an oath. The Father supports his claim.”

     From the left, a shivering ring of steel and a soft male voice that sounded more like a bard’s than a king’s, “He shows intelligence beyond his years, to know the differences between kings. The Clever supports his claim.”

     “The Fulgarian has never been mistaken in such matters before,” declared another from the right, “The Pious supports his claim.”

     One by one, in bits and pieces and the shifting of magic so that it buoyed him up rather than tried to crush him down, the Lucii granted favor. The Warrior, the Fierce, the Wanderer, the Oracle. Kings and queens in the shadows behind them that Bast could not see and gave titles he had never heard in history —the Vigilant, the Scholar,  the Silent, the Bard, the Seer, so many titles lost to time well before he was born—. Finally, silence fell, and Bast’s eyes drifted to the Mystic, the only one who had not yet cast his vote.

     The Mystic seemed to stare into him and not just at him, old magic like storm clouds and oceans seething with some kind of anger and sadness and old memory before it settled, “You are far too much like my brother,” and though that was clearly a complaint, the ancient king almost sounded fond —brother? What brother? The history books said nothing of the Mystic having a brother—, “but you have earned the favor of the others. Very well ward-son of the Father. The Mystic will support your claim.”

     Bast gasped, then screamed as the magic all around turned and burrowed into his body, carving out new channels inside him for it to flow-burn-rage-heal. It coated every nerve and filled every available gap, then carved out more room when that did not prove enough. Over the agony of what felt like being burned alive from the inside, Bast heard the Lucii chorus, “Rise, Bast, ward-son of the Oracle-Queen and the Father. We name you Oathkeeper, guardian of the Chosen King and his Oracle. Our power is yours to wield and gift as you please until the time when the Chosen’s destiny is fulfilled. Your life is forfeit to this cause, and for this cause will you remain until such a time as dawn purifies the world.”

     The other Lucii fell silent as the power in Bast’s skin-blood-bones-soul began to settle, and the Mystic slammed his sword against the ground like an earthquake, “But know this, Oathkeeper. You are not welcome on this star, and when your oath has been fulfilled, your soul will no longer be allowed to linger here. You and any who share your blood will be cast out from the sight of our star to return whence you came.”

     Cast … cast out? Not welcome on this star? Did they mean … his soul would be destroyed once Noctis fulfilled his destiny? Or did they mean something else? He didn’t understand. Anymore than he had understood the Mystic’s earlier comment about Bast’s soul not being “of their star”. It was a terrifying prospect. That he would only live until Noctis fulfilled his destiny and then be … something. Cast out or destroyed or thrown away into some void as the price for power.

     But having this power meant Luna would live. It meant that he would be able to save Nyx and Libertus and Crowe, he would be able to help Noctis and keep him safe —keep his promise—. It meant he would have the power to help what was left of the only people he knew as family.

     “You drive a hard bargain,” Bast muttered sarcastically as he wrapped mental fingers tight around the heartbeat of power coiled inside him. He raised his head and grinned, bright and bold and wild like he had been taught —like Nyx did when he was fully intent of showing up some idiot that managed to make him angry, like Gladio when he was going to show up a rookie with too big an ego—, “where do I sign?”

[singingwordwright]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Shadowhunters (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Alec Lightwood & Isabelle Lightwood, Alec Lightwood & Jace Wayland Characters: Alec Lightwood, Magnus Bane, Jace Wayland, Isabelle Lightwood Additional Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Communication, Post-Episode: s02e10 By The Light Of Dawn, references to suicidal tendencies/ideation

“Magnus. It’s Alec. Call me back now.”

The first call went to voicemail.

“Magnus. I need you to call me. Please.”

So did the second.

“Oh, God, Magnus. Please be okay. Just call me. Just--I need to know you’re okay. Please tell me you weren’t here.”

And the third.

After that, Alec didn’t trust his voice to work and started texting instead.

Where r u?

R u ok?

Magnus pls?

His thumbs rapidly tapped out a series of increasingly incoherent pleas as the elevator climbed from the second floor to the third and when the doors slid open, he heard the chime of Magnus’s ringtone for him sound in the body-strewn hallway before him.

“Oh, God.”

He checked each corpse because he had to. At least the process of finding out one way or the other let him feel like there was something he could actually do.

An unreal silence shrouded the grisly scene running down the corridor. The Institute was never this still, like the historic cathedral itself had sucked in a horrified breath at the calamity that had befallen its denizens and was waiting to exhale.

Finally, half-hidden underneath one hunched-over body with dark hair and a dark jacket, Alec spied the familiar case of Magnus’s phone and felt his world end. He stood there staring at the phone, unable to bring himself to bend down and turn the corpse over for confirmation.

This isn’t happening. Not now. Not this soon.

Magnus was supposed to outlive him. By centuries.

Gradually, other details began to filter in. The cut and fabric of the jacket were far from fashionable. The shoes were scuffed and ugly. The fingers, twisted into a rigid claw in the moment before death, wore no rings. The nails were unpainted. The hair was too long, not shaved close to the nape of a neck he loved to kiss.

Oxygen flooded Alec’s lungs for the first time in what felt like hours and he rolled the corpse, revealing the circle rune on its neck.

Not Magnus.

Not Magnus.

Alec knelt beside the body with his eyes closed and his head bowed for a long moment, trying to remember how to breathe. There were still dozens of bodies to check. Magnus has been here, the phone made that much clear. Just because this body wasn’t his didn’t mean his wasn’t here.

Alec pocketed the phone and pushed on, bile rising in the back of his throat every time he had to turn over a corpse that bore some resemblance to the one he sought.

Shadowhunters. They were all shadowhunters. Some with Circle runes, some without. Some had been stabbed with seraph blades, others appeared to have asphyxiated.

None of them were downworlders.

By the time he’d checked every room and hallway, sunlight was beginning to filter through the stained glass windows and Alec’s panic was dancing a merry jig on his psyche, accompanied by helplessness and an odd inability to allow himself to hope for the best that he knew was coming from another source.

I don’t deserve for this to end well.

He pushed the thought aside, because it wasn’t entirely his, or even mostly his. That was another issue, one he’d have to deal with later. Yes, for a split second after realizing the Soul Sword had been activated, he’d wondered if Clary had finally evened the score for her mother’s death, but even before Jace corrected his assumption, Alec had dismissed the idea because he believed Clary when she said she didn’t blame him.

On his way back downstairs, Alec re-checked the major clusters of bodies to see if he’d missed anyone. By now, shadowhunters who had been out on the streets dealing with Valentine’s altered downworlders were filtering back in and beginning to collect the fallen. There would be another Rite of Mourning held in a few days, and Alec would probably have to organize that because he’d overheard someone say that Aldertree would be escorting Valentine back to Idris.

It didn’t matter now. He couldn’t conceive of trying to organize his sock drawer right now, much less a mass memorial ceremony.

There were still places he could check. If Magnus had portaled in with Clary, surely he wouldn’t have gone far? But maybe he’d been forced to retreat. Maybe he’d been injured but made his way outside before the sword was activated. Alec would check the grounds first, then the underground utility tunnels.

And then? Keep branching out, perhaps. Magnus’s loft? Magnus’s friend Catarina was a healer, wasn’t she? If Magnus were hurt, maybe he’d go there. Hell, Alec would even check the Hotel Dumort, if it came to that.

He waded through the influx of returning shadowhunters into the daylight outside the Institute and turned a helpless circle, too overwhelmed for a moment to decide which direction to go in first.

But then a hand closed on his arm.

For the briefest instant, he thought it was someone coming to tell him they’d found Magnus’s body, but before the idea had an opportunity to cement, he’d already turned to see Magnus standing there.

Not even the blessed touch of the angel Raziel himself could possibly compare with the rapturous relief of that moment. He grabbed Magnus to him with no thought for dignity or decorum and clung to him there on the front steps of the Institute with his subordinates streaming past them.

Then he stepped back, held Magnus at arms’ length just so he could look at him again, see him truly standing there.

“Magnus, I thought--” Alec’s throat locked up, refused to let him form the words.

As always, Magnus was quick with his reassurances. Something about Madzie that Alec was sure would be important later but right now it didn’t seem to matter. The only thing he heard was the word “safe.”

Safe. The word echoed in his head, and with each repetition, Alec’s panic drained away, leaving a relief so profound that it obliterated doubt or discretion.

“Look. Magnus, on every mission I’ve ever been on, I’ve never felt that type of fear,” he confessed. Word vomit. Out of control. Heedless, in a way only Magnus seemed to have power to render him. “Ever. Not knowing if you were alive or dead, I--I was terrified.”

Magnus’s face was tender and intent. Offering comfort and reassurance, yes, but not in a patronizing way. He accepted Alec’s vulnerability like it was something precious to be cradled carefully in both hands, and offered his own in exchange, with all the generosity in his enormous heart.

“So was I.”

This, Alec would later ponder, was Magnus’s true magic. To gently create a space where Alec’s relative inexperience with these emotions didn’t matter, where it was safe to feel all these petrifying new things because he wasn’t alone there with them.

“Magnus, I--” An instant of hesitation, before he stepped off a different sort of ledge, the kind he hadn’t been practicing for. And then he surrendered to gravity’s inexorable grasp and the breathless, heart-stopping plunge. “I love you.”

The emotions on Magnus’s face were too complicated to unpack in the short moment before he joined Alec in the fall. “I love you, too.”

Such simple words. They changed everything.

And they changed absolutely nothing.

This wasn’t a development that had happened in the past few minutes or even in the panic-stricken hours before dawn in which he’d been searching for Magnus. This had been happening for weeks, in small steps. It had been happening in fiercely competitive grins across the pool table at the Hunter’s Moon, and in the unaccustomed feel of Magnus’s hand taking his to pulling him down the streets of Prague. It had been happening in companionable hours of gentle kisses and conversation on Magnus’s balcony and in impassioned gasps and the slide of sweat-slick skin against his own between Magnus’s sheets.

There was only one thing to be done.

Kissing Magnus felt like the jolt of electricity necessary to restart Alec’s heart, and clutching him close again was life support to keep it beating. Alec had never known an embrace could be so absolutely essential to his continued survival.

Aldertree’s words about the impossibility of shadowhunters and downworlders being together echoed in his brain, haunting him as he breathed in the scent of Magnus. But even if Alec wanted to heed them, he couldn’t. He was too far gone. There was nothing to do but ride the fall out and wait to hit the ground.

He didn’t let go until his lungs were functioning properly on their own once more.

“I have to go,” Alec said at last, though stepping away from Magnus felt like trying to hack off his own arm. “I have to check on Jace and Izzy. I have to start organizing the Rite of Mourning. I--”

“I know.” Magnus smiled and laid a soft hand on Alec’s jaw, stilling the spill of words. “I have to go, too. The fight to get myself and Madzie out was draining. I don’t have much magic left, so I won’t be much good to you healing the wounded. I’m going to go stay with Madzie and send Catarina your way. She can also rebuild the wards. Hers are just as good as mine, and it’d be useless to have me do it. Until my book of counterspells is recovered, anyone in possession of it would have a key to the front door. I think Madzie and I will make finding where Valentine stored it our little project for the day.”

Alec huffed. “Guess we know now why Valentine wanted it.”

Magnus nodded, then stopped mid-motion, frowning. “Alec--you may wish to have Catarina incognito when she rebuilds the wards. Or send the other shadowhunters out and turn off your internal surveillance. Fudge the paperwork.”

“What? Why?”

“I could be wrong.” Magnus laid a hand on Alec’s forearm, still looking troubled. “After all, it’s no secret that you and I have been seeing each other. Valentine could have easily guessed at which warlock build the wards.”

“Or he might have had inside information.” Alec groaned softly, catching on. “Any shadowhunters who were here the day after the forsaken attack would know. So would anyone with access to high-level administrative files.”

“Precisely.” Magnus’s hand tightened, then fell away from Alec’s arm. “Be careful, Alexander. Hodge Starkweather might not have been the only sleeper agent the circle has in the Institute.”

Jace was looking better than he had in those horrified moments after he activated the Soul Sword, but that was surface only. Underneath, Alec could feel the conflict roiling within him, relief at not being part demon, at not being the son of a monster, battling against his devastation at the atrocity he’d unwittingly helped commit. And something else, even more turbulent, was amplifying the rest.

Whatever had happened when Jace had gone to talk to Clary had not helped.

“You think Magnus is right?” Jace asked when Alec had filled him in on Magnus’s warning. He was trying as hard as Alec to set all the rest of their issues aside and focus on the job they had to do.

They were in the office designated for the Head of the Institute. With Aldertree escorting Valentine back to Idris, it was Alec’s for the moment. At least unless and until his mother or Lydia returned from Idris, or the Clave sent someone else to uphold their longstanding tradition of having absolutely no faith in his ability to do the job.

Ostensibly, it should be the one room in the Institute where they could talk freely. Nevertheless, Alec had disabled the cameras and searched for any other surveillance devices before he started working.

Alec crossed the room to switch on the gas in the fireplace, even though he and Jace both knew the chill in the Institute today had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the calamity that had befallen the sacrosanct premises they’d called home for so many years. He braced a shoulder against the mantle. “He could be. I mean, yeah, it wouldn’t be hard for anyone paying attention to guess that Magnus built the wards. Even if I hadn’t made a public display of my interest in him at my wedding, he’s the nearest High Warlock and traditionally we pay for the best for services like that. But it couldn’t hurt to be careful.”

“Careful of what?” Izzy’s interrupted, appearing in the doorway out of nowhere. Her casual lean against the door frame did nothing to disguise the shakiness in her voice.

Alec was in motion before he could think twice. “Iz, you need to be resting,” he scolded gently, escorting her to the chair closest to the fire. There was a deep tremor in her body and the fact that she let herself be coddled said a lot about her state.

Jace made a noise that drew both her and Alec’s attention. He was staring at Izzy, stricken.

“Yin fen, Iz? Really?”

“I didn’t know until it was too late,” she sighed. “And now’s not the time to discuss it. Back on topic. What are we being careful about?”

Her denial of responsibility regarding the yin fen made Alec hesitate to confide in her. Self-serving rationalization, straight out of the addict’s handbook. Until she was well past the detoxing stage, she couldn’t be trusted. If her need grew desperate enough, she’d say anything, do anything, sell out anyone, for another fix. And she’d manage to convince herself she had to do it.

She was Izzy. The brilliant young woman who’d acquired the shadowhunter equivalent of a doctorate before most mundane children were out of high school. The fierce warrior who’d wanted to be an Iron Sister, who could take on four Circle members even when she could barely stand on her own feet.

Izzy. His sister. His confidante. His constant ally and best supporter. The girl who’d only ever wanted his happiness.

And now he couldn’t trust her.

In a sudden surge of fury, Alec swept his arm along the mantle, sending Aldertree’s trinkets and bric-a-brac crashing to the floor.

“Dammit! How did we get here?” He snapped at both of them. “Us. The three of us. We’ve been inseparable for the last decade and now we don’t even know how to talk to each other? How did that happen?”

“I don’t know,” Izzy whispered, her eyes brimming. “Some days it feels like we’re all under a spell like the one at Magnus’s party. Or like I’m still possessed by that demon, and it’s dragging out all the little bits of bitterness and insecurity hidden inside me and amplifying them. I pushed you away. I pushed Clary away. I didn’t trust you, and I didn’t want you to see--”

“Divide and conquer,” Jace said. “Oldest trick in the book.”

Alec looked at him sharply. “You think this--this is what? Deliberate?”

Jace huffed. “How could it not be? I’ve been trying for hours to figure out just what Valentine gained by telling me I was Clary’s brother when I wasn’t, and the only thing I can think of is that it forced us apart, isolated me. Same with telling me I had demon blood. All of a sudden everyone in the Institute was giving me the side-eye. Even my own family. He told me my friends and allies made me weak, but he was lying. I’m stronger with you; that’s why he had to get me away from all of you.”

Alec sat on the footstool before Izzy’s chair, studying Jace with a frown. “Okay, that makes sense where you’re concerned. But Valentine never got anywhere near me or Izzy.”

“Didn’t he?” Jace asked with a bitter smile. “A demon that feeds off deep-seated anger going after the children of Idris’s most demanding perfectionists? A warlock with a spell that manifests our worst insecurities? The hell he didn’t get through to you. Alec, you nearly died. For weeks now, everywhere each of us has turned, there’s been someone or something telling us to pull away from each other. And now there’s a chance he might have another sleeper agent in the Institute.”

Okay, so apparently Jace didn’t share Alec’s uncertainty about speaking frankly in front of Izzy.

“Aldertree,” Izzy said quietly but firmly. “If there was ever there was someone trying to tear us apart from the inside, it’s him.”

“Yeah, he did pretty much force me out of the Institute,” Jace conceded with a thoughtful shrug.

Alec hesitated. “Not to play devil’s advocate, because I sure as hell don’t know if I really trust the guy, but one of us has to be objective here and I’m not sure either of you can be where he’s concerned.”

“You think?” Izzy snarled. “You know he gave me the yin fen.”

“He warned you of the risks, Iz. You need to own that.”

“Says who? Him?” Her eyes blazed with anger. “Look, I’ve made some damned questionable choices the past few weeks. I’m not trying to dodge my share of the blame for what happened. But if he told you he warned me, he’s lying. He didn’t tell me what yin fen really was, he only said that it would help me heal from the infected wound. And he didn’t tell me it was addictive. All he said was ‘a little goes a long way’ and he said that after I was already high on the first dose, which he applied himself.” She scowled at Alec. “Would you call that an adequate warning, given the potential danger?”

Jace started nodding slowly as she spoke. “She raises a good point,” he said, catching Alec’s eye.

”He’s been trying all along to ingratiate himself with me, praising me for minor things that were no big deal, even asking me out on a date,” Izzy added, sinking back in her chair again. She pulled her legs up so that she was curled in a ball, and she seemed impossibly small and drained. How much blood had Raphael been taking? “And whatever he claims, he knew exactly what was happening with the yin fen. He banked on it. He hinted at withholding a refill to blackmail me into spying on Clary.”

Alec hunched forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and leaning his forehead on his clasped hands as he tried to slot the pieces of what they were telling him together with the confession Aldertree had made to him on the roof.

“The roof.” His eyes flew open and he looked back and forth between them. “He made a big production about hacking the power core remotely, said he had the access to shut it down, but once we were up there, nothing he did worked.”

“Delaying tactic,” Jace said. “He kept you occupied and out of the way long enough for Valentine to power the sword.”

“Why not just kill me?” Alec shook his head, dismissing his own question as soon as he asked it. “No. Too big a risk of exposing himself if he failed. Besides, he wanted to get into my head.”

“How?” Izzy asked, her voice dropping dangerously.

It felt like peeling off his own skin and exposing his insides, telling them the tale Aldertree had related and how it had resonated with him. Planting the seed that a shadowhunter and a downworlder couldn’t be together.

“That’s a damned convenient anecdote to have on hand for you specifically,” Jace pointed out. “It was personal enough to distract you, keep you from noticing that he was stalling. And he knew exactly the right thing to say to make you doubt our most powerful downworld ally. Someone who’s already gotten in Valentine’s way at least once.”

Izzy leaned forward, gripping Alec’s arm. “Even if he was telling the truth--and you know he wasn’t--what he said has nothing to do with you and Magnus. Alec, you can’t believe him.”

Alec’s jaw clenched, and he surged to his feet. “No, I can’t. But right now we have bigger problems. Because Aldertree is escorting Valentine to Idris.”

“No one there is going to take our word for it,” Jace said. “Not against the Clave’s golden boy.”

Alec nodded, reaching for his phone. “I’ll start with Mom. And Lydia. Neither of their reputations are sterling anymore, thanks to me--”

“--Us,” Izzy and Jace corrected in unison.

“--but maybe they can begin working on the Clave.” He wiped his palms on his thighs and pulled his shoulders straight. “But first things first. Izzy, you’re confined to your room or the infirmary while you detox. Go now. Don’t make me make it an order.”

She winced but didn’t argue. “I’ll go. I just might need some help getting there. It’s getting worse by the hour.”

“I’ll take you,” Jace said softly. “But seriously, Iz. Yin fen?”

She gave him a narrow look. “If we’re going to question each other’s poor life choices recently, I hear someone’s been cutting a wide swath through the Seelie maidens.”

“Not even close to the same thing,” Jace shot back, jabbing two fingers in Alec’s direction. “And you can blame him for that, anyway.”

“Wait, what?” Alec spluttered, his eyes darting back and forth between them. “How did I get dragged into this?”

Jace scoffed. “If I hadn’t been getting laid, your sexual frustration would have driven us both crazy. Thank you for finally dealing with that and giving me a break, by the way.”

Alec glowered and tried to pretend his face hadn’t just become a second source of blazing heat in the room. Come to think of it, Jace had stopped running around like he was trying to screw every girl in the downworld since Alec and Magnus had started sleeping together. Damn it.

“We’re getting off track,” he gritted.

“True,” Izzy agreed.

“Jace, help Isabelle to the infirmary, then I need you back here. Iz, I’ll come check on you later.”

The way she shook as he helped pull her to her feet made his chest tight with fear, but he kissed her clammy, pallid cheek and turned her over to Jace.

Then he paced his office and tried to organize his thoughts until Jace returned.

“Izzy preferred to go to her room,” Jace announced when he got back. “I’ve got one of the convalescing trainees stationed in the hallway outside. As far as he’s concerned, she’s just sick and injured; no need for him to know what’s actually going on.”

Alec licked his lips and nodded briskly. “Thanks. So, I take it telling Clary didn’t go well?” he asked grimacing at his own customary lack of tact.

Jace shook his head. “Change of plan. I’ll tell her later. We have other things to deal with right now.”

“Yeah, we do.” Alec folded his arms over his chest, one hip on the edge of the desk. “Like you grabbing the Soul Sword thinking it would kill you.”

Jace’s face went blank and he mirrored Alec’s closed-off posture. “Better that than letting it become a weapon of mass destruction. Not that it did much good.”

“As horrific as the outcome was, what I’m getting at here is that this isn’t the first time you’ve actively courted death since everything with Valentine began.” Jace’s eyes slid away from his, but Alec chased them, stepping sideways into his field of vision again. “In fact at this point I’m pretty sure I’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve willingly--you might even say, eagerly--tried to fall on your blade.”

“This coming from the guy who almost took a dive off Magnus’s balcony?” Jace’s eyebrows shot up and he gave Alec his best sneer.

“Yeah, about that.” Alec cleared his throat. “I’ve been trying to figure out what happened that night. I mean, sure, I feel like complete hell over what happened to Jocelyn, but not bad enough that a few harsh words from Clary were going to push me off a ledge. But there you were in the other room at that exact moment, convinced the only mother you’ve ever known was telling you she wished you were dead.” He spread his hands in a shrug. “Call me crazy, but I’m not sure that’s a coincidence.”

“Oh, God,” Jace muttered, his mask of derision falling away.

“And the thing is, I’ve spent a lot of time lately running away to high places. Activating my surefooted rune and jumping. Courting death, just like you. I’ve lost count of the number of times that’s happened, and I’m not sure that’s a coincidence, either.”

Jace hunched forward, his arms tucked in against his chest, his hands in his armpits, his head bowed. “Alec--I didn’t know. I would never--”

“I know.” Alec stepped in close to him, until Jace was forced to look up and meet his eyes. “And if I’m being fair, maybe some of it is coming from me. But my point is, we’ve got to find a way to deal with this, both of us, together. Especially after what happened today. Don’t think I didn’t clock the look on your face when you told me you were the one who’d activated the sword.”

Jace’s eyelids started growing red at the edges, tears flashing but not falling. “All those people--Alec--I don’t know if I can--”

“It wasn’t you.”

“The hell it wasn’t!” Jace planted his hands on Alec’s chest, trying to shove him away, but Alec braced against it, refusing to budge. “Valentine played me like a fiddle. I swooped in there thinking I’d save the day and I killed them. How many were there? Have we even gotten a body count yet?”

“Valentine killed them.”

“I made it possible.”

“True,” Alec nodded. “But he put your hand on that sword as surely as his demon put mine through Jocelyn’s chest.”

“You didn’t choose to kill Jocelyn. But I chose to try to destroy the Soul Sword,” Jace protested, still pushing half-heartedly.

“Really? That suggests you thought you had other options. What were they?” Alec grabbed Jace’s shoulders, giving him a gentle shake. “You believed what he wanted you to believe, and you tried to do the right thing. It’s not your fault he lied.”

“It’s not your fault Jocelyn’s dead either. You telling me you don’t still blame yourself?” Jace shot back.

Alec shook his head. “Not as much as I did. You can thank Clary for that, really. Even just seconds after seeing me kill her mother on the surveillance video, she knew exactly where to put the blame.” He ducked his head. “She’s a lot better about that than I’ve been where she’s concerned. I’m trying to take notes.”

“You think it’s that easy?” Jace asked bleakly.

“Hell no. It’s not easy at all. But we have to do it. Because whether it’s your death wish or mine or a combination of the two, it’s going to kill us both if we don’t work it out.” He sucked in a shaky breath, something wonderful fluttering hard in his chest as he remembered those moments on the steps with Magnus. “And I really don’t want to die right now, parabatai.”

Jace almost smiled, just a little, some of the despair in his eyes lightening. “I know. I’m happy for you.”

“I am, too,” he murmured as Jace pulled him into a brusque hug.

Alec let himself smile and feel his own joy for a moment. It seemed misplaced today, when so many bodies still lay on the floors outside this office, so he tucked that spark of happiness back inside, nurturing it for a more appropriate time, stepping back from Jace.

“Ready to get to work? he asked.

“Yeah.” Jace nodded once, firmly. “The downworlders aren’t going to want to see my face when they come to collect their fallen, so where do you want me?”

“Get a head count of whichever able-bodied shadowhunters we have left and start organizing patrols,” Alec instructed, crossing the room to sit behind the desk. “Leave interfacing with the downworld to me for now.”

“You got it.” Jace spun on his heel, striding toward the door, only to turn back at the threshold and speak over his shoulder. “You’re really great at this job, Alec. The Clave needs to make this permanent.”

It was another thirty-six hours before things were settled enough that Alec finally was able to retreat to his room and try to rest. By then he’d been awake for nearly three days and he was getting seriously diminished returns from activating his stamina rune.

He pulled out his phone to text Magnus to check in and apologize for not having the energy to come over, only to stumble across the man himself before he had a chance to hit ‘send.’

“What are you doing here?” he asked, though he’d made certain that Magnus was on the list of downworlders approved for entry into the Institute. If the Clave had a problem with that even after the sacrifice New York’s downworlders had made trying to stop Valentine, he’d deal with them later.

Magnus spoke over his shoulder, running his glowing hand along something on the wall that Alec couldn’t see. “Inspecting the wards. Though I might not have cast them, I’ll feel better having double-checked them. Not that I doubt Catarina’s skill, of course, it’s just--Oh, this is new. Very nice. I’ve never seen it done that way before. She’s refined her technique. I’ll have to get her to show me that spell.”

Somewhere in the middle of Magnus’s chatter, Alec’s eyes began to drift closed and he swayed on his feet. Magnus caught his shoulder and Alec’s eyes popped open. “Sorry. I just--”

“I know.” Magnus smiled gently. “I was going to ask if you wanted to grab a late dinner but clearly the only place you’re heading is bed.”

“Pretty much. How’s Madzie?” he asked as Magnus fell into step with him, subtly shoring him up and keeping him from walking into walls.

Magnus grew quiet. “She’s sad and afraid and not sure who to trust right now. After the way Valentine manipulated her, I was determined to be completely honest with her, no matter what. But that meant I had to tell her the truth about where Iris was, which entailed explaining to her that Iris had hurt people and was going to be punished.”

Alec hissed between his teeth. “Which got her wondering if she was going to be punished for what Valentine made her do.”

“Exactly.” Magnus sighed, his shoulders drooping. “She’s been alternating between bouts of hysterical panic and being so withdrawn she’s almost unresponsive. I’ve spent a lot of time the past couple days trying to reassure her that there’s a difference between adults who make their own choices and children who have been tricked into doing things they wouldn’t normally choose to do, but it’s going to be months, maybe even years, until she feels truly secure again, I think.”

“Damn,” Alec muttered. “She’s such a sweet little thing. She didn’t do anything to deserve any of this.” He rubbed his eyes, stifling a yawn. “You think she’ll be okay with Catarina?”

Magnus nodded. “I do. Catarina has raised orphans before; she’s good with children, including traumatized ones. I’m going to make a point of spending time with her as well. Iris’s corner of the downworld was home to a particularly fringe element, and thus not a very stable or healthy place for a child. Catarina and I will be a much better influence.”

“I’d like to see her again, too.” Alec smiled softly. “Thank her for saving my life, at the very least, and maybe show her that shadowhunters aren’t all like Valentine.” His jaw tried to unhinge itself on another yawn. “Not tonight, though. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Magnus agreed with a wry smile, opening the door of Alec’s room for him.

“I would have called and asked to come over, but I don’t want to be too far from Izzy right now,” Alec explained, peeling his shirt over his head and dropping it without any thought for tidiness.

“Yes, I checked in on her earlier.” Magnus kept his voice a low murmur, thankfully not pointing out just how terrifying badly Izzy looked. “How long has she been semi-conscious and delirious?”

“She started to get bad around this time yesterday.” The brush of Magnus’s hand on his arm told Alec that Magnus heard what he wasn’t saying. Seeing Izzy in that state killed him every time he looked in on her. Even the horror of personally overseeing the return of dozens of downworlder bodies--with as much ceremony and respect as he could organize on short notice--to their clans, packs, and kin, had nothing on it. “Jace and Clary have been doing most of the heavy lifting there because I’ve got to run the Institute, and Izzy didn’t want any other shadowhunters getting involved. If the medics gossip--”

“--It will be devastating to her reputation, yes.” Magnus nodded sympathetically. “ I know it looks awful, Alexander, but she will improve, I promise. I did what I could to help her be a little more comfortable, and I’ll check back in on her before I leave tonight.”

“Yeah? Who says you’re leaving tonight?” Under other circumstances, Alec might have tried for a jaunty leer, but at the moment he was lucky to pull off a somnambulant slur.

“You want me to stay? Here at the Institute?”

Alec shrugged, rubbing his neck. “I sort of have an in with the guy who’s temporarily in charge, and he’s putting a moratorium on the Clave’s ban on downworlders in the Institute.”

Magnus’s head tipped slightly to the side, accompanied by a tiny smile that Alec was coming to understand meant Alec had done something to surprise him. “Well, I suppose I have no urgent business requiring me to be elsewhere, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“Please,” Alec whispered with as much depth of feeling as he could muster the energy for. He settled his hands on Magnus’s waist and pulled him close, leaning his brow against Magnus’s. He was so tired he could have dozed off just standing there; sex certainly wasn’t on the menu tonight, but after those horrible, horrible hours of uncertainty, he needed that contact, needed to hear Magnus’s breath and have him within touching distance. “Please. I have to grab a shower, but I’d really love it if you’d be here when I get back?”

“Then here’s where I’ll be,” Magnus vowed, pushing up on his toes to brush a soft kiss across Alec’s mouth before stepping away. “For as long as you want me.”

BUY ME A CUP OF COFFEE!!

[shaunabney536-blog]

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