#trace Wayland

[zodiyack]

Jace Comforting his S/O (HCs)

Pairings: Jace Wayland x G/N!Reader

Warnings: anxiety, fear, fluff

Author's Note: It was asked that I do Jace comforting his S/O either when they're having an anxiety attack or are just scared, and I figured, why not both?

Masterlist | The Mortal Instruments Masterlist

Taglist: @matth1w, @redspaceace-writes, @fandom-puff, @darling-i-read it,  @simonsbluee,  @thewarriorprincessxo,  @sebastianstanslefteyebrow,  @livlaughquinn,  @bubsonnobx,  @bunnyweasley23

ANXIETY

Jace is the kinda guy to do the anxiety / breathing exercises regardless of anyone else in the room or what he's doing.

In that moment, nothing and no one matters except for you.

"Okay love, tell me four things you can see. Now three things you can hear. Two things you can feel? How about one thing you can smell."

Or he'll take your hand and trace his finger up each digit, "Breathe in, at the same speed as m'finger." As he's tracing down, "now breathe out. Remember, same speed."

Once you're a little calm, he'll make sure to do whatever comforts you, be it touch, words of affirmation, or some space.

He refuses to let anyone else be around you in this state, he doesn't want someone to set you off. He doesn't care whether they mean well or not, he values your wellbeing much more.

Def is an emotional support being.

This man will do research just to help.

Separation anxiety - he'll gift you something random.

^ "See, now I have to come back."

Anxiety bc he puts himself in danger - bro will literally be cocky and not even realize he's not helping.

^ "c'mon, no one can get rid of me that easily. I'm a Shadowhunter."

Pure anxiety in general - he turns into a little nerd.

^ You can find him in the library, trying to see if there's anything that can help him learn more about it so he can help.

^^ eventually he realizes that he can just ask you what would be helpful.

All in all, Jace is a loving boyfriend who strives to help in whatever way he can.

FEAR

So when you're afraid, Jace knows. He just knows.

He'll try to find the threat/reason behind it before he talks to you about it, but regardless, he knows he'll have to ask you directly.

Whether he gets it right or not, he asks what the problem is and makes sure to deal with it if possible.

The rest of the day, he makes sure to have you in his arms or within arms reach.

So many fucking cuddles.

He turns even more protective somehow

He definitely tries to tell you funny stories to get your mind off the scary things.

"I'll protect you with my life"

Gifts you a weapon to carry at all times.

He goes out of his way to make sure that you're only with familiar people, never strangers.

If someone makes fun of you for being afraid, Jace gives them the death glare and makes sure they know he has it out for them.

He'll reassure you and tell you that he's there.

I KNOW he 1000% always mentions that he's there to protect you.

"Nothing can get you, I'm here."

He's jus a little guy who wants to be your knight in shining armor.

[pagan-stitches]

Hagging Out: March

 --

My celebration of the Equinox was two fold.  Most importantly I drown a Morana dolly in the creek in the woods behind the house, and secondly I baked.

The drowning of Morana (or Marzanna, or Marena, or Mara, or Smrtka . . . ) is an old Slavic tradition and the beginning of my devotional year.  On the fourth or fifth Sunday of Lent, depending on the region, an effigy of the goddess is thrown into the river to drown; sometimes she is also burned.  We know that people have been drowning effigies of the goddess since at least 1420, when it was forbidden by the Catholic church, but probably for much longer.  It is a misconception by many that Morana is only a goddess of winter and death.

“However, many historical sources and traces of her cult (particularly in the West Slavic beliefs) show clearly that the cold winter is only one of the faces of this goddess. After getting rid of the winter effigy, another similar one was being brought up in a procession around the villages and fields - it was a symbol of spring, the same goddess being reborn after the winter phase and waking up nature’s vital strength for the upcoming growing season. Many of such informations survived in countless folk songs and rituals.” --Lamus Dworski

This is the first year that I drown a doll that I made the preceding year.  Before this I always made a doll at the equinox to drown.  This year the doll that I made to symbolize Morana’s rebirth last year was used in every seasonal ritual and in the end drown.  I plan on doing this yearly going forward.

This year’s dolly will be showing up in many, many posts.

As part of the death and rebirth ritual last year I made a set of Morana prayer beads representing the dark half of the year.  This year I made a set representing the light half.

Another addition to the ritual this year was spending at least a half hour every night the week before I drown Morana in meditation and prayer with her, annointing her with oils and holy water and burning incense.

The second thing I did to celebrate the equinox was bake!  First I baked Slavic spring birdies to “release” into the wild.  I released the majority of them the Thursday before I drown Morana.

“Even before the leaves bud out, as the snow begins to thaw, one must invite–indeed coax–the spring to arrive. If one simply waited, Spring (being willful) might not choose to come, and then, with last year’s food bins already almost empty, one could not survive. To bring the spring proactively, Russian mothers baked bird-shaped pastries in early March and their children clambered about setting these little larks and snipes out like duck decoys on the rooftops, fence posts, and snowless patches of ground, hanging them from trees and bushes or even tossing them into the air, meanwhile singing such songs as:


Larks, Larks, Give us Summer,

We’ll give you Winter,

There’s no food left for us”

–“The Dancing Goddesses” by Elizabeth Wayland Barber

In an earlier time in Ukraine and other Slavic nations, on the Holy Day of the 40 Martyrs, (March 9, O.S; March 22, N.S.), the return of the birds in the spring was celebrated with special spring songs (vesnianky). Birds made of dough were also baked representing the larks that were migrating back to the north.

I started releasing the birds into the wild with my friend @msgraveyarddirt  a few years ago.  I was delighted to find a picture in a book on the traditions of the Znojmo region of Moravia (where my great-grandparents are from) earlier this year and realize that the birds are indeed one of those pan Slavic traditions.

This morning before I drown Morana, I woke up at 3 am and could not fall back asleep.  So I decided to bake.  I began making my first manzanec and while it was rising went out to do my Morana ritual.

“Pavla Velickinova, the head of the public diplomacy department at the Embassy of the Czech Republic in Washington, D.C., says mazanec is one of the oldest documented Easter foods in Czech history. It comes from the expression, "mazat," which means to anoint, she says. This is why it's baked on White Saturday, the day that reminds Czechs of the last rites of Christ.

This tradition of making mazanec as an Easter treat dates back to the 15th century, says Karen Von Kunes, a professor of Slavic language and literature at Yale University.

But even before that, she says, people across Europe baked this kind of bread around springtime. "In Europe, it was a custom to celebrate spring with making this ... type of pastry," she says.” --NPR

The site where I found the recipe said that the cross represented the sun, unlike the NPR quote above.  In my personal devotions I could certainly see it representing the wheel of the year.  The dough is nearly the same as the  vánočka (Czech braided Christmas bread) that I made for štědrovečerní večeře (Czech Christmas Eve dinner).  The smell of lemon peel and vanilla is forever forward going to be related to the holidays.

@msgraveyarddirt​ thank you as always for hosting #haggingout.  I’m glad we revisited this theme as my yearly rituals are constantly growing and evolving. ( I in no way expect you to publish this until the 29th--I just wanted to get it all down while it was fresh in my mind.)

[tsc-malec]

Magnus had to keep reminding himself, Alec wasn’t even all that into Magnus. He was simply responding to the only male attention he’d ever had. Alec was closeted, shy, obviously insecure, and obviously hung up on his blond friend Trace Wayland. Magnus was fairly certain that was the name,—

Malec —The Course of True Love

[tpc-tangled-au]

Chapter 12: The Hope

“So that’s how the little bodkin got in the hole!”

The exclamation—and its sharp, accompanying clap—would have startled Melisande. Would have. That is, if she hadn’t been expecting such a reaction. But she knew Naphtali too well to expect less.

“That’s just how, isn’t it?” he went on, striding to the window and back again. His thoughts could never bear to sit still. “The lady buried the thing there, so she might be rid of it! And well for me, it’d seem!”

“It’d seem!” Baron repeated, smiling. Then, again, almost hushed, “It’d seem.”

Melisande’s eyes narrowed on him.

That smile wasn’t a full one.

What reason there was for it, she couldn’t imagine. And the smile was there. If not a full moon, a crescent still. Yet something, some unknown meaning, made a mask of it. There was a storm somewhere behind the moon.

She did not watch it longer. Even if she’d tried, she couldn’t. The stormclouds broke before the dawn she loved.

“Yes,” Naphtali picked up again, “but what about this fine Wayland fellow?”

Baron shook the moonlight from his face. “What about him?”

“Well, he was listening rather close to that young fae’s warning. And there’s their mysterious talk after! Not to mention his phantomly friend-turned-foe, off gallivanting the countryside.” He threw out his arms. “What did our Wayland do next? I’m sure he didn’t simply return home after all that!”

This, Melisande could answer. But another mouth opened first.

“Well,” Baron began, before he could have noticed her, “even if he did, he couldn’t return quickly. Azarias, you remember, had brought them both from the Underworld.”

Naphtali nodded, slow then quick. “Yes, wisping about like that.”

“And you know better than anyone how long a journey that is, without the aid of phantoms.” Baron sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Whatever the case, his tidings did reach King Elian. By his own hand, or another’s.”

“Another’s,” Melisande whispered, hidden in her own hand.

“Wayland then either returned—or remained—here, in Othrys.”

“Remained.”

“Here?” asked the sunbeam. “Why did he stay?”

“To search, then…”

“Melisande, perhaps you should tell us this part.”

Melisande dropped her hand like a glass of water. When she looked up, Baron was eying her with lifted brows.

“After all,” he continued, unable to wash away the traces of his smirk, “you seem to be breathing footnotes already.”

Though feeling silly for being spotted, Melisande rolled her eyes. “Oh, Baron, you.”

But then, “Yes!” put in Naphtali excitedly. “Yes, why don’t you tell us? I should like to hear you tell more of the story. And—why, you must know more than even Baron at this part: you said you’d spoken to Wayland afore!”

At the attention (and the familiar little afore), her annoyance and embarrassment were all uprooted in an instant.

“I… I have.” She nodded once, slowly. “Very much.”

Naphtali’s eyes and smile widened. Then, all of a sudden, he dropped right down on the floor into a crouch, sitting like a scarlet frog. Staring up at her, intently and earnestly. “Then say on, fairest of storytellers! Say on! Tell us of your noble friend!”

It took her a false start or two to even begin speaking. The very sight of him, so silly and so sincere, brought spring itself into her heart. A garden of warmth grown in her chest, and reddening roses bloomed across her cheeks. Her mouth opened and closed uselessly for a moment. (Nor did Baron’s grinning help matters in the slightest).

Eventually, though, Melisande pulled in a long, deep breath. She met Naphtali’s eyes, then closed her own. She searched out the trail of Wayland’s story amidst her ivied mind. Then, at last, she found her voice.

Wayland knew he could not leave the kingdom of Othrys without finding his partner. So he gave his message to an Othryan herald, and sent him on to Elian in his stead.

That Reuel fellow, I’ll wager!

Then he searched. Across all the land, in every hiding place, higher and lower than many dared go. For days into months, he hunted. But he could find neither the greatest ruin nor the smallest sign. It was as if the phantom had vanished utterly that night. In the end, he had to give up, and pray that Azarias had become himself again.

Had he?

You already know the answer to that!

I know, Baron, but—

Hush!

Well, he was gone, wherever to. But since he WAS gone—and knowing all that he knew—Wayland decided to follow a new path. One that took him back, but not back to the Underworld…

At the sound of a door opening at his back, King Frederick turned. Before he could greet the welcome sight, it split itself. The smaller portion was plopped in his lap.

“Well, what’s this little man doing here?” he smirked affectionately.

The infant was already reaching for his face and babbling. “Der! Der!”

“He missed you,” replied Eudoria, with a knowing beam of a smile. “And I thought you might like to see a face not spouting Matters Of State.”

“Oh lord, don’t remind me of those.” He sighed, stretching his stiff spine. “I think it’s a conspiracy. Every article of business bushwhacking me at once.”

As if on cue, the baby smacked both his little hands on Frederick’s chest. “BAH!”

“Well, if they were plotting to assassinate your reading time with us, they succeeded.” She laughed a merry laugh.

The reading. That was today. Frederick shook his head, exhausted with himself. “Oh, my Eudoria. Why you married a king, I just don’t know.”

“I didn’t. I married a prince.” Her delicate hand slipped over his huge one. “And merchants and farmers have long days too.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “Come, now. The cooks have been keeping the royal dinner warm almost twenty minutes, and even kings need sustenance.”

Frederick returned her smile wryly, even as his stomach rumbled. Oh, she always knew. Shifting his son in his arms, he started to get up.

A door echoed open from the other side of the throne room.

“Y’majesty?”

Frederick looked up. At the familiar sight, he sighed a grin. “Well, Lazarus, unless you’re asking if you’re still invited to dinner, I’d guess there’s some late-coming little affair of state scratchin’ at my door?”

But Lazarus didn’t grin in return. No sympathetic smirk. No look to reply ‘they just keep coming, don’t they?’ without a word, as he so often did. Neither the straight face he reserved for difficult diplomats, nor even the full solemnity he reserved for high councils, held his features. Not this time.

This time, there was hesitance. There was caution.

“Not state exactly, sire.”

“Oh?” Frederick furrowed his brow. Whatever lay beyond the door, it was something even Lazarus was wary of, and that deeply. “What, then?”

A moment’s hesitation. The counselor glanced behind, as if to make sure his eyes had not deceived him.

“A knight and a phantom, seekin’ audience with Your Majesty.”

The King of Othrys sat up as straight as if his spine were shot with ice.

A knight and a phantom.

Could it be?

He heard himself asking, “What names did they give?”

“The phantom called herself Lia.”

She calls herself Lia. Frederick began to feel the ice melt. Herself.

But the winter was not gone yet.

“The knight,” Lazarus went on, before the seasons could change, “is called Wayland, and says he knows you well.”

Silence frosted the room. Then Frederick nodded. “Yes. I know Wayland.”

The baby on his lap clapped his little hands.

“They appear to be from Elian, sire.”

“I’m sure that they are. Do they come bearing a message?”

Another glance, then back again. “They did not tell me their business, Your Majesty. The knight only said he wished to speak with you.”

Though the room was warm, chills ran beneath his sleeves.

But Frederick refused to succumb to them.

“Bring them in, Lazarus.” He lifted his crowned head. “I will hear them.”

A few seconds hovered. Then Lazarus nodded, and ducked back beyond the door.

The hand on his moved to his forearm. Frederick looked up. His dear wife’s grey eyes held him, questioning without defiance. His own gave silent reply, grave yet firm. He watched hers drift, and followed them to the sword hilt at his side. She knew what had happened before. And he remembered it all too well.

A moment’s consideration. He shook any doubt from his head.

Eudoria squeezed his arm gently, then let go. She reached to take the baby in his lap. Prometheus fussed and squirmed away, protesting the too-soon departure.

A sudden second-thought. Frederick took her outstretched hand.

“Leave him with me.”

Blinks fluttered her eyelids, and her brow furrowed. But he gave her the corner of a smile.

“It’ll be all right.”

He kissed her hand.

Eudoria didn’t say a word, but her eyes showed their struggle. Their doubts. Then, as he watched, they shifted. They chose. Their grey gleamed trust.

As the throne room door opened once more, Frederick’s dear queen nodded. She turned and was gone through the door behind the throne. Her husband then faced his visitors.

Two entered at the ushering of Lazarus. The phantom was indeed a woman, a silvery lady. Frederick had not seen her before. Her hair seemed an auburn brown, long and waving. And… she was old. Not old in age—from her appearance, she had died a woman, not a crone. But the years since that day left her eyes ancient.

Almost like the frost-child that night, if any who had once been human could be like that.

But, though Frederick did not know the dead, he knew the living at once. In trod Wayland, the same messenger he met that fateful night. Yet… not quite the same. His face was more worn, his gait more weary. A shadow-beard crept across his chin. And his eyes…

His eyes were fastened wide on the golden-haired baby.

They did not stare too long. Almost as soon as Frederick noticed it, Wayland met his gaze. He bowed, deeply but not dramatically. The silver lady did the same, curtseying in a style long forgotten by the world.

“Greetings, King Frederick, Master of Othrys.”

“Greetings to you, Sir Wayland,” nodded Frederick, as Lazarus took his place at the king’s side, “and to your companion.”

The phantom called Lia dipped her head. “Thank you, young king,” she answered, and spoke to him no more.

Frederick lifted his hand for them to rise. As they obeyed, he continued, “I must give you my gratitude, Sir Wayland. I have spoken with King Elian, and he has aided me in making preparations for what may come. Your service to your master saved my kingdom.” He smiled grimly. “Your service to me saved my life. For that, and for your warning, I thank you.”

Little Prometheus dipped forward, swinging his arms out. “Da ka!”

Though Wayland bowed his head, there was a cloud over it. “I fear, sire, that my warnings are not yet ended.”

Frederick’s firm hold tightened, ever so slightly, around his son. “Is it your friend, Azarias?”

The silver lady did not speak. But her gaze hardened at the mention of that name. No—it softened.

Wayland’s face gave answer before his words. “No, Your Majesty. I have hunted for Azarias a year and a day, and I have found nothing.” He took in a slow breath. “Either he has become himself again, and hides where I cannot find him, or he has remained… as last we saw him, and left the world of men. The form he took could not last this long.”

The baby cooed inquisitively, playing with Frederick’s sleeve cuff. Wayland’s eyes dropped once more before he continued.

“I do not think Azarias will trouble your household, great king.”

The slightest sigh came from behind him—all the sign of relief Lazarus would show in council.

Frederick’s chest loosened. But not his hold.

“That is well,” he nodded. “But, if he will not trouble us again…”

“Why, then, does his partner?” finished the knight grimly, with the faintest specter of a long-dead smile.

He could not help but return it. “Nay. You, sir, I welcome. But what do you warn me of, if not of him?”

The specter vanished. “Of something I do not know, Your Majesty.” And with that, Wayland began to relate all the things he had been told by the Winter Child that night.

Frederick did not doubt that it was truth. The Boy, he had no doubt, was not a child of man. The look in those eyes was more ancient, wise, kind than any, even the primeval woman before him now. And after that night, he trusted Wayland with his life. It was the reason he could be so bold as to keep his infant son in the throne room with him; a thing he refused to do at any other meeting (even meetings with safer lands than the Underworld).

It was not the only reason he chose to do so. But it was the only reason he could.

Soon, Wayland had spoken all (or at least, all for the moment). The king leaned back in his throne and considered. The infant on his lap shook his curly head, bobbling gravely.

“So,” he said at last. “You warn me first that the stars themselves are fixin’ to wage war on my kingdom. Now you come again to tell me some unknown witchery is gunning for my family?”

“I can see no other possibility, Your Majesty.”

He was silent. At his side, Lazarus was silent.

Only little Prometheus was not, swinging a tiny fist as if with a tiny sword, squealing at his unseen enemies.

They seemed a legion. A devilish horde, with each spear pointed at his son’s heart.

“Then we will guard,” he declared, set in steel. “Set a watch at all times. Make every soldier a silvren sword.”

A sudden stream of words burst from the phantomess, who had watched Wayland silently for so long.

Frederick sat forward, opening his mouth to engage her. But she did not look at him. Her eyes of objection turned only to Wayland. She seemed not to notice that Frederick had even moved.

So he leaned back instead, keeping hold of the baby (who was occupied in squealing and gibbering in return).

“Lazarus,” the king whispered, “do you know what she’s saying?”

Lazarus shook his head. “I ain’t even sure what language she’s speaking. It’s old, though.” He tsked, then added in a whisper, “Mighty old.”

The ancient complaint ceased, as suddenly as it began. Wayland looked as if he had spoken to her. But he had not uttered a word.

Lia spared a glance toward Frederick. Then she spoke silence to the knight.

The knight shook his head.

“Well?” Frederick sat straight, folding his hand round the baby’s little chest. “What says she, Sir Wayland?”

With a sigh, Wayland turned from the lady. “She protests that such measures will do little good, Your Majesty.”

Another surge of ancient whispers.

“And that your history will prove it.”

“That so, indeed?” cut in Lazarus, stepping forward and looking most civilly nettled. Frederick could see his head held high from the corner of his eye. Oh, this was not a thing to disparage around Lazarus. “And does this fine lady know our history? Does she know King Carter? King Thomas the Fearless? King Ward?”

“She knew them indeed, advisor,” Lia replied, looking as if seeing him for the first time. “Yes, I knew them.”

A moment he stood. Almost hesitating on the border between awe and offense. When he spoke again, it was carefully. “And do they prove that Othrys can’t protect her own?”

“Oh, they were valiant. And the power in their hands was great indeed. Their own were safe in even the shadows of their kings’ cloaks. With the stones’ power, they protected against all this land faces and more.”

As Lia spoke, she did not look at Lazarus. Not truly. Her eyes stared, as if watching the years of the world span ethereal before her, immaterial monoliths of history all risen at once, somewhere far beyond the world they belonged to.

Then she turned to the physical man. And she may as well have been turning to spot a fly going past.

“But for you, little one, they are long dead. The men you have among you now never waged war with the likes of these. You tell your stories of those who could. But their distance proves.”

Lazarus dipped his head and smiled up tight. Oh, he was far past the borders of offense now. “’scuse me, ma’am, but we’ve had phantoms a-plenty, pickin’ fights with us, and losin’ em, too. Sire, we don’t—”

“Phantoms, yes,” sighed Frederick, guessing her end. “Not sorcerors and faes, though. Not for generations. That, I think, is your point, ma’am?”

The woman nodded, and looked at them no more. Her intangible eyes seemed to have other things to look at than mortals. Than mere men of any here-and-now.

A moment. Then, “Yessir, Y’Majesty,” muttered Lazarus, stepping back. But Frederick could almost feel the glower he sent toward the right-proven phantom.

In the midst of this silent strife, Wayland stepped forth, interposing a truce. “Swords can slay sorcerors, O Master. And silvren can indeed pierce the fae. Such things have protected me in many a battle.”

“I know this,” Frederick nodded, “firsthand.”

“But what good will a thousand swords do a man, if he is enchanted ere he can wield the one he holds? If he cannot see through the guises a witch may take? Your men are brave, Your Majesty. I have seen them. But they do not know what they are fighting.”

Lazarus started to step forward once more, but Frederick held up his hand. “What, then, do you suggest, sir?”

“That you grant the hope of a messenger.”

With these words, Wayland took a knee, sinking to the floor. And that sinking was heavy, as if he had been wounded and would not rise again. But his knees held firm. He bowed his head, and did not fall.

“Good King Frederick, I humbly ask that you take me into your service.”

Wordlessness gripped every Othryan in the room. The king, in wonder. The counselor, in stark bewilderment. The prince, in blind curiosity. None knew what to say to the kneeling knight.

“Well, sir,” was all the reply Frederick could find. He hardly knew why. “Well, sir, now.”

“Is my boon so strange, sire?”

“No.” He chuckled softly. “No, I can’t say it is. Sudden, striking, surely so. But not strange.” Not in my courts, he added in thought. Then, again, And… somehow… not for you.

“Well, now—if I may, sire,” put in Lazarus, tentatively. Frederick nodded. The counselor took another step forward. “Well, now, it might be a little strange, considering this fine fella’s warning. Now, I ain’t meanin’ to be rude by this,” he added, his gaze turning over the phantomess before reaching the man on his knees, “but… well, sir knight, if you say a thousand swords do no good, what help’ll one more bring?”

Wayland nodded. “An honest question, counsel.” He lifted his face to the king. “In the Underworld, in my lord Elian’s service, I and my fellow sentinels have battled many such foes. We have contended with dark forces, by strength of arm or of will. And we have contended with their charms and deceits.”

Prometheus suddenly swung his arm down, screaming delight once more.

A glance down. It quickly flicked away, as if forbidden. “I know how to fight them, sire. More still, I know how to spot them, and how to drive them away. Those who prowl, and those who pretend, will not pass my notice.”

Frederick began to see his intention. Yet something else reminded itself into consideration. “You have done all this in Elian’s service. What, then, of him? Does your own master know you have come to me for this purpose?”

“Aye, Your Majesty. If you grant me my hope, I have his leave. If you deny, I shall return to the Underworld with this good lady,” —he lent Lia his eye— “and continue in his service, as I have these sixteen years.”

His hand went to the scabbard at his side. Lazarus jolted slightly.

Frederick did not.

Slowly, Wayland drew the blade he had used to defend the King of Othrys, that winter’s night that seemed so lately passed. He held it up in both hands. One of his gloves was gone, revealing the handmark of Elian’s men.

“I offer you my sword and my service, King Frederick. I ask no rank nor title, but only to wear the red of your livery. I cannot ward off every danger. But set me as a watchman over your royal family, and I will do my utmost to drive away any who would harm them.”

Frederick believed him. But now came the test. Not only of Wayland, but of his own decision, just before the messengers entered.

“Even though they only live by the refusal of your first warning?”

The man lifted his stony eyes. It was not Frederick’s face they found. But in that look, Frederick found the answer he’d been looking for. The reason for keeping his son with him. He had seen something that night, something in his eyes when Frederick spoke of his family. The eyes had hardened. But they had not lost it.

“Yes, sire,” said Wayland, his stare fixed unwavering on the child. “Yes.”

Prometheus’ round face turned upward. He spotted Wayland at last. Instantly, he lurched forward. His grabby little hands stretched out eagerly. He was reaching for the raven-haired soldier who wanted and hoped—truly—to protect him. He was cooing. What’s more, he was beaming.

And, in that little moment, Wayland’s gaze lost all its hardness.

~*~

A knock came at the door. “Prince Prometheus?”

Naphtali did not rise, but turned his head. Baron couldn’t see his expression. However, the prince shifted forward eagerly. His hand lifted in half-gesture, half-greeting. And from his voice, Baron knew he was beaming.

“Ah, welcome, good Travers! Aye, here’s your quarry! Come in, fellow!”

The raven-haired soldier stepped into the room, the red of his livery catching the last light. He bowed to his royal charge. He nodded to Melisande, then to Baron.

“Evening, Travers,” greeted Melisande, with growing smile.

(Baron almost smirked. The one man who could get her to smile like that, besides Naphtali at least.)

A flash of softness as Travers returned her smile. Then he went straight as steel. Oh, he was here officially. “What have you been doing today, Your Highness? You’ve hardly been seen since lunchtime.”

“Why, writing the story, Travers!” exclaimed Naphtali, turning in his crouch.

“The story of what?”

“The story of everything!”

“Or at least, everything we know,” Baron added with a wink.

Travers aimed a different sort of nod at him, and his smile turned wry for a moment. “Is everything you know interesting?”

A shrug. “That’s the hope.”

“Well, that hope’s been fulfilled, at least!” put in Naphtali, grinning from one of them to the other. “We’ve talked of the fireflower, and the lighthouse, and the little poniard in the hole, and all the happenings of my early winters! It’s been grand.”

Baron noted a stony look when Naphtali told their ‘talked-ofs’. Though, he couldn’t tell if it was the ‘early winters’, or if the fireflower’s mention put it there. I suppose either might make sense, Baron pondered. I know he still remembers the night that witch finally slipped past his guard.

But, in the midst of this pondering, another strange thing caught his attention: Melisande, sitting quite still. Her hands were folded. Her eyes were affixed. She was waiting for something, waiting patiently. Then the soldier seemed to notice.

“I was just telling them of Wayland,” Melisande said, perfectly plain, “and the day he came to the Othryan guard.”

Silence caught in the air. It hovered there, if only for a moment.

In that little moment, Travers’ gaze lost all its hardness.

“Ah.”

The moment lingered a bit longer. But, soon enough, it was royally expelled.

“Aha! So Wayland did come into Father’s service, then?”

Melisande held on a few seconds more, then turned away. “Yes, Naphtali. King Frederick granted Wayland his boon, and he became a soldier of Othrys. He left behind his old name, and his old life, that day.”

“A little like his partner, perhaps?” proffered Baron.

But Melisande shook her head firmly at that. “No. Wayland did so, not to flee, but to defend. To faithfully guard the fiery child…” She turned her gaze, brimming with gratitude. “…and others he had no need to keep as he did.”

Travers said nothing.

Oh, Baron would have a great deal to write of that nothing.

“A fine fellow indeed,” sighed Naphtali, who seemed to have missed every bit of nothing said. Once it had passed, he turned in his crouch once more. “Well, then, fine fellow, what news? What’s brought you to our scriveners’ den, hmm?”

In the fading light, it was hard to tell if Travers had shivered. But his official straightening was plain to see. “Your orders, Your Highness.”

A wild-haired head cocked. “Mine?”

“Yours, sire. You had wanted me to remind you,” he cleared his throat, quite unsuspiciously, “when it was time.”

“Time? Time for—”

Naphtali fell over backward.

“OH! Yes! Yes, yes, quite right, quite—quite so, indeed, yes!”

Even as he spoke, he scrambled from the floor, trying desperately to straighten his clothes. (They weren’t at all wrinkled.) If Travers’ nothing had been silent, Naphtali’s was said aloud, a stammered nonsense.

Baron couldn’t help but snicker at his flustered display. If Melisande says no to THAT, I’m sure I never knew a thing about her. But, his thought added, as he saw her fond smile bloom unhidden, I know her well indeed.

The same scarlet as his vest, Naphtali cleared a swarm of butterflies from his throat. “Yes, well. Well, my thanks for the reminder, good sir.” He sighed, quite sharply. That seemed to do it, for afterward, he squared his shoulders, head held high, and offered a hand to his lady. The crack in his voice was almost imperceptible.

“Will you come, me dear?” he asked.

Surprise lifted Melisande’s brows, but her smile did not vanish. If anything, it grew. “Aye, mo dòchas.” And she took his hand as she rose. “I’ll come.”

Naphtali swelled at the sight and sound of it. But he seemed to try to suppress the energy threatening to erupt. He nodded to Travers. “Thanks, good soldier.” He nodded to Baron. “Thanks, good friend.”

“You’re welcome,” Baron smirked, then shooed them away. “Go on now. I’ll handle the letters, you two… have a good time.”

It was as much as a starting gunshot. Naphtali bounced on his heels, then shared a glance with Melisande. She seemed to see the burst coming. She picked up her skirts with her other hand. The second after, Naphtali catapulted out the door, holding onto her like his life depended on it. They disappeared into the castle halls. And—Baron wasn’t quite sure of this—it almost sounded as if a laugh echoed after them.

He was sure that he heard a soft laugh from Travers, though. As he looked up, he caught something even softer in his face. Something… well… peaceful.

“Look at them,” he breathed. “Still those same children, really. Running down the halls together, off to some surprise. But look at them now.” A deep, slow sigh that hitched. “Just look at them now.”

Baron thumped his arm playfully. “Don’t tell me this soldier is a sap.”

Travers rolled glistening eyes, thumping him right back. “He’s a father. You’ll understand that sometime.”

Baron laughed. Then, he looked at the stack of letters on the desk, barely still illuminated. He looked at the ring on his hand, catching a faint gleam from the window.

He looked at the corner of the bench. And he could have sworn he saw the future sitting there, waiting for him to read.

“That’s the hope.”

~*~

[Chapter 1/Writing the Story]

[Chapter 11/Wayland and the Winter Child ... Chapter 12/you are here! ... Book Two/yet to come!]

[Also on AO3, if you want to hop on over!]

[eruanna1875]

I am still going through old tags, and this was one I saved lol

The WIP I decided on for this is "Kingdom of Othrys" - which is my Tangled AU featuring characters and story elements from my own stories because of a weird dream I had once. It's almost its own thing at this point. It even has a blog (@tpc-tangled-au)

"Star" was surprisingly hard to find, actually. It was always either plural or part of a compound word. But I settled on a plural at last, from the beginning of Chapter 4 (Dire Warnings):

Azarias whirled like wind over the hills, wisplike in his dematerialized form. It was not quite like real flying, but it was faster. Faster too, he knew, was Wayland, astride the swiftest horse he could find. Between the two of them, they would surely find King Frederick soon. But these hopes brought Azarias no cheer. His mood was still foul, and his thoughts stewed in its growing heat. I grow sickened of kings. Kings are fools—they do not understand the power of these stones! You cannot simply take them at will, to use or destroy! The Underworld is already thrown into chaos by ITS king, all because he thought he could rid himself of one as easy as if it were a rat in his cellar. Now this Othryan, this roughland ruler, thinks he can pluck a fireflower and not catch his kingdom ablaze! THEOS tou keravnoú, can they not SEE the stars can rend them?! His silver form flickered black once as he flew. Only once. He kept his head level, so far as any phantom physically could in that wisplike state. He kept his sight peeled for any signs. He kept his focus to the task at hand. But a low growl echoed behind in the hills as he left them, and he could feel frustration creep along his spine.

I really like Azarias and Wayland, guys. They're so epic, and I love their dynamic. (Honestly, I could've used my Chesterton reference for "star", but I just wanted to have one with Them so much.)

"Fade" was actually pretty easy - it came up less than I realized! So I have part of the first appearance of a... certain evil witch, in Chapter 5 (The Impossible Blossom).

As Salome sang, a familiar change crept across her. It tingled of power, and tasted of magic. The tune was forbidden fruit upon her tongue. Ahh... She smiled as she sang, feeling wrinkles fade from its corners. ‘Tis well for me. Well that I do sing so sweet, even as age comes forth. Her weak and brittle hair strengthened, thickened, darkened. No bearer am I, dear master, nor you. Only a mistress of magic, I. Beneath her gloves, her fingers reclaimed their softness and cleverness. But even if I knew no magic, it would be well. And well now. She ran her hands across her form, restored to its familiar shape. ‘Tis the music that does it. Well for me.

(By the way, the magic is triggered by singing in general, not a specific song. She's singing a bad song, because she's a witch and she's bad. Also, this was actually the first time I'd ever written a scene for Salome, AU or otherwise!)

"Time" came up a lot. But I decided on a little bit of description from Chapter 8 (The Lighthouse).

The tower, though tainted by time, had once been white. But faded splotches on the sides told also of stripes worn away. Gleaming black and bright red, once upon a time. Its walls smelled of lost seas. The little gold thing made a half-circle, tracing along the tower’s side. Then it stopped. It returned to the side where it had first arrived, and started back the other way. Furrows scratched into its face as it roamed. But no questions came aloud. The stairs, facing the north westerward, were gilded at last. The gold thing scrambled up readily through the ivy. But it found no greeting. No cracked boards, no rusted knobs, no gaping hole into which it could creep. Only blank. The furrows scratched deeper. “What sort of tower hasn’t any door?”

(That's the Tower, you see, being explored by a certain young prince. Also, I like the Lighthouse. He's nice.)

"Laugh" is a fun one. The one I picked is from Chapter 6 (Seeing the Lights), and it is cute. That whole chapter was super cute, but I liked this moment especially.

She glanced at her friend, about to reply. But she stopped. Naphtali was staring at her, mouth slightly open. His grey eyes gleamed wide in the light. “What?” “I never heard you laugh afore.” “Oh.” Melisande shrank, just a little. “Is it bad?” “Nuh-uh.” He shook his head, his grin returning. “’s nice.” Naphtali smiled at her, just a little moment more, before he looked back out at the lights. It didn’t take long for excitement to spark in him again, and he soon started eagerly pointing out the splendidest lanterns, guessing who made which one, and bouncing on his heels. And Melisande smiled too. She liked the lights. But she decided she liked them standing right here much better than she would like them flying. She didn’t notice that he hadn’t let go of her hand. But then, neither did he.

(BABIES)

So yeah, I know I sort of stole this from a long time ago, but it was open! And I had fun, so maybe I can get this going around again.

I'm assuming I need to pick new words for another round, so I will pick... silver, cheer, hands, and fire.

And I will tag... @amerasdreams @claramurphyqueenoffandoms @whoopsididitdarker @girlwiththe221bread @scarecrow-hat @o0whiterabbit0o @awesomebutunpractical @why-bless-your-heart (I don't know who's off for Lent, but if you're off for Lent, this will be waiting for you after Easter!)

Tagged by @isfjmel-phleg to find the words whisper, leave, last, and door in my current WIPs. I’m rather late to this, sorry, but here goes!

(Since my definition of “current WIPs” is rather…fluid, I decided to search my docs in general and take the most recent use of a word. :P It’s mostly Back to the Future right now…)

“Whisper,” from my Gravity Falls “what if DaMvtF happened but Weirdmageddon didn’t” WIP:

It would be really nice to stay, Dipper thought. Even if Stan and Ford kept…not-getting-along, it would still be nice to stay here with the two of them. Great-Uncle Ford was exciting and amazing and he could teach Dipper so much, but—Grunkle Stan was, well, Grunkle Stan. He was safe, and he was home, and in his own weird imperfect way, he was…pretty amazing himself.

And maybe that was why Dipper found himself saying, “Hey, Grunkle Stan?” without really thinking it through first.

Stan glanced down. “Yeah, kid?”

Dipper chewed on his lip again. “…Have you seen Mabel?”

“Not in a little while.” Stan stopped, eyes sliding uneasily back to Dipper. “You, uh, you talked to her since you got back? She was…kinda down earlier.”

“…I know,” Dipper said. His gaze fell to the ground. Why had he started this, he didn’t want to talk about this, he just…

…Well, maybe he did want to talk about, it, kinda.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Grunkle Stan,” he confessed in a whisper, wrapping his arms around his chest.

:( I forgot how stressfully this AU starts. (It gets better! It’s not an angsty AU! But this is like ten minutes after Mabel ran into the woods and Dipper’s not in a good place right here.)

“Leave” came from one of my new BTTF WIPs—to be specific, this is based on a scene from the BTTF video/one of the comic storylines. Have a teenage Emmett Brown, with a Marty who made friends with him under false pretenses:

For that matter, Emmett thought suddenly, why tell me he was lying at all?

He could easily have kept up the charade for a few minutes longer, giving Emmett some quick response about waiting to hear back and then going on his merry way. But he hadn’t. He’d confessed, as if genuinely not wanting to leave Emmett with false hopes, and then he’d (sort of) explained himself. As if Emmett’s feelings mattered to him.

The way he’d sounded when he was talking about the “someone” he needed to “save”… Well, if that distress was real, Emmett couldn’t really hold his deceit against him. And…even if he hadn’t done it for Emmett’s sake, Corleone had still spent the day obtaining illegal spirits and subpoenaing a gangster’s accountant to get this drill working. Clearly it was very important to him.

Do I have anyone I would go to these lengths for? Emmett wasn’t sure.

But he thought it was worth helping anyone who did.

(I tried to keep up canon-typical levels of dramatic irony on this one. It was fun.)

“Last” comes from my BTTF fic that has the most chance of actually being finished! I like this one.

“Hey Doc.”

“Mm?”

“You ever think about what the world would be like if you’d never been born?”

Doc looked up from his work with a start, spinning around to stare at Marty. His friend was still bent over his guitar, though, practicing chords, and missed Emmett’s reaction entirely.

Which was…probably a good thing, actually.

“What brought this on?” he asked, leaning back and restricting his tone to a relatively normal level of interest.

Marty looked up with an untroubled shrug. “It’s a Wonderful Life was on last night,” he explained, and grinned. “Me ‘n’ Dave ‘n’ Linda started arguing after, about which of us would make the biggest difference if we’d never been born.”

Doc laughed, relaxing. No time-travel wrinkles here yet, just Christmas movies and sibling rivalry. “So, did you reach any conclusions?” he asked, intrigued.

They talk about sibling rivalry and chaos theory and how you define “making a difference.” Doc has Time-Travel Context but Marty doesn’t yet. It doesn’t really matter.

“Door” is another BTTF comics scene—this time from the comics’ “what-if” storyline set in the movies’ Darkest Timeline. (I was thinking of doing a 5 + 1 centered on Doc & Marty’s many “first” meetings…)

Marty scooted forward, leaning toward him. “Wait, wait. You’re tellin’ me that…you’ve met me, but I haven’t met you. Because you met a future me? You’re tellin’ me time travel is real?” His voice rose in pitch as he spoke, squeaking a bit on the final words.

“Indeed.” Doc grinned at him. “Given the nature of the subject, it’s hard to ‘begin at the beginning,’ so to speak…but for me, it began one night in 1955 when a young man called Marty McFly began hammering on my front door, insisting that I help him get back to the future. The future he was from. That’s how I know you!”

For the next round, I’m picking the words star, fade, time, and laugh, and…tagging everyone I’m mutuals with who has active WIPs and wants to do this. Please do! (Even if you’ve done another version of this recently, please feel free to do this one too. :P )

[malec-ao3feed]

Lighting Up The Sky

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/yR5wncx by GreeneySilvery The Clave was searching for one Jonathan Morgenstern and his sudden dessaparition. They find a trace in Nowhere, Oregon according to Alec's debrief. A place where nothing supernatural happens, a place where The Clave has zero Institutes. A place with only mundanes. So, if that was truth, why did they find traces of Vampires and why a singled out, nomada vampire told them about Jonathan being sheltered by a Vampire Coven? Alec didn't know. He wanted the mission to be over already. Fork is cold as fuck, the rundown house given by the clave drips water into the middle of the living room and he misses Magnus' kisses already. Oh, did he forgot to add that he need to reverse his attitude to the one he sported while being a teenager? Yeah, that too. He could never be a teenager and be out of the closed. Alec is so done with it all. Words: 2065, Chapters: 1/4, Language: English Fandoms: Shadowhunters (TV), Twilight (Movies) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage Categories: F/M, M/M, Other Characters: Alec Lightwood, Isabelle Lightwood, Jace Wayland, Clary Fray, Alice Cullen, Emmett Cullen, Jasper Hale, Rosalie Hale, Carlisle Cullen, Brief mention of Aline Penhallow, Magnus Bane Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Edward Cullen/Bella Swan, Emmett Cullen/Rosalie Hale, Alice Cullen/Jasper Hale, Clary Fray/Jace Wayland Additional Tags: Grumpy Alec Lightwood, Protective Magnus Bane, Lightwood Siblings, BAMF Alec Lightwood, Protective Jace Wayland, Dazzling Izzy Lightwood, Alec is a good soldier, Motorcycles, Cars, Vampire Bella Swan, Outpowered, highschool read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/yR5wncx

[my-nameless-bliss]

Can I request - jace comes to magnus 's loft looking for alec and magnus answers the door in a robe telling him Alec is getting dressed

Absolutely!

Magnus leans against the door frame, willing himself to be as calm as physically possible. “You do realize that phones exist, right?” He tilts his head. “There are steps you can take before running all the way to Brooklyn.”

Jace frowns, looking shockingly inconvenienced for someone who’s just spent a solid two minutes pounding on Magnus’s door. “Yeah, I tried. I called him like five times. He didn’t answer.”

Magnus raises his eyebrows. “Gee. I wonder why. It’s almost like he was busy or something.” But he knows the damage is already done. The night is as good as over. He sighs heavily. “He’ll be out in a minute.”

Jace rolls his eyes. “It’s important, I need to see him now.” He brushes past Magnus, starts taking a step into the loft-

Magnus puts an arm out across Jace’s chest. Keeping him from moving another inch into Magnus’s home. “Trust me, Blondie,” he gives him a snide, significant smile. “You don’t need to see this much of him.”

-send me a character or pairing, and a prompt, and I’ll write a three-paragraph fic for you!-

[the-noblehouseofblack]

James Carstairs is the hottest Shadowhunter and that’s just canon, friends.

[a-very-gay-spider]

*at a Haunted House*

Jace: okay guys we're gonna be just fine

Jace: no need to be scared okay

Jace: there's nothing that they can really scare you with you know

Magnus: exactly,

Magnus: it's not like we're going to see you in there

[jolenelaiart]

A bit of outline tracing for a new project with Thinkspace Projects for their 15th Anniversary show, and with Trekell Art Supplies sponsoring all wood panels for this exhibition. Happening in the brand new year from Jan 11th - 25th, stay tuned for some work in progresses and info!

[daily-clace]

“What? Sailors used to navigate by the Great Pancake,” said Jace, and Clary shook her head and started to stand up. Jace grabbed her ankle and she laughed and tumbled over on top of him, and then they were kissing and Emma froze, because what had been a casual moment, one she could have interrupted with a friendly hello, had suddenly become something else.

Jace rolled over on top of Clary in the grass. She had her arms wrapped around him, her hands in his hair. His jacket had fallen off her shoulders and the straps of her nightgown were sliding down her pale arms.

Clary was laughing and saying his name, saying maybe they should go back inside, and Jace kissed her neck. Clary gasped and Emma heard him say, “Remember the Wayland manor? Remember that time outside?”

“I remember.” Her voice was low and throaty.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” Jace said. He was propped over Clary on his elbows, tracing the line of her cheek with his finger. “It was like being in Hell. I would have done anything for you. I still would.”

Clary flattened her hand against his chest, over his heart, and said, “I love you.”

He made a noise, a very un-Jace-like noise (…)

Cassandra Clare, Lady Midnight

[maracujatangerine]

☀️ for Cory please <3 -whumpzone

59. Having a break

CW: institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe

“I think that is enough, Brutus.” Lydia called out. “You have to be careful so that you don’t pull your wound open again.”

“I’m fine, Ma’am.” The muscular man leaned on his shovel for a moment, hardly even out of breath. The sky overhead was high and brightly blue, the sun still warm even though the trees were starting to flame with the red, orange and yellow of autumn.

“Even so, I think it is time for a break. The amount of double-digging you’ve already done would have taken me the whole day. If Cory helped maybe half a day. You’ve been really helpful. Thank you.”

The guard dog bowed his head, smiling. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

“How are you doing, Cory?”

The blonde man came out from between the redcurrant bushes, carrying an orange bucket. “T-this pet has picked the last of the beans, Miss Lydia.” He tilted the bucket to show her. It was filled almost to the brim with green and violet french beans.

“That is great, good job!” She smiled. “Mr. Richardson says hi! His surgery went well, but he can’t use his arm yet so he was very happy to get the lasagna. We should bring him some more food later this week.”

She looked over at both pets. “Come on in and wash your hands. We can all sit outside and have a snack.”

Moments later, Lydia and Brutus were seated at the table on the terrace, Coriander kneeling on a pillow next to them. Lydia had realised that the guard dog was mostly fine with using furniture and hoped that it could rub off on Coriander in the long run.

They were enjoying the sun in companionable silence, eating the apple cake with cardamom that she had baked last night and having some home-made raspberry cordial. A plow of loudly honking geese flew past overhead, gathering to move south for the winter.

Brutus had rested his arm on the table. On an impulse, Lydia reached out and traced the contours of Brutus’ flower tattoo with one gentle finger. She could feel his wiry muscles just underneath the skin.

The guard dog didn’t flinch or pull away. His hand lay open on the table, his arm relaxed. He just watched her with curiosity and open trust in his dark eyes. It made her heart hurt to think how in no more than a week, he’d latched on to her as someone to rely on. How could he still be so open to trust after what his life was like?

That’s how they make them, she thought, vulnerable and easy to hurt.

“When did you get your tattoo?”, she asked, mostly to distract herself. “Did Wayland want you to have it?”

The guard dog shook his head. “No, Ma’am. I had it…” he paused, took another breath, “I had it even in training.”

“Do you know what kinds of flowers they are?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“I’m pretty sure they are chrysanthemums. You know, like the ones Cory bought for me at the market. Only yours are red and white rather than purple.” Cory looked up at her at the sound of his name. Lydia smiled down at him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “The ones you bought were lovely. It was a very thoughtful gift.” The pet smiled at the praise and shifted on his pillow so that he could lean slightly back against her leg. She had learnt by now that this was his wordless way of asking her to pet his hair. She did, letting her hand slide through his blonde locks. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. This was yet another sign of trust, one that Lydia did not take lightly. Cory felt safe enough with her that he didn’t have to be on guard all the time. She could feel tension leaving his body little by little as she stroked his hair.

Sure, she was petting Coriander like a dog. That must surely reinforce his view of himself like a pet. On the other hand, it obviously made him feel safe and happy. For the moment, that seemed vastly more important.

Lydia had been so lost in her own thoughts that she almost missed Brutus’ intense focus on his own tattoo. He was watching it almost as intently as she had studied it, as if he saw it for the first time.

“Chrysanthemums.” He repeated under his breath.

*

Thank you, Whumpzone, for this lovely ask and for wanting to give Cory a nice day outside! I hope you like it! ☀️🍁🍂��

This ask was a response to this post.

Tag list: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

[vierss-herondale]

This whole scene lives rent free in my head:

The Dark Artifices, Lady Midnight ~Cassandra Clare:

“On the other side, a green lawn sloped down to the Herondale manor, a pile of white and tawny stone. The grass was sparkling with dew under the starlight and starred with the white flowers that grew only in Idris.

“And that constellation right there, that’s the Rabbit. See how it has ears?” It was Jace’s voice. He and Clary were sitting in the grass, shoulder to shoulder. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and Clary was in her nightgown, Jace’s jacket around her shoulders. Jace was pointing at the sky.

“I’m pretty sure there’s no Rabbit constellation,” Clary said. She hadn’t changed as much as Jace had in the past years—she was still slight, her red hair bright as Christmas, her small face freckled and thoughtful. She had her head against Jace’s shoulder.

“Sure there is,” he said, and as the starlight touched his pale curls, Emma felt a faint flutter of her old crush. “And that one there, that’s the Hubcap. And there’s the Great Pancake.”

“I’m going back inside,” Clary said. “I was promised an astronomy lesson.”

“What? Sailors used to navigate by the Great Pancake,” said Jace, and Clary shook her head and started to stand up. Jace grabbed her ankle and she laughed and tumbled over on top of him, and then they were kissing and Emma froze, because what had been a casual moment, one she could have interrupted with a friendly hello, had suddenly become something else.

Jace rolled over on top of Clary in the grass. She had her arms wrapped around him, her hands in his hair. His jacket had fallen off her shoulders and the straps of her nightgown were sliding down her pale arms.

Clary was laughing and saying his name, saying maybe they should go back inside, and Jace kissed her neck. Clary gasped and Emma heard him say, “Remember the Wayland manor? Remember that time outside?”

“I remember.” Her voice was low and throaty.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” Jace said. He was propped over Clary on his elbows, tracing the line of her cheek with his finger. “It was like being in Hell. I would have done anything for you. I still would.”

Clary flattened her hand against his chest, over his heart, and said, “I love you.”

He made a noise, a very un-Jace-like noise, and Emma jerked herself away from the gate and ran back toward the Blackthorn house.”

[the-great-lightwood-bane]

bloody but unbowed Malec | Rated general | tw implied/referenced torture, discrimination against Downworlders | Canon Divergence, Bad Sibling Isabelle Lightwood, Bad Parabatai Jace Wayland, Bad Parent Maryse Lightwood, Angst with a Happy Ending, Captivity, Rescue

Summary: “Now,” Imogen says — quietly, sternly, insistently. A promised pain in her tone makes Alec want to flinch away, but the bindings on his chair keep him still as the statue he must pretend to be. “Tell me where the Downworlder base is.”

~

Twenty years ago, the Circle won. Six years ago, Alec Lightwood began freeing every Downworlder to enter the Institute’s cells. A week ago, he was caught. 

Nobody’s going to free him. 

A/N: This fic was created for the Shadowhunters Reverse Bang 2022: Presented by the @malecdiscordserver.

Art (above, you can also see it here) is by Twigen!

Title is from the poem Invictus by William Ernst Henley. 

Read it on AO3 or below the cut.

“Now,” Imogen says — quietly, sternly, insistently. A promised pain in her tone makes Alec want to flinch away, but the bindings on his chair keep him still as the statue he must pretend to be. “Tell me where the Downworlder base is.”

“I don’t know anything,” Alec manages, voice hoarse, throat sore from hours of screaming and dehydration. It’s only partially a lie — he knows where several Downworlder haunts are, places he makes sure to keep patrols away from, but they’re not technically Downworlder bases. The Hunter’s Moon is just a bar, Pandemonium is a club, and while the Hotel Dumort and Jade Wolf are the main headquarters of the vampires and the werewolves, respectively, the place most like a Downworlder base is probably Magnus’ loft — which Alec has intentionally never learnt the location of. Even so, Alec knows perfectly well she’d love to learn about the other Downworlder haunts, and therefore he cannot let her know anything.

Her lip curves up in disgust. “Liar.” A gesture, and the man standing beside her steps forward, stele in hand. Alec tries to cringe away, but it’s no use; he’s weak from too little food and too much pain, and anyway, he’s tied too tightly to the chair. 

The stele traces remorselessly over the Agony rune on Alec’s shoulder, mostly black but tinged with red from frequent usage. Alec is well accustomed to the moment of breathless peace when the stele moves back, but there’s no getting used to the abrupt surge of pain that follows, and he loses himself in screams. 

—————————————

A week earlier, Alec walked quickly and quietly down the hallways of the New York Institute, seraph blade at the ready although he hoped not to use it. 

It was quiet — noon was approaching, and for now, most good Shadowhunters were in bed catching up on the sleep they’d missed overnight. Demons were nocturnal; therefore, so were Shadowhunters. Alec knew he was giving up on precious, already-scarce sleep to do this, but that was a sacrifice he was willing to make. Magnus had told him about the most recent captures, including his friend Catarina Loss and her daughter, Madzie. Alec wasn’t about to let a child stay in the Institute’s cells a moment longer than necessary. Magnus’ message had been relatively short and to the point, anger visible in every line. Alec had immediately agreed to break everyone out of the Institute later that day. 

By now — after six years of rescuing every Downworlder the Institute managed to lay hands on — Alec had plenty of practice in subduing opponents; he stepped silently up behind a guard, slammed the hilt of his seraph blade down on his head, and activated the guard’s somnos rune to keep him down. He’d wake up in fifteen minutes with no memory of falling asleep. 

The next hallway had two guards, which he dispatched as easily as the first. Nobody, after all, expected Alec Lightwood — Head of the New York Institute, heir to the Lightwood name, scion of one of the proudest Shadowhunter bloodlines, eldest son of Valentine’s greatest devotees — to be the traitor breaking Downworlders out. The latest rumour going around was about an underground movement with several hundred people in it, as, apparently, only that could explain how Downworlders kept disappearing from the Institute’s cells. The guards on duty today would be investigated for misdemeanours, as would the people watching the monitors, but Alec was diligent in his efforts to conceal himself from all suspicion; as Head, his access to the camera feeds allowed him to hide his presence in the cell corridors and then remove any traces of tampering in the recordings. The investigation into this breakout would be as stumped as all the others had been. 

He turned another corner soundlessly, and the last guard dropped to the ground. Cells lined this corridor, at least fifty on each side, but only ten were filled — it hadn’t been long since his last rescue, but he’d sped up the timeline for Madzie’s sake. He saw her immediately, a girl who looked younger than the six-year-old she was, and for a moment, he was frozen with a furious horror that they’d dare capture a child.

Shaking himself out of it, Alec pulled out the guard’s stele and swiped it over the cell doors, one after another, then activated the rune that’d unlock the prisoners’ chains. When he’d rescued Magnus a bit more than three years ago, Magnus had looked up at him with golden cat eyes which, even then, had taken Alec’s breath away, and asked how he knew Magnus wouldn’t just kill him where he stood. Alec’s reply — that without a Shadowhunter’s help, he wouldn’t be able to make it out of the Institute to a place where he could portal away — had, apparently, satisfied him; he’d followed Alec’s lead in silence and winked at him before portalling out. He’d been dirty and bruised from the Shadowhunters’ rough handling, but Alec had thought he was the most beautiful man Alec had ever seen. 

The ten Downworlders climbed warily to their feet: two warlocks, Madzie and a blue-skinned woman, presumably Catarina Loss; a faerie, androgynous and tattooed with vines; four werewolves, including a Black woman with scars along her neck whom Alec recognised as Maia Roberts from the Hunter’s Moon; and three vampires, one of whom Alec knew as Simon Lewis. “You’re Shadow?” Catarina asked, head tilted to the side. 

“Yes.” The pseudonym was a necessity — if they knew his name was Alec Lightwood, they’d never trust him, and they’d probably all end up getting caught. (Shadow seemed fitting, seeing as Alec worked in the shadows and was hunted by, well, Shadowhunters.) Only Magnus knew Alec’s true identity, and the fact that he trusted Alec despite it was one of the reasons Alec loved him. 

(It was, perhaps, ridiculous to be in love with a man he’d seen a grand total of twice, but he’d seen plenty of Magnus’ personality in their conversations — his quips, comments, and clever questions, even before their communications had strayed from strict practicalities. By now, Magnus knew more of Alec than anyone else, and not only because he knew Alec was Shadow; Alec had told him secrets, emotions, dreams, and hopes, that he couldn’t even tell his parabatai. 

He didn’t know if Magnus felt the same. In any case, it wasn’t like there was much of a future for them; after all, Alec’s people were doing their utmost to exterminate Magnus’. That thought always brought him back to earth from any dreams of love.)

Most of the Downworlders came out of their cells easily enough — they probably knew of Alec already; Magnus had mentioned that Shadow was fairly famous by now — but Madzie remained in hers, pressed against the wall as far from Alec as she could get. Catarina knelt in front of her, trying to encourage her out; judging by the wary glances the young girl was sending Alec, she didn’t want to trust a Shadowhunter. Alec couldn’t blame her, but he wondered what had happened in her short life to make her fear him so much. 

Carefully (but quickly, as they didn’t have infinite time), Alec went down on one knee, a little way away, to make himself seem smaller. He caught a glimpse of small slits on the sides of Madzie’s neck and guessed they were her warlock mark. “Cool gills.”

She looked up, a small smile blooming on her face, and with the help of the friendly expression Alec wore, Catarina soon succeeded in coaxing her out of the cell. 

Alec beckoned everyone forward, and took them through the winding route of passageways which led to the exit where the portal would be waiting. His watch told him it was 11:56; Magnus’ portal would open at twelve, so they had enough time. It was much easier to do this with Magnus’ help than it’d been before — he’d had to hope that one of the captive warlocks had enough power to make a portal, or else he’d need to help them across the city to one of the Downworlder haunts he knew. Shortly after he’d rescued Magnus, there’d been a close call with a guard, and a Downworlder had been injured to the point where he couldn’t walk; there’d been no warlock capable of portalling them to safety in the group. Fortunately, another prisoner had been Raphael Santiago, a friend of Magnus’, and he’d called Magnus using Alec’s phone. The High Warlock had opened up a portal, and Alec had seen the Downworlders safely to the other side before returning to the Institute to avoid detection. 

(Magnus had given Alec the journal they used to communicate a few days later; it was spelled to mirror an identical journal of Magnus’ so they could write to each other without more traceable phones or fire messages. 

Magnus’ inventiveness was another thing Alec admired him for. 

The most stunning thing about the journal, though, was the level of trust it displayed: Alec could so easily have set up a trap for him using it, and while he was sure Magnus took precautions, there remained a chance they’d fail. It was a calculated risk, and Alec would ensure that it turned out for the best. He could not betray that trust.)

Their small group of Downworlders was only two hallways from the exit when the Institute’s alarm sounded. 

Alec realised with a jolt that in his hurry and horror at Madzie’s treatment, he’d forgotten to activate the last guard’s somnos rune. The blow to his head had knocked him out, but that wouldn’t — couldn’t — last; he must’ve woken up, seen the prisoners missing, and hoped to sound the alarm before everyone was in the clear. 

Before Alec could tell everyone to hurry up and get out, he saw Madzie’s pale, terrified face. “Shh, it’s okay,” he said softly, gently. “I’ll keep you safe, okay?”

“Okay,” she said trustingly, and Catarina smiled at him. That wasn’t enough, though; she was still too young to move quickly, and the Downworlders seemed too weak to carry her. 

“We’re going to need to go fast,” he told her. “Can I give you a ride?”

She hesitated for a moment, and Catarina tensed slightly, but then she nodded, and Alec scooped her easily up onto his back. He barely noticed the weight; already, the other Downworlders were following him down the hallway. 11:58 — two minutes until Magnus’ portal would open up and bring the Downworlders to safety. 

“Is your name really Shadow?” Madzie asked in his ear as he hurried forward, careful not to outstrip the slowest Downworlders. 

“No,” Alec told her honestly. He knew it was unlikely he’d get out of here alive; keeping his identity secret didn’t much matter anymore. “My real name’s Alec.”

“Alec.” He felt her nod confidently against the back of his neck. “I’m Madzie. You can be my friend.”

“Gladly,” he said, lips pulling up into a smile. Whatever his fate, he liked this girl, too quiet and careful for her age but still with a child’s willingness to make friends. 

They reached the exit only moments later, and Alec let Madzie gently down to the ground. She grinned at him, brighter than before, but he didn’t have time to smile back before the first guard came running out the door. 

Alec moved without hesitation, pushing Madzie behind him as his seraph blade lit up in his hand. This wasn’t the time to spare lives with somnos runes and knockout blows; Alec’s blade sliced easily through the man’s neck, and blood spattered, thankfully more on Alec than Madzie. He hoped he hadn’t lost her good regard, but her life was more important. 

“Behind me!” he called, hoping the Downworlders obeyed as he took up a position in front of the exit. Like this, the space was narrow enough that his opponents would have to come at him one at a time; he wouldn’t last forever, but he’d last the sixty seconds until Magnus’ portal opened up. A flash of movement farther down the corridor; he unslung his bow and sent an arrow through the next guard with enough force to kill the woman behind him, too; the third guard, at her side, growled and threw herself forward — directly onto Alec’s blade, swapped with his bow and held at the ready. 

Those three would’ve been stationed closest to this door; he had about fifteen seconds before the rest of the Institute arrived, and then he’d need to hold them off long enough for the Downworlders to get through the portal, and then he’d— well. It was best not to think about what would happen to him. Only one thought pierced his mental shields: I’ll never see Magnus again. He pushed it away before he could linger on the emotions it brought. 

“Alec?” Madzie’s voice, nervous. Alec spared a moment to turn to her with a small smile and nod for her to continue, one eye still on the doorway. “Are you coming with us when we leave?” 

“I can’t, little princess,” Alec told her gently. “They’d be able to track me too easily, and then they’d find all of you.” He had a parabatai, after all; the Clave might not be able to track Downworlders through Magnus’ wards, but Alec doubted if any wards could stand up to the force of parabatai tracking. He couldn’t lead the Clave to the main headquarters of the Downworlder resistance. 

Madzie looked upset, but the fifteen seconds were up, and now a group of twenty more people were hurrying down the hallway to confront Alec. Too many; he wouldn’t be able to hold them all off, not long enough for Magnus’ portal to arrive. 

He threw back his hood, drawing himself up into the attitude of a commander, of a leader — the leader they’d all been trained to obey without question. “Halt!”

Instinctively reacting to his tone, the Shadowhunters paused, and Alec gained nearly three seconds to send arrows through the necks of those nearest to him. That left a total of ten bodies on the ground, hampering the other Shadowhunters’ movement forward; even once they’d recovered from their shock that Alec Lightwood was the one smuggling Downworlders out, they still had to climb over their fellows’ corpses to reach Alec, and he dispatched them one after the other. This was better; he could keep this up for as long as he needed to. 

He heard the swoosh of an opening portal, then the sounds of people passing through — one, two, three, four — he blocked a strike and stabbed his seraph blade into a woman’s chest, but she managed to wrench away from him before he could pull the blade out again and he had to waste precious moments drawing a new seraph blade — seven Downworlders had gone through, eight, nine, ten. 

The portal closed, and Alec let his weapons fall to the floor. 

~

They dragged him in front of Maryse. 

Of course they did; with the Head of the Institute out of commission — guilty of treason, in this case, but it would be the same if he were unconscious or dead — the Headship passed to his Second in Command: Maryse. Usually, that rank would be occupied by Jace as Alec’s parabatai, but leading the Institute didn’t really suit him; Izzy was in training to take over as Alec’s Second, but until she completed her training, Maryse would fulfil that role. She didn’t often need to. 

Now, Alec’s mother looked at him with eyes full of nothing but disgust. If there was betrayal in them, it was buried deep; she wouldn’t let such a personal emotion show in front of anyone, let alone the son she now knew was a traitor. The traitor, really. Shadow. 

She didn’t meet Alec’s eyes, but he could read her well. They both knew that now, in these interminably long seconds, she had a choice to make: she could use the influence and power of the Lightwood name to deny or cover up the evidence of his wrongdoing, perhaps blame it on one of the guards — she was unscrupulous enough for that — and shelter Alec from the worst of the consequences, although she’d lower the prestige of the family name; or, she could turn Alec in, distance herself from him as much as possible, keep the Lightwood name well clear of Alec’s disgrace to protect the rest of the family, and abandon him to his fate. 

Logically, he knew — they both knew — that the latter was the only choice she could ever make. Maryse Lightwood was ruthless, and if she needed to sacrifice one son for the rest of her family, she would do it. 

That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, however, when she ordered him put in chains. 

It hurt more when she called in Izzy and Jace — Robert and Max, Alec thought dully, must have remained in Idris — and explained the situation in crisp, cold tones. Alec’s siblings stared at him in shock, then confusion, then denial; when Alec didn’t deny anything Maryse accused him of, their expressions morphed into betrayal hidden by cold anger. The three Lightwoods — Alec’s family, however flawed, however prejudiced — left the room without another word. 

They just — left. Abandoned him, to torture and certain death, because he’d saved the lives of Downworlders they could never see as people. 

The guards dragged Alec before a Silent Brother, mouth and eyes sewn up tight, who silently removed the parabatai rune from Alec’s side. Full deruning wasn’t necessary — it would weaken him to no purpose — but this would spare Jace the pain of Alec’s torture. Alec found himself grateful for it; even if Jace had abandoned him, even if Jace hated Downworlders with a passion that made no sense to Alec, it would be better if Jace didn’t have to feel any of the pain coming for Alec. 

Their bond was already weakened by rejection and secrets; when it shattered, rune fading to a pale scar, Alec closed his eyes to ride out the ache and almost wished it had hurt more. 

Then, they brought Alec to one of the cells he’d so recently broken the Downworlders out of, where he waited for Imogen Herondale and agony. 

————————————————————

After a while, the Agony rune subsides. Thankfully, they don’t last long, although Imogen applies them again and again until Alec’s runes scream from overuse. 

Alec can remember studying the rune at the Academy, learning how to draw it, learning what it felt like to experience it — first academically, then practically. They taught that the recipient would first experience physical pain, then recall painful memories, and then go through yet more painful mental delusions; then they seared the rune onto his skin, and he felt it all himself. 

The thing with the Agony rune is that it only amplifies pain the receiver has already experienced. The first time Alec bore the rune, the physical pain was bad — every broken bone, every scrape, every ache piled on top of each other — but the memories were worse, combining fear for Izzy’s life the time she’d fallen off a rooftop with every disapproving glare Maryse ever sent him; his delusions were all of his family dying, desperate, dead. 

Now, it’s different. The physical pain is worse thanks to the severing of the parabatai bond; he sees his family turning away from him, Maryse’s cold expression, Magnus chained up in a cell; he imagines Izzy and Jace dying, and worse, he thinks Magnus dies too, hurt and chained and broken. He doesn’t know how much longer he can do this. 

They’ve had him for a week, and he knows nobody will come to get him. His family chose to reject him rather than endanger themselves, and nobody else will break him out — not his subordinates who he’s betrayed, not Magnus who can’t gather the chaotic and opposing groups he leads to free Downworlders, let alone a Shadowhunter. A Lightwood. 

Imogen is there every day, demanding answers; Alec wishes he knew less, wishes he couldn’t give away the few precious hideaways the Downworld has, because at least then they wouldn’t be at risk. He doesn’t tell her anything, of course — he is trained in both giving and resisting torture, and he has always excelled at the latter; perhaps it’s what Jace calls called his idiotic hard-headed stubbornness — but he knows eventually they’ll wear him down, whether it take weeks or months or even years. The Agony rune brings unimaginable pain; someday, he will forget to keep his mouth shut as he surfaces from it, and the secrets will come spilling out. 

Thankfully, the Soul Sword is no longer an option — Valentine tried to use it to destroy the entire Downworld, but Alec stole it and passed it off to Magnus, who destroyed it. They can’t compel Alec to tell the truth with anything but raw, naked torture, and that is not a quick process. He has time, but sooner or later, he will give in, and he cannot let that happen. 

The best solution, of course, would be to escape, but even without the parabatai bond to track him wherever he goes, there’s no way he can get out; Imogen still seems to think Shadow might be a group rather than an individual, and she’s tripled the guard on his cell in case any compatriots try to free him. (He wishes he had compatriots.) The guards watch him carefully, day and night (or what he thinks is night if his internal clock is still right); he’s never unchained, and the door only opens to admit Imogen. He can’t free himself. 

The second-best solution is to set himself free in the other sense. If Alec dies, he won’t betray anyone; the Downworld will be safe — or, at least, as safe as he can make it, which is not very — and Alec, well, perhaps he’ll be better off dead than feeling the burn of the Agony rune again and again. 

Unfortunately, the practicalities are harder: Imogen is well aware that he might choose that fate and has taken precautions. There aren’t any sharp edges near enough for him to reach, and he’s force-fed — or, if he refuses, knocked out and put on an IV drip full of enough drugs to make him worry he’ll let something slip. He’s been eating enough to keep them happy but not enough to stop himself from weakening; he’s heard stories of the Agony rune shorting out a heart, so he can at least hope for that. Otherwise, he’ll have to wait for an opportunity to present itself. 

His muscles are tired, and possibly atrophying, seeing as he can’t move from the chair. They feed him regularly enough, but thanks to his voluntary starvation, his stomach rumbles with hunger; he’s weak, but he cannot falter. Mistakes endanger the Downworld, and he cannot let anything happen to them — to Madzie, to Raphael, to Maia, to Cat, to Magnus. 

(Magnus, who he loves. Magnus, who he will never speak to again. Magnus, who he’s only met twice but knows better than anyone else.)

He made a mistake with the guard, forgetting to draw the somnos rune, and now he can no longer free the Downworlders that New York captures. The cells at the opposite end of the hallway are filling up, and he knows these Downworlders, like Alec himself, will not find a miraculous escape. 

~

Alec wakes up when his cell door swings open. 

It’s a different noise than it usually makes — the guards throw it open easily, carelessly, well-accustomed to opening it. Certain of their right to be there. It squeals harshly on the stone floor, loud enough to drag Alec from sleep. 

This time, it opens slowly; the squeak is softer but persistent. The touch is more tentative, careful, as though the opener is uncertain of their welcome. Alec shakes off the last traces of sleep quickly, well-used to the aches of waking in his uncomfortable position in his chair. Whoever this is, they’re not the usual guards that precede food or one of Imogen’s visits, and that means he needs to be even more alert than usual. 

The corridor is dark, lit only by witchlights at irregular intervals that brighten when Nephilim pass by; they’re not illuminated now, despite the dark outline in the doorway, and he blinks rapidly to make out who it is. The outline clarifies into a person as his eyes grow accustomed to the dark—

“Magnus?” 

He’s dreaming. He has to be; Magnus wouldn’t come here, into the depths of the New York Institute, of his own free will. If this is a dream, though, it’s a strange one — he’s only met Magnus twice in person, after all, and although the memories are mostly distinct, he doubts if his subconscious could conjure up Magnus’ face in such precise detail. He’s even more beautiful than Alec remembers, clichéd as it sounds; he’s wearing dark clothing, more austere and utilitarian than the dirty, torn outfit his captivity left him in or the brilliantly-coloured one he wore when he portalled Raphael and the other Downworlders away. 

“Alexander,” Magnus says softly, and Alec couldn’t possibly be dreaming because he’s never heard Magnus say his name aloud before, and no imagination could come up with this. Magnus has written Alec’s name often, in its full length, and Alec will never admit that he sometimes traces over the curves of Magnus’ handwriting with his fingers, but he thinks he might like it even more when Magnus says it aloud. 

“What are you doing here?” Alec asks, rather than voice the I love you that sings quietly in his blood. 

“Rescuing you, of course,” Magnus returns, a shadow of a grin visible through the dark as he bends down in front of Alec and sends blue sparks toward Alec’s chains. 

Rescuing you. Magnus — Magnus has come here, into the Institute, into danger, to free Alec — to rescue a Lightwood, of all people, from Imogen’s clutches. Why would he risk himself—

But of course, he knows that Alec could tell Imogen about Pandemonium, the Hunter’s Moon, the Jade Wolf, or the Hotel DuMort. All the Downworld’s last sanctuaries, endangered by Alec’s stupidity in getting captured; Magnus would need to prevent him from giving anything away. 

No, that doesn’t explain it. Magnus has never managed to free any Downworlder captives, although they, too, could have told where the Downworld gathered. It’s impossible to get anyone out of the Institute without all the Downworld factions working together, and Magnus has complained at length about how difficult it is to get them to do so; vampire/werewolf rivalries are, of course, common knowledge, but faeries don’t much like vampires either, the warlocks and the faeries fight over which race is older, and the werewolves are unwilling to participate in any rescue attempts as, due to the other races’ immortality, captivity would be just the blink of an eye for them. Magnus hasn’t been able to gather sufficient forces to effect a jailbreak. 

And even Magnus can’t break anyone out on his own. The Institute’s cameras are heavily runed against warlock interference, and surveillance is constant; Alec knows the only way for a Downworlder to get into the cell corridors is if there’s another attack elsewhere in the building, drawing attention away from the cameras. Alec listens intently; sure enough, he can hear faint echoes of fighting from the corridors above them. 

Somehow, Magnus has united the Downworld to rescue Alec. 

Now, however, is not the time to marvel over that. Magnus has managed to break the chains binding Alec to the chair; Alec pushes himself to his feet, but a rush of dizziness makes him sway on the spot until Magnus catches him. He can’t walk like this, and Magnus needs to save his magic for their escape. “Can I have one of the guards’ steles?”

Magnus flicks his fingers, and a stele appears in Alec’s hand. Despite the burn of rune exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him, he activates iratze, mendelin to strengthen his constitution, and Stamina and Nutrition for good measure. His skin itches painfully, and he knows he’ll crash hard when the runes wear off, but it’s worth it as he steadies on his feet. Magnus hesitates to release him, so Alec pulls away himself, trying not to regret the loss of contact. 

A fire message whistles through the air and into Magnus’ hand, still outstretched toward Alec. He glances at it and scowls. “The others are drawing back. We’re on our own getting out.” 

Presumably, the Institute has recovered from the shock of the attack and is successfully fending off the Downworlders who’ve attacked upstairs. No matter; they’ve done enough, allowing Magnus enough time to get here. “We should get moving, then,” Alec says aloud. 

Magnus nods sharply and thankfully spares Alec the indignity of asking whether he thinks he can make it out on his own. Alec knows what he is and isn’t capable of; thanks to the runes humming to life under his skin, he’s strong enough. Barely. 

He takes the seraph blades of a guard at the door — best not to be unarmed if they’re seen and attacked — and follows Magnus at an easy run. The passageways twist back and forth in the familiar route from the cells to the exit; Alec is horribly aware of the cameras fixed on them, recording every movement rather than the looped videos he always uses while breaking Downworlders out. (Videos he used. He’ll never be able to break anyone out again.)

Fortunately, they get most of the way to the exit without being intercepted. Unfortunately, two corridors away from the door, Shadowhunters come spilling out of a side passage to block their way. 

Alec activates his seraph blades, praying his runes hold up and wishing he had his bow. A blast of magic knocks about half the Shadowhunters to the ground, and then the rest are too close for Magnus to cast spells without risking Alec, so it devolves into close battle. 

Magnus fights with magic wreathing his hands, though Alec knows it must be harder than usual, thanks to the adamas and magic-dampening runes surrounding them. He covers Alec’s back, and Alec does the same; being Shadow, combined with hours of training to keep up with his rather more gifted siblings, means that Alec fights better than most of their attackers even when he’s not at full strength, but he and Magnus are still outnumbered several times over. A Shadowhunter lands a deep blow to his side, but he ignores it in favour of killing her, quick and efficient. This is only a reserve group, not the full force of the Institute (thankfully), but if they can slow Alec and Magnus down enough, they’ll be trapped, and Magnus will be captured. 

Alec cannot let that happen. (Not again.) 

Two Shadowhunters fall to the seraph blades he wields; a spurt of magic knocks another one to the ground, and Alec steps over the body to sink his bloody swords into a ribcage, a neck, an abdomen. He doesn’t know if he’s imagining the tramp of disciplined footsteps in the hallways approaching them; if he isn’t, they only have moments left, and he fights with a renewed ferocity. Blood spatters, and Alec knows his runes will give out soon enough, but a last burst of magic kills the two Shadowhunters still blocking their way, and Magnus takes his arm as they run for it. 

There are definitely footsteps behind them, running footsteps of properly-runed Shadowhunters who aren’t nearing collapse, but the door is closer than the guards at their heels, and Magnus opens a portal just beyond the doorway moments before they step through, Alec almost stumbling, falling headfirst through the swirl of blue sparks that vanishes behind them. 

The last thing Alec sees before unconsciousness claims him is Magnus’ face bending over him, lips forming his name. 

~

When Alec wakes up, it’s to three warlocks sitting by his bedside, bathed in morning light. 

It takes him a moment to remember that he’s not in the cell anymore; he’s safe, Magnus came for him, but the feeling of that cell still casts a shadow over his skin and leaves a phantom ache in the Agony rune on his shoulder. To distract himself, he looks around. 

Magnus is slumped over in a chair, head at an awkward angle, obviously asleep. Catarina Loss is in a second chair on the other side of Alec’s bed — or, Alec realises, Magnus’ bed; this must be Magnus’ apartment — but she’s in a much more comfortable-looking position. Madzie is sitting on the bed near Alec’s hips, watching him intently with a crease in her eyebrows. 

Alec has barely enough time to note that he’s aching, though less than he should be, before Madzie’s eyes light up with the realisation that he’s awake, and he finds himself with an armful of excited warlock. “Alec! You’re okay!”

His aches don’t exactly appreciate the impact, but he sits up anyway, grinning at her. “That I am, little sorceress.”

“Cat said you would be, but I was still worried,” she tells him with all the earnestness of a child. “You were nice about my gills, and you saved all of us from the bad Shadowhunters. I asked Cat if they’d hurt you and she didn’t answer, so I asked Uncle Magnus, and he looked sad. Did they hurt you?”

Alec thinks of Agony runes and screams, of painful memories that drift into still worse hallucinations. He can’t exactly tell Madzie about all that, young as she is, but he doesn’t want to lie to her either, so he compromises. “I’m all right now. Don’t worry about me.” 

“We were all rather worried about you,” a voice says from beside the bed, and Alec’s head whips up to see Magnus, apparently awoken by Madzie’s excited speech. There’s something warm in his eyes as he looks at the two of them, Madzie in Alec’s lap, and Alec remembers that she called him Uncle Magnus — he loves this little warlock, clear as daylight. 

“You’re lucky I was here with Madzie when you two portalled back,” Cat adds, also apparently awake. 

“I wanted to make sure you were okay after Magnus saved you,” Madzie explains, dark eyes serious. “Cat said I should let you recover, but I don’t think I’m hurting you — am I?”

“Not at all,” Alec tells her, ignoring the pain in his side. “I’ve never been better.”

Cat glances at him more critically than Madzie, eyes slipping down to his aching side where he could feel the pressure of a bandage below Madzie’s weight. “But as we know Alec’s alright now, why don’t we leave him to rest a bit more?” 

Madzie’s lips purse, but she jumps off Alec’s lap without protest. “Bye, Alec! I’ll come visit you soon!”

“Please do,” Alec tells her with a grin. “I’ll be waiting.”

She beams back and waves enthusiastically as Cat leads her away. 

That leaves him alone with Magnus, who’s also smiling, something gentle and fond on his face. “You’re good with her.” 

Alec shrugs. “I’ve got practice — three younger siblings, remember?” The thought of Izzy and Jace brings an abrupt surge of hurt — they’d just left, so easily, as though he meant nothing more to them because he’d dared to save the lives of Downworlders — but he swallows it down. 

Apparently, however, Magnus can read him well, despite the brevity of their in-person acquaintance, because he winces apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

It’s an expression of sympathy, not an apology, so Alec just shrugs. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

“Of course.” Magnus is smiling again, and although Madzie’s gone, there’s still that warm affection in his eyes. “I owe it to you, after all — you broke me out of there, and hundreds of Downworlders besides.”

That makes sense, Alec supposes, but he still doesn’t understand— “How did you get enough Downworlders to cooperate for the frontal attack of the Institute?”

There’s a hint of something in Magnus’ smile, now — pride? — that turns it into a smirk. “Everyone in the Downworld knows Shadow, Alexander. A fair number have escaped thanks to you, and those who haven’t been caught know those who have. You’ve saved more of my people than I can count, and they recognise that. When I asked for volunteers to get you out, I knew I’d get a lot, but every single Downworlder present wanted to fight for you, infighting and inter-race rivalries be damned.” 

For a moment, Alec simply blinks at him in stunned silence. “For me?” 

Magnus’ smile is still half-smirk, but it softens into something warmer. “For Shadow, who saved so many. For Alec Lightwood, who betrayed family and people for our sake. For the man who refused to portal out with those last ten Downworlders because he knew he’d be tracked, and gave up his freedom for ours.”

Alec doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know what to think — the Downworld knows who he is, all that he is, his last name, and they fought for him like his parents and siblings refused to. 

“But Cat’s right,” Magnus goes on when Alec says nothing. “You do need rest. You also need food, so—” he flicks his fingers, and an array of dishes appear in front of Alec. Despite the early hour — judging by the light, it can’t be past ten AM — there’re not only breakfast foods from all over the world but several more substantial-looking dishes Alec’s never had before. It’s far too much food for one person, or even for two, but Alec digs in with a will; he needs to regain the strength he’s lost thanks to captivity and starvation and Agony runes. 

Magnus joins him, explaining what the dishes are that Alec doesn’t recognise, and they fall back into the easy cadence of conversation they learned in writing to each other through the journal. Magnus shares stories of the first time he had this or that dish, where it comes from, and some cultural tidbits — Alec knows he’s banned from Peru, so he’s curious as to how Magnus managed to obtain rocoto relleno from there; the spicy pepper burns his throat, but he’s always liked spice more than the Shadowhunters around him who’d rather have something bland and Western, so he eats it eagerly. 

Eventually, Alec’s far too full to even think about eating more, and although his stomach might regret his indulgence later, he’s appreciating the feeling of having eaten enough. Sleep is pulling at him now, too; rune exhaustion doesn’t vanish with a few hours’ rest and a solid meal. He has enough experience with it to know that he won’t be able to use any runes for a solid twenty-four hours after this, and longer if he doesn’t get some rest. 

“I’ll leave you to sleep,” Magnus tells him, perceptive of the tiredness Alec can usually hide so well. A wash of magic clears away the mess of food and summons a glass of water to leave by Alec’s bedside. The curtains close, fully blocking out the light from the window. 

Alec’s asleep before Magnus shuts the door. 

~

Imogen smiles at him, all teeth. “Tell us what you know.”

Alec shakes his head, refuses, but a stele lights up, and then there’s a burning in his shoulder that spreads like scattered starbursts of agony across his body, and he thinks the world whites out; he doesn’t know anything but pain, anything but the soul-deep ache that grows and grows and grows amidst fears and dreams and imaginings that tear into his heart with razor-tipped claws. 

When he comes to, Imogen leans in closer. “Tell us, and it’ll all be over.”

Don’t, Alec tries to tell himself, but his lips don’t obey; he’s screaming inside, struggling not to speak, to protect the Downworlders that Imogen will kill, but the words come spilling out regardless. Places. Names. Everything Imogen needs. 

She smiles and says in Magnus’ voice, “Wake up, Alec!”

Alec surges upright with a jolt, aching side protesting, and nearly slams his head into Magnus’. 

“Alexander,” Magnus says, reaching out a hand toward his shoulder. 

His shoulder. Alec flinches away, and Magnus’ hand falls to his side. “Alec, are you with me?”

Still silent — he can’t speak, can’t open his mouth, or he fears he’ll give everything away — Alec nods. His shoulder isn’t actually hurting, and while his side’s still injured, the Agony rune hasn’t been reactivated. It was a dream, only a dream. A nightmare, nothing more. 

“You’re okay,” Magnus says softly, soothingly, somehow both a reassurance and an oath that he would make it so. “You’re safe here, Alexander, and I will not let them hurt you again.”

Alec relaxes into his voice, letting it wash away the last traces of Imogen’s. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Magnus replies immediately. “We’ve all got nightmares.”

Most of Magnus’ likely came at Alec’s people’s hands. “Still. It must be late” — the blinds don’t let enough light through to know the time, but Alec’s internal clock suggests he’s been asleep all day — “and you were probably asleep.”

Magnus shrugs in response. “My guest bed’s a bit less comfortable than this one, and I was lying awake when I heard you.”

Heard him screaming? Spilling all the Downworld’s secrets? Pleading with Imogen? Another thought hits Alec with all the force of a truck: “Wait, you mean this is your bed? You don’t need to sleep in the guest room; I don’t want to kick you out of your bed—”

A graceful wave of the hand. “It’s no trouble, darling. In all honesty, I’d likely have been awake anyway, guest bed or no.” Magnus’ smile reminds Alec of his earlier words. We’ve all got nightmares. Magnus has plenty of reason for them; the Downworld is fractured, on the verge of being hunted to extinction by the Clave. 

“Still,” Alec says. “You shouldn’t need to leave me your room.” 

Magnus dismisses that with a smile and a hand wave. “In any case, you’re probably hungry again. Midnight snack?”

As a matter of fact, Alec is hungry, so he agrees with a smile. Magnus summons up more food — a few of the dishes Alec particularly liked last time, including the rocoto relleno, along with a variety of new foods that Magnus explains with gusto. It’s all delicious, and the last vestiges of Alec’s nightmare drift away. 

Magnus snaps away the last remains of the food when they’re done. “Tired?”

“Not really, actually,” Alec replies. “Sleeping all day has messed with my sleep schedule.”

“I doubt I’ll be able to sleep, either,” Magnus says, holding out a hand to help Alec up. It’s more reminiscent of an old-fashioned, courtly gesture than a way to get Alec to his feet; Alec is impossibly grateful for the small amount of dignity that affords him. He takes Magnus’ hand and heaves himself up, wincing as the pain in his side intensifies. 

“Oh, I can help with that,” Magnus offers, blue wreathing his hands; at Alec’s nod, it encases his side, and the pain eases away. Alec doesn’t know if it’s fully healed or if Magnus’ magic is acting as a painkiller — probably the latter; injuries caused by seraph blades are notoriously hard for warlock magic to heal — but his shoulders relax as the ache ebbs. 

Magnus directs him into an open space with a large table in the middle, chairs arranged around it and papers scattered across the top. Alec hesitates, but Magnus doesn’t stop him when he leans over to look at the papers; there’s a map of New York, the Institute in red, Downworlder hideouts in blue, lines and boxes in both colours indicating where it’s safe for Downworlders to go and where it isn’t. He recognises all the Institute’s patrol routes in bright scarlet — information he leaked as soon as he was sure he could safely do so. 

Another paper has lists of names, presumably Downworlders, in one column, and then dates and times in the next — the label at the top of the sheet reads CHECK-INS, and Alec realises that the Downworlders are all making sure to check in at least once a day, so they know as soon as possible if anyone’s taken. There’s a pile of notes with MEETING MINUTES along the top; Alec glances through them, and they seem to be mostly arguments about supplies and refusals to concede to other groups’ requests, mixed in with dire warnings about the Clave — except for the last meeting, which ends with a consensus on rescuing Alec. The werewolf Alpha in that meeting is different from the one in the older papers; somebody named Theo has been replaced by Luke Garroway, who seems more cooperative than his predecessor. 

Still, the Downworlders are obviously divided between themselves and terrified of the Clave’s next threat. Alec reads through the notes again; the old werewolf leader, Theo, was particularly unwilling to cooperate, and the faeries are (as always) isolationist. They can’t seem to work together long enough to form a coherent strategy to defend themselves, let alone fight back. He forgets for a moment where he is, lost in understanding and digesting the political situation, the Downworld’s forces, and the potential for resistance. 

“We’re not very good at working together,” Magnus observes dryly at his shoulder, and Alec’s almost surprised he doesn’t jump at the sudden voice. “Nobody’s exactly trained in strategy, and nobody wants to listen to the other races above their own.”

Alec glances up at him, considering. “But you’ve got substantial forces. More Downworlders than the Clave knows about, for sure; with some preliminary battle training for everyone, you’d be able to overwhelm the Institute with sheer numbers.”

“If everyone worked together, yes,” Magnus agrees. “But that’s unlikely, and what about after that? Even with the New York Institute under our command, the Clave would simply send more Shadowhunters to fight us.”

“No, they couldn’t,” Alec replies. “The Downworld doesn’t know this, but the Clave is overstretched. There aren’t enough new Shadowhunters being born to keep up with the demon threat; between their insistence on fighting Downworlders, the lower birth rate of the last few years, and the loss of the Cup, our — their — numbers are dropping.” It’s odd to think of the Clave as a separate entity from himself, when he’s faked allegiance to it for so long, but it’s also a relief. “The Institute would be easy enough for us to fortify, and they could only get in through the permanent portal from Alicante; to overwhelm an Institute controlled by this many Downworlders when they’re in such a disadvantageous position, they’d need…” he pauses for a moment, calculating “…upwards of seven hundred troops. There aren’t seven hundred troops to be found.”

“It’s still a precarious position,” Magnus says slowly, but he’s clearly warming to the idea, light flaring to life in his eyes. “That won’t last forever; to have lasting peace, we’ll need to keep the Clave permanently out of New York, which means either blocking all portals from coming in — difficult and annoying, but possible — or defeating the Clave entirely, worldwide, which is harder, but if we succeed—”

“We could free Downworlders everywhere.” Alec’s grinning, ideas spinning almost too fast for him to follow; he’s always liked strategy, more than Izzy or Jace ever did, and he’s often spent hours planning out careful moves in his office that balance the Downworld’s needs and the necessary pretence of loyalty to the Clave. He’s always been alone while strategizing, though, and there’s a whole new thrill now that he’s talking with somebody else, somebody clearly as knowledgeable about strategy as he is. And now, he’s not trying to balance what he thinks with what he must do; he’s fighting for something that he believes in far more than the Clave, planning for a concrete future he actually wants. It’s freeing.

“We’d need worldwide support,” Magnus points out. “Right now, I’ve got some communication with other warlocks, but it’s nowhere near enough to actually form a global movement to take on the Clave.”

The words — a global movement to take on the Clave — send shivers of something between excitement and terror down Alec’s spine. “But it’s possible. And if we take New York, we’ll have a precedent, which will serve to bring more of them to our cause.” 

“It’s possible. Our numbers are superior; if we work together—”

“—and if we can take down all the Institutes at once—”

“—even if we can’t take Idris itself—”

“—we’ll be able to stop them from hunting Downworlders.” The light in Magnus’ eyes is echoed in Alec’s soul, and he suddenly feels as if he could take on the world and more with Magnus at his side. This is hard — this is almost impossible — but it’s also necessary, and Alec had always prided himself on his ability to do what needs doing. “Demons are obviously a problem — that’s why Shadowhunters were created, after all — but between rebel Shadowhunters and Downworlders willing to do patrols, I think a permanent solution could be found.”

Magnus beams at him, lit up from within like a beacon, like the angels in textbooks. “First, we take New York.”

Alec pulls a blank piece of paper forward, and Magnus snaps up a pencil. The plans of the Institute are easy enough for him to recall and draw out; he can mark every exit, every camera, and every hub of activity, thanks to his dual life as Shadow and Institute Head. He knows where they can attack and where they should avoid, and he marks them all on the map in red pen. 

Leaning over his shoulder, Magnus points to a spot, asks a question, and Alec explains. It should’ve been odd, planning an attack on the building he’s guarded all his life, but instead, it feels right: he has hated the Clave far longer than he ever loved it, and he’s been trapped into helping them for so long, unable to leave or fight back in any way except as Shadow. Now, he can finally do something about it, and sitting at Magnus’ table with papers scattered around him in a starburst of plans and ideas, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so free. 

~

“This is incredible, Alexander,” Magnus breathes, at last, eyes fixed on Alec, letting a pen fall to the table. The plans are as complete as they can be without talking to the other Downworld leaders; by presenting them with something as fully fleshed-out as this, Magnus is hopeful they can convince them to help, especially with a Shadowhunter’s insider knowledge on their side. “We can — we can actually do this.”

“I should hope so — we’ve thought it through enough,” Alec returns, teasingly, but he feels the same way: a mixture of exhilaration and impossible hope that makes all their dreams close enough to touch, so close he can scarcely believe it. 

Magnus huffs out a you know what I meant and pulls Alec up to his feet. “Dance with me?”

He tugs Alec out into the living room without waiting for a reply, music emanating from somewhere in the room. It’s dark outside, New York lights outshining the stars but not the moon, the lamps on the table spreading illumination into the living room in slants of gold. “I don’t know how to dance,” Alec protests, but weakly, because Magnus is looking at him like that, visible even through the darkness of the room, and he doesn’t know if he could ever say no to him. 

“Then I’ll teach you,” Magnus returns, and guides Alec’s steps to the simple beat of the music. Alec’s not exactly a dancer, but he is a Shadowhunter; he knows how to use his body, and he’s at ease here, and the music seeps into his bones as he follows Magnus’ lead. 

He spent a week in a cell, certain that he would not last long, and now he is here, free, and in Magnus’ arms. There’s a breathless incredulity blending with a determined joy in his chest, golden hope glowing through him, glowing in Magnus’ eyes. 

The dancing devolves into quiet swaying on the spot. Alec’s wordless, looking at Magnus, brilliant and beautiful and full of life, with a heart that has suffered so much but is still brighter than the moon outside the window. He doesn’t know what to do with the feeling in his chest, warm and heavy yet light at the same time, but he knows he loves Magnus, and the look in Magnus’ eyes whispers that it’s returned. 

Despite all the planning they’ve done, all the dreams they share, the future is murky; something will go wrong, as it always does, and they’ll be fighting for their lives sooner or later. Success is possible but not probable. There are demons in Alec’s head in the red-black shades of the Agony rune; Maryse, Imogen, and the Clave are strong and stand together against them. But between Alec’s strategy and knowledge, Magnus’ vision and power, and the Downworld’s hidden strength, they have at least a chance, and that is enough — that is everything. 

Alec leans in to kiss Magnus’ smiling lips, and somehow, impossibly, all is right with the world. 

[silver-stargazing]

An Incomplete Listing of Fictional Characters with Epilepsy and Seizures

@seaglassdinosaur requested a list of fictional characters with epilepsy and seizures. I couldn’t find one particular list on the Internet beyond the Wikipedia article so I complied my own list. The characters here will not all be positive depictions of the epilepsy experience, but they are representation regardless.

Literature:

Adult Literature

Antonio (Three O'Clock in the Morning)

Arthur (Tell Me That You Love Me, Junie Moon) (Unspecified Seizure Disorder)

Carmen Sternwood (The Big Sleep)

Evan Wallace (How Evan Broke His Head and Other Secrets)

FitzChivalry Farseer (Realm of the Elderlings series)

Isaac Hammoudeh (Mis(h)adra) (graphic novel)

Keziah Montgomery (Engraved on the Heart)

Lizzie Molyneux (The Dare)

Mary (The Florist’s Daughter)

Miles Vorkosigan (The Vorkosigan Saga)

Molly Volkova (Molly Falls To Earth)

Oscar Dubourg (Poor Miss Finch)

Othello (Othello)

Pavel Fyodorovich Smerdyakov (The Brothers Karamazov)

Peter Leavitt (The Andromeda Strain)

Prince Myshkin (The Idiot)

Robert “Sweetrobin” Arryn (A Song of Ice and Fire series)

Silas Marner (Silas Marner) (Catalepsy, which is different from epilepsy but still includes seizures and can be a symptom of epilepsy)

Sophie (We are Satellites)

Toby Withers (Owls Do Cry & The Edge of the Alphabet)

Youth Literature (Teen and Children)

Alex Woods (The Universe Verses Alex Woods)

Annemarie (When You Reach Me)

Duncan MacDonald (Prince Across the Water)

Emma Cooper (Throat)

Finn Easton (100 Sideways Miles)

Jake (Takedown)

Leilani Milton (The Islands at the End of the World series)

Meena Zee (Meena Meets Her Match)

Monks (Oliver Twist)

Ollie Paulot (Because You’ll Never Meet Me)

Pepper Al-Yusef (The Arsonist)

Percy Newton (The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue)

Pippa (Gemma Doyle Trilogy)

Sven Beekman (Talking to Alaska)

Thom Creed (Hero) (Unspecified Seizure Disorder)

Will Thorpe (The Quarantine Series)

Zane Guesswind (Zane’s Trace)

Film:

Movies

Angie (The Sacred Disease)

Bagi (Khadak)

Dave O'Hara (Wide Awake (1998))

Esteban Espinosa (El Aura)

Ivy (The Exploding Girl)

Jackson Briggs (Dog (2022)) (Unspecified Seizure Disorder)

James Wayland (Deceiver)

Kinji Kameda (The Idiot (1951))

Kiri (Avatar: The Way of Water) (Diagnosed with temporal lobe epilepsy, film leaves it unclear if it’s supernatural)

Lily O’Connor (Electricity)

Michaela Klingler (Requiem)

Penelope Stamp (The Brothers Bloom)

Robbie Reimuller (...First Do No Harm)

Ruth (Fast Color) (Unspecified Seizure Disorder)

Ruth Hunsdorfer (The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds)

Ruth Leavitt (The Andromeda Strain (1971))

Sam (Garden State)

Sam (Under the Lights)

Teresa Ronchelli (Mean Streets)

Television

Anežka Archuletta (Jane the Virgin)

Ashley Thomas (Emmerdale)

Caitlin Ryan (Degrassi)

David Platt (Coronation Street)

Erica Reyes (Teen Wolf)

Hotaru Tomoe/Sailor Saturn (Sailor Moon) (Unspecified Seizure Disorder; Magically cured during the series run)

Karen (Diff’rent Strokes) (only appears in one episode)

Leslie Cook (One Day at a Time (1975)) (only appears in one episode)

Nancy Carter (EastEnders)

Pearl Gallagher (Diff’rent Strokes)

Reverend Smith (Deadwood)

Roger Barner (Naked City episode: “Portrait of a Painter”)

Steph Cunningham (Hollyoaks)

Tsi Chou (The Andromeda Strain (2008))

Victor Newman (The Young and the Restless)

Will Graham (Hannibal) (seizures as a symptom of encephalitis)

Video Games

Ruben Victoriano/Ruvik (The Evil Within)

Note: This list is incomplete due to both the vast scope of this description (a lot of characters have seizures when, for example, being possessed or experiencing visions and I’m unsure whether to count them or not.) and the limitations I have with media as someone who only speaks english.

Also: If you know of any epileptic characters or characters who have had seizures that I missed, please let me know!

[my-nameless-bliss]

If you are still taking prompts, please consider Alec Lightwood gives the best hugs. Even if you are not taking prompts, please just imagine this because everyone deserves to know this Fact.

You are absolutely correct. This is a Fact. Undeniably.

When Alec hugs Jace, it’s tight. Unforgiving. Alec gets his arms around him, and waits. It usually takes Jace a moment or two to fight, to give up whatever argument his mind is giving him, and to let himself accept it. But Alec doesn’t waver. He waits as long as it takes, waits for Jace to finally release the tension in his shoulders, to finally press his face into Alec’s shoulder. Alec hugs him until he gets his fill, and can’t take anymore. Sometimes, Jace needs to push away, cough, say something stupid, pound Alec’s back with his fist, anything to lighten the mood. Make it seem less important than it was. But Alec doesn’t mind. He still knows it’s appreciated.

When Alec hugs Magnus, it’s a little soft, a little aimless, a little inconsistent. He’ll put one arm around Magnus’s waist, that’s a certainty. But his other hand usually wanders a bit. Across Magnus’s shoulders. Holding the back of his neck. Playing with his hair. Slipping into his back pocket. It usually lingers a little too long, a little longer than it needs to. He tilts his face, lets their cheeks brush together and their noses bump. They stay like that, sometimes. For seconds, for minutes. They talk. They carry on like normal. They just forget to move away from each other.

When Alec hugs Rafe, it’s meant to last. It’s meant to be comfortable, to be supported, and to be safe. It’s in their bed, usually. Rafe sitting in Alec’s lap, with his hands pressed between his mouth and Alec’s chest. With one of Alec’s arms around him, and with the other hand holding Rafe’s head, keeping it tucked under his chin, sometimes scratching his scalp, or getting tangled in his hair. These hugs are a two-person job. Magnus is always right there, right with them. Singing a lullaby, speaking softly to him, making sure he knows that he’s awake, that the nightmare is over, that he’s with them, and that he’s safe. These hugs can last hours, some nights. Some nights, these hugs don’t even end. Because Rafe falls asleep in Alec’s arms, and Alec has no desire to let go.

-send me a character or pairing, and a prompt, and I’ll write a three-paragraph fic for you!-