so. literally seven years ago, I started a 'series of firsts' style fluff-fic(let collection) for Malec/Shadowhunters... and I think part of why I got stuck on it in particular (even beyond the not writing much for the last couple years) is because it is in fact supposed to be in chronological order following the show and I had hit a point where I needed a... not!fluff chapter, and I kept trying to just... skip the sad and write more fluff for the fluff fic.
But I'm writing a vignette series for a melodrama. So. Melodrama has been written, of Alec Lightwood Overthinking Things but not being wrong, so how is he supposed to stop? (This takes place after s2e12, which is the disaster of a body swap episode, for anyone not so obsessed with the show as to know that off the top of their heads)
It is not the first time Alec has known that he’s not good enough for Magnus. He’s always known that, since the first time he laid eyes on him.
It is the first time that he thinks Magnus might agree with him.
Magnus said he wanted some space. Tonight (just tonight implied but not stated by the softness of his voice, the brush of his fingers against the seam of Alec’s sleeve) Magnus wanted some quiet.
So Alec left Magnus alone, and now he’s standing in his institute bathroom staring into the institute mirror gripping the white porcelain edges of an institute sink, trying to decide if that was right.
He doesn’t think it was, but he’s not sure if it’s the space that’s wrong, or the just for tonight.
He knows which he wants it to be, but that’s irrelevant.
Magnus likes to retreat when he’s hurt, but that doesn’t mean that’s good for him; Alec might not have known Magnus for long, but he recognizes a protective flinch when he sees it. And if that’s the case, then Alec should in fact head right back out and refuse to let Magnus hide and hold him tight until Magnus feels like he's himself again.
But Alec didn’t believe what Magnus said too many times already, he can’t…
He can’t go against Magnus’ request, not now that he finally made one. Always letting Alec set the pace, waiting for Alec to reach out, for Alec to act, to ask, and when he finally lets himself say what he wants?
It’s less of Alec, rather than more.
Smart of him, of course. Alec would never blame him for it, especially not after Azazel and Valentine and Alec failing him in every way it was possible to fail. There has always been a disparity between what Magnus deserves and what Alec is capable of offering; perhaps it is too large of one to ever be overcome.
Only he knows he wants to keep trying.
He also knows that staring at his mirror and overthinking things is his own protective flinch.
Magnus said he doesn’t know what he needs. Alec is mostly sure that’s true, that if Magnus knew that Alec caused more harm than could possibly be worth it he would say so — but only mostly. Magnus has been abandoned too many times to be the person leaving unless he’s sure.
Not even then, perhaps.
Alec has some idea of how many times Magnus forgave Camille, and she was cruel on purpose, unlike Alec who keeps twisting the knife entirely by accident.
If Magnus won’t do it, Alec will have to. He refuses to walk Magnus down a road to hell paved by his own so-called “good intentions”. He’ll stay away forever if that’s better for Magnus, regardless of how Alec feels about it, will feel about it, will always feel about Magnus. It’s only right, not letting Magnus suffer the consequences of trying to be involved with–
Alec stops himself there.
Anything he thinks to call himself, any self-assessment he can manage right now, will be more severe than anything Magnus would think, or say, or even accept if Alec tried to say it, so it won’t help him decide what to do.
He has to figure out how to help in a way that Magnus will accept, and if he leads with a list of all his failures, Magnus will be happy to try and make Alec feel better and aggressively avoid letting Alec try to help him.
Alec doesn’t need to feel better. Aldertree’s gone, Isabelle’s back, (Imogen’s difficult but familiar), and Jace is, while still fucked up, at least not trying to smother the parabatai bond so tightly that Alec feels like he’s being strangled in his sleep every night.
So.
Alec sighs, lets go of the sink, forces his shoulders to relax.
This is the first time that Magnus has said he needs space, but considering the politics of their lives, even now that Valentine’s in custody (especially now, considering everything Herondale did to Magnus in Valentine’s name), it probably won’t be the last.
Alec can’t override that, not just because he’s sad and guilty and young and stupid.
He just has to learn better.
He’s always had to be better than he is, he’s not sure why he thought things with Magnus might be different.
That’s not Magnus’ fault though, and he can’t let himself start to think about it in terms of hopes dashed or desires failed because then he will be upset at the only person who has never ever let him down, despite all Alec’s failures and stumbles.
He doesn’t deserve Magnus, of course he doesn’t, but that’s all right. It’s Magnus’ turn to make a choice, and he can have all the time and space he needs to do so.
Alec will wait.
He’ll wait forever, if he has to.
He’ll wait past forever, this life and the next; he’s already made his choice.
it can be a fic or meta, but if you're feeling inclined i would love to know more about your opinions for how alec's family gifts in your headcanon would present with even more eldritch elements to it?
oh, I have so many feelings, thank you lovely. Pls enjoy my version of bb!Alec (who is still much too old for his age because he's Alec)
Alec hasn’t even been Marked, still technically a fledgling rather than a Shadowhunter, when he learns that most nephilim can’t hear their weapons sing.
There’s a man come to see his parents, an important man, a dangerous man. But not just in the way nephilim are supposed to be dangerous, though the rhythm of his steps make it clear he can fight as well as any other Shadowhunter Alec knows. There’s something else though, something beyond his skill, something that’s not explained away by the way everyone in the Institute all bow their heads to his titles, Consul and Warrior and Sir.
Alec can hear him, something humming under the man's skin almost like a seraph blade dreaming in its hilt but off-key, a discordant whine that makes Alec want to cover his ears but he knows that wouldn't help; the noise isn’t really a noise, he can feel it in his blood, between his bones, not in his ears at all.
He doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t know what he should say, or to who, but he can’t let it go, it pushes in the back of his throat and it has to be let out.
He thinks if he tries to speak and it doesn’t work, the pushing will get worse, will hurt, will perhaps not let him stop, not ever again.
If that’s true, (it is true, he doesn’t know why or how, but it is, he knows, knowledge deeper even than the laws and runes he’s memorized from the Grey Book, the ones that make the power under his skin flicker and flare, waiting for the first Mark to settle it), he can’t do what his father would prefer, and tell his parents in private. He can't risk them choosing not to listen.
If he can’t be discreet, he has to go far enough the other way that he’s inevitable.
Luckily, the hum from the man is just enough that his seraph blade doesn’t like it either, hissing to itself in the hilt when it ought to be asleep, and Alec knows he can tell them about that. He’s worked with the Weapons Master, with his father, his favorite chore is tending to the adamas in the Institute's care.
So he waits outside the armory, plants himself in the middle of the hall when the man and his parents approach, makes sure the door to the armory is cracked so Master Amira will hear him too, might even come out and back Alec up, if he’s lucky.
He waits, and he doesn’t step back against the wall, and his mother is lifting a brow and his father’s mouth is too tight, neither of them impressed that he’s just there in the way like a mundane too stupid to move.
Before either of them can do anything, Alec falls forward, prostrating himself before the man, arms spread and forehead pressed to the tile, because there’s no way to say what he’s going to say without it being an insult, and this is the only way he’ll get the whole thing out before he’s in too much trouble to be allowed to continue.
The man’s footsteps don’t slow, and Alec realizes he’s going to just walk right past him, and he’s offended enough his chest burns, and he almost can’t feel the pressure in his throat anymore.
How dare he ignore a sign of supplication like that? He’s got worse manners than Izzy and no excuse for them at all.
“Consul.” He hears his mother’s voice, low but steady, and the footsteps stop.
She’s as offended as he is, Alec can tell, he can taste it in her voice, but no one else can ever taste her moods like he can, so he’s sure no one else knows. Yet.
But he does, and it’s enough. If she knew what he knew, she’d speak, and they’d listen, they’d have to.
So he’ll have to do as well as she would.
“Begging your forgiveness, sir.” Alec projects his voice as well as he can, for all he’s talking to the floor. He can’t raise his head, not even an inch.
The Consul doesn’t say anything, but neither does he move.
“Why do you not care for your blade, sir?”
There’s a shocked silence, and Alec can hear the weapons in the armory startle awake as his father reaches, and he can feel Master Amira’s axe-blades as she joins them in the hallway.
“What seems to be the trouble, sirs?” Master Amira’s voice is smooth and clean and Alec reminds himself to breathe.
“The Lightwoods are about to lose their heir,” the Consul answers, his voice tight and the hum beneath his skin twisting down a half a pitch, sharp and unpleasant, “unless they explain his behavior very quickly, and very well.”
“I do not think so.” His mother’s voice rises, as pure a tone as any Alec has ever heard from adamas and he realizes he has lifted his head to look at her, that everyone is looking at her, the pair of clerks who follow the Consul everywhere, someone in every doorway down the hall, a silhouette behind Master Amira he can’t quite identify; even in the glimpse he can get of the corner of Ops behind his parents, everyone has turned toward the sound of her voice. “You should answer him, Consul.”
The Consul’s eyes widen, and his shoulders go back, and that feeling of danger rises, rises, and then it’s cut off, a sharp clean silence as Alec’s father takes one, single, step, letting the heel of his boot hit the tile just so. “My son is a Lightwood.”
“Recognized and sworn before an Iron Sister, sir.” Amira adds, and Alec blinks, aware now of what the odd visit last year had meant, the woman in white who had laughed as if she wasn’t dressed for mourning, who had shown him her throwing daggers and grinned when he’d hit the target with them, and given him two pure slivers of adamas to keep, one for each boot.
The Consul has gone still, and his expression is unimpressed, but the hum changes pitch again, and his clerks look nervous, eyes moving too quickly for all they’ve kept their bodies still.
“Sir.” Robert speaks into the silence, and his voice is like nothing Alec has heard from him before. He’s still quiet, still deferential and polite in tone, but it’s sharp somehow, the glint of a knife as it is slowly pulled from a sheath, the light of a seraph blade the instant before it materializes. He’s not really asking a question. “Your answer.”
“My blade has been cared for by four generations of the Dieudonné line, his question is an insult to my bloodline that has earned no answer beyond contempt.”
“Then why is it crying?” Alec doesn’t lower his head this time, for all his neck aches from the angle required to look up at the adults surrounding him. “It is awake, sir, and in pain, and you are not soothing it.”
Master Amira makes an odd choked-off noise he’s never heard before, but the rest of the hall is silent, and the silence grows, deeper and thicker, until Alec realizes he’s looking at his mother again, that they’re all looking at his mother again.
“His words are True.” Maryse’s voice is a hiss, barely louder than the blade, yet it carries. Her voice fills the hallway, perhaps through to Ops as well, perhaps beyond; it feels to Alec like the whole Institute can hear it, this one soft note of revelation whispering between them all. Her voice still rings like a bell against something inside him, something he has no name for but recognizes as the weight behind that pressure in his throat, the balance in his blood that hears better than his ears. “You will answer, or you will be foresworn.”
“You cannot-” one of the clerks attempts to speak, but Master Amira snorts and they give up.
“My parents were very traditional.” His mother’s voice sounds normal now, calm and conversational. But it still tastes like copper to Alec, like blood, and the tension in the hallway doesn’t ease. He eases himself back and up until he’s kneeling. Until he’s ready. “When my brother was forsaken, they dedicated me to the Mortal Sword as the new Trueblood heir.” Maryse smiles, and Alec can feel everyone except his father move back, trying to get away from it. “I absolutely can.”
The Consul looks contrite, bows his head in apology, enough that Alec can feel the other adults relax, just a little.
But the hum beneath Dieudonné’s skin has turned into a scream, his seraph blade wails in grief and fury, and Alec is moving before he realizes it, one hand in each boot, a flick of each wrist, and two slivers of adamas go through the Consul’s throat before he can speak.
Shock holds them all still, the scream rises into a shriek, twists and throbs and fades, at last, though Alec can’t hold in the shudder while it lingers. The Consul’s eyes are still open, but darker than they were, than they should be, and blood is dripping from them as well as his throat, and his ears, and his nose.
He stays standing for too long, still and stiff, and then a drop of blood hits the floor, one, then another, and finally he sways, and falls. His mouth opens as he hits the ground, and a dark cloud rises from it, smelling of sulfur and steel and something green that Alec will recognize five years later the first time he handles angelbane.
The former Consul jerks, his joints moving wrong in his death-throws, something too sharp to each convulsion, something other.
“Fuck,” someone Alec doesn’t know breaks the silence two long heartbeats after the body stops moving. It’s only then that he sees the rune that has now appeared, a Circle just like Hodge’s, broken by twin spears of adamas piercing through it, one on each side.
No one moves for yet another heartbeat, and Alec can’t look away from the man on the ground, the man who clearly wasn’t just a nephilim, not anymore, not like the rest of them. The man he’d killed. He’d killed the Consul of the Clave, in front of witnesses, in the middle of the Institute, before his parents…
He can feel a shared look over his head more than he can see it, and then his mother’s hand is on his shoulder and his father is calling out orders and she’s leading him away and his footsteps are running to Ops and an alert alarm is sounding, one Alec can’t hear properly through the blood rushing through his ears, and he’s relieved when his mother takes them both to his room, and tucks him into bed, and shields his door with her personal rune as well as every warding rune he’s ever seen. He smiles at her in thanks, and lets himself go.
She’s there again when he wakes, and at first he can’t remember anything. He starts to move, and feels the tug of an IV, the rattle of the stand next to his bed shifting with his movement. He blinks, and his mother sighs. It sounds like relief, and he blinks again even as she moves close, reaches out and brushes his hair off his forehead.
“It’s been a long time since an heir manifested two blood gifts at once, especially before receiving his first Mark.”
Alec had opened his mouth to… he wasn’t sure, probably apologize for being lazy after committing murder and then not even cleaning the ensuing mess up himself, but that stops him. He shuts his mouth, swallows, blinks for a third time, trying to get his thoughts to line up into something more coherent than what?
“Is that what I did?”
His mother smiles, and it’s as far as possible from her expression in the hallway, warm and soothing and grateful. “That’s what you did.”
“Oh.”
He lets that sink in, lets the implications and conclusions and possibilities trickle their way through his thoughts. “Does that mean I’m not gonna be buried at a crossroads for killing the Consul?”
His mother winces, leans forward until her forehead rests against his, and he feels dizzy and lightheaded with something almost like joy as he recognizes what she’s doing as comforting, for both of them. “Oh baby, no.”
He closes his eyes and lets himself feel the weight of his mother being his mother before anything and everything else, and doesn’t even fight it when he feels his eyes getting wet and his skin flushing with relief and confusion and love and who knows what else.
“You will never be in trouble for what you did to Malachi.” That chime was back in his mother’s voice as she whispered against his skin, and it soothed him in a way nothing else could, resonating against his worries until they faded. “You saved the entire Clave from whatever he would have done in the Circle’s name, whatever he could have done to our Institute with the Curse Valentine had put in him when he was discovered. The Inquisitor is going through the entire Council, soul by soul, to make sure she finds them all, and it’s only because of you that she has the power to do it.”
Oh.
Eventually she lifts her head, and her eyes are damp too, he can see it when she blinks. “But you will have to go to the City of Bones and meet a Silent Brother and the Soul-Sword.” Her smile quirks, and he realizes there’s pride there in her expression, on top of a complex mix of emotions that don’t make any more sense than his own. “Though that might be less scary for you than it was for me at your age, if you can hear the Soul-Sword as well as you hear seraph blades.”
“I can hear all the weapons in the armory.” Alec corrects before he can think about it. “You can’t?”
His mother laughs, short and damp and beautiful. “Even your father can’t, and he’s the only Lightwood left who can call his weapons to him. You’ve got a stronger Blood-Gift than he does.”
“I do?”
His mother nods. “Your father asked me to tell you he’s sorry he didn’t tell you so earlier. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, either.”
What.
This entire conversation is so far outside of anything he’s ever felt before, and his bones feel too light-weight under his skin and he doesn’t understand. “Why?”
“Did you consider telling me or your father about what you heard from Malachi’s blade?”
Alec frowns, and his mother lifts a hand, palm facing him, stopping him before he can protest the change of topic. “I promise I’m answering your question, please.”
His parents apologized, and his mother said please to him, like she meant it.
He shook his head from side-to-side. “I knew you’d want me to, but.” He stops. He doesn’t know how to explain that feeling, that pressure that he still suspected would have broken him if he’d tried to speak the truth and been told to keep quiet. His mother’s fingers brush against the line of his throat, and his eyes widen as he stares up at her, as he sees a tear overflow and slowly slide down her cheek as she nods, just a little, and he realizes she knows exactly what he’s not saying.
“We taught you we couldn’t be trusted, so you had to act alone.” There’s that chime again, and another tear falling. “But that’s all going to change now.”
It’s a promise, he knows, he can feel it. “What is that?”
“That is the Trueblood gift. My father could make any vow magically binding just by witnessing it, and his father could tell when someone stated something untrue, even if they believed it themselves.” Her mouth quirked. “He called it tasting lies.”
“Can you do that?”
“No.” She closes her eyes, too slowly to be just a blink, and this time when she sighs he can feel the weight behind it. “I can hear Truth sometimes, ride it, verify it, make sure everyone else believes it.”
She opens her eyes, and there’s guilt now, and grief, dark and deep and endless. “Valentine recruited your father and I personally, and I believed everything he told me about what he was doing, and why, and because I believed him, because there was a Trueblood supporting him, a lot of people who wouldn’t otherwise have let him be… let him get away with, well. Everything.”
Alec goes still. He can tell she’s telling the Truth still, and he doesn’t want to know that, doesn’t want to feel it, but he can, he does, and he’s never ever going to be able to forget what this feels like, this truth that turned his whole life into a lie that he’d never known he was telling.
He swallows down the nausea, the outrage, and waits.
“But when your father told me what he learned about what Valentine was really like, I couldn’t believe the lies any more. We turned ourselves into the Clave, and they only let us back because I rode the Truth when I vowed that we would be loyal to the Council, when I vowed on my bloodline, back to my parents and.” Her voice drops, lower and softer. “And down to my son, who is a Trueblood too.”
“And then you lied to me about it.”
“The Council forbid anyone from talking about the Circle.”
He gives her the look that line deserves.
She’s almost trembling, her hands held too tightly by her sides. “We didn’t want you to have to bear the weight of our mistakes.”
“But I do.” He looks at her, really looks at her, in the same way he looks at the weapons in the armory, and the hilts strapped to the side of visiting nephilim, and the way he’d listened to Malachi and heard Valentine’s Curse in his blood.
Alec can almost see the pattern of the fragile scaffolding of his mother’s emotions, suppressed down under her skin, forced to only exist between the fine lines of her plans, of her will and desire and ambition and pain, all constraining her gift into something so much smaller than it could have been. The foundation of that scaffolding seems shaken, it feels fragile. But it hasn’t moved, hasn’t fallen. She regrets how he feels, sincerely means to change, but she hasn’t, not yet. It’s all still there.
“Every single one of them has been put on my shoulders, and because you hid them from me I thought all that weight was mine, was me, that I deserved every harsh word and mistrustful look, and every single one of them was about you.”
Maryse rears back, but they both hear the Truth in his voice, the sound that resonates between his bones, that builds and forces its way out, that refuses to be silenced. That he is never ever going to try and silence. “You can go.”
She opens her mouth. He lifts his chin, and she concedes. “Amira will take my place with you until the next medic visit.”
He almost frowns, wondering what she means. “You burned through almost all your angelic energy.” She tilts her chin and he glances sideways at the IV bag, half full of something that isn’t just saline, judging by the color of the label. “And you’ve been asleep for almost three days.”
Three? he mouths, more to himself than her, but she sees it, understands it, nods.
There are circles under her eyes, and he can hear the exhaustion she'd been trying to hide when she speaks again. “Let us try and take care of you this time.”
He nods, accepting her peace offering for what it is, and she leaves.
He settles, waits until the door opens again to let Master Amira in.
Only then does he close his eyes, knowing he’s safe, knowing she’s there for him. He knows he’ll forgive his parents when they come back, knows that if they try at all he’ll let them be his parents again. But he’s not sure if they’ll ever earn back his trust.
But he can trust Master Amira, and he’ll make sure to tell Izzy the truth, make sure she knows exactly which consequences are hers, and which are not. He’ll do the same for Max once he’s old enough to talk, and they’ll never have to bear the weight of their parents’ mistakes the way he did, never be expected to fix everything the Clave and Circle broke just because they were offered the mercy of living.
He smiles to himself, pleased with that decision. He can hear Master Amira settling down into the chair next to his desk as he lets himself relax, can hear the soft sweet chime of his adamas slivers being returned, can feel the familiar low rhythm of her axes. He’s always thought they seem like contented cats, purring as they rest against their chosen partner, but today it’s like they’re purring for him, too, soothing him back to sleep.
[make me choose] oh look, you got me to write more Weaver! I've been wanting to do that, thank you. 💙💙💙 (In this case, you got first impressions of a cop from an Earthborn Shepard... 😅)
Vakarian makes Shepard feel old.
He’s probably about her age, though she’s not as good at reading turians as humans, for obvious reasons. (It’d taken her for fucking ever to figure out how to deal with humans, honestly. Which… is not a thought to help her feel less ancient.)
It also doesn’t help that he is systematically doing the absolute worst thing to make a good impression with her every time they’re in the same room.
She thinks she’s managing to hide that opinion.
Except maybe from Executor Pallin. Something in his eyes looks exactly as exhausted as she feels. (It's disconcerting to realize she identifies more with the politician-policeman than the reckless idealist, considering she's usually regarded as more of a reckless idealist herself.)
For all Pallin is the head of C-Sec, he's remarkably straightforward and pragmatic. Enough so that he doesn't ping against her instincts as cop, but Vakarian does.
And she’s (embarrassingly) still enough of a street kid to hate that.
A hypocritical street-kid, considering she’s basically Space-SWAT whenever Alliance Command sends her on a pirate-sweep.
Apparently the space part makes a difference to her lizard brain.
Vakarian’s also in space though?
No, her lizard brain doesn’t buy that.
Her lizard brain’s a fucking moron.
Do turians have lizard brains? She’s afraid that Vakarian doesn’t even have lizard sense. (She can suddenly hear Litty laughing in her head, ‘but common sense isn’t, you should know that by now,’ echoing out of a past Vakarian keeps reminding her of, a past that she thought she'd put to rest, a past she knows she'll never completely let go.)
Not helpful.
Every time he opens his mouth, she has to consciously resist the urge to sigh and knuckle her forehead or pinch the bridge of her nose. The physical pressure will not actually relieve the mental pressure, no matter how much it feels like it should.
But seriously, who introduces themself only to immediately complain about failing at their confidential assignment while very much in public?
Who follows that nonsense up by going right for an entirely unnecessary headshot in a hostage situation?
That had almost made her want to headshot him.
But she hadn’t. Because she has impulse control.
Doesn’t she?
Certainly more than Vakarian.
That’s not saying much.
She doesn’t have a problem dealing with the arrogance of people who are actually as good at their job as they think they are, but he seems to have no idea that he’s entirely failed to convince her that he might be one of them.
Despite all that, recruiting him is the right decision.
It is, she knows it is.
They need to make it clear this isn’t just a human vendetta. He’s Turian and Citadel and Police and makes this whole impossible situation reputable.
Closer to reputable?
But probably only to people who haven’t met him. He’s loud and brash and pulled out a sniper rifle in a med-clinic on the Wards.
He made the shot.
He took the shot because he saw it and he felt it and he wanted to protect Dr. Michel a hell of a lot more than he cared about himself.
and uh, then I didn't write anything for a million years, so I will now give you some (prequel) Esther Sinclair from Dimension 20/The Unsleeping City because that is the only thing in my brain now
Esther loses her mother to rage and feels the sorrow lift in her in response. Even as young as she is, she knows she can't let it in, can't let it out, can't let it be. But it's too much to bear, especially as young as she is, so she screams and pounds her fists and kicks her heels against the floor until she can't breathe and she passes out.
When she wakes she hurts and remembers her mother's rage and claims it instead of sorrow.
She kicks her bed, her shelves, her door; her father tries to hold her and she bites him and he flinches and she screams until she loses her voice and her breath and cannot cry.
Her father dresses her in black because a dead mother is easier to explain to the outside world than magic, and she despises her father for giving up so quickly, for believing that her mother would never, could never come back, and she keeps herself angry enough she won't cry.
She fights everyone and everything because it helps her turn pain into an attack, sends it out and out and out, clawing and boxing and kicking and learning a smile that shows her teeth and doesn't let the tide inside her rise. When people hit back, when friends leave, when possibilities die, even when she loses and loses and loses, she never cries.
Somehow she makes it through the next five years, eight, ten, her father a ghost behind her who doesn't dare feel things because then she'd feel them too, and he won't survive losing a daughter the same way he lost a wife. (They've already lost each other, and they both know it, but they pretend, because it's that or drowning, and drowning is salt, is tears, is the end. He drifts away when she's nineteen, disappears somewhere as far from the sea as he can, somewhere he can feel again without her. She never sees him again.)
She doesn't cry, she refuses, and for now that's enough.
But she also refuses to just wait until it's not, because everyone falls eventually, and she will not be like her mother and embrace hope to the point of ignorance, will not start a family and then leave them when she fails. She can feel the magic inside her, that deep deep sea of the pain that comes after rage fades, but her mother's rage will never fade, so Esther's doesn't either, not yet, and she doesn't fall in.
Esther dives instead into the deep end of the Unsleeping City, lets herself fall into other types of magic. Magic can be dormant, can be awakened, can be innate and felt, can be gifted and uplifted, can be observed and analyzed, can be learned.
So she learns.
Magic is versatile and dangerous and beautiful. She can't risk the power within her; she builds new power outside of it, around it, fencing and framing it in until it's as far from her thoughts as possible. Until her thoughts stay as far from her heart as she can make them. But she's still human, can't break that connection completely. She's still Cursed, and that Curse is in her blood and her heart and her desires, and however tightly she covers them up they're still there, and she knows it.
There isn't much else she knows, despite all her research and training. Every curse has a counter-curse, but sometimes the counter is just as bad, and even if this one isn't, the Furies are old, older than written history, and nothing she can find has any information on the Curse itself, no known way to take it apart and look at its pieces, only scant observations of the effects, the aftermath.
Most curses have very specific goals, and once those goals are met they're gone. One big push of magic and intention, too strong to easily break or dispel, but sometimes they can be mitigated, or dodged, or simply endured, and one can come out the other side of them changed but free.
Or dead.
That is the most common way to end a curse.
That won't work for her.
Not that Esther wants to die, but she'd be tempted if she knew that this would end, that she would be the last one.
This is not that sort of curse.
It endures, more than any other hex or curse or spell she can find and she doesn't know why.
She is forced to guess, to hypothesize, to wonder rather than to know. She wonders what some distant fore-mother did to incite such an endless vicious consequence, a Curse that follows their bloodline and cannot be banished or cured or even killed. Because it had to have been a woman, they're all women, only women, mother to daughter as far back as anyone can trace. Usually only one, but sometimes more, just often enough that if the eldest daughter dies before she falls, the Curse doesn't fail, doesn't end. It moves, and claims, and destroys someone else.
Their bloodline never dies, despite centuries of women who married less, had fewer children, who tried to hide and dodge and change and still endured, still had daughters, still survived even when they weren't really living. Esther wonders if the Curse is tied somehow to the Fates, some light touch of precognition, just enough to make sure their family keeps going, despite logic or desire, despite the odds suggesting that they should have been devoured by the Furies ages past.
If Esther dies, she's sure the Curse will find someone else, some distant relative far enough away to be ignorant, but not far enough to be safe. (There's no such thing as safe, not really. Safer, maybe, but even that is only for other people. Not her. Never her.)
She wonders how much worse a Fury could get, one who didn't even know what she was, had no idea how magic worked, had no chance at all of tempering the Fury's power as it rose, of retreating to the refuge (the cage) her family had made of Tompkins Park.
The Curse lives on, so she will too.
It would be such a relief to know why, even if it didn't mean she could stop it, maybe it would ache less, somehow. Just a little.
But instead it's always there, cold and bitter and deep, salt and tears and eternal sorrow. She wonders if that pool inside her feels the way it does because this Curse is somehow tied to the sea, eternally shifting tides that will never ever end.
She stops wondering about that, because she can feel her balance waver. She needs a little hope, no matter how pragmatic she has to be to get through most days. She learns to avoid some thoughts, but she never outright lies to herself if she can help it. She will never let her guard down, never pretend she is safe when she knows she isn't. She's still angry at her mother for that, for falling when Esther was still so young, when she needed a mother, when she needed to be able to cry.
She has to be angry. She grips it tight, because it's the only shield she has; anger works, but only for so long. Eventually she'll burn out, and she'll drown, and she'll take everyone and everything with her.
She wonders what her mother held onto when she couldn't risk anger, wonders if perhaps her mother cried, was as different from the woman Esther has made herself as it is possible to be. She wonders if her mother's rage feels like a storm, a tsunami, if it's salt and depth just like her hidden sorrow, if her grandmother's grief is the quiet but endless rain that still floods, and drowns, and carries everything, eventually, down to the sea.
She wonders, but she doesn't believe. That seems too kind.
She would bet that the Furies can't even have that, can't share the taste of the Curse as it overwhelms them. She remembers faint lost stories of her grandmother, whispers of soft warmth turned remote and grey, remembers the bright explosion of magic and pain when her mother fell. She thinks that her mother burns, fire and sparks in her bones and her blood, believes that her grandmother is the stretch of a tundra far from any town, empty and solitary and rock hard beneath each step. She can feel it, somehow, in the depths of the tides within her, that when she falls they'll still only give each other pain, opposite and opposing sides of the same terrible magic.
She wonders if the Curse manifests in different elements, if her Great-Grandmother had been an air Fury, cold and fierce as arctic wind, or as heavy and cloying as the tropics. Imagines, for a moment, the soft warmth of a spring breeze instead. She wonders if there's a clue to the counter-curse there, balancing element and temperament with four instead of three.
She realizes she's half recreated the theory of humors, and wonders how she got herself caught up in such nonsense. There's no known way to make another Fury, and even if there were she wouldn't risk it somehow making the Curse more powerful. There has never been a fourth Fury. There are three of them, vicious and deadly and inhuman. The have always only been three Furies, though sometimes it takes a generation or two for the next woman to fall.
Always.
The more she learns, the harder it is to hold onto that one small drop of hope. She's not the first to try and break this Curse, it's sheer hubris to think she'll somehow be the last.
Hubris is probably what got her into this, judging by most mythology. Might as well use it to try and get out, right? She won't give up, she'll never give up, but maybe there's a way around it instead of through, an evasion rather than a breaking.
She learns.
She experiments.
She talks to people, learns to smile without baring her fangs so that they're willing to talk back.
She doesn't make friends, not really, but she learns to be friendly enough. Alejandro and Kingston, Misty and Mike and Willy, Rovias and Orlando and Frank, Ana and Amelia and occasionally even Jackson, though the Monastery's always been a little sideways to the practice of magic, and she's certainly not ready to accept that her life is what it is.
She's careful with her questions, so only Alejandro has managed to put any of the pieces together. (No one else knows her well enough to bother, which is entirely on purpose, but doesn't make her feel better. Not that she needs to feel better. She just can't risk feeling worse.) None of them give her any leads, however, and Esther knows she's running out of time.
If she can't break the Curse, she'll just have to get in its way by cursing herself with something else before it takes hold.
She does not explain this plan to Alejandro, because she knows exactly what he'd say, and also that then he'd keep much too close an eye on her, and that might make her think about how much he means to her, and that is something that has to be avoided.
Esther can't pull off anything as nasty as the thing she's already dealing with, so a new curse seems a reasonable enough risk to her, and her opinion is, in the end, the only thing she's got. She just has to find the right school, the right structure to use.
Necromancy was out; death moved the Curse.
Both healing and destructive Evocation spells had been attempted by every sort of spellcaster she'd heard of (and a few she still hadn't translated into anything she recognized) whenever the Furies showed up throughout history; she hasn't been able to come up with anything new to try there.
Transmutation would carry a bloodline curse with the transformation, so she can't turn herself into a swan or something. Animals still have emotions, and while a Swan Fury is an odd enough mental image to make her snort out a laugh when she first thinks of it, it's also terrifying, so that's not worth the risk. (The cure for most transformation curses involve someone who loves you doing something to help, quests, vows of silence and nettle shirts, or even just a kiss, and she has gone out of her way to try and prevent herself from loving anyone, from letting anyone else love her, and she's learned too much not to know that, and she values her knowledge too much not to think about it, and that way lies almost as much sorrow as the loss she's trying to avoid might cause.)
Divination doesn't really do curses, except of blinding someone to obvious consequences, and that's the opposite of helpful here. If she cobbles one together it might prevent the Curse from continuing whatever weird shit it does that means her family doesn't die out, but it would take a few generations to know if it had worked or not, and well. She'd be gone and unable to do the follow-up by then, and she doesn't know where more of her family might be, so she can't ask someone else to keep an eye on them after she's gone. (And that still doesn't help save her or anyone around her right now.)
Conjuration would just be adding something else to the Curse, and since she can't figure out what was in it to begin with, there's no telling what that would do. She can't use abjuration to shield herself from it without shielding herself from her own blood, which would again be fatal, and if she banishes herself it would, just like in transmutation, come with her. She could throw herself into a pocket realm, so at least she wouldn't hurt anyone, but then she'd just be stuck as a Fury for a subjective eternity until she died and the Curse could do its thing again to someone else. Without even that much time passing here, probably, considering how small pocket realms were in comparison to everywhere and everywhen else.
Illusion or Enchantment magic wouldn't change the Curse itself, just the way she could see it or interact with it, so that wouldn't help. It might even make it easier to trigger, rather than limiting it to sorrow.
She'd considered a sleep spell, of course, as the one exception. She had even gone so far as to doodle a vine covered tower in the margins of one of her notebooks, thorns poking around her sentences, but what if she had bad dreams and woke up a Fury, with no idea of where or when she was, or how she'd drowned in sorrow?
Even so, she couldn't seem to come up with anything better.
She'd have to make an anchor, something small enough that she could keep it on her at all times, sturdy enough that it wouldn't easily break down after she triggered it. Something to keep the spell steady so she'd be deep enough to avoid dreaming, to sleep through the shifting of magic or noise around her, but not so deep she'd die, freeing the Curse to find its next victim.
Her test run on a curse anchor was a spindle, because she did allow herself a sense of humor, but that would be a bit hard to explain as a keepsake in her pocket.
Her next run was a set of rings that would trigger if she put them both on the the same finger. She wore enough magical jewelry that even if someone went looking, they wouldn't be able to tell exactly what they were for.
And she could keep them on all the time, easy to access if she started to lose control before she found a cure.
I know I am going to regret this, but « You're throwing away our history like it meant nothing. » for the prompt game? *insert puppy eyes*
I am going to be fickle and write you FLUFF for that one. Auctioneer!Magnus AU for no particular reason other than I think it's hilarious.
(It's a car auction. Because Jace is a car salesman. A very nice one who does not cheat people! But still. For context, a car auction like the one I'm writing is basically a giant hanger with open doors on both sides that the cars that are for sale drive through. There's an individual auctioneer at each lane; they have a stand in the middle so they can look down on see all the potential bidders.)
All the dealers know Magnus' name. (Everyone in the building always knows his name.) Even if he wasn't him, even if he didn't say hello to everyone and learn their names and dress to impress -- with a lift of his chin whenever someone starts to get that look in their eyes, daring them to say something about his clothes or his make-up or his attitude, gifting them a toothy smile when they wince and back down -- Magnus always introduces himself at the start of every sale and whenever he moves to a new lane of cars, just like he's supposed to.
Though he makes sure he announces himself extra loud and clear and proud and with a wink towards his favorite buyer whenever he's there.
Alec, from Lightwood Motors. Magnus always says his full name, Alexander, watches to see the tiny hint of a smile that tucks in the corner of Alec's mouth when he does.
Magnus likes the way it rolls off his tongue, never uses just 'Alec' or his dealership's name like the other auctioneers who recognize him every week, never references him by his shirt or jacket or the color of the adorable knit beanie and finger-less gloves he wears when it's cold, not even by any of the bidder numbers he puts on the back of his binder, a neat grid against the dark blue leather, no leftover bits and pieces from last week's badges behind them like half the other dealers.
Alec is meticulous. Precise. Focused on his plan, on what he's doing, on exactly how much he thinks a vehicle is worth. He'll make a counter-offer occasionally when there's no one else bidding against him and the seller wants a little more, but he never jumps back into the bidding after he says no. Never lets another bidder push him up just one more time when he's bidding on a popular vehicle. It's the worst possible trait in a buyer from the auction house's perspective, of course, but Magnus finds it charming.
Magnus finds everything about Alec charming. His height, the contrast between his pale skin and his messy black hair, his ridiculous eyelashes that Magnus can't even blame on mascara, the way he can either scowl or smile just with his eyebrows. The incredibly neat handwriting Magnus has glimpsed when he's taking notes, how he double-checks the run list in his binder for every car, every time, just to be sure, the slight hint of teeth visibly pushing against his bottom lip whenever he's doing extra math in his head, the fact that he's never on the phone with the owner but always has final say on his bids himself.
The way he has never once made Magnus wait for his next bid, ready with the faintest tip of his chin (up with an echoing lift of his eyelids for yes, down and to the left as his eyes almost close for no) as soon as Magnus is looking at him.
Well. That's not quite true. Magnus always has half an eye on Alec. But Alec always bids as soon as it's his turn, always keeps track of who else is bidding, whether it's online or someone else on the floor, never gets behind, never loses his place. Not even when the auction is training a new clerk, and the display is periodically a step or two behind.
(Magnus suspects that Alec is, in fact, completely focused on Magnus, that he enjoys seeing Magnus as much as Magnus enjoys seeing him, but Magnus refuses to attempt to quantify it to prove himself right. He's certainly never going to ask.
Because then he might prove himself wrong, and that would be... unfortunate.)
He refuses to admit to anyone here, or himself, refuses to admit even to Cat or Ragnor on the rare occasions they pretend to care about cars, (only because they care about him, as they're much more likely to appreciate his stories about estate sales or art auctions, but those are specialty events, and he quite likes the steady loop of car auctions every week, NYC to Jersey to Delaware and back), that every time he sees Alec in his lane there's a greedy little voice in the back of his head saying 'mine'.
Which is stupid, he knows it's stupid, he knows Alec buys other cars from other sellers, not just the ones Magnus works for, that he is only in Magnus' lane every week because it's his job, but Magnus can't seem to stop the voice.
And the other buyer from Lightwood is never in his lanes.
Lydia is always impeccably put together, cool and pale and blonde and beautiful, wearing sleek slacks or a pencil skirt most weeks regardless of the weather, an engagement ring glinting on one finger and a single gold chain around her neck. She doesn't quite reach Alec's shoulder, even in her sensible pumps, and the sight of them standing side-by-side comparing notes would be slightly amusing on those grounds. Except they can both judge someone with a single lifted eyebrow at 10 paces, and there are few people with the nerve to survive that.
Magnus only works with Lydia if he's giving a break or covering for an auctioneer on leave. And even then he sometimes thinks he sees Alec in the lane across the way, glancing back as if he's thinking 'mine' too, as if he'd rather be there than let his co-worker bid with Magnus.
Magnus is ridiculous, is what he is, but that's alright. Alec doesn't seem to mind. He's still got that almost dimple every week when Magnus introduces himself at the start of the sale.
_
Until Alec's not there.
One week happens, now and then, and Magnus sighs sadly to himself and does his (less pretty than usual) job.
But Alec's not there the next week either, or the one after that, and Lydia is, Lydia is bidding in his lane. She doesn't stay there like Alec mostly did; he was tall enough he could cover two lanes only by switching which way he leaned, and only occasionally bothered to walk somewhere else.
Lydia is hopping lanes, walking back and forth, looking for whatever vehicles she's saved on her list. She occasionally even looks flustered, which is a rare occurence for her, she's generally terrifyingly competent, but she is trying to cover all eight lanes by herself, and that is, for most of the larger dealerships, a two or three person job. (Big Mike's usually has four buyers, but that's because Mike Jr. is a terrible micromanager and takes up half their time second-guessing them.)
Magnus is afraid to ask her about Alec, isn't sure how to approach her or what he'd say even if he did: 'Hi, we've never technically met, but where's tall, dark, and handsome, I miss him?'
Obviously he could just ask why she's covering by herself, but he's afraid he'd fail entirely at sounding casual, and then he'd be right back at 'please share personal information about your co-worker with a sort-of stranger?'
He looks up the Lightwood Motors website on his break but there's nothing out of order there, and Alexander's head shot is on the about page; he's a Lightwood too, fancy title and general manager of something or other, and Magnus clicks it closed, too flustered to read it properly.
Not just some random buyer, not just Magnus' favorite, it probably all had been in Magnus' head, and it ought to be a relief that he'd never said anything to anyone, never approached Lightwood directly, never embarrassed himself by acting like they knew each other when it was just sales banter, only professional camaraderie while surrounded by car exhaust.
Too much car exhaust over the years had damaged his judgement?
He didn't quite believe himself, but he tried. What else was there to do?
-
Magnus got a call from the Florida office of his management agency; Lorenzo was out for some sort of family emergency, could he cover an auction down there for a few weeks?
It was the day after his Delaware auction, which was the shortest one already, and Florida was an easier flight than California, which he'd done when Malcolm retired until they could find someone more local, so he said yes.
His first week he got moved off the lane he'd prepared for, and ended up selling for Lightwood Motors. The agent on the floor was from the auction, so no luck there, and the seller from the dealer was online.
Just his luck. Jumped south six states and he was still getting teased by the lack of his favorite pretty boy. “And who do we have with us from Lightwood?” Magnus asked before their first car. “I don't suppose it's Alexander?”
The online agent literally keysmashed in the chat box, and Magnus tilted his head. The clerk at the computer even let loose a giggle; she'd apparently never seen that before either.
[Sorry, this is Jace.] The second chat message was more normal. [Alec doesn't do sales, just buys. But it's nice to meet you, Magnus.]
“You too,” Magnus managed without sounding at all disappointed, and once again he did his job.
It was only later that he realized he hadn't introduced himself after Lightwood Motors had gotten online; they'd been the third seller in his lane. Had that 'Jace' just been listening to the lane before he signed in, or had that keysmash meant more than Magnus realized, did he recognize an auctioneer who knew Alexander rather than Alec?
Was Magnus being even more ridiculous this time? Or was it maybe not just in his head?
Only now he had to wait three whole days until he'd be back at the NYC auction and could make himself ask Lydia directly.
-
Only when he got to work on Monday, he didn't have to look for Lydia. There was Alexander, leaning against the wall beside the employee entrance, all long legs and ducked head and hands rubbing together.
Magnus almost tripped over his new boots and stopped with a mortifyingly audible stutter of heels against concrete.
Alexander looked up, and his expression softened, but it wasn't a smile, not quite, Magnus didn't know what it was, or what was happening, or why Alexander was specifically here where the dealers generally weren't and, "what?"
Alexander shrugged, making Magnus realized he must have said something out loud, even if he couldn't now remember what.
"Could we?" Alexander's head tilted, just as eloquent with his eyebrows as he'd always been when bidding, and Magnus followed him over to what had once been a smoker's nook, an old empty ashtray around the corner with an ugly green awning to protect it from the worst of the wind or rain.
"Mr Lightwood," Magnus began, which wasn't at all what he'd wanted to say, but he wasn't sure how to start anything else. He stopped as soon as Alexander winced.
"I suppose I deserved that."
Magnus opened his mouth, and shut it again. "I am very confused, Alexander."
That time he got a smile, and he couldn't help but smile back.
"Is it weird to say I've missed you?" Alexander glanced sideways at him, his hands still pressing against each other in what seemed to be a nervous tic. "I mean, we've never even introduced ourselves, but..."
Magnus reached out, and let one hand slide between Alexander's long fingers. His smile widened as he felt Alec's thumb start to rub against one of his rings rather than digging into Alec's other hand again.
"You're throwing away our long and meaningful history! I introduce myself to you every week, and you're just ignoring that? I'm offended."
Alexander snorted, and Magnus grinned in delight, ignoring how his hand felt almost chilly as Alec's fingers slipped free now that he'd stopped fidgeting. "There you are, I thought you had a sense of humor."
"You're probably the only one."
"I don't know, Lydia smiles when you roll your eyes at the other dealers, that seems promising."
Alec's head tilted, and this time Magnus couldn't tell what his eyebrows were saying. "You noticed that?"
I always notice what you're doing. Magnus wasn't sure he should say that. He just hummed instead.
"So I was, uh." Alec stopped. He was, perhaps, flushing very slightly pink. "I kept wanting to send you pictures while I was gone, but I don't, we don't. I only even know your last name because you're registered on the website, I mean--"
"Alexander!" Magnus cut him off, not sure he'd be able to survive any more of the delight that was rising up through his chest as if to drown him. "Did you look me up online?"
Alec's eyes widened, and his mouth opened but nothing came out. He was definitely starting to blush, but he looked almost horrified rather than anything more enjoyable for either of them, so Magnus kept going before Alec thought that was a problem. "I did that too, how did you think I knew you were an actual Lightwood rather than just a Lightwood dealer?"
Alec's mouth closed, and there, there was that almost smile again, the edge of his mouth tucking in tight and giving a hint of a dimple. "We're maybe a pair of idiots."
Magnus laughed. "I guess we are. Give me your number, pretty boy, and tell me more about those pictures, and all mutual idiocy will be forgotten?"
Alec handed over his phone, already open to an add contact screen, and shook his head ruefully. "I don't even know how you managed to say 'pictures' like that."
"It's a gift," Magnus said. He finished putting in his number, sending a heart-emoji as a message to himself before he gave the phone back so he'd have Alec's number too.
Alec glanced down, his smile widening for a moment before he put his phone back in his pocket. "I hate to disappoint you but I was driving cross-country with my little brother for one last 'adventure' before moving him into his dorms, so the pictures are entirely child-friendly."
"Aww," Magnus let out before he could stop himself. "That's so sweet. Did you take pictures of giant balls of twine and slightly out of focus mountains and diners surrounded by fields of corn?"
Alec blinked. "That's pretty accurate, actually."
"And you wanted to send them to me?" Magnus' voice was softer than he'd intended, not really teasing at all. "Really?"
"Every one." Alec reached a hand out and Magnus held it, both of them clearly doing it on purpose this time. “Join me for an early dinner after the sale, and I'll show them to you?”
Magnus almost swooned, and didn't even attempt to hide it. "It's a date, Alexander."
hello!! absolutely adore your writing <3 no worries at all it not, but may i request an alternate pre-series meeting in canon / canon-adjacent where valentine is actually dead? always very curious about how malec’s relationship might change if they met and started dating Not in the middle of a really intense war lmao, so i thought maybe their first meeting would be a good starting point? but don’t sweat it if this doesn’t strike the fic muse <33
asdfjklgh thank you!
so this MORE THAN struck the fic muse, but I got distracted by a tangent as to how it all Got Very Different™️and have not actually introduced Malec to each other as of yet but if you'd like some Magnus going what the fuck? at the Clave actually being competent this will hopefully be entertaining. AND ISTG I will get to Malec meeting! Eventually?
A familiar flare lit up his apothecary, and Magnus reached out to catch the fire message. The flames sparked brighter, and he blinked away the after-images as something heavier than he'd expected solidified between his fingers.
A single sheet of paper, cleverly folded up to resemble an envelope and keep the message inside; there was the unfortunately familiar black curl of a rune along the edges.
Magnus grimaced.
It was probably some horrifying form letter designed to intimidate him into something that was not remotely his problem, but he was going to have to clean up regardless. Shadowhunters didn't request things, they ordered, and brow-beat, and the only reason they got away with it was because they treated everyone equally terribly, including themselves, and to be quite fair to their militaristic grand-standing, the world was continuing to not be overrun by demons, so it seemed to be working for them.
Even Valentine hadn’t made much of a dent in their self-righteous arrogance. The Lightwoods hadn’t lost possession of the Institute they’d killed to get, buying clemency with their children, from what he’d heard, which was even worse than typical nephilim parenting. Despicable, ev–
He blinked. That wasn't the New York Institute's watermark, it was the Inquisitor's.
He tilted it to let the light from the windows spill across it, but that was very clearly the silhouette of a Demon Tower behind two crossed blades, not the broken stone the Clave had required the New York Institute to use after the Uprising to signify its failure to uphold their so-called sacred duties.
He huffed out a breath in not quite a sigh, and felt a frown starting to form between his brows. It was easier to deal with Inquisitor Herondale and her people than the Lightwoods. (She at least hated Valentine as much as the downworld.) But that didn't mean a formal letter was likely to be a good thing. Whatever had happened in the aftermath of Valentine's attempted coup had been kept very quiet behind Alicante's borders, and everything the downworld got to see had returned to business-as-usual.
He rolled his eyes, because nephilim, but ignoring one of their summons made them even more petty and obnoxious, so he turned it over to unfold.
And stopped again upon seeing how it was addressed.
High Warlock of Brooklyn
Senior Scholar of the Spiral Labyrinth
Ambassador of the Accords
The Right Hon. Magnus Bane
They'd used a fountain pen and written in proper uncial calligraphy and if he hadn't known that the magic for fire messages didn't work on animal skin, he might have thought they'd used actual parchment rather than what must instead be a very high quality paper stock.
"Huh." He peered down at the letters, trying to think if he'd ever seen a nephilim address a notice to a downworlder in the same formal terms they used amongst themselves. And then almost dropped the whole damn thing when he realized that the initials scribbled across the fold in lieu of the wax seal that would have prevented the fire message from activating properly were IWH. And in the exact same calligraphy as the address.
"What the fuck." He spoke aloud, louder than he'd expected or intended, almost loud enough to startle himself even as he flung the whole thing out and away.
He watched as it fell to the floor, and he stared at it.
It still just looked like paper.
It had to just be paper, the rune to send it wouldn't have worked otherwise, but High Inquisitor Imogen Whitelaw Herondale had written on that with her own hand and sent it to Magnus as if he was an equal and what in all seven hells was that about?
He stepped sideways, unable to convince himself to look away from those initials even as his fingers scrabbled across his desk in search of normal paper and pen to send a message of his own.
Ragnor, could you please indulge me with your thoughts for a moment?
He'd half expected he wouldn't get an answer, not even another fire message or a call on the phone in the other room; Ragnor had been even more of a hermit than usual since the Uprising. (Not that Magnus could fault him for that. If he wasn't a High Warlock he probably would have disappeared into the countryside somewhere as well.) But instead he felt the familiar press of Ragnor's magic against his wards as a portal opened almost immediately in the foyer.
"Apothecary!" Magnus called out, still staring at the paper on his floor.
He heard footsteps, felt Ragnor's magic approach, could even see the shadow stretching towards him when Ragnor paused in the doorway. "Ah, you got it too?"
That finally made Magnus blink, the hold of the strange message broken. He turned his head and lifted his eyebrows.
Ragnor shook his head. "I think you need to experience it for yourself."
Magnus snorted, but stepped forward, picked up the paper, and this time he unfolded it and began to read.
And then read it again.
And again, even as Ragnor came to stand beside him.
"What the fuck," he repeated.
Ragnor grunted, apparently not having any more idea than he did.
"Do you think it's real?" Magnus asked, and he could hear the almost plaintive whisper of something he couldn't pretend wasn't hope in his own voice.
"Only one way to find out." Ragnor's voice was dry, but gentle. There was hope hiding in his voice, too. "Shall we?"
*
It seemed real the next evening.
They arrived in front of the New York Institute to find Theo and Gretel from the closest Werewolf pack already there. A pair of fae nobles Magnus didn't recognize, both in full Court regalia, one Seelie and the other Unseelie, arrived a few minutes later, just after the last lingering blush of daylight faded, escorting Raphael and Lily who were here for their Clan.
Magnus almost asked if any of them knew what the fuck was really going on, but did in fact retain his composure and instead just lifted his chin to wait. (He had to admit, even if just to himself, that he was glad Camille was off somewhere being Camille rather than here in New York to represent the vampires and make this whole situation even more uncomfortable.)
They didn't wait long.
The double doors to the Cathedral swung wide open, rather than the main entrance that led to the central hub of the Institute and the Heads' Office. The High Inquisitor herself stepped out, and fucking bowed to them, and Magnus made a small noise of disbelief that he would deny to his dying day if anyone ever asked. (He didn't think anyone would, however, as he had not been the only one. In fact he was pretty sure the only one who hadn't betrayed their surprise was Ragnor, though the fae had managed no more than a slight shift in posture or positioning.)
"We have set up precautions so all may enter." Herondale paused, and tilted her chin towards Ragnor and Magnus. "I understand if you wish to verify before anyone tests my word?"
Magnus stared at her. She'd just admitted that they had no reason to believe her. She'd admitted it out loud and didn't even sound upset about it.
Ragnor bumped his elbow, and Magnus tucked it all back behind his High Warlock mask. He nodded back as formally as he could manage before lifting his arms and letting his magical senses expand.
There was something inside that was still warded enough to prevent him from being able to tell what it was, but its power was passive rather than active, so it wouldn't be able to be turned against them without warning.
There was also an echo of banked power that felt suspiciously like Silent Brother -and- Iron Sister -and- Soul Sword which was a thing the letter had mentioned but he hadn't been sure he'd believed; (especially that it was only there for Herondale to swear on rather than to be used against the rest of them, somehow). Beyond either of those, it was also very clear the resonance from the Angelic Core had been banked, somehow, the blessing to make the ground hallowed had been covered and muted, and it was entirely safe for any downworlder to enter, regardless of age or power level or wards.
He couldn't quite resist a glance at Ragnor, whose expression indicated he was right there with Magnus and his inexplicable conclusion. Ragnor managed to imply a shrug with the shift of his eyes, and Magnus turned to their fellow downworlders. "She's correct, the building is completely safe for us to enter."
He refrained from suggesting that the nephilim in the building were trustworthy, as they'd all already decided to take that risk when they'd shown up in response to Herondale's summons.
He supposed the fae might not have decided so much as been ordered, but regardless. They were already here. And it was time to see if the rest of it was true.
The rows of pews were nearly full of nephilim in mourning white, more than Magnus suspected usually served in New York, all of them eerily silent, heads politely bowed just enough to lessen the weight of their attention on the entering downworlders.
Behind the chancel, in the raised choir stands, there were additionally about a half-a-dozen black-clad guards, an Iron Sister in gleaming white, a Silent Brother in his bone-dull robe, and the Soul Sword itself, the ruby glinting in its hilt.
To the left of the altar were half-a-dozen nephilim children roughly equivalent to elementary school aged Mundanes, only one of whom had the steady glow to Magnus' senses of a runed Shadowhunter rather than the flickering eldritch taste of angelic potential that the young ones carried before they received their first Mark.
Except for one small red-head just under ten who was familiarly blank, and he realized that the Inquisitor must have found the Fairchilds because that was young Clarissa, still under the power of the wards her mother had paid him to build for her.
He hoped Dorothea was safe, wherever she was. He hadn't felt her magic break, so at least he was reasonably sure she was still alive.
He swallowed, let his gaze skip over the draped stand centered on the aisle in front of him, and focused instead on the dozen adults opposite the children, each with a visibly red Circle on their neck, their shoulders all stiff in the distinctive posture of prisoners whose hands were chained behind their backs. Some of them he didn't know at all, a few were only vaguely familiar, but then there was Jocelyn herself, and Starkweather, and both Lightwoods, and someone who looked eerily similar to the Consul himself.
There was one man beside the rest with his hands cuffed in front of him instead of behind, his Circle rune dark and quiescent rather than inflamed, a Chinese Shadowhunter standing next to him, close enough the white of her sleeves brushed against his arm, with neither a Circle rune nor any restraints on her at all.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice." Herondale spoke up after giving them all a moment to look around, and without another word she turned her back to eight potentially hostile downworlders and knelt before the Sword.
The Silent Brother lifted his hands, the pressure of his attention clear even when he didn't say anything. The Iron Sister lifted the sword, balancing it gracefully in such a way that it tilted gently down from her grip until the tip almost rested on Herondale's forehead. The ruby glowed, and the flare of angelic power was strong enough to sizzle against Magnus' skin. Carried along with the magic was the Silent Brother's intent, and the Inquisitor's voice filled the Cathedral, both inside and outside his head, resonating in his bones and his blood.
"The traitor Valentine Morgenstern has been killed, and the only surviving nephilim members of his Circle are here to face their final sentencing, as witnessed by the Downworld Leaders of New York City, in this the soul of the New York Institute, a place most wounded by his actions. This truth I swear, upon the Angel Raziel and His Mortal and Immortal Instruments, as High Inquisitor of Alicante and Idris, Commander of the Gard, Elder of the Clave and Council, Head of the Herondale Family, Blooded Shadowhunter and Mother of Soldiers, Lady Imogen Whitelaw Herondale."
Magnus swallowed, ignoring the burn in his eyes and the faint taste of copper down his throat.
The Soul Sword compelled the truth from the nephilim, but all it required when they swore upon it was that they believed in whatever truth they spoke.
This ritual was something else entirely. The balance of the magic he'd just witnessed, a trio of complementary powers braided together, Brother and Sister and relic, knowledge and skill and power, secrets and vows and faith, with each separate piece enhancing the other two, meant that Herondale couldn't have sworn on something that was untrue at any level, even if she'd personally believed it all the way down to her bones.
"Well, fuck me."
Magnus snorted, barely stopping himself from giggling (possibly slightly hysterically) at Ragnor's sotto voce reaction. Not that he'd been thinking anything any more eloquent.
It was real.
*
The rest of the meeting was less dramatic. Even whipping the cover off the stand in the middle to reveal Valentine’s head encased in silver-edged glass had been less shocking. (Well, to the warlocks and fae, at least. Vampires and werewolves weren’t quite as able to feel the way the ritual had invoked truth magic against the nephilim, so being able to examine (and presumably scent) proof that Valentine was dead was a bigger deal for them.)
The former Circle members were all going to be deruned, exiled, and imprisoned, each alone at a different Institute so they couldn’t work together and their status could be verified by downworlders whenever they wished, unlike traditional prisoners kept in Alicante at the Gard.
There were two exceptions. One: Lucian Graymark, now Luke Garroway, was a werewolf, and the nephilim abdicated their authority and explicitly left his punishment up to the downworld itself. Second: the man who’d been standing slightly separate from the other prisoners, Patrick Penhallow, who had avoided participating in any of the Circle’s true atrocities and was the one who had discovered Valentine was alive and hiding with the presumed dead Herondale heir and promptly informed Imogen personally. He was still to be exiled from the Clave and Council for punishment, but would be allowed to continue as a Shadowhunter and would, in fact, be staying in New York City where he would be an official liaison to the downworld.
But only if the downworld representatives summoned agreed.
Magnus wasn’t complete sure which part of that was supposed to be mercy and which part was punishment, but he was surprised enough at the validation offered to himself and the other representatives that he did, in fact, agree to it along with everyone else.
That wasn’t even the last surprise though.
No, it got better.
Worse?
Magnus wasn’t sure anymore. He was going to tell Catarina about this and she wasn’t going to believe a single damn word he said.
Instead of re-opening their Academy in Alicante, the nephilim were going to train their children at the Institutes, and would include exposure to and lessons from former mundanes and current downworlders. The children there in the chapel for this meeting were the orphans of the Circle, whose parents were all formally being removed from their bloodlines, and this new generation would be raised in New York City.
Imogen Herondale herself was going to be acting as Head of the New York Institute with Jia Penhallow (Patrick’s wife, who had not ever been part of the Circle) as her Co-Head until such time as as the downworld agreed that the next generation of nephilim seemed sufficiently un-Circle-like and one of them could be appointed.
(That wasn’t, of course, how she’d said it, but it was clear enough.)
Magnus was mostly in shock and just nodding along at that point.
When she’d confirmed that the downworld was reasonably accepting of all of that, and had even told them how to contact Patrick directly with any questions or concerns, she slipped into something that looked like parade rest, and without a bit of warning that Magnus could recognize, the entire chapel-full of nephilim all stood at the same time, chanted “ante faciem Angelus” all together, and then they bowed, too. All of them, each with a hand over their heart, respect and responsibility and something that felt like an apology ringing through the air. From nephilim. To downworlders.
“Fiat justicia!” Herondale called out in response, and the nephilim filed back into their institute, and the black-clad guards very politely escorted the downworlders the other direction and shut the big fancy doors behind them, and Magnus was blinking at Ragnor in the street outside the Institute again.
“What the actual fuck.” Gretel broke the silence first.
Magnus started laughing, and nodded in agreement. That absolutely covered it.
The Clave had said they’d dealt with the Circle, and requested the downworld’s input, and claimed that things were going to be different this time, and it was all really, truly, completely, real.
Shadowhunters prompt! Where the A/B/O thing means Magnus’s attempts to get Alec’s attention are really out there. Alec is charmed but baffled
so uh. I wasn't quite sure where to go with that, because Magnus & Alec's ability to try and communicate at dramatic cross-purposes is Very Them™️, but I usually think the a/b/o thing would make it easier what with pheromones and more defined gender/courting rituals? But then again it's not like Nephilim would have any idea how anyone else does things, and Magnus would be rather paranoid about crossing any lines?
Yeah. That totally works. Even if I failed to explain any of that IN THE FIC, hopefully baffled Alec is still entertaining? LMK if you want more, there's a whole lot more explanation in my head so I'm sure I can come up with something. 😅😅😅
That was Magnus.
In the Institute.
In a suit with a vest but no shirt and those boots and his hair, and Alec suddenly realized he was still standing with his arm raised from opening a door even though the door had shut behind him.
He was alone with Magnus in the Institute foyer and he was gorgeous and he smelled perfect, as warm and comforting as the incense that burned in the chapel without any of the cold tang of adamas-laced stone beneath it that always made Alec's spine straighten and nose wrinkle because that smell meant work.
Alec finally remembered to let his hands drop to his sides, and then realized Magnus had said something, and he was almost smiling and he was...
Holding out a bouquet of flowers?
Alec blinked.
"What."
He didn't manage to make it sound like a question, and he almost winced as Magnus' expression tightened, and he leaned back and he was further away and the flowers were gone, and Alec almost whimpered in disappointment.
"My apologies, of course."
And then somehow Magnus was bowing and he was even further away with a flourish of his hands and a twirl of his coat and the click of his boot-heels on the stone floor and Alec tried to reach out a hand because he still couldn't figure out what Magnus had said, he'd been too distracted by how pretty he was and how nice the flowers were but then he was alone by himself in the Institute with his hand hanging in front of him.
Again.
What.
Why.
Alec sighed, and stared up at the ceiling, as if that would give him the answer, would explain how his why are you giving me flowers when we haven't even rescheduled our date yet and I haven't gotten you anything? somehow come out as why would you think I'd like flowers despite the fact that Alec adored flowers and would love to tell Magnus that.
If he could just remember how to talk when Magnus showed up?
He'd managed to say yes when Magnus asked him out for drinks!
Only then he'd had to chase Clary and apparently Magnus thought that meant something other than literally having to chase Clary because she didn't have the sense God gave sheep.
Izzy or Jace were going to manufacture a disaster and call Magnus to clean it up just to find out what was going on between them, and Alec hated to think how much of a catastrophe they'd manage on purpose, considering the chaos they pulled off all the time mostly by accident.
He hated even more that he was half-tempted to create a disaster himself so Magnus would stop thinking he'd done something wrong and disappearing to regroup before Alec's brain could reboot after seeing him.
How the fuck was one person that attractive, it should be impossible.
Maybe he could write a letter and throw it at Magnus the next time he showed up?
He heard the door he'd come through open, and the stutter of boots as someone had to shift to avoid him where he was still standing by himself right in front of the door.
Alec sighed again. "Yes, Yoshino?"
"I was uh." Yoshino somehow still looked perfectly composed and reasonably elegant in her leathers even as she shrugged and side-stepped to get around him. "Just going out for coffee. Want anything?"
Alec shook his head. "No, thank you."
"You... all right sir?"
Alec lifted his brows at her.
"You've got that smoky cedar smell thing going on, and that usually means you're about to do something on purpose that terrifies the trainees more than their own reckless stupidity, and I just want to know if I should get some extra bold beans to stash in the kitchen for the rest of us so we can keep up."
Alec snorted and shook his head again. "I promise not to scare the trainees."
Yoshino's nose wrinkled as she stared at him. "Two bags then, got it."
He blinked, and she turned and left, and he allowed himself a grin as the door swung closed behind her. That was probably a good idea, actually. He could use the kick to help him figure out a new approach.
For those of you unfamiliar, @purimgifts is a yearly exchange of a set of three (short!) fics or podfics with a graphic treat (potentially terrible clip-art if you are so delightfully inspired) included in each one.
/I usually do covers, as illustrated here 😅
The goal of the exchange is to focus on a character who is jewish and/or a woman and/or possibly persecuted by an evil vizier... with some leeway as to your personal definition of 'vizier' allowed. (Valentine totally qualifies as a Vizier, plus there's Simon & Maia & Clary & Izzy & Catarina &etc. for my Shadowhunters friends if they'd like to join us next year?!? :D)
It is a joy and a delight of an exchange, 12/10, highly recommended, (even the discord is a lovely supportive place) and this year's collection has Been Revealed, so look! I wrote things!
This year I wrote for Becky Chambers' Wayfarers Series (specifically the first two books because I have A Lot of Sidra Feels) largely because I feel we all deserve a little more cozy found family in our sci-fi and our lives.
a toast to the living
to no longer drinking alone
On beginning and endings, on drinking a toast to the stars and whatever might be hiding inside them.
aka Rosemary's journey from exile to crew.
to being an us
It's isolating, being a kit instead of a ship, being alone in her "head" instead of Linking to whatever she needs to know next. It's frustrating, knowing no one else understands, and that she can't risk trying for something else, for more.
Until she realizes she already has it.
to the lost and the found
On memories and guilt, relief and success. To the ghosts of the past, and the hope for the future.
Pepper takes a moment to realize they made it.
