@shadowhunterbingo square: Virgin!Shadowhunter Energy
It's an especially bright one, sharp and powerful in its desperation. It has the weight of Angel-blood behind it, making it louder, making it sing.
It's been a long time since Magnus heard a nephilim pray.
The poor soul isn’t praying to him, of course. No one ever prays to demons.
But it’s usually demons who answer.
He's in a church. Too small for a cathedral, but as ornate as one, wrought iron railings, the rich tones of old stained glass windows, an altar that smells of agar and sandalwood, exquisitely layered and worked to make the different scents and colors blend perfectly.
They prayer is coming from a truly delicious young man, all dressed in black, face down on the floor, completely prostrate before the nephilims' Soul Sword, a priest and a Silent Brother on either side of the altar. There's a small crowd in the pews, responding every time the priest pauses in his chanting. In latin, even; the nephilim are apparently still old-fashioned in this, as well as so many other things.
Orate pro nobis, the crowd answers, and Magnus realizes they're doing a Litany of the Saints.
They're doing a Rite of Ordination.
This young man is about to become a priest.
But his prayer isn’t a happy one, isn’t of a man lifting himself up closer to his God.
Magnus narrows his eyes and leans in closer, as if somehow he'll be able to see what this young man is thinking. He tastes the emotion in the room, too cool and thin to get much, most of them lacking in the desire that it is Magnus' realm. He scents some regret, some satisfaction, some boredom, a wistful note of anticipation drifting from one of the younger hearts, someone looking forward to their own Ordination some day. Here, in comparison to such weak wills, it is even more clear how brightly this young man shines, cold ruthless faith lifting up the heavy dread of his emotions into something both sublime and tragic.
This young man believes, in angels and demons, in duty and God, in sacrifice. He hates it, even as he drives himself towards it.
Magnus almost chokes on the weight pressing against his chest, but oh, it tastes so sweet. He leans into it, the power behind it, the prayer of his man who wants, and will never reach, whose heart has never been touched, whose soul flinches from revealing itself.
Magnus sighs, savors, and pauses at the taste of something new in the air. There's one damp waft of grief from a young woman with dark hair and eyes, with the same strength of will behind her emotions as the man whose prayer brought Magnus here.
A sister, Magnus thinks, and one who knows how unhappy her brother is despite how still he lays, how thoroughly he’s given himself over to the ceremony.
She isn't praying. She isn't reciting the litany. She doesn't share her brother's faith, or his ability to give himself over to both hope and despair. Her jaw is tight with anger, but still. She's here.