Hi guys! So I know I haven't posted ANYTHING in a while, and I am so sorry, please blame my crazy schedule and lack of inspiration. But one night as I was not sleeping, I really wanted to do a very descriptive piece, so I decided I would do this series of one-shots that go into detail about a specific character. This one is for Will Herondale from the Infernal Devices trilogy, but if you guys want me to do another character, review or send me a PM! I will try to do my best! Also I wrote Salty Rivers, A Day in the Life of Will Herondale and The Cast if you guys want to check those out too! :)
In silhouette, in the dark, hazy glow of the streetlight, his profile was indistinct; all smudged angles and tension and layers of contrasting color. Black, jagged hair, set across the pale white parchment of his face like ink carelessly spilled across a blank page, leaving ragged, uneven edges. Half-lidded eyes like shards of cutting glass with a shade as deep and fleeting as a twilight sky teetering on the precipice of midnight hidden beneath long, thickly tangled lashes. A pale smirk laced with rose twisting across a face full of sharp planes and abrupt corners that held strange, wicked beauty.
His shoulders were drawn tightly around his torso, straining against the driving wind that buffeted him from all sides. Muscles made sure by battle constricted around his skeleton, pulling him into himself on instinct. He fought the wind in the same manner in which he fought demons, but he was no match for the unrelenting, unyielding force. Angel blood or no, there was not enough strength in even a warrior fallen from heaven to defeat this weather. His muscles quaked against his body, every fiber vibrating with the effort; every molecule of sinew straining to the breaking point.
Exhaustion had devoured his entire being, but he didn't care.
He needed the distraction.
The rusty metal of the streetlamp, mutilated by the hands of time, dug into the back of his skull as he leaned his head back, slitting his eyes to strain for the stars, those silvery pearls of luminescence, like the split beads of a lady's necklace, thrown against the endless canvas of velvety midnight, mocking him. The sky was close enough to touch, it seemed, but when he reached up a hand, the heavens were miles away.
An ethereal exhale; heavenly breaths roiled the sky, shrouding it from wondering human eyes below tearing him viciously into the present once more.
From beneath the gloom, a single star wavered, almost swallowed by the murky obscurity, and he felt his gaze drawn upwards once more. His eyes locked on the ornament of the cosmos, entranced.
Pain, profound and visceral, raced through his body without warning, coursing through his veins, turning his blood to ash as it shot for his heart, inflicting a wound deeper than could have been made by any earthly weapon. He flinched sharply, the silvery lines of the receding rune on his chest burning through his flesh. He almost wanted to laugh at the irony; the symbol that had once caused him the most joy was now causing him the most agony.
Silver, traditionally, was the color of the Shadowhunters for demons, but for him, it was the color of everything that had been his undoing.
Silver was the color of the demon's stinger that had killed his sister; silver was the color of faded runes; silver was the color of yin fen, the color of Jem's eyes, of Jem's hair, of Jem. And now, the color of the pulsing, scorching parabatai rune right over his heart.
He was almost convinced that silver was the color of hell; a barren, silvery wasteland with miles and miles full of nothing but shards of broken runes and broken hearts. And pain. Clouds heavy with endless, scorching pain that froze the earth like a bitter flame.
He had almost grown used to it; the crippling fingers sinking into his flesh with deft, razor-sharp claws, striking at every unexpected moment. He had learned to school his features into a masquerade mask of cool, detached boredom, but it was when he had almost forgotten reality when he was stabbed all over with the burning, all-consuming truth.
Jem was dead. His rock, his best friend, his parabatai; the only person who understood him, who trusted him, who loved him. And what bit deeper than a hellhound was that he, the person who'd sworn to stay by Jem's side until death, hadn't been there.
In all of his life since coming to the Institute, there had never been a time where Jem hadn't been with him. When they were training, when he had slipped an fell on his weapons, Jem had been there to laugh and bind his wounds. When he got his First Marks, Jem had held his hands and hadn't complained when he crushed Jem's fingers to pulp. When he had come home drunk and bloody from another bar fight, it was Jem who had dumped ice water over his head to sober him up and applied careful izrates so Charlotte wouldn't know. Jem had always, always been there. But now, when Jem had lain weak and dying, he had left him alone while he traipsed across the Welsh countryside to rescue the girl the both loved, but that Jem couldn't have.
You selfish, idiotic bastard, he berated himself, pushing off the wall of the light post. He started walking back towards the enticing, golden glow of the inn. You are a truly worthless human. Worthless to Charlotte and Henry, worthless to Cecily, worthless to Jem, worthless to Tessa. You might not have been cursed by Marbas, but you are the curse. You still hurt everyone you know. Including yourself. He shoved the door open savagely, wood splintering into the palm of his hand, and he winced.
Deep in the darkest depths of his heart, he knew that he couldn't save them. Any of them. Jem was dead, and in the years that he could have been searching for a cure for Jem, he had squandered his adolescence on worthless pursuits and self-pity. He had abandoned his family, and now Cecily and the others at the Institute. And Tessa; she had been stolen by Mortmain and taken to a castle in God-knows-where, Wales, and he was crazy with worry about her well-being. She could be dead or worse, and he had no way of getting to her; he had no plan, no weapons save one seraph blade, and absolutely no backup. She was as good as dead, but he was still holding on by his fingertips to the faintest hope that there might be some way, some astronomically crazy way of rescuing her.
He mounted the stairs with long, loping strides, barely making a noise as he ascended to his shabby room. When he finally flung the door open, he was sweating and his face felt aflame with pent-up frustration and agony. He sank onto the musty mattress, his slim-fingered hands sliding up his cheekbones to tangle in his matted hair, clenching in blood-crusted handfuls. His teeth ground into his jaw, a tortured growl slipping from between his lips. A breath of wind swept around the inn, dispatching another cloud to cover the moon. Shadows danced across his face, turning his features to nothing but a collection of smudged corners and indistinct lines, leaving only the brilliant, razor-sharp edges of his shattered heart scattered on the floor.
Read and Review please! Also if you review below and/or PM me if you have any requests for other one-shots! You guys are the best for reading this! :)