dreaming in monochrome
Summary: Clare, Cassandra – Lady Midnight. Julian Blackthorn has many things to live for. OneShot- Julian Blackthorn (Emma Carstairs).
Set: Closely following the events of "Lady Midnight".
Warning: Fractured, drabble-esque, introspection, angst.
Disclaimer: Standards apply.
There is no end to the night.
Oh, he can see the golden shimmer at the horizon, where the ocean kisses the sky. The faintest hint of gold, a red blush like the color of life mixed with the faintest brushstroke of silver. The beginning of a new day: just barely a whisper but growing.
And yet Julian Blackthorn doesn't see the promise of light. He can't see even the faintest trace of hope.
At the end of the night he is still who he is, unchanged. And Emma is still who she is and always was, best friend, warrior, Nephilim, he wouldn't change her if he could, he wouldn't want her any other way. At the end of the night Julian is still Julian and Emma is still Emma and they are still parabatai and so much more and still not enough.
At the end of the night, she is still not his.
(Once upon a time there were a girl and a boy who grew up together in a large, bright house. They trained, and they learned and laughed and played, and their dreams and their hearts were one.)
Unfailing, morning comes.
Day breaks, gloriously; golden-threaded skies and pastel-white clouds and aquamarine ocean. It begins as it has for the past years, as long as he can remember: steps on the stairs, unheard to anyone except to him, silent and graceful as a hunting cat's. Moving down the corridor and into the entrance hall, and the Los Angeles' Institute doors open and close again with a silent thud. From the window, he can see Emma skip down the stairs, jog up to the beach and begin her morning run. Her hair is gathered into a ponytail. The impossible-to-paint palette of gold, yellow and silver shines with every step, mesmerizing. And even watching her running away from him he can see every detail of her retreating figure clearly; knows every shadow on her face and every line in her features better than he knows himself.
Emma, Emma, Emma–
Addiction must feel like this.
Julian showers and gets dressed and goes downstairs to prepare breakfast.
(Spoiler: this is not a fairytale.)
He might be familiar with the pain of never getting to have something, but that doesn't mean this doesn't hurt anymore.
This.
Him.
And here he was, so glad to have his brother back. So desperate to keep him with them that he took his place when Mark was supposed to be whipped. Here he was, hoping he would be able to share the responsibility of running the Institute and taking care of his younger siblings with his elder brother. But Mark can't share the responsibility with Julian. Mark carries so much himself, so much pain, so much fear and darkness. Mark, in a way, is very much like Julian: shaped by different circumstances, scarred by their ways of life. Only Mark wears his scars openly for anyone to see. Julian's… Julian's are invisible.
But that's fine.
Julian can live with Mark not helping him run the Institute, Julian can cope with yet another person needing his protection, his strength and resolve, instead of aiding him in carrying the responsibility. Julian can deal with all the trouble it has been to get Mark back as long as that means Mark stays with them, is safe and happy. He has lied to the Inquisitor and the Consul and the Clave before. He will lie to them again. He will do it over and over, no matter the consequences. Do it for all of his siblings, including Mark. Julian can take anything for his siblings, as long as it means they are together and safe. He can take anything, and he will do anything. He will shoulder anything.
But looking at Mark is torture.
Looking at Mark and seeing the way his brother smiles at Emma and shifts to accommodate her on the bench at the table; the way Emma looks at him: it is painful beyond anything he can imagine, and Julian has imagined a one-sided love for most of his life. Watching the way Mark's hand comes up to touch hers so casually; the way Emma shifts towards him; the way they laugh, their heads close, lost in their own private world. It is unbearable. Toxic. Makes him want to be violently ill until the whole pain and anger and jealousy leave him, and leave him spent and empty and senseless. In a way, it's worse than dying: then, at least, it would be over soon. Julian had thought he was used to pain, but this…
This is worse.
Worse than the time he got pierced by Cortana. Worse than when he killed his father, worse than when Ty screamed I hate you! at him. Worse than listening to Helen being exiled, worse than losing Mark to the Wild Hunt. Worse than discovering his mad uncle and realizing what would happen once the Clave found out. Worse than that one poisoned arrow: worse than anything.
(Emma's face hovering over him, disheveled, terrified and so incredibly, painfully beautiful– )
"Are you alright, Jules?"
Livvy's eyes are wide and worried in her sweet, heart-shaped face, she is forever the protector: of Ty, of Dru and Tavy, and perhaps, in her own way, of him and Emma and Mark, as well. But she's still a child, barely fifteen, and the urge to protect her is so strong he feels like breaking. Julian pulls together a smile and ruffles her hair.
"Of course. Sorry. I was distracted."
She doesn't complain about the hair-mussing. She just looks and he, once again and with a painful pang, realizes that she's growing up. The girl that rode on his knees, laughing, whom he taught to hold a dagger, is now old enough to go out on patrols. She and Ty are still inseparable, but it feels like their bond is loosening. If Ty doesn't agree to become her parabatai she will continue on without her twin; Julian has no doubts she will be a great Shadowhunter. But oh, how he he fears that day. He needs to talk with Ty about his future, soon. (Not too soon, oh Heavens, please, let it not be so soon.) It is another thing that scares him: his little brother going away, somewhere Julian cannot protect him anymore. Ty is special in a way normal people cannot comprehend, he sees and feels and takes in the world differently than normal people. The fact that his specialness will be judged and found lacking by the people determining normalcy makes Julian sick. He doesn't want Ty to be any different - he just wants the world to accept him, and to not cause him any pain. Dru's training is also advancing, though the nights when she falls asleep on the sofa watching her ludicrous horror flicks and he has to carry her to bed are still frequent. He revels in the sound of her soft breathing, the peacefulness in her sleeping face. She is the heart of their family; kind, sweet and thoughtful. Sometimes there are small gifts left for him in his room: her very own way of showing him her love. Each moment with her is precious, and it is the same with Tavy: his baby is so innocent, so beautiful and pure. Julian doesn't ever want him to pick up a weapon. He wants Tavy to grow up untouched by the Cold War, unaware of the pain and the hurt and the dangers of the world he was born into. But Tavy was there, already. Like his siblings, he lost his father and his sister; Julian is the only parent he knows. But Julian's baby boy, too, is Nephilim, was born to fight and protect. So even if Julian doesn't want it, he also knows, deep, deep down, that eventually Tavy will pick up a blade, as well, he will learn to fight and he will learn to kill. He will learn to not only protect himself, but to protect others, as well, and he won't need Julian anymore. Like Livvy, like Ty, like Dru: Tavy will eventually leave him. Will begin his training, will fight, will learn to protect himself and what they've all sworn to protect. Will be going places where Julian cannot follow him anymore, cannot protect them.
(I am losing them all.)
Helen was the first to leave. Against her own will, but she left nevertheless. Julian does not hate her for it, will never do, loves her as much as he loves his other siblings. But Helen left when he needed her, and the little boy buried deep within his heart will always resent her for that no matter how much he loves her.
Julian knows that, in the heart of hearts, he is the most selfish one of the Blackthorn children.
Emma glances at him, worried, over the edge of her yoghurt bowl. They are parabatai, she always knows what he's thinking, always felt when he was upset. Except now she can't know his thoughts anymore, can't know the things he is still hiding in the darkest corner of his soul. It feels like the fact that he has finally revealed so much of his secrets to her has only created even more, even graver things he can't tell her. He hates it, hates it with every fiber of his being, but he hates himself even more. There are things about him she can't know. Not anymore. Not ever. He is pretty sure she wouldn't hate him for it; but it would break her, eventually. And he can't risk that. He has hidden his feelings for so long now that is has become habit, so he'll be able to continue on like this. Seeing her with Mark – that's fine, too. If she loves Mark, Julian can still be her parabatai, if she loves Mark, at least, she and Mark are happy. Julian loves his brother, despite everything. If Emma loves him, he is a lucky man.
The way her hair is silver-gold-fire in the morning light makes his head spin and his fingers itch for a paint brush. Itch for the soft texture of her cheek, the feel of her calloused hands on his skin, and Julian–
Julian smiles at Dru. "Hand me the syrup, please."
(He can't say when it started.)
He can pinpoint exactly when it began.
That one day when he found Uncle Arthur on the ground in his attic room, blood everywhere: it was the beginning of the end, and the end of his childhood. Or maybe it started earlier? Maybe, if Julian hadn't killed his own father, hadn't brought down the wrath of Heavens on himself and his family: maybe, then, he wouldn't have cursed his siblings along with him. Maybe Helen wouldn't have been exiled, Marc wouldn't have been taken. Maybe Diana would have taken the position as head of the Institute. Maybe then, today, his siblings would still have a father and Julian would still have had a childhood. Maybe, if Julian hadn't committed patricide, he and Emma would–
Maybe.
It is too late now, anyway, too late for regrets. It started years ago in a dusty, dark attic of the place that had been his home since he could remember, with a silver-gleaming dagger and blood red and glistening like fresh oil paint, with the mad ravings of a broken man and with a promise Julian made to himself, and his siblings.
That was the moment when Julian Blackthorn grew up: forcefully, painfully, all-too-fast. Utterly and completely. That was when he learned to pprovide for his family, to protect them from the Clave's prying eyes, when he learned to negotiate with the Inquisitor without him realizing that it was a twelve-year-old boy writing him letters, not a forty-year-old man. That was when Julian learned to shop for groceries, to cook meals, to tend to sick children, to make the world a bit more bearable for Ty and exciting enough for Livvy and kind enough for Dru. That was when he learned to take care of Tavy. That was the moment when he decided to lie to Emma in order to uphold a façade that felt like it was suffocating him a bit more every day, but dropping it would have shattered everything else he had and refused to let go of. The weight of responsibility has, somehow, changed into the weight of his own lies over the past years. But he still holds on to it, determined, terrified it might all fall into pieces around him if he does not hold on to it tightly enough.
Emma never asked questions. Emma has been there, and she might or might not has been the reason why he has been able to uphold the charade for such a long time.
Of course there are the days when he asks himself why.
Why the trouble? Why the work, the pain, the fears? Why? Couldn't he just have left it to adults, maybe told the new Inquisitor, maybe, maybe? There must have been a different solution. Maybe they wouldn't have scattered the Blackthorn children, maybe they could have stayed somewhere, together. He doesn't believe it, but - maybe. But, in reality, it all comes down to one thing, and one thing only. The only thing that matters, the only thing that keeps him going.
When it comes down to it, Julian Blackthorn loves his family more than he loves his own pride, self-preservation and loyalty. More than his honor as Nephilim, and the Nephilim themselves. More than the world.
He loves them more than his own life.
"Jules."
Her eyes are luminous, her hair like burning silk framing her face. The softness of her skin, the shape of her lips – her scent is clean, sweet and familiar. Julian knows exactly when he realized he'd been on love with her for his whole life, and seeing her still sends a bold of lightning through his entire self even to this day.
Emma.
Her hands – so close – his body burns under her touch, lights up like a Christmas tree. He dreams of her, every night. She is the only thing he ever wanted, ever needed, the only thing, aside from his family, that he ever wished for. It all comes down to her: In her, it begins and it ends, she is the nice to meet you and the goodbye, the first note and the last line of a song. Emma. The color on the canvas that is his heart, the blood in his veins, the whisper of the sky and every eternal secret that his brushes sing.
Emma, whom he loves so much he cannot stand it, Emma, who will break him by his love. Or did she already break him? And does it matter?
(Julian has been familiar with the pain of withdrawal for a long time now.)
Paradox: he has lied to his instructor and has lied to his uncle.
He has lied to the Clave and to the Inquisitor, he has lied to strangers and to his siblings, he has lied to everyone and anyone who is not important to him and who is. Julian Blackthorn has lied to his parabatai, the one person in the world who is his other half. And every single one of them has believed him. Julian has lied to the whole world, but he never lied to himself. And now that the person most important to him knows about those lies, and knows the truth, he finds that he himself cannot accept it.
He is drowning in his own subterfuge. Is suffocating in the net of lies he has spun, and still continues to spin. He will be crushed by the weight of his lies, in the end. Sometimes he worries: if he is ready to watch the world burn if that makes his siblings safe, what does that make him? What kind of monster has he become? He has stared into the abyss until the abyss stared back. He should be horrified, but he is too tired to even care.
Julian knows just one thing: he will bear all of it; pain, lies, heartbreak – he will bear it all if it only means that these people that are so precious to him are safe and happy.
Julian Blackthorn has many reasons to live.
It shouldn't, he thinks, tiredly, be so easy to wish for the end.