Disclaimer: The Mortal Instruments series belongs to Cassandra Clare.
The Morgenstern house sat on top of the cliff, its back turned to the endless sea. It stood alone, ancient and cold, and it was, but she never wanted to see it that way.
She loved living on the cliff, letting winds rip their way through her hair, letting them almost push her off into the sea. She loved the streets, gray and uneven, where you might get a foot closer to sea level just by taking a step. She loved how content the world was around her, how green the grass always seemed to be, and the beautiful sunsets and awe-inspiring sunrises.
She hated the storms.
She loved the rain, loved the water. She loved the feeling of the raindrops against her skin, the way the earth smelled after the first rains.
But she hated the storms, the torrential downpours that played the background music to her life, and trapped her in the old house.
She'd sit at the table, fingers tangled together, head bowed, her only companion the weak strands of music that reached out from the radio in the corner.
She shut her eyes and remembered the songs of the past, the dancing, the pure joy and the full heart she had then. She hummed along and remembered when she was little and would lie outside on the grass at night, jumping from star to star to get away from herself.
Alone in the house, she lifted her head and gazed around, at generation after generation of Morgensterns that had lived in the house on the cliff. There was always a Morgenstern in the house on the cliff. The mix of pictures and portraits stained the walls, an unintentional family tree. She shifted her gaze, moving past ancestors so old that she'd never want to remember them. Her eyes darted past her grandparents and uncles and aunts and cousins, before settling on her family.
They looked like a dream, her mother and father, arms around each other and eyes full of light. Her brother Jonathan too, standing tall and proud, echoing the Morgentsterns of the past in his stance and the curve of his jaw as he turned towards the photographer. She was so young then, kneeling in a pristine white dress that fell just over her knees, floating through life and caring about nothing.
She remembered another time when she was wearing white, when she thought that he was everything she needed, and she kissed her brother goodbye.
Lightning flashed and thunder crackled, finding their way to her head and heart. Slowly, she rose from her chair, faintly humming along to the music. She stepped lightly, back and forth, her arms wrapped around a man long gone, spinning around and around.
She was there again, her dress heavy and dragging, the air filled with laughter and the sky as bright as the light sparkling on the waves. She looked up at his hair curling around his ears, and smiled into his warm brown eyes. His name felt warm on her lips, filling her mouth perfectly Her mother was there, tears escaping her eyes, and her brother watched as she dipped down in her new husband's arms. Her father stood off to the side. His face was stone and his motions restrained. He was gone before the end of the reception, long before the moon and stars had risen to greet the couple.
The first years were bliss. They lived and loved together, and she gave him everything she had to give, and he brought her to a new coast. But two years passed, and still another day without a child. He began to wonder and she began to worry. They tried and failed, over and over again, until she could not rest without the thought invading her consciousness. She went to a doctor. She needed to ask, to learn for certain the reason for her imperfection.
She came to her husband, her soul in pieces, hoping for comfort, the word like poison on her tongue. Barren. She wanted his love and reassurance, and the hope that something might end in happiness.
He left her as a crumpled mess on the ground, utterly lost and undone. She watched him go out through the door. She dragged herself up to her room. Exhausted and spent, she stood tall. She was a Morgenstern and could not give in to the darkness.
She placed a foot on the path leading up to the house on the cliff. She saw signs of life through the windows, the life that she would keep living. Her mother opened the door, and seeing her daughter standing there, burst into tears. Their tears joined together in a shower of mourning and joy.
Her father arrived, and only a twitch in his eyebrows warned of his surprise at seeing his daughter. The word flew around the room, fueled by grief and disappointment, finally landing like a strike to her gut. Barren.
For months she hid from her family in her own home, barely noticing the lengthening periods of time that her father would spend away from the house. The ghosts of her dreams mocked her cruelly, singing haunting children's tunes about the children she could never have. Some days she would stand on the edge of the cliff, contemplating how hard it would be to just let go, and allow the waves below to swallow her mass of blood red curls.
She froze, when her father announced the death of her brother, lost overseas in some war that she had forgotten about. Somehow she could not accept that her brother was gone. The brother that was always going to carry on the Morgenstern name, that knew what it meant to be a Morgenstern and lived what it meant to be a Morgenstern. The news was harsh and sudden, stunning her mother and dissolving them both.
The months that followed were pure torture, her mother remaining locked in her room, and the family dinners between her and her father a battle of wills that she never failed to lose. She could never gaze upon a picture of him without remembering that stare that pierced her heart and let loose its poison through her veins.
The man who had been her husband sent her one letter, a sort of goodbye. He thanked her for their marriage, as though it was nothing more than a favor she had done for him. He never mentioned their late night talks, or the times that would sit in silence together, or the way he held her when the rain was pounding over their heads. She cried now, hoping against all hope that what her life had become was some wild fantasy created by those who wanted to watch her suffer.
Her mother died, out of grief for her brother, and her father followed soon after, declaring that he had failed his family.
And she was left. With the house on the cliff and a memory of love and the knowledge that she would never ever be enough.
The radio went dead, a silence that pulled through her thoughts. She was left alone in that house on the cliff, but she would stand tall, because she was a Morgenstern and there was always a Morgenstern in the house on the cliff.