Hi everybody! I just wanted to put this here to explain a couple of things before the story really starts to roll. One is that the Mortal Instruments characters are obviously not mine. Two is that in this story I am only using knowledge from the first three books. I don't own the next two so it's difficult to remember all the info. So in this case, just think that everything in CoFA and CoLS happened but they had so long lasting effects and everyone is fine and dandy again. And three, this story will also include Jace and Clary's children, an 18 year old son and a 16 year old daughter (and possible Izzy's young son as well) and if you guys have any name suggestions PM me or just leave them in a review. Well, that's it! Enjoy!
The boy seemed to be no more than a spec. His body was collapsed in on itself, his shoulders small and hunched, as if he was attempting to make himself disappear into nothing. He sat on a stiff and unforgiving chair that gave a loud creak every time he shifted his weight, causing the child to make himself as still as possible. He never looked up from his shoes.
His sneakers drew attention. They were a fierce and fresh red that shined with what the boy called "brand-new-ness" that came from never before leaving their box. He had been forced to put them on when fearsome strangers invaded and ripped him from his bed. They hadn't given him the time to change out of his pajamas but were adamant about him wearing shoes. Probably due to all the blood. Even though a muscled man carried the boy outside, he set him down for a moment to open the door. By the time he was lifted back up into the air his laces were stained a muddy crimson hue.
He was unsure whose blood it was. It could have belonged to his vivacious elder sister. Or maybe her fair-haired lover. But there truly was no way for him to tell. Blood was blood and either way they were both dead.
The captures brought him to Idris, a place that he had only of heard in passing, and quickly disposed of him onto his stiff and uncomfortable chair that resided in the hall that allowed any passerby to survey the small child. Very few gave him more than a glance. But some stared. They had heard what happened and were curious to see what made the boy such an oddity. They were left unsatisfied when they came to the conclusion that he was just a normal boy.
Maryse Lightwood entered Alicante like a focused machine, a focused, completely-in-control machine that gave little inclination that it had been just haphazardly tossed through a portal at the urgent call of the Clave. Her hair was stiff with hairspray and pulled back tightly against her skull and her suit was immaculately pressed and her shoes clicked against the floor with such precision that all were compelled to back out of her way. Even without the hair, suit, and shoes, Maryse Lightwood was an intimidating woman, just by the look on her face.
Many inhabitants of the city had not seen the woman in years. Not since her youngest child, Max, had passed and family and friends gathered as his body was turned to ash. She, following tradition, had been wearing white on that day, but now she was baring her usual charcoal ensemble. Although some of her dear friends had much to say to her, whether it was about her elusive husband or scandalous elder son, no one dared to interrupt her as she walked with determination to meet the Clave.
"Where is the Warlock child?" she asked the instant she threw the doors open to the Clave meeting room. No one in the room jumped, they were trained demon hunters after all. When no one answered, she repeated herself.
"He is safe here in Idris."
Maryse began to get irritated. The message she had received said that this was urgent, urgent enough that she leave her two children and her other wards alone in the New York Institute. "Then what exactly was I summoned here for?"
A large man across the room gave a large grunt and answered, "Seeing as you have been preoccupied by the goings on of your Institute I presume that you have yet to hear of the Warlocks Havanna Bansha and Roderick Less?"
The question made Maryse scowl. It pained her to answer that she had not.
"They were two Warlocks charged of violating the Accords," the man continued, taking out his unlit stele and cleaning it with his shirt.
"'Were?'" Maryse repeated. "So they are dead."
This time it was a woman who answered. "They resisted arrest. We had no other choice. To do anything else would have left countless lives at steak." This woman was dressed in full battle gear, and that, combined with her light sheen of sweat, was enough to show Maryse that she had been there herself.
A man also dressed in gear continued to explain. As he talked, a fresh healing rune glittered near his throat. "This child is the younger brother of Bansha and he presents a problem. Upon hearing of the couple's death, and the boy being here, many powerful Warlocks have been angered. They express great concern over the fate of the boy."
"Place him in Silent City like the past Warlock orphans. They will raise him. It's been part of their job for centuries," Maryse answers quickly. But before she can saw more, she is quickly interrupted by the gruff man again.
"They demand he be raised by a Warlock," he replied loudly. "They think that we will 'deny him his true nature' as they put it. That Silent City is too much like a prison. That if there is true peace under the Accords we should grant them this request."
Maryse Lightwood had a great many questions stumbling around in her head but after years of dealing with the Clave she decided that bluntness worked best. "So why am I here? I am no Warlock as you all know."
"Your Institute has room to house another charge and the surrounding city has a large Warlock population at its disposal giving you plenty of options for finding the boy a new guardian. Your family has connection to the High Warlock of Brooklyn as well, if I remember correctly." The man smirked as he said the last bit and several others looked down as if suddenly entertained by the floorboards. If any expected Maryse to lash out, and more than several did, they were disappointed.
Instead she said pointedly, "I accept. Now I wish to speak to the boy."
The boy had been seated for hours. He was lonely and bored, and although he hid it well, extremely, extremely afraid. Everyone around him seemed huge. They were almost all wearing black with dark painted runes etched all across their bodies. A shiver would run up his spine whenever his would give a quick glance upwards through his bangs to see a glint of weaponry. To save himself the unpleasant sensation, he kept his eyes downward, looking at the same red sneakers until a pair of women's shoes stepped into view.
Upon seeing the boy, Maryse was a bit taken back. He looked so small, so fragile, compared to the large demon slayers around him. Slowly, as not to frighten him, she kneeled down before him so that she wasn't towering over him.
"Hello. My name is Maryse Lightwood of the New York Institute. The Clave has decided that from now on you will be under my care until we can find you a proper home." The boy didn't look up, saying nothing.
Maryse's mouth pinched into a scowl and she took up a stern tone, one that she had used many times before disciplining her own children. "Look at your elders when they speak to you," she ordered.
He did as he was told and slowly looked up, leaving them face to face. The first thing that came to the woman's attention was the boy's Mark. Sitting in his pale face were his unnatural eyes, with thin slits for pupils. The Mark did not startle the woman, she had seen much stranger in her years, but the color sent a tremble through her body. They were a blue, a blue as deep and mysterious as Lake Lyn. And when paired with his skin as plain as fresh cream and his dark, downy, almost feathery hair, she was haunted by the face of her lost baby.
The boy was confused for a moment by both her staring and by the pallor in her cheeks. However, her look was shock was gone instantaneously.
"What's your name?" she asked, back to her commanding voice.
"Marco Bansha," he answered, his voice as soft as breeze.
"Well, Marco Bansha," began Maryse as she stood up. "We must get you to the Institute." She held out her hand to help him off his chair, his muscles stiff. He wobbled for a second on his uncertain legs.
As they walked out of Alicante, the city of glass, Maryse looked behind her every few moments to make sure that the boy was keeping pace. Every time she checked he was always right by her side, holding onto her hand tightly. For many in Alicante, it was a strange sight, a Warlock child holding onto the hand of a Shadowhunter, but they did not seem them for long because soon the pair was out of sight.