AN: Hello everyone! Before I get into anything else, I would like to say that this story was inspired by the wonderful fic "All Beginnings" by Amelia St. Claire. I give her credit for that and al though this story has little in comparison, her wonderful Bee/OC story had a lot to do with the birth of this one.

Now, this is a very short chapter, compared to my other work, because it is a prologue to the story - later chapters will be longer. Also, this is a side story, so all I can promise you about how often I will update is that you will not be hearing from me often. This was something of a plot bunny, but I didn't want to give up on it; nevertheless, it is not my top priority so updates will be some way apart - just a heads-up for those who will stick by me in this.

Anyhow, please enjoy this story and what it will become of. I will only say this once: If you recognize it, it isn't mine. I do, however, own Jace and Eryn Augustine.

Preface

4/23/10

Jace Augustine. Many knew the name – many feared it. It was only spoken in a hushed voice, in the dread that it be overheard. Young children, who knew no better, teasingly compared it to He Who Shall Not Be Named. It was a name that brought the weight of a heavy heart and an old soul; an old soul which had seen far more than it ever should have. It brought a feel of cold; a cold that can only be described as the feeling of death – both the bringing and the seeing of it. A young face with century-old eyes; these were the eyes of someone who had seen the darkness. These were the eyes of someone who knows what lurks in the dark folds – biding its time – waiting for the time to strike.

Jace Augustine. Many knew the name. None knew the owner – the bearer of the name would never permit it. Too much was at stake to leave room for error. The name brought along solitude, loss, and the darkness of which the world was made of. All the sorrows which had been seen and suffered – this much was true. But the name was also a bearer of hope and light; a bearer of a light of hope. Many knew the name. Many knew the stories it came with. Many knew the legacy which it had left in its wake and which it had been left with in its own time.

But more than anything, it was a name yet to be discovered – yet to be heard by others and believed in. The owner of it still had years to teach people to feel a glint of hope upon hearing it. Jace Augustine had yet to be found and yet to be understood. Many would stand tall and proud, and fight side by side with the infamous name on their flag while the person who it belonged to lead. There was time for it to become meaningful in that very way which had made it so – dark, heavy, lone. There was yet time for the people to recognize it; time for them to learn to trust it and time for them to learn to trust its owner as leader.

But Jace prayed that the day would never come.

When we are faced with a life-altering decision – to run or to fight, to stay or to hide, to confess or to lie, to live or to die – we need to consider one thing: it's bigger than us. There is one thing we always miss – one major detail that slips our mind every time: it's always bigger than us. It is never – never – about a single person. Someone always ends up hurt a lot more than you. But at times like these, it's easy to forget all of that. It's very easy to forget that people depend on you – miss you, even. It's easy to forget the people who will wonder where you are, and how you are, and if you are okay. It's easy to forget that they matter.

When that moment comes, there is one of two types of people there with you: the people close to you and the people who put you in that position. Right now, I am surrounded by the later. And they aren't people. I would very much like to say that I was strong enough, that I was brave and loyal and a hero. I'd like to say that I held up against the odds – that I was silent. But if I did, then I would be lying. Over the past few weeks, I have learned a few things. I learned that meters are a lot longer when you are the one falling. I learned that bones broken slowly and with purpose hurt more than swiftly and by accident. I learned that blades, when in the hands of an expert, are far more dangerous than a madman with an intention to stab. I learned that hunger can make you talk faster than an electric shower and the lack of sleep can work wonder with how truthful your words are.

I learned those things well and I would want nothing more than to say I died with dignity and in silence, letting no information out. But I am not that person. I am not a soldier and I am not some brave hero with strong morals and beliefs I follow. I'm not that person who would jump at the possibility of saving another life, nor am I someone who would stand up to defend someone's name. My father had said once that every person can be made to talk with the right kind of pain – be it physical, emotional, or mental. They'd spent the last three weeks - at least what I an to assume was three weeks - finding that pain and exploiting it.

I never broke, though. God knows I wanted to; God knows I wanted to cry out every name and every location of every safe house and every code to every secure file. God knows I wanted it more than anything. I just wanted it to end already. Maybe now it will. Maybe this was finally the end and I could go in peace. Maybe this is the moment they stop asking questions and just got it done and over with. Maybe this was that moment – the moment in which I was meant to decide. There were two options: remain silent and die, or talk - in whichever way I could - and still die. Of course, remaining silent would be heroic – honorable, even. But I was not an honorable person – I was a person in pain and heaven know I've tried to ignore it, to push it out of my mind until it was gone. I wasn't that strong.

Yes, this was that moment – my moment. And as I would expect, everyone faded away: my family, my friends, my colleagues, my allies and everyone I have ever met. All there was was pain and my everlasting wish for it to stop. And I didn't see past the crushing, biting, piercing, blinding pain. I was ready to give up; I wanted it gone.

My head felt like a two ton rock as I tried to lift it. It felt back, sending an electric stab of agony through me at the movement as I cracked my eyes open to look at the glowing orb in front of me. Everything hurt; every nerve in my body was on fire as I let my mouth slip open. I felt my dry lips crack open. The old wounds opening as well as new ones, letting beads of ruby blood weep through them. I felt like I had a white-hot rod of iron stuffed down my throat as I tried to speak. I wanted desperately to say, "I'll tell you!"

I would tell them everything if I could. But I couldn't, no matter how hard I wanted, no matter how hard I tried, I would never make a sound.

The one thing that went through my mind, other than the obliterating agony cursing through me, was that at least they never got the satisfaction of hearing me scream as I stared down the neon yellow barrel of the oven-sized cannon. They've seen me cry, they've seen me plead, but they will never – never – hear me scream.

I forgot everyone I love – anyone who will get hurt because of me – as I vaguely, distantly heard the order of termination being barked out by the massive, metal Warlord.

Second AN: please leave a review to tell me what you think of this. Promise next chapter will be at least three to four thousand words long; have a wonderful day/night!