Hullo:) Here is a lil dedication to a long suffering couple

Disclaimer: Nothing is owned but the plot.

Chapter one: The Bookstore

Once upon a time mankind was blessed by the greatest love story ever told.

People wept about it and mourned about it, yet forgot about it as soon as they read the last word of the last page.

But they were fools, all of them. For they didn't know one fact.

It wasn't over yet.

Gather around, gather around - yes, the lil one can sit on my lap here, then you won't have to sit on the grass - yes, yes, just like that, a curve of people under the smiling moon. It is at times like these when the power of storytelling is at its strongest, you know? Around a fire, under the moon, and with a story told by a crying jester.

Don't cry you say? No, silly lil boy, I am not crying, it is merely splattered paint. Aye, we do have a good crowd tonight, don't you say lil one? Ve-ry...what's the word? Ah yes, diverse.

Tell you a story you say? A good story for a good crowd, methinks that is only proper, don't you say?

Lemme think, a good story for a good crowd, one 'o one has ever heard of. Hm...ah! ...No...too dangerous, 'o good 'o good, another one - is it good you ask? Yes, of course. My stories are always good. And it is real, so all the better it is when told. Tell it you say? You want to hear it you say?

What is your name, child? Max? 'Tis a good name young Max here have. You say you are not afraid? No one needs to be afraid. Stories are not meant to scare, only awe. Oi, and you have blue eyes child? My story's got blue eyes as well, the most beau-tiful blue eyes.

Well, it seems like the stars tonight has taken a certain shine upon you, don't you say - to show me 'hat twinkle in your eye. All the more 'eason to tell you the story then.

'lright.

The tale I am about to tell is a tale you probably have never heard of before, for it is never supposed to be told, one way or another. But it is the truth, and methinks we deserve it at the very least. Though, do remember, just as the saying goes, some truths, perhaps, are better left unsaid.

It all began on a late July morning upon a wooden bench in a train station.

Picture the grandest train station you have ever gone to, perhaps the one in New York, multiply the grandness and gold by ten times and you will have the train station right. Now amidst the gold and glamour, there is a simple wooden bench, handle-less and un-crafted. It is just sitting there, timeless as the station itself and older than the land it sits on, solemn and silent as the unforgiving God of Time.

Now picture a boy sitting upon it. A young boy, just over the age of twenty, with a face as soft as the cut of flowers and eyes the colour of midnight blue the stars above us are resting on. The boy found the bench by accident, but grew to like it for its solidarity, thus marking it as his own by sitting on it, day after day, week after week, using it as his own personal workbench while he watches the way of the world.

Let's give him a name shall we? Let's call him -

Alec.

The stage is set, the characters ready, and with the chime of a bell, the curtains shall raise and the play shall begin.

-Ding.

The dream was always the same.

"May I have your attention please - Train number 57 is now boarding on track number 4."

Black mahogany wood marked with gilded calligraphy arched elegantly over the ceiling, adorned by faint yellow lamps swinging by the light breeze. From its central point, four ribs radiated across the vast space until they reached the circular arcade of a hundred arched windows, standing on both sides of the train station. In some mornings, when there were fewer people bustling about, sunlight would stream through the glass shards and reflect, uninterrupted by shadows, onto the floor the mosaic of daydreams and memories. Alec liked the train station best during such mornings, when natural light was piercing through the black space and allowing visitors a faint glimpse into fantasy, carefully crafted by the subtle ephemeral beauty of the light.

Leaning his weight against the bench, fingers idly playing with a rebel string at the edge of his cuff, Alec watched the crowd stream through the platform. Some were preparing for their coming trip the departing trains downstairs would lead them towards, some waiting for carriages to begin their journey from the station, and some, like he himself, was simply there. Suitcases and parasols laid in groups of their own, piled up against one another in a nearly artistic manner of civilization, awaiting their owners to lead them off to a new life.

This was what the train station essentially was for, a way and hope for a novus vita, a new life.

Alec saw a boy running across the black tiled floor into the arms of a young woman, two lovers whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears, an old man sweeping the floor at a distant corner – and he found himself interested to the extent of obsession, watching the intricacies of the crowd as a bystander. It was individuals liked these that made up the world, as beautifully horrifying as it was, and Alec found himself wanting to know more about each and every one of them, wanting to meet the complicated clockwork that made up the world they lived in. For everyone had a story, and as insignificant as they might seem to be, there was always a meaning, an intriguer to it that made you want to know about the ending. That was after all, the reason why they called it a 'story'.

"Penny for your thoughts?" A sweet voice cut through his mind and he raised his eyes to the familiar girl, who was holding her hands out, using the line literally. Alec shook his head and fished a penny out from his coat pocket, dropping it into the eager ungloved palms.

He never knew what her name was, he never thought to ask nor did she disclose it, so neither did he return the favour. But somehow, despite the secrecy, he and the girl with long black hair had developed a mutual liking, and after two coincidental meetings at the same place in the train station, established a strange companionship. He stole a glance at the clock behind the girl – 12:42 pm – right on time.

"Anything new at the station?" the girl asked, flinging herself lightly down onto the bench next to Alec, her black hair fanning out across the back of her elaborate yet rather thin frock. Alec could feel lingering male attention directed towards them, and struggled off his coat, dumping it onto her lap despite her surprised protest, hiding the girl's nearly-bare legs.

"Not to the extent that it will interest you. It isn't a shoe shop, nor is there a new handsome chocolatier." Alec chuckled as she puffed in annoyance. "It's a bookstore."

"Right up your alley then, bibliomaniac."

"It's 'bibliophile'. 'Bibliomaniac' means a book lover gone mad." He countered without thinking, recalling the day when the bookstore opened.

He was running in the darkness, searching - searching for something, or someone - and the same voice was at his ear, urging him on.

It hadn't been a glamorous event. There hadn't been flowers or crowds or a party, it had merely been an unlocking of a door and a turning of a hanging sign from "Closed" to "Open". Alec had been sitting right here, on this same bench when the store opened in the far right corner of the station, just visible from where he sat.

It was a dainty little thing, walls polished with a vintage dark blue, a stark contrast to the gilded train station. Standing by itself, a certain distance away from the florist next to it and cloaked by the shadows of the two big columns in front of it, the bookstore seemed to be more prone to loneliness than being accustomed to his more sharp and friendly counterparts.

There wasn't a clear name to the store, and only a line of calligraphy decorated the exterior, where the name post usually hung – "We live and breathe words". Alec had taken the quaint line as the utmost reason for the store's strange pull to him, a store that was unlike any other bookshops, for it had described to him an absolute truth he actually agreed to.

Alec hadn't had the chance to step into the store however, as at that precise moment when he reached it; there was a sharp chime in the air, signifying him to return to his post downstairs. Magic at its finest and cruelest.

This was that time of the world when magic was wielded by the lucky few to possess it without falter or hesitation, when magic and powers alike were not frowned upon by society but treated as normalcy. The time when warlocks and faeries and fantastical creatures were no longer named 'freaks' by the ignorant but treated as people. The time when magic was at its strongest and undeterred by mundane tales of horror, when magic was used to the world's greatest advantage and promised efficiency.

But magic, despite its strength and exoticism, hadn't stopped him from glimpsing the only book on display at the bookstore under the faint blue light – "The Bane Chronicles".

The same warm voice, lilted by a foreign accent, yet soothing to the ear. Unrecognizable, yet somehow familiar, saying the same word over and over, his own name -

"Alright, bibliophile, what I was hoping to tell you is that there is this ne –" The girl chatted on, glancing at the boy next to her. He was very pretty, she decided, with that mob of black hair hanging down onto the delicate hook of his nose and such deep blue eyes. She ran her eyes down his slender frame, one fit for a dancer, yet hideously hidden by a fraying waistcoat the colour of murky water. She really should take him clothes-shopping soon.

Lifting her eyes back up to his face, she studied the defined plane of the pale white skin, noticing how a line of light from the windows was enveloping him into a glittering tapestry, resting its trail on his thin gentle lips.

It was a sort of uncharted beauty of a fallen angel that had hung itself onto the innocent canvas, who did not know he possessed it, who, she suspected, would never know he possessed it.

Lowering her eyes down towards the ground before he noticed her staring, the girl decided that she liked him. Not in the way of a lover, but one of a big brother. Sitting next to him was comfortable, and it brought her a sense of familiarity, the familiarity of a long-forgotten home. But that was another story, she thought as she recalled another place in another time, and a boy with shaggy brown hair, and it was one she would rather not remember.

Reverting her attention back towards the silent boy, she arranged the bonnet on her head because she felt a need to be a positive motivation for the male population, and banged her shoulder against his.

Alexander.

"Hm?" He looked startled, as if he had just been shaken out of a reverie.

"I must take my leave now." She lied, knowing that there would be no further conversation when the older boy had something in his mind. The girl dare thought that it was about that bookstore and that book on the windowsill, it had, after all, been the only thing that had been going on in his mind just now.

Standing up, she twisted her wrists, letting out just the tips of the whips from the sleeves of her frock into her palms. With a flurry of white feathers, invisible to that of the unchosen ones, she set off with a smile into a darker corner.

Alexander Lightwood. She remembered now, memories were coming back to her, slowly but surely, like the fall of snowflakes downtown.

Alec Lightwood, the girl amended with an easy smile, your story is just beginning.

And thereby hangs a tale.

No no, the story is not over yet young Max, the story is far from over. This is only the beginning.

Come back to-morrow, in the open field under the apple tree. I will be there with a bonfire waiting, and a story to tell.

A/N: Magnus is coming soon, I promise, but I do need to write up the setting first. I must confess though, that I do not have a Beta, and anyone who volunteers will be duly appreciated, so please do bear with me.

Also, faster reviews doth encourage faster writing.

Thank you so much for reading.