Hello again, sorry for the LAAAAAAAAATE instalment of the third chapter. I kind of got taken in by all my homework, exams, projects, labs, and presentations….you know the drill. Still, this chapter's longer than the usual and I hope you forgive me.

Thank you for all the reviews, follows and favourites. I feel so special :D So pleaaaaase review. I can't get enough of it.

Disclaimer: I did wish to become Cassandra Claire. It did not work out (and possibly never will as I have just shared the wish). The end of the story is that I am not her so do not own the character or the places... blah blah blah

Chapter 3: A NEW GENERATION

The silence was palpable and Alec's mind raced over all the possible outcomes. He glared at his hands accusingly—reluctant to let his eyes meet the identical pair belonging to the man he had just saved. And for a moment, just a single breath-taking and earth-shatteringly guilty moment, he clenched his fists and imagined the daggers had never left their battle-worn grasp, had never plunged into the demon and had never saved William Herondale, the lost love of his very own lost love. He imagined William Herondale's lifeless body with immovable lips, unable to utter his own name, and with black eyelashes brushing sharp cheekbones in a state of eternal sleep where he didn't have the power to hurt anyone. Alec swallowed his pain and slowly let go of the breath he had held in, realising that it didn't matter. Someone would have saved the man anyway. If it hadn't been Alec it would have been any one of the other people in the room. He raised his head decidedly. It was done. He opened his mouth as he tried to choose the right words to cut the tension in the room but hesitated when he noticed all the features that resembled his in William Herondale and felt himself to be a shadow. Insignificant. He swallowed.

Jace seemed to suddenly hold himself straighter in an attempt to hide how unsure he was of himself facing the William Herondale whose copy of A Tale of Two Cities he possessed. His brain could not process the fact that a man who he had presumed to be an ancestor of his stood before him. A man who belonged more than a century in the past.

"We are not going to hurt you and we did not bring you here," said Jace, politely.

A bemused expression crossed William's face as he watched Jace attempt a rare and unchartered territory to many a Herondale—diplomacy.

"Make no mistakes, I do not have the slightest impression that any of you are capable of hurting me," responded Will, a dangerous glint to his already stormy eyes. It was his posture that betrayed his words. Clary saw the way he favoured his left side to his right side which bled profusely through his vintage overcoat. His stance was a give-away, he stood as if facing an army single-handedly, his figure devoid of any earlier grace under the weight of responsibility and more than a fair measure of insanity, protecting the girl, Theresa Gray, and the unconscious boy, James Carstairs... unconscious?... or dead? Clary shuddered at the limbs which were bent at unnatural angles.

"Jeez, we save your lives and we're the bad guys? Who else thinks that's fucked up?" came Alec's voice. He was pleased to give everyone else some responsibility for the continuance of William Herondale's life by using collectives. As was to be expected, Tessa's face had reddened noticeably at the blasphemic language and Isabelle stared longingly at the natural blush that rose upon the porcelain skin of the girl.

Through all of this angst, Clary was absorbed in the sight of the figure on the floor. A crushing grief had settled upon her as she ignored the aggressive voices. It was almost poetic, that the boy on the ground shimmered and glinted liquid silver akin to the shards of scattered glass until he was just another broken piece which would never return to its glory. It was tragic. It was a mirage. It was a tragic mirage. And still no one had lifted a finger to help. That was what Clary thought of as strange until she assessed the situation and accepted that William was prioritizing defence and that Theresa was in a state of shock so preoccupying that she could not have been of much help. And Clary felt the girl's helplessness as if it were her own. Desperation shook her as she trembled with the need to do something to fix the boy. She had seen enough death, and the beauty of this one only made it all the more terrible and unacceptable.

She strode forward, crossing over the invisible boundaries of fear and anger that held the two groups apart, only to be stopped short by a blade hovering at the base of her neck.

"Stay away," growled Will, uncomfortable with this girl in tight-fitting men's clothes being at such proximity. Despite her height, she held herself in a manner that contrasted greatly with any woman he had known before. She did not look gentle and she did not look pleased with the weapon aimed at her. Will studied her as she waved away the golden haired boy who looked more confused by the knife than angered.

"I can't help him if you kill me," reasoned the girl, nodding almost imperceptibly at Jem. Will looked at her again and she stared back, her face perfectly composed. After what seemed like hours, the girl took in a ragged breath and her facade was lost. It was only for a second, but in that one breath Will saw a thousand battles won and lost, a guilt most profound, and an edge of panic and anguish engraved in her features. And then the breadth was taken and the mask reinstated. With a nod, Will stepped aside to offer her clear path to his parabatai with his seraph blade still unsheathed.

Clary knelt by James, frightened by the enormity of the promise she had just made. She may as well have claimed she could grow money on trees—it would have been less of a lie. She couldn't bring back the dead. And it was infinitely true that she couldn't. But luckily for her, James Carstairs was not dead. He was just on the brink of it.

She heard the shallow breaths of the boy, short wheezes interrupted by tortured moans and she swept silver strands of hair off of the boy's forehead delicately, his skin a blazing inferno, before trailing a hand down his cheek to wipe away the tears streaming down his face.

"Tessa?" rasped the boy's musical voice, ravaged by pain and raw emotion.

Will looked to Tess, who had hope written across her delicate features and he felt a pain greater than that from the physical wound bleeding him dry. The problem, he decided, was that she had so much faith. Even in this girl they knew nothing about. This girl who had just been stroking Jem so tenderly that Will felt Tessa would have gone green with jealousy. And yet there was none on Tessa's face. Just innocent and dangerous hope.

Clary had laid her hand upon Jem's forehead and closed her eyes when the image flickered into her consciousness, one of swirls and jagged edges hinting at both honour and sacrifice. Without opening her eyes she pulled out her steel, a movement which made William stiffen. Then lifted her head to meet Jace's eyes from across the room, whispering "Use an iratze on William, Jace. You're going to need his strength."

Jace opened his mouth to stop her but she just smiled weakly to absolve him of any guilt and to demand that he not deny her this small good deed. Though it pained him, he understood her desire to be good. To compensate for the exponential growth in evil. That was all she needed. Then (to Tessa's mortification) she unbuttoned Jem's overcoat and shirt to expose a chest chiselled as any other shadow hunter's and began drawing.

And once more a silence enveloped the congregation. This time it was one filled with anxious breaths as they all watched Clary's steel move with precision despite the wielder's growing fatigue. After three entire minutes of silence, Jace stepped toward Will and drew a quick iratze as if by following Clary's command he had lent her strength in a way he knew was impossible. But it didn't work, and by the end of the seventh and final minute Clary lay bleached and still, with no breaths to assure Jace of life, next to the silver boy with mended bones and a steady heartbeat who, despite the great sacrifice, hadn't regained consciousness…yet.

Don't worry, all Clary fans out there. Stick around, because I'm not psychotic enough to kill off Clary in the third chapter of a crossover….Or am I? Muehehehe.

And review, even if it's to tell me you hated it or that it's moving too slowly on the whole (I get the feeling it is, but then I really don't want to rush it and I want it to be real).

Thanks :)