~~ooo~~

Zander hisses and a knife finds it's way into his hand.

"Now, I doubt you want to do this," Aspen says, his hand finding a dagger of his own. His peacock green eye glints and his hair is in his eyes. A quick shake of his head clears his vision and then it's black again. A body barrels him over and Zander's going at him with a knife, stabbing at the air and at the ground, trying to hit his skin. A shriek tears itself from Aspen's tongue and he rolls clear, managing to only get a thin cut across his cheek. "Look what you've done," Aspen says as he wipes away the blood. "Now, you've been bad."

"Shut up, shut up," Zander cries out, lashing forward with the knife again. He's got the advantage, if only by a little, and Aspen is taken aback by his ferocity. An animalistic growl forms in the back of his throat and Aspen lunges at him with his teeth, latching onto him as they tumble to the floor, rolling and writhing in the grass.

"Look at what you've done," Aspen growls in his ear, drawing his lips down his cheek. "We could have been on the same side, but you chose to try and go after me. Me! You're no match for the likes of me." His hand snakes to pull the knife from Zander's hand, sitting on his chest with his legs straddling his waist. Pushing Zander's hands above his head, Aspen tilts his head to the side. "I could kill your right here. I could kill you and no one would ever care. I could kill you for what you've tried to do to me and throw your body for the wolves."

"But you won't," Zander chokes out, a thin puncture mark on his lip where Aspen managed to bite him. He coughs. "Get off me."

"I can't do that," Aspen says, drawing a finger down his throat, his thumb resting on Zander's pulse. "That would be too easy, wouldn't it?" He's leaning down and bestows him a haughty kiss, more out of spite than anything else. His heartbeat is pounding in enthusiasm and Aspen smiles against his skin. "I have you where I want you," Aspen whispers, his voice low and husky. "And I'm done playing nice, sweetheart."

And then Zander's kicking again and he manages to knock Aspen off of him. Scrabbling for the knife, they roll like cats on the ground, screeching whenever one of them is bitten or scratched. They're more like wild animals than they like to admit. And through everything, the knife ends up in Zander's hands and he swings down, blood welling up in his eyes from a cut on his forehead so he can't see straight. Aspen grunts and there's a sound of something tearing and Zander stands, staring down at Aspen, who coughs and gags on the floor. Aspen raises a hand, the silvery flecks on his skin glinting as he tries to find the hilt of the knife buried in his shoulder.

"You...You bitch," Aspen gags, spitting up small speckles of blood. "Run, run as fast as you can before I kill you."

"Get out," Zander orders, his head raised as he stands over the faerie. He's never felt in control before. In all his time knowing Aspen, he's always dreamed of beating him up and managing to corner him, but with blood staining his hand from where he drove the blade into his shoulder to the hilt, he feels sick.

Zander sighs inwardly.

Oh, the irony.

~~ooo~~

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.

Percy shook his head in his sleep and cried out lightly, his hands rising to run through his hair. A copy of the bible was knocked to the floor from his bed, landing open on the first pages. Percy had sought mundane knowledge from an ancient document but found nothing but suffering and death and the sound of screaming echoed through his head as he dreamed. It burned on the floor next to him and it made his blood boil.

And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness.

"Oh, good Raziel," Percy whispered subconsciously, the demon blood in his veins coursing under his skin like magma. It seared his skin and sweat dripped down the back of his neck. "I am not evil," he protested in a strangled cry. "I am not dark."

God called the light "day," and the darkness he called "night."

The demon in Percy's head disagreed.

And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day.

With a yelp that finally tore him from his nightmares, he awoke in the dark.

~~ooo~~

While some viewed Shadowhunting like an art, Mason viewed it like a job and talent.

There wasn't anything pretty about the way he fought and he failed to add in the flair of gracefulness that many Shadowhunters did, as if fighting was a dance. No, he liked it raw. He liked the look of things up close and messy and the way his opponent looked when he pressed the blade deeper and deeper. The light would crackle in their eyes and he'd shove the blade in further just to hear it crunch, just to hear them scream, and then he liked to watch them die.

"I've won," he liked to say, his expression clear. "Filth. I've won."

People might have called him unmerciful.

He just called himself devoted to his job.

From the moment he had met Aaron Landers, the demon with a soft spot for mortals, he knew he'd have to kill him. There was no remorse in the thought either, though, and Mason found that he took delight in the thought. Aaron, after all, had tricked him before. That made Mason grit his teeth. No one tricked him. And when the dirty filth went behind his back to work for the enemy?...Mason relished in the thought of killing him; killing him slowly after he had used the demon up for anything that could be of use.

So he was patient.

And waited.

He was good at that.

And it all happened in a library and Mason was cleaning his seraph blade. "I'm sure someone will take care of you in the future," he said, referencing to when Aaron did finally emerge from the Void. He laughed inwardly at the prospect, amused at what someone else could possibly do to the demon who had the audacity to think he was a Shadowhunter's equal. " I do hope you remember not to betray someone again. That is your downfall. Then again, I was going to get rid of you eventually anyway. You just sped up the process."

But Aaron merely laughed, saying something about putting his book in the right spot. He glanced back at Mason before focusing on the bookshelf. "And who are you kidding?" He sniggered, and for a moment, Mason could see his glamour flicker. "I'm a demon. I'm born to betray."

Now, that demon. That thing...Mason itched to kill it and he almost couldn't help himself when he took a fist of Aaron's shirt, his eyes flaming with anticipation. "I'd say it's been a pleasure, but it hasn't," Mason said and laughed, plunging the blade deep into his chest. For a moment, Aaron was expressionless and then the world exploded with sound and movement and Aaron was stumbling back, ripping the blade from his chest. The glamour that held back the true appearance of his form crackled and wings formed from Aaron's back. They were billowing and feathered and Aaron writhed, his fingers sharpening to the points of claws and his eyes slits as the rest of his glamour faded away.

He mumbled something before finally disappearing into ash and Mason took no pause before cleaning up the mess.

To him, there was no 'unfortunate' loss that day.

Only a job well done.

~~ooo~~

No matter what people say, Steff never thinks Cole is crazy.

Only...Confused.

There are times when he does nothing but insult her and talk about being damned and dying. His eyes are dark and his fingers are tight on her wrists and she's sure that there'll be bruises if he doesn't let go soon enough. He always lets go in time, though, just when it starts to really hurt, as if he's timing everything out in his head. And he focuses on the negatives as if he's seeing a photograph in the world that is only in shades of black so he's close to blind when it comes to seeing what's right in front of him. Slowly, slowly, Steff watches him tear himself apart like he's a puzzle with too many missing pieces so he's decided to just scrap it in the first place to save himself from pain.

She sees that he's conflicted and she whispers things to him because she wants to help. She wants to believe all the things she tells him but after weeks of things getting worse and spiraling to degrees of hell and she's being burned. There's this little scar on her heart where all the bad things he says go and they collect in a little hole and it hurts. Because no matter how many times she says that Cole doesn't mean the words he says, it becomes a little bit harder to believe it every time.

And there are some moments when everything is undone and she can't imagine him ever being cruel again.

His hands are in her hair and he's kissing her once, twice, three times and her eyes are closed. Raising her hand to the nape of his neck, she sighs and curls her fingers in his hair. His hands are on her sides and she blushes furiously, pink tinting her cheeks when he pulls her closer by her waist. Her other hand raises to put against his cheek but he catches her wrist, lightly, and takes a shuddering breath when they break apart a fraction and in a fraction of a moment that takes too long. Everything is new like he's mapping out how to be kind and she's sure of their ability to be simply okay. And when he moves to kiss her jaw lightly, she takes the time to whisper that everything is going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay.

He pauses and his eyes are dark when he stares into hers and she looks away for a moment before catching his gaze again. Part of her just wants him to kiss her again to avoid the silence between them but they've never been like that so he just closes his eyes for a moment and she can see him thinking. Not everything is okay, she knows he's going to say. Things are never going to be okay.

And when he does, she shakes her head slowly and leans her head against her chest.

He's not crazy.

He's just confused.

But she's not sure if she's just trying to make a silver lining or if she actually believes it.

When Cole murmurs that she doesn't understand, she shakes her head again, slowly, and presses a finger against his mouth. He quiets for a moment and she drops her hand, lifting her chin quickly to press a kiss to his cheek. And even though he calls her weak and shuts himself off as if breaking ties is the 'strong' thing to do, she knows him better. And then she knows that she's vulnerable because she's grieving but she's learned that she's not weak, even if he says she is.

She's stronger than him. She just doesn't know it yet.

~~ooo~~

And Connor's screaming for his brother, crawling across the ground over broken glass.

A picture frame and vase is shattered across the floor and he takes little care of avoiding the shards when he finally manages to push himself up and stumble over to his brother. The lack of a parabatai rune aches where he wishes it was etched and a deep ache settles in his heart. He whispers his brother's name and falls to his knees where his brother is laying.

"I'm fine," Cadyn mumbles, rolling over. There's blood matting the back of his head but his eyes are open and he's staring blearily up at his brother. "I'm okay, really," he says and coughs up a little bit of blood.

"Oh, thank Raziel," Connor presses his face into Cadyn's shoulder, breathing hard and fast and worriedly. "I killed it. I killed it. I killed it and I thought it hurt you real bad."

Curving an arm around his brother's neck to pull him close, Cadyn shakes his head, his eyes pressed shut. "No, no. I'm not that stupid...I...Just...Really need an iratze...Badly..." His breath hitches painfully when he pushes himself up to a sitting position. "Hey. Connor. I'm okay, really."

Connor blinks once, twice, and clears the anxious tears in his eyes. "I know, you crazy bastard. But if you're going to ever get hurt somethin' stupid like that, at least let me know so I can save you."

~~ooo~~

Cypher was never the best fighter of the bunch.

He didn't even know why he was invited into the Hunt. It all happened so fast and although he liked the Hunt, he didn't ever find out what the Hunt liked about him. Really, he just liked to sit up in the trees and watch people and everyone just thought he was a loon. And in all honestly, he was. Sometimes he'd go on Hunts and people would stare at him because he'd hum a jaunty tune and then start a fight he couldn't finish. And there was this insatiable want for blood that separated him from the rest.

He wasn't a bad person, no, but he'd spend hours up on a tree, taking a dagger and slicing it down his finger before pressing it against his tongue and tasting the copper. His eyes lit up and he would draw his tongue over the cut. He'd heal it after with what little magic he had and then repeat the process. When he felt himself slipping, he'd press his finger through his thin shirt and against the metal of his iron piercing and he hissed. It burned.

"Now, Cypher," he'd tell himself, staring at his burned finger. "You have to be good or else."

He tried to think of what he was like before the Hunt but the memories fell through his fingers like sand.

Caspian was never one who believed in second chances.

After his time in the Unseelie Court, he was done. Dead. Used and beaten to the ground until he was a good-for-nothing faerie that could only hardly pull his weight. The staff he used to use grew dirty with cobwebs and, over time, it faded into the depths of the forest and was lost when he was evicted from the Court. Now, what was he? Easy pickings? The laughingstock of the faeries? A dead reminder of what he used to be? When he thought back, he couldn't help a twinge of remorse; he was hardly the faerie he had been when he was a valued member of the Unseelie Court.

And then suddenly, there was a chance. Some crazy son of a bitch would bother him about all these sort of things when he went to the Downworlder Towns. Caspian later learned the lunatic as some crazy named Aspen, but despite already hating him and his dreadful personality, it was an opening to belong again.

I'm not a good fighter anymore, he protested though, when Aspen encouraged him to join. I haven't fought in a long time.

But he was convinced to join nonetheless and the Hunt was a new start, a good start; a start for another beginning.

Kellan knew he was a good person.

Through the fighting and blood spilled across his hands, he knew he was a good person. There was something instinctual that fed on his kindness when he saw someone getting hurt. Someone he cared about. And, really, for all he cared, everyone that was a respectful part of the Hunt was his family and he'd do anything for them. He'd fight for their life, make bargains even if he got the short end of the stick. Killing was one thing that he had the most trouble with, though, and a moments hesitation made him afraid because to kill someone was just as bad as letting a member of his extended family die.

He whittled darts anyway, dipping them in faerie poisons that he made out of nightlock and jimsonweed. And then he'd close his eyes when he'd aim for the enemy and he'd look away when they fell to their knees, delusional and sick.

"All life is precious," he would breathe to himself as he came up behind them. "I'm sorry." And then he'd end their suffering and try to convince himself that he was forced to kill them.

He hated it.

But no matter what sins he committed for the Hunt: his family...he knew he was a good person.

~~ooo~~