Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who favorited this story. I appreciate it very much. Enjoy this chapter. I will say that TERRIBLE THINGS HAPPEN IN THIS STORY starting in this chapter and you have been warned. I will give various warnings if something truly awful is going to happen. Thank you for reading!

Warning: Trigger warning for suicide of a non- main character.

Credit for the loyalty oath of the Circle goes to Cassandra Clare. Please see Chapter 1 for the disclaimer to this story.


Chapter 9

When Michael's eyes opened again he saw a blinding light that made him dizzy. He closed his eyes, feeling more hung over than he had ever felt before. His skin was oily with sweat and the mattress beneath him was soaked. He was freezing cold and heard the sound of dripping water just before a hot cloth touched his chest, causing him to jerk away. He felt a cool, soft hand grip his arm, holding him stationary, and he looked up into the hazel eyes of Celine Montclaire.

"Let me go," Michael said. Celine lifted her hand very deliberately and Michael sat up, wincing when he felt the wound on his chest tug at the skin, feeling as if it might tear. He looked down and saw four deep claw marks over his heart, plus a fifth one that cut all the way to bone.

"You have a fever from the iratze. I'm just trying to make you comfortable," Celine said. She dropped the cloth into a basin of water that was tinged pink and pushed her hair from her face. Tonight she was dressed in a short nightgown with a silk robe over it. Michael stole a glance at the wall, hoping for a window to judge the time, but the room had none.

"Thank you," Michael said. "I can take care of myself. You should go." He climbed out of bed and looked down, shivering, relieved he was at least dressed in a pair of boxer shorts that clung to his legs. He placed a hand on Celine's arm. "Come. Now." The last thing Michael wanted was for Celine to be here any longer, and to see him as weak.

"Let me help you," Celine said. "You're hurt." She looked him over, worried.

"I want you out of here, now," Michael said. He gripped her arm and gave it a tug, then stumbled backwards when she jerked away, raising her other hand to slap him.

"Have a little respect. I'm not here because I want to be," Celine snapped.

"Then why are you here?" Michael asked.

Celine folder her arms across her stomach and purposely did not make eye contact. "There is no need for you to treat me this way. I'm not interested in you, so get over yourself."

"Well, I'm not interested in you either," Michael said, walking to the door. "Don't think for a second that I don't see how you look at Luke. You know, you aren't the first girl to have feelings for her brother's parabatai." Celine followed, her eyes hurt and angry, and stopped before she got to the door.

"You don't know the first thing about me," Celine said, and left the room.

As soon as she was gone, Michael darted to the bathroom to be sick, then soaked in a bathtub full of ice cold water before finally passing out, face down, on the cold tile floor. His last thought before the blackness was of the wolf that had attacked him, who Michael had killed. Tonight there was a family out there, perhaps, whose son would never come home. Michael would never be able to fully accept the blood of another on his hands, but maybe Valentine was right. If they were willing to attack without first being threatened, maybe werewolves and vampires and all of the hellish creatures that the Angel had not blessed did deserve to die.


When he woke up hours later, the fever was gone, and he was back in bed. There was a fresh iratze on his chest, and Robert was half sprawled on the bed, his fingers laced with Michael's as he slept. Michael reached over and traced a knuckle over Robert's cheek and Robert woke up, his eyes opening and his lips parting as he lifted his head.

"You came to me," Michael whispered.

"I couldn't stay away," Robert said. He ran a hand over Michael's chest, careful of the wounds that were still healing. "I heard about the wolf, how it just attacked you. You could have died, Michael." Michael closed his eyes and thought back to the night before, of the wolf and Valentine with his bow. Valentine could have killed the wolf, but that battle had belonged to Michael.

Michael felt Robert's hand clasp his, and then Robert was kissing his knuckles. Michael looked over to see Robert's eyes tightly closed, the same as he had always been when they were younger, training, and he was hurt bad enough to warrant tears. All of those times, much like this time, Robert refused to cry.

"I didn't," Michael said. "You would know if I did."

"You could have been killed!" Robert exclaimed. "Michael. I'm so sorry about last night. I didn't mean to not be happy for you and Josie. I am happy. I just thought you would have told me."

"I wasn't sure how to," Michael said. "We didn't want to jinx it. It's so early on. Anything could happen."

"I'm happy for you," Robert said. "You're going to be an amazing father Michael. I'm happy it happened to you first. I'm sorry for the way I was."

"I forgive you," Michael said, and squeezed Robert's hand.

It was early in the afternoon and a storm was brewing on the horizon when Michael knelt beside the lake behind Fairchild Manor in the presence of Luke, Valentine, Hodge, and Robert. As the wind picked up and the air grew cold, Michael repeated Valentine's words back to him.

"I hereby render unconditional obedience to the Circle and it's principles. I will be ready to risk my life at any time for the Circle, in order to preserve the purity of the bloodlines of Idris, and for the mortal world with whose safety we are charged," Michael said, and he closed his eyes as Valentine dropped the amulet over his head.


Two weeks after Michael's initiation, he stood in front of a locker in a room at the Gard. He had interviewed for, and got, the job Valentine had offered, and began working twelve hour shifts four nights a week patrolling the prison cells beneath the Gard. His job was to watch over the werewolves, vampires, warlocks, faeries, and Shadowhunters who disobeyed either the Law or the Accords and had been sentenced to prison either as punishment, or to await sentencing for their crime.

Robert took a job with the Gard as well and appeared to be better suited for the task than Michael, who had never seen himself as breathing the same air as those who had committed crimes against the Clave. On Robert's first night of work, there was a brawl between a werewolf and a guard. It was Robert who clubbed the werewolf on the back of the head, knocking it unconscious and saving the guard from injury. Michael had stood by, shocked and frightened; Robert had acted without a second thought.

The prison reminded Michael of his days at the Academy. Everyone working in the prison lived to serve the Clave while also despising those they were charged with guarding. It was a place where the members of the Circle would thrive. Michael learned quickly that the laws above ground were different than the laws of the prison, and that almost everything was interpreted differently. Robert was never questioned for the incident with the werewolf. Instead, he was praised. Down in the prison, while the Accords remained in place, it was every man for himself.

The prison was underground, and composed of levels, stacked one on top of the other, with each level devoted to a different species. The ceilings were low and the hallways tight, with little more than a shoulder's width between the wall and the metal door of cell. The only light came from witch light sconces set into the walls and from the witch light stones the guards carried. There were times when the prison was loud and there were times when it was unearthly quiet with only the sound of footsteps to be heard.

Robert had never liked tight spaces, and had always lived in fear of drowning or being buried alive, and had lasted only one more night in the prison before a panic attack sent him back towards the light. Michael had chased after him, begging him to calm down, but Robert hadn't heard him. He had promptly resigned from the prison in the middle of his shift.

Not that Michael minded too terribly. Without Robert, Michael was able to focus on his set list of tasks in the prison, and on his fourth night, just before his shift was to begin, Stephen had walked into the locker room dressed in the navy blue gear worn by all the prison guards. The four C's of the Clave were embroidered in silver thread over the left breast pocket of his jacket, and silver buttons marched down the front of it. A weapons belt was around his hips and contained the only weapons the guards were permitted to carry, which were a dagger made of silver and iron hand cuffs.

On this night, Stephen walked into the locker room and gave Michael a smile as he dropped a lunch bag into his locker. Michael smiled and handed him another bag. It had been two weeks since Michael had begun work at the prison, and one week for Stephen. July had given way to August yet still the heat of summer persisted, turning the air in the prison stale and thick and making the damp ends of Stephen's hair curl.

"You shouldn't have," Stephen mumbled.

"Josie made extra," Michael said, not mentioning that Josie had made extra food since the day after Stephen's first night, when Michael had seen that Stephen only brought an apple and a sandwich on stale bread for his meal. After that, Michael began supplementing Stephen's lunches, having noticed that Stephen had lost all of the weight he must have gained on his honeymoon. He had dark circles beneath his eyes. Stephen wasn't the carefree boy he had been in school; he was different now. Sometimes he lost himself in his own thoughts and looked off into the distance, his expression that of someone who had too much on his mind.

Stephen had been initiated into the Circle the night after Michael had, and they hadn't discussed their initiations, having promised Valentine they wouldn't. Still, Michael saw Stephen's amulet at the end of their first night of working together. They had been miserably hot and had wasted no time getting out of their uniforms once their shift was over. Michael had glanced over as Stephen wiggled out of his shirt and saw the golden amulet resting against the tan skin of Stephen's chest. He also saw a long scar running down the inside of his forearm, and knew better than to ask where it came from.

"Josie Wayland must certainly be an angel, sent on high," Stephen said. "How is she doing, by the way?"

"She's sick," Michael said. "Every morning, anyway." That had been a treat to wake up to, his lovely wife miserably sick in the bathroom but insisting she was fine. By mid afternoon she would rebound enough to nap in the room off the back of the house, dozing among the roses and morning glories that reached for sunlight. "We told my parents that we are expecting, so she is in very good hands."

His mother had begun cooking again, making Josie tea and soup to help ease her nausea. At best guess Josie was two months along and according to the pregnancy books she was reading, the baby was the size of a kidney bean. "Oh. And she's craving sweets at night. I've promised to bring her home something from Goody's after my shift." That was, if Michael didn't eat what he had bought for Josie on his hour ride home from the prison. "How is Amatis?"

"Fine," Stephen said. He closed the door to his locker. "Different. Not the way she was when we got married. I think she's angry about the Circle. She doesn't like it, you know. Never has."

"That seems odd, being that you and Luke are both involved in the Circle," Michael said. He left the room with Stephen following, and they began down a set of steps to a lower level. Their first order of business was to provide meals to the prison's occupants. Tonight it was their turn to feed the few Shadowhunter prisoners being held in the prison.

"Valentine has always rubbed her the wrong way, ever since he and Luke got together. Amatis never approved of them swearing as parabatai. She said they were two different people," Stephen said. "I see that, I guess. Luke wouldn't hurt a fly, and well, Valentine…" One of Michael's last memories of Valentine had been of him eagerly watching Robert and Luke spar. Valentine had an unquenchable bloodlust and Luke didn't. "You are Robert seem better together."

"We try to complement one another," Michael said. "So things are rough at home?"

"It's nothing," Stephen said, shaking his head. "I'm sure Amatis will get over it."

"You have to live with her, you know," Michael said. "This is your wife. The mother of your child." If Josie was ever upset about something, Michael made certain to make it right. If Josie opposed the Circle, Michael would have found out why and then worked with her to decide what to do next.

"I know she's my wife," Stephen said quickly. "It's probably just the pregnancy making her this way. We are living in a tiny house I can barely afford because I have no money of my own, this summer has been unbearably hot, and we are having a baby in less than five months," Stephen replied. "Things are a little tense, but we are fine. I love my wife."

They fell silent after collecting the meals for the Shadowhunters and going to the level where they were kept. This was a place no prison guard liked to be, because with just one twist of fate, any one of them could end up behind the cold iron bars of the cells. Only a few Shadowhunters were held in the prison. Those who had committed worse crimes were taken to the Silent City and those who committed unspeakable crimes were either put to death, their bones interred in unmarked graves in a necropolis on the western side of Idris, or had their runes stripped and their memories obliterated with magic before they were cast out.

Somewhere in the prison, far off, was a scream that echoed off the walls before it was cut off as abruptly as it began. Stephen stepped closer to Michael, the hilt of his dagger brushing against Michael's hip. Sometimes the sound was worse than the noise, because it meant that something out of the ordinary was happening. On one of his first nights in the prison, Michael had witnessed a guard pressing his iron handcuffs to a faerie's hand as she had reached out of her cell door, burning her as punishment. Some of the guards were more mean spirited than others and some let their power and position go to their heads. Some enjoyed torturing the prisoners simply because they could.

Every night on the Shadowhunter level was the same. Michael would hold the witch light while Stephen pushed a plate of food beneath the door. Half of the time the cell holding the Shadowhunter seemed unoccupied, since the prisoners rarely, if ever, dared to look another Shadowhunter in the eye.

There were rumors of what these Shadowhunters had done. One of them had killed his wife, another had defied the law and lived among the mundanes, making no secret that he was Nephilim. The third was a man a few years older than Michael who came to the door every time someone walked by and asked, earnestly, when he might be able to leave. He was clearly touched with lunacy, Michael noted, and the Clave had never been sure of what to do with those not of sound mind. The fourth Shadowhunter was rumored to have loved his parabatai improperly, and rather than face exile, had volunteered to be placed in prison, to never see the light of day again.

On this night a fifth shadowhunter was brought in with his hands cuffed behind his back as he stared down at the floor, his dark, nearly black hair covering his eyes. He seemed familiar, and when he lifted his eyes, Michael saw that it was Arin Penhallow, who had graduated the year before Stephen and Michael. He was roughly tossed into a cell by another guard, who slammed the door shut.

"And tomorrow, you'll face the sword, you treasonous bastard," the guard said. "Wayland. Let this one starve. Maybe that will loosen his tongue." For the second time, Michael looked up into the cold eyes of Emil Pangborn, just before Emil turned away, heading back upstairs.

Michael stopped outside the Shadowhunter's cell and looked in to find the young man carefully picking himself up off the floor. The Penhallows were a well known family, mainly because there were so many of them. Arin was one of ten brothers and sisters. He had been a good student, always studying and scoring highly on tests, and was one of the last people Michael could ever see as charged with treason. Arin was simply too quiet to ever speak out against the Clave.

As Michael and Stephen watched, Arin brushed himself off, then pulled a gold chain out from beneath his shirt. He took it off his neck and held it above his head before opening his mouth and dropping the gold amulet down his throat. Michael couldn't see what was on the amulet, or, he didn't want to admit that it was the same as the one he wore around his own neck.

"Don't do that," Stephen said quickly. He moved to open the door.

"It's been nice knowing you both," Arin said, just before he began to choke. He opened his hand, revealing a tiny white tablet he then dropped into his mouth.

"NO!" Michael exclaimed. He pulled the cell door open just as Arin hit the floor. Black fluid drained from his mouth as he choked and gagged, his face turning red, then blue. Stephen screamed for another guard and Michael looked to his right, down the hallway that Emil had gone down. When he looked back, he saw all of the life dissolve from Arin Penhallow's eyes.

There was nothing Stephen and Michael could say that would change the mind of the Clave. Suicide was forbidden and Arin had killed himself. He wouldn't be burned at sunrise, his ashes spread in the Silent City with the other Shadowhunters. Instead, his body would be buried after the sun rose at the crossroads of Alicante, along with the only piece of evidence that would ever tie him to the Circle.

For the suicide, Michael and Stephen were questioned before they returned to work, spending the rest of the night pacing the halls of the vampire wing in silence before they stumbled out of the Gard as the sun rose on another morning. Stephen shivered and mentioned tea, and Michael nodded, feeling Stephen's arm around his waist as they walked passed Emil and another guard, who were placing a black shroud wrapped body onto horse drawn cart.


Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I might be posting twice a week from here on out because I am on a deadline. As always, reviews are welcome and are a very nice bit of encouragement for me.