A/N - Up within a week!
A 'guest' requested in a view that this chapter be from Jace's PoV, and despite having it in Jace's PoV only two chapters ago, I thought that it'd probably work better this way. There's nothing interesting about being locked in a windowless room for three days.
6 reviews for next chapter please!
(Oh, and before I forget - there's a slight lemon in this chapter about halfway down. Maybe with not who you think...)
"Little by little, the old world crumbled, and not once did the king imagine that some of the pieces might fall on him."
"Our brother says that you're allowed food," he said flippantly, trying hard not to look at her quivering body huddled in the corner. It disgusted him; he remembered when he was like that, before Jonathon improved him.
"Finally," she muttered, as if he was a servant that she had been waiting on. He wasn't. He was far above that.
His sister shifted in her dark corner, as if she was going to get up and collect the food from him. Jonathan would've thought that at least a day locked in here would've been enough for her to understand what she had done wrong, but she didn't seem to be learning anything untouched as she was in her cell. Isolation would do nothing for her, especially if she was being rewarded with food such as she was.
His felt his face harden and tucked the tray back into his body. "But I'm in charge of you," he said, stepping backwards, out of the threshold of her prison, "and I say you're not allowed to have any."
He heard her sudden intake of breath. She was expecting him to give it to her, because of Jonathon. "And what are you hoping to achieve with this?" She asked.
If he was honest with himself, he didn't really know. Three days wasn't nearly long enough to learn anything in imprisonment; he didn't know how to make her regret stalking him, disobeying and harming their brother in three days – especially without food. Hurting her would be a much quicker way for the message to sink in – starvation was much more useful for obedience, but he wasn't the one that needed her obedience. That was something for Jonathon to take for himself; he didn't think that he would appreciate it if he gained her obedience for him.
"You either don't understand why you're here or you don't regret it," he said simply. "I'm here to fix that."
She snorted. "Trying a new technique, then?" He looked at her, confused, still clutching her tray of food to his chest. "After your failed assault on me yesterday," she clarified. "You see now that I don't regret whatever led me here."
Right. Jonathan forgot that he had tried to strike her yesterday when he placed her in this cell. He had forgotten that he had barely touched her before she knocked his hands away. She was more like his brother than he was. "You're here because you're a disobedient little wretch," he snapped, trying to get over the shame of his defeat. He walked back into her cell. "You've been disobeying our brother since the day you arrived and yesterday – you struck him, our king-!"
"We were training!" She burst out. He could see her face, as light shone in from behind him, flushed with anger – or embarrassment. "I-" She cut herself off suddenly, which left him wondering what she was about to say. "He was proud of them at first! How was I-" She was crying now, her tears dripping down her cheeks and splashing on the floor. Jonathan shifted; he didn't know how she should react to this new development. He didn't particularly mean to make her cry as she was now, as if she really was their little sister. "How was I supposed to know that-that it was disobedience? That we're not supposed to inflict wounds on each other during training? He's always beating me, bruising me, throwing me down. For once, I won – I won!"
She smiled despite her tears, leaving Jonathan utterly confused. Her tears would imply that she regretted it, but – why was she smiling? Maybe there was something wrong with her. She was hysterical.
"I won," she whispered gleefully. "It was wonderful. He was upset by it a little, but that's only because I could kill him. I can kill him."
Jonathan gritted his teeth. "How dare you even think about that? That's not even just fratricide, that's-that's treason! That's regicide!" He looked around wildly, so unable to properly cope with the idea that she could ever think of such a thing. To kill your own family? It was laughable to him.
She only blinked at him.
"You will regret this," he promised. "You will. You can starve to death here for all I care."
Except, she couldn't. Jonathon would care if she died, and he would be the one to blame for not following orders. Jonathon might even interpret her death as an attack on himself from the inside, despite any pleas that he might make. He might even think that he was copying her disobedience.
He'd come back later with a glass of water and a few scraps to keep her going for the next day - but that would be all he would do, he promised himself. He'd visit her later and make her really sorry for what she's done - when she was weaker from not being watered or fed.
Jonathan looked to the bucket that was kept in the cell for the prisoners to use a toilet; sometimes they'd take them away so that they'd understand that Jonathon was in control of how they lived and that to not be on his side was to be deprived.
Hers had clearly been used.
He was tempted to further increase her discomfort by removing it, but he supposed it was a step too far at this stage. Still, he didn't doubt that she'd be back in prison soon enough. He made eye contact with her, who was watching him observe the bucket with a slight panic-stricken look. He chuckled quietly, slowly backing out of her prison; he knew what she was so scared of, but he couldn't understand how she didn't think that Jonathon already knew about it. Jonathon may have had a male-orientated upbringing, but he wasn't stupid. Clarissa had been here for over six months now – he would've noticed it at some point.
"I should go," he said heavily. "Jonathon will want to know how you're coping and your murder plans and such."
"Long live the king," she whispered.
Jonathan kicked over her bucket, spilling the fresh contents over the floor. It was such a small room, there was hardly anywhere she could lay down now to avoid lying in it. Jonathan snorted happily; she deserved to lie in her own shit. "Long live the king," he replied.
Jonathan knew that it was time to step up.
It couldn't have played out more perfectly than it had, if he was being honest. With Clarissa fallen from grace and the palace back to how it had been without her, he could pull himself so far up into the favourite position, that even when she was released, she would be a mile off from where he was.
And he knew just how to do it. Jonathan was getting aroused just thinking about it, about how pleased Jonathon would be with him and his choice. Oh, he couldn't wait. He'd been waiting to steal back more time with his brother since she arrived, and now - well, he wouldn't let this opportunity just pass him by. He wanted to feel the benefits of his decision for days, wanted to visit Clarissa with evidence of his blissful euphoria so that she knew that whatever she had, he had had it first. He was better, he was higher. He was more important.
"Brother," he was greeted as he stepped into his brother's office again. Jonathan closed the door behind him and walked over to his desk to take up his customary seat in front of it, watching his brother closely. It was the first time that he had been called to see him, and Jonathon wasn't sitting at his desk perusing his secret documents; instead, he was standing, observing a crudely created calendar that he had pinned on his wall, partially hidden behind maps of Idris and battle plans.
Jonathon had still not healed the gouges across his cheek, wearing them as a reminder of some sort. He didn't like to reflect back on the truth that Clarissa had told him, about how he was wearing them with pride so soon after he acquired it. Jonathan didn't understand it. Any of it. The idea that someone as pathetic and lowly, someone as traitorous and evil and wrong as Clarissa was able to do that to their king was mind-boggling. She had scarcely been here for six months, and she was already inflicting injuries like that on him - when he had reached the six month marker, he was still learning that Jace was a corrupt person, someone as evil and wrong as his girlfriend, Clary.
To be sure, Clarissa wasn't so much different – but he had been promised that she would get better. He had to believe that she was going to get better. Jonathon did, after all, and he was the king.
"No chess today, Jonathan," he said as Jonathan patiently sat and waited in his chair. He turned away from the calendar, letting the map cover it back up. "I just want to talk with you. Maybe we'll even go riding."
"Our sister's still not sorry," he supplied. "She refused the food too, I-"
"Jonathan, please," Jonathon said tiredly. "Not about that." He fingered a knife that was laid across his desk; it was one of his more intricately designed ones, decorated with jewels and words written in a demonic language that made his head hurt and his stomach churn. "I don't want to talk about that."
Jonathan bit his tongue. He had always known how fond Jonathon was of Clarissa, but he didn't think that he would've been this forlorn about her imprisonment. She really was something else if it affected Jonathon this much; still, Jonathan reminded himself, he never knew what Jonathon was like during his own imprisonment. Perhaps it wasn't unusual.
Jonathon slid into his chair, still clutching the knife. "How is your training going?" He offered. "How is…" he gestured behind Jonathan, seemingly at a loss for words. "How is…she?"
Jonathan ignored the second question effortlessly; she hadn't been with him as often as she used to anymore, as if she was finally leaving him behind.
Training was fine, same as it had always been ever since Jonathon had stopped focusing on him and moved onto their sister, leaving him to gain skills from demon associates – but Jonathan couldn't tell him that. He wasn't supposed to sound whiney, and training Clarissa was probably more important and required more work and time than he did. He understood that his brother was very busy as a king, and that there was probably a scare amount of time left for himself.
He tried a joke: "It's going as well as ever," he said lightly. "I could probably take you now."
Jonathon touched his cheek lightly, moving over the gashes as if remembering it. "Yes," he said distantly, "you probably could. I'm probably getting old now."
Jonathan's face reddened. That wasn't what he had intended at all – and the implication that Jonathon was getting old? It was ridiculous. Jonathon was as young and wild as ever, only recently nearing his mid-20s. He was still the best warrior in the entire manor – the fact that Clarissa had managed to touch him was a complete fluke. It had to be.
Jonathan decided to change to subject quickly, to try and revive whatever he had just killed in their relationship with that comment with the acceptance of Jonathon's offer. He opened his mouth to say it, but suddenly, Jonathon laughed, pulling his hand away from his face – and Jonathan knew that he wasn't upset or offended, that he wasn't even that pitiful about her imprisonment. He smiled amusedly. "I like you better, brother, when you're lighter. You're too serious nowadays," he said. "We used to have fun, me and you. Maybe we should revisit that, while Clarissa is in prison."
Getting back into favourite position wasn't as difficult or tedious as Jonathan had thought it would be; perhaps he had never left. He missed life before her.
He nodded enthusiastically. "We could go and train by Lake Lyn, like we used to," he said. "Or – go riding, like you said. You haven't been outside in a while, haven't seen how life is progressing."
He looked at Jonathan from under his lashes, a slow smirk creeping up his face. He looked him over from head to toe, seemingly satisfied. "Tempting offer, brother; but someone has to stay here in charge in case of an attack – and Clarissa can hardly be in charge from the prisons."
Jonathan deflated. "You could leave it in the hands of the Edom princes and princesses," he suggested. "Lake Lyn isn't far from here."
Jonathon's lip curled. "I don't trust them," he muttered. "They have nothing of importance to them here; they could burn it all to the ground by the time we come back, and have a good portion of our army massacred and stolen."
So they weren't going out anywhere. "Maybe we could venture into the library again," he tried again, desperate to be somewhere with him. Besides, Jonathan liked it when they were in the library. For one, Clarissa hadn't stepped foot in there yet, and it was easily one of the biggest rooms in the manor with the most windows. It wasn't exactly the outside, or a good old-fashioned fight with his brother – Jonathan had never been particularly bookish – but it was nice, peaceful. He had good memories there; he didn't think that either of them had been happier.
Jonathon's eyes lighted. "Yes," he said slowly, standing from his desk. Jonathan followed suit. "By the Angel we haven't been there in months." He rifled through desk drawers and withdrew his most secreted items; Jonathan was convinced that he must be the only person in his entire court to know of it. "You'll let me-?"
Jonathan nodded. He had never said no to it yet, and he didn't particularly think he would in the future. He just hoped that in the future, their sister didn't take this from him too.
"There's a bottle of Domaine Romanée-Conti, in that cabinet over there. Grab that and some glasses, and follow me out," he said, walking out of the door, his arms laden with blankets and cushions, hiding his secret.
Jonathan quickly did as he was told and hurried to catch up with his brother, who was in a perversely good mood – better than he had ever seen him. Boyish, almost; excited. It was the sort of mood that made you want to please him further – impress him further, see how far his happiness went. Jonathan was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
Jonathan unlocked the door, his hands holding the least amount of things, and promised Jonathon's wicked smile as he crossed the threshold that he'd keep quiet.
Jonathon set down his equipment on the floor, and arranged the blanket and pillows on the floor as he wanted them, whilst Jonathan poured each of them a glass of the red wine and opened all the windows. It'd been a long time since he had been allowed any alcohol, since he was constantly being sent out to the front line and winning Jonathan's battles for him while he stayed here and protected the home front.
Jonathan handed his brother his own glass once he was finished setting up, and he took it hastily, pulling Jonathan down with him as he settled back amongst the cushions. Some of their wine spilt on the blanket, but they didn't care; they had an entire bottle of it to use as frequently as they wished.
He fell on his back next to his brother, watching him drink his glass as quick as he possibly could while trailing his eyes over him. Jonathan breathed harder, getting significantly hotter the longer he remained there, watching and being watched. He set his glass down, far away from where they were lying, and sat up. He took the glass away from Jonathon – he having slowed his drinking after seeing the effects it was having on Jonathan - setting it next to his own, and placed his lips firmly on his, cupping the back of his neck.
Jonathan liked the feel of the wisps of white hair at the nape of his neck, liked the way his lips moved back against his, curved into a smile, and especially liked having control – he could understand why Clarissa had tried to reverse the power roles between them.
Yet, it was something that he wasn't used to and didn't feel as rewarding as usual, and so he allowed himself to be pushed back to the floor, and, once again, the power roles were back to how they should be. Jonathon was laughing against his mouth as their respective crowns fell from their heads; his fingers curled against his jaw, and he settled himself over him, balancing on his haunches. He kissed him slowly, as if he was savouring it, drawing out any remaining flavour of wine that was left on his lips; Jonathan tried to speed it up, having missed this feeling for so long, but Jonathon slowed it down even further as a sort of punishment. Jonathan soon learnt, he was getting quicker at learning.
Jonathan bucked his hips, sighing in relief as he brushed against his brother's erection; likewise, Jonathon faltered momentarily on his lips, and breathed harsher. As he moved to place his lips on Jonathan's neck, licking and sucking and biting and coaxing all manner of sounds from his lips, he ground his hips against Jonathan's. He reached down to the hem of Jonathan's shirt, and pushed it up, exposing the tattooed flesh beneath it; tattooed flesh that his hands danced across, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. Jonathan scrambled to remove his shirt entirely.
Jonathon soon ducked down and moved his kisses to his stomach, tracing some of the runes with his tongue.
"Do some of these stamina runes still work, Jonathan?" Jonathon asked huskily, looking up at him with dark eyes. He was smirking wickedly, holding eye contact with Jonathan as he purposely traced the rune with his tongue.
All Jonathan could do was whimper.
He hushed him, sliding back up to kiss his lips again. "I thought you promised to be quiet," he said teasingly.
Jonathan nodded, grasping his brother's shoulder. His hand slid down the neckline of his shirt, feeling the smooth expanse of his back, the muscles moving under his fingertips until - they brushed scarred flesh. He touched them delicately, as if he might hurt him still.
Jonathan used to be the only one who knew about these. The only one who touched them.
"I'm not going to break," he said, somewhat frustrated. Jonathan's hand froze.
"I don't want to hurt you," he replied, almost robotically.
He scoffed. Jonathon sat up and pulled off his shirt and robe, tossing them away somewhere behind them. "I'm a big boy, Jonathan. I can take care of myself, if I have to." He leaned over to their glasses and picked up his, drinking it as he watched Jonathan watch him.
He was right, of course. He'd been taking care of himself well before he became the prince. Jonathon was strongly built, broader than his own lithe body, and with many more wounds and scars from fights than he had. He could take a substantial amount of pain - he had seen him do it. Anything that he could do to him was nothing; he had probably already experienced it.
He finished his drink and set it back where he had picked it up. "No matter," he said charmingly, settling himself back in between Jonathan's legs. "I'm glad that at least one of my siblings know how to treat their brother." His hand brushed over the tent in Jonathan's trousers, purposely applying pressure as he shivered. "Let's reward you."
"Oh yes," she said suddenly, standing behind Jonathon in the same hunting clothes that she had died in. "Reward you for becoming as evil as him, for becoming a traitor to your own kind. For killing your friends."
"Not now," he groaned as Jonathon began to palm his erection, roughly stroking it until it was painful. "Piss off."
Jonathon stroked him harder, pumping him through his clothes. He knew that he wasn't talking to him. "Get rid of her, Jonathan," he growled, "or I won't let you cum."
Jonathan whimpered again, trying to push her out of his mind and out of his sight - but she wouldn't leave. Jonathon just as persistently brought him closer to orgasm, fully intending to carry out his threat.
"I know this isn't incest because he's not really your brother, but isn't it still wrong? This is wrong," she reminded him. "There's something wrong with you."
"Your brother's gay, there's nothing wrong with whatever I'm doing," Jonathan snapped. He was sweating trying to hold back his climax. He wouldn't orgasm while she was still in the room, wouldn't enjoy his brother's hands while he could still see her.
"Jonathan, I swear to the Angel," he said, exasperated. "I told you to get rid of her!" He looked to the door, determination etched on his face. "Stay outside; I can handle this. Prince Jonathan is just having another episode."
All of a sudden, Jonathan started crying. Jonathon recoiled slightly, but continued his ministrations hesitantly.
"Do you need me to kill her?" He asked him quietly. Jonathan's watery eyes were still looking over his shoulder, on a figure he could not see. "Jonathan, look at me."
Jonathan did not move.
He ceased his teasing and grabbed his face; Jonathon forced him to look at his face, and his face only. He was still breathing hard, in a panicked state. "You're not going to have another panic attack, do you understand? Look at me - look at me. Ignore her, she's not there. For the Angel's sake, she's dead. She's dead, Jonathan; you know that, don't you?"
"He's right," she said bitterly. "For once. I am dead. Are you dead?"
Jonathan didn't feel dead. He could feel the wind blowing in from the windows and the weight of Jonathon above him as good as ever.
"She's dead," he confirmed in a hollow voice.
"Good," he said. "Yes. That's right. She's dead. Gone. Not like you and me, brother; we died and were brought back because we were needed alive, to accomplish this."
Jonathan nodded absently. He was pulled up into a sitting position by his brother, and handed a refilled glass of wine.
"Is she still there?" He asked gruffly.
Jonathan nodded again. She was silent now, glowering at him - but she was still there.
Jonathon stood up, grabbing a dagger that he had previously set on a nearby table. His erection still strained against its confines. "Where is she?" He held his dagger tightly, ready to attack her, if only she could be seen. "Can I kill her?"
She was a figment of his own imagination, created from the traitorous side of his mind that wouldn't let him forget what he did. Of course he couldn't kill her.
Jonathan shook his head. His brother seemed to become frustrated - as if Jonathan had never tried that before.
"Well how do you fucking stop it?" He suddenly shouted. "I want her gone, Jonathan! Can't you see what she's doing to you?"
"I'm sorry-"
"I know you are," he conceded. He sighed, tired. More tired than Jonathan had ever seen him. "You didn't choose for this to happen."
"She'll leave after a while," he offered.
"This is going to shit," Jonathon muttered, tossing his dagger back onto the table. He drank more wine, and Jonathan could also see that he was troubled.
"I want to give you an heir," Jonathan suddenly blurted, wanting nothing more than to bring back his brother's queer mood. "Like we spoke about."
Jonathon snorted into his glass. "I hardly think that you really know what you're saying, brother," he said. "You're having hallucinations of a dead girl. You're not exactly the epitome of health right now."
"I can stop them."
"Do you really believe that you can achieve that?"
"You all but won a war before your thirties."
"The war's not done yet."
"It will be soon, the beasts-"
"The beasts are volatile. They might not work, you know that."
"Jonathon," he pleaded. "I want to do this for you."
Jonathon considered it. "If Clarissa can create a rune to stop it upon her release, then fine. Otherwise we wait until you're better." He pulled Jonathan up into his feet and kissed him in passing, as he moved to collect his paper and pens. "Now let's move on."
Jonathan shouldn't have been surprised that Jonathon was as adept at drawing as their sister was, them having the same mother and artist hands. His hands though – his hands were made to play the piano. Jonathon drew him playing once, adding in a party of demons that danced and sang around him and the instrument, as if he was controlling their movements.
He liked to draw of demons and hell, of war and death, smearing the pages in red. He was so different to Clarissa, who drew of angels and light, of peace and life – she sometimes even drew their brother in an angel form.
Jonathan had no delusions of who his brother was; he knew that he was no angel.
"I'm almost done," Jonathon muttered to himself. "Just the last details."
He wondered who was drawn around him this time, in what scene he was currently lying in. His imagination didn't span far, finding it impossible to imagine him in some other setting than the one he was currently in; where else could he be lounging on a chair, naked (his erection had passed over an hour ago, and so had Jonathon's), a chalice pressed to his lips, Jonathon's crown balanced atop his head and a dagger hanging from his fingers? He had done some similar poses for Jonathon like this in the past, but each one turned out significantly different from the other.
"Finished," he announced, standing and drinking the last of the wine.
Like Clarissa, Jonathon wouldn't show off his drawings and wouldn't invite Jonathan over to look at them – but if he came of his own accord, then he didn't mind. This wasn't something deep and special to Jonathon; it wasn't something that reminded him of happy memories, and it wasn't somewhere where he bared his soul. He just wanted to create something for once.
Jonathan stood up, placing his brother's crown on the table beside him with the dagger in his hand, and moved over to Jonathon's piece of paper to look at his creation this time.
He had assumed that it was going to be of him – but it wasn't. Not exactly. That was him, sitting there on the chair that Jonathon had turned into a throne, with his crown and chalice – but he was partly skeleton, strips of flesh peeling away from his body to reveal the bone and muscle underneath, and partly Jonathon and partly Clarissa if it were at all possible. There were demons kneeling in front of him; ones in possession of human bodies, who seemed to be tearing out of them, and Greater Demons with tentacles and horns and all manner of marks, and angels – that were distorted and made grotesque by Jonathon's own interpretation - above him that seemed to be crying. A few bodies were strewn on the floor – one in particular that made Jonathan feel as if this picture was designed to mock him in some way.
Jonathon looked over at him smugly, grinning with pride. "Does she like it?" He asked, looking around the room, as if he might finally see her.
"Oh I love it," she purred sarcastically. "The accuracy! Look, it's your Herondale dagger." She pointed to a weapon lying near her body, almost drowning in a pool of her blood.
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