Learn to see truth with your own eyes. Never believe anything someone else tells you.
-Unknown
Simon
I haven't heard from Clary since she disappeared in Pandemonium. I've gathered that she went hunting with those Shadowhunters, but she hasn't bothered to text me to let me know she's okay.
And I don't know how to feel about that- I mean, that was the first time meeting in person, and she ditched me. I guess I'm a bit put off. Well, pissed, really.
I've been trying to call her, but it goes straight to voicemail, like it's turned off or she doesn't have service. So I've come to the Institute, because I know that the people there are the people that she was most recently with.
I turn down the street, not bothering to hide in the shadows. The moon is just beginning to rise, chasing away the stray rays of sunset as I use my foot to open the rune-engraved gate of the Institute's fence. I wonder if they have a doorbell.
I walk up the front steps, but a rustling noise from my left makes me spin around, taking a defensive pose.
"What the hell are you doing here, bloodsucker?" I hear a man's voice, and see a person step around the corner of the building, a sword held aggressively. The guy has blonde hair and matching eyes, which I note as really weird, and the way he stands says everything I need to know about him.
He has his arm poised in front of him, his blade held dangerously loose. Almost in a lazy manner. His eyes and face are relaxed, but his posture is not; it's rigid and ready to fight. He's confident, for sure. Maybe overzealously so, judging by the way he rolls his eyes at me.
"I'm looking for Clary," I say crisply, watching him closely. "About this tall, super slim, bright red hair, Shadowhunter," I say, holding my hand up around my shoulder's height. Yeah, she's pretty damn short.
"Yes," he snaps back, putting his sword down and leaning against the wall. "What do you need with her?" He says with guarded eyes, scanning me for any signs of a threat. Almost protectively.
"She's my best friend and she seems to have gone missing. You're the last people that I know she's been around. Back at Pandemonium," I reply, trying not to let myself get irritated. He may be a Shadowhunter, but I know Clary better than anyone. If she's not here, then… I have no clue where she could have gone.
"She's in Idris," the Shadowhunter replies. "If that's all, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Hallowed grounds can't be healthy for the eternally damned." He smirks and gestures for me to leave.
"Asshole," I mutter, walking away down the steps.
"Thanks," he replies sarcastically. I look over my shoulder to see him up on the steps where I previously was, glaring. I roll my eyes and stalk through the gate, slamming it shut with my foot and ignoring the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Clary
Just as the rest of the house, my room looks untouched by the years, as if dust simply weren't a factor in the passage of time. The light green walls are still covered with old sketches of mine, as well as a few oil and watercolor canvases that my mother painted for me so long ago. It leaves an acerbic smile on my lips. She really is gone, and I can't stop the pain that burrows deep into my gut, blocking my airflow.
I shut the door and sit down against it, trying to force oxygen into my wanting lungs. It burns my chest and my face is warm; my head is so dizzy I feel as if I might faint, so I close my eyes and continue to breathe in through my nose, and out through my mouth. I sit there, my body shivering and shaking, and my breath slowly levels out. The tightness in my belly remains as solid as the dark hardwood floor beneath my feet.
The tears that have fallen on my face without permission are immediately swiped away in anger, and I stand up and stretch my tense limbs out painfully. Crying over what has been lost is stupid and pointless. It leads ones attention astray and leaves the person bare to the open world, anyone's for the taking. It's a terrifyingly simple weakness; it's in the human nature to feel sorrow and pain.
It's the most rudimentary aspects of life that are the most devastating.
I end up falling asleep in my old bed in just my underwear and a tank top. The cool silken sheets brush against my bare skin, and I roll over onto my side, gazing forlornly at the window with the light grey curtains. They're pulled partially to the side, and I hardly notice the dark color of the sky, indicating that nightfall has arrived.
I don't worry about it, because for the moment, I'm in my home and I'm safe. I can finally afford the time to lay in bed that extra 5 minutes, to take a long bath if I would like to. Just knowing that I can have these luxuries has me giddy.
So I get up from my bed, turn on the lights, and wander over to the window. I lean in on the small seat built under the window and open the window, leaning my arms on the ledge and gazing over the garden and surrounding valley of green. I will never get tired of this view.
It's the source of so many happy memories. This whole home is. With mother and Jon gone, it's hard to be here. Just in the garden below is a beautiful bed of Edelweiss, these fuzzy, star shaped white flowers that my mom loved and tended to every day. Or the missing vase in front of the entrance of the garden. Jon and I had been running around outside and we accidentally knocked over the pot, spilling dirt and leaving it smashed in pieces. It makes me feel melancholy, but the memories are so beautiful that I also can't help but smile. They are a part of this home, the essence of the family that we used to be.
I turn from the window and swipe the moisture from my eyes, then walk across the room, intending on taking that luxurious bath.
I stop short at the black leather book on the nightstand next to my bed, something that I hadn't noticed when waking up. I walk over and pick up the sketchbook, smiling down at the tough hide of the cover and flipping through the brilliantly white-bleached pages of paper. On the table is also a small box, filled with an array of graphite pencils of varying hardness. I smile and bring both of the gifts to the bathroom with me and set them on the counter, next to the fresh toiletries that my father must have placed there.
There's shampoo, conditioner, body wash, a shaving razor, and lotion all arranged in a small basket. It almost looks like a gift set from that mundane store with all of the different lotions and perfumes. But the thought of my father shopping in a mundane shop filled with girly bath items is unfathomable. And also kind of hilarious.
I turn on the tap of the bath, finding a nice temperature, and plugging the drain. A towel and bathrobe are folded neatly on a small table that I used to use to place my hair products on. Instead, I move the towel and robe to the rack and place my sketchbook and pencils there.
When the bath is filled, I turn off the tap, undress, and slip myself slowly into the steamy water, careful not to get my arms wet. I don't want to get my new sketchbook wet. I guess the bathtub isn't the most practical place to draw, but I couldn't care less, and prop my knees up out of the water and set the leather book on them.
With a 2B, I attack the paper. The lines and curves come easily from memory; the sharp curve of his jaw; the soft crinkles around her eyes when she would smile. They are just as familiar to me as my own body and features.
The sound that the graphite makes on the paper lulls me into a trance of comfort and focus, a feeling that I haven't experienced in such a long time.
By the time I am done, the side of my hand is covered with lead and the first page of the book is complete. My brother and mother smile up at me, as if they are happy, no, proud, that I have finally found my solace once again. I know that I as sure as hell am ecstatic with myself. I didn't think I'd find myself being lost in my own art again, not after everything that's happened. Not after Jon.
We were each other's best friend. We did everything together; we trained together, ate together, and often times we'd camp out in the garden and sleep under the stars together. I told him everything, and he told me everything. He'd come home from Alicante with father, telling be stories about girls he met and how he could woo a date out of any one of them. And I would laugh and tell him to stop being so sexist. Good looks aren't everything a girl looks for- especially Shadowhunter girls.
We look for the qualities of a good Shadowhunter. If we date, it's gotta be someone who's versed in demonology, someone who's strong and fierce, like a hunter should be. Someone who is capable of holding their own in a spar is also nice; it makes training much more challenging and fun. But in the end, it has to be someone who cares for you as much as their line of work. Someone who can treat you the way a true Shadowhunter should be treated; not sugarcoating the bad and acting as if their partner is fragile.
I suppose most of those qualities are preferences of my own, and that would only be possible if I even had the time. I can't speak for every Shadowhunter woman on the planet, though. But for me, that seems perfect.
It's hard to find, though. The closest I've ever come, even though I don't actively look for ideal guys, is Jace. And Jace is... well, he's a cocky bastard sometimes. Besides, we're just friends anyways, and I really like what we have going, but I don't see anything but a platonic friendship at this point. It would just be too difficult.
"Clarissa?" I hear my father call from the other side of the door, and I remember that I'm still in the bathtub with my sketch pad on my knees.
"I'll be out in a little bit," I call back while setting the book and pencils down. The water is still warm, so I lie back and wet my hair. I go through the motions of washing out my hair and shaving, but the whole time, he's still on my mind. Our friendship, and whatnot. He's a gorgeous specimen, I can't deny that; it's a fact.
Before I met Jace, I didn't have time for anything of the dating sort. Now that I've actually made a friend and my father is back, I can see how hard it would really be trying to balance a relationship and… whatever is going on with my father.
Because something is definitely going on with him, and I desperately want to know. I want to know how he's still alive. Did he stage his death, or did he escape by some miracle? If he did, why didn't he come home?
Why did he let me think he was dead?
I finish bathing and dress in a fresh pair of clothes that I find in my old dresser; I haven't grown much in two years; the only thing that changed, miraculously, was my bra size.
Now clean, clothed, and ready for explanations, I head through the hallway and down the wide staircase. In the front entry are shoes lined at the door; not just my father's. I hear voices as I near the kitchen, so I tread quietly to try and hear something.
"-she be trusted?" Hissed a deep voice that I don't recognize. I hear a cabinet open and the clink of glass, then the cabinet is slammed shut.
"Of course," my father repeats harshly, his tongue ever the razor when insisting on something. "She is my daughter, my blood."
What the hell are they talking about? Trust me with what? I debate whether or not to make my presence known. I could either pretend I didn't hear a thing, or I could just ask him what he was keeping. He might be angry, but I deserve to know since it obviously concerns me.
"What do I need to be trusted with?" I ask boldly and step through the kitchen door to see my father standing there, angled away from me. The other man is…a Faerie. What the living hell is a faerie doing in our home?"
"What the hell's going on?" I ask skeptically, inching toward the knife block almost instinctively. They Fey cannot lie, but they can manipulate and twist words; they can't be trusted.
"Clarissa!" my father says sternly. "What do you think you're doing? I've taught you better than to eavesdrop." He sounds almost angry.
"I've picked up a lot of unfavorable habits while traveling. I apologize for eavesdropping," I say sheepishly, although what I really want to say is why the hell is there a faerie in our kitchen.
"Very well. Meliorn was just readying to leave, anyways," he smiles tightly and nods curtly to the faerie man, Meliorn. He looks young, but then again all faeries do. His skin is pale, but it has a sparkle to it, as if something beneath the surface is shimmering through, and there's a leaf high on his cheekbone; I can't discern if it's a tattoo, or paint. He smiles wickedly at me and I grimace back, moving away from him as he rounds the counter with my father following.
"It was a pleasure meeting you, dearest Clarissa," he says in a smooth, lilting voice. I shiver at the undertone and watch as my father shows him out. I can hear the front door slam shut and the deadbolt slides home. I relax a little bit when my father reenters the kitchen.
"What's going on?" I ask again, this time bringing down the accusing tone in my voice.
"Just some business, sweetheart," he smiles warmly and I give a tiny smile back. "You must be starved." I am indeed. My stomach growls and I nod, examining the kitchen from where I sit at the counter.
"We don't have much at the moment, but I can offer you a sandwich and some soup, if you'd like?"
"I'd love that," I hop down from my stool, walk over to my father, and wrap my arms around his waist. His arm immediately wrap around me tightly and he runs a hand up and down my back, just like he would when I was little; it was the best way to calm me down. "Thank you, dad."
He smiles down at me with dazzling dark eyes and I transiently forget about the faerie that was just in my kitchen; it doesn't really matter in the big scheme of things, so long as I'm here with my father, safe.