Hopefully I didn't get any of your characters too wrong hahah... and if I did, then just erase it from any canon...ahaha. Some things are set very recently, and some things are far in the past. Hopefully timelines aren't too hard to discern! I also kept switching up tenses for some reason and my brain was all over the place, so hopefully I caught any errors. :)

Also fun fact: I have an unfinished AU chapter that's like 4k words so far and only like half finished but I have no motivation to work on it and that makes me really upset ahaha.


The girl that takes Kellan's measurements is polite and inquisitive, her rose-coloured eyes pupil-less and large as she continues to ask him questions about his life. He supposes she's a little more forward than some because of her pure blood, and she often makes clothing for the Queen's escorts. Her hands are nimble as she uses a flexible band with markings on it to take note of his shoulder width and how it tapers to his waist, making little sounds of acknowledgement with each number.

"You're going to have to take your gloves off," she says, moving to tug one. He stiffens instinctually, pulling his hand back.

"I-...These gloves are fine, though." The excuse comes easily, but she reaches for his hand again anyway. "I don't need a new pair."

"They won't match with your ceremonial clothes," she remarks, catching his wrist to take the fabric at one of his fingers to pull it off. He keeps his palm face-down and lets her remove the other one. It isn't like such scars are his fault, and yet he feels ashamed of them nonetheless. Deftly, she wraps the band around his wrist with a slight murmur under her breath before taking one of his hands to turn it over.

He can't help instinctively flinching away, his face reddening slightly. His movements aren't quick enough, though, and she's already pursing her lips in judgement, extending a hand to put his back into position again. The scars are still red and raised against his palms, inspiring some thought of how he'd failed and why he'd deserved such punishment. Perhaps someone marked and flawed was nigh defective - he'd hardly seen any Seelies with scars, and if the Gentry Knights had any, they were skillfully covered by armour or their wounds had been adeptly smoothed over by the healers. His scars are past fixing, and it is one thing that separates him from the Seelie's neverending pursuit of perfection.

"Did the Hunt do that to you?" she asks, placing the band on his palm to measure from his wrist to the tip of his middle finger. Though he doesn't answer, his expression is enough to give it away. "You will never have to bow to them again. Their ways are certainly savage, if they are okay with harming a Prince."

"They-...they did not know of my blood," Kellan replies to defend them, and he can't deny the lingering loyalty and affection for them. There haven't been many times where people have put themselves into danger simply for the sake of helping him, and it still surprises him at the luck of his escape. The medics had never own him anything, after all.

"If they come after you again, I promise the guards will make them regret such a thing," she decides, as if the presence of his scars are enough to warrant their death. "You will not need to be afraid of being hurt like that again."

"I see..." He's a little too surprised by her assertion to argue, still learning how to navigate Seelie conversation. When she seems to move on to measure the length from his shoulder to his wrist, he slips his gloves back on, like he should be the one lowering his head for having visible weakness. It is good she does not see the rest of him, where silver scars lace his arms and across parts of his chest. Whereas his hands are sources of trauma, his runes are signs of an outcast. She continues in silence, her easy assurance for the destruction of any Hunt members that might come after him hanging in the air. It stagnates, like so many other things, and he keeps his silence.


A little bored as Blake worked at sharpening his dagger and cleaning the hilt at the table of the training room, Lily sighed and stretched her arms after a long bout of archery training. She liked to rotate skills throughout the week, sparring him with a sword when applicable, though he expressed his distaste multiple times with having to use such weapons. Though he hadn't stated so explicitly, she was sure it was because some of his old responsibilities in the Unseelie required covert infiltration or not attracting too much attention and a sword was difficult to hide. He liked the days she challenged him to a fight with daggers, even if it had never been her weapon of choice. Still, she didn't mind the practice.

As a child, he'd been the only pure faerie in his training group, so of course he had to be better. The half-faerie he'd been slated to fight one day was older, taller, and more experienced. The stakes had been set against him, as fair fights only existed in controlled environments but rarely in application, but that didn't mean he hated it any less or took losses less personally. He wouldn't have felt so spited had the others been pure and winged, but the normal privileges that faeries like him often had were denied by familial choice and it was rare he worked alongside others like himself. It'd always felt like the impure faeries had more to gain, and he had more to lose and protect.

Walking closer to him, Lily outstretched her hand to grasp at one of his wings, pulling to extend it so it caught the light. He froze and said nothing so she let her fingers pull back along the ridge of thin bones and warm, vinyl-like translucency until she released it and it settled against his back again like the closed wings of a bee. No other faerie would let her so brazenly pull at their wings for her amusement, but she had housebroken him enough to not complain.

Though he'd been quick with his knife, the half-faerie girl had still managed to unsteady him, grabbing at his wings to force him down. Her fingers had pressed against the bones in the ridge of his wings until he felt like they might snap. Nails scraping against them and ripping at delicate silver flesh exacerbated the burning pressure that ran up his spine and he found that gritting his teeth wasn't enough to ignore how badly it hurt. Clean fights weren't expected of those who trained, even the children, so the others stood and watched as they waited for their turn to spar each other. It hadn't been the first time his wings had been the target of his fights, as they were trained to exploit weaknesses, but that made him no more understanding of his situation.

She was good at mediating between affection and pushed boundaries, resting a hand against his back as she neared him so she was right next to him, her fingertips brushing against a thin scar on one of his wings. His expression hadn't altered, still working in concentration, though she could see the discomfort in his movements if she looked hard enough. It was only natural that after the handful of years she'd known him, he'd be easier to read, even when he worked to keep his emotions intact.

Oftentimes, he was quietly irritated about things instead of impulsive and destructive, but the accumulation of small annoyances and the few lost fights he'd endured were enough to tip him onto the side of reckless anger. He'd slipped away after his duel when he had the chance, hissing under his breath. He would learn later, of course, how to fight with them out of the way so they didn't become a target, but it was easy enough to get wrapped up in the idea that things would be easier if he simply didn't have them. His blood would be no different, he reasoned, and the thought that he could get rid of them was overwhelming enough for him to forget how much they ached currently and how the urge lacked any real merit because he was hateful enough of them to pick up the first discarded knife he found in private, the serrated edges dulled, and reach back to saw it forcefully against the ridge of a wing.

The startling pain was sobering enough as the jagged edge scraped against fine bone, the open wound stinging against the frigid air. He had the sudden urge to vomit at the intensity of it, dropping the knife to the ground and biting his hand so he stayed quiet. The urge to cast them off like an uncomfortable cloak faded in the face of near-agony; ridding himself of those weaknesses would only beget another liability and no pure faerie was so stupid as to get rid of a visual birthright that allowed them to seize more than their impure peers. It was nothing more than a juvenile whim, and the spot where the base of his wings met his shirt grew a little warm and wet.

"Silly boy plays with his knife when he could play with me instead," she criticized in amusement. He was fast enough to shift so his dagger was to her throat, the sharp edge scraping against her skin, but she'd predicted his movements easily, a little pocket knife already in her hand with the blade pressed against his side.

"Let me finish," he said, eyes narrowed as he withdrew his dagger after a warning pause, trying to hide how on-edge she'd made him.

She folded the pocket knife blade back into the handle, a smile tugging at her lips at his defensiveness. "Hurry up, then. I won't wait forever."


Though Jai had offered his place to Finn, apprehensive about him staying at the Institute, he hadn't actually thought the offer would be taken up. After all, he felt plain and unexciting with little to offer besides a bed and a cramped living space that held little possibility for recreation. Finn always seemed to need excitement with an obvious preference for interesting people that fed into his energy, and a simple half-faerie that worked night shifts and kept to himself didn't seem like his target company.

But Finn had come to stay a few times anyway, and Jai had tried to extend his hospitality and muster up anything that one was supposed to offer guests. It was...nice to have him to chat with, as there weren't particularly many people he could soften up around, and even he got lonely in the deafening silence of his apartment.

If only to keep himself busy, he'd made coffee for the both of them, trying to find some way to take care of him in a manner that was implicit and careful, not knowing how to correctly communicate affection towards someone whose fondness seemed to change erratically. He had never learned how to show those things too clearly and speaking openly about feelings was even stranger. But small tasks were enough to keep him busy, and passing the mug to Finn was his own stunted and silent gesture of what else he'd do for him.

"Blech." Finn made a face, giving Jai a near-comical expression of betrayal. "Do you not put any cream or sugar in this stuff?"

"It's coffee," Jai said without much of a reaction, sipping at his own mug. "It's not supposed to be dessert."

"What's the point of even drinking it, then, if it tastes so bad?" he exclaimed as he stared down into the cup, as if it had personally wronged him. "There's other ways to stay awake, you know, and I can name a few way more interesting ones off the top of my head-"

"You don't have to drink it." Setting his own cup down, Jai wracked his brain for if he even had any sugar in his cabinets, not having had the time to go grocery shopping as of recent. "I mean-...I made it because I thought you wanted some."

Shrugging, Finn took another sip, his expression scrunching up again at the bitter taste. "It just sounded so mature...drinking coffee..."

"I'll find something else...Preferably something other than sugar-saturated coffee." He said the last remark under his breath, not trusting Finn to ever take very good care of himself in any facet of his life. Though he scoured the cupboards for something Finn might like, all he had were a few small packets of instant coffee and a handful of tea bags, neither of which were anything that would interest him. Frowning, he checked his fridge, but the lack of anything he might have liked was another reminder that he needed to be more on top of his grocery trips.

Sensing his turmoil, Finn just scooted the cup onto the counter before walking over to the couch to sit down unceremoniously, his legs slightly splayed as he leaned back into the cushions. "We can just chat, ya know. I don't need something to drink. I mostly just came out here to hang out with you and stuff and get away from this Shadowhunter that's hounding me to do some papers or something."

"Oh. Well I hope you've been safe," Jai replied, though he was glad for Finn's easygoing nature, moving to get his mug again even if he felt a little bad for not having anything for him. He wanted to do things for him, anyway, slightly unsure of how to show his affection otherwise. "And staying out of trouble."

Finn grinned devilishly, schemes in the reflections of his eyes. "Well, now that you bring it up..."


Ethos is sitting by the creek when his horse comes back. There is rustling in the bushes before the mare appears, trampling a few plants and getting wet when she crosses the shallow creek to get to him. At first he is sure that it's just another white horse that has wandered off and found him by chance, and yet she's too familiar and too eager to nudge him to his feet, nickering gently like she means to comfort him. He is slow to fully believe it might be her, knowing the state she was left in, but her behaviour is unmistakable and he makes a sound of disbelief at her appearance.

He runs a hand against her side, both to confirm she isn't simply a hyperrealistic dream and also to check up on her injury. There are marks of old stitches in her side and signs of a steady hand with adept magic, far past what he could have ever accomplished. There is a shortage of kindness in the unclaimed lands, though he figures it must be the work of a skilled druid or practitioner of healing magic, likely one with an affinity for animals. He thanks them gratefully under his breath, smiling slightly as he reaches up to brush his hand over her cheek and down her neck. She lowers her head to push her nose into his hand, nuzzling her head into his chest with affection. Luck isn't something he relies on, but he cannot help but think he has been the recipient of good fortune just then.

"I will have to tell Kellan of your return," he promises aloud as he moves to press his forehead against hers. His words cause his chest to tighten unmistakably at the thought of Kellan, a strange pressure making it almost uncomfortable to breath and he is unsure of what he may be feeling. Glad and relieved, of course, but there is something else within him that he can't immediately name. The horse shifts and instead takes to nibbling at his satchel in demand of food, and while he gives a soft laugh as he is pulling the strap away, a stray tear wets his cheek. He lifts a hand to brush it away, surprised and only succeeding in smearing it across his skin. Another one rolls down his cheek and he is increasingly aware of his blurred vision and the betrayal of his emotions when he can't make them stop as quickly as he likes.

He lifts the edge of his cloak to dry his cheek, happy for the miraculous return of his horse, but also unmistakably sad. It isn't a feeling that he is entirely familiar with so it is easier to push to the side and ignore for the moment, clicking his tongue to get his horse to follow.

"Let's get you something to eat," he says, feeling ashamed for the private slip of his carefully crafted guard. Those mortal reactions don't suit him and he tries to swallow them down as best as he can, not wanting to prove himself wrong when he thinks his composure cannot be undone.


Kellan's face was burning by the time he returned to where he'd been staying in the Seelie, even the beauty of his quarters not enough to quell the rush of shame that made him wonder what else he had messed up. He could not reliably look back and interpret any of Ethos' gestures of affection as reciprocation. It should have been obvious to him that he'd merely been projecting and seeing what he'd wanted, rather than listen to what everyone else had been claiming. He'd desperately wanted to be right, for himself and in defense of the Seelie. It seemed that, too, was a foolish decision on his part.

It made it worse that Ethos had seemed so kind and so unfazed, as if he'd been preparing those words since the day he'd been told of his blood. Of course he would apologize and make peace and speak so neatly on topics that Kellan stumbled over, and while that was part of what he'd grown to like, it made the rejection sting a little more for reasons he couldn't quite place.

He stared at the pond in the room as he allowed himself to get buried in his thoughts, embarrassed for himself. Maybe he'd been too reckless with his words. Too overbearing. Too quick to assume that all it would take was time for them. Perhaps if he wasn't the Queen's blood and he was just as normal as he felt, or perhaps if he'd refused the position more fervently, or if he'd never put them in all the danger with the Hunt in the first place. A rising sob formed in his throat and he bit it down with the back of his gloved hand pressed against his mouth. He wasn't keen on the guard outside hearing him, and though he once hadn't been so concerned with image, it was all people reminded him about.

Mostly, it was a little daunting to think he'd made things awkward with the only true friend he'd made in the Seelie thus far. There were others that were kind and eager to help him, but Ethos had known him before his blood and had stuck with him after, albeit with some apprehension. And he missed his family, who had never cared about his blood and had instead stuck by his side passionately in defense of it. The idea of what kind of trouble they might be in made him a little sick to his stomach, trying to not let his emotions get the best of him. It was strange thinking that he'd spent much of his life trying to become a convincing Shadowhunter only to feel the need to repress that mortal side of him now. At what point would life ever become something where he could decide what he was, rather than everyone else telling him what he should be?

Shaking his head at the number of thoughts he had, he pulled his gloves off to tuck them in his pocket. They were a heavy silk with buttons at the wrist. Tailored to fit perfectly, they were another part of the carefully crafted image he suddenly had to start caring about. When his life had gotten so complicated, he didn't know.

With any luck, he could at least start settling into his training about the Seelie and start becoming more comfortable in navigating such a place. The idea that the rest of his life was to be spent there was overwhelming, but he'd almost become used to feeling not so in control of his fate. He was more disappointed than anything: disappointed in his own intuition, impulses, and recklessness in a world that valued self-restraint and placidity. Oftentimes, it felt like he had to go against his entire instinct to become even a fraction of what everyone else wanted him to be. While he hoped he would not face much more letdowns soon, it was difficult to see what lied ahead in the midst of so much unknown. It was tiring feeling like a stranger to his own identity.