Some drabbles with no real theme! Well, it was originally about parents, but then I lost the motivation to pursue that topic for more than 2 sections. I was just noodling for Steff's - I don't really know her state at the moment, so I was just trying to extrapolate and see what came out!
Ethos
"Ethos..?"
The name is said with some level of foreignness, as if it is something that has not been tasted many times. It is a voice too familiar to be easily dismissed, but too alien to elicit any affection. The faerie who says it, though, has the same cupid's bow, high cheekbones, and bronze eyes. He looks older than him by some means of wisdom and maturity, but timeless, his refinement dulling some of the youth in his features. Even if his hair is a cold platinum, the bridge of his nose is more pronounced, and a pair of wings extend from the back of his armour, the likeness is unmistakeable.
"If you'll follow me," Ethos says, disregarding the strangeness of the situation with a polite bow and a delicate gesture to the forest. "I was told your attention is needed at the border."
Curious eyes glint back at him. "Is that so?"
There is a drawn out pause before the other faerie moves to follow him. Ethos finds it easy to seem calm and unbothered, despite how odd it is to be in the company of someone he scarcely remembers and yet should technically bear some weight in his life. The other faerie gives a few glances in his direction as they walk, his features as striking as they are comfortable. Family is scarcely on Ethos' mind, so the interaction is one he hasn't prepared for. He can improvise easily enough, but there is a usual elegance that is lacking in the air.
"You're...my son," the other faerie states a few minutes into the walk and Ethos is a little caught off-guard by the bluntness in his words.
Keeping impartial, Ethos gives a subtle dip of his head. "It seems so, yes."
"We often value blood ties, so I imagine it is only natural if you desire knowing your family." The statement has strange pauses and hesitations, a brief quietude falling between them as they continue on their way. "Is that why you agreed to send for me?"
"I'm doing my job, and at times, it involves giving notice to Gentry Knights of responsibilities," Ethos answers, knowing better than to put any sudden expectation onto him, looking forward as he walks.
"Ah-...I see..."
When he glances to the side, the other faerie is avoiding his gaze just slightly and Ethos averts his own eyes in self-admonishment. Regardless if he's family, they are still a far ways apart in hierarchy, and he is determined to treat him as he would any other Gentry Knight. Still, it strikes him that his father is shy, if somewhat...awkward, and it only makes him more intrigued.
"I had assumed you wanted to ask to use my family name," his father admits suddenly, surprising even Ethos with the straightforwardness of it. "The judgements of fae can be...harsh and I did not think someone with changeling blood would be treated well in any higher caste. It was your mother that decided against having you claimed as part of my bloodline...and-"
"I'm not owed any explanation. I understand." Ethos wouldn't have usually interrupted anyone, but the words leave him before he can stop himself. It is more information than he wants, a little intimidated by acknowledging blood and family, but mostly preferring to keep his life simple, which has been difficult as of late. "I am not asking for any name other than the one I have now."
"I-...Yes, I shouldn't have assumed otherwise." His words are endearingly ungraceful and his expression is steeped in troubled thoughts. It isn't often that a faerie is so clumsily contemplative and presumptuous. "I have not...spoken with you since you were a child. You likely don't remember me. What I mean, is-...Is your life good?"
"It is good enough," Ethos answers simply, pulling ahead to lead him onwards. "We should make haste. The patrol is expecting your presence."
His father seems startled by the distance in his tone, like he'd expected some level of affection beget from blood. Ethos finds the prospect of family too strange and too daunting, aware that it is territory he has not yet traversed and it is not something he wishes to be tied to. To him, it is better to keep the opportunity for anything more at bay, not wanting to disappoint.
Savannah
She is careful to deny his advances.
Her fingers catch his chin before her nightgown can be adequately rucked at her hips, relaxed against the pillows she lays against. An assertion plays in the openness of her posture - the proud laziness of a scheming cat - and she does not allow uncertainty in her gaze. There are parts of her that do not yet feel like hers again and she will not let him lay claim first. Boys do not always know the difference between ruses and sincerity, and she intends to use that to her advantage.
"You don't deserve anything tonight," she teases, her fingers releasing her boyfriend's chin and brushing a thumb against his cheek. Still, she arches forward to kiss him, knowing it is a gesture that will satisfy him for the time being. "Maybe tomorrow, I will reconsider."
He is visibly disappointed, but willing to play along, settling beside her on the bed where she knows she will have to spend the night. It isn't often she halts desire when in the presence of someone she may benefit from, but she knows better than to act as if it is any deviation from her normal agenda. The lie that she has always been reticent in her advances is easy enough to construct when others so readily eat from her palms, accepting whatever reality she presents as long as she provides some sort of incentive. When she slips under the covers and rests her head against the pillow, he curls an arm around her to pull her flush. It isn't the type of softness she wants from him, nor the type of possessiveness she is searching for, but she will let it slide this time. He is no threat and she is good at playing the balance of how much she will give and how much she will take.
"By the Angel, Savannah, I've missed you," he murmurs in her ear in a playful sort of manner like he can convince her to amuse him. How naive, of course, for him to think he has any sway over her agenda; it has been planned from the start. "And now you're being difficult."
His remark is only meant to be frisky, and although her own are no less lighthearted, she is calculated with them nonetheless. "Oh? And are you implying I am not worth waiting for?"
He groans a little in response. "Of course not-"
"I thought so." She allows herself some smugness. Boys seem to like that and he quiets; likely, he is satisfied with the notion she will allow him what he wants in the near future. He is easy to please, as are most, and it is an expectation that has been pushed off for another time. Skin is a strange thing to be protective over, but those are nighttime thoughts she would rather leave for another time. There are ghosts that live in her flesh and she seeks to drive them out.
Luca (well, technically his parents - you get the gist)
Wetting a washcloth, Katerine lifts it to wipe away stray bits of ichor from his face, a few minor cuts sealing into thin scars that will certainly fade away in little time. There is a larger cut through his ribs, spilling ichor onto his shirt from where the seraph blade had broken skin. She is gentle even knowing pain doesn't bother those like him, kissing his forehead gently and brushing bloodied black hair back from his face. Her own skin is warm to the point of feverishness, but she labours on anyway, cleaning away black smears from where the Nephilim had tried to take him away from her.
"You should be more careful," she says, setting the washcloth aside and cupping his face in her hands. The fire in his eyes dance like small spirits. "The Nephilim are unkind in their pursuit."
An easy purr of laughter leaves his mouth, even though his expression doesn't give away his amusement. "They will never stop their hunt as long as I continue my own," he replies, pulling one of her hands from his face to curl his hand around her wrist. It burns. There are marks from where he's scarred her before, but she knows he cannot help it. Reprimanding him is futile, anyway. To destroy is in his nature, and she doesn't mind being desecrated entirely.
"...I know. I worry because I love you," she responds and he doesn't say it back. He never has, but she's content enough with believing she's part of some greater plan and that she may be carrying some great power and higher purpose. After a moment, he releases her wrist and pulls her to her feet in one swift motion, leading her to the bathroom. His shirt is still stained with ichor, his wound visible and skin torn, but if it hurts, he doesn't show it.
He turns on the water to let her rinse any leftover ichor from her hands, her fingertips raw from where the viscous liquid had clung to them. While she knows there is little room within him for affection and care, she thinks he may be impressed with her resilience. Mundanes are scarcely sturdy in the eyes of demons, and she is insistent on proving otherwise. As she washes her hands, he stands behind her and slips his hand around her and under her shirt to rest his fingers against her stomach. She feels faint in the oppressive heat even with the coolness of the water, her skin prickling under his touch.
"火病", he tells her and withdraws his hand. Kabyou, or fire sickness - it festers under her skin. "You are unwell."
"I'm better than I have been," she argues lightly, turning the water off and careful to not lean back into him, not wanting to get ichor on her clothes. Being with him is a greater honour than she could have ever thought of, and she knows demons do not appreciate weakness. "It is only the summer-"
"Kat. You are no use to me dead," he remarks, disapproval in his words. "Nor will I accept a sickly heir."
"...I know." She doesn't seek to argue with him, looking up at the bathroom mirror so she can meet his gaze. Seemingly content with her acknowledgement, he pulls away to leave the room, out of view as he heads to the living room. She doesn't move from where she stands.
"I will sleep, if that's what you wish..." She knows better than to argue with him. It is not like he will raise a hand against her, but his disappointment is often unsettling and heavy, and she wants nothing more than to please. A hesitance creeps into her tone and she looks down into the sink. "Will you stay the night?"
She waits for a long time but no answer greets her. Curiously, she leaves that bathroom to look out into the living room - it's empty. A thick layer of smoke has settled along the carpet, but there is no longer anyone there. She lingers for as long as the smoke does before retiring to her room in silence.
Steff
Even though they don't run into each other much, with Ember's propensity to keep herself busy with jobs and Steff's often longwinded solo trips to work on Shadowhunting business or her own projects, it's nice to exchange a small chat when they do find themselves in the same place at the same time. One night, it's in the weapons room where Steff has been dutifully putting back the various knives and bolts people leave out (honestly, how hard is it to put the arrows back in the correct spot?) and Ember comes by to grab a sword for training. They greet each other with an easy smile, though the energy settles into torpidity.
"Good to see you," Ember says as she walks to the row of swords. "Always the responsible one."
"You say that as if you aren't responsible yourself," Steff points out, gathering a bundle of arrows into her hand and dropping them into a bin. They clatter and settle like pick-up-sticks, disturbed at the slightest movement. "Besides, I'm mostly just trying to keep myself occupied."
"Oh?" She lifts a sword, testing it. An instinctive movement (do you ever get tired of the monotony?) and a graceful one. "Are you bored?"
Considering the question, Steff shakes her head. "It seems strange to consider our life boring. I'm actually grateful for the peace, sometimes. I mean-...It's embarrassing how much trouble I've been equated to in the past..."
"I guess, but we get comfortable in the state of our lives sometimes," Ember says, putting the sword back. "Maybe trouble is just drawn to you, unfortunately, but I'd say you've done a good job at evading it recently. At least, I'll have to fight Mason if he accuses you of something or another."
"I would definitely not encourage that," Steff replies and gives a slight smile before she pushes the bin under a table. "But I'm not sure. I s'pose I got used to the unpredictability of life and now everything personal has sort of settled out...I-...well, you know I sometimes have grand thoughts-"
"Under extreme layers of practicality, yes."
"Ah, well I'll take that as a compliment, and yet-...Maybe I am searching for something new out of life, but I'm not sure how to seek it out."
Contemplating, Ember hovers a hand over a thin sword, pulling it from the rack and turning it over in her grasp. "I don't know, Steff. You've always been more in-touch with yourself than I have. I mean, I've become used to routine, and while I know you're not a reckless person that I have to worry about, I think it would be good for you to pursue what you want with your life. Risk-taking doesn't always have to result in trouble."
"I know. These are probably just silly nighttime thoughts." It's a good way to dismiss them (ah, how they'll keep me up at night, though) and Steff glances over. "That a good enough sword?"
"It'll do." Ember sheaths it and starts to the door. Sometimes it is odd to see how finite her thoughts are. How little she hesitates once her mind has been made up. "I'll see you around, but know I have faith in you to figure it out."
"Thank you. Stay safe, Ember." She's sheepish at her wistfulness, but glad to voice it all the same. It feels selfish of her to be restless in her own safety knowing that others haven't closed that uncertain, unfair, and dangerous chapter of their life; she justifies it by acknowledging it as a fickle feeling. Second chances shouldn't elicit second thoughts, and yet it all seems so recent that she was properly trained as a Shadowhunter and entrusted to carry out the Clave's work. (is this the rest of my life?) When she continues to put the weapons away, she wonders when they first became comfortable in her hands.
