So it's a pretty underwhelming chapter because it's a chapter in shambles of a few blurbs I've written but didn't really know how to finish or I didn't really know where I was going with them...But then I keep them all in a document of random musings where it just grows and grows in size...So instead of letting the scraps stagnate, I just wanted to put a few of them here so I can clear out some of my documents hahaha.
These are unfinished or unedited and still have little notes attached of what I was planning to add. Please don't worry about reviewing this or spending too much time on it hahaha I just didn't want them to rot in a document forever.
Aspen and Iris
(idk house description or something)
"How long have you been married?" Aspen asks, picking up a photo in a gold filigree frame, two smiling individuals caught mid-laugh against a floral backdrop. That sort of joy is hard to find in Downworlders, or at least he has not been very good at attracting such company.
The half-faerie woman, whose name he's learned is Iris, walks over to give an affectionate glance at the photo. "Going on...five years? We've faced plenty of adversity from warlocks and faeries alike, but we like each other enough, I suppose, to be good to one another."
"Hmm. You have a very idealistic view on life," he criticizes, turning the frame over to where he can see a date etched onto the side. It's almost too pretty and perfect, and their home is everything he's ever wanted. It is difficult to think that he might have grown up in such houses, enjoying those sorts of birthrights, and learning etiquette. He has done plenty of things to not deserve the acceptance, after all, and he believes she will quickly realize it is a mistake to take him under her wing.
"There is no point in wallowing under the weight of the world, I've found. And things are easier when you share it with someone you care about."
He rolls his eyes when she isn't looking. Likely, she would think his behaviour is unbecoming or childish, even if she's only greeted him with acceptance.
"You would believe that. You're a good person," he points out, rubbing a smudge of dust from the glass covering the photograph. "Even if I think you are foolish for opening your home to my presence. You cannot love me into making me into my mother, you know, if you are hoping to see her instead of me."
Despite his words, Iris smiles a little, raising her eyebrows at his claims. "From how you acted when I first met you, I didn't think you were so difficult."
His tone grows dry. "Really? I've mostly been called anything but that for a good portion of my life."
"Whatever you might think and say, I know most have the capacity to be decent," she continues stubbornly, and it is hard for him to not remind her again that he is no longer twelve and so ignorant to the evils of life. "Hate and bitterness has only soured my own life, so I find that it is best to deal with regrets and dislikes before I let them fester...You did have love for your parents at one point, if you believe yourself incapable of such emotions."
"Of course I believe I did," he says, sounding clipped in his response and setting the photo down with a surprising force. It's not cracked, thankfully, but he draws in a careful breath anyway. "I just don't believe in it for myself because I'm not...very good at it. I do not have a very good track record."
"But you do have a track record."
He hesitates and shakes his head, not as an answer, but merely to end the conversation as a refusal to elaborate. (i don't really know how to flesh out iris yet...will have to revisit...)
Blake (scout leading?)
"Is this your first time leading?"
The girl who asked the question was riding upon a wiry black horse that suited her angular features and kelp-like hair. Blake hadn't met her before but others claimed she was a good shot, even on horseback. That was always an admirable trait for those that went on scouting missions. If a faerie tried to run, they would often be met with an arrow through the back, swiftly ending the chase. Others also claimed she was soft. That wasn't quite so admirable, but he imagined that would be fixed over time.
"It is," he answered simply, snapping the reins of his horse so it increased to a canter. The nickering of the other horses followed closely behind, a handful of other Scouts engaged in conversation about how to approach the territory that loomed ahead. "What of it?"
"Nothing, really. I know the missions you've gone on in the past have been successful, but I just like to personally know who's partially responsible for my life." Carefully balanced, she untied a sash from around her wrist to put her hair up, the thick strands out of her eyes. She had an intense sort of face that one might not expect softness from, but appearances could be deceiving. He was, however, opposed to casual conversation with even those that made him curious, as it usually descended into passive aggression and tiring arguments, and he pulled ahead of her.
"You're responsible for your own life," he remarked finally, not wanting that sort of responsibility and not wanting others to let their guard down. "Not me."
She only let him stay ahead for a few seconds before she urged her horse to match his pace again, her expression defiant and stubborn. "Still. We're following your lead. That is placing some mild amount of trust in you, which is already scarce in these parts," she argued, her fingers curling in the worn leather reins. "You are the one dictating our movements so we don't accidentally kill...a child or something of the sort."
Frowning at her hesitation, he kept his gaze ahead at the approaching plains. "Children grow up. It's better to stop them before they become a threat."
It was in the silence that ensued that he could feel her disapproval. Targeting children was never the goal of the patrols, but he knew how long-steeped anger could fester into something lethal. There was little worse than a faerie with a vengeance. He'd always thought of fae as quick to find fault and easy to corrupt, like scorned fruit that rotted excitedly on hot earth. Once spoiled, it could not be made new. He was certain he would never be like that. Needless spite would never spoil his temperament; his own bitterness was strategic, quiet, and oftentimes easily snuffed.
"So you've killed children." Her tone grew judgmental and directed. Disapproval of violence was endangered in the Unseelie, only increasing the strangeness of her words.
"You will someday too," he said bluntly. He'd really never killed out of sadism, but he was good at his job, at finishing his job, and knew better than to question it. "It's just how it is."
"Not for me."
(not sure how to end..)
Blake and Lily
(something, something, rooftop)
He had a sort of boyish youth in his face despite the constant subtle scowl that often plagued many of his expressions, especially after her many remarks about his Unseelie mannerisms and diction. They'd shared a childhood of having to grow up too quick and too rough; she could empathize with that, at least, and understood his hesitation.
If she was indelicate in speech, then he would be annoyed but eventually learn to trust her. She'd found that pretending to lay her cards out all at once was paramount to getting someone to assume she was forward with all of her thoughts and intentions. It was a plus that she was at least amused by him, hating the idea of being bored almost as much as having her plans foiled. There were little boundaries she would shy away from and she was keen on getting exactly what she sought after.
"I'll be nineteen next month," she stated, crossing her arms on the railing of the roof, staring out into the city.
"...Nineteen?" he echoed. Of course such ages were meaningless to him, but she expected him to understand nonetheless.
"Age. By the Angel, you wouldn't even know if you were a pedophile. What if I was, like, fifteen this whole time and you never thought to ask?" she remarked, making a disapproving sound in the form of a click of her tongue. "What if you're like...sixteen in human years? Raziel, that would be so embarrassing."
"Age is unimportant in the grand scheme of things," he responded, sounding unconvinced about the significance of years. "Considering the lifespan of faeries."
"Perhaps. Maybe it's better to measure in skill and judge milestones from that." Her nails tapped against the railing. Usually she was quicker to instigate conflict or competition, but she was willing to be lenient with her challenges that night.
It seemed he was not, however, and he took a moment to casually fix the clasp of one of his gloves. The Unseelie sigil gleamed from where it had been delicately carved into the metal. "Mmm. If we measured by skill, then you would hardly be ahead."
"Careful. I might test you on that," she replied easily, stretching out her arms before looking over slyly. "Make you slink back to the Faerie to lick your wounds."
"I doubt it." His tone was full of the easy confidence of a faerie and she watched the way it unfurled in his posture. "But I'm not in the mood to fight, especially not when I've just gotten back from an assignment."
"Where did I suggest we'd be fighting?" she teased, only to elicit a reaction. He was predictable in the disapproval of his stance and the stiffness at her implication, which amused her time and time again. "But now you've got me interested. What sort of assignment?"
His eagerness to latch onto sterile business was palpable. "Nothing of importance. Just taking care and cleaning up Seelie affairs. Not particularly the business of Shadowhunters."
Tilting her head to the side to hide an amused smile, she dragged a nail against the railing.
Luca
Striking a match against a box, Luca let the flame ignite the end of an incense, smoke rising to the ceiling with the orange light of sunset filtering through. The nights had started to grow longer with the onset of winter and he enjoyed the quick darkness the season brought. It offered some solace; he didn't think it suited him to do business in daylight.
(casual conversation yadda yadda yadda probably have met before and know each other)
"Sometimes I think you use my services to have some semblance of closeness without having to be surprised by how temporary it is," she observed, a half-smile playing on her mouth as she reclined back on his bed. "I've been around enough warlocks."
A little surprised at her comment, Luca looked back at her with a laugh. "Ah, if I paid you to hurt me, this isn't the manner I envisioned it."
"Maybe my observations are right, then," the girl continued, finally drawing herself from his comforter to stand, stretching out her arms. "Warlocks are not such difficult reads, when you've talked with a variety of them."
"Oh, and are you sure a mundane like yourself would know that?" His words were innocuous, but he hoped they would dig into her, just slightly. He liked her more when she had not been so comfortable to talk on such things, preferring blank-slate company to her analyses and remarks. If he wanted criticism or commentary, he was certain a number of spirits and demons that overstayed their welcome would be happy enough to give it for free.
"I've never met a warlock that wasn't afraid of loneliness," she said, as if not quite catching onto the growing tension and disapproval in his posture. "You lot are obsessed with having connections and company."
His mouth was still set in the line of a careful smile, picking up the incense stick to tap it against the plate that held it, ash falling into the tray. "And yet, I think my need for company has been fulfilled and upended. Your pay is in the envelope by the door."
"Getting rid of me so soon?"
He tapped the incense one more time before putting it back in its stand, looking back to watch her cross his bedroom to gather her dress, pulling it on and tying the sash at her waist. Enjoying her company was likely something only possible when she'd been too hesitant to be comfortable with being forward, and the thought of her being so sure of her observations to make those sorts of comments put a bad taste in his mouth. It was shallow conversation he was after, mostly, and personal talk was hardly something he wanted, especially with someone like her. She was someone he didn't control and it was that unpredictability that made him uncomfortable.
...
