- The Faerie -

To Mark time did not exist anymore. Somehow, it had lost its meaning. Seconds, hours, days, weeks - they had become only words, abstract figures he could remember, but whose use seemed now wrong to him. At first, he had tried to structure time, tried to count the days and the nights. First the ones he had spent locked up, now the ones he spent traveling across the land. He had tried to remember the number of days he had been away from Los Angeles, away from his family. But it was useless. He had learned that it did not matter how many days he had spent here - wherever here was - it could have been ten or ten thousand. It did not make a difference, for it felt like an eternity.

Instead, Mark had begun remembering. Whenever he was alone, whenever he felt safe enough, he closed his eyes and tried to recall the faces of those he loved. He saw his father's face, the faces of his younger siblings and Helen's, that was so alike his own. Mark saw Emma and Gideon, Alexandria and Grayson. And he saw Amelia.

Mia.

Her name was like music in his head. The memory of her was more vivid than the others, in his thoughts her face seemed to shine brighter. Mark remembered kissing her between the books in the library, remembered touching her skin and tasting her lips. He remembered how her body had felt when she had pressed it against his and how she had been shivering when he had held her hand.

Mark felt his throat tighten. The memory was beautiful and painful at the same time. He had to force himself to recall everything he could remember. He knew how important it was that he did not forget.

"My name is Mark Antony Blackthorn. I live in Los Angeles. I am a Shadowhunter." His voice was barely more than a soft whisper, dripping from his lips. "My father is Andrew Blackthorn. I have sisters and brothers. Helen. Jules. Livvy and Ty. Dru. Tavvy. They're my family."

He paused, before he said even more quietly, "I have Mia. Her hair is soft and smells like berries and her eyes are green. She has kissed me in the library. I have kissed her. I have touched her skin and she has touched mine. Mia. I owe her a date."

As in a trance the fingers of Mark's left hand swept across the skin of his right arm, where the Runes were still visible. He traced the dark lines that were now intermitted by the lines Meliorn's whip had left on Mark's skin. Most of them were already healed, but the scars remained. Thinking of him brought back memories Mark had hoped to bury deep down in his soul. They were memories of pain and despair, of tears and screams - and of Meliorn. Mark had hated the faerie with all of his heart. He had taken Mark from the Seelie Court to the cell where he had kept the boy and tortured him for what had seemed to be an eternity.

The whipping had not been the worst. Mark was used to feeling pain. Every time a Rune was placed on his skin, it burned like thousand flames. He knew how to deal with that. But what he barely had been able to stand were the words.

Meliorn had told him that Mark was alone. That no Shadowhunter would ever accept him as one of them. That his home was a lie and that his family was lying to him, for a real Shadowhunter would never be able to love a creature like Mark. He had told Mark that he was nothing among the Shadowhunters, a bastard, unworthy and not to be trusted.

And Mark had believed him. What Meliorn had said had been exactly what Mark had been worried about his whole life. Somehow, the faerie knight had seemed to know Mark's deepest fears and nightmares and had used them to frighten him even more.

At first, Mark had been brave. Every minute he had told himself that Meliorn was lying, that his family loved him and wanted him back and that that was all that mattered. He had refused to join the Fair Folk, had refused to eat or drink their food. Mark hat taken beating after beating, until his back, his chest and his arms had looked like a battlefield. He had remained strong; he did not know for how long. If had felt like years, but Mark knew now that only a few days could have passed.

Clearly he could remember the moment he had given up. He had not eaten or drunk anything for days when Meliorn had brought a cup of water and some bread. Mark had almost been able to smell the scent of the water - so badly had his body longed for it. While he had prepared himself for another form of physical pain, the faerie knight had placed the plate in front of him. Meliorn had untied Mark's hands and simply said, "You can eat now. If you*re still thinking about returning to your family, let me tell you that there is nothing left to return to. They are all dead."

The words had rung in Mark's head, which had not been willing to accept what he had just heard. He had wanted to throw himself at Meliorn, but he had not been able to move. Meliorn had knelt down beside him. "You are alone, Mark. There is nothing left for you in your world. Only grief and loneliness." His voice had been appealing, soothing and caring, making it almost impossible not to listen to him. "Join us, Mark. We will give you a new home. We will be your family, because you are one of us. We do nut judge you because you have Shadowhunter blood in you. We want to help you, but you have to let us."

Carefully Meliorn had taken the cup and given it to Mark. "Drink and you will live among your kind. Finally, you will know what it means to be an equal member of a family. Drink and all of this -" He had pointed at the chains and the whip. "All of this will be over."

Mark had not been able to think straight. The only thought in his head had been that his family was dead and that he would never see them again. Even if he managed to escape from this place – where could he go? There was no home anymore. Surely, the Institute would not take him in, now that he was all alone.

Suddenly the fear had overwhelmed him, consuming every single part of his body. Never before had he felt so alone and desperate. Mark did not know where to go or what to do. All he knew was that he did not want to be alone for the rest of his life. He could not go on living like that.

All at once, the silver cup in his hands had not been scary anymore, but sweet and full of promises. All of Mark's strength was gone with the blink of an eye. He had not been the Shadowhunter, who was brave enough to face demons and all sorts of evil, anymore. He had become just Mark - barely sixteen years old; a boy, lost, lonely, hopeless and desperate - and most of all scared.

All he knew was that there was nothing left for him in his world, so he had taken the cup. Meliorn had just watched; waiting, lurking like a predator observing its prey. Mark had looked at him. „Tell me that you don't lie. Swear by your Queen that you're telling me the truth."

That had been the final straw. Everyone knew that faeries were not able to tell lies. They did indeed bend the truth, played with words - but they never lied. Therefore, if Mark asked him directly, he would have to tell him the truth.

Meliorn had just raised his eyebrows and said, „None of your family is still alive. Not even that little cute baby boy with its little brown curls. You are alone, Mark. And if you return to Idris, there will be nothing left waiting for you."

Mark had felt something breaking inside his chest. He had looked at the cup in his hands and had swallowed every drop of water that had been inside, as if it had been the sweetest thing he had ever tasted.

Now he was here; traveling restlessly through the different worlds, accompanied by other faeries, who he did barely know and who he did not trust at all. Slowly Mark opened his eyes. He was sitting on the cold ground between two huge rocks. He did not mind the cold, so he had chosen this place instead of sitting around the fireplace with the others. He had no idea how many hunters there were within the Wild Hunt, everyday he seemed to notice faces he had never seen before. At first, Mark had tried to remember their names, but it was useless. Most of them would not even talk to him. They all knew who he was, what he was, or at least used to be - a Shadowhunter. They all could see the Runes on his body; they all knew that he had the blood of the Angel in his veins.

The irony tasted bitter. His whole life Mark had felt like an outcast, because of his faerie blood, now he felt like one because of his Shadowhunter blood.

Meliorn had lied about that too - the other faeries would never accept him as on of their own. To them he would be a bastard, just as if he had been one to the other Shadowhunters.

Once again, Mark felt in between. He was starting to believe that, wherever he might go, he would never find that one place that would feel like home to him - absolutely and without any restrictions or compromises. He would always remain somewhere in between, he would remain lonely.

And now he would also always remain a prisoner. He had been one when he had been brought to Faerie. They had kept him in a cell, chained and locked away and guarded by Meliorn, whom Mark had hated right from the beginning and who had tortured him with whips and words. And then, just when Mark had given in and surrendered to the Queen, hoping to find another place to stay, she had decided otherwise.

The Seelie Queen had decided to give Mark to the Wild Hunt, as if he was just a thing you could give away to whomever you wanted, whenever you felt like.

Now Mark's cell had no stonewalls or chains anymore, but he remained a prisoner. His jailor was not Meliorn any longer; now it was Gwyn.

Slowly Mark opened his eyes and looked around. He was sitting beside a huge rock on the cold and damp ground. He had chosen not to rest near the fireplace, like most of the other hunters, for he did not mind the cold. His gaze rested on Gwyn. He was the leader of the Wild Hunt and everyone respected or even feared him.

Probably Gwyn was older than all the other hunters were, although he still looked young. But there was something old about his face. Gwyn was very tall and slim, but appeared to be very strong at the same time. His hair was brown and short and like all hunters, he had eyes of different color. While one was light blue, the other one was pitch-black. No one would ever dare to question his authority; no one would even dare to speak up against him. Gwyn would not tolerate discussions, for his word was the law of the Hunt.

Mark wrapped his arms around his body. Suddenly the cold seemed to creep into him and nested inside his chest, where his heart used to beat. He turned his head, just to look directly at Gwyn, who was staring at him. For a brief moment, Mark felt as if Gwyn was able to make Mark's blood run cold, just by looking at him. Mark forced himself not to lower his eyes. He did not want the others to think he was weak or scared - even if it was the truth.

Like usual, Gwyn's face was one big mystery, keeping everything he might be thinking a secret. Mark could never tell what the big hunter was thinking, if he was in a good mood or if it was better to stay out of his way. Gwyn's gaze rested on Mark's face for some seconds, before his lips curled into a little smile. But the smile was not friendly or open, it was cold and emotionless. Then Gwyn suddenly turned his face and looked at the other hunters around the fire.

Mark, who just realized that he had been holding his breath, sighed silently and breathed out carefully. It always made him nervous when Gwyn looked at him like that. As if he was thinking if Mark was useful at all or if maybe it was better to get rid of him.

Mark leaned his back against the rock and lowered his arms. He frowned when his fingers swept across something in his pocket. It was the witchlight the blonde boy had given to him. Mark tried to remember the boy's name, he was aware that he knew it, but he could not recall it, no matter how hard he tried.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The blonde boy and the red-haired girl. They had found him - no, he had found them - in one of the tunnels beneath the Seelie Court. He had known that they would be his only chance to get the answer to the question that had been haunting him. That was why he had sneaked away from the hunters. When he finally had found them, they had told him what his heart had already known - that his family was still alive.

It had been both - a shock and a relief. He was relieved that his siblings were well, that they were safe and protected. But he was also shocked about the realization that he would probably never see them again and that it had been his own fault. How could he have believed Meliorn? Why had he trusted his mind, telling him that faeries always told the truth, instead of listening to his heart, telling him that his family could not be dead?

He had been so stupid. Letting himself be tricked by that evil faerie knight. And that was when Mark had begun to understand why the Shadowhunters did not trust the faeries, why they thought they were evil - because it was the truth. He had started to believe that maybe he belonged here, that maybe this was what he deserved - for being one of them, for being so stupid, for being so selfish and faithless.

The red-haired girl had also told him that his father had been Turned into an Endarkened, but Mark had already known that. He had seen his father being forced to drink from the Cup. He had seen his father's eyes turn to soulless dark holes, had heard him screaming in pain; not being able to do anything, while Sebastian Morgenstern had taken Andrew Blackthorn's soul away. Mark had looked into his father's face when Andrew had stood above him, his sword in his hands, ready to kill his own son, because Sebastian had told him to.

That had been the moment Mark knew he had lost his father.

The memory hurt in the worst way. It followed him, haunted him, no matter whether he was awake or asleep. Sometimes, when he was dreaming, Mark saw his father with his sword, standing above him and looking down on him. If Mark was lucky, he could manage to wake up on time, if he was unlucky, he could just watch his father killing him, a mad grin on his soulless face. Those were the nights Mark woke up in a cold sweat, panicking and with huge effort suppressing the screams, that were so hard trying to emerge his throat.

Those were the nights, Mark wished he were dead.

He had told the red-haired girl that he wanted them to take him back to the Institute, back to his brothers and sisters. He had told them both that he would not mind dying, as long as he could see his family one last time. But the blonde boy had refused to take Mark with them. The blonde boy had not understood how Mark felt. The boy had told him that he had to be strong, that he had to prove the faeries what a real Shadowhunter was made of.

But he had no idea.

He had no idea what it meant to live like that, in fear and alone. They all had no idea that death was not always the worst option. Living without hope was even worse.

His eyes still closed, Mark clenched his fists. Somewhere deep down there was still a part of him, between all the desperation and the fear, a part that did not want to give up. And even if this part was very little - he would hold on to it, for it was all he had left.

Mark reached his hand in his pocket and touched the witchlight. He let his fingers sweep across the stone in his pocket and whispered, "My name is Mark Antony Blackthorn. I am a Shadowhunter. I have sisters and brothers. Helen. Jules. Livvy and Ty. Dru. Tavvy. They are my family. I have Mia. Her hair is soft and smells like berries and her eyes are green. She has kissed me in the library. I have kissed her. I have touched her skin and she has touched mine. Mia. I owe her a date. And I will see them all again."

He kept repeating the words over and over in his head, until his heart was willing to believe them.