AN: This update would not have been possible without the positive feedback from you, lovely readers. Thanks for being patient. I had to stop writing fic for a while so that I could focus on school. But winter break has got me back on track. ALSO, HEY, MAGGIE. Thanks for the awesome and speedy beta work on this part. Love ya!
Compulsory Butterflies: Part III
Clary has learned her way around the fortress. When she first arrived, it was days and days of bruised shins and shoulders (the sprained pinky finger lasted a little longer, but only because she didn't tell anyone about it). Now she knows how steep the stairs into the armory are. She knows that it's twelve steps from one end of the kitchen to the other and five steps from her bed to the bathroom. There's a long groove in the wall just before the entrance to the dining hall. It's smoother and straighter than the crack that runs the length of the front corridor, or the chipped plaster characteristic of the infirmary.
She's grown into the space.
But sometimes she misses the wide-open grounds back home. The lake. The hot breakfasts. The long baths. The library full of books she could read. The anticipation of her father's return.
These moments of weakness are fleeting; they slip away like water through her fingers, gone before she gets a chance to measure their depth. It's better this way.
\ /
The energy in the fortress is palpable. Jace's return affects all of the Lightwoods. Maryse sounds stronger, Max laughs, Isabelle cries when she thinks no one can hear, and Alec makes love to Clary with more urgency than before.
Jace brought a Warlock from New York back with him. He does what he can for the Sao Paulo refugees—draining poisons, healing wounds that would otherwise be fatal., He even wakes the wills of those who have drifted far from the troubles of the world. He does all of this while noting the unforgivable state of the castle's décor, cursing the person who thought tapestries belonged anywhere but in a museum.
Things are beginning to change.
\ /
Clary can hear Alec's voice from all the way down the hall.
"We have strongholds here, here, and here. All kept by able fighters. The problem is the distance. Communication is difficult because we don't get phone reception out here. We're mostly limited to fire messages."
"I don't suppose you've tried email?"
"No internet connection."
"Great. By the time this war business is all over, I'm going to be an entire season behind on American Idol."
"Is that some sort of religious group?"
Following the voices, Clary uses her cane to negotiate the tight, unkempt space of the spare conference room. Heavy boxes are strewn across the floor, and it takes her longer than usual to reach Alec's side. She's rewarded with the warmth of his hand settling on the small of her back.
"Clary, this is, uh, Magnus Bane. You've probably already run into him in the infirmary."
"But we haven't been properly introduced," Magnus' voice comes from the other side of the table. He's tall, like Alec. "I've heard all about the young Morgenstern renegade. You know, for most people, teenage rebellion is just a phase. Like stirrup pants in the 80's."
"Well, I guess my rebellion is less like stirrup pants and more like the American Revolution. In the other 80's."
"Ah, yes. The human race is just brimming with mistakes."
"And yet you're here to help us protect it," Alec points out.
Magnus sighs and drops into a chair. "I suppose there's something annoyingly redemptive about humans. Just when you're ready to banish them all to Antarctica, one of them goes and invents low-fat cream cheese and slippers for your cat."
Alec makes a repressed noise of amusement.
Clary frowns. "But do you like humans?"
"Do you?"
"I don't know. I've never met a Mundane."
"And yet here you are. We each have our own reasons for wanting stop Valentine—even if those reasons aren't quite as noble as your boyfriend's."
Alec's hand flexes against her back.
\ /
She can't keep from smiling when Max's fingers catch in her hair for the third time.
"Oops. Sorry. I almost had it."
"It's okay. I'm not tender-headed."
"Izzy, am I doing it right? Izzy. Is-a-belle!"
"What? I'm right here. You don't have to yell. By the Angel."
"But you're not watching. Am I doing it right?"
"Mm. Sort of."
"This is how you told me to do it."
"It's sort of how I told you to do it. You're pulling too tightly. She'll be bald by the time you're done."
"No she won't."
"You're doing a great job, Max."
"See, Iz. Clary says it's fine."
"She's blind. Of course she can't tell it's the Medusa of French braids."
"I don't care how it looks. I just need it back out of my face."
"That level of complacency isn't allowed until you're fifty."
"What's 'complacency' mean?"
"It means spinsterhood, Max. It means sweatpants, t-shirts with stained armpits, and lots and lots of cats."
\ /
The evenings are cool. When the sun goes down, the cold air from the mountain peaks seems to sink into the valley and settle around the fortress like a ghost's touch. Alec and Clary take two blankets with them out onto the sloping grass—one to lie on the ground and another to throw over their legs.
Clary presses her face to the side of Alec's chest. "How's Jace settling in?"
"With Jace, it's less a question of him settling into a place and more a question of a place trying to settle in around him."
"Well, we haven't gone up in smoke yet. And the girls around here certainly don't seem to be complaining. Apparently he's what they consider to be 'charming.'"
"He can be. When it suits him."
He sounds distracted—his thoughts far from her and their idle conversation. It reminds her of their early exchanges back at the manor, when he was constantly preoccupied by concern for his family. "Has he said where he's been all this time?"
Alec sighs. "Nowhere and everywhere. He's been traveling around trying to find the Mortal Cup. According to him, he's less likely to draw Valentine's attention if he does it alone."
"But you're his parabatai. You're at your strongest when you fight together."
He doesn't reply. Instead, he rolls sideways so that they're chest-to-chest, his mouth near her cheek. "I wish you could see the stars," he breathes.
She doesn't mind the change in subject. She burrows her face in his neck. "Tell me about them."
"They're brighter out here. There aren't any city lights to drown them out." Beneath the blanket, his hand settles on the small of her back. Fingers find their way under the band of her leggings. "Each one is just a tiny point of light in the sky, so they're not all that impressive just to look at. It's when you think about how far away they are, and how they're actually the size of the sun…"
"Does it make you feel small?"
"No." He traces her hip bone. "It makes me feel lucky."
"How?"
"Because the universe is huge—bigger than any of us can really comprehend. And yet, somehow, I ended up here with you."
She wonders how dark it is, wonders if he's nearly as blind as she is right now. "I think I know the feeling. Even without all those big stars for reference."
"Yeah?"
She lifts her chin and catches his cheek and then his lips. "Yeah."
His fingers skate her thigh to the apex of her legs. She bends a knee to give him room.
"I can show you stars," he says and presses inside of her.
\ /
Jace avoids her. She might not have noticed, except that Alec has a habit of pointing it out to her. It bothers him that Jace slips out of a room when she enters it; or, if he doesn't leave, he at least refuses to speak to her. She doesn't think it's his parabatai's approval that Alec is after. The two of them are too close to ever negotiate acceptance.
It's her he's worried about. He's worried about her happiness. He's worried about how she'll fit into his life—and his family is his life. Because Jace is an unstoppable force, and she's an immovable object, and they can't avoid collision forever.
That's the reason she's standing in the training room—a place that makes her more than a little nervous. It's late in the afternoon, so it's just the two of them. Each throwing knife lands in the target with a muffled thump. She listens and wonders if he's as good as everyone says he is.
"You don't trust me."
Another knife strikes. "This is usually where I would say something smart about stating the obvious. I'll refrain only because you haven't seen all distrustful looks I give you. Maybe I'm less conspicuous than I think."
"Oh, it's pretty obvious. Even a blind person can tell that you're an asshole."
"Buttering up your future in-laws already?"
"I care about Alec. And, no matter what you may think, I'm not here to hurt him."
"You know, part of the whole 'me not trusting you' thing is that I don't believe what you say."
"And what can I do to make you start trusting me?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Do you love him?"
"Alec?"
"Valentine."
She's gotten used to people referring to her father by his first name. Usually, it's spoken with anger or bitterness—sometimes with fear. But the way Jace says it is different. The name echoes with a silent ave atque vale.
"He's my father."
"Of course. He's your father. He's raised you your entire life. You don't know any better, and that's why I can't trust you."
"He's not a monster. Everyone thinks that he is. Even Alec. But Valentine's as human as you and me."
There's silence. Maybe he's run out of knives or maybe he's deciding whether or not to use one on her instead. Just for a moment, Clary hates this boy.
"I know he's not a monster," he says finally. The words sound buried beneath a hundred others that aren't spoken. "If he were, you could hate him. It isn't wrong…don't let them tell you it's wrong."
He leaves the room without collecting his weapons.
\ /
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"That Jace was raised by Valentine before he came to live with you."
"Who told you that?"
"Isabelle."
Alec stops whatever it is he's doing at the dining hall table. "I didn't think it was important."
"That's a lie."
"Alright. I didn't want it to be important. Jace is one of us, Clary. He's a Lightwood. All those years of Valentine pretending to be his father and pretending to care about him were a lie. They don't define him, and Jace has been through a lot to prove that to the Clave. He's trying to move on."
"Move on? You don't move on from who you are. Valentine raised Jace for ten years. He's the only father Jace has ever known. He loved Valentine because that's what children do."
"He's not a child anymore."
"He can't pretend that part of his life didn't happen, and neither can you."
The door to the dining hall swings open on rusty hinges. Max begins talking as soon as he strides inside. "Clary, guess what came in the last shipment? A bunch of books. And one of them is that Harry Potter book I was telling you about.
She turns from Alec. "That's awesome."
"I thought I could start reading it to you. Maybe we could do a couple of chapters every day."
"That sounds like a great idea, but right now isn't really a good time. I could come by your room later?"
Max shuffles his feet. "Are you two having a fight?"
"No," Alec says quickly. "We're having a discussion."
"That's what Mom and Dad always said when they were having a fight."
"Well, we're not Mom and Dad."
"If you and Clary break up, where's she going to sleep?"
"Max." She clears her throat. "I'll meet you in the study in fifteen minutes. There's good light in there, right?"
"Yeah." He heads back toward the door. "I'll see you there. Good luck with your discussion."
Once they're alone, Clary settles onto the bench beside Alec. He's resumed whatever task she interrupted. She reaches out to investigate, and her fingertips brush cold metal pieces.
Alec catches her wrist. "Careful. It's sharp."
She nods and slowly withdraws her hand. "When I was five, my father said I needed to know what a blade was. So he cut me with one." His touch lingers on her arm. She shrugs. "That's how I learned what 'sharp' means."
"I'm sorry."
"I love my father, Alec. And if you're waiting for a day when I stop, then I don't think either of us is ever going to be happy."
\ /
There's a lot of talk about what to do next. After a year of constant bombardment, Valentine's forces have suddenly paused in their assault against the Nephilim resistance. No one feels relieved.
Suspicions run wild. Valentine has found all three of the Mortal Instruments. He's waiting for us to get lazy and make a mistake. His son has taken over. He's preparing for a final strike. He's already won.
Clary sits in on the meetings of the offensive-strike task force. It's a privilege, she knows, and it probably wouldn't be allowed, except that Alec is on the task force, too, and Maryse is Maryse, which means a lot around here. Plus, no matter what highly secretive plans they make, there's a good chance Clary will be the one to open the highly secretive portals they'll need to use to get the job done.
She sits and listens to strategies being bandied back and forth. She witnesses the frustration, the uncertainty, and the fleeting moments of desperation. She feels the chill of the room and smells the burn of fire messages that are never read aloud.
\ /
They haven't had sex since their conversation in the mess hall, and she's not sure what that means. It's only been five days (two of which she's spent on her period), but it feels longer. It's longest they've ever gone without being intimate, and maybe that wouldn't scare her, except tomorrow morning Alec is leaving on a mission with an indefinite timeframe. As she lies motionlessly on the bed beside him, it feels a little like her world is crumbling around her.
It's late, but he isn't asleep. His breathing is too irregular—though Clary can tell he occasionally tries tricking his body into relaxing by forcing out long, even breaths that sound like sighs. After the fourth such attempt, she can't take it any longer.
"Do you want me to leave?" she asks.
"No."
"You need to sleep. You need to rest before you go tomorrow."
"I know."
"There's an empty bed in the room down the hall. I can just—"
"Please stop."
She runs a hand over her face. It's something she does in moments of stress and only when she's sure there isn't someone around to witness the gesture. (Somewhere along the line, Alec stopped counting as someone—probably around the same time she'd started memorizing the lines in his palm.) She brushes the lids of her eyes, the slope of her nose, the softness of her lips. It grounds her, and for a moment she feels like she can see what everyone else does.
Alec rolls over onto his side. "I'm not angry. You think I am, but I'm not."
"I'm not either."
He touches her chin, picking up where her own fingers had left off. He finds the heat trapped between the pillow and the curve of her neck. "I was at first," he admits. "And I can't say I really understand why you care about Valentine the way that you do."
She draws in a breath to argue, but Alec stops her.
"It doesn't matter," he says. "That's what I've realized. Even if I don't understand why, I can't change the way that you feel. And it doesn't change the way that I feel about you."
For some reason she smiles. The corners of her eyes are wet. "Affectionately frustrated and mystified?"
She waits for him to tease back, but he doesn't. He breathes quietly in the small space between them, and the inches are suddenly filled with every moment they've ever spent together. They're hot and cold, and dry and damp, and Clary feels farther from sleep than a star is from earth. Their colors mix. They do not make black, white, or any shade less than the quality of her heart quickening inside her chest.
"I'm in love with you."
\ /
The goal of the mission is to slip past Valentine's defenses around Alicante. At night, the borders of the great city are protected by the same demons it was built to repel. During the day, Nephilim loyal to Valentine's cause patrol the gates alongside hired warlocks and vampires. The Clave, having decided a direct assault would be impossible, plans to send a small team inside the walls to do reconnaissance and, if possible, to procure the Mortal Sword. The Sword's location in the capitol is the latest rumor to trickle into headquarters, but for some reason Inquisitor Hrosmund finds this particular source impeccable.
"If she says Valentine is keeping the Sword there, then that is where you'll find it. She's the one person on the inside who I'm willing to trust."
Five hunters were chosen as part of the infiltration team. Jace and Alec are the youngest.
When her brothers step through the portal, Isabelle sighs with something heavier than exasperation. "It's not fair. Just because we aren't eighteen."
This is Isabelle being kind, Clary realizes.
"Yeah. If only we were eighteen."
\ /
Somewhere along the line, working in the infirmary becomes tedious. The purpose she once felt in scrawling a powerful iratze over an injured Nephilim's bruise diminishes in Alec's absence. She thinks about him risking his life for what he believes in, and she thinks about herself—sitting here waiting for something to happen.
I'm in love with you, rings like a call to arms in her head.
\ /
"Someone wants to meet with you."
Clary turns her face toward Magnus's voice. She's elbow-deep in kitchen gloves and soap suds. Beside her, Max is drying the baking dish she's just passed him. They've been cleaning up the dinner mess for the past twenty minutes, and Max has spent the entire time regaling her with embarrassing stories about his siblings' childhood. His animated descriptions make her smile, and she consciously files away the information for later.
"Wow, Magnus, you're extra sparkly today," Max says in greeting.
"Oh, look, someone's taught a Shih Tzu how to talk," Magnus drawls in a dry tone. "No, wait. That's just Max Lightwood."
"Hey. Not cool."
"Doesn't your mother know child neglect is a crime and that she could be arrested if you don't get your hair cut soon?"
"I like it long."
"And I like it sparkly. Hair gel is not the enemy. If I teach you nothing else, at least remember that. Lord knows you won't get such sound advice from your brother."
Clary passes Max a dripping sauce pan. "Have they heard from Alec yet? From any of them?"
"No, but that was the plan. Radio silence, unless they get detected."
"It's been a week."
"Look on the bright side. Maybe it means they're experiencing heaping quantities of success. Maybe they've been so overwhelmed with how good things are going that they can't stop to mail you a postcard. But that's not what I came to talk to you about. There's someone who would like to meet you."
"Who?" She's wary of his response. Usually, when someone wants to meet Valentine Morgenstern's daughter, it's not because they feel the urge to extend a warm hand of friendship.
"He's a friend of a friend of the guy who installed the fish tank in my apartment."
"Is he a Shadowhunter?"
"No. Werewolf."
"And he's here at headquarters?"
Magnus sighs impatiently. "Have you seen any werewolves romping around the halls lately? Or ever?"
"I don't see much of anything, to be honest."
Max snickers, and Magnus groans. "Blind jokes. Fantastic."
Pulling the plug in the sink, Clary lets the water drain away as she tugs off her gloves. She's already made up her mind about going, but she can't help but ask, "What would a werewolf want with me?"
"I imagine it has something to do with him being so chummy with your mother."
\ /
It's cold outside, and Clary has to rub at her nose to keep it warm. "What are we waiting for?"
Magnus, who Clary assumes is leaning against the stone wall of the fortress, doesn't sound the least bit bothered by the cold. "We're waiting for backup."
"I thought you said that this wouldn't be dangerous."
"I said that Luke wasn't dangerous. Maryse, on the other hand, is another matter. If she's finds out that we're breaking house rules and Portaling Without Permission, she'll be cranky. Very cranky. And during my stay here, I've learned that the best way to deal with a cranky Lightwood is by redirecting their ire."
"And how do you plan on doing that?"
"By distracting her with a rebellious offspring."
Clary recognizes the sound of Isabelle's footsteps on the stone pathway because she's the only person at headquarters who saunters around in six-inch heels. She's muttering about the weather as she approaches, and when she stops beside Clary, the sensation of newly drawn runes is almost overwhelming.
"You're Marked for battle. Didn't Magnus tell you this isn't going to be dangerous?"
"Yes. And he also told me that Sebastian Verlac slept in the nude. Clearly he's not to be trusted."
Clary lifts her eyebrows. "I thought you said you wouldn't sleep with Sebastian. Because he's not your type."
"He may be a small fish in a small pond, but he's not as small as some of the other fish around here. If you know what I mean."
Magnus sighs dramatically. "This is all very interesting, but we're already running late because Isabelle had to change her underwear. So let's proceed, shall we?"
Clary withdraws her stele from her pocket. "Do you want me to do it? I wouldn't want you to strain yourself."
"Creating a portal does not strain the High Warlock of Brooklyn."
"You have been looking a little tired lately," Isabelle offers.
Magnus scoffs. "You would look tired, too, if it had been nine weeks since your last organic seaweed wrap. My pores are screaming for nutrients."
Clary begins drawing the rune. "Then you can just humor me."
\ /
They're somewhere in Idris. That's all she knows, and she doesn't ask for the specifics. The smell is the first thing she notices. The people standing across from them don't smell like Nephilim or Warlocks—there's something distinctly animal about the scent. And yet it doesn't quite fit in with the wild odor of the woods around them.
They sound human enough when they talk. Intelligent. Empathetic. Cautious. These are not the kind of Werewolves that her father warned her about. The one who wanted to meet her—the pack leader—tells her that his name is Luke and that he needs her help. He has a kind voice and his scent carries the residue of lost runes.
"You were Nephilim once," Clary says.
"Yes. But it's been a while. I was turned before you were born."
A shudder shakes her as she imagines being stripped of her Marks—the one thing that makes her functional, that makes her valuable. It fills her with horror. "I don't understand how I could help you."
"Valentine has Jocelyn. I want to get her back safely. She's…important to me."
Clary doesn't let herself react to either name. "What makes you think she's still alive?"
"Valentine wouldn't kill her."
Beside her, Isabelle makes a soft sound of disbelief. Clary considers the man's certainty, weighing it against her own understanding of her father. She tries to fit the scattered pieces of the puzzle together. "What is it you want me to do?"
"Jocelyn is in a magic-induced coma. It was part of a security measure she put in place should Valentine ever find her. The only way to wake her up is through powerful magic. A spell from the Book of the White."
"The book is lost." Clary can recall as much from her father's instruction. The spell book is rare, with only one copy unaccounted for.
"We were able to recover the book in a raid a few days ago. Magnus has agreed to put the necessary potion together. We just need a way to get it to Jocelyn. As long as she's comatose in Valentine's custody, it's impossible for us to get close enough."
Clary understands now, and she almost turns and walks away. But the only things waiting for her back through the portal are an empty bed and more dirty dishes. "What's her secret?"
Luke shifts on his feet. "What?"
"What's so important that she's willing to keep it from my father at any cost? And if it's so important, and she's so safe, why bother trying to rescue her now?"
There are several moments of silence, and Clary knows that she has upset him in some way. Maybe he thinks this is something she should want as badly as he does. "The war is changing," he says finally. "We can't be sure she won't be caught in the crossfire."
"What does she know?"
More hesitation. Clary grits her teeth. Waiting on other people isn't something she's had much practice with, and secrecy is something she can only take in small doses.
"Look, if you're not—"
"The location of the Mortal Cup. She's hidden it, and she's the only one who knows where it is."
Isabelle sucks in a sharp breath. Magnus, who's been uncharacteristically silent, lets out a low whistle.
Clary can feel her heart rate quicken. "You think Valentine will let me get close to her if I go back to him."
"There's a chance. Maybe not a great one."
"And you don't want the Cup?"
"It wouldn't be of any use to me," Luke admits. "But I can't promise that Jocelyn will turn it over to the Clave, either."
Isabelle touches Clary's sleeve. Her voice is low. "We should talk to—"
Clary shakes her head. To Luke, she says, "I'll think about it."
He exhales like he's been holding his breath for the entire conversation. "Good. Thank you. But you should know that if we're going to do this, we'll have to act quickly. Things are getting unstable."
"I'll let you know by tomorrow. Is it safe for me to send you a fire message?"
"That should be fine. We won't be staying here long."
Clary nods, and as she turns to leave, Luke's voice, softer than before, calls out. "You look so much like your mother."
Clary continues toward the wall. "I don't have a mother."
The warmth of the stele is the only thing that keeps her hand from trembling.
\ /
When Clary wakes up the next morning, Isabelle is sitting on her bed. She has two bowls of oatmeal in front of her and passes one to Clary while she's still trying to stretch the sleepiness from her limbs.
"Thanks," Clary mumbles.
"No problem. I just didn't want to wait for you to get your own breakfast. No offense, but you're sort of slow when it comes to that sort of thing."
Clary picks up the spoon, but the congealed mass at the bottom of the bowl is too thick to stir. She sighs and rests the bowl in her lap.
"You're gonna do it, aren't you?"
"Can you think of a reason why I shouldn't?"
"My brother."
Clary runs a hand through her tangled hair. When her fingers catch in the knots, she tugs even though it hurts. "Getting the Mortal Cup would help Alec. He and Jace could come home."
"You know that's not what I meant." Isabelle flips her hair, kicking up a whiff of some sparkling floral perfume that makes Clary's nose itch. "He wouldn't want you risking your life on some crazy stunt that has a five percent chance of success."
"Do you think I want him out risking his life? Of course not, but I know it's something he has to do, and I wouldn't stop him from fighting for the safety of his family."
"So is that why you're going to do it? To serve the cause? Because if that's the reason, why aren't you telling the Clave about the plan?"
Clary throws the covers off of her legs and maneuvers to the side of the bed closest to the bathroom. She takes up the brush on the nightstand and begins pulling it methodically through her hair. "If I tell anyone, even your mom, they won't let me go. They don't trust me."
"And running back into the arms of your father is such a great way of demonstrating your loyalty."
"You heard what Luke said. If things are changing for the worse, Alec and Jace could get caught up in whatever my brother is doing. We have to act now. If we take this to the Clave, they'll find some way to screw it up."
Isabelle is silent. As Clary pulls clean clothes from the closet, she can practically hear Isabelle stewing.
"What makes you think it's your brother that's causing problems?"
"I know the sound of his breathing. I know which foot he leads with when he climbs the stairs. I can name every time he's ever laughed. I know what he thinks of our father's plans and what he would do to correct them. He'll want to push things farther. He doesn't have my father's restraint."
"Sounds cuddly," Isabelle mutters. She sets her bowl on the nightstand with a disgusted sound and throws herself across the bed. "Alec is going to skin me alive."
It feels like her heart rises and falls at the same time. She runs her hands twice over the front of a shirt to make sure it's something that will match the pants. "Will you explain it to him? If he comes back, and I'm gone, I don't want him to think—"
"He would never think that you turned on us. As nauseating as it is to witness, Alec thinks you're holier than Raziel's spit. He'll be angry and hurt when he finds out what you've done, but he'll understand why."
Clary nods. The bed creaks. Then Isabelle is standing next to Clary, pushing through the hangers in the closet.
"These are the only clothes you have?"
\ /
The page is not smooth beneath her fingertips. There is a texture of pulp and ink. She imagines she can feel the words—not individual letters, but the larger impression of ideas put to paper.
"It's like running a hand over your arm and feeling all the fine hairs at once, but not knowing where one ends and another begins."
"We're not going to get to finish it, are we?"
She turns back to the cover, making sure the bookmark stays in its place. When Max first told her about the story of a boy attending an official school of magic, she had laughed and tried to imagine warlocks waving little wooden sticks around to cast spells. But as he read more and more, Clary found herself drawn to the simplicity of it all. Beneath the cloaks and cauldrons there's just a boy fighting for his place in the world. Fighting against the past and its expectations.
"Do you want me to tell you how it ends?"
"We'll finish it. You should read it to some of the other kids."
"Harry dies. He dies because he does what's right."
She wants to tell him that right and wrong are colorless. She's never seen black or white and doesn't understand how love can be the opposite of hate. Life is not the end of death. If colors are like choices, then they bleed until one shade could be mistaken for another.
But Max's breathing has quickened, so she places her hand over his, seeking out his voyance with her own. They sit together, and he makes no promise not to tell that she's leaving. He doesn't need to.
\ /
The bag that Clary used when she and Alec left home is still tucked beneath the bed. She pulls it out and fills it with the bare minimum—a change of clothes, a ration of food, a water bottle, a blade. She doesn't plan to travel for long, but she's learning to expect the worst. For a moment she considers adding the small vial of potion that Magnus conveyed to her an hour ago. It hangs like a pendant on a leather cord, and she's anxious that if she's not holding it, the vial will disappear. In the end, she places it around her neck, concealing the container beneath her shirt.
She's packed, and it's late. Asking Magnus to lower the wards around the fortress would only implicate him in her escape. When Clary makes her portal, it will trigger an alarm for the Nephilim on duty. She will have to pass through quickly so she's not followed.
Once the weight of her few belongings is settled against her back, she crosses to the bed one last time. She lifts one of the pillows, hugs it to her chest, and inhales what's left of Alec's scent after two weeks of his absence.
It feels longer. It feels like all of the years she spent biding time at home and waiting for something—anything—to distinguish one day from all of the others. Looking back, she thinks she has spent the majority of her life waiting for Alec in one way or another. He has come, and he has gone, and she is done standing around.
When Clary sets the pillow down, it is damp with tears. She wipes at her eyes reaches for her stele on nightstand. Instead of adamas, her hand encounters the finely woven fibers of fabric. Unfolding the cloth, she finds the shape of sleeves, a zipper, and pants made from a material every Shadowhunter is familiar with.
Clary has never owned her own gear, but she recognizes the armor she's always been meant to wear.
\ /
The step into the portal is easy. It's the second step—the one she takes sideways into an unknown space—that has her hesitating, lifting both her arms, checking the air for obstacles. The third and fourth steps are taken backwards as Clary stumbles away from the wards, their energy simmering scant inches from her face. She smells burning hair and knows that she's only just managed to avoid being charred and thrown through the air.
This is home, then.
She extends her cane and checks her immediate surroundings, noting trees and natural debris. There is no birdsong. No hum of wasps. No sound but the breeze through the trees and the even push and pull of her own breath. She is alone.
She keeps the wards to her left and begins to walk.
- TBC -
AN: As long as you guys are reading, I'll keep writing. I don't really view this as a story with a conventional arc or ending. I'm just writing about Clary and Alec going about their drama-filled lives. That's one of the reasons I don't feel compelled to crank out weekly updates. Things are just sort of rolling along. IDK.
'Till next time!