Title: Eternally Bound
Summary: He was only three when his parents died. Now he's a servant of the Morgensterns, bound to their secrets more tightly than any could imagine. Breaking the ties and finding the truth before his life runs out is only the beginning of his struggle. AU Malec
Note: Whoa! I'm honestly in awe of the reception this fic got! I'm working on review replies to all, so if you haven't gotten one yet, don't fret. I've been working on planning out the plot and am currently up to Chapter Four. I promise, the next chapter is a lot happier than this and the previous. Thank you to all who reviewed! (I am honestly a little bit scared, especially while posting this chapter... As an Alec fangirl myself, I know we can be a quite vicious community when our darling is in trouble). Your reviews really inspired me and kicked my butt into writing this immediately. And boy... If I had known that a dark!AU like this would have gotten such a good reception earlier, I would have written one of my other ideas! But alas, perhaps those will wait for after this fic (If I even have fans after all the hell these characters are going to go through). If it makes you feel better, it has to get worse before it gets better - and this chapter shows some of the worst I have planned. Getting it over with! I fhope you guys don't kill me for this one...
Edit: I had a tense crisis, many missing words, and a few wrong words that I'm just fixing up here. Sorry if you get an update. Next chapter following soon.
Warning: This chapter contains mild language, heavily implied abuse (physical and otherwise), and underage drinking.
Disclaimer: I do not own MI. And thankfully, I'm quite sure.
Chapter One
Alexander shifted food around his plate, only half alert. His appetite had shrunk drastically within the last few weeks and at the moment, even the smell of seasoned chicken drizzled with sauce was making him nauseas.
He had the sneaking suspicion that it was connected to the poison he could feel creeping through his veins. For a good five days after Valentine issued the drink, his temperature had raged. He burned up, yet shivered in a cold sweat that he simply learned to work through. Now he couldn't eat. But it didn't matter, because Alexander never took a day off from work. How could he when he was serving Jonathan?
"Alexander! Get me a glass of wine!" Jonathan ordered from the dining room.
Alexander pushed his chair away from the rickety kitchen table and limped towards the elaborate dining area. He had twisted his knee during Jonathan's morning training session and the pain was just beginning to subside.
"Sir," he said apologetically. "Your father told me that you're not to drink." Jonathan twisted in his chair to give an icy glare. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry, just get me a damn glass of wine." Judging by the still heaping pile of food on his plate, he had eaten around the same amount as Alexander. "That's an order. You're bound to it."
A shudder went up Alexander's back at the reminder. He looked down at his unfading runes sorrowfully. "The elder Morgenstern's orders override yours, Jonathan," he said quietly. "I can't do anything about it."
Jonathan stared for a long while, calculating. Alexander's knee throbbed and he leaned against the doorframe for support.
"Get me the wine, then. And a glass. I can pour it myself."
Alexander took a sharp breath and waited for some sort of agony to hit him. Nothing happened. "I'm sorry, sir," he said and exhaled slowly. Pure relief. "It seems your father's ban extends to even that."
Jonathan clenched his jaw and pushed himself away from the table. "I'll get it myself, then."
Alexander ran forward, even though each step sent a new tearing feeling through his leg. "Sir, you're not allowed," he said and attempted to block the boy's path to the wine cabinet. Jonathan was taller than him, and stronger, but Alexander was fast despite his lame leg. He could intercept him agilely on an average day, and, on days like this, at least keep him away from the alcohol until Jonathan tired of the fight.
Alexander was secretly never happier for an order. He hated when Jonathan drank even more than he hated giving in to their demands. The stink of liquor, the crueler shove and push of hands, the slurred orders that Alexander knew he had to obey… They were the essence of so many nightmares that he was only just becoming immune to.
Jonathan reached forward and grasped a handful of hair. He yanked roughly to the side and Alexander gasped in shock. His hands flew to his scalp as his leg gave way and he fell to the ground.
"You'll follow my goddamn orders," Jonathan growled and stepped over him.
A flash of concern crossed Alexander's mind. If Jonathan had already made his way into the liquor, before dinner, when Alexander was busy… There was little way to reason with the boy. And there was even less way to get himself out of trouble.
"Jonathan, you're not allowed!" Alexander pushed himself onto his elbows and rubbed at his head. A blurry memory surfaced at the worst time, as they always did. Toddlers, playing on the rug in front of the fire, tugging hair and laughing until someone cried. Except when that happened, only Jonathan smiled at his companion's misfortune.
Alexander always knew there was something off about the boy.
But this wasn't the time to dwell. Jonathan had turned on his heel to glare with a fiery intensity that nearly had Alexander backing away. "You don't tell me what to do," he said. "You're the servant here."
Alexander glared back. "I'm actually a slave, Jonathan, if you want to get technical about it," he spat. "But that doesn't change the fact that your father told you that you're not allowed to drink! By the Angel, what is wrong with you?"
Jonathan's nose wrinkled just slightly. "Nothing is wrong with me. I just want a drink with my dinner. It's the only way I'll be able to enjoy this… whatever it is you made."
Alexander knew he didn't have extraordinary skill in the kitchen, so he let this comment slide. "Your father wants you sober, with a clear head, when he fetches you. That could be any day, any minute, so calm the hell down before we're both in trouble!"
Jonathan took a deep breath, than another. Alexander could almost see the cogs working in his head, counting to ten like he'd been taught whenever his temper went out of control.
"That was idiotic of us both," Jonathan finally said. The tension lied heavily between the boys and Alexander decided not to point out that he hadn't done anything stupid except get in the way of a temper tantrum.
"It was," he said instead. "I'm sorry."
Jonathan's lips went thin and he took a step forward. "Get up," he said and extended a hand in what would seem like a peace offering to any other. Alexander knew better. He stood on his own, clutching onto a nearby chair for help.
"Crap," he muttered when fresh pain jolted through all parts of his leg and now his back. "I think I'm bruised all over now."
Jonathan didn't appear remorseful, but he reached out again in a way Alexander couldn't avoid. He wrapped his hand around Alexander's wrist – it almost reached all the way around with his lost weight– and pulled him through the halls into the parlor without a word.
Alexander's hands felt clammy as Jonathan rummaged through the drawers for one of the first aid kits.
"You were limping before," Jonathan commented with his back turned. "What happened?"
Alexander shrugged. "I fell wrong during training this morning," he responded truthfully, then remembered that they weren't fighting any longer. This was work. "Sir."
Jonathan snorted and plopped down on the couch where he had deposited Alexander. "You don't have to call me sir right now," he said and reached for Alec's pant leg. "You know how this goes."
He did. Chills went up Alexander's spine, but he said nothing. Jonathan pulled the fabric over the swollen, red knee roughly and he cringed.
"This looks bad," he said gleefully, prodding and poking at the inflamed skin with cold fingers. "Wonder how long it'll take to heal. Straighten it out for a minute." Alexander did so and bit his tongue to stop the slight cry. "Huh. Cool." Alexander swore this sadistic fascination with a broken body was the only reason Jonathan invested time in medicine.
Alexander allowed Jonathan to wrap the injury with his callused fingers and tried to hide the way his fist tightened, dreading each brush of skin.
"Now," Jonathan murmured when done and tugged up the hem of Alexander's shirt an inch. Alexander recoiled instantly. "Let me see the bruises on your back." He laid his hand flat on the bare skin and Alexander couldn't hold back an outright shudder. Jonathan eyes glinted as he moved closer. "Or we can just make new ones," he whispered and leaned in, his heavy weight pressing Alexander into the couch cushions against his will.
"Jonathan? Alexander?"
Jonathan sat up at lightening speed and rose to his feet. "Father!" he greeted enthusiastically with a grin that was too wide to be genuine. "You're home!"
Alexander sat up and fought the red blush he could feel creeping up his cheeks. He smoothed his shirt out, still breathing shallowly, trying to keep in mind that he had moved, he wasn't on top of him, oh god, he wasn't anywhere near him now, thank the Angel.
"Yes, I am," Valentine said quietly as he strode in front of the boys. "Have I… missed something?" His stare bounced back and forth quizzically, waiting for an explanation to the scene he witnessed.
"Oh, Father, it was nothing," Jonathan lied smoothly. Alexander made to stand, but Jonathan put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down again. "You shouldn't stand right now," he said before turned his winning smile back towards his father. "Alexander hurt his leg this morning. I was just taking a look at it. You know how I like fixing up injuries."
Valentine raised his eyebrows skeptically, but didn't comment. "Are you well otherwise, Alexander?"
Alexander thought of his turning stomach. "Yes, sir," he lied nearly as skillfully as Jonathan.
"What?" Jonathan said in a tone that only meant menace. "Alexander, why you – Oh, God." He laughed emptily. "Father, don't listen to him. He likes to put on this ridiculous front. He can barely hold down a meal. He spends more time bent over the toilet than actually eating. I wonder if it's something I'll be able to fix." He said this with an air of pure innocence. Alexander went numb at the thought of Jonathan poking and prodding and shoving more poisons down his throat for his own satisfaction.
"No need," Valentine said simply. "Jonathan, I'd like to speak to you about our next step. Your mother has been recovered and it's only a matter of time before your sister joins us for a whole family." He smiled, satisfied.
Jonathan frowned deeply. "What about the other one?"
Alexander gnawed at the inside of his cheek. He didn't know much about the Other One – he liked to capitalize it in his head – but whenever he came up, things ended badly. Alexander knew the topic was going to come up eventually – it was no wonder that Jonathan had been acting more erratic than average since his father's last visit.
It didn't mean he liked it.
"That will be taken care of quite easily." Valentine shrugged. "I have, on good word from my source, that our little Clarissa has fallen for… what do they call him there? Oh. Jace. And the feeling is mutual. All it will take is a quick reveal of their familial relations. It will break him, and he'll either be a useful tool or completely out of the picture."
"Sir," Alexander said hesitantly as he listened from his spot of the couch. "They aren't related." At Valentine's withering stare, he added, "Are they?"
Jonathan was the one who responded. "Of course not. But he thinks that Father is his father." Alexander detected a trace of scorn in his voice. "So it'll be no trouble convincing him it's true." He turned back towards Valentine. "Wonderful plan, Father," he praised. "How can I help?"
"I'll tell you in just a moment," Valentine said. "Alexander, go up to Jonathan's room and pack him his things."
Alexander rose, this time uninhibited by Jonathan, and nodded. "Yes, sir," he murmured and hobbled towards the door.
"And Alexander?" Valentine called when he was nearly out of the room.
"Yes, sir?"
There was a short pause as Valentine chose his words. "Don't forget the most important order of all – nothing is revealed."
"Yes, sir." Alexander's palms sweat and he rubbed the inky manacle of his right wrist with his thumb.
"Leave."
He hurried away as fast as his leg would let him.
Jonathan's room didn't take long to pack. He had few more belongings than Alexander, who refolded each piece of clothing carefully before placing it in the suitcase. In little time, it was full and snapped shut.
With a sigh, Alexander settled onto the floor and stared at the ceiling. It wouldn't be long until they left and then…
What?
He supposed he would have to stay, as he'd been ordered. Keep house, though they'd never return. Wait until someone came to investigate. But when would that happen? How long would it take? What if the house ran out of food? What if his life just ran out ahead of schedule?
Valentine had told him he had a year, if he was lucky. Alexander pressed a hand against the front of his shirt gently, feeling the ridge of his ribs through the thin fabric. He didn't feel lucky at all.
He shook his head. It was foolish to obsess over these things. He had to focus on now, on living through the next hour, let alone the next days.
He heard loud footsteps on the stairs and forced himself to his feet, even as his knee throbbed. On autopilot, his mind still racing, Alexander stood tall, clasped his hands behind his back, and took a deep breath.
3… 2… 1… he thought, too accustomed to Jonathan's habits to stop himself. The door slammed open on schedule and the angry boy made a beeline towards him.
"Damn angel boy," Jonathan growled, kicking off his shoes so they landed under the bed. "Damn perfect son, just plain faultless, so that I have to pretend I'm not even alive." His eyes seemed blacker than ever and Alexander felt his heart clench nervously.
"Sir?" he said hesitantly. "I… Your things are ready."
"I don't give a shit," Jonathan sneered and snatched a knife from the dresser. He threw it in one fluid motion, his wrist and fingers flicking out deftly. Alexander flinched, but it wedged itself in the wall on the other side of the room. "That… hate… he…" Most of Jonathan's words were inaudible mutterings.
"Sir, you're going to have to leave soon," Alexander said, hoping that maybe they'd leave before his rage boiled over, maybe they'd be gone before Jonathan chose a place to direct it.
Jonathan sucked in a deep breath through his nose and settled his gaze on Alexander. His tense muscles seemed to relax immediately. Alexander's, on the other hand, tightened.
"You're right," Jonathan said in a much calmer voice. He seemed nearly pleasant, if not for a predatory tone lacing his words. He stepped closer. "We are leaving soon. Alexander… I don't believe we've been apart since we were young, have we?"
Alexander swallowed thickly, but his throat was already closing up. "N-no, sir."
Jonathan abruptly grabbed Alexander by the waist and pulled him into an awkward embrace. "Why don't you make this a proper farewell, then?" he suggested in a low voice. His hot breath hit Alexander's face and he coughed, twisting away.
"No," he said firmly, trying to rip the boy away. Not now, not when he was so close to being rid of him, not when he'd avoided it for so many months, not when the nightmares were finally fading…
Jonathan only held on tighter. "That was an order."
Alexander pushed against his chest helplessly. Jonathan was strong, too strong for a normal being. "No," he said again.
"I said that was an order!"
Burning hot liquid poured through Alexander's body, rendering him fully incapable of even moving. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, his blood boiled, his head felt like it was splitting. He wrapped a hand around his middle as he collapsed to the ground as if it would contain his disjointed limbs.
The rune. He gasped, unable to bear it. "M-make it st-stop," he begged. "T-take it b-back." He felt his cheeks were wet, but didn't quite register the fact.
"It'll stop when you fulfill the order," Jonathan said simply and moved close. His rough palm cupped Alexander's chin and forced him to look up, even in his unseeing white blindness. "Just give in. You can't win."
With one great heave, Alexander went limp. The pain dissipated as if it'd never been present, but he could still feel the tingling in his skin, a clear warning.
Jonathan came down on him and he shut his eyes tight.
He knew the end of the nightmares was too good to be true.
Imogen Herondale knew the Morgenstern mansion better than she cared to admit.
She strode down the halls and searched for even one discrepancy from what she remembered. A moved picture, a changed rug, anything could be a hint. The ghost of her past followed her, as it always did, but now was the time to be professional.
She shut out the surfacing memories of young boys laughing and running roguishly while their mothers smiled fondly and tried to make them settle down for a meal. Stephen had never been an independent soul, always eager to follow the other children's ideas rather than make his own. Imogen saw little harm in this until these children became deadly.
She wished she had taught her son to think for himself, but even so, knew it would have been impossible for him to escape his childhood friend's enticing lure.
Imogen found nothing too extraordinary in the admittedly small area she had assigned herself, and so returned to the parlor. They had set up their headquarters in the once warm and cozy room where she once drank tea and chatted with other women. Now she was writing papers and filing an investigation.
Too many years had gone by.
"Inquisitor!" One of the younger Shadowhunters – Imogen couldn't recall his name, he was a new recruit to her team – greeted her outside the door. "Have you found anything?"
She shook her head once, but the youth's eagerness didn't fade. "Well, that's a shame, but guess what?"
Imogen raised her eyebrows and waited patiently for him to continue. She rarely participated in these childish word games the new generation seemed to be raised on.
"We found a person."
"A person?" Imogen repeated in slight shock. For some reason, she had expected him to tell her that he was receiving a puppy or the like. Judging from his tone, he probably felt like he had.
"Yeah, a person. I found him in one of the bedrooms. He was just laying there on the floor. Dunno how long he was there, he won't talk. The only time he opened his mouth was when we came in here. He vomited in the garbage can."
Imogen wrinkled her nose. "How old is he?"
The boy shrugged. "We figure he's in his teens. Not Valentine, obviously. Say, didn't he have a son? Maybe that's him."
"Valentine's son is dead," Imogen said emptily. Just like my own. Regardless, she made note of the possibility. She reached for the knob and turned it swiftly.
"No, ma'am, I can't let you through," the boy said and shut the door after it had opened just an inch. "He seemed to go into shock when he saw one of our female fighters. We think he's never seen a woman before. 'Course, we can't be sure, but I guess it's a good inference. We don't want to scare him too badly."
Imogen narrowed her eyes. "If he's frightened, maybe he'll talk. We can't waste time making him comfortable when there is a murderer on the loose and he may know something!"
The boy took a deep breath. "Yes, ma'am," he said and sighed. "You're right. Just… don't hurt him, okay? I tried to help him up and he cringed. I think he's been abused."
"Well, if he's been living with Valentine that can't be a surprise!" Imogen pushed past the boy gently and opened the door again. Sometimes she wondered about the intelligence of that generation. "Where is the boy?"
The Shadowhunters in the room halted their work to turn to her. The room was dead silent, save for a small pop of logs in the fire that hadn't been there before.
"He's over here, boss," one of the men said and waved her attention over.
Imogen's eyes snapped to the corner where he stood. Beside him, a boy a little shorter than average stood with his hands cuffed in front of his body in glowing rings. He had his head bent low and dark strands of hair blocked his eyes.
"Who started the fire?" she asked and flanked around the room at all the men. They shifted uncomfortably until one pointed to the boy.
"He was shivering like crazy when we brought him in here," he said. "He asked if he could make a fire, and well, we couldn't let the kid freeze. Plus it convinced us we wasn't mute."
"His skin is just starting to thaw out now," said the fighter in the corner with him. He had a hand resting on the back of the boy's neck, but it didn't look harsh. Simply protective. Imogen remembered that he was a father with a son not too much older than the boy appeared to be. Parental instincts… Somehow, it seemed to be a trait she lacked.
Imogen set her jaw and nodded. "Very well. What else have we found?"
A Shadowhunter lounging on the sofa shuffled through papers. "There were three bedrooms that looked recently occupied. Two upstairs – one of them is where we found the boy – and then one in the dungeons. Either the kid sleeps in a different one each night or there were other people here. All other evidence leads to that. There was some food in the kitchen, too. More than for just one person."
Imogen frowned and crossed the room. The boy's eyes remained trained on his scuffed, worn shoes but she saw his chest move more rapidly as she approached.
"Tobias!" she yelled, finally remembering the youth's name. The boy entered the room anxiously and she summoned him forward.
"Yeah, boss?" he asked and smiled warmly towards the mysterious boy.
"How did you find him, again?"
"Oh, well," Tobias said, thinking. "We split up on the second floor and I was going down the hall I was assigned, opening all the doors. Most of the rooms looked abandoned, but he was on the floor in that one. The bed was all messed up, like someone had just slept in it, but," he shrugged, "He was on the ground. That's it, really." He paused, as if trying to recall more clearly. "Oh, there was some blood, too! And he had a lot of trouble standing up. He walks funny, I think something is wrong with his leg." He looked towards the boy quizzically. "Did I get all that right? Did I miss something?"
The only change in the boy was a red blush that flushed his pale cheeks.
Imogen eyed the black haired boy and took in his appearance more critically. His clothes were made of thin fabric and had a few small holes, nearly hidden. They clung to him loosely. His hair didn't hang much longer than his eyes, but it was chopped unevenly, as if he had done it himself. She noted a purple bruise on his cheek and a matching one on his neck, disappearing under his collar. She had a suspicion that, should they do a full examination, there would be many matching ones.
He didn't look like a Morgenstern, that was for certain. She recalled old descriptions of her husband's ancestors and supposed, if anything, the boy looked like a Herondale – though she was fairly certain they had no relation.
Underneath the glowing cuffs, she saw blackened skin. With Tobias's warning in mind only reiterated by the injuries, she squinted at it but didn't touch. Swirling runes she didn't recognize encircled his wrists, almost obscured by dark, long bruises in the shapes of fingers.
"How did you receive your injuries?" she asked sharply. The boy bit his lip but didn't answer. "Do you know where Valentine Morgenstern is?" He bit down harder but remained utterly silent. Imogen felt her patience failing. "What is he up to? What is your business here?" The boy's lip split and a drop of blood trickled down his chin. "Do you know who I am? By order of the Clave, I demand you give me some answers!"
"Inquisitor," Tobias interrupted. "Calm down, you're scaring him!"
The boy was trembling slightly. He lifted his linked wrists to wipe away the red trail dripping from his lip.
"I don't know if he can answer those questions," Tobias murmured, as if he was thinking aloud. "Why don't we ask him something simple? Hey, kid, do you have a name?"
Imogen was about to chide Tobias for intruding on her job without permission when the black haired boy lifted his head. He had brilliant blue eyes that were void of any spark, whether it be hopeful or angry or in spite.
He nodded twice, slow, agonizing nods that were so imperceptible that Imogen thought perhaps she imagined them.
"Well? What is it?" she pressed.
In a cracked, timid voice, the boy spoke. "Alexander Lightwood."
This certainly changed things.
End Note: Huh. Random OC that popped in there. Tobias hasn't worked himself into my outline in any way, shape, or form, but I suppose his appearance as I wrote this chapter means he will. I don't know much about the kid, so I guess I'll have to just take it and go with it. Honestly a bit nervous for this OC appearance, not a huge fan of writing them myself, but... Well, I needed someone to talk.
Imogen is actually going to be rather important in this fic, leading the case with Valentine and all. I dearly hope none of you were as traumatized as I while reading the Jonathan scenes... I didn't want to do it, but it just... it seemed logical to me. Jonathan does things for the pleasure of frightening and hurting others. I imagine his actions frighten and hurt Alec, so... well, he gets double enjoyment. And before I'm referred to a certain piece of dialogue in CoG, I don't think he's actually homophobic. I think he knew how to get under Alec's skin and used it to his advantage. In reality, I'm sure Jonathan doesn't give a crap who Alec likes and/or sleeps with.
Review, please :) I hate to beg, but you've all spoiled me! And as I realize this is becoming a very long note, so in conclusion...
Next chapter: Alexander struggles with the effects of the slow-acting poison in the Gard while readers get a glimpse into the New York Institute and the drama that all roots in family.