Pandemonium: Chapter 35
Nothing belongs to me, you know...

AN: Wow okay, so some of you are probably very confused. I tried to update a bit ago, and I accidentally published my paper on Turkish Democracy. While I'm SURE you all would have loved it, I don't think it really has a place in a Malec fic. So this time, I'm publishing the REAL chapter (unless I paste my paper on something else instead...). Also a general thought: I'm a horrible person for this chapter, and yeah. P.S. I'm reading Stoner by John Williams, and I highly recommend it to everyone.

"Finally," he said quietly with a wry grin on his face.

"Finally?"

"Finally."

"Finally, what?"

Rolling his eyes and chuckling lightly he said, "You told me this was a tragedy. I've been waiting for almost two days to get to a tragedy. Finally it's here."

"Thats...it's... not something to look forward to."

"Tragedy is the most exciting part of the story! All the best stories end in tragedies."

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. Folding my arms rather feebly, I asked, "Oh really? Is that so? Pray tell why."

"The tragedies are the human stories. 'Happily Ever After' is so blasé."

"Blasé?"

"Boring, plain, unimpressive. It's just too fake. It's not real. We want something real. Something we can look to and revel in the schadenfreude! Something to look at and say 'Ha! My life may be terrible, but this character has it worse than I do, so I am free to continue laughing and muddling through my meager, pointless existence."

"That is without a doubt the worst opinion I have ever heard on books. How on earth are you so famous and beloved?"

With a false frown, he pretended to be taken aback. "It's not like I'm lying or making it up. It's the truth of human nature. That's what all great writing tries to take a stab at. All the fiction, the fairy tales, the happiness? That's also a view on human nature; that panders to the audience that wants to be comforted, to be coddled and to be made to escape from their suffering. I don't pander to that audience. I pander to the audience that wants to feel."

"Well when we're done they'll certainly feel."

"I do hope so. I'd rather not have to explain why I spent three days in a tavern with nothing to show but a fairy tale..."

It was nice to talk to him like this... it was nice to have a friend. Friend? More like distant acquaintance? Not even... more like random stranger I met three days ago in a tavern whom I just happen to get along with and wouldn't be mortally opposed to getting to know better. And no, I don't mean know in that way. Though that's not happening. I should probably let him know now...

"So there are a few things I need to tell you."

He looked at me inquisitively, with curiosity dancing lightly in his eyes.

"My recent incapacitation is a sign..."

"A sign of what exactly?"

"A sign that the end is near."

"The end of what? The story, yes I imagined as such. The threat of executions normally signals the end of a story...unless it's one of those stories where the end is the beginning and it's a giant circle. Please tell me this is not one of those..."

"It's not," I said laughingly. It has been long since I've felt to light. Perhaps the inevitability of it has something to do with that.

"Well then what end do you refer to?"

"The end of my life."

"You're dying?"

"Yes, I've been diseased my entire life, the old woman, Annabeth, told me about it years ago. It is something that has passed between my family for years. My ancestor...the source for this whole thing...she was a carrier of the disease; her younger brother died of it when he was 9; it's a miracle that I've survived this long."

"Ah your mysterious source... when will I have the opportunity to see that? It would be nice to have the original material. Not that your storytelling is bad... it's actually pretty good; I just think working with the original material would be nice."

"After I'm dead."

"Aren't you just a charmer... seriously? Not anytime soon?"

"I'm dying pretty soon. You'll get what you want."

"And how exactly will a dead man give me what I want?"

"This particular dead man keeps everything locked in that chest right there," I said, as I pointed to the chest on the desk. "The key is with me, and after tonight, when everything has been placed inside, it will go to the innkeeper. When I'm dead, they'll give you the key."

"Where's the key now?"

"I'm not telling you that."

"Why?"

"Because then what's the point in you listening to me? That is another one of life's great tragedies. Nobody listens to you unless you have something they want to hear. If I let you know where the key is, you'll take it and read the source. Then why will you listen to me? You will leave, and I will die knowing the story remains told in your edited version, not the version that I need it to be told."

"You need it to be told? By what rights do you claim to have the only version of the story that can be told? A story has many, many different versions, each with equal right to be told." He said this with a bit of anger, surprisingly.

I didn't want to incite any argument, or to make anything worse. I want to go in peace with everyone.

"Very well then... may I ask one question?"

"You may."

"I've heard of the ancient Kingdom of Idris. I've even heard of Queen Charlotte, though she is more of a footnote in a history book than anything else. Not much is known about her reign and her time. If everything you say is true, if everything you say is accurate, then this story is more than just a story; it is a record of that time, albeit an embellished version of that record, but a record nonetheless. It would deepen the understanding of our collective history. It's a historian and an anthropologists gold mine. So the question that I'm getting at is how much of this is true? How much of this is absolutely, irrevocably true?"

I paused for a moment, though his gaze made it seem like a century.

Finally, in a bare whisper I said, "I don't know."

"What?"

"I don't know. You'll read the source material, but you should know some things about the author. She claims to know everything first hand, to have been there watching all the events, to be part of the events. But apparently this was written late-very late-in her life. So late that there is the possibility that she was old, frail, and forgetting things. I don't know how much is true and how much is false. You'll have to consult the history books. For all I know I'm just retelling the story of some batty old woman who had lost her wits close to death and made up an image of times gone past."

He said nothing, he had started writing on a different page. He was probably compiling notes on all of this to understand everything.

"That all being said," I continued, "I don't care if it turns out to be hogwash. This is the history that I've been lead to believe is my own. And even if it's not a real history, it has given my life a greater purpose, which is something that a dying man has very little of."

He nodded.

"Then," he said with a serious face, "it is of the utmost importance that we continue."

Tessa's jaw dropped. Death? Death made no sense. Execution made no sense. It was murder, sure, but death was not the right punishment.

She stood up.

"Your honor I must protest."

The judge looked at her with utter confusion. In fact, the entire crowd, turned to look at her, and the silence was broken with the creaks of their necks turning.

"Ma-the criminal has been found guilty of the crime, yes; however, death is not the correct punishment I believe. I believe that the Queen's Justice and the People's Justice would be sufficiently served if the guilty party were forced to live in a jail cell for the rest of his life."

"The decision has been made, counselor." The judge said with a cold, harsh voice.

"Your honor, I beg you to listen for a moment. The guilty party, despite his crime, has served his country well. To kill him would be a punishment beyond his crimes, it is unbecoming and unjust to do that. Justice to the family and to the people would be served by his life imprisonment."

The judge was angry now. Staring her down, with a seething voice he said, "Counselor, you are out of order. I suggest you cease and desist immediately. This sentence comes at the recommendation of the Queen and her council. To question its authority or its justification is tantamount to treason. Do not commit treason counselor."

Tessa slumped down in her seat. This was unjust, truly unjust. But it meant something more. The Queen and the council never intervened in a case, especially not in the sentencing. It wasn't done-ever. The only reason the Queen would intervene is if it mattered to her, but the Lovelace's hadn't gone to the Queen. This had nothing to do with her.

For the first time since the murder, Tessa realized that she had the wrong man. In her heart of hearts, she realized that Magnus was innocent.

Alec just stared at the space. He couldn't breathe. There was no air to breathe. There was no life to live. Magnus wasn't getting locked away for life, he was getting brutally murdered. This was what the Queen meant, that horrid bitch and uncouth wench. She decided that Magnus needed to die, and it was his fault. He shouldn't have said anything. He shouldn't have begged. If he hadn't begged Magnus would be alive. It was his fault. He had to fix it. He had to fix everything. Even if it meant committing treason. And from what Tessa had just said, it seemed like treason was not going to be a bad idea. He could escape back to his house in the country with Magnus. Robert and Maryse would accept that, right? It was a possibility.

People were moving away now. They were leaving, all in hushed whispers looking at Magnus; nobody noticed him in the room. He marched back to the palace with Jace and Izzy trailing behind him. They said nothing, they knew not to say anything. A single word could have set him off and now was not the time for rash decisions. As soon as he got to his chambers he sat down in the Solar and spoke to Carstairs and Jace.

"How hard is it to break someone out of prison? They'll be holding him in his regular cell, I imagine, and we'll just take him out in the dark of night and escape. The end."

"Impossible, your highness." Carstairs replied.

"He will be too well guarded, and if you are caught you too will most certainly die; we will all die and it will be a disgrace to the Lightwood name."

"I don't care. I couldn't care less anymore. I'm done with this. I'm done with everything, with Camille, with the Queen, with hiding, with this city, this palace, everything."

"Look," Jace said, "I get it, I really do, but if you do there is a chance that ever single one of us will die, and I don't care about my life, and I know you don't care about yours, but there are other people who could be harmed too. Think about Clary, or Izzy, or even that useless oaf Lewis, they could all be implicated."

"Then we get them out of the city before we do anything," Alec replied.

"Because that's going to be completely easy and not at all remotely suspicious," Jace replied tartly.

"I beg your pardon Your Highness, Jace, but I don't think even discussing this is wise," Carstairs said. "They say the walls have ears, that there is a spider lurking in every corner waiting to hear your secrets and your whispers, that there are little birds that cannot wait to spill your darkest most personal thoughts."

There was a moment of silence. Alec said nothing, and instead thought pensively.

"What prerogatives do I have?" Alec asked, suddenly.

"What?" Carstairs asked, surprised.

"What prerogatives do I have as Crown Prince. There must be something I can do-something legal that would solve our grand problem," Alec said.

"You have many prerogatives Your Highness, but this is not one of them. This is a decision coming from the Queen herself, as far as I'm aware, and only she has the ability to commute his sentence now. Had it been just the judge making the decision, you could commute it, but you cannot counter the act of the Queen, especially if the council is behind her." Carstairs replied after some thought.

"But the entire council is in Valentine's pocket!" Jace inserted.

"Yes it is, and so you are unlikely to change any of their minds, unless you appeal directly to the Queen," Carstairs said.

"No! I will not go to her!" Alec replied with more emotion than he would have liked.

"Is there something you're not telling us?" Jace asked.

Alec froze. Could he tell them? Could he tell them the truth? That this was-in his opinion-all his fault. All of it. From the very beginning. Lying wouldn't help anymore.

"It's my fault," he whispered.

"It's all my fault. From the very beginning. This whole disaster is my fault. Had I been smart about things, had I stopped Magnus from getting too close, to getting attached, none of this would have happened. He would be safe, he would be fine. And then I was even more stupid. I begged the Queen. I begged her to let Magnus go. And she said I needed to be punished. She was right. I need to be punished. I'm a disgrace, a monster, a creature not worth loving. I've killed the only person that loves me because I'm too selfish. He was willing to accept his punishment, but I wasn't. I was too selfish to let him make his choice. I had to intervene. And now he's going to die, because I'm a selfish monster. I should be the one dying."

Izzy finally spoke: "You're not a monster. And this in not your fault. You had no idea that the Queen was such an uptight bitch. It's fine. We'll find a way to solve this. We can do this. I know we can. We will break him out. I can break him out. I'll do it."

"No!" Alec shouted. "I'm not letting anyone else ruin their life because I'm a selfish monster!"

"Like I've ever listened to a word you've said," Izzy scoffed. "I can get him out. I'll just go visit him on the pretense of a friend visiting a friend, consoling him. And then when the time is right, I'll bust him out. You know I'm incredible with a whip."

"Pardon me," Carstairs said, "but I think this could work."

"I'm coming with you," Jace chimed in.

"It's a plan then. We're going to bust your sparkly lover out of jail, and then escape to somewhere."

Alec just looked out into the distance. It was not the look of someone who was convinced of a plan; it was the look of someone who was searching hope, but had abandoned all hope when he entered the room.