A/N : Thanks for all the lovely comments, please R&R!

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise here from the Mortal Instruments or Cassie Clare's work is mine.

something - unexplained

And I want you to see

Every day I wear my heart on my sleeve

- Olly Murs, Heart On My Sleeve

Once upon a time, there was a baby boy.

With dark hair and the clearest, palest blue eyes, his beginning was a blinding flash in the bleakest period of Shadowhunter history.

A storm raged relentlessly outside the Institute when he was born, lightning forking and striking the spire of the church so much that it shook to its very foundations. While his father whistled, surprised, and the servants scattered, his mother's eyes were deep and full of terror.

It was a difficult birth. Though technically against the Law, mundane midwives were called for the first time to the hallowed halls of the Institute, turning everything into a flurry of confusion, barked orders and a chill of fear. This never happened.

The baby's mother was sweating heavily, and her face was red and veined as she gritted her teeth in agony. Her husband held her hand loosely, concern written into the dips and lines riding his forehead and mouth. A cool cloth was pressed to her forehead, but she barely felt it, caught up in the daze of pain and sheer terror. In her head, the storm was speaking to her, and it had the voice of the Seelie Queen.

"Get her away from me! She'll never get him!" His mother's voice ripped through the low chaos of the room and her husband jumped in shock. "My love, can you hear me?" They were the first words she had spoken since the beginning of labour. "Love?" He touched her shoulders gently and glanced at the midwife. She was grim, her face grey from overwork and seeing too much.

"I don't know what will happen, and I'm so sorry. Right now, the child is the priority. If it is born safely, then your wife may easily live."

He nodded numbly, stroking her hair with a tenderness that was rarely seen from him. She mumbled incoherently, her eyes opening and closing frantically, until all he could see was the vacant flash of her deep brown eyes. She was losing grip, and he couldn't stop it.

She felt herself fall, then stumble and get up again. She felt her husband's hand on hers, though at that point she had no idea who it was and who was around her. She felt the cutting, splitting, tearing raw pain and saw the blood and the rip of lightning. She felt the thunder's roar to her very bones.

Through the haze, she saw a face. A woman's face, ethereally beautiful and eerie in the dim light of the room. She smiled. Her mother, come to take her to the angels. She reached out, then looked properly and blanched. Her scream echoed around the church, and lightning hit the spire.

"Darling, hold on." Her husband was pale and shaking, clutching onto her hand like it would break away from him. The midwife shook her head sadly. She had seen so many men unable to let go of their loved ones, unable to accept the fact that they mightn't make it through.

The baby was crowning. The midwives and servants all rushed like frightened, determined birds, handing bowls of water and towels and opium flowers. His mother howled, and more bolts rained down on the Institute until her husband was momentarily blinded. He dropped her hand and when he reached for it again, panicked, it was cold.

She could see the woman's face clearer now, and it certainly was not her mother. She was beautifully cool, with a cut glass features and dark eyes that held secrets so old that the baby's mother couldn't even begin to imagine. Her lips were blood red, and when she leaned closer and smiled, the woman shivered and felt a chill run down her spine.

"You know why I'm here." It was a statement, and the baby's mother gasped in pain and nodded. "Take me… not him. Please!"

The woman rolled her eyes and stood back, tapping a nail on her elbow. "You're not really thinking straight right now, Nephilim. Your labour is excruciating, I made sure of that. So, I am prepared to offer you a deal. Again. This time, you will say yes, or you both will die."

The baby's mother heaved a breath and let out, "Yes! Whatever you want! Just let it be over!"

"I see interesting things in your son's future. Very interesting things indeed, and I want to watch how they play out. I will save your lives." The mother sighed a breath, and her eyes rolled back in her head. "At a price."

"What?" The baby's mother was losing her focus, and her inhalations were becoming weaker. "If your son's life is to be in any way worth watching for me, I want to make it that little bit spicier. I will place a curse, anything I want, that cannot be undone by anything you simple mortals can create, on his soul. You will accept whatever I choose to inflict, without interruption or conflict."

"Fine! Just save him!" The baby's mother fell back, and her last breath slipped her lips. She was silent.

The woman gazed with intrigue at her white face, and gently drifted her long fingers on the mother's forehead. She began to huff as her lungs filled. Rosy colour was restored to her face, and blood stiffly resumed running in her veins.

"She's alive!"

"So is the child. It's a miracle. By the Angel!"

The baby's mother laughed heavily, panting and grasping her son in her arms, watching his beautiful blue eyes blink for the first time. But, in the window, she could see a shadow of a woman's face, cold and waiting.

You made a promise.

The author of this tale would like to say that the boy's childhood was full of joy, but the facts are crisp and clear.

It began as any other Shadowhunter child's would; he toddled around the Institute on unsteady legs, threw seraph blades at aged three, learned the Law by heart at aged six.

It was then that things started changing.

He was always a quiet boy. He hid behind his long unruly fringe, shading his eyes from anything remotely intimidating, and silently went about at becoming a fearsome warrior. And so he became; his first kill was at aged five, a Sharax demon that slipped past the wards of the Institute.

He became distant from his family. At first, he thought they were going through something difficult, or anything his young mind could comprehend. He followed them around a lot more, started to be more attention-seeking, broke things on purpose and even stabbed his own hand with a blade.

They just noticed him less and less, as if he was a random visitor and not their son. At dinner, they had conversations without him. They didn't bring him on visits to relatives unless he jumped in the carriage himself, and when he did come, his extended family acted as if he didn't even exist. He became almost a living ghost, known only by name and prowess.

He was hired many times, by many Institutes around the globe. His reputation and name remained intact, and he killed so many demons he was regarded as the fiercest Shadowhunter the world had ever seen. He was relentless, ruthless and unfeeling. Anyone who paid attention to him for more than five minutes, though, soon forgot about him and moved on. He lived in his own bubble, always alone, and always wondering why. Was it him? Was he meant to be this way?

He struggled so hard, and when a terrible burning occurred in the London Institute, he dared to hope. He may be noticed. He may finally find someone, some people.

He was still in the shadows. And as he struggled against the silence, he was watched by a faerie with a cut-glass face.

"What a lovely story." Violet smiled, her sharp canines glinting, and glanced from her armchair to her guards. "I love that one. I'm just so glad somebody got to write it down; it tickles me every single time." She leaned back in the fluffy cushions and yawned, feeling the warmth of the fire caress her face. Meliorn and Gaspar looked at each other apprehensively, nodding in unison, "Quite lovely, my Lady."

"Yes." Violet stretched, her long, lean figure sliding up the back of the couch, and stood up. "We need to get moving. The Clave, the Angel bless them, have no idea what I'm planning and I intend to keep them that oblivious." At her guards' careful indifference, she threw her arms gracefully in the air in exasperation.

"Oh my God, I don't see why what I'm trying to do is so terrible!" They didn't respond, but Violet was quite adept at reading faery minds, and could see their feelings written all the way across their faces. "Yes, yes, you think it is abominable to want to kill a Downworlder. I don't care, they're all the same to me. Why is it that you all believe Downworlders have to 'team up' against the Nephilim? Tell me! It's not like half of us are enemies or anything!" Her eyes blazed, and the fey took a quick step back, their spears held tightly at their sides.

"All I want is that flower, and then I have all the ammunition I need to get rid of the warlock. Then I can be free, you all can be free or whatever, and I can go back to my normal duties without deviating and having to spend time in this horrible city with these horrible people!"

She was spitting with rage, and sparks fizzed from her fingertips and hair. A bolt of lightning forked towards the ground outside the townhouse, and her guards could feel a rush of air blow in which indicated a window or five had smashed.

"Yes, my Lady."

"Good." Violet's taut features relaxed, and the thunder was reduced to a low rumble. "Now get out of my sight. More research is needed. Go!"

Meliorn and Gaspar left silently, leaving Violet alone. Turning to the window, her face crumpled.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, freezing like icicles before falling and smashing on the pinewood floor. She sobbed uncontrollably, turning her face to the earth.

"Mama, I'm not ready." A faint whish of leaves and a whisper of a breeze answered her from outside the broken pane. "I know you're speaking to me. I know what you're trying to say. And I am trying too, it has just been so difficult… I'm young, Mama. You were too young to go. And now I don't know what to do."

A night owl called clearly in the moonlight, and Violet's pretty features were soothed into a soft frown, tearstains limp on her face. Nature calmed her, and she knew what she had to do.

"Mama, I will find that flower and avenge you. You can count on it."

Turning her back, she strode to the door and realising it had blown off its hinges, snarled and threw it through another window, hearing the blistering crack break through her ears.

"Can anybody clean up after themselves here?"

From the rest of the brownstone, she could smell the scent of respect, annoyance, and fear. Fear was powerful. Fear was dangerous.

She was fear.

And yet she was afraid.