The Red Fog
"Shadowhunters know no fear," said the clear and firm voice of his father. His tone was stern, barely concealing the disappointment that Alec had learned to recognize in the way in which Robert Lightwood always spoke to him. Reflexively, Alec shrank back, trying to make himself small by stooping his shoulders and bending his head down, his eyes intent on his boots and on the patch of grass on which he was standing. To stop his hands from shaking, he tightly interlaced them behind his back.
In the memory, Alec was no more than seven years old; small and slim; scrawny and mouse-like; too scrawny, in fact, for a Nephilim; "a wisp of a child," as his grandmother used to say. His Shadowhunter jacket felt heavy on his small frame, and almost fell off his shoulders, its sleeves so long that Alec had to roll them up so they wouldn't cover his hands and impede his movements. The gear that most of his kind wore so naturally, as a second skin, felt foreign to Alec, too heavy, too rough, too big, too cold. I am not a Shadowhunter, he thought, and I may never be one.
Alec and his father were standing by the edge of a pond, in a park near the Institute. The morning was sunny but cool. Although summer was not officially over, Alec could already smell the approaching Fall that soon would dress the trees in a kaleidoscope of colors and turn the ground into a blanket of brown and ochre. The damp and cold morning air clang to his face, and chilled his fingertips even under his gloves.
He could feel his father's eyes on him, their judgement like sandpaper scratching his cheeks, peeling layers off to reveal the small and scared child that Alec tried in vain to conceal. His father could always see deep into him, as if his eyes could illuminate the deepest of his insecurities and anxieties. Alec avoided those intense eyes that always saw too much, and whose stare seemed to burn on his skin as if they were shooting fire.
"Shadowhunters conquer their fear, even the fear of death. Do you understand me Alec?" his father asked.
"Yes, father," replied Alec in a small voice that came out no louder than a whisper. His voice lacked all the strength, certainty and assertiveness that characterized Shadowhunter voices. How could his voice ever command anyone? Alec asked himself.
"Look at me," ordered his father, his voice booming. "You are a Lightwood, and Lightwoods are meant to be leaders, and leaders do not look at their boots."
Alec forced his eyes away from the ground and up towards the serious and severe face of his father. His father, tall, strong and imposing in his Shadowhunter gear, was angry. Alec could tell in the way his brown eyes shined as if a fire was burning behind them, the low brow, and in the set line of his mouth. Alec wondered what he had done and how he had disappointed his father this time. A familiar feeling of dread and self-doubt settled in the pit of his small stomach; an old fear, old even considering how young Alec was; a fear that seemed to have found a permanent home in his gut. The feeling was mixed with the certainty that nothing he did would ever be good enough for his father; that no matter how much he tried, he would never be the kind of Shadowhunter his father wished for. His father would never look at him the way he looked at his younger sister who seemed to have been born immune to fear, weakness or insecurity.
Alec knew that as the older child, he was expected to follow on his father's footsteps and live up to his family's reputation and tradition as an old family of leaders and warriors. One day his father would send him on missions, and he would have to kill demons and become a soldier, and perhaps even be sent to die like so many Lightwoods before him. One day, he may even be called to lead an institute. Yet, he feared that he would never be worthy; that when the time came, his father would look past him and instead bestow the honor on his sister, a worthier and fiercer warrior than Alec. He could feel the fear and insecurity growing like vines, digging their roots deeper and deeper in his heart becoming a certainty, a prediction of his future, a fulfilled prophesy.
Alec still remembered sitting on his father's lap –it had not been that long ago –laughing with his father at a story they were reading; his father's strong and protective arms around him; the feel of his stubbly chin against his forehead; the soft touch of his father's lips kissing him good night, and his face smiling proudly. Since he began his Shadowhunter training, Alec didn't get to see his father like that anymore, as if as soon as Alec turned six and began to train, his father turned into a different man, a scary and cold man, a commander and no longer a father, someone to obey and to call sir.
"I do this for your own good," said his father and with surprising strength, certainty and speed, he picked Alec up, as one picks up a child to cradle him against his chest. But instead of cradling him, his father threw him with startling force, into the deepest part of the pond, as if Alec weighed less than a pebble.
Alec felt himself float for an instant, hovering in the cool air, before his stomach dropped and he hit the water with a force that took his breath away. He immediately went under and the pressure forced water into his mouth and nose, and down into his lung. His nasal cavity stank as if a hot knife had been introduced through his nose all the way into his brain. For a moment that felt like an eternity, he was completely submerged in the dark and green waters of the pond, and his first reaction was to panic. He began to frantically kick his legs, desperately pushing himself up until, thankfully, his head broke through to the surface. As soon as he felt air against his cheeks, Alec sucked in a breath that sent him into a coughing fit, water pouring out from his mouth and nose.
"Shadowhunters are expected to know how to battle in water," Robert Lightwood said. "And, as a leader, you will be expected to be the first one to jump. You will swim to the edge, and use runes to dry and warm yourself. I will be waiting for you at the Institute. Do you understand me?"
"Ye, ye, yes sir," stuttered Alec, his voice not louder than a whisper, his teeth shattering and panic spreading throughout his body. From the water, he saw his father turn and walk away, his back receding at a speed that was almost inhuman.
Alec called on every ounce of strength he had to control his panic and to get his legs moving to avoid going under once again. Alec knew that if he submerged, he would be unable to bring himself back up and he would drown. What's worse, no one would help him, for no one would see him under the glamour that concealed Shadowhunters and the Downworld from the mundane world. He would die alone in a park full of mundanes sitting on benches and enjoying the morning sun. He would die struggling for air but inhaling water instead, and his body would sink to the bottom, the pond entombing him in a grave of green water, leaves and rocks. The thought brought on another surge of panic and he began to thrash his arms about, trying desperately to swim to the edge of the pond, which seemed to be farther and farther away, the more Alec tried to reach it.
He should have suspected the reason why his father had woken him at the crack of dawn, instructing him to dress in his Shadowhunter gear and to follow him out of the institute and towards the park. Alec should have expected this test; he should have known it would come when he saw his father standing by the swimming pool during water combat training the day before.
The rest of the children had been eager to jump in the pool and Izzi had even been the first one in. Yet, Alec had hesitated, and had lingered too long by the edge of the pool, looking intently at the water, knowing that if he jumped, he would be unable to keep his head above the surface, let alone defend himself against the children on the other team.
Alec couldn't help it: he was afraid of water, terrified of being pulled under and not being able to breath, afraid of drowning in the dark and deep silence of an ocean. The thought and the fear had paralyzed him, and he had hesitated and lingered too long. Before even turning in the direction of the pool deck, Alec had felt the disapproving eyes of his father on him, burning between his shoulder blades.
Now he was losing this battle to stay afloat and he felt like roots were sprouting from the depth of the pond, wrapping themselves around his feet and pulling him under. He didn't have time to take another breath before he felt the water overtake him and he sank once again, too tired and terrified to kick his legs anymore.
Suddenly, the image of the pond disappeared and the sensation of drowning was replaced by the sensation of choking. Instead of water, his lungs breathed in thick smoke that burnt as it passed through his throat. He no longer heard the splashing of water from the memory. Instead, screams, groans and other sounds of panic and despair filled his ears. He willed his eyes to open, but they resisted, his brain reluctant to relinquish the oblivion in which it had found refuge. After a few attempts he managed to open his eyes slightly, and flickers of light entered his pupils, red and blurry as if a red scarf was covering his eyes.
Alec willed his throat to open and allow air into his lungs once more, and he breathed through the burning that the hot air caused as it made its way down his throat and chest. He rolled his head slowly, feeling with each small movement that a thousand needles were piercing his skull. His hand instinctually reached for the back of his head where he felt a sticky wetness. When his pupils finally focused on his surroundings, he thought that he was hallucinating. It was as if the world had suddenly been bleached of all color except for red and orange, as if he was seeing through lenses that tainted everything around him, or as if the air had caught fire and turned the color of ambers.
He struggled to his feet holding on to the wall for balance, fighting against dizziness and nausea, trying to get his bearing and to remember where he was and what had happened. The room around him was unrecognizable. It looked like a tornado had passed through, throwing the room in complete disarray. Chairs were laying on their side, the lamps had been knocked from the side tables, and wind gusting in through the broken windows blew the curtains about as if they were golden flags. Shards of glass blanketed the carpet and every surface, and when he shook his head, pieces of it came loose from his hair and face.
He felt that every single muscle and joint in his body hurt, as if he had been crushed by a gigantic foot that had miraculously not broken any major bones. He coughed trying to soothe the burning sensation from his tight chest, and his hand went to the spot over his hipbone where his parabatai rune burned with throbbing intensity. Jace, he thought, what happened? But he couldn't hold on to the thought long enough to formulate an answer or a plan. Everything was too confusing, too strange, too noisy, too foggy.
He walked towards the broken window and shading his eyes against the red glare that seemed to permeate everything, looked out towards the sky and the scene bellow. What he saw could only be compared with a scene conjured up directly from the depth of hell.
The plaza where just a few minutes before, people had been walking among water fountains and statutes was a sight of complete confusion. Some people run around in a panic, aimless and in circles as if they didn't know in which direction to go, or where safety could be found; others just stood still looking around in confusion. Their collective screams, calls and moans came to Alec as a low and constant murmur that joined the groans and laments filtering in from the hallway outside the room.
A cloud of red and orange fog covered everything, and the sun in the sky looked like a ball of deep red fire. The city that just this morning shone under the summer sky, was now covered under a cloud of red magic energy that made the air feel brittle and electric, and smell of brimstone, gunpowder and something else that Alec couldn't pinpoint but that reminded him of demons.
Alec looked towards the distance and noticed that the red fog became thicker and more concentrated, settling like a red dome over a spot above the Gothic Quarters, where the air had acquired the deep color of blood. Above that spot, projected in the sky by some magic spell, the fading but still recognizable image of Magnus, his green-golden eyes gleaming against the red sky, his face impassive. Beside him, a woman with intense red eyes fixedly looked down on the destruction, a faint smile in her lips.
"Magnus, what did you do?" whispered Alec, looking at the image projected against the red sky, a mixture of desperation and disbelief in his voice, and a feeling of foreboding settling in his stomach and threatening to send him into a fit of nausea.
Alec struggled to get his bearings, looking for recognizable markers in the landscape bellow, to pinpoint the location where the darker sky marked the explosion's epicenter. Unless he was mistaken or more disoriented than he was willing to recognize, he knew the place. He and Magnus had walked through that part of the Quarters the day before, and Magnus had pointed the glamoured building attached to the Basilica de Santa Maria del Pi that housed the Barcelona Institute.
Turning away from the window, Alec picked up his leather jacket and grabbing his phone and his stele, walked out of the room, determined to make his way to the Barcelona Institute in search of answers and, if possible, to lend assistance. The scene in the hallway was surreal. The power had gone out and only emergency lights were on, which shone an eerie orangey glow on the walls and the guests peering or walking out of their rooms. Some guests wondered along the corridors looking dazed, some cried and called out names in pain or panic, but most looked like they were sleepwalking, aimlessly and futilely searching for an exit that on one seemed to see.
Suspecting that the elevators were not safe, Alec took the stairs two at the time, ignoring the pain in his head, side and legs, trying to breathe in through the nausea and burning in his throat, sweat dripping from his brow, and soaking his back and chest. Half way down, he took out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and brought it to his mouth to keep some of the heat and the smell away from his lungs. A few minutes later, he was walking out onto the street, and then he was running along the Rambla in the direction of the Quarters, retracing the steps he and Magnus had leisurely walked the day before, using the fading image of Magnus in the sky to guide himself.
He saw some people running around in a state of disorientation; others sitting on the sidewalk, looking up at the sky as if searching for an explanation for their confusion or for what they were seeing. Some looked around with vacant expressions as if the explosion had released a drug into the air that had left them in a state of semi-consciousness. Cars had collided with each other on the road, bringing the traffic to a complete halt and drivers had gotten out and now looked dazed at the destruction that surrounded them. Glass and paper from offices and apartments above rained on the street, falling to the ground, and making crunching sounds under Alec's boots as he half run and half walked in the direction of the center of the explosion.
Half way there, he had to stop to catch his breath, and try to calm his beating heart. He took his phone out to call Jace, but when he looked at his screen, he realized that there was no signal, no bars whatsoever. Likely, the red fog was interfering with communications. He could still feel the burning in his parabatai rune, but when he looked down, he saw that it was still there. At least Jace is alive, he thought. He put his phone back in his pocket and began to run again.
As soon as he entered the Quarters, he experienced a change in the air pressure as if he had walked through an invisible barrier. The wind died down, and the temperature dropped a few degrees, though the smell of brimstone, gunpowder and demonic energy was stronger. The streets were deathly silent, even more so than the day before, as if all sound had been sucked out of the air. The red fog was thicker, but he could see the shadowy figures of people walking around. As the shadows drew closer, the look of confusion and disorientation on the faces was even more pronounced and many seemed to not even be able to hear him when he told them to start walking out of the Quarters. Perhaps, the explosion had caused temporary deafness. Perhaps the red fog was affecting them in other ways, confusing their thoughts, dulling their senses.
Alec slowed down to a walk as he begun to negotiate the confusing narrow passages of the Quarters, looking for familiar points of reference from the day before. Every so often he looked up at the sky as the red fog got even thicker and the air more electrified. The atmosphere was brittle and dry causing his throat to feel parched.
As he neared the plaza that flanked the Basilica de Santa Maria del Pi and the adjacent Barcelona Institute, the destructive power of whatever caused the explosion became more painfully evident. Not only glass from broken windows and disoriented people could be seen, but also an increased number of bodies lying around, either dead or badly injured. He yelled instructions to people, telling them to leave the area or call an ambulance, but they didn't seem to understand him, either because he didn't speak Spanish or Catalan, or because they were just too confused and disoriented.
As he entered the plaza, he began to see the bodies of Shadowhunters, some in full gear, others wearing regular clothes, their runes clearly visible on their arms and necks, laying immobile on the ground. He stopped when he saw a Shadowhunter child, not older than ten or eleven, sprawled on his back, is eyes wide open and his mouth set in a silent scream. He leaned down and touched the child's neck searching in vain for a heartbeat. When he didn't find one, he closed the child's eyes and said a silent "hail and farewell."
The plaza in front of the Institute, which the day before had been buzzing with artists showing and selling their work and tourists strolling around, was now a scene of silence and destruction. To Alec's surprise, he saw that there were no fires burning, despite the air feeling hot and dry, as if itself had caught fire. He saw more bodies, mundanes and Shadowhunters, strewn around, as if they were no more than pieces of clothing that someone had thrown on the ground. He also recognized the bodies of Downworlders, werewolves –the only ones likely to be out during this time of day –in different stages of transformation, their faces a surreal mix of animal and human, pointy ears on human heads, muzzles protruding from human faces, claws and long nails at the end of perfectly smooth hands. A seelie with arms covered in vines and flowers in his hair sat with his back against a wall, his eyes closed, his chest still.
Among the bodies, shadows moved, silently and with the movements of sleepwalkers, checking on the dead, likely looking for survivors.
Alec willed his eyes away from the bodies and up towards the building that housed the Institute. He had seen it the day before, through its glamor and had found it beautiful, a perfect representation of Gaudi's design and architecture, contrasting with the Mediaeval character of the old Basilica with its grand rose window, bell tower and archways. He had commented to Magnus that he felt sorry that mundanes couldn't see and appreciate its beauty, its spires like bone structures pointing to the sky and decorated with stones in multiple colours, its mosaics glimmering like jewels.
The image in front of him now was a stark contrast from the image in his memory. The Institute's façade, now scarred and semi-destroyed, seemed to be appearing and disappearing in patches, as the wards that disguised it flickered and began to fail. Part of the front wall was completely blown away, showing the ruins of what appeared to be an operation room, parts of it still hidden behind glamour, others completely exposed. One of the spires had collapsed and now laid, like a broken limb across the plaza. Every window in the Institute as well as in the Basilica were blown and pieces of color glass blanketed the cobble stone. All doors had been blown open, and now looked like gaping mouths frozen in a last attempt to catch a breath.
With cautious but determined steps, Alec made his way towards the point where the entrance had been, and that now was just a pile of rubble marking the spot where the wall had been blown away. The fog was at its thickest here, a deep and unrelenting red, that not only stained the air, but also the ground. Two badly burned bodies laid a few meters from where the wall used to be, their skins blackened as if they had been consumed by an intense, fast and flameless fire. A strong smell of burn flesh competed with the smell of brimstone and gunpowder, making Alec's eyes stink and his throat close. As he approached the bodies, other shadows became visible: Shadowhunters in full combat gear, their seraph blades at the ready, their posture menacing.
"Identify yourself," said a commanding male voice coming from his left and, before Alec could reply, he felt a blade pressed against the side of his neck.
"Alec Lightwood, head of the New York Institute," stated Alec with as much strength as his burning throat allowed. "I was in Barcelona on vacation." He pulled the sleeve of his jacket up so his runes were visible and took his stele from his pocket. He noticed the hand holding the blade was shaking and hoped whomever was holding it would not panic and cut his throat by mistake.
"At ease, Ashflaw" said another voice, this time the voice of a woman, speaking English but clearly with a Spanish accent. The Shadowhunter named Ashflaw lowered the blade and Alec turned in the direction of the second voice.
"I am Marite Acquaclara. I guess I am now the acting head of the Barcelona Institute," said the voice belonging to a willowy woman with long black hair, and dark brown eyes on a thin and slightly long face. "I have heard of you," she added, a look that, Alec thought, was of disapproval and contempt evident on her face.
"How can I help?" Alec tried to ask, but for some reason, the words refused to form in his mouth, and all that came out was a cry. His hand reached for his parabatai rune, now burning as if flames were spouting from it, as if a volcano was exploding in his entrails. The ground began to spin, and his head felt heavy atop his shoulders. Alec stumbled to the ground, his knee hitting the cobblestone hard and sending new stabs of excruciating pain through him. He tried to steady himself with his hand, but dizziness overtook him and he collapsed on the ground, his head spinning, his lungs struggling for air, his vision blurry.
The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was Magnus' fading face painted on the red sky, his cat eyes looking down on him with a dead and unconcerned stare. How could things have gone so wrong, Alec thought as he sank into oblivion.