A/N: Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No- it's that update that comes around every Halley's comet. Sorry about that, genuinely. I had initially another prequel chapter lined up, but I kind of felt ultimately I was shoe-horning in for the sake of another one being overdue. I want them to feel more natural, hopefully because they parallel the main plot. So I decided to hold fire on that one and just plough on with Clary and co.
There is some mild steaminess at the end of the first section, just a bit of forewarning there. Alternate chapter title: Clary and the French Kiss ;) My only other point is that some of you have been wondering what Jace might do with his wish. First of all, let me tell you a request for three more wishes is indeed off the cards. Speaking of which; does anyone really feel that Valentine is in the habit of passing around 'get-out-of-jail-free' cards? Nope. He has, at risk of making him sound like Baldrick, a cunning plan in all of this which is emerging at the snails pace that I produce this fic. But yes, that request is an important plot point. It may not come into play just yet, but I haven't (remarkably) forgotten about it. The point is that much like Clary, Jace has rarely been asked what he wants in life and so this magic wish isn't something he's prepared to squander. Moving swiftly on...
-0000000000000-
Waking up
Bellgate, Southern Lakelands, early August 1536
In life few things were certain, as Jace very well knew having managed to go from prince to pauper before he had even left the womb. The lesson there had been that things would fall apart for him sooner or later without any personal assistance required.
Yet here he was, shouldering his way as gently and subtly as he could past unidentifiable and gaudily attired young courtiers in search of his princess. He was already doomed for having had anything to do with her, but apparently still sought to maximise all possible danger and all but beg for his own life to be ruined. At some point between his rooms and the great hall the serious idiocy of this- (was plan even an adequate word?) fiasco- had slowly sunk in and Jace Herondale was no longer sure that he was ready to greet the dark inevitability of death just yet. There really was no need to hasten it.
He was beginning to suspect Helen may have started to feel the same, given the stiff set of her shoulders and intensity of the grip on his forearm as she towed him through the loitering, giggling crowd. Her neat little fingernails were dug into his flesh so firmly he wondered if they were not imbedded there for the foreseeable future.
In his usual twisted fashion, his mind leapt straight to envisioning in great and gruesome detail the worst case scenario. Just what exactly would the young Lady Blackthorn do if they were discovered? Jace could quite easily picture her whirling around with her mouth falling open and face contorting instantly into an expression of sheer horror that would rival any gargoyle, "By God! You are right! He is not my brother!" (Here, in his mind, she would fling away his limb as though it had caught fire or leprosy) "Villainy! Deceit!"
An absurd smile stretched across his face at the imagining. Helen chose that moment to glance over her shoulder at him, and caught it lurking there.
"You are enjoying yourself?" She snapped, though her voice crackled with barely underlying nerves.
"The trick is to smile. Traitors never smile." The hysteria was setting in.
She looked as though she wanted to strangle him, which put Jace somewhat at ease; that was after all how he was accustomed to girls looking at him ultimately. "But do keep bickering with me, it adds to the sibling façade."
"I believe the façade has served its purpose." Helen drew in a fluttering little nervous breath and released him without warning. Jace's arm flopped back to his side numb from the elbow down, and he instinctively moved to massage some blood flow back into it. For a fraction of a moment he was thankful she had grabbed his right arm and not his left before realising neither would be much good to him as all weapons had been removed from all guests upon arrival at the hall. As though someone was likely to assassinate the Princess at her own birthday! However that coupled with the many men at arms edging around the hall with grim expressions and eyes as sharp as their blades was not helping Jace's delicate mental disposition at all.
"You are abandoning me? I am not smiling anymore!"
"Not abandoning. Depositing."
"Is there any possibility you could phrase that in a way that makes me feel less like a full chamber pot?"
Jace thought for a wonderful moment Helen was going to tell him he and the hypothetical chamber pot had much in common in terms of what they were full of, since Clary would have, but it seemed Helen was too polite. She just frowned at him a best she could with a mask in the way and shook her head, "Leaving you to your own devices, then."
Jace pulled a face, "If you close your eyes and strain your ears you can hear Alec objecting from the other end of the castle. Left to my own devices? That you should never do, Lady." He broke off as they were approached by a serving girl dressed as a nymph and offering wine cups. The duo took theirs a little too hastily in their panic to fit in, and a little of Jace's slipped over the rim and splashed onto his hand. He forced himself to relax somewhat against the pillar they had stopped against, slouching as much as possible so that Mark Blackthorn's overnight growth spurt was less noticeable, and dabbing at the droplet of wine on his hand with the edges of his sleeve absentmindedly. Helen sidled a little closer, but he could clearly see she was itching to flee the scene. She kept glancing in the direction of another dark haired girl, one in a white and grey dress with a silver owl mask over her features. Jace had too look twice to recognise Aline Penhallow dressed as Athena. Isabelle had told him the two girls were inseparable. Not too close for her to come rushing over here and realise Helen was not engrossed in conversation with her brother after all, he hoped.
"I am leaving you as close as I can get you" his companion presently hissed defensively.
Jace made himself wait one of the longest moments of his life before glancing as disaffectedly as possible in the direction Helen's eyes had darted. His ears caught the shimmering laugh he would know anywhere before his eyes latched onto her and sure enough, distanced somewhat from the main press of bodies and chuckling with the figure draped in bright leopard fur that could only be Magnus Bane was a familiarly petite redhead.
A warning light touch on his arm again brought his attention skidding back to Helen who shot him one last wordless yet meaningful glance before beginning to back away to intercept an approaching Aline. "Good evening!" her friend called over in Jace's direction and he had to pretend not to hear her so his not-Blackthorn coloured eyes could go on staring in the other direction. "Is all well?"
"Yes perfectly well. Forgive Mark, he is in one of his moods." Helen laughed with affected good cheer, steering Aline away with hectic enthusiasm, "Come, I want to dance!"
Mercifully for Jace, the one other thing in life that seemed to be certain was that Magnus Bane could throw a party. The entire hall was crammed full of brilliantly attired courtiers, buoyed up in their own little cloud of self-indulgence by the swelling music coming from the other end of the hall and surrounded in streaming decorations and Grecian plaster pillars, draped in false ivy to give a more authentic Olympian feel. Even the candelabras were wound in ribbons and jewels as far as Jace could see.
The immediate benefit here was that the revels afforded an excellent distraction and no one glanced twice at him, so Jace found that even vulnerable as he felt here on his own he was rather glad to see Helen and Aline go; it left him alone with his thoughts of Clary.
Tonight she looked exquisite. Aphrodite he breathed aloud, with something akin reverence. Before tonight he would not have thought of it- not because he did not think she was pretty enough- but because she was not beautiful in the typically lauded way, and he had thought Clary too self-consciously modest to want to dress as such. Isabelle's influence was clear however, and the more Jace looked at her the more perfect it seemed.
He was even more delighted her father was not here, and was beginning to see why he had been so willing to forgo the celebrations and insist the rest of his council do so too. Clary was currently wearing a white silken dress that would have been unspeakably scandalous to the eyes of any sober gentleman, therefore only Isabelle could have dressed her. The material clung to her delicately curving figure and was cut to reveal her bare creamy shoulders. The edges of the gown were trimmed in turquoise- to symbolise the sea spray the goddess had been born of- and her long flaming curls had been gathered up and lifted off her neck, held in place by clasps shaped like golden doves. He tried to draw closer without drawing too much attention to himself, trying to look as confident as any young lord who had a perfectly good right to give the Princess his best wishes on her birthday. As he did so he noted that she was less sparsely bejewelled than usual, taking stock of the long pearl chain around her neck, the turquoise and sapphire locket at her throat and the small pearl and gold earrings that winked softly in the candlelight at his approach.
Oblivious, she turned back to Magnus, who was plucking fruits off a bunch of grapes he carried around (Jace did not immediately accept that he was doing this to enhance his being Dionysius for the night, as opposed to just something Magnus would normally do) and feeding them theatrically to Isabelle Lightwood. Jace only recognised her because she had unwillingly been accosted with details of the silver dress she had ordered specially for the occasion. He had to admit it was stunning, though he was dubious as to whether the sloping neckline really captured the virginal Artemis.
He spared a silent prayer of gratitude to whatever saint might be listening that Isabelle was officially part of Clary's household and not his embassy, as it permitted her presence here tonight. At least Jace had one friend who might assist him in his latest suicidal endeavour.
His one great wish was to hasten to Clary, but he bade himself wait, skirting around the central group in the room until the approach of one of the Pontmercy boys created enough of a diversion to allow him to catch Izzy's attention with a brief wave, rather than that of her mistress.
As she well knew, Isabelle looked beautiful at any given moment, but tonight she truly was breath-taking; her slender shape seemingly caught up in real spun stars and moonlight in that dazzling gown. Her long ebony hair fell over one shoulder in a single braid, wound through too with silver thread and even red stones, it was rare that Izzy abandoned her signature colour. Or the signature look of puzzlement and then sheer horror that the appearance of Jace usually summoned.
Within moments she had excused herself and pushed briskly past Magnus, making straight for Jace. He quickly turned away before anyone could follow Izzy with their eyes and spot him, developing a sudden fascination with the nearest pillar. Despite his turned back he could just about hear the furious clicking of his foster-sister's heeled shoes over the music and background chatter before she was properly beside him, brown eyes wide and lips flying; "Tell me there has been some extraordinary crisis or inescapable disaster in France that explains your being here. For if there has not been some crisis already I fear there is about to be!"
Jace slowly shook his head and tried to reassure her with a conspiratorial smirk. It failed.
"Jace, what are you doing here?"
"Ah, so Helen failed to mention any of this to you then?"
"Helen? Helen is responsible for this folly?"
Jace instantly felt guilty; he had been making rather a concerted effort to not get his new friend in trouble. He attempted a reassuring snicker and shrug, "Must someone always be responsible for the folly? Perhaps the folly is an uncontainable force that cannot be captured or directed."
His philosophy was wasted on Isabelle, "Someone must always be responsible for you" she corrected acidly, the arrow shaped earring dangling from the visible lobe swaying with the disbelieving shake of her head. It was remarkable the semblance she bore to her brother in that moment, though Jace felt Alec would have conveyed his point with less mockery and venom.
"Exactly. And tonight, my dear, the poison chalice has fallen to you. So, since I am in, help me achieve what I came to do and then we can both get out."
"I don't want to get out" Isabelle whined, pulling at the edges of her mask huffily, "I was enjoying myself before you appeared and started trying to get me killed."
"I am not trying to get you killed" Jace hissed back. "Quite the opposite. Come now, you did tell Clary you would help me."
"And I have begun to regret doing so." She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth with disapproval before nudging his arm, "There is a shaded alcove over there" she gestured with a tilt of her head, "The stonework on the floor is cracking I believe, or some such problem. It has been converted to a storage chamber in recent years. At any rate it is far enough down the hall that I doubt anyone will bother you. I suppose I could send her down there for a very brief time." It was her turn to shrug, "And failing that you shall have to frolic in the privy."
"How romantic. Which reminds me Izzy, refrain from telling her who it is that craves an emergency audience."
Isabelle only responded with a scornful snort and some doubtlessly scathing remark under her breath, but the main thing was that she did in fact comply, gliding off back to where Clary waited while Jace made himself scarce.
For all his feigned complaints Jace sought out his hiding place happily enough. It was indeed now some storage chamber, used for holding the props of various masques and revels. Jace's attention snagged on a model cannon which had a truly authentic look about it, and he indulged in a curious rap against the surface, secretly disappointed when there came no resounding clang of metal. Before long he heard the echo of coming steps and did his best to melt back into the shadows.
Clary drew back the curtain and made her way cautiously inside. "Isabelle? Simon?"
Jace tried to ignore the twinge of irritation that jerked in his gut at her automatic presumption the musician of all people would have gone to such lengths to surprise her on her birthday. She turned away from his hiding spot unknowingly, scanning the surroundings with avid interest, even reaching out to stroke the feathers on a protruding and somewhat crooked angel wing. From her new position Jace found he became transfixed with the visible skin of her shoulder, and almost in a dream he lifted his left hand and laid it against the bare flesh, marvelling in the unshielded warmth under his fingers, and the vague ridge of her shoulder bone by the underside of his palm.
At his unexpected touch a delicate shudder rippled through her petite frame and she whirled round to face him, dark emerald eyes flaring under the chased gold of her mask, initially nonplussed as to whom had dared such an audacious advance only to stare at him stunned. Then the surprise melted off her face and her lips popped slightly with the stunned 'o' her mouth formed upon recognition. God above he wanted to kiss her. Really and truly what he wanted to do was much more than that, and once more he was thankful for the mask, provided it concealed the sudden intensity of his desire to drag her away from this hall altogether, to where there were truly no prying eyes and ravish her. He imagined sharing in that fantasy would make Clary uncomfortable more than anything.
Despite his genuine respect for her and her modesty, as she had turned he had failed to lift his hand away from her and consequently it had slid over her smooth skin and his fingers now rested curled at her collarbone, over her racing heartbeat. He allowed it to linger there just a moment longer before reluctantly releasing her. Clary recovered quickly, though he was sure he had not mistaken the minor hitch in her breathing as he grasped her fingers and touched his lips softly to her hand. It was the most basic exhibition of courtesy, not to mention entirely unnecessary in their present situation, and he imagined hundreds of kisses had been put there over the past few months. That being known, he allowed himself to bask in the pride of his own certainty that none of them had ever made her breath skip to the back of her throat, or made her long for the contact to be on her mouth instead. Her cheeks remained tinged with that charming edge of rosy colour and she kept drawing her tongue over her lips. whether she realised she was doing do or not it was driving him mad.
"Jace-" she exhaled his name softly, arms automatically rising to catch around his neck. It was impossible to resist drawing her closer still, skimming his lips against hers as he had longed to, but narrowly avoiding a kiss in earnest. She pulled away and frowned a little at him, "Does anyone know you are here? Apart from Izzy?"
"Just Helen and Mark Blackthorn."
She weighed the risks for a single heartbeat before sliding her hand along his neck, just below his jawline, and guiding his lips back to hers again.
"Does anyone know you are here apart from Izzy?" He was close enough that he felt her lips skid back and forth across his rather than properly witness the responding shake of her head.
"I am afraid we do not have long though. I doubt my absence will be tolerated for very long tonight."
"I understand" Jace told her gruffly, sliding his hands with ease over the soft fabric of her gown, marvelling at just how much of her he could feel. Not only could he enjoy the heat flooding through the silk, but also the firmness of the bones at her hips and even the tantalising curve of her backside. "We needs must make do with what time we have."
Clary giggled, reaching up again, only this time it was to tug at the ties on the flimsy golden design obscuring his upper face, and she removed this mask with the same ease as she had the last one, leaning her head back to survey him with a smile. "Much better," she mused, then absentmindedly reached out to brush the fringe of gold curls back from his face and Jace-who normally would have ducked away at such fussing, and usually hated being touched like this- let a smile of his own unwind across his face.
"Return the favour" he chided in a murmur, and removed her own mask, finding the gestures oddly intimate. It was hardly as though they were properly undressing one another, yet as the two masks joined one another on the floor Jace's heart was beating hard enough he was sure she must be able to hear it.
Whatever assumption that all that passed between them tonight would be fairly innocent was blown away in seconds, as Clary kissed him once more, only to part her lips under his.
Jace jumped back as though he had been burnt, "What are you doing?!"
Clary looked as though she dearly wanted to melt into a puddle and be drunk by dogs, her mouth gaping and closing rapidly as she struggled to form words. "I-forgive me- I- well I thought-you see. Is this not the French manner?"
A sole huff of astonished laughter escaped Jace before he could collect himself, "Yes. It is." He nodded once or twice, struggling to form words himself. "But how do you know that?"
"Isabelle told me. Rather, she suggested it. She put me quite under the impression you were expecting it."
"You asked Isabelle how I like to be kissed?"
"Not in those words! And it never seems to be so much what I ask Izzy compared to what she manages to tell me." She sucked in another breath and circled herself in her arms, "Forgive me. That was unacceptably forward."
"Forward?" Jace attempted to prise her fingers off herself and pulled her back into his arms, "No,not at all. I was just not expecting it."
Clary uttered a mumbling laugh into his shoulder, "Nor was I. When she told me of all this tongue-in-mouth business I found it all quite abhorrent, truth be told."
"It is not abhorrent! And if you really thought so then why try it?"
"I hardly know! I have not done a great deal of kissing in my life and-well.. It did not feel so inappropriate in the moment," she confided.
"Precisely" Jace said, letting his fingers creep under her chin and push her face up to his once more, "Should you like to try again?"
Clary barely hesitated before she nodded slowly, eyes wide with anticipation and then fluttering shut. This time Jace took the lead, pressing his lips to hers and gradually allowing his tongue to slide along her bottom lip, which she instinctively took as the invitation to part her own lips again, and at last they were kissing, properly kissing. It was thrilling in a way that no kiss had ever been for him before, this new contact sending waves of heat through Jace's limbs, until whatever fears or apprehensions he harboured still were burnt away.
All of which only served to escalate the situation further. Only half aware of what he was doing Jace found himself catching the back of her legs and pulling them around his waist as he lifted her upwards and then pressed her against the wall. She gasped aloud in his mouth as the cold of the plaster met with her naked skin, one sleeve of her gown having either already fallen down or mayhap been assisted in its fall from grace. She instinctively tightened the grip of her thighs on his hips, and now Jace was the one groaning aloud, pressing his palm against the wall and flinging his weight forward so hastily as he leaned in to kiss her again that he could feel the stone's indents and grooves sinking into his skin and marking him. In fact he may have moved in a little too zealously, for as his body pressed into Clary's again and pushed her up the wall, her head collided with what appeared in the gloom to be some kind of flagpole. The dull thud as the wood struck her skull was enough to pull Jace back to a state of concerned self-consciousness, which only lasted a split second before the world came falling down around them.
Quite literally, as the tumbling flagpole snagged in a mouth eaten, sagging tapestry and pulled it down, in turn accompanied by various props.
Instinctively Jace pulled Clary downwards too, so as he could better curl his body around her and shield her as best he could from the falling debris around them. He huffed out a curse as what felt like a helmet struck him between the shoulder blades and made him seriously question why he had chosen this moment to adopt chivalric behaviour for a change. By the time the last item had bounced and rolled its way down to the floor via Jace's back and the two of them broke apart slowly their surroundings had changed somewhat. There were indeed clouds of dust being cast up as items that likely had not budged since the Morgenstern conquest were moved. They were startled once more by an unexpected clash as a tambourine belatedly flung itself from the cranny it had been stuffed in.
Clary glanced up at Jace and gasped fearfully, "My God. Do you think anyone heard that?"
On any other occasion Jace would have been certain they would already have been discovered and the whole scandal unearthed, but perhaps some pagan god was looking over them and their illicit romance, because in all the time they waited with baited breath not a single soul barged in to ruin their lives.
"I can hardly believe anyone did not hear that" Jace breathed in response, returning Clary's wide eyed gaze.
The stunned relief lasted only a moment before a helpless burst of laughter tore from Clary, and she had to push her fingers to her lips in an attempt to restrain her mirth, "Sweet Lord, can you imagine us being discovered like this?!" Admittedly, that would have been hilarious if it had not signed Jace's death warrant. Their current position in fact made things look much worse than they were, as Clary had one hand still clutching at his shoulder, her head level with his throat and her knees hugging his hips in the most incriminating fashion possible, especially since the action had altered the position on her hemline drastically and there was now a reputation-ruining amount of leg on display. He could not help but succumb to a brief fit of laughter himself, as Clary slid her legs to the floor once and for all and the light silk of her gown fell back into place between them.
It was not that he found any of this even remotely amusing, but Clary's laughter was undeniably infectious.
However what little humour he felt quickly dissipated upon a sole glance upwards, and the laughter lodged in his throat in a sensation that all of a sudden had the similarity to the lump that appeared there only in the presence of supressed tears. His eyes stayed stuck on the now visible section of wall and he could feel the flush drain out of his cheeks and jaw tighten as his grip on Clary slackened. Unsurprisingly, Clary tensed against him, given that he probably looked like a ghost, white faced and staring in the gloom, or at the very least as though he had seen one. Which he all but had.
"Jace, what is it?" She demanded in a hissing whisper, turning her head to follow his gaze once he failed to respond. He may have been exaggerating somewhat when he had considered that nothing in this storage room had been shifted in almost a hundred years, but clearly little had been touched in over twenty, for the ugly tapestry that had just been yanked off the wall had actually served a purpose. It had been concealing the coat of arms splayed on the wall behind it. In flaking, fading paint the insignia depicted in black, white and blue grey was the noble outline and proudly arching neck of a bird about to take flight.
A heron.
It was not that Jace hadn't been aware that a family coat of arms existed, in fact he had seen it stamped on one of the books he had pilfered from the Morgensterns as a child and kept with him for that purpose. But for some reason seeing it on a wall a stone's throw from the main hall, with ample suggestion that the home's occupants had decided to cover it with a tapestry rather than have it painted over or chipped off the wall overwhelmed him.
He was not blind, he saw the way some of the lords looked at him: some with suspicion, some with contempt and worse, a disturbingly large portion with an eager expectation that chilled him more than being ostracised ever had.
He was not what they thought he was. For the Herondale kings had not been all they'd been immortalised as. They had not been great men, they had been lucky men. Lucky that their reigns had not been plagued with famines or wars, lucky that their wives had always borne healthy sons,-who were few enough in number that there was rarely a jealous brother or uncle willing to stoke the fire of civil war, and certainly lucky that the Church of their day had not been tearing itself apart. They had not been the perfect demigods the commons had perceived them as but flawed, frightened men just like everyone else. God knew his father had been proof of that. Jace was proof of that.
Now he was here in Idris, with men like John Carstairs eager to remind him of his esteemed lineage at every turn and Andrew Blackthorn keeping Jace's family arms on his walls, and he was no longer sure if being accused of treason was his still greatest fear. It was only treason unless it succeeded, after all, and the prospect of attempting to take back the crown of Idris and being successful was utterly petrifying. For all those hot little surges of rebellion, and in spite of all the times he was tempted to barge into Valentine's chambers and use his wish to have his position acknowledged and his title returned, that was the height of his ambitions. Just to be Duke of Broceland and to have his family lands returned.
All he truly sought was the security that title would provide. It would mean no more living his life with his fortunes tied to the flux of a royal court and dictated to by whichever faction had the monarch's ear this week. It would be nice to be able to have a steady income from his tenants, nice to be able to leave the hectic dog-pit that was court and retreat to a home that was his own every once in a while, not one that belonged to the Lightwoods. It would, ultimately, be nice to actually have a home that would not change every time Francois Valois wanted a new bride for someone or went to war.
He only wanted what was his. The Morgensterns could keep their throne, it the most uncomfortable and precarious seat Jace could think of anyway.
"Oh," Clary gasped faintly, tightening her grip on his arm and bringing him back to the present, "I suppose-" he heard her swallow uncomfortably before proceeding cautiously, "The Blackthorns were always their bannermen."
Jace nodded without really processing a word she was saying.
"Jace?" He forced himself to look at her then, noting that she had caught her bottom lip (which was still rather swollen from his frantic kisses which already felt like they'd been exchanged years ago) between her teeth and was looking at him as though, for the very first time since they'd met, she could think of nothing to say to him. She was waiting for him to speak, he realised, because this was painfully awkward for her.
"…I don't know what happened with your father. Not beyond that he died for treason, I don't know what the precise charge was." She shook her head and repeated; "I don't know."
While Jace had been lost in his thoughts Clary had been thinking too, and she must have struggled to escape the conclusion that her father was the reason Jace had never known his, and that Valentine was the reason that Jace's coat of arms had to be hidden behind a dusty tapestry. She was trying to disassociate herself with the entire thing, a reflection would reveal to him.
And later Jace would also wish he had been able to tell her that he was not angry, not really. Certainly not with her, and truthfully not at Valentine personally either, since his hands had probably been tied at the time anyway. Kings could not allow would-be usurpers to live, not if they wanted to stay king. Besides, why should he feel an ounce of loyalty to a family he had never met compared to the man who had been the closest thing to a father he had ever known, whose daughter he was beginning to fear he loved-
"I have to go." The words exploded from him without his being aware he'd decided to speak them, "And so should you. This was foolish, for both of us."
"Jace." She was pleading now, fisting her hand around the fabric of his shirt and clinging to him desperately. He shook her free, not without difficulty, and backed out of the situation as quickly as he could, stumbling inevitably over fallen props and his own panicking feet. He did not even think to look for his mask as he shook his way out from under the curtain that had sheltered them and burst out into the open. How he managed to make it back to his rooms barefaced without being challenged he knew not, he was focusing only on getting away from that damned wall, and even at that moment Clary.
It seemed he had been wrong. There were certain things her kisses were never going to heal.
-000000000000000-
If Magnus did not return from a party very late, and by that he meant preferably very early in the morning, then it had been a very poor party indeed and certainly not one he had planned. The Princess's birthday had been a roaring success, not that Magnus had expected it to go otherwise with him at the helm of preparations.
At first the young Clarissa had put him on edge, given that unnerving similarity she bore to her mother, but he had at long last gotten past that. The girl was not the second coming of Jocelyn Fairchild, not really, and thankfully she was nothing like her father either.
That aside, the only thing that could make him glad to see his rooms after a party was the presence of Alexander Lightwood in them. Once he had completed tugging the laurel crown out his hair and pulling the mask off his face Magnus set about slinging the leopard fur stole off his shoulders. He paused to roll his now liberated shoulders, secretly thankful to be rid of its weight before creeping over to where Alec dozed. He must have fallen asleep over some papers by the fire; a quill had tumbled over the letters in his lap and to the floor, leaving the floorboards speckled with ink.
Alec's head was tipped forward, his closed lashes still fluttering anxiously. Magnus already doubted there was a moment of the day Alec did not spend worrying. He was one of those people who even filled the gaps in their anxiety worrying over what it was they felt they were forgetting to worry about. Apparently those troubles now invaded his slumber, which annoyed Magnus.
He contemplated waking him only briefly before realising he very much liked the prospect of Alec spending the night in his chambers, even if it was not in the context he had been hoping for. As carefully as possible he lowered his furs to Alec's sleeping form until they blanketed him.
However Alec was not as deeply asleep as Magnus had assumed, and despite his best efforts the second the furs touched him the young lord leapt out of skin and back into consciousness.
"Forgive me," Magnus said hastily with soft urgency, "I did not mean to wake you."
Alec freed his hands from under the leopard spotted robe in his lap and stared down at the fur for a moment, in the perplexed state that could only be achieved by waking in surroundings you do not recall falling asleep in. He blinked his bleary blue eyes several times before seeming to properly take account of the man standing patiently before him. "Magnus-"
The man in question tried to ignore the not-altogether uncomfortable tightening in his chest caused by the rasp of Alec's still sleepy voice. "Yes?"
He rubbed at his eyes and attempted to smooth down his dark hair, "What hour is it?"
"Second after midnight"
"So late? Forgive me, I did not mean to stay this long." Alec shifted his weight in the chair in his embarrassment.
Magnus laughed, "Fear not, for me this is relatively early."
"Is that so?" The edges of Alec's mouth threatened to turn upwards to a smile. Magnus sincerely hoped they did, since he rarely saw Alec's genuine, unrestrained smile and he hoped to remedy this in the future. He had heard of people's smiles lighting up their whole face before and dismissed it as a cliché, but recently he had come to the realisation he stood corrected. "Yes. Fear not, I am glad to see you here."
Alec was stunned at the prospect, "You are?"
"Oh yes. I have a bone to pick with you."
"Oh." Alec's face fell and for a moment it felt to Magnus the sky fell with it. He took care to accentuate the fact he was jesting in the next statement, "I could not help but noticing that your sister had a very nice gown on tonight, the kind that must have cost a pretty penny. I have also noticed, or rather failed to notice, that meanwhile you are wearing not a single one of the jewels or trinkets I have given you."
Alec's eyes plummeted to the floorboards and his fingers curled around the fur stole frantically- "Magnus," he tried for a light tone, which may have been able to sway Magnus had Alec been able to meet his eye, "Such things suit my sister better."
Magnus dropped to a his knees before him and peered up into his face, "If you disliked the gifts, why not say so?"
"I did like the gifts!" he attempted to protest, "It is as I told you, Isabelle liked them better."
"Well enough to translate their worth into a dress?" He kept the cynical edge of his tone as blunt as possible, "I am not displeased with you Alexander, just a little exasperated. I do wish that you and I can come to be honest with one another."
The pale skin at the other man's throat bobbed as he swallowed his own nervousness along with Magnus's reassurance and the question that lurked in it. "Why?" he demanded, eyes flying back to Magnus's, so blue and earnest that they never failed to steal his breath, and perhaps were beginning to steal something even more important. "Because we are such bosom friends?"
Magnus itched to reach out and grab his hands, but they had gotten to such a sensitive and important moment, so the last thing Magnus wanted to do was scare him again. "I don't believe that is strictly true. I doubt that even the closest of friends creep into one another's chambers in the small hours of the morning."
Alec blinked slowly, several times in the ensuing silence, perhaps trying to establish whether or not he had truly departed from dreaming.
Magnus could empathise, it was surely a mixture of the ebbing glow of a successful party and the flush of alcohol that had yet to fully fade that governed him now. Yet he had spent weeks and weeks treading carefully with Alec, initially because his very life could be forfeit if he got it dreadfully wrong. Even later, when he was sure the prospect of something real here, he had moved with caution as he did not want to break something as fragile and unforgettable as Alec Lightwood's heart before he even had it.
Indeed, Magnus Bane had packed a great deal of living into his years. He had learned to be selfish very early in life with the realisation that he had better be concerned with himself enough for the rest of the world, for no one else cared either about or for him. He had dwelt in this epicureanism for long enough and all but convinced himself that the shallowness and flightiness he had begun as protective pretence was truly who he had become. Now however, he was loath to merely take what he wanted from Alec and move on. Perhaps it was because all Alec ever did was care; be it for his sister, for his friend, even for his duty- It made one want to care for him in return.
In the poor light Alec's eyes seemed slivers of icy blue which were somehow warm and cold at the same time. In the time they had known one another, on the few small endeavours and tasks they had engaged in together they had accorded well. Alec had astounded Magnus by offering his services with balancing the books for the latest party, displaying a notable talent for handling numbers and extracting bargains from the city merchants: he had actually saved Magnus an ample amount tonight without dulling the celebrations even slightly. In turn, Magnus liked to think he had gradually been coaxing Alec out of his shell, he was growing bolder as a diplomat- now he spoke less as though he had carefully rehearsed his lines and was furiously thinking out every syllable. Magnus could almost imagine he was gradually thawing Alec as he subsequently sated the flames of Magnus' fervour and reigned him in a little- and not necessarily in a bad way. Contrary to all of that, by no means was Alec boring, or even predictable.
"Is that what we are? Friends?"
The quaver in his voice set Magnus trembling too, suspecting that the gruffness in Alec's tone was no longer simply the result of weariness. In turn, Magnus was close enough to appreciate the way Alec's dark pupils bloomed when he slowly shook his head in reply, "I think not."
For just a little longer the two kept their gaze locked, before Magnus decided to punctuate his admission before his nerve abandoned him. He lifted his hands to cradle Alec's face before at long last leaning in to capture his lips as he had longed to do for so long. In the moment immediately following the contact Alec remained completely rigid in the chair, and his lips were unmoving under Magnus's. Then, miraculously, the shock seemed to wear off and suddenly Alec was catching Magnus's bottom lip in his, before releasing him altogether and jerking back. The two simply stared at one another in the gloom and for the briefest second time seemed to stand still, then Alec reached out for Magnus again, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss, fingers tangling in his dark hair.
After that the sense of time passing became somewhat blurred and it was quite some time later, as the duo were sprawled in Magnus's bed (sadly nought had occurred beyond several more heated kisses) before Magnus remembered to return to the subject he had broached in the first place. He ran his fingers lightly along Alec's jaw and down his throat, subconsciously tracing the same path his lips had not long ago taken, peering up at him curiously. "Why the dress for Isabelle? Truthfully, Alexander. Why surrender your own gifts for yet another gown for her?"
He half-knew the answer already, but he wanted to hear it from Alec. Alec caught at the travelling fingers and softly kissed the fingertips he had clasped in his own shyly, dark lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks as he lowered his gaze once more, "It was the only way I could afford one for her. Had I denied her one she would have asked why we cannot afford it and I dare not tell her. They cannot know. Not her, for she would blame father for squandering our gold on women and cards and things are strained enough between the two of them. Not Jace, who has enough problems of his own." He sighed quietly, still speaking so softly and haltingly Magnus realised this was the first time he had acknowledged these problems aloud. He raised his eyes back to Magnus, "I am sorry I did not tell you before."
"I am sorry you must suffer it." Magnus shrugged, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth, "One rarely parades financial misfortune. I do not blame you for keeping secrets." He forcefully kept his tone bantering, though he did not fully conceal the solemnity behind it as he added, "But now I think we must add one more."
-00000000000000-
Amaranth Hall, Western Idris, Mid-August 1536
Uncharacteristically, Clary woke late in the morning, or rather afternoon as she suspected given the strength of the light behind the heavy eyelids she struggled to prise open. She lay awake yet wearily dazed for a few moments, staring up at the Angel emblem above that now adorned most of her possessions. They were the royal arms of Idris, and had been for hundreds of years. If it had belonged to anyone else's family Clary felt she might have laughed, for who in their right mind would even dream of aligning themselves with heaven in their badge? Surely only a lunatic king would have decided to claim to be half angel.
Yet it would seem Jonathan I had done just that, becoming the first king of the territory now known as Idris some seven hundred years ago. Apparently no one had laughed, and after many centuries, several plagues and one civil war it was Clarissa Morgenstern who found herself dining and sleeping under the same Angel and his divine instruments.
The ruling monarchs were still responsible for the cup and sword; the two gilded implements were presented to each new sovereign upon their coronation, whereupon they officially became responsible for them. Thereafter they were stored with the crown jewels in the most secure centre of the Gard, and Clary had never actually laid eyes upon them. She had read somewhere that they had a guard to rival her father's and were treated as the holiest of relics.
The Morgenstern family themselves had their own distinct coat of arms: a plummeting star with its trail of costly silver thread emblazoned on a black background. That too was more or less everywhere, painted over doorways and engraved in fireplaces.
Before a few nights ago Clary had never given a second thought to the bold, bright and therefore fresh paint that had been used, or ever remarked on the new stone that had obviously been specially purchased to hold the Morgenstern inscription. She knew that her family had taken its position by force, but only because the Herondale kings had grown lazy and too complacent to be effective rulers. The Morgensterns had done their country a great service by taking the heavy burden of kingship, not for selfish ambition but unwillingly out of a sense of duty, and because it had been the will of God. For He could only be reached by His true disciples through hardship and self-sacrifice, as Cardinal Enoch was fond of reminding his flock.
It made a pretty story, but Clary wasn't a child anymore, and no longer was she willing to hang her blind faith on the word of her tutor or chaplain. Anyone could see that her father was no paragon of virtue or nobility.
He had killed Jace's father. Treason was the most serious of crimes and had to be punishable by death, of course she knew that. Yet the man Valentine had condemned with his signature all those years ago had been a cousin, one he had grown up with and at one point supposedly loved as a brother. It was not altogether unlike the way her brother and Jace had been raised; although they had never gotten along and at least they were still open in their animosity.
King's pardoned traitors all the time. Clary doubted there was a monarchy in Europe who had never had a king who at one point experienced the treachery of a brother, son or cousin who wished to supplant them. But in more than one case, once the treason had been uncovered the punishment was not always necessarily death: Edward the IV of England for one had been lenient on his traitorous brother. Well, at least on the first offence.
Besides, even if Stephen's crimes had been so heinous as to warrant the death sentence, to leave Jace with absolutely nothing- not a single penny to his name- that was cruel. For God's sake, Valentine had raised Jace and apparently with enough fondness for Jonathan to have remained sorely jealous to this day.
Clary twisted the edges of her coverlet in her hands with her fretting, feeling the brocade trimming dig into her fingers. It was then she recognised what had woken her, the distinct drumming of water methodically striking wood. Releasing her blankets Clary slowly pushed herself upright and turned her head to the side. Sure enough, it was raining. And heavily, for little streams of water were pouring down the chequered glass and thudding in great droplets to the floor. One of the maids must have left the window open the night before, and the unexpected downpour had now begun to ruin her carpet, Clary observed. The trimmed edges were now sodden, and the once bright scarlet had turned into a much darker, morbid blood red. Clary, pushed the covers off her legs and rose, padding over to the window, and after battling with the latch for a moment drew it shut. She winced slightly as the wet material squelched under her bare toes, glad to back away to drier ground.
"Your Highness!" She started slightly at the sudden voice behind her, whirling to face Maia who lingered in the doorway, gripping her own fingers tightly over her stomacher. "You are awake! Good, I was sent to rouse you."
"Rouse me?" Clary felt a twinge of embarrassment, though it was no surprise she had failed to rise yet having slept so badly these past few nights. Between worrying about the fact that Jace had not spoken casually to since the tapestry incident and wondering what had prompted the court's sudden removal back towards the capital, Clary was indeed losing sleep. Without any warning the morning following her birthday she had woken to find her ladies in a whirlwind of packing once again, promptly being told that they were to be on the road by the following afternoon and to expect to return to Alicante in stages. It baffled her, usually her family avoided the city for as long as possible in the summer months. Depending on the heat, His Majesty could be absent from the capital until as late as the end of September. What on earth could prompt such a hasty retreat, which was being conducted as if they were still on regular progress? Clearly the Council were trying to maintain the appearance all was well, but something had them on edge.
"Sent by whom?" she currently enquired of Maia.
"The King has sent for you, Madam. He wished to see you on a matter of urgency."
Clary rubbed her hands against her arms desperately, trying to return some warmth into the limbs Maia's words had chilled. There was no good reason for her father to demand a meeting, so the uneasiness Clary had woken with intensified, and her empty stomach gave another ache. Nonetheless, one did not deny a summons from Valentine.
Which is why she found herself being escorted to her father's private rooms half an hour later, after being hastily laced into the pink gown she had stood for her portrait in.
Her heart flipped over in her chest and plummeted even further upon arrival in His Majesty's outer chamber, only to find a grey faced Jace standing off to one side in the practically deserted room, running the backs of his fingers along the underside of his jawline and slowly shaking his head back and forth. She realised then it was Alec who stood beside him, leaning on his shoulder and saying something in a low, intense voice. Jace just kept shaking his head and refusing to speak.
At the sound of her footfalls his eyes rose to hers briefly. His normally lively gaze had dimmed significantly, though the gold remained striking against his ashen complexion. Their eyes met for all of a heartbeat before his dropped again, Clary's heart subsequently began to beat even faster. He looked…devastated. There was no other word for that flat, grave expression. God, she longed to run to him and throw her arms around him. She had been itching to touch and speak to him anyway, but read the message in that sole stare perfectly: stay away.
Consequently, by the time she had passed through the doors and into her father's presence properly Clary was almost faint with fear. She recalled her disbelief that no one had discovered them amongst the prop avalanche and now she realised that may indeed have been too good to be true. One glance at her father's stern face only seemed to confirm her horror. She could bear exile, since she was not sure she enjoyed life at court anyway and the shame she supposed she could learn to live with- but Jace? If anything happened to him because of her...if he was harmed or worse as a result of what she had done…
Clary highly doubted that her father would care that she was the instigator and that it was at her insistence things had gone on as long as they had. Had she not been thinking just this morning that her father was a ruthless man?
"Clarissa," his voice resounded with what must have constituted softness for Valentine, catching her off guard. "Take a seat, daughter."
Tentatively Clary lowered herself into the proffered chair and Valentine in turn sat opposite her. Then, to Clary's greater astonishment he reached out and took her hands in his. His fingers were cool in hers,but the band of the ring on his index finger was curiously warm as it brushed her palm. Clary had noticed before that it was a nervous habit both Morgenstern men shared, pulling the family ring on and off their fingers subconsciously.
"I am afraid I have some sad news."
Clary waited, heartrate gradually slowing as Valentine kept watching her with the edge of pity in his black eyes, "I have just received word from France regarding the young Dauphin. I am sorry to tell you that he has recently perished at Chateau du Toumon."
"Perished?" Clary repeated incredulously, hearing and understanding his words, but not properly absorbing them. "He is dead? But how?! I was told he was in perfect health!"
"I am afraid so." Valentine paused, "That is why I have called you here to tell you in person. Clarissa, your betrothed was murdered."
"Murdered?" The rushing fear, then relief and now shock had left Clary extremely dizzy.
"By some agent of the Emperor I am told, and the guilty party has been arrested so you need not fear. But I did not want you hearing this from someone else, who may not give you the whole truth and needlessly distress you."
Needless distress? Clary wondered when her emotional well-being had become a concern of Valentine's, though she supposed her falling to hysterics would not help her marriage prospects.
Her marriage prospects.
If Francois was dead, she would not be marrying him.
The game was on again, only this time… The seed of a potentially disastrous idea began to plant itself in Clary's mind. Dared she really make the first move in this new round?
Valentine, however, was still speaking, "The truth of the matter is you have no solid reason to fear a similar attempt on your life. France is at war with Spain, not Idris, and the match was never publicly announced. So beyond my privy council, the diplomatic party and whoever in your own household you told, no one will associate you with Francois Valois. Nevertheless, as a precaution I will be increasing security around you and a second food tester has been hired. I encourage you not to worry Clarissa." He paused again, but before she could steel her nerve to speak he tore on. "Again I express my sympathy. I am aware that out of all the matches you favoured the French. Yet I urge you to remain positive. It seems this particular marriage is not in God's plan for you." If Clary was not mistaken, the vague semblance of something like humour danced across His Majesty's features. "I urge you to remember that as my daughter you are a Morgenstern, and God does have a plan for you. A great destiny awaits, I am sure of it."
God or you, my lord? Clary wondered briefly, still reeling from the unexpected news while Valentine tightened his grip on her fingers with a brief squeeze.
Still being in shock could be the only excuse she had for the extraordinary way in which her tongue was now loosened. "Sire…"
Valentine looked to her with sharpened interest. He must have been able to read the feverish impulse on her face and seemed to eagerly await what may follow. "Speak freely Clarissa," he said, waving away the single man-at-arms standing by the doorway, who obediently backed out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Clary sat very still, heart thundering, suddenly conscious of the few inches between her face and her father's and the loud ticking of a clock somewhere in the room that was their only company. She had not been alone with Valentine since the day he had shown her the portraits of her suitors; she remembered looking for Jace in Francois, and he was on her mind in much the same way now. Valentine just kept staring at her with that same undiluted attention and she suspected he was looking for someone else in her too: looking for the wife that detested and feared him from so far away. Perversely, that encouraged her. Luke had told her that Valentine was still in love with her mother, and that even in the dying days of their marriage Jocelyn had been (on a personal level, Luke had added peculiarly) refused very little. Perhaps that too could work to Clary's advantage too. Now that she had Valentine's sympathy too there was surely some chance that her request may be granted.
"I am grateful for your attentions my lord, and as ever your kindness warms my heart." She began carefully, but once the words began the rest flooded out of her in a wild torrent, "And when you selected the Dauphin to be my husband I agreed to be obedient. I would have obeyed you and married him, because more than anything I wish to be a child you can be proud of, but…" She swallowed past the rising desperation in her faltering voice, "I beseech you to recall that then I would have unquestioningly wed the husband of your choice, but since all has changed- I wondered if my husband now might be a choice of mine."
Again the screaming silence returned. Valentine pulled his hand away from hers altogether and leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving her. Clary resisted the urge to squirm, burying the fingers still wracked with tremors into her velvet lap instead and battled to keep her breathing even.
Then the tension broke.
Valentine threw back his head and laughed. "You would choose your own husband Clarissa?" He demanded when his amusement faded. "You would have me sit back and allow you free reign on the matter? And what would determine your choice, hmm? Riches? Good looks? Love?"
His mockery pierced her and before she knew it Clary had snapped back a retort, "And why should I not? Why should my choice be unreasonable? Have I not eyes and a working mind of my own? How then could I not measure a man just as well as you, since I have the necessary scales?"
"The necessary scales!" Valentine barked in return and for the first time Clary saw his perfect self-control shatter, in a burst of temper he leaned forward again, snatching her again by the wrist and this time with no pretence at consideration or gentleness. "You have no idea what is at stake here, you foolish girl! The trifles of a woman have no place in such matters, none at all!"
"Oh? Is that what you told my mother when you refused a princess to marry her for love?"
It seemed initially that the comment may well push Valentine to strike her, for an awful moment she could have sworn the notion crossed his mind before he withdrew it, clasping the soft skin at her wrist with increased vigour instead. His facial muscles tightened instead, and she watched him draw back his temper with some effort, "Clearly you are half-deranged with shock and grief. Perhaps you were fonder of the Dauphin than I realised, though I doubt it, even in spite of all your prying in the matter with Graymark when you thought my back was turned. The one thing I do know for certain is that you are your mother's daughter Clarissa."
A fresh, savage wrath sprang to his countenance now, and Clary suddenly felt like a six year old again. She found herself dredging up memories she had worked hard to forget. All at once she recalled crouching under a table, clutching a doll to her chest and trying to hum to herself over the tremendous argument her parents were having in the next room, the closed door doing very little to block out the shouting. She could remember the dread of recognising her mother had forgotten she was here, and could feel all over again the swamping anxiety as her father burst through those doors, catching sight of her hunkered position with the same storm whirling across his face then as she witnessed now. Ridiculous as it should have seemed, sitting before him presently she felt she were still six years old and petrified of her father.
"And preferable as you may deem that similarity to be, one cannot forget where she is now and where I am in comparison." Without warning Valentine realised her arm and Clary felt the blood and feeling surge back into her hand with painful relief.
"Get out," he growled, the abrupt dismissal spiking even further her alarm at having ruffled him so much. "And should you ever speak to me in that way again, you shall find your punishment so severe you will wish I had left you to rot away in that convent with your mother after all."
-0000000000000-
A/N: Yikes.
So... any ideas who Clary might be partially inspired by now...? Major clue bandied about here. :) Although I would emphasise those with a historical model are very much loosely based on that person. With Clary for example I borrow bits and pieces of women with similar personalities or in a similar scenario so that I could try and wriggle my way into the mind set, having never been in such circumstances myself; thankfully. Mary Stuart was not the only girl of the era who was pushed into an arranged foreign marriage, and the difference is that Mary of Scotland was not in love with someone else when she married the young Dauphin. (At least not that we know of). Aside from that, I realise Clary's reaction to the Dauphin's death may appear a little cold. But realistically she had never personally known the guy, and probably never would have had her father not chosen him as her future husband. So I don't think it's beyond the realms for her to have reacted in the way she did. After all, Francois was only a vague presence in Clary's life for a brief time when it seemed she would be pushed into an arranged marriage with him, so his death immediately signals to her the end of that arrangement and with it an element of- she hopes-freedom. His death has a much more profound personal impact on Jace because he did know him, well enough to consider the Dauphin a friend.
My final note is on Malec; yes it is happening and I apologise for the lack of detail in that scene. But I want to do them justice, and I genuinely don't think Alec is the kind of guy who would want to go further than a make-out on the first occasion. There will be more malec goodness later, I promise. Now I feel I've babbled on long enough :) Again, no guarantees when the next instalment in the tale will be, I am currently just stress personified as exam season rapidly approaches. But I am super stoked for all that is about to unravel here, if I do say so myself ;)