okay here's a chapter I whipped up...i am too tired to go back and edit but...it is...content

Highs and Lows

Usually, when someone was in his room going through his stuff, Devi wouldn't have ended up cordially smoking with them in the bathroom, but the werewolf girl was pushy enough to get into his business and he was bad at saying no. Besides, it wasn't like he hadn't met her before and it seemed better to get on her good side than annoy her into tattling on him about his habits.

Piper sat on the edge of his bathtub as she smoked, her joint clumsily rolled like she hadn't had much practice. Maybe it was better that way. Still, she took short puffs of it after it was lit and he stayed standing, letting her lead the awkward conversation with talk of her own life. Her free hand stayed tucked in her sweatshirt pocket, seeming more relaxed than he'd ever been in his life. Sometimes he envied the ease at which others lived. His own existence had always felt strange and out of place, like everyone else had figured things out a few years before he had and he was still struggling to master the basics of managing chaos. Piper seemed to thrive off that kind of instability.

"I usually hit up this cafe near here in the mornings," Piper said after a long time of chatting about things she used to get up to in Alaska, wrinkling her nose and rubbing it with the back of her hand to scratch an itch. A bit of ash got on her pant-leg. "Really cute barista there. Seems like my age too."

His nerves had settled, thankfully, and he just stared at her in slight ambivalence as he lifted the joint to his mouth. It was starting to grow short and hot against his fingers. "Oh. That's...cool."

"Yeah. Not everyone can pull off fringe, but she has it all dyed pink and whatever." With sleepy, half-lidded eyes, Piper gave a wide smile. "But I mean, who can know if she's actually into me and not just really good at customer service, you know? You ever have this sort of problem? Like reading clues and whatnot?"

"...I'm not really the person to go to if you're looking for advice," he said, lifting his eyebrows subtly as he searched for words. "I mean-"

"Well, think of a girl you've asked out. How did you know she was into you instead of just being nice?"

There was nothing he could do besides keep his silence for a long moment, not sure what to say. "...Honestly...that's not really something I've ever done."

She gave him an amused, but hard look, reaching over as well to ash the joint in the sink. "You've never asked a girl out?"

"...Er-...No."

"Of course this is my luck," Piper coughed, standing up on the edge of the bathtub to push the window open further. "Everyone wants to talk to me about boys and boy trouble and I never have anything substantial to add, and the first boy I talk about girl trouble to has nothing substantial to add either."

If it had been a normal time, Devi would have been embarrassed, but he just gave a quiet, awkward laugh, leaning back against the door. "Well...yeah, I guess. I don't really have that type of girl trouble. I mean-...More like sister stuff."

She made a face at him as she sat back down on the bathtub edge, clearly unimpressed with his words. "That's boring stuff. Most boys on the verge of 23 have definitely asked someone out by now. What about Naya? Haven't you ever been worried you'd, like, wake up and realize like, 'oh shit, I'm totally in love with her and now I'm gonna have to live the rest of my life watching her date someone else and get a really hot boyfriend and watch 'em be lovey-dovey and whatnot-"

"I-...No," he commented quickly, cutting her off. He didn't think he would ever be sufficiently high enough to be okay with hearing someone talk about his parabatai in such a manner, not really liking to ponder on that topic anyway. A werewolf wouldn't really understand that kind of dynamic. "That's just...really weird - and illegal - to think about. She's like a sister more than anything, I guess. Kinda."

"Yeah, I know. A girl can be curious, though, and I'm not a Shadowhunter," she pointed out and Devi hypothesized that she might've just wanted to get a reaction out of him. "You guys don't seem like each other's types anyway, from what I've seen. When people are drunk or high, they tend to spill more about themselves, so I figured you might say something but I guess you're telling the truth...'Cause you look, like, absolutely faded."

It was easy to resist the urge to point out that she was the one spilling about herself and that she likely had a far lower tolerance than he did, though that fact didn't change that he was being honest anyway. "Yeah, well...I should probably stop for the day," he decided, snuffing out the joint in the sink. His mind was settled enough to let him think without being on edge and it was nice to have the weight of impending doom off his shoulders for a few hours. "Should probably...sleep or something."

"Sure, sure. Me too. Thanks for letting me steal your stash," she said, following suit and then tossing the end into a bin. "Not that I gave you much of a choice."

"It's fine." It was the only legal stuff he had, so at least that had been what she'd found instead of the remnants of other things that he had in his room for emergencies. "...Good luck with the barista."

"Oh, thanks. Who can turn me down, though?" Piper grinned as he stepped to the side to let her reach the door, pulling it open. "Have some more interesting topics for next time. Maybe juicy family issues, if you have anything along those lines, yeah?"

"There's not gonna be a next time. G'night," he said, a complaint in his tone as he ushered her from the bathroom and out of her room entirely, her laugh ringing down the hall as she slipped out. The smell of smoke stayed in the air and he quickly shut the door to his room so it wouldn't permeate into the hall. All his windows were open, letting in the cold night breeze. Even if it had been an unwelcome intrusion, it was still almost...a little nice to have a conversation with someone that didn't really know him, despite how meddlesome she could be. Of course he enjoyed Naya's company, but the lack of preconceived expectation even from a near-stranger was refreshing.

He sighed, feeling guilty at the thought. No normal Shadowhunter felt guilty about spending time with people outside of their parabatai and family, and yet even the haze that kept his thoughts tempered couldn't push away that nagging abstraction. With a shake of his head, he retreated back to the bathroom to clean up the evidence of his night. He'd always been good at that routine and it was best if he completed it before he got too tired. Things were always best if he didn't dwell.

Solstice

They had not gone easy on each other with their duel. Caspian was quick to parry the blows of the swords that came at him from all directions, slicing at Aspen where he could manage to find an unguarded spot in his defense. Aspen, on the other hand, had erred on the side of trickery, often feigning slashes to try and catch Caspian off-guard and go for a fatal stab. The ring of metal against metal frightened away nearby birds and yet the calm of the dance persisted, flattening the snow around them. While Caspian could feel it was cold, he didn't mind, his focus narrowing his senses to the fight. But even that was ephemeral and they had exchanged enough blows with one another to sate their restlessness, the heavy exhaustion starting to set in.

Aspen flicked his blades, red drops splattering against the snow. Though he could see himself bleeding, Caspian could not find any site in which the blade had struck him nor could he feel any real physical pain from an injury. He flexed his back to let his wings extend royally in the brisk air, his hands adjusting on his staff. It had been a long time since he'd felt the weight of those lost appendages and he almost felt imbalanced, now, having grown unused to their presence. Instead, he had become comfortable with pain. Attached to it, even.

"Giving up?" Aspen goaded, his green eyes whole and bright. "We could raise the stakes. To the death, perhaps?"

"We both know I'm the better fighter." Though he could have fought for longer, Caspian found little motivation within himself to continue. His gaze didn't leave him, distrust in his expression. "I'm tired of this."

But Aspen's mouth had not yet tired of its theatrics. "Aren't your kind not supposed to turn down a fight? It would be a shame..."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Defensiveness was always something that Caspian was bad at hiding, and he usually found himself speaking through thorns in his throat. "This is just a waste of my time."

Aspen grew nearer, his head tilted at his words. "And you would deny me my wants?"

"Stop it, Aspen," he said, scorning the hesitation that seeped into his words. "You clearly only care about yourself."

"Is that so?" His eyes didn't display his intent, like an ocean refusing to betray the contents beneath despite being spurred on by the tide. They had always been chasmic and easy to get lost in, and Caspian had found they hid things in their depths that he wished had been left undiscovered.

His fingers reached suddenly out to curl around Caspian's wrist where blood had dripped down it, lifting his arm and pressing his tongue against his skin in a deliberate lap, leaving it damp with spit. It startled Caspian and he stiffened, his other hand tightening on his staff even though his urge to lash out had dissipated over the course of their duel. Aspen just lifted his eyes to Caspian slowly before pulling back, blood on his lower lip.

"My hunger has been sated for now," he said, his mouth relaxing into a contented look as he released his wrist. The flecks on his cheeks were wrong and blurred - Caspian had started to forget them. "I'll see you next time-"

"No." Sticking the staff into the snow, Caspian found that his words were defiant and firm with a certainty he hadn't known for some time. "There will be no next time. I'm done."

"You cannot be done, Caspian." That smug smile curled at his lips and Caspian found that the cruelty in his expression overshadowed the beauty that had once lived there. "I am you, you know. It would be foolish to think you could control me."

It took all of his effort to grab his staff and turn away. He had always learned to never turn a back on an enemy - that it would expose a weakness and render him easy prey. But it seemed like the only thing he could do and it felt like the only way he could gain any power over their conversation. Disappointment nagged at him, surpassing even the anger that unsettled his mood. Autonomy over himself was the only thing he had left, and even then, he found that it often slipped from his fingers.

"You're not me and you're not part of my life," he said, his words low and hurt. "You made that decision a long time ago."

He started to walk away, needing to distance himself from Aspen so he wouldn't do or say something that he would regret. He didn't need more things to mourn and the tiredness that pervaded even his sleep had started to wear down his reason.

"Maybe so, Caspian." The voice was now disembodied among the trees, carried in the wind. "But you remain mine, regardless."

Thread Count

When Blake finds Unseelie stealth garb in a shop by the Towns, he isn't entirely sure yet what exactly propels him to purchase it, only the thought that he must have it. There are remnants of the Faerie that bleed into the mundane world and he's never pleased at the number of Unseelie items that fall into the hands of non-fae. When he inspects the clothing, he finds a rip in the fabric, a stab wound over the chest and dried blood crusted into the threads, undoubtedly the cause of why the owner of such finely made attire had lost it.

It takes him days to muster up the skill and energy to mend the rip with magic. He remembers long trips with others that used to roam the lands with him, needing to scrub blood from the blackened leather of their waist guards and bracers but also mend the slashes they sustained from fights. Magic has never been a specialty of his, but even then he'd been better. The ley lines had been a welcoming presence and he'd been able to draw from their power, using that carry out his spells. Now it feels like his energy is being sapped, but slowly the fabric, like flesh, puts itself back together.

Restoring the clothing feels like an act of care that he has never even reserved for himself. He boils black nettles from the Unseelie to touch up spots where the dye has faded in the fabric, likely from being improperly handled by shopkeepers and those that have no real care for the craftsmanship of faerie attire. He fixes the garb as he makes his plan to defile it.

He remembers what it feels like to get ready for a hunt. Remembers the feeling of worn laces that secure his bracers, the Unseelie's broken crown burned into the leather. There are easy places for him to equip his weapons where they're accessible but still covered by the half-cloak that spills over his left arm. Memories like threads are sewn into that fabric. The slim-cut lines and embroidered edges of fabric are streamlined for battle, and he pulls a gaiter that has been sewn into the collar over his mouth and nose, only leaving his eyes uncovered.

He does this for a few weeks on end, hiding the clothes and his notes to make sure Savannah's prying eyes don't manage to seek them out. He has been dusting off the fossils of what the Unseelie has left him. They have always taught him to lurk and prey, and perhaps that is why he finds himself so lacking in other regards. Clumsy with his repartee and the indecisiveness within himself. The Unseelie sympathetics talk anyway. When most of his face is covered, they trust the clothes he wears and the language he speaks; it is the naivety he has been betting on.

The Unseelie archer is standing on a roof of a two-story apartment building when Blake finds him. It seems the Unseelie faeries who tipped Blake off were correct about the archer's usual spots, and he can't help but feel displeased that the archer feels so little urge to keep his location difficult to find. As if he might underestimate Blake's capabilities to track him down. Still, his movements are casual as he finds an easy way to join him, attracting a glance and a momentary look of distrust.

"Who sent you?" the archer asks, glancing at the stealth garb before turning his gaze back out to the city. A bow is in his hand, a quiver full of arrows on his back. "I don't need backup."

Blake knows those arrows in his quiver. They have the same red fletching as the arrow that had been left on his doorstep, waiting there like a taunt. The archer must be too much of a coward to face him in person and instead seeks to make his presence known without ever showing his face. Blake isn't interested in cleanliness either. A dagger is already in his hand and he aims to slash at the archer's bow arm before he has time to look back and react.

The archer must not have been expecting conflict. He doesn't have a knife or dagger easily accessible, instead reaching for an arrow from his quiver to stab at him, but it only rips through a small section of fabric and gives a superficial cut with the inferior sharpened arrowhead. They are unevenly matched in a duel; the archer tries to defend himself regardless. When Blake manages to kick one of his legs out from under him, the archer's hand grasps at his arm and manages to unsteady them both as they slip from the roof, landing roughly in the alley beside them.

He can feel the crack of ribs from the impact. Those are sharp pains he can ignore. All of his attention goes instead to retrieving the dagger that clattered from his hand and trying to subdue the archer against the concrete. The gaiter slips back to his neck and he hisses at the other faerie, teeth bared, finally managing to pin the archer down with his fingers knotted in his shirt and a blade to his throat. Too easy. He doesn't entertain what might have happened if the archer had seen him as a threat when he was approaching, knowing he is weaker at distance fights. A single shot from an arrow can be deadly, after all, and throwing knives are no match.

"Who's in charge?" he asks forcefully, knowing the archer will know what he is talking about. He wants this to be quick. Escape attention. His existence has been rooted in secrecy as of late, and it's starting to wear on his patience. "The gold-winged faerie? Is he the one giving the orders?"

"As if I'll say." The archer's words, despite being pinned, are dripping with jeers, staring up at him. "You don't scare me, traitor. How does it feel to be on the receiving end of the Unseelie's wrath?"

"You'll answer me or I'll do a lot worse than that cut on your arm," he threatens, a growl catching in his throat. "Who is-"

"You're not even worth punishing like this. So what do you plan on doing with me? Killing me like this?" the archer interrupts, giving an angry laugh. "You've already killed yourself by running away here and giving up the life the Faerie could have offered you."

Frustration rises in his chest and he can feel where it hurts to take deep breaths, deep-rooted bitterness starting to fester. "How many people are being ordered to meddle?"

"As if I would answer to a mortal." The archer's lips curl back in a snarl, deciding to struggle once against Blake's grip before finding that he can't move productively. "You're not going to kill me. You do that, and you'll be hunted."

"There's no one here to stop me from doing that if I wanted," he states icily, pressing the blade a little harder against his throat to emphasize his point. "Answer me or-"

"Or what?" Lifting his chin, he spits, a spray of saliva hitting Blake's cheek. "What's a bit of pain? Maybe you have grown soft and you underestimate what it will take to make me talk. Like I would spill about Unseelie details so easily. Not everyone is as disloyal as you are."

"What's the Unseelie's end goal?" He wills himself unsuccessfully to keep calm and his hand tightens in the collar of the faerie archer's clothes, pulling at him so he must lift his head from the ground. It is difficult to stem his disgust and he is unused to being so provoked. "What do they want?"

The thought of killing him is the only choice left that has any semblance of honour. The archer continues to insult, though that's all Unseelies can do when they're cornered and desperate, the words hissing out of him as if they might cause him some physical ailment. Like a curse, but one that has little behind it but spite and the sound of scorn that settles deeper than disdain for being beaten in a fight. it starts to grate, the derision dissolving into the lower dialect of the Unseelie as if the archer means to bring Blake down to his level, to whatever messy blood might comprise his heritage, to taunt against his birthright, the place that had rightfully been his, and those words start to sting ("you were never deserving"). [mal] doesn't understand why he should listen in the first place when he has bested him - it is in his blood to be capable and he can't allow anything less.

and yet! the archer gazes with loathing eyes, clear contempt like [mal] is the lowly one. the archer's mouth is sneering with condescending remarks even though he is the one pinned and helpless. ("can you only win if you lurk in the shadows?") it shouldn't matter how one wins, only that they do, and honour is something that has been long forgotten. it is washed out and threadbare, perverted into a faded memory of what it once was, [he will criticize when the Seelie ensnares the Hunt to fight with them, but that is only because he doesn't know what else to say in his lamentations of Unseelie loss] - he cannot reason with himself when the archer is continuing to pollute his thoughts, stubborn and insistent, (abrasive). it can be fixed with a blade to the corner of his mouth, catching the flesh to rip through and down his cheek and

The archer gags on his own blood, startled by the mutilation. Blake lets up the pressure to allow the archer to roll onto his side and cough onto the ground, the wound gaping to his upper molars as he opens his mouth to spit up the blood that he's nearly inhaled. Sadism has never been a thing he's associated himself with. He'd never found amusement in observing the punishments in the Unseelie and he doesn't often think about violence as a process to derive satisfaction from someone's pain. The pleasure he gets from seeing the archer's torn mouth quickly dissipates and the throb in his chest grows. He doesn't appreciate emotional recklessness or letting impulse guide him.

He shudders into himself and presses a hand over where the arrowhead ripped into the fabric, trying to focus on that sting instead of the sharp pains every time he breaths. The threads are torn, fraying under his hand. His injuries are minor, but even then, he retreats.

He feels foolish that he thought he might've been able to gain something from the archer. That he might be intimidated into giving away details. It was a desperate assumption and he knows to not make the same mistake, though he is also unsure of how he can deal with the situation without simultaneously making it worse. The night of the city gives him no answers and the glamour he forces himself into tires him. Ignorance in the mundane world has always allowed him silent and private lamentations.

"Ah, excuse me. Do you know where the Grand Central Station is?" A girl stops him on the sidewalk, unable to see the bloodied dagger that still dangles in his hand for what it is. Sometimes he wonders what exactly it is that mundanes observe when they look at him and what they might expect from his image. If he is as forgettable as he tries to make himself in the Towns, with varying amounts of success.

"...South. A few streets down," he answers after a moment, hiding an ache in his lungs when he speaks. She seems satisfied enough and he continues his walk. Even with the archer incapacitated for at least the night, the feeling of being watched never leaves Blake. That inkling follows him on his way home and lingers over his shoulder. It is odd to feel so scrutinized when he had once been so easily overlooked and good at escaping supervision, knowing there are passive eyes that follow and judge. Though he is meticulous with gathering information and tracking down the paths of Unseelie to either avoid or confront them, he knows it is unwise to think he can fend them off himself. There are a number of ways they can triumph and bring him low, and for that multitude of uncertainty, he has stopped keeping count.