The Art of Survival

Chapter 2: Broken Wings


The sharp trill of a cell phone shatters the quiet peace of the loft, jolting Magnus from a sound sleep. He groans in frustration; the sound is possibly a whine but he'll deny it under penalty of death.

He'd fallen into bed less than two hours ago, exhausted from a long day of coordinating relief efforts between the warlocks under his jurisdiction and the shadowhunters who need their help. That had been followed by ward maintenance for the DC Institute and then a two hour–truly headache inspiring—visit to the Spiral Labyrinth. Another lengthy, ineffectual meeting where the Warlock Council argued magical theory while pretending to be searching for a way to permanently seal the rifts. That isn't to say they aren't genuinely trying to find a solution, they are, but Magnus knows his people are prone to dramatics and these meetings have a tendency to dissolve into arguments and insults shortly after they begin. Some days it makes him feel like he's babysitting a bunch of toddlers. Merciless Lilith, he really has been spending too much time with shadowhunters.

Not for the first time Magnus wonders if he made a mistake accepting the 'Grand High Warlock of North America' position.

After his sacrifice and subsequent rescue from Edom the Warlock Council had fallen all over itself in its haste to offer him a seat on said Council, along with the dubious honor of the new position. It technically puts him on the same political level as Alexander, which is beneficial when arguing with the Clave, but it also means this entire shitshow is now his problem.

Some days his only solace is how incensed Lorenzo had been when he'd been informed of the new changes in leadership. And though Magnus recognizes most of it for the nostalgic bluster it is—they've actually become friends of a sort after the whole Edom debacle—it still brings him some small measure of amusement to see the other man's long-suffering expression when they have to work together.

Still, Magnus feels like he's drowning under the enormity of the responsibility. With no idea where the rifts are coming from, no patterns to track, they have little to work with. They only know two things for certain. One, the constant influx of demonic energy is wreaking havoc on any static protection spells that have their base work keyed into ley energy—wards, personal home and hearth protections, glamors hiding Shadow World businesses—and two, for some reason the demons are drawn to locations where the sick and infirm congregated in large numbers. Mundane hospitals, nursing homes and assisted living communities are all being targeted.

Magnus has, in an effort to stave off the worst of the degradation, sought out any warlocks with even the slightest proficiency in protection magic and tasked anyone willing to volunteer with the continuous upkeep and refortification of any areas deemed as essential. While it has been tricky to maintain wards on mundane locations, they can't just leave them unprotected.

Warlocks are typically rather solitary creatures by nature and getting them to coordinate on such a wide scale has certainly posed its challenges, but Magnus has to give the men and women under his purview credit for their willingness to come together and cooperate as well as they have. Despite this, they still need regular check-ins, updates, reminders. He's also taken the larger task of fortifying the primary East Coast Institutes himself—New York, Washington DC, Philadelphia—and it's a grueling, endless task. He's exhausted.

At this point Magnus's magical reserves are dangerously low. If he doesn't scrape together some time to actually rest and recharge he's going to be force to tap the untested, chaotic magic he absorbed when Edom was destroyed. He can feel it sitting there, patient, a predator waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

He knows it isn't technically sentient. Magic can't think for itself, has no real free will of its own, but it has…feelings. Magic takes on the will and intent of its caster, grows stronger as the warlock who possesses it does, and this magic has been wielded by a greater demon since its creation. It's pure, tainted, angelic magic. Magnus's magic may have been born of Asmodeus, but it is still intrinsically his. This new power taking up space in his magical core is the fallout from the destruction of entire hell realm and it's absolutely terrifying.

Initially, he had planned to take some time away after his honeymoon, a sort of sabbatical to learn to control this new power, but then he and Alec had been called back from their trip early and, well, his personal problems have quickly taken a back seat to the new crisis. He wishes, just for once, they could take a vacation from the impending apocalypse.

Magnus groans again when his phone starts buzzing a second time, obnoxious ringtone chirping far too cheerfully for his level of so tired he might cry. He briefly debates portaling it to the Bermuda triangle, sighs, gropes blindly across the bedside table in search of the offending device.

Really, who the fuck is calling him at stupid o' clock in the morning anyway?

He doesn't bother to check the caller id, answers with an angry scowl he wishes the caller could see. "Someone had better be dead," he snaps.

"Magnus."

Clary's tone puts him instantly on alert. A spike of adrenaline and concern chases away any lingering grogginess. "Biscuit, what's going on?" Unease settles heavy in his chest at her unsteady breathing. He knows the tiny, spitfire shadowhunter wouldn't call him at this hour for something trivial. He instantly regrets his previous choice of words.

He can hear her suck in a shuddering breath across the line. "Alec…Jace can't feel him." Her voice wobbles.

No. God, please, no.

"Magnus…something happened. I tried blood tracking but I can't find them. A-and their phones go straight to voicemail…we can't reach either of them."

Isabelle, Magnus's mind supplies absently. Clary said they can't reach them, not that they're dead or injured. Ok. He can work with this.

Magnus thinks back to what Alexander had told him that morning. He was supposed to be on patrol rotation with Isabelle tonight. They should have finished their shift—he pulls his phone from his ear to glance at the time—thirty minutes ago. He forcefully shoves down his rising panic.

"Just a minute, let me try." Scrambling across the bed he yanks Alec's spare stele out of the shadowhunter's drawer. The adamas glows an eerie red in his grip. Though exhaustion weighs on him heavily his magic is still eager to obey, eager to find the thing they love most in the world. It hooks into Alec's energy signature stored within the stele and reaches out for a trace of his presence.

Nothing.

Please.

They've suffered too much, fought too hard, the universe is not taking the love of his life from him now.

He tries again, pushes further, digs deeper, scrapes the very bottom of his reserves. Tendrils of that dark magic slip through, ride the coattails of his desperation and reach. They sing in glee at being used.

He feels it then, a flicker of something lingering inside a dark alley just a few blocks from the loft. He quickly rattles off the location to Clary, disconnects the call and practically flies out of bed. He's pulling on discarded clothing in a rush and spinning up a portal at the same time.

When Magnus steps through the portal and into the alley he's hit with the vile scent of ichor and trash. A quick scan of the area shows him that it's empty. He furrows his brow in confusion. His magic is still insisting this is the right place, that Alexander is here.

Then he sees it.

Blood.

There's a long, dark smear of crimson across the brick, faintly outlined by a silver glow. He wouldn't have seen it if his magic hadn't directed him to it. He knows beyond a doubt that it's Alec's blood.

This shouldn't be possible. Tracking doesn't work this way. Tracking is designed to find a person not…parts of them. Unless this is all that's left to find. If Alexander and Isabelle had been pulled through the rift and this was the only thing the tracking magic was able to latch on to…

Cold tendrils of fear wind themselves around his heart and squeeze.

Magnus closes his eyes, breathes, counts to ten, pulls himself together. He won't do anyone any good if he falls apart now. He needs to focus.

He can feel the remnants of something else here too, something unnatural and dark. It's a sickly green mist that lingers above cracked concrete, slowly dissipating. He summons an enchanted jar and sets about preserving it. This might be the break they've been searching for, tangible rift energy they can use to discern a location.

The Angel's themselves won't be able to help whoever rules this realm if it's come at the expense of his husband's life.

OXOXOXOXO

Jace careens around the side of a closed coffee shop at breakneck speed, Clary a steady presence only a few paces behind him. His heart pounds in his chest, lung burning as he pushes his speed rune to its limit. He only slows once the alley comes into view.

It looks ominous, flickers of garish color and deep shadows that makes a shiver creep up the back of his neck. Jace has never been afraid of the things that lurk in the shadows—he is a thing that lurks in the shadows—but right now he doesn't know which way is up and which way is down. The thought foremost on his mind is that his parabatai is missing and he doesn't know how to fix it. There's no madman to barter with, not deals to strike, no demons to kill. He's practically choking on the grief that's slithered in to fill the place in his soul where his brother should be.

Alec has always been his rock. He'd seen through the cocky bravado and anger of a lost ten-year-old boy, called him on his bullshit and forced him to accept that there were people who loved him. Alec accepted him, accepted all his flaws and broken parts and loved him for each and every one, not in spite of them. He pushed Jace to be better, protected him. And now he's gone and Jace can't fix this with a blade and snarky banter.

He approaches the alley slowly, careful not to interrupt whatever Magnus is working on.

The warlock is kneeling over what looks like empty concrete, magic crackling around his fingertips in angry red and blue sparks. His back is to them, but Jace can see the tension in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders, the lack of his usual flourish as he casts. He has an empty jar in one hand and looks to be filtering swirling green energy into.

Jace fights not to fidget as he waits, hands clenched at his sides, fingernails digging crescents into his palms. He's vibrating with nervous energy. He doesn't respond when Clary pulls his hands into hers, lacing their fingers together and squeezing gently. After several long minutes Magnus finally looks up at them, golden eyes bright in the darkness of their surroundings.

It isn't often that Magnus allows anyone but Alec to see his true eyes and Jace thinks it must be a sign of just how untethered his brother-in-law feels too.

"We need to capture one of the demons." Magnus says finally.

Jace balks at the suggestion, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. Shadowhunters don't capture demons, they kill them.

"What? Why?"

The scowl he receives for the interruption is so fierce it has him taking an involuntary step back. He bumps into Clary, throws an arm out to steady them both as they stumble.

Magnus's nonchalant attitude and eccentric behavior sometimes makes it easy to forget just who he is, the power he commands. Jace is abruptly reminded. Then he thinks of how Magnus must feel about all of this and guilt creeps in to join the grief. Alec and Izzy are Jace's family, but they're Magnus's too. He's been so wrapped up in how much this is affecting him that he's forgotten that other people have just as much to lose as he does. He unconsciously tightens an arm around Clary and ducks his head in apology.

"Sorry."

Magnus nods, scowl softening. "We need to capture one of the demons," he repeats, "because I believe our wayward shadowhunters have been taken through one of the rifts." His voice is steady as he explains but when Jace really looks he can see the cracks in his façade. There are dark bags under his eyes, his clothing is rumpled, his only accessories his wedding band and the Lightwood family ring. Even when they found him in Edom he had been put together, proud, eyeliner sharp and flawless. His pain is starkly visible.

Jace says nothing, doesn't try to comfort him. Empty platitudes won't bring their loved ones home. So, he shuts his mouth and listens as Magnus continues to explain.

"Typically, regular portals don't leave behind a signature that can be tracked, but much like the shards left by Clary's rune portals, these rifts do. It doesn't linger long though. We were lucky I was close enough to find this." He holds up the jar with the green energy inside. "These aren't from a botched summoning or a standard portal between realms that demons like to piggyback on. These rifts are intentional tares. It takes serious power and intent to do something like this. These demons are being sent here for a reason, which makes this problem so much more complicated."

Next to him Clary sucks in a sharp breath, her eyes are bright with an idea. "If we can catch one of the demons then maybe we can use them to figure out how to open one ourselves! And maybe what it is they want."

"Precisely Biscuit." Magnus nods at her, gives her a small, tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "We know Alexander is alive and we need to work on the assumption that Isabelle is as well. Can we count on any Clave support with this?"

It's Jace's turn to scowl now. "I doubt it," he says with a derisive snort. "The last time Alec put in a request for additional support they told him they didn't have anyone left to spare. That was two weeks ago."

Magnus hums quietly, chews on his bottom lip in thought as he rises and begins to pace the short length of the alley. "The warlocks are also stretched thin, but my new position affords me some…perks that I may be able to take advantage of. I have an old colleague of sorts that has made his name studying interdimensional travel. Between the seven realms of Hell specifically." He grimaces, huffs a frustrated sigh and rakes a hand across his face in a rare physical display of unease. His fingers leave behind a smudge of kohl below his left eye. "We didn't part on the best of terms—and he is somewhat of a recluse—but if I approach him in my official capacity on behalf of the New York Institute he'll be hard pressed to refuse a formal request for aid." He turns now glamoured eyes back on Jace. "With both Isabelle and Alexander gone, you serve as Interim Head of North America, don't you?"

Well, Jace hadn't even thought of that. Izzy is Alec's second, the one who takes over in his absence. But with her gone also then the responsibility falls to Jace. The idea that he's now responsible for the entirety of the North American Conclave is nearly enough to bring him to his knees. He's a soldier, not a leader. His brief stint as Head all those months ago had driven that point home with brutal clarity. But Alec needs him to step up and keep the Institute running in his absence and he's determined to do it even it kills him. Clary squeezes his hand again and he feels a swell of gratitude for her unwavering support. He nods sharply in reply to Magnus's question. "What do you need me to do?"

"Draft an official missive requesting assistance for me to take to Addicus Rex. I also need you to see if one of your teams can capture one of these creatures and put it in containment. If we can figure out a way to communicate with it we may be able to find a way to bring our family home." Magnus holds up a hand to forestall any more questions. "Tomorrow," he says firmly. "I'm as anxious as you to start working on this-"

Jace thinks that might be an understatement.

"-But we all need sleep and we'll be no good to anyone if we burn ourselves out." He sighs. Hesitates. "Come on, you can stay at the loft tonight. It's closer than the Institute and unfortunately I don't have the energy to make a portal for you right now."

Maybe it's selfish but Jace is only too happy to comply. He knows Magnus wouldn't have offered if he didn't want them there and he wonders if maybe the warlock doesn't want to be alone either.

OXOXOXOXO

Alec wakes to blinding agony. He's no stranger to pain, but this goes beyond anything he's ever experienced. Nothing in his life could have prepared him for this. His whole body is on fire with it, every muscle and sinew screaming in protest. He feels flayed open, taken apart on a cellular level and left in pieces.

A gurgling, wounded sound escapes him. It hurts. His throat is raw, the familiar tang of blood blooms across his tongue and he fights not to gag on it. The motion sets off more sharp shudders of anguish.

He can't breathe.

He's acutely aware of every single broken piece of himself, the way his lungs struggle to inflate, the way cracked ribs grind against each other, the shattered bones and torn feathers of his wings. There is no part of him that is free from pain and he wonders briefly if he's dead and this is his eternal punishment.

Panic shoots through him when he feels hands against his skin, feels the static buzz of unfamiliar magic.

He's fighting now, struggling weakly against his captors.

Above him there's a snarling rough voice shouting in a language he can't understand. That ozone scent of magic grows stronger. He fights harder, but there is little he can do. His body won't obey his commands. Horrifying visions flash across his closed eyelids. Visions of the demon that pulled them through the rift, of Izzy plummeting towards the ground. His imagination supplies even worse—the rift demons using their magic to torture his sister, to break her, to use her to find the rest of his family. His mind provides him with vivid details of Magnus and Jace falling to a wave of demons, of Clary and Max and his parents being torn apart. And he's not there to protect them.

He hears screaming, broken and full of pain, realizes it's him. He has to get out of here, has to rescue his sister, protect his family. But he can't even open his eyes. All he sees is darkness and those terrible visions.

He's choking on his own blood.

The voice above him grows louder, almost frantic in its exclamations. A door slams open somewhere behind him and hurried footsteps sound loudly in his ears before another pair of hands fall on him. Cool fingers press against his temples briefly and then his whole world dissolves into nothing.

OXOXOXOXO

The next time Alec wakes up he finds himself alone. He can't move his arms, can't turn his head, but he feels more lucid now. The blind panic he'd woken to the first time is still hovering in the background though. He forces it down angrily. Locks it away in box at the back of his mind labeled 'shit I don't have time to deal with right now' and focuses on trying to take stock of his injuries.

His ribs are broken, arms, legs, possibly every single bone in his body. He's laying face down on a surprisingly soft bed, his shattered wings spread out at his sides. They're wrapped with a combination of damp cloth and secured to steel rods, propped up on a complicated network of bars and netting. Splinted, he realizes. He can smell the sharp herbal scent of what he thinks might be healing salves. The rest of his body is much the same. He can't move, not because he's restrained, but because he's bandaged and splinted from head to toe.

But why?

Carefully, painfully, Alec tries to crane his neck to get a better glimpse of his surroundings. He squints at the dimly lit room. Plain ochre stone walls meet his vision and he can just make out a small machine in the corner that releases puffs of warm, fragrant steam. It's an odd combination of gears, tubes and cogs that remind him of some steampunk thing Simon showed him once. He has a fleeting thought the vampire would be thrilled he remembered.

He feels a little bit like he's floating, drunk, thoughts fuzzy and soft around the edges. He thinks maybe he should be in more pain than he is given the extent of his injuries, but he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The air in the room is warm, humid and thick with scent of herbs and woodsmoke. There are no other sounds aside from the quiet click and hum of the little machine and Alec's own labored breathing.

Somehow, against all odds, he's alive.

Behind him the door clicks open again. The panic tries to fight itself free from its box. He can't defend himself like this, is completely at the mercy of his captors.

"Oh Alec."

Quick footsteps cross the room before he feels gentle hands threading through his hair and across the back of his neck. The touch is soothing in its familiarity. He finds some of his tension bleeding away as Isabelle continues to stroke his hair and whisper softly.

She's ok.

Thank the Angel.

Alec opens his mouth to speak, can't form the words, a groan of pain escapes him instead. The searing agony is tempered but he still hurts everywhere. The longer he's conscious the more aware of it he becomes.

Izzy must have realized he's woken up because she sucks in a sharp breath, hurries around to the other side of the bed to kneel in front of him. She gives him a watery smile.

"It's ok big brother, I've got you. It's going to be ok, I promise." Her brown eyes are red rimmed, glassy and haunted. Dark hair is pulled into a messy, frizzy bun on top of her head and yellowing bruises cover nearly every inch of exposed skin. He doesn't miss her grimace of pain when she shifts to sit on the floor next to his bed. But she's alive and here and mostly ok.

Alec's eyes burn, he can feel the dampness on his upper lip and across his nose, realizes he's crying. Whether it's from pain or relief or both he's not sure.

Izzy brushes a damp strand of hair behind his ear and gives him another smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. It breaks his heart to see that look on her face.

"We're safe here," she begins. "Merek, the town healer, he saw us fall and brought us back to his home. He and his wife, Kala, have some rudimentary healing magic so they were able to stabilize the worst of your injuries. You've been unconscious for…about 9 days I think? There's no lunar cycle here so it's a little hard to keep track of the time. It's a little bit fascinating actually."

Trust his sister to find the silver lining to being stranded in a hell realm.

There's a grumbling snarl from the doorway and Izzy glances up. She responds with a similar series of harsh sounds, rough syllables and twisting words. The language sounds even stranger coming from her and Alec realizes she must have applied a Speak in Tongues rune at some point. That means she still has her stele. The thought allows him to breath just a little easier. If she still has her stele it's likely she still has her weapons, which probably means she isn't being held against her will.

Not that she would leave him even if she could, he knows she's too stubborn for that. A portal home could open right outside the door and she wouldn't take it if he couldn't go through with her.

Izzy turns her attention back on him now. "Kala says that we were incredibly lucky. If Merek found us any later…" she pauses, licks her lips and wraps her arms around herself in a self-soothing gesture. Her voice is thick with unshed tears when she speaks again. "I think I should be able to start applying Iratzes in another day or two. They were afraid that if we did it too soon your bones would set wrong and we would have to," she shudders "to re-brake them to set properly. They think you'll make a full recovery…but…they did the best they could but neither of them have ever treated a wing injury before…" She trails off uncomfortably.

Alec blinks his eyes rapidly, he can feel his fingers twitching spasmodically, the only way his broken body is allowing him to express the visceral fear at the thought he may never fly again. His wings are suddenly a heavy weight on his back. He can feel every single broken bone, every mangled feather and shredded ligament.

A Nephilim's wings are an integral part of their identity. They not only serve as shields or deadly weapons in battle but as a symbol of their angelic grace. They are as much a symbol of who they are as their runes.

Shadowhunters who lose their wings are never the same. Often they're recalled to Idris and put to work in strictly administrative or teaching roles. Sometimes they choose jobs as crafters, shopkeepers or caretakers alongside the Nephilim who have never taken up the Shadowhunter Vocation. While it isn't shameful to join the civilian populous many of them chose to be deruned and live among mundanes rather than suffer the pitying stares. They certainly don't lead Institutes.

If he can never fly again, fight again… Alec can't bear thinking about it. If he does he thinks he might break apart completely. So, he takes the fear and puts it in the box with his panic. He'll find somewhere safe and private to retroactively lose his collective shit once he finds a way to get back home.

Izabelle cups his cheek, furrows her eyebrows in determination. "Hey, it's going to be ok. You're going to be ok. You have a gorgeous husband waiting for you to get home and you're going to make it back to him in one piece, do you hear me?"

Alec hears her, hopes fervently that she's right.

TBC…


AN: Hello my lovelies! I do hope this chapter did not disappoint. Chapter three is about half way done and should be ready for your consumption soon. As always, a big thank you to everyone who took the time to read and/or review. I appreciate you all! 3

-GPO