Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

London, 1878

The Shadowhunters of the London Institute, as well as Sophie and Bridget, gathered in a circle in the drawing-room. There the youngest Lightwood brother, Gabriel, was stood in a pool of blood -- scarlet stains down his shirt and trousers. He was wide-eyed and frantic, calling for Gideon, his brother. Tessa, who had come down from her dress fitting immediately, couldn’t fathom how Gabriel had managed to bleed that much and still drive his carriage. She felt Jem interlock his little finger with hers, a calming gesture they had adopted over the course of their short engagement. With Jem nearby, Tessa always felt grounded, no matter how fantastical or dangerous a situation she found herself in as if he tethered her to what was real and good in the world. She turned to smile at Jem and caught Will’s eye, glancing her way as he entered the room. His hair was damp, curling at the edges, and the faintest glimmer of sweat shone at his brow. He must have been training. Tessa ducked her head. If Jem was solid ground beneath her feet, Will was a free-fall -- her heart tumbling and crashing inside her body with nowhere to land and nothing to hold on to. She and Will scarcely shared glances nowadays. 

Resolutely turning her attention back to the Lightwood brothers, Tessa found Gideon attempting to reason with his brother, who was adamantly insisting that their father was a worm. Will’s laugh, bitter and short, cut him off. Gabriel continued to explain that Benedict Lightwood was a worm, no Gideon not a shame to our family, a bloody great serpent thing. As the conversation turned toward demon pox and the effects it had on the body, Tessa swore she could hear noises from the ceiling above. Almost like water rushing through a crack, she thought. As the sound grew louder, the urgent voices of those gathered quieted, and all eyes turned to the source of the sound.

New York, 2008

It was a slow day in the New York Institute. After Sebastian/Jonathan’s death, demon activity had quieted. The adoption of the Cold Peace and the loss of Simon -- no, Clary thought, he’s not dead. Just...different. Just...mundane -- had left their little gang disheartened and down; Isabelle most of all. Clary had arrived at the Institute to find Jace, Isabelle, and Alec sitting glumly in the library, which had once been their tutor Hodge’s study. The great desk with the clawed feet still sat at one end of the room. Though Maryse used it occasionally to conduct official business as Head of the Institute, it often sat empty, as if it knew its former occupant would never return.

Maryse was out of the Institute today, something about a pack of werewolves getting involved in faerie business, which was explicitly forbidden under the terms of the Cold Peace. Alec had stayed behind to oversee the Institute.

Currently, Alec, in one of his oversized sweaters, was biting his nails and pacing. His parabatai, on the other hand, was eerily still: twisting his fingers through Clary’s, who sat on his lap. Isabelle was half-asleep in one of the chairs. “We need to do something,” Alec said suddenly, “I can’t just stay here pacing all day. I’ll go mad.” 

The four of them thought for a minute. Isabelle, lifting her head from the armrest of the chair she was sat in, finally said, “I guess we could go digging through the forbidden books, the ones on the top shelves. Hodge never let us read any of those.” She smiled wryly, “He always said they were too ‘advanced’ for children.” 

Alec looked around the room. Hearing no better suggestions, he pulled the ladder towards himself and climbed to the top. He began searching through the assorted titles. “Demon Drugs," he called, "Folk Magic and Herbal Remedies, The Care and Keeping of Raum Demons, A History of Astriola..”

At that, Clary gasped, “Astriola? That’s demon pox!”

From beneath her, Jace began to sing, “Demon pox, oh demon pox,” the tune reminiscent of a children’s song, “just how is it aquire-“ Clary thumped Jace on the back of his head.

“Jace, do you have to act like an idiot all of the time or do you reserve that just for our company?” Isabelle deadpanned.

“I feel that acting in any other way around others would just be hypocritical and rude Izzy. I don’t like to discriminate.” Jace flashed his earth-shattering grin and Clary wondered what she had done in a previous life to deserve what Simon had once called the atomic bomb of boyfriends. But she couldn’t think of Simon now. The misery reminiscing about him caused only fed the demon Asmodeus, who had taken him from them. It did no good to yearn for someone who wouldn’t, no, couldn’t come back.

“Do you want the demon pox book or not? If not, I’m coming down; it smells like mold up here.” Alec called from the ladder.

“Go ahead Alec, I feel that certain people would benefit from a lesson on demon pox,” Jace drawled looking straight at Isabelle.

Alec dropped the book from the ladder, expecting Jace to catch it. Jace, too distracted with making suggestive faces at Isabelle, didn’t notice the book falling until it hit the ground, opening to a random page inscribed with runes. Clary’s vision swam with them, words coming to her like whispers in the wind. Travel, lifetimes, worlds, beginnings all danced behind her eyes. 

Alec had released the ladder just as the open pages of the book began to glow. A blue light shone brightly from the pages. Jace, now standing, drew a dagger from his belt. But it did no good, the light was blinding now, engulfing everything in the room. With a hiss, the Shadowhunters of the New York Institute were sucked into the light. 

Clary wondered if this was what jumping out of a plane felt like.

London, 1878

Many pairs of eyes turned to the sound coming from the Institute’s ceiling, where a bright blue light had appeared. The hissing was soon drowned out by voices.

“Ow, Jace”

“Izzy, that’s my foot!”

“Clary, don’t let go”

“I swear on the Angel Jace if you land on me…”

And then, the bodies of four people, clearly Shadowhunters from the Marks on their skin, fell through the brightness. Only one, a boy with gleaming gold hair, managed to land on their feet. The others were groaning and pulling themselves off the stone floor. 

Both groups of Shadowhunters stood silent. Even Gabriel Lightwood, still dripping with the blood of his family’s servants, had nothing to say. As the group stood, Tessa noticed the...inappropriate clothing the Shadowhunter women wore. A redheaded girl with bright green eyes wore tight pants, similar to gear, splattered with paint. A stele was tucked into the waistband and she wore a shirt that left her shoulders and arms bare. The other girl, with black eyes and even blacker hair, wore a loose silver dress, bunched at her waist, that showed her heavily Marked legs. Her stele poked out of the chunky boots at her feet.

Finally, Charlotte, ever a leader, broke the silence. “Who are you?”

Chapter Text

“Who are you?” Asked a dark-haired woman with a deep blue gown. 

No one could meet her searching eyes. Isabelle nodded towards her brother, “You’re the only one of us who’s technically an adult.” Alec shot her a look of stern disappointment and cleared his throat.

“I am-, “He began.

“Full name please,” The woman interrupted.

“My name,” he started again, “is Alexander Gideon Lightwood and this is my--” He was cut off by the gasps in the room. Many of the gathered Shadowhunters were staring at one of their own, a tall boy with sandy blond hair and deep green eyes.

The bloodstained boy in the corner seemed aghast, “A Lightwood? You don’t look much like a Lightwood to me.” 

Alec looked shell-shocked as if he was frozen in place. “I-- I, um --” he began.

Isabelle took pity on her brother and stepped forward, placing her hand on his arm. “I’m his sister,” she said, “Isabelle Sophia Lightwood.” She put on her best smile, praying to Raziel that these unfamiliar Shadowhunters were friendly.

More whispers floated around the room. The sandy-haired boy from earlier was glancing at a diminutive brunette with a pronounced scar across her face. She appeared to be intentionally avoiding his eyes. The bloodstained boy looked even more displeased than before.

Clary felt the tension in the room rising, and stepped forward, conscious of Jace’s hand on her arm. “My name is Clarissa Adele Fairchild, but please, just call me Clary.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the dark-haired woman from before exchange a glance with the redheaded man beside her.

“Like clary sage,” muttered a boy with silver hair from opposite Clary. He seemed to be brushed in moonlight, his every feature pale and luminous. Clary yearned for her paints, though she wasn’t sure she had a paint that could truly capture his silver hair, silver eyes, and even silver eyelashes. She distantly remembered inks she had seen while shopping in SoHo long ago; they appeared to flow and glimmer even after they had dried. They would be the closest, but even those inks could not recreate the moon-bleached boy in front of her.

“How about you, golden boy?” Said a man from Clary’s left. His accent was peculiar. Clary couldn’t quite put a name to it, but it had a particular cadence and rhythm as if he was speaking music. He looked remarkably like Alec, curling dark hair and fathomless blue eyes. Like Alec, Clary could tell that he was beautiful, but his mouth was curled into a ruthless smirk. 

“Golden boy... Hmm, I don’t think I’ve heard that one before,” Jace said sarcastically. Clary sighed inwardly. Jace, never good with new people, had put up his Mask. Sarcasm was both his escape and his comfort. She knew she would likely have to apologize or cover for her boyfriend if he couldn’t control himself. 

“Personally, I’m not much of a fan of it,” Jace continued, “It doesn’t give much credit to my stunning good looks or my wonderfully outgoing personality. Though, what can you do when-”

“Jace,” Clary’s sigh now became external, “just shut up and tell them who you are.” The black-haired boy’s eyes had lit up at Jace’s confrontation like he was ready for a battle of arrogance and sarcasm.

“I am Jonathan Christopher, though I prefer Jace, Herondale.” The Alec doppelgänger’s eyes widened and the silvery boy looked startled. The black-haired boy glanced towards the girl in the golden gown. A Shadowhunter wedding gown Clary thought distantly. Had they interrupted a wedding?

“Now that we’ve introduced ourselves, I think it's only fair that you return the favor. Who are you? And where are we?” Asked Alec, his tone surly. Where Jace utilized sarcasm to mask his apprehension, Alec shut down. 

“I think a better question is when are we?” Jace noted. “Due to the clothing that these Shadowhunters are wearing, I think it’s a safe bet to say that we aren’t in the twenty-first century anymore.”

“The twenty-first century,” the Alec-like boy chuckled, “I’d say not. It is 1878. You are in the London Institute.”

“I’ve always wanted to see London,” Clary said, attempting to diffuse the situation. A memory swam before her eyes, of the Seelie Court and Jace’s arms. I’ve never been to England, she had said. Clary felt herself blush. It hadn’t been a good memory, but she remembered how desperately she had clung to Jace, how assured she was that she would never get to hold him again. She shoved the memory aside. There would be plenty of time to see England, she supposed, since the stupid demon pox book had somehow transported them through time.

“Well fantastic,” Alec quipped from beside her. “It appears we may be stuck here a while. I’d appreciate knowing the names of those I'll be eating breakfast with each morning.”

The dark-haired woman who had first spoke to them cleared her throat, “My name is Charlotte Mary Branwell, formerly Fairchild, and I am head of this Institute, and this is my husband,” she gestured to the redheaded man who was curiously eying Jace’s sensor, “Henry Jocelyn Branwell.” Clary recognized the name from the Codex, he had invented Portaling and the sensor. She felt that it wasn’t the best moment to bring up those two facts.

“I am James Carstairs, but please call me Jem,” The silver boy said. As he moved, his skin seemed to allow light through it, as if it were translucent.

Jem’s hand was clutching the woman next to him, the one in the wedding gown. She spoke next, “My name is Teresa Gray. Though I prefer Tessa.”

“Are you a mundane? Or an Ascendant?” Jace asked, “I don’t see any Marks so you’re not a Shadowhunter.” His tone, to anyone outside of the New York Institute, would seem to be differential, but Clary realized Jace’s peculiar form of intrigue. 

“I am neither Mundane nor Ascendant…We believe I am a warlock, though I bare no warlock’s mark.” She spoke slowly as if choosing her words carefully.

“She’s protected by this Institute and is a valued member of our household,” Charlotte spoke up, “It would do you well to remember that Mr. Herondale.”

Jace simply smiled, his hands outstretched. “That won’t be an issue, Mrs. Branwell. We in the twenty-first century are much more understanding of our Downworlder friends. The Accords have been in place for nearly two hundred years.” Charlotte, Jem, Tessa, and the black-haired boy all seemed to let out a breath Clary didn’t realize they had been holding. “Alec here,” Jace continued, patting his parabatai on the back, “is rather friendly with a warlock, aren’t you?”

Alec looked positively murderous. “You could say that,” he said gruffly. It was clear he would not say any more on the matter.

The bloodstained boy let out a huff, “I guess if we must introduce ourselves, I will take my turn. My name is Gabriel Benedict Lightwood. And this is my brother-“

The sandy-blond next to him interrupted him, “I am perfectly capable of introducing myself Gabriel,” he huffed, “My name is Gideon Arthur Lightwood.”

Jace had taken up staring down the black-haired boy, who stared back with equal intensity. Despite both of them being nearly fully grown adults, they were behaving like children. Jem was looking exasperatedly at the blue-eyed boy while Alec appeared about two seconds away from seizing the nearest available book and whacking Jace atop the head with it.

The girl who must have been the sister of the black-haired, blue-eyed boy decided it was her turn next. “My name is Cecily Alice Herondale,” her voice carried the same accent, though hers was stronger, “and this is my brother--”

“William Owen Herondale.” He finished, without taking his eyes off Jace. Jace, however, looked away, glancing at Alec. Alec had let out a low huff. Clary knew of Alec’s former fears regarding Magnus’s past. She knew Will Herondale was an important person to Magnus, though just how important she didn’t know. She had thought, however, that Alec and Magnus had talked through their issues and were secure in their love for each other. It’s one thing when a former love is a story in a book, Clary thought, it's entirely another when he’s staring back at you. Especially when he looks so much like you. Maybe there was more to the story that Clary did not know.

“Mr. Lightwood, is there a problem between Will and yourself? I do not believe we have ever seen you in London before,” Charlotte asked. The rest of the London Shadowhunters, as well as Tessa, seemed shocked by Alec’s outburst. Gabriel, however, seemed to be chuckling to himself.

Isabelle stepped in, prepared to enact damage control for her brother, “No, my brother has just heard many stories about William Herondale. It is nothing of importance.” She tried to take on the same formal inflection to her tone that the other Shadowhunters were using. It must have been the time period, the only people she knew of that were this polite were vampires. The thought of vampires led her mind into memories of Simon: his touches and kisses, trailing across her skin, the feel of his fangs sinking into the flesh of her neck. She fought to keep her face straight. Thinking of Simon would do her no good. She was in unfamiliar territory with unfamiliar Shadowhunters, she could not let her guard down now.

“Well, no self-respecting Lightwood would ever think good thoughts about a Herondale,” Gabriel spat, obviously enjoying the situation playing out in front of him.

“Excuse me, but that self-respecting Lightwood happens to be my, Jace Herondale ’s, parabatai.” Jace drew aside the collar of his shirt to reveal his parabatai rune. Alec distractedly followed suit.

Gabriel looked sick, while Gideon was shaking with laughter. Will looked disgusted, though it didn’t seem to be genuine. Clary wondered just how similar Jace and Will were. Jace utilized sarcasm and wit as a mask and, based on their short conversation, it appeared Will did too. Jace was a master of hiding his emotions while Will seemed to be set on a default of disgust. Clary knew Jace’s childhood, the trauma that shaped a broken boy afraid to love. She wondered what Will’s life had been like for him to draw up the same mask.

“On the topic of parabatai, I should mention that I am Will’s,” Jem said, a fond smile dancing across his lips.

Alec relaxed and laughed, “You must have a high tolerance for cynical sarcasm, then, if Will is anything like Jace. Sometimes I feel like I was born to babysit his whiny ass.” The ladies present, including one of the servant girls, gasped. Alec blushed, having forgotten that, being in Victorian London, what was defined as a curse was much stricter. Isabelle chuckled slightly at her brother’s blunder. The servant girl with wild red hair was laughing too. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Isabelle noticed that Will had cracked a smile. It appeared genuine, almost as if it had been forced out of him. She was reminded of a younger Jace. New to the Institute, he never truly smiled or laughed unless Alec said something funny. Try as she might, only Alec had had the power to draw the true Jace up and out of the perfect demon hunter facade he wore.

“A good joke, Master Lightwood,” The servant girl laughed, and Clary immediately recognized the heavy Irish accent. She was holding multiple pairs of gear, the Shadowhunters must have been preparing for a fight then.

Inspired by their laughter, Alec continued, “He has this irrational fear of ducks,” Jem’s silver eyes widened, but he said nothing. “One time, when we were about 14, he convinced me to feed poultry pies to the ducks in Central Park.”

“And they ate it too! The little bastards! Cannibalistic monsters they are!” Jace’s voice had risen.

“Never trust a duck!” Will and Jace said at the same time. They looked at each other, both trying to out-scowl the other.

“Will and I did the same thing in Hyde Park when we were 15,” Jem muttered, almost to himself. He seemed to be drawing parallels between Will and Jace, just like Clary had been doing moments before.

“Anyway,” Charlotte said, looking rather distressed, “it seems that you are from a time distinctly different than our own, and may possibly be related to a few of us. While we figure out how to send you home, that is if you wish to be sent home, you are welcome to stay here in the Institute.”

“They could stay in the Institute even if you hadn’t said that,” Will muttered, “we can’t turn down wayward Shadowhunters.”

“Are we forgetting the fact that my father has been turned into a demon worm ?” Gabriel Lightwood exclaimed, who appeared surprised that he himself had forgotten about the demon worm problem. “That is the reason I am here you know!”

“Lightworm,” Jace said conspiratorially, “let me guess, demon pox?” Will’s mouth quirked into a smile. 

“Oh yes.” He said. “Demon pox.” The words seemed to delight him as if he had waited his whole life to see a Shadowhunter turned into a demon because of his...inappropriate dalliances.

“Yes yes, Brigit, the gear.” Charlotte seemed flustered. She motioned to the Irish servant, who began handing gear to the London Shadowhunters.

“I’m afraid I don’t have gear for the rest of ‘ye,” Brigit noted. “There may be some in the training room, though.” She smiled at Jace, her eyes unashamedly looking up and down his body. Clary bristled and reached out for Jace’s hand. She knew he loved her, was as sure of that as she was that the sky was blue. But still, she didn’t like young women with beautiful accents staring him down as if he was a piece of meat.

Alec put his hand up, “No worries. We will endeavor to be as helpful as we can without it.”

“So...A Herondale,” Cecily asked, stepping towards Jace. Clary saw Gabriel’s eyes follow her across the room. Cecily, whether she knew it or not, was already spoken for. 

Jace nodded, “Not really an awe-inspiring bunch though really. My dad was a bit of a...oh how do you say it here in England? A wanker?” Cecily looked taken aback. “Not particularly the kind of family you say you’re proud to come from, but what can you do.” Clary knew Jace was deflecting. He had barely taken on the Herondale name and here was a group of Shadowhunters, most likely his ancestors, there to interrogate him about it.

Jem cleared his throat; he was now dressed in a gear jacket and weapons belt. He motioned for the new Shadowhunters to accompany him to the carriages.

Even Tessa, Clary noticed, in her golden wedding dress was accompanying the party. She can’t think she’s going to fight Clary thought. Isabelle, to her left, seemed to be having the same thought.

There were two carriages at the entrance. One, Clary found out, belonged to the Institute and the other to the Lightwoods. Gabriel boarded the front of the carriage, intent on driving it. Jace and Clary joined Gideon, Henry, and Cecily in the Lightwood’s carriage, while Alec and Isabelle rode in the Institute’s with Will, Jem, and Tessa.

I’ve never been inside a real carriage before, Clary thought as she settled into Jace’s lap. Gideon glanced their way, a look of confusion on his face. Clary had forgotten that their actions might be the height of impropriety in 1878, but Clary couldn’t care less. She was ready and excited, despite the whirlwind of the day’s events, to kill a demon. It was something she knew how to do and it brought her a sense of normalcy in a world where nothing was to be normal again.

Chapter Text

Tessa sat in the carriage, her hands absentmindedly playing with Jem’s. Her mind was racing with thoughts about their new visitors. Herondales, Lightwoods, Fairchilds, they were so familiar but so foreign. An ocean away and a lifetime away. She wondered if any of them had recognized her if she was still important and involved in the Shadow world in over a hundred years. Magnus, along with the Silent Brothers, had told her that she was immortal, like any other warlock. The prospect had seemed terrifying to her before, an eternity without the ones she loved. But here were the ones she loved, carrying on and enduring. She thought of Jace Herondale’s sarcasm, the bright wit burning in his golden eyes. As London passed by through the carriage window, Tessa daydreamed of small children, of black hair running in fields, and of laughter bubbling through a house transformed into a home.

Jem, too, was thinking of Will. Jem, who knew Will better than he knew himself, couldn’t imagine what was going through his parabatai’s head at the moment. Obviously, Jace was related to Will, though Jem had believed Will had never intended to marry. Perhaps Will, in a drunken evening, had fathered a child? It didn’t seem likely, but Jem knew not how Will could defeat the war inside himself and marry comfortably, even knowing now that the curse he felt he was under was untrue. Jem knew how much pain welled up in Will when he saw Tessa and Jem together. Even knowing it was untrue, the curse still prevented Will from knowing and embracing love, as Jem and Tessa loved each other.

Jem hoped that Jace’s existence would prove to Will that he was capable of loving, and being loved in return. However, it seemed that Jace and Will were determined to be mortal enemies. Jem supposed that Jace felt some resentment towards his family and was determined to be as unhelpful and sarcastic as possible. Jem would have been inclined to believe that this sarcasm was Jace’s natural personality if it hadn’t been for his parabatai. Alec had, upon hearing the name William Herondale, turned positively murderous, as if he was prepared to rip Will’s throat out with his teeth. As the carriage continued down the cobblestones to the Lightwood family home, Jem simply thought.

Gideon, in the other carriage with the newcomers, was fascinated. After quickly realizing that their actions may have spoken of impropriety, Clary had slid off Jace’s lap but continued to rest her head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her's. They were so in love for their age, Gideon thought. Though he hadn’t asked, the New York Shadowhunters could not be much older than 17 or 18. Yet, they had clearly been together through difficult times. He would have to ask for their story later. Gideon loved love. He had been entranced by his parents’ love as a child, and the way they held a companionable silence between them. When he was young, he would sneak downstairs late at night to sit outside his parents’ bedroom door and listen to them talk about their days. He remembered his father’s laugh, his mother’s voice, and the way their conversations sounded like music. His father’s rich bass with his mother’s clear soprano. 

Gabriel and Tatiana never truly had that memory. Barbara had died before Tatiana was grown enough to understand what love was, and Gabriel had always viewed Barbara and Benedict as his parents, not as unique individuals with lives and loves of their own. Looking back, Gideon was unsure if the memories redeemed or damned his father. How could a man with such love in his life turn down such a dark and ugly path? But, contradicting that, how could his mother and father have shared anything less than a beautiful, if tainted, love?

Gideon thought of Alec in the other carriage. Alec had said his full name was Alexander Gideon Lightwood but he looked decidedly like a Herondale with his deep blue eyes and black hair. He wondered what Alec and Isabelle’s ancestry was. Why were they named after Sophie, assuming that Isabelle’s middle name was for the Institute’s maid, and himself? Gideon did not seek to disillusion himself. He was madly in love with Sophie Collins. She was simultaneously timid and outgoing. She had the courage of a Shadowhunter but was so determinedly mundane that it made Gideon question everything his father had ever taught him. Gideon wanted to spend every day with her, mundane or not. He wanted more than anything to see Sophie, dark hair shining, standing at an altar in a golden dress with black runes snaking down her arms, waiting for him. He knew he could settle for a white dress and a black suit and a life away from demons and Downworlders, but he wanted to fight monsters on London streets with Sophie next to him. He would wait until Mortmain and his clockwork creatures were firmly dead, but one day, Sophie Collins, should she say yes, would become Sophia Lightwood.

The carriage thundered down the cobblestone streets of London. Gabriel had spent the majority of his drive determinedly staring at the road in front of him. He tried to keep his mind focused on the task at hand, namely his father becoming a great worm. But try as he might, he could not fully shut out the images in his head. The Lightwood name, a legacy carried on by himself and his brother, led to the siblings currently sitting in the Institute’s carriage. Were they proud to be Lightwoods? Were they honored to carry the name? Did they know of his father and the evils he had done? He was only a child himself, though he postured and pretended he was more mature than he truly was, but seeing them brought about a nameless fear in his gut. These Lightwoods were related to himself somehow. He needed to restore honor to his family name. If not for himself, then for them.

As the carriage arrived at his Chiswick home, Gideon could tell something was wrong. The gardens looked as if someone, or something, had run through them. Large gaps in the hedges were visible, even from the road. Snapped branches and leaves decorated the once pristine lawn. 

Gabriel slowed the carriage to a stop and pulled the door open for those inside. Clary, her red hair burning, practically jumped out of the carriage, ignoring his outstretched hand. Jace, however, with a smirk that could rival Will’s, took Gabriel’s hand to help him out of the carriage. Gabriel was unsure how to react, though Gideon was clearly laughing behind him. Soon, both carriages had been emptied and a herd of Shadowhunters stood at the entrance to Lightwood Manor’s impressive gardens.

Henry cleared his throat, “I believe I am going to inspect the inside of the house, see if Benedict left any clues. If you’d like to join me, Isabelle or Clar-“

He was cut off by a sharp shake of Clary’s head. “Thank you, Mr. Branwell, but I’d much rather fight.”

“Likewise,” said Isabelle, with a laugh.

Jem bit back his own laugh. Henry should have expected as much. Both Clary and Isabelle had the faded silver scars of warriors. He imagined that they had both been involved in many fights in their own time. He would have to ask them their stories when they returned to the Institute.

“Tessa?” Henry inquired, looking hopeful.

“Where Jem goes, I go,” She said simply in reply. Now, Jem wasn’t laughing. He knew that Tessa was brave, but she was in a wedding dress and had only a small amount of training. Then again, Tessa was also stubborn, and asking her to stay behind would likely just result in her following them anyways.

Suddenly, a cry of despair came from over the hedges. Jace ran faster than humanly possible with Alec hot on his tails. The rest of the group followed, turning the corner to see a small girl with brown hair hunched over herself. She was wailing uncontrollably.

“Rupert, my Rupert!” She sobbed. Tatiana. The youngest Lightwood child, with her brown hair and green eyes, must have decided to pay a call to her father Of all the times, Jem thought. 

“A great monster,” she wept as she saw the group approach. “A creature—it seized darling Rupert from the carriage and made off with him!”

“What do you mean ‘made off with him?'” Will asked, a steadying arm on Tatiana’s shoulder. The poor girl looked about to pass out.

She pointed. “Th-there,” she sobbed. “It dragged him to the Italian gardens. He managed to elude its maw at first, but it harried him through the paths. No matter how much I screamed, it would not put him d-down!” She sobbed harder.

“You screamed? That’s it?” Jace asked, his tone rife with disbelief. He looked stunned as if he could not comprehend how a Shadowhunter could simply stand by and watch as their spouse was murdered by a demon.

“I screamed a great deal,” Tatiana pouted. Will and Jace shared a glance and tore off in the direction of the Italian gardens, their parabatai following quickly behind. The women were left to attend to Tatiana.

“You cannot be other than Will’s sister,” said Tatiana to Cecily as the boys vanished into the distance. “Are you a Herondale cousin?” She asked Isabelle. Cecily could not believe this woman. How could she be worried about family trees when her husband, her darling Rupert , as she had said, had been carried off by a giant worm?

“Something like that,” Isabelle muttered in reply to Tatiana’s question. “Are we following the boys or…?”

“We are,” Cecily responded, grateful to no longer be subject to Tatiana’s society questions. 

Tessa hitched up her skirts and began to follow Isabelle and Cecily.  As she glanced up, she saw the balcony overlooking the gardens. Memories came, unbidden. Memories of Benedict Lightwood’s demonic party, of wearing Jessamine’s face to dance with Nate, of Will’s mouth on hers, of her heart threatening to beat out of her chest. She was shaken from the memory by Clary’s voice, calling out in the night.

“Tessa!” She heard Clary yell. “You might want to see this.” 

Tessa turned to see Clary, kneeling on the ground with Tatiana crumpled into her side. Tatiana was sobbing into her skirts. With the hand that wasn’t wrapped around Tatiana, Clary pointed to the bottom of the hedge. Edging closer, Tessa saw a man’s boot. Tessa thought Rupert must be lying on the ground beneath the hedge, but as she approached, she realized that the boot, along with the few inches of ragged and bloody flesh inside it, was all that remained of Rupert Blackthorn.

“I wonder how many fish we could catch with this worm?” Jace mused aloud. Will fought to choke back a laugh. He had been about to make the same joke.

“Truly, this is not the time for jokes. This is Gabriel and Gideon’s father we’re discussing.” Jem replied though he seemed to be fighting back a laugh as well.

“We’re not just discussing him. We’re chasing him through an ornate sculpture garden because he’s turned into a worm .” Will replied, avoiding the Lightwood brothers’ eyes.

A scream cut through the night. The boys, Cecily, and Isabelle spun, weapons in hand, to see what had happened.

Tatiana Blackthorn was leaning into Clary’s side screaming. Tessa was behind them, slowly backing away from the looming hedge. A great wall of dirt erupted from the ground. The worm had appeared.

The worm itself was a deathly gray color, obviously blind, and reeked of death. Ribbons of flesh hung from its teeth. Cecily ran towards the beast, seraph blade burning.

“Cecily!” Will yelled, following his sister. He leaped towards her, knocking her aside, just as the worm’s maw descended. Her blade flew into the hedges.

“Will,” Cecily huffed, turning to him, “that was complete-“

“Stay here,” Will shouted, terror and fury warring in his mind. “You’re not trained. Just stay where you are.” At that moment the worm struck again, Will rolled to miss the giant teeth. Jem’s sword-cane plunged into the creature’s side, spraying black blood.  Out of the corner of his eye, Will could see Tessa, in her ruined golden dress, and Clary dragging Tatiana away from the giant beast. Tessa looked up and met Will’s eyes. The world seemed to stop. Despite the serpent ravaging the Italian gardens, all Will wanted to do was gather Tessa in his arms and hold her, to protect her until the danger passed. But that was Jem’s job. Jem was her fiancé. Not Will. He shook the thought from his mind, thinking that way would get them all killed.

“Go Tessa, get Tatiana away from here. She’s had no training. She’ll be killed.” Will yelled in the girls’ direction.

“Thank you, Will.” Jem sighed from his place next to Will. Guilt spread throughout Will’s body. Jem thought he was protecting Tessa for his sake, but Will’s only thought had been to spare her for his own selfishness.

Behind them, Alec and Jace had begun to tackle the beast. As the worm descended, Jace, faster than Will could see, pulled a seraph blade from his belt and swung upwards. The blade plunged through the underside of the worm’s jaw, ichor flowing freely.

The worm retaliated, swinging its great tail and catching both Jace and Will and lifting them off the ground. 

“Jace!” Yelled Alec, notching an arrow on his bow. He appeared to be waiting for the perfect moment to release it, intent on not accidentally catching his captive parabatai. Jem, at Alec’s side, appeared to be weighing the pros and cons of throwing his sword-cane.

Alec saw an opportunity and let the arrow fly. It embedded itself in the creature’s mouth, just below its jaw. Another arrow whistled through the air, striking the worm in the back of the head. Gabriel and Gideon were pounding through the grass, assured their sister was safe with Clary and Tessa.

Gabriel had another arrow notched in his bow and Will realized that Gabriel Lightwood had shot at his father in order to save Will’s life. Alec, he knew, felt no worry for Will, his arrow was for Jace, his parabatai. But Gabriel, a boy who had never viewed Will with anything but contempt, had shot at the creature who had once been his beloved father, for him.

The worm’s grip loosened and it slithered, faster than Will would have thought possible, behind a Greek temple at the other end of the garden.

“We have to follow it,” Alec said. His black hair was splattered with blood, but his blue eyes, so much like Will’s own, were shining. Either he loves demon-slaying or he’s proud of his shot, Will thought. Either was possible, he supposed.

“Isabelle! What are you doing?” Alec called across the garden. Will turned to see Isabelle and Cecily climbing the yew trees by the front hedges. It was hard to identify which girl was which, their twin black hair swinging in the moonlight.

“Cecily now is not the time for climbing trees.” Will spluttered.

Cecily turned towards Will as the worm burst out from behind the temple.

Tessa and Clary helped Tatiana back to the carriages. Tatiana appeared rather delusional from shock.

“You are dressed as a bride,” Tatiana said, turning to Tessa, “Is that not very odd? I am sure that gear would suit the task at hand better.” Clary rolled her eyes. As if Tessa had intentionally dressed in a wedding gown to fight a demonic worm.

A loud crash came from inside the house. Henry, Tessa thought. Henry was inside the house. Clary met Tessa’s eyes and a moment of wordless understanding passed between them. In a heartbeat, Clary took off running towards the house.

In a moment of politeness, Tessa turned to Tatiana. “Remain here Mrs. Blackthorn. I must discover the cause of that noise.”

“Do not leave me!” Tatiana wailed, wrapping her arms around herself.

“I am sorry, but I must. Please stay in the carriage.” Without another word, Tessa turned and dashed up the steps into the Lightwood house.

“Henry!” She heard Clary calling, “Henry, where are you?” Tessa followed her voice up the golden staircase. She felt her dress catch on something and plowed ahead. Looking down, she saw that the entire bottom hem of her dress had torn away, caught on a loose board.

Tessa remembered Isabelle Lightwood’s dress. The loose white fabric allowed for easy movement. While it may have been purchased primarily for its aesthetic value, Tessa did not doubt that Isabelle’s priority was an outfit's practicality in combat.

Tessa continued up the stairs, following Clary’s voice as she continued to call for Henry. She entered a room to the left of the stairs. It was clearly Benedict’s study. Books lined the walls; plush couches were arranged elegantly around a center table. The rest of the room was in disarray. The ornate mahogany desk had been overturned, and papers littered the floor.

Henry was crouched by the papers, scuffling through the pages looking for anything useful. Clary stood in front of a wall that seemed to be covered in mold. As Clary brought up a witchlight, the illumination allowed Tessa to see that the wall was actually dripping blackish blood.

Cecily turned towards Will as the worm burst out from behind the temple. Screaming, she held on to her tree. Glancing at Isabelle Lightwood in the next tree over, she pulled a blade from her belt. Will had sent her seraph blade flying into the hedge, so a runed blade would have to do. Isabelle nodded, her seraph blade alight in the dim lighting. Together, they dropped from their trees and dove their blades into the creature’s back. 

The worm reared its head, teeth swinging wildly to bite at the intruders. With the careful ease of practice, both girls rolled off the worm’s back. Its teeth tore through the space they had just sat upon. 

The worm’s head emerged; its teeth carrying its own flesh. Alec and Gabriel raised their bows and fired.  With a final cry, the worm died; its slimy body dissolving into dust as its essence returned to the demon realms.

Cecily turned to Isabelle with a smile. The black-eyed girl returned the smile and clapped Cecily on the back. Together, Cecily thought, that was how Shadowhunting worked. You work together. She wondered if she had seen a glimpse of how Will felt when he fought with Jem. Cecily looked away from Isabelle to see her brother tearing towards her.

“Cecily!” Will shouted, running his hands over her shoulders, checking for damage. “What were you thinking? You could have been killed!”

“But I was not, William. Oh, stop tha-“ Will had been applying an iratze to the side of his sister’s neck when he heard he heard coughing behind him. He recognized the sound of that cough anywhere. Turning, he saw Jem crouched on the ground. Alec had held onto Jem’s shoulders as he shook and was calmly wiping away the blood from Jem’s mouth. Will had never seen anyone care for Jem as Alec was doing, holding him close and comforting him as he coughed. Even Henry kept his distance during Jem’s episodes, not out of a lack of care, but out of fear he would be detrimental.

Will ran towards his parabatai, silently thanking Alec with every fiber of his being. Alec’s eyes met Will’s, the silent question What is happening? Is he alright? clear in his face. Dropping to his knees he ran his hands over Jem, making sure his parabatai was alive. Alec’s questions would have to wait another day.

Tessa, Clary, and Henry had made their way to the remains of the Greek temple, eyes hollow. Tessa saw that Gabriel had taken Cecily aside and was Marking her with iratzes to heal the wounds on her hands. Jace had run to Clary, desperately asking her if she was alright. The love and concern in his eyes were reflected in hers. Gideon was standing off to the side, looking unsure of his position. At his feet, Jem was crouched on the ground, two black-haired boys holding on to him as he coughed and blood soaked his clothes. Tessa’s world stopped. Jem, she thought.

Chapter Text

Tessa had been pacing the corridor outside of Jem’s room for hours. The Silent Brothers had remained closed into Jem’s bedroom overnight and no one, not even Charlotte, had been able to see him. Tessa’s heart hadn’t unclenched since she saw him crumpled in the Lightwood gardens, held closely in Alec and Will’s arms. How much of the yin fen remained? How much will he need to get through this episode? Will he get through this episode? Tessa’s mind had been tossing these questions around since the evening. Her only comfort was that the Silent Brothers had not yet announced his death.

“Um...Miss Gray?” came a soft female voice from down the hall. The absence of elongated vowels in her accent was almost comforting. It reminded Tessa of her aunt and of the life she led before she had known of the existence of the Shadow World.

It was Clary. Sophie had clearly gotten a hold of her. Her vibrant red hair, wild and unbound when they had first met, was now plaited and pinned in a bun to the back of her head. She wore an old green gown, clearly one of Charlotte’s based on the size. Tessa could tell Clary was unfamiliar with the length of the skirt as her feet caught the hemline with each step. Tessa was surprised she hadn’t heard her coming down the hallway, with how much noise she made. 

Clary continued, “Are you alright?” Concern was evident in her tone. She hadn’t known the Shadowhunters of the London Institute for more than a day, and yet, this unfamiliar girl showed a level of concern for Tessa that even her own brother hadn’t.

Tessa decided to repay the concern with honesty. She took a deep breath, “To be quite frank with you, Miss Fairchild, no. I am not alright. Jem is my fiance. I have always known that we will only have a short while together due to Jem’s…illness, but no matter how aware of that fact I am, I cannot bring myself to accept that today may be our last day. To accept that we may never be married.” Tears swam to the forefront of Tessa’s eyes. She looked up to see Clary’s wide green ones still brimming with concern, and now, sympathy.

“Would it be...” she paused, clearly unsure how to continue, “improper for me to ask about Jem’s illness?” Of course, she would ask. She was curious. That was to be expected. 

“I…feel…as if Jem should tell you himself,” Tessa said, the tears coming more freely now. “It is, after all, his story to tell.” Clary nodded and guided Tessa to the ground, her arm wrapped protectively around Tessa, cradling her as her mother once had. Tessa turned her head into Clary’s shoulder and sobbed.

Alec was wandering the halls of the London Institute. He couldn’t stand to be alone in his room. Gideon Lightwood had lent him some trousers and Sophie had dug up some old shirts and waistcoats of Will’s. Alec wasn’t sure how he felt about the attire. Despite the simple nature of the clothes, Alec felt gaudy in a way that even the sequined sweaters and glittered tank tops Magnus had given him had never made him feel. But thoughts of Magnus were exactly why Alec couldn’t be alone in his room.

He knew that Magnus was alive and well in the 1870s and that he was invariably still a powerful and influential warlock. But Alec also knew that Will Herondale had been an important part of Magnus’s life. Alec now understood why the immortals he had met compared him to Will; he’d have to be blind to miss the resemblance. But Alec wasn’t sure how much his relationship with Magnus had mirrored Will’s. Was Will simply a close friend? Had he been one of Magnus’s lovers?

Alec still felt so unsure of Magnus. He knew there was love, and a great deal of it, present between them. Alec still heard Magnus’s voice in Edom, ragged and sorrowful, saying, Oh Alexander, you’ve been so sad. I didn’t know. He could still see Magnus’s golden cat eyes ache for Alec. And he knew, himself, that he would share every last ounce of his strength, fight any demon, give anything he had, to keep Magnus safe.

But despite that love, there was so much uncertainty and fear. There was so much of Magnus Alec didn’t know. Years of life, travels, adventures, friends, and lovers. Alec had only caught glimpses of these. Sometimes he felt that Magnus was purposefully hiding them away, that he was purposefully closing himself off to Alec.

Alec was determined to understand just who Will Herondale was, and why he was so important to Magnus.

The distinct sound of metal hitting stone drew Alec from his thoughts. I must be near the training rooms, he thought to himself. Following the sound, Alec turned a corner. A great wooden door rose up in front of him. He cracked the door open and peered in. 

Inside was a spacious room with weapons lining the walls. Blades, arrows, even a mace were hung neatly, organized by size. Along the far wall, a few targets had been painted on wooden backboards. Will Herondale was throwing daggers fast and hard. Alec could tell that Will was typically a fantastic throw; his technique was perfect. But despite his flawless technique, his aim was off. He was hitting the stone wall below the targets, however, with incredible force. Alec assumed that he was more interested in the force behind the throw and not really the accuracy. His muscle memory didn’t allow him to butcher the throw, but his mind wouldn’t focus on the target.

Alec was reminded of Jace, who would, after erecting the sarcasm equivalent of the Great Wall of China, retire to the training room to destroy everything in sight, including himself. Alec had found him there too many times to count, covered in bruises and stubbornly insisting that he needed to train more. 

It was his memories of a young Jace, afraid and unwilling to show it, that coaxed him into the room. He quietly retrieved a bow on the wall behind Will and found a quiver of arrows hung on a peg near the daggers. He raised the bow and fired. His arrow arced through the air, narrowly missing Will, and landed squarely in the center of the target.

Will spun around, eyes alight with anger. “What are you playing at, Lightwood? You almost hit me!”

Alec simply raised the bow. “Fancy a challenge?” He asked. Will raised his eyebrows. The anger in his eyes had faded, replaced by determination. The only way to get Jace to end his self-flagellation was to convince him he had done enough. Alec had rightly guessed that Will’s response may be similar. Alec wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“Rules of the challenge,” Alec explained, “We each get 10 shots. Most bullseyes wins.”

“And what, exactly, do we win?” prompted Will.

“Well, I’m no expert on London, but I was thinking the loser could buy a drink for the winner at a local pub,” Alec suggested. Liquor, Alec had found, was usually a tempting enough offer for brooding young men.

Will nodded and walked to the target, picking up his fallen knives as he went. When he had retrieved ten, he came to stand by Alec.

“You first,” said Alec. He was confident in himself. He could only hope that Will was as good as his technique appeared. 

Will smiled and picked up his first knife; he squared up to the target and threw. This time, his aim was perfect. The knife sailed through the air and hit home. Will turned to Alec, those uncomfortably familiar blue eyes glinting, “Your turn,” he smirked.

Alec raised his bow, faced the target, and fired. His arrow, like Will’s knife, was true. Will’s smirk dropped, his mouth now set in a line of grim determination.

They continued like this. Will would growl, throw his knife, and hit the target. Alec responded with a casual release of an arrow. Neither missed a shot.

As Alec’s last arrow found its way to the center of the target, Will turned to him. “You Lightwoods are surprisingly talented with arrows for a family of worms.” Alec simply shrugged; he knew there was no true malice behind the words. Will was simply maintaining appearances.

“Since neither of us truly won, how about we buy each other a drink?” Alec suggested, “You pick the pub.”

“But Jem--” Will began.

Alec cut him off. “The Silent Brothers just left. I heard Charlotte wishing them well as I came up. They said that Jem is sleeping and likely will be for a little while as his body recovers. We won’t be out that long, I’m sure.” Alec let every ounce of his brotherly reassurance fill his voice. He intentionally gestured widely with his hands, baring his forearm where his own parabatai rune shone black and proud.

Alec knew that Will’s wall had come down, just as Jace’s always did, when he smiled. A genuine, if somewhat begrudging, smile, lit up his face. Blue eyes that had previously been dark and stormy were now radiant like a sunny spring day. Alec wondered if his own eyes were capable of such dramatic shifts. Even Will’s voice, once gruff and clipped, now sang with his musical accent. “I know a fantastic Downworlder pub, not too far from here.” He said as he walked out of the room with Alec on his heels.

Jace sat alone on the Institute’s roof, watching as the bone carriage of the Silent Brothers passed through the Institute’s gates. Alec would say Jace was brooding. Jace would argue that he was thinking, darkly. Jace had seen Will head to the training room, had heard the familiar clang of metal on stone, and had known that Will, like Jace, was filled with emotions he didn’t know how to process. As a child, whenever Jace had felt scared, frustrated, or inadequate, his father --  no, Valentine, his mind reminded him -- would send him off to train until his hair dripped sweat and his palms were cut open with blisters. It was a habit that had stayed with him. It was a habit Will apparently shared.

He didn’t know how to feel about that. Jace guessed it came down to the classic nature versus nurture debate. What was inherent in his bones, passed down from one Herondale to the next, and what had Valentine beaten into him. Clary would say Jace’s life had been one bad episode of Maury, a Mundane television show she made him watch one afternoon at Luke’s. In some ways, she was right. His life had been an endless string of “you are not the father.” 

First, he had believed Valentine was Michael Wayland. Growing up with the Lightwoods, Jace assumed his father must have changed dramatically after The Uprising. Robert’s stories of the Academy and Michael were unfamiliar to the man Jace knew. Looking back, Jace wondered how he had ever been so stupid. The Michael of Robert’s memory had been driven and determined in the same way Jace knew but had an unapologetic joy Jace had never seen his “father” express. But Jace had known that Michael and Robert had a falling out and had attributed Robert’s stories to an idealized and long-gone version of his father, filled with boyhood silliness that he grew out of. 

Then, he had discovered that the man who raised him was Valentine Morgenstern himself. Setting aside the obvious “the girl you love is your sister” dilemma, Jace found himself struggling with the opposite problem he had when his father was Michael Wayland. The stories of a cold and cruel man with no emotion save ambition did not account for spaghetti baths. They didn’t account for a father who, despite his militaristic outlook on training and Shadowhunting, clearly cared about creating moments of happiness. 

Jace wondered if he’d ever stop holding on to a small piece of love for the man. His childhood was clearly abusive and had destroyed his concepts of safety, responsibility, and love, but that abuser did show him care and tenderness. He had been an experiment, a soldier, and a precious child all at once. 

And finally, Jace had learned the truth. That he was the son of Stephen Herondale, in some ways an even more contradictory figure than Valentine. Valentine was a zealot: fully convinced of his righteousness and the path he had taken to achieve glory. He had stood in front of the Angel with an unwavering belief in his own madness. And when the Angel struck him down, he was shocked that he had been wrong. 

Stephen, on the other hand, was full of doubts and regrets. He doubted Valentine, doubted himself for his belief in him, and he grew to doubt the Circle. He had divorced Amatis on Valentine’s provocation but had never stopped loving her. He had married Céline and even had a child with her, but he never held her in true love or romantic care. She was a means to an end, and one Stephen had regretted from the day it happened. Jace resented his father for choosing to have a child with a woman he had no love for. If they hadn’t died, if Jace had been raised by his biological parents, what would his childhood have been? Would Stephen have left his mother to return to Amatis after the Circle’s collapse? Would Céline teach him, just as Valentine had, that love is destruction and ruin, as her love had destroyed both Stephen and herself? 

But Jace also knew Imogen Herondale. Strong, stubborn-willed, and full of passion. And through her, and his father’s letters, Jace saw Stephen’s passion too. He had heard his grandfather had died with shock upon hearing of Stephens’s death and had known Imogen, full of grief, to devote herself to their memory through enforcing the Law so that no one else could be drawn into despair as her son had.

He had taken the name Herondale because he couldn’t bear to see an old family name lost for no reason. He had taken the name as a promise to himself to learn more about who he was and who his ancestors were, in an attempt to create the “real” Jace. And yet, here was a Herondale ancestor, and Jace couldn’t recognize the Herondale spirit he knew in him.

Will gave off the impression that he couldn’t be bothered to care about anything. That his indifference was bone-deep. He fought demons because it was his job, not because he harbored any belief in protecting the world or the Mundanes in it.

Jace didn’t know how to feel about Will. He respected the man for his Shadowhunting ability and knew Will would be the kind of man with whom Jace could become friends, if only for their shared sarcasm and wit. But he couldn’t see himself being proud to be related to him, apathetic as he was about anything but Jem. His parabatai was another contradictory thing about Will. He loved Jem deeply and emotions Jace didn’t think Will had bubbled to the surface around Jem: love, concern, grief, guilt, desperation. Will, around Jem, seemed to be a full human, full of life and the Herondale passion. 

Jace ached for an outlet for his thoughts. He ached for a piano, a place he could express his confliction in music and allow himself to relax. He longed for Clary, for the woman he loved more than life itself. Clary always understood his pain and knew exactly what Jace needed. Sadly, both these releases were locked inside the Institute.

He had seen Clary head to the wing where the Silent Brothers were working on Jem. She had said she wanted to see Tessa. Now that the Brothers were gone, he wasn’t sure where Clary was. Alec had gone off to wander the halls and, if the clear whistle of an arrow coming from the chimney was any clue, had found Will in the training room. Isabelle had gone off in search of Charlotte. And Jace? Jace was alone with his thoughts on a roof. 

Alec was right. He was brooding.

Isabelle had set off in pursuit of Charlotte. She knew of Charlotte and her legacy. She was a groundbreaker, the first woman Consul, and a damn good one at that. Isabelle wanted to learn more about her and learn what made her such a great leader. Isabelle hadn’t had many good female role models in her life, save her mother. Isabelle had learned that her femininity was both a blessing and a curse. She could remember her mother’s warning, They will underestimate you because you are a woman. Don’t let them make that mistake twice. 

As she came toward the library, she heard Charlotte’s soft voice deep in conversation with Gabriel Lightwood. 

“I don’t know!” Gabriel Lightwood sounded desperate, “I don’t know what his plans are—what they were!”

Charlotte was quiet as she responded. “Then why did you go along with them?”

Gabriel exploded, “Because he was my father! ” He twisted inwards, wrapping his arms around himself as if his grip was the only thing holding him together. The grief was so apparent on his face, Isabelle could almost hear the thoughts running through his head. Who is still with me? Who do I have to turn to? What will I be without my father?

“If you are going to throw me out,” Gabriel began, soft and desperate, “then do it now. I do not want to think I have got a home when I have not. I do not want to think I am going to see my brother again if I am not going to.” Isabelle’s heart broke for him. She couldn’t imagine where she’d be without Alec. She had already lost one brother, and still blamed herself for his death, she would not lose another.

Charlotte looked devastated, “You think he would not go after you? Find you wherever you were?”

“I think he has proved who he cares for most,” said Gabriel, “and it is not me.” Oh Gabriel, Isabelle thought, he could never care for anything more than you. She had seen the love Gideon had for his brother, etched across his face in the drawing-room just a day ago. She had seen his concern in the carriage en route to the Lightwood house. Gideon loved Gabriel, that, she was certain of.

He slowly straightened, realizing his curled stance showed his vulnerability. “Send me away or let me stay. I will not beg you.

Charlotte sighed. “You will not have to,” she said. “Never before have I sent away anyone who told me they had nowhere else to go, and I will not start now. I will ask of you only one thing. To allow someone to live in the Institute, in the very heart of the Enclave, is to place my trust in their good intentions. Do not make me regret that I have trusted you, Gabriel Lightwood.” Charlotte turned and, in the light, Izzy saw Charlotte’s face, a mask of worry. Charlotte Branwell was a true leader. She scolded and chastised those she led, but kept in regard their feelings.

Gabriel remained in the library, staring after Charlotte. His arms had once again wrapped around himself. Izzy could see the slight shake of his shoulders and the wobble of his lips. He let out a shaky breath. Izzy decided that she no longer could stand in the shadows and lurk. She slowly walked toward Gabriel, as one may slowly approach a scared animal, making sure he was able to see and hear her. 

His green eyes were full of tears, fighting to escape. He drew in another shaky breath, “Isabelle -- I-- you do not need to--” Izzy cut him off, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him to the ground to sit. Gabriel clutched at the sleeves of her dress as if to both push her away and pull her closer to him. It felt awkward and disjointed. Isabelle did not have much experience with men who were upfront with their emotions; both Jace and Alec tended to be the strong, stoic types who retired to training rooms to cope with their emotions. The last person she had held, full of love and comfort, in her arms, had been Max. 

Memories washed over Isabelle, drawing her back to her brother’s room. Max had often been scared when Maryse and Robert left to fight. When her parents were out of the house on missions, Isabelle had taken it upon herself to sit with her baby brother until he fell asleep. She’d often read him stories of courageous warriors and their fantastic adventures. The ones where the heroes always come home at the end. But Max would never be like the heroes of the stories. He would never join his siblings in battle, would never slay his first demon, would never come marching home under saffron banners, would never be anything anymore.

Gabriel felt Isabelle’s tears, hot and wet, in his hair. He pulled back from where he had been crying just a moment ago to see her wiping her own eyes with the back of her runed hands. She met his gaze. “I’m sorry,” she smiled weakly, “you spoke of your love for your brother. I was just thinking about my brother, Max, and how I used to hold him like this.”

Gabriel nodded and returned the weak smile. “He must be very lucky to have a sister like you,” he said, and he meant it. 

Isabelle looked away. Her smile had faded from her face, replaced by a look of bitter disappointment. “No,” she said, her voice flat and distant, “he wasn’t lucky to have me at all.”

Gabriel noted the use of the past in Isabelle’s statement and the pain etched into her face. She had lost her brother. And she blamed herself. Gabriel could empathize.

He did not respond but simply hugged her, returning the gesture from before. Now, it was Isabelle’s turn to cry into his shoulder. “He’s gone,” she sobbed, “he’s gone and I wasn’t there to save him. He was-- he was just a baby.”

Gabriel had always worried about parenthood. While he loved Benedict, his father’s stern temperament and harsh reproach had not made his childhood a comfortable one. But here, holding Isabelle Lightwood as she cried and murmuring words of comfort, he wondered if maybe he would be better at it than he thought.

Tessa was in the drawing-room. She had been searching the Institute looking for Will for at least fifteen minutes. Jem had requested to see him. Of course, Tessa thought, of course, Jem will ask for Will. They’re parabatai. Will must be worried sick.

Sophie, who had been fluffing a pillow sat on one of the Institute’s chairs, turned to her. “I believe he left with Master Lightwood a few moments ago. The new Master Lightwood, I mean, not Gabriel or Gideon.”

“Oh,” said Tessa, willing herself to remain calm. “Well. If he returns, can you tell him that Jem has requested his company?” It was so unlike Will to leave when Jem was having one of his episodes. Why did he leave now? Tessa knew that the Silent Brothers had left Jem sleeping, but she had assumed Will would be pacing, just as she had been, and waiting for news.

“Oh Tessa, do not overthink Master Will’s decisions. Today has been a…trying day.” Sophie said gently, coming to stand by Tessa. 

“Yes, well, if you see him, Sophie,” Tessa said, not meeting Sophie’s gaze. She turned to head up the staircase, back to her rooms, when she saw the golden flash of Jace Herondale’s hair out of the corner of her eye.

“See who?” He inquired. In the light, Tessa saw that his hair was not the only golden thing about him, though it glistened like the clockwork angel ticking away on her neck. His skin appeared to glow from the inside out as if there was a sun blazing inside him. Even his eyes were gold, a beautiful and rich color. He seemed so alive, so in contrast with her silver Jem.

“Will,” Tessa responded, “I believe he and your parabatai have disappeared to a pub. If you happen to see either of them, please let Will know Jem would like to speak with him.”

The boy who had just a day before seemed to have a quick witty response to any statement simply nodded. He seemed conflicted about something.

“Would it—would it be possible for me to see Jem?” He asked quietly.

Tessa thought for a moment before saying “I think Jem would welcome any Herondale. Come with me.” With that, she headed back up the stairs, past a music room where Jace had spied the gorgeous dark-wood piano. The walk was quiet, neither truly knowing what to say. Eventually, they turned a corner and Tessa led Jace to a door, “He’s…sick…please remember that.” She paused, as if deciding what else to say, and then turned and left.

Jace pushed open the door into Jem’s room.

“Will?” Jem called, followed by a cough, a wet choking sound.

“Um. No. It’s Jace. Will went out with Alec, apparently.” Jace felt awkward. Why had he done this? He didn’t know Jem at all, save their worm-hunting expedition the day prior. Why would Jem want to see Jace instead of his parabatai or his fiance?

Surprisingly, Jem just hummed, “Come inside would you?” Jace fully stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

Jace had always lived in military conformance: his bed made with crisp sheets, his clothes evenly hung, and his belongings stored away. But Jem’s room was homey, with soft blankets and pillows strewn about the space, as pale sunlight crept through the windows. On the nightstand, however, a small dish filled with blood-soaked rags destroyed the comfortable atmosphere in the room.

“You’re infected with demon poisons aren’t you?” Jace asked, wincing at his own bluntness. Subtlety had never been Jace’s strong point, but he thought he had more tact than that. Jem, however, didn’t even flinch. He simply took a deep breath.

“You’re perceptive, but yes. I was born in the Shanghai Institute, where a demon named Yanluo terrorized the city. My parents, and the rest of the Shanghai Enclave, did their best to keep out the monster and destroy his children. But it was not enough. When I was twelve, Yanluo attacked the Institute. He drew my parents and myself out of the Institute and abducted us. He decided that in revenge for killing his children, my parents would be forced to watch me suffer and die.”

He paused, gauging Jace’s reaction. After a moment, he continued, though his voice was now softer and seemed far away,  “He tortured me by injecting a demon poison yin fen into my veins. I became delirious and faded in and out of consciousness. At first, when I woke from the delusions, I heard my mother calling for me, Jian, Jian. As time passed, her voice grew weaker, though she still called for me. By the time the Shanghai Enclave came to investigate, my parents were dead and I was addicted. My body relies on the poisons to survive, yet it slowly kills me.” Jem looked to Jace as if waiting for derision.

Jace chose his next words carefully, “Clary’s brother was...infected…with demon poisons too.” Jem’s eyes widened and he sat forward in his bed. “But he wasn’t like you. He saw the demon who had poisoned him as his mother and was determined to turn the world over to demons. I guess, now that I’ve met you, I wonder how much of Sebastian’s evil was the demon poison and how much was the twisted view of reality he had grown up with.”

“I cannot speak for Clarissa’s brother, but only for myself. I fight against that which is demonic in me every day.” Despite his weakened appearance, his voice was strong and clear. It carried in the small room. “I strive to be the best Shadowhunter I can be, for Will, for myself, for Tessa. She drives me to be as alive as I can—to burn as brightly for her as I am capable of. It drives me and destroys me.”

“Because to be the best Shadowhunter, you have to take more of the drug…”Jace murmured. Jem nodded.

“I have begun taking twice, perhaps three times, as much. There is more to living than not dying ,” his silver eyes were burning, blazing through Jace as the Heavenly Fire once had, “I am not going to live. It is my choice to be as alive as I can for Tessa, to give her a man who is truly alive, if for a shorter time.” Jem was sitting straight up in his bed, his cheeks flushed, the portrait of a man who was truly living.

“But your parabatai ? But Will? You can’t…it would destroy him.” Jace remembered Alec’s words after finding out that Valentine had stabbed Jace. The pain was almost unbearable. I knew something had happened to you, my best friend, my brother, my parabatai. I could feel you ripped from me. A hole that would never fill.

Jem looked at his hands, folded in front of him. “Will has always known that my life would be short. I tried to tell him not to become my parabatai but he refused to listen,” Jem smiled at the memory, obviously a happy one of a simpler time. “Will is my greatest regret. I regret not being able to be the warrior I should be for him. I regret not being able to hold my own, for his sake. But I do not regret being his parabatai . Will more than anyone, save Tessa, has made my short existence one of great joy and belonging and I will not apologize for that selfishness.”

“It’s not selfish,” Jace said, shaking his head. “I don’t know who or what I’d be without Alec. He’s been by my side every day since our bonding. He keeps my head high when I doubt myself. He loves me even when I don’t deserve it.” His voice turned wistful, “I may be a better fighter, but Alec is by far a better man.” 

“You are so like Wil, you know.” Jem chuckled: a laugh that turned into a cough. He clutched at a rag on the table and held it to his mouth. It came away with blood. But Jem paid it no mind, “You really are alike. You both have a fierce desire to hold on to those you love, hidden under those layers of sharp wit and biting insults. Will had his reasons, so what are yours?”

“I don’t kn--” Jace started, unsure of the direction the conversation had taken. He had come to Jem’s room partly to see that he was still alive and partly to satisfy his curiosity. 

Jem held up a hand, “I’ve learned over the years that wit that cruelty is not innate, it is learned; it is a façade.”

And a façade it truly is. Jace thought. Jem had been open with him, he deserved Jace’s honesty. He could start with the falcon story; that was an easy, and short, way to explain the years of abuse he had suffered at the hands of the man who had raised him.

Just as the words were coming to him, a stabbing pain ran through Jace’s chest, like the air had been sucked out of the room. His heart felt like it was pulling in every direction, fighting to escape its cage. It was all Jace could do to drop to his knees, pull a sharp breath in, and croak, “ Alec. ”