Chapter Text
When Alec hears the familiar whistle of an arrow, the resulting scream from his sister, a shout from his parabatai, he knows it's over. White-hot pain flashes through him as the arrow embeds itself in his wing, and he cries out.
One wing beats furiously in an attempt to hold him in the air, where they're all suspended, fifty stories up, locked in a fight with ex-Circle members, but he's falling. Fast. Too fast. He knows he won't survive the fall. Above him, Jace dives down after him, wings tight to his sides, one arm reaching out, but Alec knows. He's much heavier than Jace. His wings are longer than Jace's, and he's taller. He'd drag Jace to the ground too.
And he's falling too fast. Jace won't even reach him.
"Stop!" Alec shouts. "You can't!"
Jace shakes his head, just as Alec sees the streets of New York fall into clarity below him. Jace pulls up, wings spreading wide just as the last moment, and Alec hits the concrete with a crack.
For a moment, he's paralysed, unable to move, in more pain that he could possibly have imagined. He feels like every bone in his body is shattered. And his wings... His wings have crumpled underneath him, feathers sticky with blood. His vision is blurry, black spots swimming in front of him, ears ringing. He can't hear the traffic whizzing by next to him, or the loud hubbub of people going about their daily lives that is always present in New York.
He doesn't even know if his glamour rune is still in tact, or whether it has been slashed through. He doesn't want his death to be a mess that the other Shadowhunters will have to clear up. He's failed already. Failed in his mission to stop those Circle members.
The instructions from the Clave had been to kill them. Alec told his team to capture them, and only kill them if absolutely necessary. And now he's dead. Or, at least, he will be, in moments.
A shadow falls over him. Alec manages to turn his head just slightly in an attempt to see where he is, and who the shadow belongs to. It can't be Jace or Isabelle. They'd never have left the rest of the team unguarded when they know Alec will be dead. They wouldn't be that stupid.
Someone bends over him, crouching but not quite kneeling. His vision is still swimming, AndHe can't focus on whoever is beside him. But he can feel them. He can feel their presence. Radiating calm, and power. So much power. Dark power. Not the angelic power the Nephilim run on.
If Alec isn't already dying, he will be dead in the next minute.
There's movement, and a swirl of blue light, and everything goes dark.
***
Alec wakes.
Everything hurts. It hurts so much. His back, his head, his right shoulder, and his wings... Alec doubts he'll ever be able to fly again.
How is he alive? He should be dead. From the fall. From landing near someone with that kind of dark power. From the poison in that arrow that pierced his wing.
But he's not.
He tries to open his eyes, but finds them too heavy. He inhales, and immediately winces. Ribs. His ribs ache. As though they've been broken, but are...healing? How can he be healing? Did his team manage to fight off the Circle members? Did they finish the mission, and come back for him? Was he still alive? Did they get him away from whoever he'd landed near, and perform some miracle to save him?
With a great effort, he manages to wrench his eyes open. He blinks rapidly, eyes moving around. He's lying in a bed, in a darkened room. The curtains are closed, the door shut. The mattress beneath him is soft, cradling his injured body, and the sheets pulled up to his waist are both soft and warm.
He glances down at himself. His ribs are mottled with fading bruises, his shoulder wrapped in gauze, scratches all across his torso—but they, like the bruises, are fading.
He turns his head sideway, carefully, and lets out a moan of pain. His wings are spread out on either side of him, the bed clearly designed deliberately to be able to accommodate wings. So he must be somewhere in Nephilim care. Or with the Silent Brothers, perhaps. Where else would have a bed like this?
It's a miracle he's alive. He should be dead, he knows. He has to thank whoever saved him. But he's in too much pain to move, and everything feels sluggish. Probably because of the poison in the arrow. Even if it's been worked out of his bloodstream, it will take time for his body to recover from its paralysing effects.
The door opens. Alec tenses, which makes his body throb.
A man steps through, and Alec curls his fingers into his palms, terror pulsing through him. Because the man isn't a man. He's a warlock. A demon. The same person he felt crouching over him when he fell.
Why is he here? What has the warlock done to him?
"Well well, little angel. You're awake." The warlock scans over him with a critical eye. "Hm. Those bruises should have faded by now."
The warlock steps closer, twirling a hand to turn on a light. As soon as Alec can see him clearly, he feels even more frightened. The warlock looks dangerous. Dark hair styled high, red shirt open at the front with necklaces down to where a belly button should be - but isn't - extensive numbers of rings on his fingers, and black eye make-up lining gold-green cat eyes.
He radiates power. Everything about him whispers - whispers, because he looks too formidable to need to shout - that he could destroy the entire city with a mere flick of his hand, all without having one hair moved out of place.
The warlock lifts a hand, blue swirls of magic drifting from his fingertips, and hovers his hand over Alec's torso. Alec flinches back, eyes going wide, wings curling protectively towards himself. Pain flashes through them as he lifts them off the bed, and he grits his teeth in pain.
Lowering his hand, the warlock frowns. "I might be powerful, but I can't heal you from that kind of fall and such potent poison and have you ready to fly back out into the sky in a matter of hours. You need to relax. You'll hurt yourself."
He lifts his hand again, and then brings the other up to join it. Alec is breathing heavily, eyes wide, fixed on the warlock's glowing hands. He doesn't understand. Is the warlock trying to lull him into a false sense of security? Relax him before he kills him? What's he doing?
"No," he manages to get out through gritted teeth, pushing himself away from the warlock. He cries out in pain, every part of his body protesting.
The warlock's frown deepens. He doesn't lower his hands, but the magic disappears.
"I'm not going to hurt you, little angel. I'm trying to heal you. But you need to lie still, or you'll hurt yourself more."
Alec's chest rises and falls quickly, sweat beading across his skin. "Don't touch me."
The warlock looks almost...upset? Why on earth does he look upset? He's trying to kill Alec—and lying about it. Does he think Alec is stupid? He's a warlock. A demon. And Alec is one of the Nephilim. Warlocks loathe the Nephilim. Warlocks are evil. Demonic. Insane. Power-hungry beings conceived with Hell's fires, nothing in them but lust and chaos and destruction.
"You will die, Nephilim," the warlock says, shaking his head a little.
At least he's being honest, now.
"If you don't let me heal you, you will die. You fell from the clouds onto my doorstep, and your body is mortal. The arrow in your wing was poisoned, and the poison is still in your bloodstream. That's why you're not healing as you should be."
Alec stares at him. The warlock wants to heal him? But why? Why does he care? What's he going to do once he's healed and healthy? Kill him then? Play with him, like a cat would a mouse? Throw him back to his people with a threat? Force a favour from him? Force him to become a spy?
"My body is not mortal," he says finally, as indignantly as he can manage in his current predicament. "I am a Nephilim. I have the blood of angels."
The warlock looks at him steadily. "And mundanes. You are human. You may be stronger than the average mundane, but you are not infallible. And you will die if you don't let me help you."
"You're a warlock. Why should I trust you?"
The warlock's eyes flash. "There was a time," he says, "when the Angel's Children worked with my people, not against them. Building the Accords. Building alliances. We offered you our magic, and you offered us your angelic strength and protection when we could not finish a job on our own."
"I would never let a warlock take my strength," Alec chokes out.
He shakes his head, expression softening in...sympathy? Alec doesn't want this warlock's sympathy. He wants to get out. He wants to escape. He wants to be somewhere he's safe. Because Angel knows he's not safe here.
"And I would never let you die when you crashed on my doorstep. Even if you do hate me." He smiles wryly. "Does that give me the moral high ground? I rather thought that was what the Nephilim liked to be on."
Alec's vision swims before he can respond, and he moans, head falling back onto the soft pillows. His eyes slip closed as pain flits through him, sharp and hot and absolutely everywhere. In his shoulder, down his spine, shooting down the backs of his legs, all along his wings, in his head, behind his eyes...
"It's alright, little angel," the warlock murmurs. Alec hears a snap, sees blue flashing behind his eyelids, and feels heat on his torso. "Relax. It's alright. I won't hurt you. You're going to be okay."
Alec slits his eyes, looking up at the warlock as best he can. The warlock's brown is furrowed in clear concentration, hands moving up and down the length of Alec's body, magic bleeding from his hands towards Alec.
The warlock flicks his fingers, and a swirl of blue drifts along both of Alec's wings, gliding along his feathers to the tips. Alec gasps, and jolts on the bed at the momentary pain, which is followed by a strange tingling sensation.
"Easy," the warlock says, voice soothing. "Easy. It's alright. I'm not going to cut off your wings and do heinous things with them. But they're going to fall off if I don't heal them, because you haven't got enough blood flow going to them, and you won't ever be able to fly if I don't mend the bones now, because they'll reset in the wrong position. Okay? I will not hurt you."
"I don't understand," Alec whispers, pressing himself back into the mattress, heart thudding in fear. "Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?"
The warlock smiles. And...he doesn't look like a demon, when he smiles. He'd almost look like an ordinary person, but for the cat eyes. He almost looks...beautiful.
Alec snaps out of it. He's a demon. He's not beautiful. On any other day, Alec would have shot an arrow through his heart by now.
"Because you crashed onto my doorstep," the warlock says, "broken and mangled and bleeding and helpless. And why? Because you were trying to stop those who wish to destroy the world and recreate it into a mass place of misery and destruction. Because despite who they were, you were merciful. Because–" His smile gets smaller, and softer, and suddenly, Alec is less afraid. "–I would like to see more of the Nephilim behave as you did. And perhaps, you will realise that there is a difference between a Downworlder and a demon."
Alec swallows. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to think. He doesn't even know this warlock's name. But the warlock saw the fight in the sky. Or he found out what happened. He knows what Alec did. And he...appreciates it?
"Who are you?" Alec asks, struggling to keep him in focus.
"I'm Magnus Bane, Nephilim." His fingers glow blue again, and Alec feels himself growing more sluggish. The warlock - Magnus - is putting him to sleep, Alec realises. Because it's going to hurt when he's healed? Because Magnus needs him to be still and silent when he works?
Magnus Bane.
Alec knows who Magnus Bane is. Of course he does. Magnus is notorious. Notorious for being the son of Asmodeus. A Prince of Hell.
"But you're..." Alec battles against the blackness. "You're a demon. You're the son of Asmodeus. You're not supposed to- to help."
"I am not everything your people tell you I am," Magnus says.
"What are you going to do to me?"
"Heal you." Magnus' hands are shrouded in blue. He lowers one, and places his palm atop Alec's hair. "Close your eyes, little angel. Let me help you."
Alec closes his eyes, unable to fight against the dark any longer. He feels warm, suddenly, the hand disappearing from his hair. There's light, beyond his eyelids, and that strange tingling sensation is beginning to reach other parts of his body.
"Let go," Magnus whispers. "Sleep. When you wake, you will be okay. You will live. You're safe, little angel."
And Alec lets go.