( 003 ) fearless // video // both courts. ( forward-dated to scrying stone event / july 15th )

[artem]

There is a sharp pain in your cheek, and the feeling of warm blood as it begins to trickle down your face, down the side of your neck. You know that the sword he holds, the sword which by right should never have found its way into his possession but still managed to wind up in his hands, is against your skin. It is cutting into you, and it hurts, and you know it is in an effort to gain your attention - to gain your vision landing upon him.

"I'm going to raise the Angel now," says a voice, deep and masculine, strong, and dark. "And I want you to watch as it happens."

There is bitterness in your mouth, a taste that spreads over your tongue not from any food source, but from emotions. In your mind, thoughts brew. You cannot speak; he has made sure of that. He has placed upon you a mark whose power forbids you from forming words. But your mind refuses the quiet. "I know why you're so obsessed with my mother. Because she was the one thing you thought you had total control over tat ever turned around and bit you. You thought you owned her and you didn't. That's why you want her here, right now, to witness you winning. That's why you'll make do with me."

The pain in your cheek sharpens. "Look at me, Clary."

The only feelings you have toward the man looking at you in his harshness, in his cruelty, are hateful. Angry. You are furious. You are terrified. All around you, darkness. But the pain is too much for you to bear, so you turn your face toward him, a rapidly jerked movement, and you look, even as you can see your own blood spattering fat, dark splotches onto the sand upon which you are placed. A nauseous pain grips you, twists your stomach, but you raise your face to look at him; your eyes find him. Your father.

He gazes at the blade of the sword, a sword whose name you know to be Maellartech, a sword you know is an instrument of Heaven itself, bequeathed to the Nephilim to aid in their fight against the darkness and evil that seeps into your world. But he has it, in his hand, and he looks at it just as you look at it - stained with your blood. He looks back at you, finally, and his expression chills you. There is a strange light to his eyes, a spark, that cannot possibly lead to anything good.

"Blood is needed to complete this ceremony," he explains, "I intended to use my own, but when I saw you in the lake, I knew it was Raziel's way of telling me to use my daughter's instead. It's why I cleared your blood of the lake's taint. You are purified now - purified and ready. So thank you, Clarissa, for the use of your blood."

In some way, you think, he must mean it - the gratitude must be genuine. You know that he is too much of a monster to know the difference between force and cooperation or love and torture. You realize all of this, and for a moment, you find it strange to hate this man for being a monster when he doesn't realize just how much of a monster he is. "And now," he says, "I just need a bit more," and you think - "A bit more what?", just as he swings the sword back. Starlight glints off of it like a million fireworks exploding, and your mind finally makes the connection. "Of course. It's not just blood he wants, but death."

You are facing your death. You are going to die. You are resigned to this, so much that your thoughts are relatively calm. Your eyes stay focused on Maellartech, the black light of the sword, as it slices through the air toward you --

You are startled. The sword does not connect with its intended victim. It goes flying, out of his hand and into the darkness. Your eyes do not go to him, but toward the source of your salvation. Relief floods you, as does surprise. Jace stands before you both, having disarmed the older man, and you see that by his expression, he had no better heard Jace approach than you. Your heart clenches in your chest at the sight of him, not just because of who he is and what he means to you - the all-consuming emotions you associate him with - but because of how tattered he looks. There is dried blood on the side of his face, and there is a very angry looking red mark on his throat. His eyes gleam with something you cannot quite place, something you can't quite put your finger on, but in the glow of the witchlight, they look almost black. He speaks, and he speaks to you. "Clary," he says, though his gaze is locked on your father's, "Clary, are you all right?"

You part your lips to say his name, and your mind cries "Jace!", but the rune to silence you holds fast and you feel you are choking. The words do not, will not, cannot be uttered. It is as if something has blocked your throat entirely.

"She can't answer you," says your father, "She can't speak."

The boy's eyes flash with anger. "What have you done to her?" He jabs the sword in his left hand toward your father, who steps back. You wish your father looked more frightened, but he does not. He looks wary, and there is a calculation to his expression that you do not like. You know you ought to feel triumphant, but you do not - in fact, you feel your chest tighten, and you feel more panicked than you did when your life was moments away from its end. You had accepted your fate, your death, but now the boy you love is here, and your fear now encompasses him as well. The way he looks doesn't help. He looks destroyed, utterly torn asunder. The fighting gear you know he wears when he goes into battle is torn and damaged beyond anything you've ever seen before, and the skin exposed by it is crisscrossed with white lines. His shirt is torn across the front, a fading iratze* over his heart, but you can still see a red scar beneath it. He's covered in dirt, like he's been rolling in it, but what frightens you most of all is the expression on his face. It is hopeless, it is bleak. It is despair.

"A Rune of Quietude. She won't be hurt by it," your father says, his eyes locked on Jace - he looks hungry, you think, as if the sight of Jace is a cool, refreshing spring water. "I don't suppose," he continues, "that you've come to join me? To be blessed by the Angel beside me?"

Jace's expression does not change, and you can see that his eyes are filled with nothing but disdain. Cold, icy, frozen disdain. "I know what you're planning to do," he responds to your father. "I know why you're summoning the Angel. And I won't let you do it. I've already sent Isabelle to warn the army --"

But your father cuts him off. "Warnings will do them little good. This is not the sort of danger you can run from." Your father looks down to the sword Jace is holding. "Put that down," he says, "and we can talk --" But he stops, a little too suddenly. You listen. "That's not your sword. That's a Morgenstern sword."

The boy you love smiles a smile that is... A little frightening to you. It is a dark smile, but laced with sweetness - a vengeful sort of sweetness. "It was Jonathan's. He's dead now."

Your brother, your evil brother, has been slain. You have been momentarily forgotten by both parties, for which you are (to an extent) grateful, but the news you are hearing, the exchange surrounding it, cannot lead toward anything but more danger and more pain. "You mean -" your father starts, but Jace cuts him off.

"I took it from the ground where he'd dropped it," he says, his voice more stone-cold and emotionless than you've ever noticed before, "after I killed him."

The two continue speaking, and you could swear that your father is actually shocked by this news. "You killed Jonathan? How could you have?"

"He would have killed me," Jace continues, "I had no choice."

"I didn't mean that," your father shakes his head, still in a stupor, like he's just been hit. "I raised Jonathan - I trained him myself. There was no better warrior."

"Apparently there was."

"But -" and your father's voice cracked. This is the first time you have ever heard his voice be anything but a smooth, polished, calm, and calculated voice. "But he was your brother."

"No. He wasn't." Jace takes a step forward, the blade of your brother's sword growing closer to your father's heart. "What happened to my real father? Isabelle said he died in a raid, but did he really? Did you kill him like you killed my mother?"

Your father continues to look stunned. You can tell that he is fighting to regain control - but what over, you cannot be sure. Is he trying to gain a grip on his grief, over learning that his only blood son has been killed? Or is it that he is frightened to die at the hand of the other boy he raised, the son he adopted and feigned was his? You don't know. You can't know. "I didn't kill your mother. She took her own life. I cut you out of her dead body. If I hadn't done that, you would have died along with her."

"But why? Why did you do it? You didn't need a son, you had a son!" You think about how deadly Jace looks in the moonlight, how strange, how unlike someone you know... The hand that holds the sword toward your father's throat is unwavering and strong. "Tell me the truth," he says, "No more lies about how we're the same flesh and blood. Parents lie to their children, but you -- you're not my father. And I want the truth."

"It wasn't a son I needed. It was a soldier. I had thought Jonathan might be that soldier, but he had too much of the demon nature in him. He was too savage, too sudden, not subtle enough. I feared even then, when he was barely out of infancy, that he would never have the patience or the compassion to follow me, to lead the Clave in my footsteps. So I tried again with you. And with you I had the opposite trouble. You were too gentle. Too empathetic. You felt others' pain as if it were your own; you couldn't even bear the death of your pets. Understand this, my son -- I loved you for those things. But the very things I loved about you made you no use to me."

You cannot believe the words you're hearing right now, and your heart aches for the boy he's addressing. The boy you love, the boy you've pined for, thinking you were his sister, having to quell your feelings and pretend they never existed. How this must hurt him...

"So you thought I was soft and useless," Jace says, "I suppose it will be surprising for you, then, when your soft and useless son cuts your throat."

The tone in his voice is chilling.

"We've been through this." Your father's voice is steady again, but if your eyes are not playing a trick on you, you're almost certain you can see sweat at his temples and the base of his throat, exiting his skin like liquid fear. "You wouldn't do that. You didn't want to do it at Renwick's, and you don't want to do it now."

"You're wrong. I have regretted not killing you every day since I let you go. My brother Max is dead because I didn't kill you that day. Dozens, maybe hundreds, are dead because I stayed my hand. I know your plan. I know you hope to slaughter almost ever Shadowhunter in Idris. And I ask myself, how many more have to die before I do what I should have done on Blackwell's Island? No. I don't want to kill you. But I will."

"Don't do this," your father says, "Please. I don't want to --"

"To die? No one wants to die, Father," Jace says as the point of his sword comes to rest on Valentine's chest, over his heart. Jace's face is calm, to a frightening degree. "Do you have any last words?"

"Jonathan --"

You can see that the sword has made a small incision, as blood has begun to spot the shit where the sword rests. You see, you remember, Jace at Renwicks - his hand shook, he didn't want to hurt Valentine then, the man he knew as his father - who raised him. You see your father taunting him. Drive the blade in. Three inches - maybe four. It isn't like that now. Jace's hand is steady, and Valentine looks afraid. "Last words," Jace hisses, "What are they?"

You watch your father raise his head, and you see that the blackness of his eyes hold a grave expression. "I'm sorry," he says, "I am so sorry." He stretches his hand out, as if he means to reach for Jace, even to touch him - hand turned with palm upward, fingers opening - and then, all at once, a flash of silver blasts across your vision and flies past you in the darkness, blazing past you like a bullet from a gun. You feel the air brush your cheek as it passes, and then you see your father's hand catch it out of the air, and it's like a burst of silver fire through the air as it - it, you realize, being Maellartech, the same sword he had trained on you only minutes ago - plunges into Jace's heart, hilt in your father's hand.

Your mouth opens to scream, but no sound will come. The rune holds your voice captive. Jace's eyes widen and he is stricken with a look of disbelief, complete shock and surprise, followed by confusion as he looks down at himself. Maellartech sticks out of his chest, strange and terrifying and out of place, like it doesn't belong there. Your heart wrenches and you feel like you'll vomit - perhaps you will, but that block in your throat... Will it keep in the contents of your stomach? You can't be sure. You're not sure of anything. You watch your father draw his hand back, the sword exiting Jace's chest rapidly, and Jace collapses to his knees. His sword falls from his hands and hits the ground, and he looks down at it as if it were something strange to have been holding it at all. He opens his mouth as if he's going to say something, but instead of words, blood pours out, soaking the tattered remains of his shirt.

Everything slows down. You are disoriented, you are dizzy, and it feels like time is against you, stretching itself out to make everything last as long as it possibly can. You see your father sink to the ground and pull Jace's body into his lap, like he's a child. He draws Jace close and holds him, rocks him, presses his face against the shoulder of the boy you love. You think, maybe, he might be crying, but his face lifts and his eyes are dry. Your hatred consumes you. "My son," he whispers, "My boy."

The way time slows stretches around you like a rope, strangling you, while your father holds Jace and brushes the bloodied hair away from his face. He holds him, while he dies, and then he lays the body down on the ground tenderly like it's something precious. He makes Jace's arms cross over his chest, like he's trying to hide the huge wound from the sword he put there. "Ave --" he begins, as if he means to say the words of a Shadowhunter's farewell over his adopted son, but his voice cracks again - only the second time you've ever heard it do that - and he stops, turning sharply back toward the altar.

You cannot move. You can barely breathe. You can hear your own heart beating, the scrape of your breathing in your dry throat. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see your father standing by the edgeo f the lake, blood streaming from the blade of Maellartech, dripping into the bowl of the Mortal Cup - another device no one should ever have, least of all your father. He speaks, but they are words you cannot understand, words you don't know. You don't care. You don't want to understand. You wonder if you have enough strength left in you to drag yourself across the sand to where Jace's body lies, if you can just lie beside him and wait for everything to be over. You stare at him, lying motionless on the churned, bloody sand. His eyes are closed, and his face still; if it weren't for the gash across his chest, you could swear he was sleeping. But he isn't. He isn't sleeping. He is dead. He is gone. You have lost him. But he was a Shadowhunter, you know, and he died in battle, and he deserves the last benediction that all Shadowhunters receive.

You cannot speak, but your lips shape the words - Ave atque vale. You stop, partway through, your breath catching and you feel your heart being chipped away at, breaking slowly. What should you say? Hail and farewell, Jace Wayland? That name is not truly his, you know now. He has never even really been named, you think, the agony overwhelming you. He was given the name of a dead child because it had suited your father's purposes at the time. And there is so much power in names, you think...

And there is so much power in a name.

An epiphany.

Your head whips around and you stare at the altar. The runes surrounding it have begun to glow. They are runes of summoning, runes of naming, and runes of binding. They are not unlike the runes that had kept the angel Ithuriel imprisoned in the cellars beneath the Wayland manor. Now very much against your will, you think of the way Jace had looked at you then, the blaze of faith in his eyes, his belief in you. He always thought you were strong. He showed it in everything he did, in every look and every touch. Your best friend Simon had faith in you too, yet when he held you, it had been as if you were fragile and breakable and delicate. But Jace had held you with all the strength he had, never wondering if you could take it - he had known you were as strong as him. Your heart aches, but inside of you, a fire awakens and burns - brighter than the sun.

Your father is now dipping the Sword over and over in the water of the lake, chanting words in a low tone, but quickly. The water of the lake ripples as if someone were churning it. You close your eyes. You remember the way Jace looked at you the night you freed Ithuriel. You can't help but imagine how he would look at you now, if he saw you giving up, trying to lie down and die on the sand beside him. He would be so angry with you. So disappointed. You cannot disappoint him.

You lower yourself so you are lying on the ground, heaving your dead legs behind you. You crawl slowly across the sand, pushing yourself with your knees and your hands, though they are bound. The glowing band around your wrists - the runes used to trap you, to bind you - burn and sting. Your shirt tears as you drag yourself across the ground, and the sand scrapes over your stomach. You can hardly feel it. It's difficult, pulling yourself like this - sweat is running down your back, between your shoulder blades, tickling your skin. It seems like forever before you reach your destination.

You are panting, breathing so heavily and loudly that you fear your father will hear, will catch you, will know what you are trying to do. But he doesn't notice you, and he doesn't turn around. You watch him for a moment as he holds the Cup in one hand and the Sword in the other. He draws his hand back, speaking something that you think is Greek, and he throws the Cup. It glints in the light of the night like a falling star as it spins toward the lake and disappears beneath the surface.

You notice that the circle of runes is giving off slight heat. You have to twist, to struggle, and it hurts - but you manage to reach your hand around to the stele in your belt. The pain in your wrists spikes as your fingers close around the handle, but you pull it free. You gasp, relieved. It was difficult, and your wrists are certain to be raw and tender for days. If you live through this. Still, you cannot free your wrists, cannot separate them, so you grip your stele in both hands. It's awkward and feels foreign, but you have no other option. You push yourself up with your elbows, staring down at the runes below you. You can feel their heat on your face as they begin to glow and shimmer like witchlight. Your father raises the Sword, ready to throw it. He chants the last words of whatever spell - a summoning spell, you know it has to be - and you know it's now or never. You draw a breath and use the very last of your strength to drive your stele into the sand, not destroying the runes your father has written, but tracing your own pattern over them. You write a new rune over the one that symbolizes his name. It is such a small rune, you think, such a small change - nothing like the powerful runes you've made in the past. But it is all you can do. You have replaced his name with your own, and it will change the course of the summoning.

You collapse and roll onto your side, exhausted, just in time to catch view of your father hurling the sword toward the lake. Where it lands, it splashes, and a large plume of water rises, higher and higher like a geyser of molten silver, like rain falling the wrong direction, like a waterfall turned on its head. A noise, a deafening crash, like shattering ice, fills your ears and echoes throughout the area. All in this moment, the lake seems to explode into millions of pieces and toward the sky. Rising from the midst comes the Angel. You aren't sure what you were expecting - something like Ithuriel, perhaps, subdued and less mighty than what you see before you now - but this... This is nothing like anything you have ever imagined. As he rises from the water, your eyes begin to burn - the same sting you might feel if you were staring directly into the sun.

"Raziel," your father breathes.

The Angel continues to rise. You see that his skin is Marked all over with runes, just like Nephilim - just like you, your mother, Jace, the Lightwoods - but his are different. They are not black, nor are they the faded pale scars as left behind by the Runes you've seen drawn on Shadowhunters, like the ones you've had drawn on yourself. They are golden, alive, moving across his white skin like sparks from a fire. Your eyes hurt trying to take all of him in, and yet he is all that you are able to see. As he rises, wings burst from his back and open wide across the lake. They are gold, too, and feathered - and on each feather is a single golden eye, staring at all around it. It is beautiful, and it is terrifying, and you want nothing more than to look away. But you will not look away. You will watch all of it, for Jace, because he cannot.

"It's just like all those pictures," you think. The Angel rising from the lake, the Sword in one hand and the Cup in the other. Both are streaming water, but the Angel himself is dry, even his wings. His feet rest, bare, on the surface of the lake. The waters stir with light ripples. His face is beautiful and inhuman, and he stares down at your father. And then he speaks.

His voice is like music, like sobbing, like shouting, all at once. It contains no words, but is completely comprehensible. You feel the wind of his breath pass over you; it is like hot air escaping from a furnace, and smells of strange spices.

"It has been a thousand years since I was last summoned to this place. Jonathan Shadowhunter called on me then, and begged me to mix my blood with the blood of mortal men in a Cup and create a race of warriors who would rid this earth of demonkind. I did all that he asked and told him I would do no more. Why do you summon me now, Nephilim?"

Your father's voice is eager, excited, like a child on Christmas, you think. "A thousand years have passed, Glorious One, but demonkind are still here."

"What is that to me? A thousand years for an angel pass between one blink of an eye and another."

Your father continues. "The Nephilim you created were a great race of men. For many years they valiantly battled to rid this plane of demon taint. But they have failed due to weakness and corruption in their ranks. I intend to return them to their former glory --"

"Glory?"

You notice that Raziel sounds vaguely curious, like this is a former concept. "Glory belongs to God alone."

But your father does not falter. "The Clave as the first Nephilim created it exists no more. They have allied themselves with Downworlders, the demon-tainted nonhumans who infest this world like fleas on the carcass of a rat. It is my intention to destroy every Downworlder along with every demon -"

"Demons do not possess souls. But as for the creatures you speak of, the Children of the Moon, Night, Lilith, and Faerie, all are souled. It seems that your rules as to what does and does not constitute a human being are stricter than our own." You could swear that the Angel's voice has taken a dry tone. "Do you intend to challenge heaven like that other Morning Star whose name you bear, Shadowhunter?"

"Not to challenge heaven, no, Lord Raziel, to ally myself with heaven -"

"In a war of your making? We are heaven, Shadowhunter. We do not fight in your mundane battles."

When your father speaks again, his voice takes on a tone that you think might actually be hurt. "Lord Raziel. Surely you would not have allowed such a thing as a ritual by which you might be summoned to exist if you did not intend to be summoned. We Nephilim are your children. We need your guidance."

"Guidance?" You notice now that the Angel seems amused. "That hardly seems to be why you brought me here. You seek rather your own renown."

"Renown?" Your father's voice is hoarse. "I have given everything for this cause. My wife. My children. I have not withheld my sons. I have given everything I have for this - everything."

The Angel's wings move slowly and he simply hovers for a moment, before speaking again. Your breath seems to have hitched in your throat, anticipation keeping it from you. After what feels to you like ages, he finally says, "God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son on an altar much like this one, to see who it was that Abraham loved more, Isaac or God. But no one asked you to sacrifice your son, Valentine."

Your father looks to the altar at his feet, splashed with Jace's blood, and then looks back to the Angel. "If I must, I will compel this from you. But I would rather have your willing cooperation."

"When Jonathan Shadowhunter summoned me," says the Angel, "I gave him my assistance because I could see that his dream of a world free of demons was a true one. He imagined a heaven on this earth. But you dream only of your own glory, and you do not love heaven. My brother Ithuriel can attest to that."

You see the color leave your father's face. "But -"

"Did you think that I would not know?"

The angel smiles. It is the most terrible smile you have ever seen, and it both frightens and chills you. "It is true that the master of the circle you have drawn can compel from me a single action. But you are not that master."

Your father stares, and you can see the disbelief written on his face. Were you not awestruck, you might feel satisfied. "My lord Raziel -- there is no one else --"

"But there is. There is your daughter."

Your father whirls around and looks at you, lying there. You are only half-conscious, your wrists and your arms are burning and screaming with agonizing pain, but you stare back defiantly. For a moment, your eyes meet his, and your father looks at you - really looks at you - and you realize it is the first time he has ever looked you in the face and seen you. The first and only time.

"Clarissa," he addresses you directly, "What have you done?"

You cannot speak, you cannot tell him what you've done - he's made sure of that. But you can write it. You stretch your hand out, and with your finger you write in the sand at his feet. What you write are not runes, but you draw words - the words you remember him saying to you the first time he saw you draw a rune, more powerful than any runes you should be able to draw. The rune that destroyed his ship.

MENE MENE TEKEL UPHARSIN.

His eyes widen, just as Jace's did before his death. Your father has gone bone white. He turns back to face the Angel, raising his hands, as if to surrender. "My lord Raziel -"

The Angel opens his mouth and spits. Or, at least, that's how it seems to you. Like he spat, and what comes from his mouth is like white fire, like a burning arrow. It flies straight and true across the water and tears through your father's chest, like a rock would tear through paper, leaving a smoking hole the size of a human fist. For a moment you, staring up, can look through your father's chest and see the lake and the Angel's glow beyond. The moment passes, and your father crashes to the ground and lies still, mouth open in a silent scream, blind eyes staring incredulously into nothing.

"That was the justice of heaven. I trust that you are not dismayed."

You look up. The Angel hovers over you now, like a tower of white flames, blotting out the sky. His hands are empty. The Mortal Cup and Sword lay by the shore of the lake. "You can compel me to one action, Clarissa Morgenstern. What is it that you want?"

You open your mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. "Ah, yes," the Angel says, and there is a gentleness in his tone now that he did not have at all while speaking to your father. "The rune." His wing's myriad of eyes blink, all at once. Something brushes over you, softer than any silk or other cloth, softer than a whisper or the brush of a feather. It is what you imagine clouds might feel like if they had a texture. Your nostrils are graced with a faint scent, pleasant and sweet. The pain from your wrists vanishes, and the binding disappears. Your hands fall to your sides. The stinging at the back of your neck is gone as well, and the heaviness of your legs. You struggle to your knees. More than anything, you yearn to crawl across the sand toward Jace's body, crawl to him and lay beside him and hold him, even if he is gone. But the Angel's voice compels you and you remain where you are, staring up into his brilliant light.

"The battle on Brocelind Plain is ending. Morgenstern's hold over his demons vanished with his death. Already many are fleeing; the rest will soon be destroyed. There are Nephilim riding to the shores of this lake at this very moment. If you have a request, Shadowhunter, speak it now." He pauses. "And remember that I am not a genie. Choose your desire wisely."

You hesitate. You do not hesitate long, just a moment, but it stretches out vast and long as hundreds of lifetimes. You could ask for anything, you think, dizzy, anything at all - an end to pain, or world hunger, or disease, or for peace on earth. But then again, maybe those things are not in the power of an angel, or they would already have been granted. Perhaps they are things meant to be found by people on their own.

But it doesn't matter, anyway. There is only one thing you want, only one thing you could ask for. In the end, there is only one choice. You know what you want, and you cannot imagine asking for anything else. You raise your eyes to meet the Angels. "Jace," you say.

The Angel's expression does not change. You do not know whether he approves of your request, or whether - panic overtakes you at this thought - he will grant it at all.

"Close your eyes, Clarissa Morgenstern," he says.

You shut your eyes. You do not say no to an angel, no matter what it has in mind. Your heart pounds, and you sit floating in the darkness behind your eyelids, resolutely trying not to think of Jace. But his face appears against the blank screen of your closed eyes anyway - not smiling at you, but looking sidelong, and you can see the scar at his temple and the uneven curl at the corner of his mouth, and the silver line on his throat where Simon had bitten him - all the marks and flaws and imperfections that make up the person you love most in the world. Jace. A bright light turns your vision to scarlet, and you fall back against the sand. You wonder if you're going to pass out, or maybe you're dying, but you don't want to die. Not now that you can see Jace's face so clearly in front of you. You can almost hear his voice, too, saying your name, the way he'd whispered it at Renwicks, over and over again. Clary. Clary. Clary.

"Clary," Jace says. "Open your eyes."

You open them, and you are lying on the sand in your torn and wet and bloody clothes. Those things haven't changed, you think. What is not the same is that the Angel is gone, and the white light that turned the darkness into daylight. You are gazing at the night sky, stars dotting the blackness with their brilliance, and leaning over you with a light in his eyes more beautiful than any star, is Jace.

* an iratze is a healing rune.

((ooc note; i'm sorry this is so obscenely long!! it's a paraphrasing [ and sometimes direct quote ] of the entire scene from the books, which... spans over several pages. that said, there are several phrases that are not paraphrased, but directly quoted from the book but altered to be in second person perspective -- the change of perspective aside, they are words which belong to cassandra clare and i claim no ownership to them. as the books have not all been made into films and nothing was available to express the scene in video, i worked with what i had. ))

Comments

video;

[peeta_bread]

[Peeta watches all this, enthralled. He gasps, says 'no', everything. And when it's over, he sighs in relief, knowing that Clary and Jace are okay. He doesn't really know what's going on, but he tries contacting Clary.] Clary? Did you see what just happened on the lockets?

video;

[artem]

( Clary's pallor indicates that she doesn't understand what's happening, or how, or why this just happened... Or what is going on with this really bad HBO Cinemax production of her memories. ) -- Oh my god.

video;

[peeta_bread]

Are you okay?

[That's the most important thing.]

video;

[artem]

Did -- I mean could everyone... See that?

video;

[peeta_bread]

I think so.

Was that a memory?

video;

[artem]

( oh, no. bye peeta. ) Yes.

action;

[zingers]

[ It takes Peter a few minutes to properly register what he just viewed, with Clary being the first to broadcast a vision of some kind to his knowledge. No, a memory. He swallows thickly, obviously out of his depth. Still, he approaches Clary wherever she stands and ruffles her hair, easy enough to accomplish given their height difference. ]

So, uh, dads are assholes, huh? [ in the same tone as, say, "What's the deal with airplane food?" ]

action;

[artem]

( Clary looks up at him for a second, then her eyes fall, because she doesn't like to think about this and she certainly doesn't want the hurt that comes from reliving it. She laughs bitterly. ) He was a monster.

action;

[zingers]

[ the hand moves from her hair to loop around her shoulders tentatively, like he isn't sure if this is helpful or even allowed. ] Looks like it. Funny how you're really not.

[ because clary's kind and cool and funny. it's a weak attempt at reassurance. this isn't his strong suit. ]

action;

[artem]

( She's quite receptive to the action, though she does slightly tense before she relaxes and leans her head against his shoulder. A little smile forms on her lips, but not a truly happy one. A sad one. The world will never understand how difficult it is.

You have a dark heart in you, Valentine's daughter.

Her brother's words echo in her mind, every single day. He could be right. Far be it from her to pop Peter's bubble by mentioning that bit. )

I didn't meet him until I was a teenager. My mom ran from him, and from that life, and raised me as a normal mundane kid in New York City. I had her, and Luke. ( And an extra dose of angel blood but whatever. ) I wasn't raised by him.

action;

[zingers]

[ alright then, he wills his tone to stay serious, no matter how many awkward jokes he wants to make. ]

Both of my parents left me when I was kid. [ because they left first, then they died. if they hadn't left -- regardless, it's an attempt to reach clary on her level, somehow, so she doesn't feel alone in revealing so much. ]

Well, uh, from my limited experience. Your mom did a pretty awesome job. You're kind of a badass. [ a thoughtful hum. ] And really nice, too. [ watching her closely. ] Did he find you again himself?

action;

[artem]

( Clary sighs softly, rotating her head just slightly so she can make eye contact. ) Maybe that's a prerequisite for coming here. Parent issues.

( Then she laughs, shrugging off the compliment and looking at the ground. ) Thanks. I think. ( Oh, and then back to her crappy dad. )

He found all of us. But he was looking for something else.

[tensed]

You ever try setting a snare?

[ the false brightness or innocence that should be a part of the ofer are missing. pity is too. sitting on a deadfall, coiling a length of wire between his long fingers, gale waits for his answer.

there's a second offer in the question. that if she wishes to talk, he'll listen. but he leaves it up to her. though he's burning with curiosity ( did all of that happen? how did you get there? was jace — and here he minds for some reason, though he would not wish the other ill — really brought back from the dead? ), he won't press. ]

[artem]

( Clary's eyes flit over to him and her brow furrows in confusion. Is he really not reacting the way everyone else does? Though, she can't say she's surprised. He's different. So very, very different. She watches his fingers coil the wire, sees the callouses, studies them. The way he's so careful with something meant to be so deadly. That's really who he is, though, isn't it? Gale Hawthorne, a boy - no. Not a boy anymore. A man, forced to be too soon, with a careful deadliness to him. Something squeezes her heart. )

No, actually. Show me?

( She might talk. She knows that's part of what he's asking. But even with Peter being a good friend to her now, there are some things she'd be more comfortable talking about privately with Gale. Please, ask her if she's okay. Maybe. Clary walks over to him and reaches toward the wire, nimble artist's fingers playing along it like it's made of delicate, blown glass. )

-- No angels in your world, huh?

[tensed]

[ eyes dropping to his task, gale shrugs. ]

Can't say I've met any. Then again, I don't think I'd want to. Here. Watch me first.

[ slowly so that she may follow, he he begins to twist the wire around a slender stick. he pays his trap the same intensity with which clary draws. he has an innate skill for visualizing and designing traps for a variety of purposes — but it's his ability to predict how prey will react that makes him an efficient hunter.

( it will make him a fearsome soldier, too, and by then it'll be too late for the boy he had been. )

he breaks the stick in half to reveal an eye through which he threads the remainder of the wire. with another stick, he demonstrates. the noose closes smoothly inward as he pushes against the inside until it closes snugly around the wood. ]

First rule, [ he gives her a little smile that at another time might have been a smirk, ] careful with your fingers.

i hate you

[artem]

( clary studies every movement he makes. all the time. constantly. but this, this is something closer, more intimate. smaller. a tiny little detail in the fabric. just one little stitch, but an important one. the level of skill says that he's been doing this for years, for too long. and she remembers that he had to feed his whole family, because they never had enough food. she cannot imagine what it must have been like for him, to be robbed of his innocence so soon. to have to provide for himself, for his siblings...

there is something very deeply disturbing about the efficiency with which he manages to thread the wire. this device will end the life of a living creature. she's no vegetarian, not like simon used to be, but it's still frightening, just a little. careful deadliness... the gale she -... there goes her heart again. she swallows, nervously. )

I always am. ( she holds her hands out for him to inspect. ) I have artists' hands. They're meant to be careful.

I love you too boo

[tensed]

[ he snorts to himself. a challenge glimmering in his grey eyes, gale cants his head at her. ]

Show me, then.

[ it's perturbing how normal this is to him, though not for the reasons many might think. his time spent in the woods was with katniss. outside his family, he only taught katniss about snares and traps and only she knew the extent of his skill.

yet sitting with clary, making snares, feels familiar. a different sense of familiarity than he had with katniss, not as easy. he could read her like a book as she did him. they no longer needed to speak to communicate. yet clary no longer feels strange. she's like another annoying tag-along whom he feels like he has known his entire life.

at one point, he closes his fingers over hers to help smooth out a kink in the wire. he lets her go soon after so she can finish it herself. she won't learn if he does it for her. gale snaps a slender branch off the deadfall for her to test the noose with. he turns it in his fingers as he watches her hands. ]

*now kiss*

[artem]

( clary immediately sets to work. she doesn't have eidetic memory, that's for certain, but she's a quick study. she's nimble. and her runes of varying skills certainly don't hurt. she's not perfect at it, of course, but it comes easily to her. she thinks of the wire like lines on paper, of her fingers like the pen she uses to draw them. she is careful and tender with it, as if it is not an instrument of death. it is runes, and she is the stele. there are a few moments when she hesitates, when her fingers almost slip, but it isn't for a lack of carefulness so much as it is a lack of practice. occasionally, her eyes dart over to him, hoping to see nothing but approval but fearing the opposite.

clary remembers what peeta said about katniss. clary will never be katniss. clary is nothing like katniss and for that she is both glad, and a little sad, and a little jealous.

her chest constricts again.

and then there are his hands, warm and rough, but tender. delicate in their ministrations, and she swallows a lump in her throat of which she doesn't remember the formation. when did it get there? and why is she so nervous? clary breathes lightly, like she's afraid the simple movement of air will screw this up. she wets her lips and bites her bottom one in concentration, nearly breaking into a sweat over the precision it requires, to finish every last little connection. when it's set, she looks over at him again. )

There. Done.

[tensed]

[ gale keeps his thoughts fixed on the here and now. with the stick, he tests the noose. when it slides shut, he quirks a half-smile at clary. ]

At least you won't starve.

[ he can laugh about it here, away from it all. sometimes there's nothing left but to laugh. he retains the encouraging smile. a little encouragement can go a long way, he learned. first when he was teaching himself, then when he taught katniss. now teaching clary. this is the only sense of value he has: keeping himself alive, keeping others alive and well. it is a source of pride and never-ending responsibility.

it's also partly why he despised the castle so. out here, he can do. he needs something to do. too many hours filled with nothing and anxiety creeps up his spine. he wonders about his mother, his brothers, his little sister. he worries for primrose and katniss' mother.

and katniss. he can't stop worrying for katniss. gale takes the wire from clary in order to unwind it. ]

More practice, [ he says, ] you'll be doing them with your eyes closed.

[ deftly, he twists it again into a noose. a quick release of nervous energy. peace of mind, however brief. survival, in all its forms, in his fingers. ]

[artem]

( she tosses him a look and purses her lips, a slight roll of her eyes accompanying. )

I don't take much to fill up. ( though she can put away entire frat houses worth of food, she doesn't require that much for nourishment. still. she appreciates him teaching her this, even if she can only trap half a mouse with it. it's a level of intimacy, she thinks, when it comes to him. he doesn't seem the type to teach his skills and secrets to just anyone.

her little smirk turns into a full smile as he compliments her, though. he's so genuine, sometimes. he keeps his cards close to the chest, but there are moments... she captures the image of him unwinding the wire in her mind and notes that she ought to sketch it later. but she does notice that there's a tenseness to his demeanor... almost always, but particularly when something emotionally raw has happened around him recently. as her smile fades, reaches over and puts her hand over his. )

I'm so sorry you had to see that.

[tensed]

[ what a stupid thing to apologize for. gale rubs his thumb over her fingers. ]

Don't be. I'm sorry it happened to you.

[artem]

When you've got a psychotic megalomaniac for a father and your life decides to turn on its head in less than six months, there's not much you can do to stop these kinds of things. ( eyes drift to their hands, away from contact. ) No one else should ever have had to see it, though. Not here. They've all seen enough.

[tensed]

[ gale gives her fingers a warm squeeze. ]

Can't say say anything about the psychotic megalomaniac — [ his dad was great tyvm ] — but I know a little about your life turning over.

[ he tips his head toward her. ]

Want to know my secret?

[artem]

( clary breathes deeply and suddenly and squeezes back, not as strong, but not without purpose. )

I'm starting to understand that about you. ( there's a little ghost of a smile on her lips. then she looks back up at him, her eyebrows flying upward. )

... Yeah, actually. I do. If you really feel like sharing it. You know I'd - ( she sighs. ) Yeah. Tell me.

[tensed]

Well, [ despite his attempt at ( false ) solemnity, or because of it, a smile threatens at the corners of his lips ] first I try to find the best person around --

[ which in this case would be him, in case the implication wasn't a bat to the face obvious. ]

I'M SORRY DID YOU THINK I WOULDN'T BOOMERANG THEM

[artem]

( she looks over at him, face suddenly covered with nothing but flat out consternation. her nose is scrunched up, making a nifty little polka-dotted accordion of freckles, brow together, upper lip in this quasi-snarl that kind of makes her look even more harmless than she normally looks... she's just confused. )

And... do what..?