The Angel-Blooded One (Shadowhunters ff)

9 - The Encounter

Clary

Weeks had bled into one another since the night her memories flooded back, a torrent that had ripped her life apart. Fleeing New York in a desperate rush, she'd left everything behind. Isaac had retrieved the meager collection that now comprised her belongings in this spacious bedroom on the chateau's fourth floor.

Her art supplies sat untouched in a corner beside a large south-facing window. The canvas remained stubbornly blank - the vibrant memories that once fueled her creativity now felt too raw, too painful to translate onto paper.

Her dreams had morphed too, shifting from blurry images to vivid scenes of breathtaking beauty - angelic figures bathed in light so intense it pierced her dreams. Visions, Oskar had called them, pronouncements of her angelic destiny. He spoke with an unsettling reverence, convinced that Clary's unique connection to runes and angels signified something far greater than just extra angelic blood in her veins.

His words echoed in the hollow space of her mind: "Just as Jonathan was Lilith's son," he'd said, his voice a curious mix of awe and apprehension, "you, Clarissa, are a daughter of Ithuriel. Hence, you must face Raziel and retake your rightful place in the Shadow World."

The thought of it, of facing Raziel twisted her gut. It was a potent cocktail of fear, a primal urge to run, and a perverse kind of anticipation. And so, she trained. Day and night, since the moment she'd arrived in Austria.

Clary slipped into a silken nightgown, the cool fabric a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her overworked muscles. Weapon training felt familiar, her body remembering the movements with a practiced ease. Runes, however, were a different story. What once flowed from her hand with effortless grace was now a laborious struggle. Even the simplest inscriptions like Iratze or the Stamina rune felt alien under her fingers, and the runes she'd once created herself seemed completely lost.

Oskar was a demanding instructor, insisting on absolute dedication. Most nights, Clary fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, a state she didn't entirely mind. Tonight, however, sleep evaded her. Despite the fatigue gnawing at her muscles, her mind buzzed with a restless energy. After what felt like hours staring at the star-dusted ceiling, she threw off the covers and padded towards the window, drawn by an eerie glow emanating from the direction of the small chapel nestled a short distance from the main house. It seemed almost...pulsating, a beacon beckoning her closer.

Without a second thought, Clary grabbed a lightweight jacket and slipped out of her room. The cool night air wrapped around her as she crept down the creaking stairs, her bare feet silent on the cold stone floor.

The chapel stood sentinel against the night sky. Up close, the structure revealed its rich history – two distinct chapels built centuries apart. The larger, newer one was dedicated to Saint Rupert, but it was the smaller, older building, dedicated to Our Lady, that drew Clary's attention.

As Clary neared the smaller chapel, a faint glow emanated from its stained-glass windows, drawing her closer. Reaching the heavy oak door, its surface cool and worn, Clary hesitated. She was completely unarmed, leaving even her stele back in her room. But she wasn't afraid. Something about the glow felt... reassuring. With a deep breath, she gently pushed open the door, the aged hinges groaning in protest.

Stepping inside, she expected to find Isaac absorbed in his nightly prayers. Moonlight streamed through the arched window, illuminating a small, simple altar. But it wasn't the altar that held her gaze. In the center of the room stood a single figure. It was a man, his back to Clary, his form radiating an otherworldly grace. A gasp escaped her lips, a name tumbling out in a choked whisper.

"Ithuriel?"

The figure turned slowly, and a wave of emotions washed over Clary – relief, disbelief, and a flicker of fear. The memory of him, vibrant and strong at Luke's farm, clashed with the terrifying image of Lilith tearing his heart out.

"Clary," he spoke, his voice a melody that resonated deep within her soul. He held out his arms, and Clary rushed forward, burying her face in his embrace.

"I thought... I lost you," she choked out, tears welling up in her eyes.

Ithuriel held her close, the warmth of his embrace a stark contrast to the chill of the night and the emotional turmoil within her. "I am here, my child," he murmured. "Always."

Clary clung to him, letting out the sobs she'd bottled up for so long – the fear, the confusion, the anger at her stolen memories. After a long moment, Ithuriel gently pulled back, his gaze filled with a profound sadness.

"Forgive me for the pain Raziel has inflicted upon you. I tried to reason with him, but his path was set."

Clary wiped at her tears, her voice thick with emotion. "Ithuriel, I... I need your help. I need to speak with him."

Ithuriel's expression turned grave. "I know," he sighed. "But summoning him is only the beginning. He will not be receptive. After all, he warned you against using your angelic powers. He may not hesitate to harm you."

Clary steeled herself, her gaze unwavering. "I understand. But I have to face him. It's the only way to reclaim my life."Ithuriel looked at her for a long, contemplative moment. He placed a hand on her cheek. "Then, my daughter," he said, his voice filled with a quiet determination that mirrored Clary's own, "I will do everything in my power to help you."