My Beautiful One

1. Shadowhunters don't cry

 

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Preface:

‘There were dozens of papers with complex numerical and alchemical figuring on them, and even a piece of stationary that began My beautiful one in Sebastian’s cramped handwriting’ Clary’s point of view from City of Lost Souls by Cassandra Clare

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 “Kill it. Now.” The man ordered, shoving a sword into the hand of the boy and pushing him forward. The boy looked down at the sword in his hands, and I followed the movement to notice that those hands shouldn’t be holding a sword. They were small, slender, and dexterous; hands that should have belonged to an artist or musician, not a warrior. They were covered in runes, far too many for the age he was. They must’ve been causing him pain, him only looking to be ten or eleven.

 “What are you waiting for? I’ve taught you how.” Barked the man, taking an imposing step towards his son. This man was definitely built to be a warrior, with a thick, muscular frame and a what appeared to be a permanent scowl on his face. This face of his was contradictory to his build; fine-boned and delicate under a short crop of white-blond hair. His son shared those features, but held none of the malice.

 “But… she didn’t do anything.” The boy stammered, his gaze switching between me and his father. “And you said that only those worthy of death should die.”

 The father’s eyes narrowed and he threw a look of disgust in my direction. “This, Jonathan, is a Downworlder. It was born worthy of death. Now use your training and kill it, or I swear I will make you regret it.”

 Jonathan shifted uneasily on his feet. “But she’s part Shadowhunter, father. If she wasn’t, those runes would have killed her by now.”

 In response, the father lifted a hand and backhanded his son hard across the face, making red rise rapidly on his pale cheek. The crack echoed around the stone room. “Not she,” He snarled, “it. It may look pretty, but under that pretty face is a demon that would raze you to the ground, were it not bound. It is your mandate as Shadowhunter to kill it, and you will not leave this room until you do.”

 Then he stalked over me, brought out a dagger, and sliced it across the binding rune on my arm, disfiguring it so that I was unbound, and stumbled to the ground in a trembling heap. I was in no condition to fight; the injuries I’d acquired as he had caught and experimented on me put me in no fit state to even stand.

 And he knew. As soon as he knew that I wasn’t responding correctly to his experimentation, he had dragged me out of the basement and into the centre of a bright living room. The last thing I remembered before waking up here was seeing a boy around my age with bright golden curls stop playing the piano to stare at me with curious yellow eyes before the man scratched a rune onto my skin, and all went dark. Now it was a different boy. The same age, but with silvery-white hair and haunted black eyes. How was the yellow-eyed boy so well cared for when the boy in front of me, obviously the son, had endured so much worse?

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, and dragging me up from the floor before punching me hard in the face. I went down, eyes scrunched up and teeth gritted as pain exploded through my head, making dark spots dance before my eyes as I opened them to glare at the father of my attacker defiantly, thinking that though I might not be able to fight, I would stare him down as long as I could still see.