Chapter 68: The Aftermath of a Battle

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ELEANORA'S POV
  I wake up and it is silent around me. I blink. It must not have been long since I killed my Father. I look to my right and see him there. I feel the throbbing pain in my body, from my head down to my legs.

I stand slowly, drawing out my stele and tracing healing runes, blood replacement runes and strength runes on me. I redo my night vision rune as well.

"Nora!"

Will.

I open my mouth to shout but am unable to.

"Nora!"

Then he's in front of me. His eyes hold great anguish, his clothing torn and him bloody. But he's alive. And that's all that matters now.

"Will, careful," I manage. "Barrier."

He skids to a stop, kicking at the wall. And I fall forward, the barrier leaving.

Will catches me in time, lifting me into his arms.

"Nora," He says, whispering my name over and over.

I rest my head against his shoulder as he brings an arm under my knees and around my shoulders, lifting me up. "Is Tessa safe?"

"She will be okay. Everyone will be okay," Will says. "Rest, my love."

~

Will paced back and forth in the library, half talking to Charlotte, half worrying.

Nora had been unconscious for days now. She was getting better, he knew, but she wasn't awake yet. He needed her.

"Will," Henry says. "Do stop pacing. It's giving me a terrible headache."

Will stopped, making an annoyed sound in his throat.

Tessa had collapsed after the Change, bleeding and insensible, however hard they'd tried to wake her. Magnus, near exhaustion, had barely been able to open a Portal back to the Institute with Henry's help, and Will remembered only a blur after that, a blur of exhaustion and blood and fear, more Silent Brothers summoned to tend the wounded, and the news coming from the Council of all who had been killed in battle before the automatons had disintegrated upon Mortmain's death. And Nora. He had found Nora in a room, her dead Father behind her. She had collapsed into his arms. When they arrived back at the Institute, the Silent Brothers took her and Tessa, not allowing Will to follow. Being neither brother nor husband he could only stand and stare after them, closing and unclosing his bloodstained hands. Never had he felt more helpless.

And when he had turned to find Jem, to share his fear with the only other person in the world who could possibly calm him—Jem had been gone, back to the Silent City on the orders of the Brothers. Gone without even a word of good-bye.

Though Cecily had tried to soothe him, Will had been angry—angry with Jem, and with the Council and the Brotherhood themselves, for allowing Jem to become a Silent Brother, though Will knew that was unfair, that it had been Jem's choice and the only way to keep him alive. And yet since their return to the Institute, Will had felt constantly seasick—it was like having been a ship at anchor for years and being cut free to float on the tides, with no idea which direction to steer in.

He rose to his feet, about to explain that he intended to go see Nora. Or Tessa. Either one. Before he could speak, there was a knock at the door, and Sophie came in, looking unaccountably anxious. The anxiety was explained a moment later when the Inquisitor followed her into the room.

Will, used to seeing him in his ceremonial robes at Council meetings, almost didn't recognize the stern-looking man in the gray morning coat and dark trousers. There was a livid scar on his cheek that had not been there before.

"Inquisitor Whitelaw." Charlotte straightened up, her expression suddenly serious. "To what do we owe the honour of your visit?"

"Charlotte," said the Inquisitor, and he held out his hand. There was a letter, sealed with the seal of the Council. "I have brought a message for you."

Charlotte looked at him in bewilderment. "You could not simply have sent it through the post?"

"This letter is of grave importance. It is imperative that you read it now."

The sound of tearing paper filled the room, as Charlotte opened the letter and read it, the colour draining from her face. She lifted her eyes and stared at the Inquisitor. "Is this some sort of jest?"

The Inquisitor's frown deepened. "There is no jest, I assure you. Do you have an answer?"

"Lottie," said Henry, looking up at his wife, even his tufts of gingery hair radiating anxiety and love. "Lottie, what is it, what's wrong?"

She looked at him, and then back at the Inquisitor. "No," she said. "I don't have an answer. Not yet."

"The Council does not wish—," he began, and then seemed to see Will for the first time. "If I could speak to you in private, Charlotte."

Charlotte straightened her spine. "I will not send either Will or Henry away."

The two of them glared at each other, eyes locked. Will knew that Henry was looking at him anxiously. In the aftermath of Charlotte's disagreement with the Consul, and the Consul's death, they had all waited breathlessly for the Council to hand down some sort of retributive judgment. Their hold on the Institute felt precarious. Will could see it in the minute trembling of Charlotte's hands, and the set of her mouth.

He wished suddenly that Jem or Nora or Tessa—his most closest companions—were here, someone he could speak to, someone he could ask what he should do for Charlotte, to whom he owed so much.

"It's all right," he said, rising to his feet. He wanted to see Nora, even if she would not open her eyes, not recognize him. "I had meant to go anyway."

"Will—," Charlotte protested.

"It's all right, Charlotte," Will said again, and he pushed past the Inquisitor to the door. Once out in the corridor, he leaned against the wall for a moment, recovering himself. He couldn't help remembering his own words—God, it seemed a million years ago now, and no longer in the least bit funny: The Consul? Breaking up our breakfast time? Whatever next? The Inquisitor over for tea?

If the Institute was taken from Charlotte. . .

If they all lost their home. . .

  If Nora and Tessa. . .

He could not finish the thought. They would live; they must live. As he set off down the corridor, he thought of the blues and greens and grays of Wales. Perhaps he could return there, with Cecily, if the Institute was lost, make some kind of life for themselves in their home country. It would not be a Shadowhunting life, but without Charlotte, without Henry, without Jem or Nora or Tessa or Sophie or even the bloody Lightwoods, he did not want to be a Shadowhunter. They were his family, and precious to him—just another realization, he thought, that had come to him all at once and yet too late.

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