[TMI] Mark of the Beast
Character/Pairings: Jace
Spoilers: City of Bones
Rating/Genre: PG, Drama
Summary: “This is the beginning of an era,” his father says, voice betraying no emotion. He can’t bear to look at him.
Prompt: 001. Beginnings for fanfic100
Notes: Woot! First full-length Mortal Instruments one-shot! I actually meant to write something else for the first one of this prompt table, but, ah...this came out instead. If you like it, comment please!
Nine-year-old Jonathon Wayland is anxious. Anxious, not scared-his father had told him that fear was an emotion felt only by children and cowards. So he’s anxious. All of the books he’s read had warned him against the pain of the first Marks, and most of those people had been older.
The stele in his father’s hand seems to glow white-hot, even though Jonathon knows it’s just a trick of his…anxiety.
“Your hand, Jonathon,” his father says. Jonathon reluctantly holds out his left hand, his golden eyes wide. His father’s rough, calloused hand circles his small wrist. The heavy ring on his finger is cool against Jonathon’s skin. “Most children receive their first Marks at twelve,” he says in his smooth voice. “You are not like them, Jonathon. You’re better.”
Jonathon cranes his neck back so that he can look up at his father. The low cadence of the man’s voice soothes Jonathon’s anxieties, just enough for him to force the tremble from his hands. His father lowers the tip of the stele to touch the bare skin of Jonathon’s hand. Jonathon gasps at the contact-it burns, it burns even worse than when he’d accidentally put his hand on the stovetop, burns more than anything that he could’ve imagined-hurts worse than anything he’s ever experienced-
He lets out something that sounds shamefully like a whimper, and, almost subconsciously, twists away from the stele. His father’s grip remains firm, cruelly so, because didn’t he understand? Did he see how much it hurt? Jonathon hears one of the bones in his wrist pop, and yelps, more out of shock than pain. He stops fighting, stops struggling, just closes his eyes tight and turns his head away, doing everything in his power to keep from crying out again. The bones in his wrist continue to snap. The rune is breaking my bones, he thinks, panicked. But why would his father give him a rune that would hurt him like this?
“This is the beginning of an era,” his father says, voice betraying no emotion. Jonathon can’t bear to look at him. “After today, you can truly consider yourself a Shadowhunter.”
And maybe this is true, maybe this is the beginning of something amazing, the beginning of who Jonathon is meant to be. Maybe it’s the beginning of something that will give him a true purpose-but for now, he just wants it to stop.
Spoilers: City of Bones
Rating/Genre: PG, Drama
Summary: “This is the beginning of an era,” his father says, voice betraying no emotion. He can’t bear to look at him.
Prompt: 001. Beginnings for fanfic100
Notes: Woot! First full-length Mortal Instruments one-shot! I actually meant to write something else for the first one of this prompt table, but, ah...this came out instead. If you like it, comment please!
Nine-year-old Jonathon Wayland is anxious. Anxious, not scared-his father had told him that fear was an emotion felt only by children and cowards. So he’s anxious. All of the books he’s read had warned him against the pain of the first Marks, and most of those people had been older.
The stele in his father’s hand seems to glow white-hot, even though Jonathon knows it’s just a trick of his…anxiety.
“Your hand, Jonathon,” his father says. Jonathon reluctantly holds out his left hand, his golden eyes wide. His father’s rough, calloused hand circles his small wrist. The heavy ring on his finger is cool against Jonathon’s skin. “Most children receive their first Marks at twelve,” he says in his smooth voice. “You are not like them, Jonathon. You’re better.”
Jonathon cranes his neck back so that he can look up at his father. The low cadence of the man’s voice soothes Jonathon’s anxieties, just enough for him to force the tremble from his hands. His father lowers the tip of the stele to touch the bare skin of Jonathon’s hand. Jonathon gasps at the contact-it burns, it burns even worse than when he’d accidentally put his hand on the stovetop, burns more than anything that he could’ve imagined-hurts worse than anything he’s ever experienced-
He lets out something that sounds shamefully like a whimper, and, almost subconsciously, twists away from the stele. His father’s grip remains firm, cruelly so, because didn’t he understand? Did he see how much it hurt? Jonathon hears one of the bones in his wrist pop, and yelps, more out of shock than pain. He stops fighting, stops struggling, just closes his eyes tight and turns his head away, doing everything in his power to keep from crying out again. The bones in his wrist continue to snap. The rune is breaking my bones, he thinks, panicked. But why would his father give him a rune that would hurt him like this?
“This is the beginning of an era,” his father says, voice betraying no emotion. Jonathon can’t bear to look at him. “After today, you can truly consider yourself a Shadowhunter.”
And maybe this is true, maybe this is the beginning of something amazing, the beginning of who Jonathon is meant to be. Maybe it’s the beginning of something that will give him a true purpose-but for now, he just wants it to stop.