fic: "you don't have to be fast [but you better be fearless]" (valentine) r
Title: you don't have to be fast [but you better be fearless]
Author: thiswholeflight
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,633 words
Character/Pairing: Valentine (and The Circle -- various pairings though mostly Valentine/Jocelyn)
Fandom: The Mortal Instruments
Summary: "I forgive you and one day, my love, I will make this right."
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for the first three books of The Mortal Instruments.
Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with Cassandra Clare or The Mortal Instruments. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: I might have been on crack to write this. No, really, I just wanted some old school Valentine. There's a ton of head canon for this too.
you don't have to be fast [but you better be fearless]
I.
He doesn't think much of others. No, there's hardly anything inside of him that admires anyone outside of the people he associates and socializes with. Everyone within the circle has purpose. Starkweather loves books. Wayland is loyal. Trueblood is stubborn and he sees something cunning and marvellously intelligent about Lightwood.
Valentine sees it like this: he is just a small seed, the circle members are the soil that surrounds him, Lucian is the water and Jocelyn is the sun.
Lucian Greymark is his closest and most dear friend. He finds it ridiculous that the academy doesn't see what he sees (in so many ways).
-- But no, no, he will not give up on his parabatai. They are the closest any two could possibly be. Valentine is closer to him than he'll ever be to Jocelyn and even now the two of them can fight with their eyes closed -- anticipating the other's movements before their own.
His relationship with Jocelyn is altogether different than the one he shares with Lucian. Without doubt, he feels as if the three of them are at the core and precipice of life and greater ideals shifting. These are the two he needs standing beside him. His moon and his sun.
Captured the very first moment he saw her, all the strong, deep shadowhunter blood inside of him rushed past his ears and there was nothing but her dark red hair and bright -- brighter than he's ever seen -- green eyes. Jocelyn, he knows now, was his missing piece. The empty space in his chest was reserved for her and, now that she is here, he is brighter and more powerful than a seraph blade after it is named.
Inside a mundane book, his father showed him once (when he was fifteen), he remembers, "Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them."
If there is one thing, only one thing, he is certain of, it is that he is not afraid.
In fact, he is fearless.
II.
They dance and drink. Jocelyn brushes his too long white blonde hair from his face and he closes his eyes. He opens them once more to see her gazing at him through copper colored lashes.
"Tell me what you're thinking," she breathes into the quiet next to his ear. Her small hands cup the back of his neck and he smiles softly at the sensation. She told him once that he perpetually lives inside his head. He is always thinking. He is never exactly in the moment that she lives in, but he wants to be. He wants that more than almost anything.
They sway and she seems impossibly small when he pulls her close to him and she sighs against his shoulder. Together, they stumble out the door. The party inside seems less important. Valentine thinks to himself that everything seems so much less important than this moment, her and now.
They are not together, but he desires her company more than any other. More than Lucian and more than Maryse, who, too, has honestly been one of his dearest friends. Jocelyn's silly ideas make him think and believe that there can be a better world out there
-- especially if it's led by the two of them. He has dreams and fantasies about leading a revolution where the old ideals of the Accords are overthrown. The Circle rises fresh and anew, bringing change that long since has been overdue.
Tonight, he's had too much to drink. Even with his sturdy constitution, he feels too much like a school boy and -- instead of the quiet, reserved looks he often gives when he keeps his many secrets to himself -- he finds himself grinning and kissing her.
You. I'm thinking about you and our world and the wonderful changes to come.
She pulls back, holding his face and smiling despite herself. There's a soft sound that slips from her lips, almost like a laugh. "Val," she grins and bites her lower lip, her eyes bright and shining as she still hangs off of his shoulders, "that's not an answer."
Shaking his head at the nickname, he rolls his eyes. The seventeen years of his life seem like an eternity behind him.
"You," he replies. "I was thinking about you."
She kisses him and pulls away with a flirtatious smile that makes his heart skip a beat inside his chest. The stars circle his head until morning.
III.
"I think Robert is having an affair," Maryse confides in him. This doesn't stop her scrawling small, neat handwriting across the lined page in her notebook. She doesn't even look up.
Valentine knows Robert is and he's honestly not shocked that Maryse knows either. The two of them are engaged to be married. He's sure that this is simply a hiccup in their plans. For being extremely intelligent, Robert has many fears. The two of them are a pair and belong to each other. He'll tell his friend tomorrow of what a fool he's been and of the mess he's making.
He glances up to Maryse and nods, a thin, contemplative expression on his face. "If you want him still, you should show him that." Briefly, a cross look etches itself into her features. She looks almost angry with him, but she certainly didn't come to him for sympathy, did she?
"Perhaps," she says, looking briefly very youthful and almost innocent, "he's not in love with me any longer."
"Don't be ridiculous," he grimaces. "Robert--" Valentine starts, but a soft noise coming from the entry way halts him completely.
Standing and moving to look out from the kitchen to where the sound originated from, his father's parabatai stands at the manor door and the sound he's heard is his mother's tears. He assumes that she must be crying. That must be the sound. He's an intelligent boy and his mother never cries. He hears the words: werewolf encampment and routine raid.
For the first time in his life he feels nothing. There's a deep, vast emptiness in his chest and, when he searches for more inside, he comes up blank. One hand over where his heart beats, he closes his eyes and seeks out his own pulse. Everything is cold, even his fingertips.
He's forgotten what he was doing, but he's suddenly aware of Maryse's presence and the school work he's put aside. She lays a soft hand on his shoulder and he assumes it's because he must look touchable -- human and mundane. Her fingers are thin and every muscle in his arms and chest tighten painfully. There's no sound that comes from his lips.
Maryse's blue eyes meet his dark ones and, briefly, she looks afraid as if she's seen something or simply doesn't know what to say.
"I should be with my mother now," Valentine manages, but his own voice is foreign to his ears. He sounds like he's at the bottom of a well.
"Of course," she replies and lifts her hand from his shoulder. Gathering her things, he leads her out the back so to not disturb his mother and his father's parabatai.
"Valentine," she breathes and he swears that he sees her eyes wet. He says nothing and she boosts herself a little taller, pressing her mouth against his. At first, he does nothing, but not more than a second later, he jerks back, placing his hands against her shoulders to put the distance between them. It's only then that he realizes that Maryse Trueblood is in love with him and that, maybe, she has loved him even more than she loves Robert.
A cold iciness settles into his bones and his face tightens. "You need to leave now, Maryse," he states simply. "I'll forget this happened."
IV.
Jocelyn stayed in his bed last night. She had slept by his side for nearly a month now and it was her lips against his skin that reached into his chest with heat and melted away at least some of the cold that encased his heart. When he feels, it is around her. No one else can touch him, possibly not even Lucian.
He can feel Luc's gaze on the two of them when he stands above her and catches her mouth with his possessively. Last night the two of them made love for the first time and he can feel it in his limbs and in his soul. He will never, can never, let her go and he promises her that much. Even when he dies, he will love her and nothing will stop him.
"I'm going to marry her, Lucian," he says to his parabatai later. Luc smiles, but there's an edge of sadness that shows. Valentine doesn't want to be angry. He's been furious for too long and the one fear he has right now is that the emotion will never go away.
"As long as you're happy," Luc replies.
V.
He is almost content.
"Maryse gave birth to a healthy baby boy last night," he tells his wife, his arms wrapped around her torso. "She and Robert named him Alexander Gideon. I think Gideon is a family name," Valentine muses.
There's still something missing in his life. They haven't yet cleared out the werewolf pack at the edge of the woods, but he knows better than to rush into something he's not yet capable of handling completely. Perhaps, he thinks, the Lightwoods have it right. They're young, but Shadowhunters have such short lives. It makes sense to create a family and pass down the blood. He, truthfully, cannot think of much else that would make him happier aside from his father seeing all that he has done.
He kisses Jocelyn's shoulder lightly but doesn't say much more and she shift in his arms to turn and face him
"Are you alright?" she breathes and he nods very slightly before moving to get out of bed. Jocelyn sighs, "Stay. You're starting to spend all your time down in the cellar."
His eyes flash up to hers and, briefly, he looks guilty. "I won't be long," he promises, before throwing the warm sheets off of himself.
Down in the cellar, he skims over his journals and notes before looking at the things he collected. He settles on the demon ichor, looking black and deadly in a vial. It's the most logical choice, of course. Jocelyn wants to bind Downworlders and Shadowhunters together, but she doesn't seem to realize what an idiotic notion that is. At least not while they're so different from each other.
In an old book, it stated that demon blood might amplify Shadowhunter powers. To win and to grow as a race, they needed to be stronger. Until then, Shadowhunters, just like his father, would be murdered in cold blood.
The feeling settles deep and angrily in his gut. Taking a tourniquet, he ties it tight around his right arm. Preparing a needle, filled with blackness, he sinks it deep into his veins. Instantly, he sways dizzily and sweats. Moments later, his entire dinner is on the floor along with a hint of blood. He wipes at his mouth.
Even if it kills him, he will bring them into an era of enlightenment.
VI.
There's nothing inside of him any longer capable of tears, but it feels as if his heart has been ripped from his chest. There is no one left to blame but Lucian and his utter stupidity.
"Fool," Valentine says to him, tasting blood in the back of his throat as he swallows hard.
This is worse than his father death, the decent into his darkness, because Lucian is who he truly and deeply loves. They are bound, just as he and Jocelyn are bound. The two of them compose that beating muscle in his chest -- and he thinks to himself that he's only truly been alive since he found them. They are what gave him life. Not his sweet, dear mother. Not his strong, idealist father. Luc and Jocelyn.
"How could you be so deeply stupid?" Red stained white, blonde hair falls into his eyes. His stomach hurts just remembering the red Marks of mourning from his father's passing. This all hits too close to home.
Lucian is not the one that's done wrong. It was him, following through on his vendetta. The nest of werewolves that had killed his father needed to be taken care of. The two of them would have been strong enough if it wasn't he who was distracted -- thinking of Jocelyn and the baby.
When Lucian falls on the steps of the manor, three weeks later, covered in blood that isn't his own, he knows exactly what must be done.
Gripping Jocelyn's arm bruisingly, he tells her to stay inside before finding his father's dagger (the only thing he has left from the old man) and retreating outside again to find his other half, a shaking beast, on the steps. Valentine takes him by the scraps of clothing at his back and lifts him to his feet, effortlessly dragging him out to the woods
"Lucian, my dear Lucian," he breathes, the darkness setting around them. He knows he should do it himself. It would only be right to drive the dagger deep into Luc's chest. It would be the only compassionate thing left to do for him. When Luc looks up at him, he sees his parabatai and very quickly his eyes go deadly cold. It's a trick. By the angel, this is a beast in front of him with the face of his dearest friend.
Kissing the dagger, he presses it into his parabatai's hand and lets the silver burn there, reminding the two of them that, indeed, there is no true Shadowhunter left inside of Lucian.
"If you have any honor inside of you, you'll take this blade and strike it deep in your heart," Valentine tells him, jaw tight and angry. "Like you've done to mine."
VII.
"His name is Jonathan Christopher," he tells his wife, holding his newborn son in his arms. He can see, just as well as Jocelyn that somehow he has failed. "Christopher after my father."
He tries to hand the baby to her, but she rejects him and his blood, recoiling at the sight.
It's alright, he insists to himself. He's just gone about things wrong. If demons are not the way to go, perhaps he can fix things yet.
VIII.
"Must we do this?" Hodge asks, daring to look up at him. Valentine returns the look vehemently, a flood rush of fury through his entire being. Stephen is dead. His world is falling apart and very quickly he is about to fall in a grave he's been unaware (up until about a week ago) he's been digging for himself.
One more life, he says under a breath. One more life won't matter.
Celine is weak. She's a quiet, eighteen year old, little girl far too in over her head. That's exactly what he wanted for Stephen. Had Stephen been still married to Amatis, he could never do what he is about to do now. He wonders if he's planned this all along or things just happened to crumble in this manner. His second in command's death weighs heavily on his shoulders. It's not his fault, he knows this, but it feels this way. Just as it felt when Lucian crawled, bitten and bloody, onto his doorstep.
Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa. My fault. My own most grievous fault.
He just knows that they must do this now.
It is Valentine that moves over and above Celine and places a strong hand on her stomach. Inside, the baby kicks strongly and he smiles a hint of a smile. For seconds, he thinks of what Jonathan could have been and he knows now that he's got it right. This will be what saves them.
"Keep her calm," he says, glancing up. "If not, it could kill the child."
Hodge nods, barely. Celine must be alive for this. His new son will not be born into death and destruction.
She is already bound by a rune. She cannot move her limbs or speak, but she is there. With his blade, he cuts deeply but carefully into her stomach. Her eyes flash wildly and pain streaks across her face. Hodge sweats a disgusting amount and Valentine wrinkles his nose until he pulls a bloodied baby boy out from inside of her. He's beautiful and perfect. Valentine can tell Celine thinks as much as well. It's not simply just the potions he mixed for her; there is something deeply special about the boy.
"Heal her," Valentine tells Hodge, wiping the boy clean. "Then slit her wrists. Leave no evidence of us behind unless you wish to be next."
It's not a threat, but a promise.
Holding the child close, he steps out into the cold fresh air and a cry erupts from his arms. The sound jolts him. His son, his blood, has never cried. Not when he was born and not a moment after. The one does. He'll do it the right way now. He will.
His hand is bigger than the child's head as he, warmly, brushes that fine, thin baby blonde hair back. "Shh," Valentine murmurs, feeling a bit mad as he holds the infant close. "I will do right by you, Jonathan. I swear."
IX.
Jocelyn has long since left, but somehow he has survived. He assumes that reason is his children. The two boys he has are so vastly different. He's thought, more than once, that if he could just combine the two, that the perfect Shadowhunter would exist. Deadly, elegant and graceful, but not too sharp and certainly not as soft as his adoptive son is.
His biological son cannot be manipulated in the same ways that this one can. He lives with the one he wishes was truly his in Michael Wayland's manor. He gives Jonathan what ever he desires: a hunting falcon, books, a birthday in which he bathes in spaghetti and the deadliest moves that he knows.
He tries…-- He tries to change Jonathan. The boy is too sensitive. Too sentimental. Jonathan has a tender heart and all he wants to do is bend him. He cannot -- he will not -- break him.
"Jonathan," he pauses, pressing his lips together and thinking of his wife. "To love is to destroy and to be loved is to be the one destroyed."
A small voice comes from the tiny, blonde-haired boy. "But I love you," he says simply.
Valentine hesitates before putting a firm hand on Jonathan's shoulder. "I love you, as well, son," he says clearly, his jaw tight. "That is why you must listen to me. You'll be strong as long as you never let love consume you."
X.
There is still a thin sliver thread of hope inside of him yet, seeing his son grown to nearly a man. He can have his family and his happy ending. Jonathan, this Jonathan, still loves him -- and it is that love that sustains him.
He likes to be called Jace now. He can only think the idea came from Maryse. There was always something sentimental when it came to her. Valentine assumes, even now, that she'll be furious to love something that is his. Jace lets him call him Jonathan and it feels like an iratze when one is injured. The relief floods in.
Jonathan is the only child he has ever loved and even though his daughter is standing in front of them, looking adamant and headstrong as ever, he knows Jonathan will still be the only child he ever loves.
Clarissa has already been infected and tainted by Jocelyn and Lucian. There's no way left to reach her and he will not try needlessly. It would be pointless. Jace, however, still has that innate goodness inside of him. A beautiful boy and the only thing he will ever be proud of in this life. He thinks of Jace's heart now and sees what could have been. He sees the idealistic seventeen year old he used to be and he sees the pureness that he never contained.
His strives aren't pointless; the uprising was a failure, but he's positive he can get it right now. Only with his son by his side. This will work, he says to himself.
"Jocelyn is your mother, Jonathan. And Clary --" He glances to his beautiful, angry daughter. "Clary is your sister."
He's mine, he wants to say to his daughter. He's mine and you cannot poison him like your mother poisoned me.
XI.
"I wanted to tell you, Jocelyn," he starts, sitting by her bedside, "that I'm sorry."
There's an endless supply of wires and tubes connected to her small, fragile-looking body. He takes her hand, hers impossibly cold within his, and brings it up to his lips. Placing a soft, precise kiss against her palm, he exhales and tightens his fingers around hers.
"I forgive you and one day, my love, I will make this right."
Author: thiswholeflight
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,633 words
Character/Pairing: Valentine (and The Circle -- various pairings though mostly Valentine/Jocelyn)
Fandom: The Mortal Instruments
Summary: "I forgive you and one day, my love, I will make this right."
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for the first three books of The Mortal Instruments.
Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with Cassandra Clare or The Mortal Instruments. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: I might have been on crack to write this. No, really, I just wanted some old school Valentine. There's a ton of head canon for this too.
you don't have to be fast [but you better be fearless]
I.
He doesn't think much of others. No, there's hardly anything inside of him that admires anyone outside of the people he associates and socializes with. Everyone within the circle has purpose. Starkweather loves books. Wayland is loyal. Trueblood is stubborn and he sees something cunning and marvellously intelligent about Lightwood.
Valentine sees it like this: he is just a small seed, the circle members are the soil that surrounds him, Lucian is the water and Jocelyn is the sun.
Lucian Greymark is his closest and most dear friend. He finds it ridiculous that the academy doesn't see what he sees (in so many ways).
-- But no, no, he will not give up on his parabatai. They are the closest any two could possibly be. Valentine is closer to him than he'll ever be to Jocelyn and even now the two of them can fight with their eyes closed -- anticipating the other's movements before their own.
His relationship with Jocelyn is altogether different than the one he shares with Lucian. Without doubt, he feels as if the three of them are at the core and precipice of life and greater ideals shifting. These are the two he needs standing beside him. His moon and his sun.
Captured the very first moment he saw her, all the strong, deep shadowhunter blood inside of him rushed past his ears and there was nothing but her dark red hair and bright -- brighter than he's ever seen -- green eyes. Jocelyn, he knows now, was his missing piece. The empty space in his chest was reserved for her and, now that she is here, he is brighter and more powerful than a seraph blade after it is named.
Inside a mundane book, his father showed him once (when he was fifteen), he remembers, "Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them."
If there is one thing, only one thing, he is certain of, it is that he is not afraid.
In fact, he is fearless.
II.
They dance and drink. Jocelyn brushes his too long white blonde hair from his face and he closes his eyes. He opens them once more to see her gazing at him through copper colored lashes.
"Tell me what you're thinking," she breathes into the quiet next to his ear. Her small hands cup the back of his neck and he smiles softly at the sensation. She told him once that he perpetually lives inside his head. He is always thinking. He is never exactly in the moment that she lives in, but he wants to be. He wants that more than almost anything.
They sway and she seems impossibly small when he pulls her close to him and she sighs against his shoulder. Together, they stumble out the door. The party inside seems less important. Valentine thinks to himself that everything seems so much less important than this moment, her and now.
They are not together, but he desires her company more than any other. More than Lucian and more than Maryse, who, too, has honestly been one of his dearest friends. Jocelyn's silly ideas make him think and believe that there can be a better world out there
-- especially if it's led by the two of them. He has dreams and fantasies about leading a revolution where the old ideals of the Accords are overthrown. The Circle rises fresh and anew, bringing change that long since has been overdue.
Tonight, he's had too much to drink. Even with his sturdy constitution, he feels too much like a school boy and -- instead of the quiet, reserved looks he often gives when he keeps his many secrets to himself -- he finds himself grinning and kissing her.
You. I'm thinking about you and our world and the wonderful changes to come.
She pulls back, holding his face and smiling despite herself. There's a soft sound that slips from her lips, almost like a laugh. "Val," she grins and bites her lower lip, her eyes bright and shining as she still hangs off of his shoulders, "that's not an answer."
Shaking his head at the nickname, he rolls his eyes. The seventeen years of his life seem like an eternity behind him.
"You," he replies. "I was thinking about you."
She kisses him and pulls away with a flirtatious smile that makes his heart skip a beat inside his chest. The stars circle his head until morning.
III.
"I think Robert is having an affair," Maryse confides in him. This doesn't stop her scrawling small, neat handwriting across the lined page in her notebook. She doesn't even look up.
Valentine knows Robert is and he's honestly not shocked that Maryse knows either. The two of them are engaged to be married. He's sure that this is simply a hiccup in their plans. For being extremely intelligent, Robert has many fears. The two of them are a pair and belong to each other. He'll tell his friend tomorrow of what a fool he's been and of the mess he's making.
He glances up to Maryse and nods, a thin, contemplative expression on his face. "If you want him still, you should show him that." Briefly, a cross look etches itself into her features. She looks almost angry with him, but she certainly didn't come to him for sympathy, did she?
"Perhaps," she says, looking briefly very youthful and almost innocent, "he's not in love with me any longer."
"Don't be ridiculous," he grimaces. "Robert--" Valentine starts, but a soft noise coming from the entry way halts him completely.
Standing and moving to look out from the kitchen to where the sound originated from, his father's parabatai stands at the manor door and the sound he's heard is his mother's tears. He assumes that she must be crying. That must be the sound. He's an intelligent boy and his mother never cries. He hears the words: werewolf encampment and routine raid.
For the first time in his life he feels nothing. There's a deep, vast emptiness in his chest and, when he searches for more inside, he comes up blank. One hand over where his heart beats, he closes his eyes and seeks out his own pulse. Everything is cold, even his fingertips.
He's forgotten what he was doing, but he's suddenly aware of Maryse's presence and the school work he's put aside. She lays a soft hand on his shoulder and he assumes it's because he must look touchable -- human and mundane. Her fingers are thin and every muscle in his arms and chest tighten painfully. There's no sound that comes from his lips.
Maryse's blue eyes meet his dark ones and, briefly, she looks afraid as if she's seen something or simply doesn't know what to say.
"I should be with my mother now," Valentine manages, but his own voice is foreign to his ears. He sounds like he's at the bottom of a well.
"Of course," she replies and lifts her hand from his shoulder. Gathering her things, he leads her out the back so to not disturb his mother and his father's parabatai.
"Valentine," she breathes and he swears that he sees her eyes wet. He says nothing and she boosts herself a little taller, pressing her mouth against his. At first, he does nothing, but not more than a second later, he jerks back, placing his hands against her shoulders to put the distance between them. It's only then that he realizes that Maryse Trueblood is in love with him and that, maybe, she has loved him even more than she loves Robert.
A cold iciness settles into his bones and his face tightens. "You need to leave now, Maryse," he states simply. "I'll forget this happened."
IV.
Jocelyn stayed in his bed last night. She had slept by his side for nearly a month now and it was her lips against his skin that reached into his chest with heat and melted away at least some of the cold that encased his heart. When he feels, it is around her. No one else can touch him, possibly not even Lucian.
He can feel Luc's gaze on the two of them when he stands above her and catches her mouth with his possessively. Last night the two of them made love for the first time and he can feel it in his limbs and in his soul. He will never, can never, let her go and he promises her that much. Even when he dies, he will love her and nothing will stop him.
"I'm going to marry her, Lucian," he says to his parabatai later. Luc smiles, but there's an edge of sadness that shows. Valentine doesn't want to be angry. He's been furious for too long and the one fear he has right now is that the emotion will never go away.
"As long as you're happy," Luc replies.
V.
He is almost content.
"Maryse gave birth to a healthy baby boy last night," he tells his wife, his arms wrapped around her torso. "She and Robert named him Alexander Gideon. I think Gideon is a family name," Valentine muses.
There's still something missing in his life. They haven't yet cleared out the werewolf pack at the edge of the woods, but he knows better than to rush into something he's not yet capable of handling completely. Perhaps, he thinks, the Lightwoods have it right. They're young, but Shadowhunters have such short lives. It makes sense to create a family and pass down the blood. He, truthfully, cannot think of much else that would make him happier aside from his father seeing all that he has done.
He kisses Jocelyn's shoulder lightly but doesn't say much more and she shift in his arms to turn and face him
"Are you alright?" she breathes and he nods very slightly before moving to get out of bed. Jocelyn sighs, "Stay. You're starting to spend all your time down in the cellar."
His eyes flash up to hers and, briefly, he looks guilty. "I won't be long," he promises, before throwing the warm sheets off of himself.
Down in the cellar, he skims over his journals and notes before looking at the things he collected. He settles on the demon ichor, looking black and deadly in a vial. It's the most logical choice, of course. Jocelyn wants to bind Downworlders and Shadowhunters together, but she doesn't seem to realize what an idiotic notion that is. At least not while they're so different from each other.
In an old book, it stated that demon blood might amplify Shadowhunter powers. To win and to grow as a race, they needed to be stronger. Until then, Shadowhunters, just like his father, would be murdered in cold blood.
The feeling settles deep and angrily in his gut. Taking a tourniquet, he ties it tight around his right arm. Preparing a needle, filled with blackness, he sinks it deep into his veins. Instantly, he sways dizzily and sweats. Moments later, his entire dinner is on the floor along with a hint of blood. He wipes at his mouth.
Even if it kills him, he will bring them into an era of enlightenment.
VI.
There's nothing inside of him any longer capable of tears, but it feels as if his heart has been ripped from his chest. There is no one left to blame but Lucian and his utter stupidity.
"Fool," Valentine says to him, tasting blood in the back of his throat as he swallows hard.
This is worse than his father death, the decent into his darkness, because Lucian is who he truly and deeply loves. They are bound, just as he and Jocelyn are bound. The two of them compose that beating muscle in his chest -- and he thinks to himself that he's only truly been alive since he found them. They are what gave him life. Not his sweet, dear mother. Not his strong, idealist father. Luc and Jocelyn.
"How could you be so deeply stupid?" Red stained white, blonde hair falls into his eyes. His stomach hurts just remembering the red Marks of mourning from his father's passing. This all hits too close to home.
Lucian is not the one that's done wrong. It was him, following through on his vendetta. The nest of werewolves that had killed his father needed to be taken care of. The two of them would have been strong enough if it wasn't he who was distracted -- thinking of Jocelyn and the baby.
When Lucian falls on the steps of the manor, three weeks later, covered in blood that isn't his own, he knows exactly what must be done.
Gripping Jocelyn's arm bruisingly, he tells her to stay inside before finding his father's dagger (the only thing he has left from the old man) and retreating outside again to find his other half, a shaking beast, on the steps. Valentine takes him by the scraps of clothing at his back and lifts him to his feet, effortlessly dragging him out to the woods
"Lucian, my dear Lucian," he breathes, the darkness setting around them. He knows he should do it himself. It would only be right to drive the dagger deep into Luc's chest. It would be the only compassionate thing left to do for him. When Luc looks up at him, he sees his parabatai and very quickly his eyes go deadly cold. It's a trick. By the angel, this is a beast in front of him with the face of his dearest friend.
Kissing the dagger, he presses it into his parabatai's hand and lets the silver burn there, reminding the two of them that, indeed, there is no true Shadowhunter left inside of Lucian.
"If you have any honor inside of you, you'll take this blade and strike it deep in your heart," Valentine tells him, jaw tight and angry. "Like you've done to mine."
VII.
"His name is Jonathan Christopher," he tells his wife, holding his newborn son in his arms. He can see, just as well as Jocelyn that somehow he has failed. "Christopher after my father."
He tries to hand the baby to her, but she rejects him and his blood, recoiling at the sight.
It's alright, he insists to himself. He's just gone about things wrong. If demons are not the way to go, perhaps he can fix things yet.
VIII.
"Must we do this?" Hodge asks, daring to look up at him. Valentine returns the look vehemently, a flood rush of fury through his entire being. Stephen is dead. His world is falling apart and very quickly he is about to fall in a grave he's been unaware (up until about a week ago) he's been digging for himself.
One more life, he says under a breath. One more life won't matter.
Celine is weak. She's a quiet, eighteen year old, little girl far too in over her head. That's exactly what he wanted for Stephen. Had Stephen been still married to Amatis, he could never do what he is about to do now. He wonders if he's planned this all along or things just happened to crumble in this manner. His second in command's death weighs heavily on his shoulders. It's not his fault, he knows this, but it feels this way. Just as it felt when Lucian crawled, bitten and bloody, onto his doorstep.
Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa. My fault. My own most grievous fault.
He just knows that they must do this now.
It is Valentine that moves over and above Celine and places a strong hand on her stomach. Inside, the baby kicks strongly and he smiles a hint of a smile. For seconds, he thinks of what Jonathan could have been and he knows now that he's got it right. This will be what saves them.
"Keep her calm," he says, glancing up. "If not, it could kill the child."
Hodge nods, barely. Celine must be alive for this. His new son will not be born into death and destruction.
She is already bound by a rune. She cannot move her limbs or speak, but she is there. With his blade, he cuts deeply but carefully into her stomach. Her eyes flash wildly and pain streaks across her face. Hodge sweats a disgusting amount and Valentine wrinkles his nose until he pulls a bloodied baby boy out from inside of her. He's beautiful and perfect. Valentine can tell Celine thinks as much as well. It's not simply just the potions he mixed for her; there is something deeply special about the boy.
"Heal her," Valentine tells Hodge, wiping the boy clean. "Then slit her wrists. Leave no evidence of us behind unless you wish to be next."
It's not a threat, but a promise.
Holding the child close, he steps out into the cold fresh air and a cry erupts from his arms. The sound jolts him. His son, his blood, has never cried. Not when he was born and not a moment after. The one does. He'll do it the right way now. He will.
His hand is bigger than the child's head as he, warmly, brushes that fine, thin baby blonde hair back. "Shh," Valentine murmurs, feeling a bit mad as he holds the infant close. "I will do right by you, Jonathan. I swear."
IX.
Jocelyn has long since left, but somehow he has survived. He assumes that reason is his children. The two boys he has are so vastly different. He's thought, more than once, that if he could just combine the two, that the perfect Shadowhunter would exist. Deadly, elegant and graceful, but not too sharp and certainly not as soft as his adoptive son is.
His biological son cannot be manipulated in the same ways that this one can. He lives with the one he wishes was truly his in Michael Wayland's manor. He gives Jonathan what ever he desires: a hunting falcon, books, a birthday in which he bathes in spaghetti and the deadliest moves that he knows.
He tries…-- He tries to change Jonathan. The boy is too sensitive. Too sentimental. Jonathan has a tender heart and all he wants to do is bend him. He cannot -- he will not -- break him.
"Jonathan," he pauses, pressing his lips together and thinking of his wife. "To love is to destroy and to be loved is to be the one destroyed."
A small voice comes from the tiny, blonde-haired boy. "But I love you," he says simply.
Valentine hesitates before putting a firm hand on Jonathan's shoulder. "I love you, as well, son," he says clearly, his jaw tight. "That is why you must listen to me. You'll be strong as long as you never let love consume you."
X.
There is still a thin sliver thread of hope inside of him yet, seeing his son grown to nearly a man. He can have his family and his happy ending. Jonathan, this Jonathan, still loves him -- and it is that love that sustains him.
He likes to be called Jace now. He can only think the idea came from Maryse. There was always something sentimental when it came to her. Valentine assumes, even now, that she'll be furious to love something that is his. Jace lets him call him Jonathan and it feels like an iratze when one is injured. The relief floods in.
Jonathan is the only child he has ever loved and even though his daughter is standing in front of them, looking adamant and headstrong as ever, he knows Jonathan will still be the only child he ever loves.
Clarissa has already been infected and tainted by Jocelyn and Lucian. There's no way left to reach her and he will not try needlessly. It would be pointless. Jace, however, still has that innate goodness inside of him. A beautiful boy and the only thing he will ever be proud of in this life. He thinks of Jace's heart now and sees what could have been. He sees the idealistic seventeen year old he used to be and he sees the pureness that he never contained.
His strives aren't pointless; the uprising was a failure, but he's positive he can get it right now. Only with his son by his side. This will work, he says to himself.
"Jocelyn is your mother, Jonathan. And Clary --" He glances to his beautiful, angry daughter. "Clary is your sister."
He's mine, he wants to say to his daughter. He's mine and you cannot poison him like your mother poisoned me.
XI.
"I wanted to tell you, Jocelyn," he starts, sitting by her bedside, "that I'm sorry."
There's an endless supply of wires and tubes connected to her small, fragile-looking body. He takes her hand, hers impossibly cold within his, and brings it up to his lips. Placing a soft, precise kiss against her palm, he exhales and tightens his fingers around hers.
"I forgive you and one day, my love, I will make this right."