12A/N: Yo! So you've read the summary. Yeah...anyways! This is rated M, and I will warn you if there is any vile content present, though I find it pointless considering the clearly visible rating. There are OOC concepts in here, so if you're not cool with that...bye, I guess? I hope there'll be a God damned lemonade stand fostering somewhere in the near future... This is set in the nineteenth century, so if any of the dialogue seems bleh to you, let me know and I'll fix it! ALSO, Clary and Jace are seven and eight respectively in this specific chapter. Maybe the next. No, definitely the next.
A huge thanks to Enchanted21 for beta-ing! (And Grammarly, though I'd prefer if it fell in a hole and scooped its eyes out.)
Apart from that, enjoy!
Wings of blue, teal, purple, pink – every color, stained the sky with their magnificence, all belonging to fluttering, elegant butterflies. They were dancing, casting shadows on the swirling sunrise, which made the burst of color stronger, intensified. The clouds, though faint little whispers of cotton, twirled around the sunrise and the butterflies and the sleeping town below, creating this film of blurriness that made you question if the pallet of vibrant shades was even real. If it was all part of your imagination, and if you blinked, the muddled guck would be gone, leaving you in your classroom, with all the students laughing at you for daydreaming. But indeed, it was real. Real and animated and whirling with life in front of the town's drooping eyes.
That – the skies and the clouds – was only a droplet of the magic of Spring. Spring, the most wonderful, vivacious season of all. It was as if mother nature chose to rest her dwellings in the likes of Spring, only occasionally visiting Summer and Winter and Autumn; the mere liveliness of Spring herself ignited a spark of ambition in one's soul, a spark so rare and powerful, it took the dazzling influence of that specific season to set it alight.
It was a lovely Saturday morning, the wispy breeze weaving through the obstacles of the early morning streets. It crept under the dresses of the wandering ladies and stirred a small wind, lifting their skirts embarrassingly high. Though, much to the breeze's misfortune, there were very few people on the thin, black lanes. A man, albeit a small one, clothed in a shell of black fabric, chugged down the street looking to be in a real hurry. A woman, wearing a flowing, purple dress, and a child who was walking dutifully alongside his mother, also occupied the narrow strip of road. And finally, a little girl in a frail, mint green tea gown, streamed down the concrete, chasing a pair of blazing orange wings.
They flitted through her line of sight like a thought would flit through her mind: barely noticeable, there for only a flash of a second. But she spotted it with her luminous green eyes, and her feet pounded across the bitter ground if only to cage it with her hands for a measly few seconds. It would bring a gush of enrapturement through her veins nevertheless, having at last captured a small, winged beast. A little girl's dream.
The soaring creature seemed to mock her, pointing its finger at her as she hopped and skipped to catch up with it, little giggles giving way along with her breathy panting. Crimson tendrils of hair stormed around her head, some wiping across her face while others tickled her back; her mother never asked the maids to cut it short, resulting in impossibly long hair that reminded her of the blonde princess with hair longer than a waterfall from the fairytales. With the tan freckles that flew across her face like birds across an open sky, and eyes that shone with that trademark childhood curiosity, she looked so innocent. Saying no to her felt like a sin.
She trailed behind the butterfly for an eternity, the sounds of her flats beating the ground echoing through the sleeping town streets. After a while of relentless chasing and not paying attention to where the menacingly evil yet beautiful creature was leading her, the ominous trees of a forest captured her tiny body in their mysterious claws. A squeal, one of fear and loss, spilled from her lips as she realized where she was – or rather, where she wasn't.
Her mind was in turmoil, an iron rod burning with panic running along the stretch of her abdomen. Then the rod went to her legs and she started to make a break for it. Trees whizzed by her, a foggy mist of brown and green and yellow - from the sun - clouding her vision, making it seem like she was running through nowhere. Through a dream. And God, did she hope it was a dream. She even pinched herself, the vibrations of pain unlocking another squeal.
And when the realization that, yes, she was lost, and yes, she needed to stop the running and the squealing, she halted, gasping and out of breath. She was bold enough not to sob her brains out right then and there, her father had raised her that way: crying was not the solution; tears only led to more chaos, chaos no one wanted.
Walking. She started walking, not running nor jogging nor stampeding. Calm, little footsteps crunching the leaves and snapping the twigs. Her gown had caught on the spindly tree branches, but she paid no mind, resulting in oddly shaped tears scattered between seams and folds, shredded lace the most treacherous thing of all.
She was walking, where? She wasn't entirely sure on that, but she simply let her legs and her feet and her brain lead her. Let the forest lead her.
Perhaps a few minutes may have zoomed by, perhaps more, perhaps less. But she reached. And her gaze punctured sizzling holes into what lay before her, the intensity starling even the wildlife, for they all gazed back her, stopping their leisurely day-to-day activities to catch a glimpse of the spoiled redhead with the ripped dress and the green eyes that seemed to hold the whole forest within them. If they looked closely enough, miniscule specs of gold would be hiding in her irises, a few dots of lighter green peeking out too. Gold like the sun. Green like the lighter leaves.
But it was that specific green that tinted the scene before her, and the beautiful landscape appeared to be blushing with the sudden pinkish hue the butterflies gave. There was a little, enchanting opening in the middle of a cluster of trees, a beam of sunlight shooting through the center. It was like something out of the books, where the little girl got lost and finds a magical oasis in the desert.
There were colorful birds chirping about and not paying attention to her, but they made the scene so, so much more mystical.
A chipping, yet smooth stump rooted itself in the midst of the ray of daylight, perfect for sitting and reading. Maybe it was small children's books, but still counting as classified reading.
"Woah," she whispered, stepping into the circle of light. She felt the iron rod that kissed her skin a few minutes ago dissipate, a ribbon of curiosity tying itself around her in its place. Peace found her, as she seated herself on the stump, not at all hearing the footsteps behind her. The gears in her mind, rusted and shrieking, stopped their irritating actions, the delicate hands of peace holding them from moving.
And then everything went downhill. Fast. "Hey!" a boy's voice hooted, close to her. She started, whipping around and making her hair fly everywhere. Furious, golden eyes clacked against hers, like two rocks colliding. His scrutiny ran through her whole body as her fury started to match his, roaring flames of annoyance and defensiveness scorching the ribbons knotted around her. "Get away, you little snitch!" he snarled, a nasty scowl twisting his lips.
"And why should I do that?" she demanded, shooting upright and placing her hands on her hips roughly.
"Because!" he shouted, scrambling for a reason, in the end finding none. Instead, as a scrawny 'comeback', he decided to retort with, "little girls are not supposed to be out in the woods, now are they? And little girls are not allowed in my space. I may possibly get sick if you're too close to me." A smug grin spread across his face, slower than molasses, as he watched her cheeks pop into a shade redder than cherry. Angrier than a bull. More flustered than a teacher trying to educate incompetent kids, being constantly interrupted at every available interval, and then, finally, throwing her books down and slamming the door of the classroom shut.
She was beyond pissed. Beyond anything, at this point. She was, after all, a little girl. And though we, as humans, are entitled to nothing, the entitlement of useless, invigorating anger was all hers to play with.
"Well," she said, eye twitching noticeably. Her fists clenched and unclenched, nails biting into the skin of her palms, leaving shallow pink gashes in their wake. Like they were leaving footsteps in a snowy field. "Do you so happen to own the forest?" An answer never came from him, because as he opened his mouth, she had already started speaking. "I think not! The trees would hate it here, if you ruled all of them…I don't think it's fair! Why do you get to act like you rule the forest, huh? Why do you get to pretend and I can't?" Her lips slanted to her left, face contorting along with them. The boy took this as a look of puzzlement, like she was actually pondering her own question. "If you get to, then so do I," she declared at long last, grasping nothing rational as an answer.
The boy summoned words to his mouth, he really did, but they all sat in his throat, pooling up. He would have had to choke to get them out, and he was not about to embarrass himself in front of a mere girl, one he barely knew yet already had a strong opinion about. With his childish senses, he was trained, day in and out, to not have interest in any girl…except for his mother. His mother was the best girl ever.
"Fine," he complied, ashamed of himself for giving up so easily, for letting the mountain fall from his fingers. For listening to a girl. But then a question scratched through the sturdy barriers of his skull and into his brain, making him wonder impossibly. It evolved into words, words that swam through the pool in his throat, splashing out. "Do you know how you've even gotten here?" Curls of ruby were dragged along with her fingers as she rubbed her arm, an awkward air passing between them.
She whispered an incomprehensible phrase, ivy gaze diverted to the ground, suddenly taking interest in the bugs prancing about the grass.
The boy cocked an eyebrow, though she couldn't see it unless she glanced up. And, for some nonsensical reason that she could not decipher for the life of her, she looked towards him, as if the lifting of his brow triggered the lifting of her head. "I got lost," the redhead mumbled, finally meeting his eyes with hers. There was a part of him that softened. Like melting butter spreading out onto a porcelain plate. A warm explosion burst through her stomach, the feeling of friendliness and consideration oozing throughout her muscles. "Are you lost, too?"
Her gaze pressed down on him, as she absorbed his lanky arms and skinny legs, his trousers that hung loosely and his suspenders acting as the string keeping it all together. This cherub little smile tugged at his plumped lips, an adorable look for a child, and she watched even that. "My father gave me a map." He dipped into his trouser pockets, only to pull out a delicate piece of paper that appeared to be drenched in brown-yellow tea. "It has all sorts of things! The mountains on that side of Idris," the girl followed the arm of his shirt as he pointed to her left, sparkles of awe and amusement inspiring in both their eyes. "The barbarian lands over there," he directed his hand north, fingers catching the sunlight, "the great, big ocean," his head whipped south, towards the ever-stretching sea, "and, my favorite, the war…the war and weapon grounds!"
The dirt let out a gravelly moan as the boy's shoes twisted, letting him face east. He took enthuse filled steps in the general direction, and when he heard softer steps behind him, a grin took over his face. His mind went into hyperdrive, with him imaging himself in battle armor, the cold metal stinging his skin. He would be observing the arrows shot from his own bow, seeing as they flew into his enemy's heart and sent them staggering to the ground, as if injured gazelle. Then, after a few years of killing souls and drenching the battlefield in apple-red blood, thick as the disgusting medicine his mom made him drink when he was sick, his fellow soldiers would hoist him up on their shoulders, the air ringing with the cheers of his name.
Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan Herondale, the great!
"Jonathan," he whispered into the widespread east, hoping the winds would foster the budding dream of his. "Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan Herondale, the great war hero." The chattering of the trees was enough to start the gossip; Jonathan Herondale was going to be a name well-known, the leaves and the animals and the clouds had a feeling. The sun may have possibly been contributing to the cause as well.
In fact, the little whisperings did flow through the wind, because the small girl behind him yelped, eyes stretched wide. 'Jonathan Herondale', she thought. 'Herondale.' "Are you—are you really, truly Jonathan Herondale? Because—well," a deep intake of breath shook through her as his squinting, amber gaze fell upon her form, face screwing up in confusion. "Mother tells me that…just—just that all the Herondales are bad and cheaters and sometimes can be very, very mean." She rushed the last part, her mind not quite keeping up with her mouth, because she then slapped her hand to the source of her babbles, scared and ashamed, two emotions that were anything but familiar. "I—I'm sorry."
"It's…okay, I guess. I mean, it is your mother who said all that…but, do you—do you actually believe them?"
"I—"
"It's fine if you do," Jonathan Herondale reassured, defeat lining his tone. Instead of staring at the ground, letting the defeat show visibly, he kept his eyes on her. On her face, and immediately was shot down by the bullets of fury emitted from the green swishing in her irises. There were these iridescent speckles of golden in her eyes too, and for once, Jonathan didn't feel weird about having a gaze the color of pee. 'Ew', he thought, physically disgusted. But he was still confused as to why she was mad. Why she was furious, quite honestly. Why?
"I don't," she started, feeling him listen to every slip-up she made. "Hate you, that is. I don't hate you. You know why?"
"No—?" Her back turned to him, the bullets now firing to the tree trunks. When she shut her eyes, enveloping herself in a world of pitch black, nothingness, the bullets stung at the backs of her eyelids.
She was fuming, so much so, that steams may have been shooting from her nose. The fact that Jonathan Herondale, the same one that her parents had made out to be so incompetent and arrogant and unforgiving, was anything but, made her question everything, in and out. She wasn't mad at him, God no, she, in reality, was absolutely raging at her parents for lying straight through her. For feeding her false truths, things she was supposed to live off for a good amount of time.
There were fumes of astonishment billowing off him, filled with images of the war and the oceans and barbarians and everything locked away in his wondrous mind, it infected her in such a way that she felt there was a permanent imprint of his doing, somewhere in her brain. Like a drug, like anything, a small dose is enough to get you addicted, sticking to it like a moth to a flame. And she was entranced by the curiosity that erupted from his eyes and his mouth, the remnants singing her skin—her mind in an alluring way.
"Because. Because my parents were lying, and I don't like lies. Lies are mean and…and plain stupid!" She shivered; a blast of wind crawled under one of the gory rips in her dress, caressing the skin of her legs. "My mother and father lie to me all the time."
"Me too." Jonathan padded over to the tree stump, plopping himself upon it. Splinters of wood nagged his skin through the trousers that were supposedly very thick. "They tell me the Mor—Morgen—Morgenstern," he silently smiled to himself; he got it right! "the Morgenstern family is dangerous, and that I should stay away from them."
A quizzical expression embraced the girl's face. "How did you—? I didn't even tell you my name."
Jonathan smirked, quiet laughter scraping through his body. She looked like a gaping fish. "There are only two redheads in this part of Idris," two fingers shot up from his fisted hands as he remembered their names, "one is Jocelyn Mor—Morgenstern and the other is Clarissa Morgenstern. You have a real funny last name," he said slyly.
And there was the unnecessary and invigorating anger back at it again. "Yeah?! Well, you—you have a weird last name too! What is a Herondale? You are mixing a bird with a 'dale'! Why a 'dale'? Why not a…a flower! Heronflower sounds so much better!" She bolted around, staring him dead in the eye. If looks could kill, he would have fallen off the local church and been attacked midair with an arrow. He near well toppled off the stump. "And also, you don't even know which Morgenstern," a mocking look was tossed in his direction, "I could possibly be."
"Jocelyn's a boy's name. Which means you have to be…Clarissa. Father told me it means bright and colorful, and if you ask me, it doesn't really fit you. Annoying and weird is what fits you. Or! Or, you could be named Emily, it means 'rival'. I'm fighting my Emily!"
"Oh, shut up," Clarissa snarled, serenity morphing into something vile. "Even if I was an Emily, I would make sure to definitely stay far, far away from the likes of you. I may be small, colorful, and annoying, but I'm not stupid enough to take the mean things you say to me sometimes. Perhaps mother was correct after all…perhaps Heronflowers are very, very mean." She was kidding. Of course, she was. The grin on her face said so, right?
Jonathan could see right through her, like she was glass and he was sunlight. It made sense.
A/N: Jocelyn wasn't mandated as a girl's name until the 20th century, just to clear things up, so I don't know how Jocelyn is actually going to work here. A totally special thanks 'taught. to. dream30' for putting up with my annoying time zone, and for giving me the necessary moral support for this. She's a pretty great writer with amazing talent, so check her things out! You won't regret it I promise. For those of you inquiring about my other stories, I'm teeter tottering in between, maybe I'll continue it if I have enough willpower, and, I do not want to ever touch it because it's a fucked up concept that I may have taken waaaay too far.
Feel free to review, those things inspire me. A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL OF YOU, AND MAY YOUR NEW YEARS RESOLUTION NOT FAIL LIKE IT MIGHT HAVE DONE LAST YEAR!
- RWMS