unbreakable.

💕 It all happened faster than Anneli could register, but the second the demon’s hold on her arms loosened, she struggled free and bolted, pushing past another possessed mundane with a blast of magic that left her breathless. Her feet stumbled against the pavement and she caught herself on a nearby trashcan, fingers gripping onto the metal frame in a desperate attempt to keep upright. The young warlock’s heart was utterly pounding, the adrenaline rush from her fight or flight reaction still pumping through her veins, making them almost vibrate with energy. Cerulean eyes, wide and panicked, caught sight of her savior - a dark haired woman, full of tattoos… no, runes. A shadowhunter. The all-too-familiar panic began to well up again and for a second, she considered running; she’d avoided associations with the Clave before, and she had no want to change that.

But there were nearly a dozen possessed mundanes, and even with all that woman’s abilities, she wouldn’t be able to handle it on her own. Catching her breath for a moment, the blonde stepped forward again, knowing she’d regret it – but they were both dead if she stayed idle. Taking a proper stance, inhaling sharply, she began to chant a spell she’d learned from Ragnor years ago in Chthonian, fingers flicking and twisting as rouge and silver magic began to flutter between them. Focusing every last bit of her strength, a symbol began to appear on the ground below the possessed demons - a huge pentagram made up of her magic, spikes coming up out of the flat symbol and trapping them within it. “Move!” she called, just as the symbol began to pulse, the magic attaching itself to the demons, starting the extraction. A few had escaped the spell, and they made a run for Isabelle, intent on taking out at least one of their targets.

Isabelle doesn’t know what’s more alarming to the woman--warlock--the demons, or the shadowhunter. She can’t blame her for that, no one with half a brain ever would again. It hadn’t been all that long ago where she herself had been so ignorant and naive to how things worked outside Clave circles. Even with her extensive dabbling in the Downworld. But right not all that mattered was that they got away, not whether or not the warlock was afraid of her. She hates dealing with possessions--both on a personal and professional level. There’s something about those oh so human faces that throws her off sometimes. Finds her almost pulling her punches when there was no need. They could be anyone.

The nights are getting longer, even here in this sun-bathed tropic; the vacationers drifting home, the insects rasping in the broad-fan leaves of the trees outside. He remembers the sound from other nights, long ones bent over a war table or catching an hour of half-sleep on a bench; strategies and plans feeding into the live fire of anger and misery he could not drown. A simple philosophy had been his reason for living, then. What you cannot kill, use for fuel; what you cannot use, bury next to the child you were and leave it for the earth to consume.

It’s a different year, a different reason to be here, but the parallels make his stomach turn. Young, scarred already by combat, dizzy and sick from an illness, a breaking that was forced inside her body without her consent. The nephilim girl has been healing, weaving the edges of her mind and self back together under the hot Brazilian sun; Jason remembers all too well how it feels to gather his own scraps and tether them with needle and thread, ambition and rage.

Some nights Isabelle sleeps. Tonight, he can hear the soft creak of floorboards as she moves in her room, a familiar pattern from weeks of cohabitation. She splashes her face with water, takes a breath of air from the window, tries to go back to bed. It’ll be hours before she can rest. He remembers his own bad nights, spiraling out under the stars and leaves, the noises of his growing army not enough to feel safe inside his own skin.

It’s a simple thing, too much habit to be a decision now. The matte black laptop, the bottle of orange-pineapple-guava juice cold from the refrigerator, and scarred knuckles tapping lightly at the wooden door.

Isabelle Lightwood had never been uncomfortable in her body until then--when she was so exhausted and so weak, she’d ended up collapsing on several occasions just trying to stand. 

It’s been better since they got to Brazil, why Brazil she didn’t really know (all her companion had told her was it was a good place to piece yourself back together and after that she decided perhaps asking questions wasn’t such a good idea). But being in the sunlight, she almost feels like a person again. Like herself. The days are good, and getting better.

The nights are the problem. Because it’s dark and quiet and there’s nothing to stop her mind from wandering or her thoughts from becoming too long, nothing to hold her interest enough to keep the cravings away. It’s almost routine now;

She tosses and turns, sometimes for hours, gives up on trying to sleep--tries to move quietly enough to the bathroom to splash water on her face so she doesn’t wake Jason, leans on the window ledge for a while and thinks if she could just breathe deeply enough, just steady herself, she’d be fine. But she isn’t. Instead she finds herself sitting atop the covers, her legs hugged to her chest, leaning against the backboard trying not to move--she doesn’t know where she’d go or what she’d do, but Isabelle is sure she doesn’t want to find out.

۵ @breakablehearts ۵

۵ Panic spread like a wildfire inside the warlock’s body, her magic dwindling rapidly as demon after demon attacked, all possessing human forms. Tears brimmed the corners of her eyes as pink and silver magic shot out of her fingertips, colliding with the center of one demon’s chest, sending him backward. It was a pathetic attack, barely enough force to push him a few feet, and the effort had exhausted her. It had escalated too quickly - one attempt to help a mundane had led to an onslaught, of far more creatures than Anneli could handle on her own.

The girl’s pale skin was decorated with slices and wounds by that point, its form hunched slightly, a limp in her step (from a particularly bad stab wound in her thigh). Everything absolutely burned - every muscle, bone, vein - but to stop would mean certain death, and her adrenaline rush had tried to keep up. Her body twisted as her arms whipped around her, sending a wave of of energy hurtling toward the demons and for a moment, there was peace. The blonde wanted nothing more than to collapse - but it wasn’t an option. Instead, she prepared herself for another round, tensing… only to find arms around her own, pinning them behind her. Struggling like a wild animal, she screamed, kicking, elbowing, doing anything she could to get free of the hold - but it was too powerful.

It was getting more and more difficult for them to get information they needed--Isabelle couldn’t really blame any downworlders for not wanting to help them after what had happened with Merliorn. After everything. A heavy Clave presence was enough to make most Shadowhunters uncomfortable, she couldn’t imagine how everyone else felt about it. Still, it was making it a lot more difficult to do her job--to keep people safe. No one wanted to talk to Shadowhunters these days. No one wanted to talk to anyone. So she’s resorted to patrolling the general part of the city that the most carnage seemed to have been inflicted upon.