this is a blog shared by all of the muses (and there's hundreds) of a mika. so yes, this is a roleplaying blog. you will see rants, mushy shit (probably about alec from magnus -- /shot down) and funny little conversations. enjoy? 
Her hair is wet with sweat and plastered to her head, as she leans back against the headboard of the bed, screaming in agony. Sister Velia stands close by the door, watching as the nuns and midwives tend to her. The woman — the girl, really — is blue-eyed and set with a beautiful face. Although her rather fragile features are contorted into that of the pain of childbirth, Teresa is lovely still.
“There is no doubt the child will be be beautiful,” says a voice from behind her. Velia jumps, and turns to Sister Nora — who always is able to read her mind.
“Indeed,” murmurs Velia, tilting her head to the side just slightly as a midwife cries ‘Si tratta di una ragazza!’ A girl. They beckon for Velia and Nora to come and see. Teresa holds her daughter in her arms, and Velia notes her pallid face, slack with exhaustion. Though, the happiness is plain to see in her face; the amazement of the tiny infant she carries in her arms. Her daughter.
“What will you name her?” Nora voices the question that seems to be running through the minds of all the women in the room.
Teresa’s expression changes into that of deep thought and she brightens as she picks a name.
“Evelina. Evelina Nicola,” she breathes, touching the face of her child tenderly. The child is crying, and clutching at her mother’s fingers. “Her hands are so soft,” whispers Teresa in wonderment.
“A last name?” Someone asks. Breaking away from her daze, Teresa shakes her head of dark curls.
“Perhaps her father’s name will do?” Inquires a midwife. But Teresa tenses at that.
“Her father … has no idea of my whereabouts, much less Evelina’s existence.”
“Then your own family name?” Velia finds herself saying. Teresa turns to her, blue-eyed and … and sad. She shakes her head. The girl is back to admiring her daughter, stroking the soft strands of dark hair rolling in curls on her petite and perfect little head.
That night, as baby Evelina sleeps beside her mother’s bed, Velia finds Teresa unable to sleep in her bed — she is sick with a high fever.
Three days later, Teresa dies.
The streets of Florence have changed since Evelina first left the morning after drinking Damen Notte’s elixir. It has been nearly a decade since that time. Evelina’s birthday is today, but she spends it alone, as she has done each year since ten years ago. She has begun to not mind the loneliness and solitude of her being. Though she passes by throngs and throngs of people everyday, she does not speak to one. Today is no exception. And yet —
“Evelina! Evelina, is that you?”
She turns at the voice, half-surprised and half-annoyed that someone has recognized her and is speaking to her. It is then her eyes meet a boy’s, or more accurately, a young man’s and she inhales sharply. Roman.
“Evelina,” he says, a wide grin spreading across his face. It has been so long since she had last seen her fellow orphan. Evelina cannot help but smile, and she does not hold back in her smile for Roman. It is warm and welcoming and pleasantly surprised. “What are you doing here in Florence?”
“I could ask the same of you,” she replies, still gazing up at him with her smile. She had long admired Roman, the golden-haired and rakish boy — though he is now a man. Roman exhales a soft laugh, a breathy chuckle that Evelina can only blink at. She likes to think of herself as good at hiding her emotions, but she knows this is not the case.
“I am here studying.”
“Studying?” She raises a delicate brow, her expression quizzical. Though she never had doubt in the boy’s wit and overall smartness, she could never imagine Roman of all people to be patient enough to actually formally learn a trade from someone.
“Yes, studying,” Roman confirms, visibly amused (and could she sense a bit of him being thrown off?) by her reaction of surprise. “Now answer my question, Eve.”
Eve.
A nickname not used by him since the days of the orphanage.
A nickname not unlike her other — Lina.
But putting that thought of mind — for it was a sad thought and Evelina disliked dwelling on pain — she complied to the male’s wish and stated that it was her birthday and she had long wanted to return to the city from which she came from and was born in. ”And so here I am,” Evelina finishes her brief and honest answer, nodding her head a little, as if confirming it with herself.
Roman smiles, and there is something behind his smile. Is it thoughtfulness or reminiscence? Evelina cannot tell, though she tries. But before she can attempt to place a finger on the expression the blond beholds, he offers his arm and asks to accompany her in a walk.
She does not refuse.
“Honestly, Damen, I don’t see why you’re so obsessed with this whole ‘studying with artists’ thing,” Drina says, a yawn of boredom escaping her lips. The young man she speaks to — her husband — merely rolls his eyes, but doesn’t turn away from his drawing.
“It’s important to me, Drina,” he responds, not without a sigh of annoyance.
“Is it more important than me?” She’s moved off of the bed she was lounging on before, quickly making her way towards the dark-haired male. When she does reach him, she wraps her arms around his waist from behind, and buries her face into his neck, inhaling his scent. Damen smells like art — of oil paint and canvases. He is always making art, if not, studying it. Damen turns to her, a wry smile lighting his features.
“Of course not. You’re more important. You’ve always been more important,” he swivels around in his seat, his full attention on her. Drina has always loved that Damen deems her first before anything and everything. She comes first. She’ll always come first.
“Then come,” she says, a faint smirk on her lips. “Come with me to bed. It’s late, and you’ve been drawing all day.”
There is a moment of hesitation.
But Damen gives in, and she pulls her husband to bed. But they do not sleep that night.
“You are unbelievable,” Evelina laughs. Roman turns to her, grinning.
“What, unbelievably charming?” He is met with a dull stare.
“Please. You? Charming?” She wrinkles her nose. Evelina has lost track of time. The day has passed and already night has fallen. They are still walking through Florence, though, as lively as children. She is reminded of her childhood and walking through the streets. Often, she walked alone, but she would not be alone when she reached her destination — an apple orchard just outside the city, but not too far from the orphanage. But she hadn’t gone to the apple orchard since she was nine. Nor was she about to now that she was twenty.
“Oh come now, you can’t be a little nice for my birthday?” Roman says teasingly. Evelina holds back another laugh.
“Your birthday? I was certain today was my birthday. It seems you’re a little too eager for catching up to me, Roman,” Evelina retorts. Roman’s eyes light up. He remembers. The two were always competing with each other — whether it be with who broke the most rules (they tied in that arena) or who was older (it was a childish thing to compete over since Evelina couldn’t change her birthday to be later than Roman’s, and vice versa) — everything was a contest.
“Still as competitive as I recall, then, Eve?”
“As if you’re not!” Evelina shoves him playfully, not caring that she is being ridiculously childish. Roman laughs, though it fades quickly. There is a sound of something snapping. He stops in his tracks, and Evelina does too — feeling a sudden twinge of fear. She doesn’t ask questions when Roman takes her hand and starts to run.
Somewhere along the way, Evelina lets go of Roman’s hand. She is tired and full of questions. Why are they running? What are they running from? But she can’t ask questions because she’s lost him. She’s lost sight of Roman. She runs down along an alley, her feet aching before she halts to a stop.
“Roman?”
A girl of about nine or ten stands by the doorway to a room, her eyes wide with panic. She grips the candle in her hand tight, the wax dripping onto her fingers, but she couldn’t care less for the state of her hands. Perhaps months ago, she would have — but this girl was different than the girl just a few months before. She watches the priest thrash in his bed in pain. Evelina begins to step forward when a hand clasps her shoulder. Her heart stops and she is about to scream before the same hand pulls her back from the door and room, covering her mouth as well. She bites the hand and feels a jab of triumph when the hand pulls away almost immediately — the feeling of triumph disappearing when she recognizes the figure. “Damen?”
He places a finger on her lips.
Damen Auguste Notte. He is four, nearly five years older than her — and frankly the most handsome boy there at the orphanage. She is thrown off by his sudden appearance and the expression he wears. An expression of urgency.
“Come with me,” he says, offering his hand — which is noticeably rougher and bigger than her own. She stares at his hand for a moment in somewhat of a daze, before taking it and being rushed along the corridor and into a room. Drina’s room.
Drina is the same age as Damen, if not just a little younger — and the oldest of all the girls. Most girls in general — and sometimes even grown women — envy Drina for her looks. Evelina tries not to, but it is hard. With boys like Damen and Roman all over her … But no. Like Evelina ever had a chance with the golden-haired Roman. He’s a mere three days younger than her; the two are the youngest and smallest children of the orphanage. Blue-eyed like her, but golden-haired unlike her. Roman is small, but quick and agile — where Evelina has always been a little tall for her age, and extremely clumsy. But Roman loves —
“Drina,” Damen breathes as he strides into her room, letting go of Evelina’s hand. The rest of the orphans are sitting by the girl’s bed. Evelina finds Roman by Drina’s side, clinging to her hand. Damen is angry. Jealous. Evelina can tell by the way he seems to stiffen and tense at the sight of small Roman clutching Drina’s frail hand. Drina is sick. She too has been struck with the sickness that has spread all throughout Italy. The sickness that apparently, Evelina had been told, killed her own father before she was born. Evelina watches as Damen gently tugs at Roman’s hand, and tells him to let go of Drina. Roman does not comply. Why should he? He’s as much in love with Drina as Damen is.
“Is she going to die?” Evelina finds herself asking boldly. Both Damen and Roman turn and stare, as well as the other orphans. There is a silence that grips the cool night air of the room. It is drafty in the orphanage, as it always has been. But tonight, there is an edge to it. Something will happen tonight. Evelina can feel it. And so can Damen, apparently. For in one moment, he is staring at blue-eyed Evelina Abandonato; parting his lips in a manner that would only be interpreted as thinking or about to speak an answer to her rather straightforward question. But in the next moment, he is gone. He has raced out of the room, and then she receives an answer from dark-haired Damen.
“Drina’s not going to die! None of us are!”
His answer, little do they know, is about to become true and possible … in every possible way.
“What are you doing?”
Evelina jumped, the lace slipping through her fingers and falling slowly to the ground.
Roman’s eyes searched hers as he leaned against the door frame, his gaze calculating. They shared their eye color — blue. But Roman’s blue eyes were glimmering and cold, much like a cold ocean — where Evelina’s were softer, like the sky.
“I’m not doing anything, Roman,” she answered, her tone steady. She watched him carefully as he shifted his jaw. “I was just admiring Drina’s —”
“Well, it’s mine.”
Her brow arched slightly, but she kept her comments to herself — as always. It was wise to watch one’s tongue around Roman. Unfortunately, it took decades of trial and error for Evelina to realize that. It was almost a century now that they were staying with each other. At times, Evelina found it trying to be patient around the rakish and often infuriating blond. But she was all he had … until he could have Drina, of course.
Evelina was nothing compared to the lovely Drina Magdalena Impoverina — though she was known now as Drina Auguste. Drina’s looks were incredibly irresistible. Her pale ivory skin set off the fiery curls that framed her delicate face in a way that Evelina’s messy dark hair would never be able to do. And her eyes.
There had been many a time that Evelina had been complimented for the softness held in her eyes — something about the steady look of them was apparently a trait certain men liked — but Drina’s superior glint in her emerald eyes was something all men adored. Men like Damen, Drina’s husband (though their marriage seemed to go off like day and night) and Roman, Evelina’s companion.
“Honestly, you behave as if I’ll tear it up or set it on fire just by touching it,” said Evelina now, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Roman simply frowned at her, unamused.
“Well, knowing your knack for being … er … graceful, love, it wouldn’t be too surprising if you burned down the house merely by touching some lace.” He said, but not in too cold a manner. And there he was. It was this Roman that Evelina had agreed to stay with. The Roman she liked to call her friend. She smiled a little, then retrieved the lace and handed it over to him, knowing that it was best she did not leave it lying on the floor.
“I thought you were going out to see if Misa and her friends were in town,” she thought aloud. Roman blinked, as if surprised she had remembered this, and he swallowed.
“I did, but I couldn’t find any of them.”
Liar! She thought. But she kept her thoughts to herself, and fortunately for her, she blocked his mind from reading hers at that moment. Turning away, she looked out the rather large and tall window, staring below at the people walking past.
“Is that so?”
The girl was hardly interested in the conversation now, but she had been left for three days with absolutely no one to speak to, and so it did her some good to talk to him — as impatient and irritating as he could be. For just as Evelina was all Roman had, Roman was all Evelina had.
But she came second.
Which was okay.
Evelina doubted she had ever been first in anyone’s heart — anyone’s, even her own.
It was always Drina who came first for Roman. He had loved her since the days of the orphanage. Though they had all been young — Damen and Drina had been fourteen and thirteen, and Evelina had been nine, and Roman was nine as well — it had been plain to see that the three of them — excluding Evelina, of course — were caught in a webbed triangle.
And even now, they were trapped in the triangle, with Evelina watching Roman from the sidelines, constantly trying to win Drina’s heart — and constantly being shot down. That was why Evelina promised herself not to give herself away so easily. Not like before, anyways. She didn’t want to be abandoned. She didn’t want to be Evelina Abandonato again. For that name was wretched to her — and it was a name she vowed never to use again. Not after everything she had been through. If anyone was going to do the abandoning again, it would be her.
“Uh, Evelina? Are you still listening?”
Roman’s voice broke through the glass of her thoughts and she turned, blinking once, twice, as she regained her composure.
“Sorry, Roman, I don’t think I feel very good today. What was that?”
“I said, d’you want to help with the invitations for the party?” He said, running his fingers through his hair. Evelina watched him, a faint smile of affection tugging at her lips. There had been a time where had wanted to be more than friends with this man. But that was years ago, and even when he had tried to sleep with her, she could not help but feel like it was wrong. And so she had made it clear that night years ago she would not have him touch her like that.
And luckily for her, Roman complied.
Of course, he’d been angry at first — he never was one to have his pride wounded — and he’d even avoided her for a time — but now, they were friends again.
“Of course I want to help. Your penmanship is horrible.”
“Excuse me? And who taught you how to write?”
“Certainly not you!” Evelina laughed as Roman threw the lace in her face, dodging and going to throw more lace at him when someone knocked at the door. They both turned and Evelina’s smile and laughter faded when she recognized Drina.
There she stood, in all her glorious beauty. Evelina blinked as Drina approached them — or rather, approached Roman. The two whispered to each other, as they always did — even from the time they were children.
Evelina caught the word ‘elixir’ and held her breath.
When was Roman going to tell the truth to his beloved Drina? That he had no need for her to come and hand him flasks of the elixir in secret. That he had long since figured out the recipe on his own, and at his parties held every century — like the party he was to hold in a few weeks — he gave his own elixir out to the other immortals.
The immortals whom Drina’s husband Damen had created, or rather, made immortal.
Damen, who had denied their prolonged immortality when they had come, begging him for more of the elixir. Evelina had never gone to Damen for the elixir. If anything, she was terrified of the man. He had a ruthlessness about him that drove her away. But Roman and Damen had a rivalry between them that she could only guess would last for more years to come. And so, as much as she hated gossip, Roman told her more about Drina’s husband than she would have liked. Often, he told her how Damen had denied them — the immortals — their right to the elixir. Though Evelina never told him what she thought … she found this hatred the two held for each other rather ridiculous. From what she recalled, Damen had no idea what drinking the elixir would do to them when he offered it to them that fateful night the Plague hit the orphanage.
The orphans had all disbanded by the time he must have realized. Evelina herself had went out on her own way, stealing from the dead; ignorant of her newfound immortality.
It was only when she started being able to read other’s minds and see auras — as well as manifest objects from nothing — that she realized that the elixir had given her more than just immunity from the plague that killed so many people. Though Evelina was immortal and had a friend in Roman (who had a way of getting what he wanted), she felt more lonely than ever.
To say the least, drinking the elixir had brought more surprises than she could have ever expected — and less love than what she had wanted.
Dearest Peter & Henry,
I cannot stay here any longer. If you are reading this note now, it is because I have gone and left this house. Let me explain. I care deeply for you both No, I take that back. That is too formal of a way to express my feelings. I know we have only known each other for so long, but already, I know I love you both. I am sorry if that startles you — or worse, offends you — but I figure you deserve the truth.
The truth is, I’m afraid that I have repeated my mistakes from a very long time ago. I thought I had learned from experience not to … not to let two different people care for me as much as you do. I did not want to break anyone’s heart ever again, to have to look into their eyes and know the pain they felt was caused by me. In fact, I had promised to distance myself away from others so that I would never make that mistake again, but then I met you, Peter … and then you, Henry. And I realize that if I never want to break one’s heart again — any of your hearts — I have to leave before anything else happens. To be frank, it hurts me to leave you two. But it is something I need to do, for the sake of your feelings (and mine).
I have left all my things in my room, because had I taken anything, I would have been tempted to stay all the more — especially because most of my possessions are books. You two know how much I love books and the library here.
I am truly, deeply and utterly sorry for having caused or currently causing pain. I did not wish for this to happen, and I promise it will not happen again.
Your friend (As I hope we always have been such),
Theresa Tessa Gray
This feeling was wrong.
His breathing quickened, hardened, as he watched the life drain out of the last of the men. The last of his enemies. He was supposed to feel … Damen didn’t know how he was supposed to feel, but certainly, it wasn’t what he was feeling now. Emptiness. Swallowing, he blinked rapidly, and a sudden sense of dizziness stole him. Then a hand clamped his shoulder. Almost instantly, he whipped around, facing the owner of said hand.
Facing her.
Facing Drina.
Damen wasn’t one to cry. He hated crying. Often, when a child at the orphanage did break down during their first whipping, he never considered comforting them. That was Drina, always comforting those who hurt. The very same Drina who stood before him now, her hand still resting on his shoulder. His dark eyes found her shining green ones and he gave a shaky exhale.
“Damen?” Her voice was gentle, and her hand moved from his shoulder, slowly running over his cheek.
His mind quickly flashed back to the image of his mother speaking his name in that very same way. To the time where she shoved him in that cupboard and whispered his name in that exact way. Damen’s heart hurt.
“Make … make it go away,” he said in a soft murmur. Drina’s brow furrowed as she took his words in. He took both of her hands then, squeezing them in his firm grip. “Drina … please make it go away,” he repeated, his tone much more urgent. Drina inhaled, her eyes searching his before she leaned up, brushing her lips against his. Damen closed his eyes, instantly pressing hard into their kiss, clutching at her red strands and tresses of hair.
He pulled away after a moment, and Drina, dazed, merely stared at him, her soft lips parted ever so slightly. “I love you,” he said in a rather husky voice. “Ti amo.” Drina merely flushed, which surprised Damen for a moment — her skin was so startlingly pale that any blush reddened all of her cheeks. He leaned in to kiss her again before she held a finger to his lips. Surprised and suddenly fearing rejection, Damen paused.
“I love you too, Damen Notte,” she whispered. “But if you don’t mind, may we kiss elsewhere? Away from the corpses of your enemies?”
A soft laugh escaped the male’s lips and he nodded.
Then off they went, as quickly as they came, and Damen pushed the feeling of guilt down further and further that night, until it was nothing but a mere thread in his mind, a thread never to be remembered until centuries later.
The thread of the feeling that something was wrong.
Samuel had fallen silent hours ago, but Simon was still awake, staring sleeplessly into the darkness, when he heard the screaming.
His head jerked up. Silence. He looked around uneasily — had he dreamed the noise? He strained his ears, but even with his newly sensitive hearing, nothing was audible. He was about to lie back down when the screams came again, driving into his ears like needles. It sounded as if they were coming from outside the Gard.
Rising, he stood on the bed and looked out the window. He saw the green lawn stretching away, the faraway light of the city a faint glow in the distance. He narrowed his eyes. There was something wrong about the city light, something … off. It was dimmer than he remembered it — and there were moving points here and there in the darkness, like needles of fire, weaving through the streets. A pale cloud rose above the towers, and the air was full of the stench of smoke.
“Samuel.” Simon could hear the alarm in his own voice. “There’s something wrong.”
He heard doors slamming open and running feet. Hoarse voices shouted. Simon pressed his face close to the bars as pairs of boots hurtled by outside, kicking up stones as they ran, the Shadowhunters calling to one another as they raced away from the Gard, down toward the city.
“The wards are down! The wards are down!”
“We can’t abandon the Gard!”
“The Gard doesn’t matter! Our children are down there!”
Their voices were already growing fainter. Simon jerked back from the window, gasping. “Samuel! The wards —”
“I know. I heard.” Samuel’s voice came strongly through the wall. He didn’t sound frightened but resigned, and even perhaps a little triumphant at being proved right. “Valentine has attacked while the Clave is in session. Clever.”
“But the Gard — it’s fortified — why don’t they stay up here?”
“You heard them. Because all the children are in the city. Children — aged parents — they can’t just leave them down there.”
The Lightwoods. Simon thought of Jace, and then, with terrible clarity, of Isabelle’s small, pale face under her crown of dark hair, of her determination in a fight, of the little-girl Xs and Os on the note she’d written him. “But you told them — you told the Clave what would happen. Why didn’t they believe you?”
“Because the wards are their religion. Not to believe in the power of the wards is not to believe that they are special, chosen, and protected by the Angel. They might as well believe they’re just ordinary mundanes.”
Simon swung back to stare out the window again, but the smoke had thickened, filling the air with a grayish pallor. He could no longer hear voices shouting outside; there were cries in the distance, but they were very faint. “I think the city is on fire.”
“No.” Samuel’s voice was very quiet. “I think it’s the Gard that’s burning. Probably demon fire. Valentine would go after the Gard, if he could.”
“But —” Simon’s words stumbled over one another. “But someone will come and let us out, won’t they? The Consul, or — or Aldertree. They can’t just leave us down here to die.”
“You’re a Downworlder,” said Samuel. “And I’m a traitor. Do you really think they’re likely to do anything else?”
It wouldn’t have been a pleasant walk under normal circumstances. Accustomed to city lights, Clary couldn’t believe how dark it was in Idris at night. The thick black shadows that lined the road on either side seemed to be crawling with barely visible things, and even with Jace’s witchlight she could see only a few feet ahead of them. She missed streetlights, the ambient glow of headlights, the sounds of the city. All she could hear now was the steady crunch of their boots on gravel and, every once in a while, her own breath puffing out in surprise as she tripped over a stray rock.
After a few hours her feet began to ache and her mouth was dry as parchment. The air had grown very cold, and she hunched along shivering, he hands thrust deep into her pockets. But even all that would have been bearable if only Jace had been talking to her. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d live the manor except to snap out directions, telling her which way to turn at a fork in the road, or ordering her to skirt a pothole. Even then she doubted if he would have minded that much if she’d fallen into the pothole, except that it would have slowed them down.
Eventually the sky in the east began to lighten. Clary, stumbling along half-asleep, raised her head in surprise. “It’s early for dawn.”
Jace looked at her with bland contempt. “That’s Alicante. The sun doesn’t come up for another three hours at least. Those are the city lights.”
Too relieved that they were nearly home to mind his attitude, Clary picked up her pace. They rounded a corner and found themselves walking along a wide dirt path cut into a hillside. It snaked along the curve of the slope, disappearing around a bend in the distance. Though the city was not yet visible, the air had grown brighter, the sky shot through with a peculiar reddish glow.
“We must be nearly there,” Clary said. “Is there a shortcut down the hill?”
Jace was frowning. “Something’s wrong,” he said abruptly. He took off, half-running down the road, his boots sending up puffs of dust that gleamed ochre in the strange light. Clary ran to keep pace, ignoring the protests of her blistered feet. They rouneded the next curve and Jace skidded to a sudden halt, sending Clary crashing into him. In another circumstance it might have been comic. It wasn’t now.
The reddish light was stronger now, throwing a scarlet glow up into the night sky, lighting the hill they stood on as if it were daylight. Plumes of smoke curled up from the valley below like the unfurling feathers of a black peacock. Rising from the black vapor were the demon towers of Alicante, their crystalline shells like arrows of fire piercing the smoky air. Through the thick smoke, Clary could glimpse the leaping scarlet of flames, scattered across the city like a handful of glittering jewels across a dark cloth.
It seemed incredible, but there it was: They were standing on a hillside high over Alicante, and below them the city was burning.
