[BL] Shadowhunters; Where the silence sings

V. (Days Past): Dublin (1588)

The warlock slowly regained consciousness. He was in bed, the blanket soft and clean. He stretched like a cat and sat up, half asleep. There was not much in his memory from the night before at first but like a fog it was slowly coming back, creeping up on him. There was a man who caught him stealing. His mind was flooding with blood, red and wet, slowly overtaken by fire. He was carried away by the two men that caught him stealing earlier. He looked around the room. The walls were covered in unknown symbols, thick black paint curling and twisting, giving life to an unknown language. The snow-like dust was floating around the wooden shelves, all of them filled with heavy books and old parchment. He thought of the book he had back in his den, wondering if he was ever to see it again. His gaze shifted to the side and shriek got stuck in his throat, every inch of his body suddenly screaming. He tried to get up, his leg, however, got ensnared by the blanket and famished body toppled over to the floor. The child tried to speak but nothing was coming out of his mouth.

The cloaked phantom was sitting completely still by the bed, body upright and straight as a tree. Golden rays of sun were invading the room through the windows stained with grease and gently caressing the man's scared face, his eyes and mouth sown shut.

The child crawled to the shelves and grasped a thick book with leather cover. He threw it with all of his strength toward the stranger. The child felt the back injury from previous night and flinched, missing his aim by several paces. Not his best work. The figure did not move.

Careful with those, sounded in his head. They are very precious to me.

"What are you?" The child asked and grasped another book. He shrieked: "Speak, demon."

Your friend. There was no movement. The cloaked man continued siting with his hands folded over one another in his lap.

He aimed another book at the figure and looked around the room, fearfully eyeing the symbols around them, reminding him of black stars. "What are those?"

Angelic runes. They are used by the Nephilim like me and Caradog. Now put the book down.

"Nephilim? What is that? Demons? Cult? Devil? Are you going to murder me?"

Shadowhunters. We hunt demons, the creatures lurking in the shadows, devouring the lives of humans in grotesque ways, toying with human mind, pushing them to the cliff of madness.

"Are you here to hunt a demon right now?" His voice trembled.

Izri nodded.

"Are you here to hunt me?"

There was a pause. No.

Another set of questions escaped the child's mouth. He lowered his hand but did not let go of his weapon. He held it as a hostage. Even though he doubted the man would truly worry about the book, it calmed him down. Having a leverage, no matter how small and fragile one. "Am I a Nephilim? Is that why I look like this? Can I use angelic runes too?"

No.

"Am I demon then?" He felt like this was the answer he had been waiting for his entire short life of never ending misery. The warlock held his breath, his chest raising up and down violently.

It is not as simple as that. The voice sounded calm, perhaps too calm, as if stripped of any emotion and feelings, leaving only hollow sounds carrying hollow words. He wasn't able to identify the voice as high or deep, masculine or feminine. It was just a voice.

He whispered. "I am afraid of demons."

As you should be.

"Do you know what I am then?" The child looked straight at them man, something he rarely did for the fear of unmasking a terrible, unknown secret about himself, secret he himself did not know. He showed him his eyes, the eyes of a goat.