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hartshorn-and-isinglass · 1 year ago

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UNHALLOWED GROUND

CHAPTER 1: Bring Me to Life

(I'm not committing to a specific year and location with this setting. Ironically that's probably because I know how much research it would take to actually do that and this is just what I want to write when I don't have the spoons for real work.)

Word count: 2.8k Content Warnings: none for this chapter, but it'll get spicier if I keep writing this. Unfortunately.

(Abandon all hope, ye who click "Keep Reading")

The full moon rises above the treeline, casting her silver-blue light on the grass and the stones in the clearing. It is a lovely spring night, with clear air and a full complement of stars twinkling in the sky. I am walking barefoot next to the fence, listening to the frogs and crickets and enjoying the light breeze—when I hear a small commotion near the cemetery gate, a trio of jocular voices now quite familiar to me. Ah, yes. The merchant has tempted yet another wretch to try his luck tonight. By this point, perhaps he's even convinced his drinking companions to start a betting pool on how long the poor man will actually stay.

I know very little of this old goat who has taken to playing the role of procurer for me; he has yet to speak to me directly or ask anything of me in return. His reward seems to be his own amusement and the stories the frightened men tell when they return to the land of the living. I am usually happy to play his game, as it has its own rewards for me. I even let it be known to the first few victims that I would much prefer to be awoken by the sound of music rather than rough shouting or banging on the mausoleum door—and remarkably enough, the merchant has obliged me since then by sending men here with their instruments. There was even a singer one time, though he was too frightened to sing particularly well.

I am already awake tonight, but for the sake of our little game it would not do to have them all see me so early in the evening. I slip back behind the door, propping it ever so slightly open so I can watch the proceedings from out of view.

In the distance I recognize the outline of the merchant and two of his friends weaving their way between the headstones; all three of them are rather top-heavy from their time in the tavern, and though they have hushed their voices now that they've entered the graveyard I can still hear nervous laughter between them. By contrast, their recruit for the evening looks to be stone-cold sober and remains dead silent, carrying a wooden case at his side. As they approach the mausoleum the merchant leans in to whisper the usual instructions to his mark, reminding him that though I am some manner of unearthly creature now, I appear to have once been a gentlewoman and ought to be treated with a measure of courtesy if he wishes to last the night here (...ha!)—also that he and his chums will be waiting at the gate until sunrise, and he will not part with his twelve livres' worth of silver a moment sooner (so he has increased the prize as well!). The poor singleten looks like he might be ill, but he sets his jaw and nods assent. With a shout of encouragement, the merchant claps him on the back and he and his friends retreat to the gate, leaving the man of the hour to his doom.

To me.

He stares at the door for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves. This one is not so young as the last fellow who came here in the fall, but he has a fine-featured face and a sturdy frame. Looking about him, he spies the low tomb to his left and very slowly and deliberately sets his wooden case down, then his cloak next to it. He unlatches the case to reveal a fiddle, much to my delight. I am partial to fiddlers, and it seems the merchant has now intuited as much, as this is the third one in a row.

As he picks up the instrument and puts it to his shoulder I can already detect a certain elegance to his movement that tells me he is well-practiced in his art. He briefly tunes his strings, and glances again at the door, swallowing hard, before he raises his bow again to play.

I suppose I was expecting something in the vein of jolly tavern fare, but the first few notes are slow, mournful double stops that gradually expand into a melody that is by turns wistful and anguished. What breathtaking sadness, so skillfully played! At some point I realize my mouth is hanging agape, and I am thankful to be hidden behind the door.

I will not show myself just yet, for I must hear more of this fiddler.

The next movement seems to sparkle and shimmer as it is released into the night, a bright and twisting thing that at times almost threatens to lift the fiddler himself off the ground with it. I cannot even believe my good fortune tonight. How in the world did the merchant find this man?

Onto a sweetly lilting sarabande, tastefully ornamented. Oh, but how I wish I could dance to this one. Burial shrouds are not conducive to dancing, however, and besides there is no room to dance in here.

Now a fast-paced finale that rolls and swirls like running water. I can almost hear sunlight dancing on the stream of notes as they reach my ears, and for the briefest moment I see in my mind's eye the creek next to my childhood home, the golden light of day glinting off heads of barley, the bright blue sky and rolling hills in the distance—what is a musician like him doing in this Godforsaken colony? The man should be playing for concert halls in Paris!

He lets the instrument down from his shoulder to nothing more than the faint sound of crickets in the distance. I have never wanted to applaud so badly in my life—but surely that would not do, not for the game.

I slowly push the heavy wood door open a little ways, just enough to cause the hinges to creak. He freezes in place, gaze riveted on the space between the door and the frame. There is a wild look in his eyes. Though he was afraid before, I am certain that he, like all the others, had hoped this was all mere hum and nonsense and nothing would come of it.

I would tease him a little more, but I myself cannot stand it any longer. I throw open the door and saunter out of the shadows in superbly dramatic fashion.

"Alas! I have awoken once again from my slumber in death to unholy unlife!" I stare deep into the poor fiddler's eyes and extend my hands towards him. "O mortal, is it you who has recalled me from the land of the shades with sweet music, just as Orpheus did with his beloved Eurydice?"

This is usually enough to set a man to running, but the fiddler remains stock-still. I feel a bit deflated—here is where the chase is to begin!—why does he not fly from me? Am I... am I somehow not terrifying enough tonight? Should I have let my hair down this time? Delivered my lines with more of a growl?

I try again, with a little more menace in my voice. "Who has serenaded me back to life? Was it you, O fiddler?"

No response.

I don't think he has even blinked.

We've lost all dramatic momentum. Will I simply have to take my prize like this? It seems so unsporting. I weigh my options on how to proceed.

"Er. Boo."

He at last moves to cross himself, bow still in hand. His thin voice quavers. "In nomine Patris et fillii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen-"

I laugh with relief as much as amusement. "Ah my dear, good to know you are still with us! I thought for a moment I had become Medusa and turned you to stone with my gaze!" I begin to walk towards him. "I must commend you for your bravery. Most poor souls who dare come here have fled upon seeing me. And I must also commend you for your musicianship, for no one else has played the fiddle half so fine as you."

He musters up enough courage to quickly doff his hat and bow, though he does not take his eyes off of me.

I am now close enough to sense the heat of his body radiating into the cold night air. I can hear his heart beating wildly and smell the perspiration evaporating off his skin; I can practically taste the fear oozing from his pores, mingling in confused dissonance with the cheery notes of bergamot and amber from his eau de parfum.

I grin at him, letting him see the length of my eye teeth. "How much longer will your resolve last you, though?"

To my complete surprise, he squares his shoulders and lifts his chin in defiance.

"I put my trust in God. Whatever happens, I shall be in His hands."

"Oh, bless. How far in arrears must you be to care so little for your own safety!" Good heavens, is there really nothing I can do to make him run? I have nowhere left to step forward except straight into him. I raise an eyebrow. "Or perhaps your debts aren't the only thing that keeps you here tonight?"

For a moment, he looks more mortified than terrified. It is easy enough to guess that a musician in this town might be dipped, as so many are these days, but I suppose I have embarrassed him by saying as much out loud. He gathers himself, and his brow furrows slightly as he chooses his words. "I was... curious. I... well, I wanted to know for myself if all the stories were true. Some say that you can walk through walls and disappear into thin air!"

"And they are sadly mistaken. Though I am no longer human, I am still made of flesh, same as you-" and here I reach towards his hand. "Only I am not warm—at least, not most of the time." He flinches, sucking in his breath as my ice-cold fingers make contact. But he does not remove his hand from my touch. There is a certain look in his eyes as he recovers, one that catches me off-guard though I cannot pinpoint its exact significance.

A long, awkward silence ensues before he quietly clears his throat.

"Mademoiselle... do you... do you wish to be made warm? Let me lend you my cloak."

I can scarce believe my ears. But I suppose he was told to treat me with courtesy...

"That is very kind, thank you. But I cannot be made warm that way. For your cloak does not produce its own heat, nor do I. What heat you have given the cloak will not last a minute on my shoulders before it dissipates. No, I must steal my heat directly from the living."

In a graceful single motion, he passes the bow to his left hand and wraps his fingers around mine, infusing my hand with a pleasant warmth. There is just enough energy in this small gesture that I can feel it travel up my arm and into my chest until it reaches the chambers of my heart, where it causes me to involuntarily gasp. I am aware of my own pulse again; a wave of gooseflesh ripples across my entire body. I glance down, and realize that I am squeezing the fiddler's hand, just a little bit.

He observes my reaction carefully, saying nothing. I can hear and feel his pulse still hammering through his veins, but there is also a glimmer of something rather calculating in his probing stare.

I am accustomed to taking what I can from the living, be it their heat, their breath, their tears, or their blood. I now find myself at a loss as to how to respond to being given one of those things freely. I look at our clasped hands, then back into his wide brown eyes—intolerable!—then back at our hands. His warmth continues to diffuse through me, and with it comes a gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach—not mortal hunger, nor the hunger of the undead, but some other long-forgotten need.

The fiddler's heartbeat begins to slow; he is nowhere near calm, but he is no longer terrified of me. Alas, I have failed in my role! Perhaps I should just bite him now and be done with it, if for nothing else than to save myself from the scrutiny of his gaze. Ah, but where to bite this one? Though I am careful to close the wounds with a drop of my own blood when I am done, his flesh will remember the insult, and to do such a thing to his neck or arms would hinder his beautiful playing. I suppose there is always his thigh, but then I would have to—well. I do not believe the merchant and his friends can see much of anything from their post at the gate, but if they can at all, it would certainly be the end of him telling anyone that I am a lady of good breeding.

Do I even care about reputation anymore? Does that much matter at all when you are no longer of the living? And for heaven's sake, will he stop looking at me like that—what are we even doing here?

"My apologies. I fear we have gotten up on the wrong foot," he says at last. "May we try again?" He steps back, still holding my hand. "My name is Philippe Chagnon. Pleased to meet you." He bows his head to meet my hand and lingers for a moment, long enough to exhale a warm breath on my knuckles—before gently pressing his lips against my skin, all the while gazing up at me with a positively smouldering look.

Oh.

I do not possess enough vitality to blush. Nonetheless, I am keenly aware that, were I alive, that is exactly what I would be doing.

I open my mouth to reply and nearly forget my own name.

"...Margaret Young. Pleased to meet you."

I see his eyes briefly flick upwards to the French surname engraved on the mausoleum, though he says nothing.

"Mademoiselle Young, I suppose you must be aware of Monsieur Bouchard's challenge by now. I regret that our acquaintance has been made under such awkward circumstances, and had I known better I would have insisted that he at least introduce us properly."

"Actually, I have never even been introduced to Monsieur Bouchard, nor any of his acquaintances. We are but strangers playing a strange game, and we have only communicated indirectly, with his recruits acting as go-betweens. I suppose he has not half the courage that all the rest of you do."

"A most strange game, indeed. One that I seem to have agreed to play without fully understanding the rules! When a friend of Bouchard's first sought me out for this purpose I thought he could not possibly be serious. I flatly refused. But when I encountered all of them at the tavern later in the week, they regaled me with so many fantastic stories... and they explained that they were looking for fiddlers in particular, as you seemed to like them best of all. I refused them twice more over the next two weeks, but they have been very insistent that they must have me, and—much to my shame to admit to you now, though I suspect you already overheard as much—they did manage to sway me by offering more money, in real silver coin no less. So at last I relented this evening, and was promptly led here."

I smirk. "Ah, so he does know I am partial to fiddlers. I doubt they will ever find me one better than you, however."

"That is very kind of you, Mademoiselle."

"I mean it with all sincerity. You have moved a dead heart—can there be any higher compliment than this?"

There is a pause. I see his brow knit for a moment; his gaze breaks from mine. "Thank you, Mademoiselle."

"Monsieur Chagnon, will you play for me again? We have the rest of the night before us, after all, as you seem determined to claim your prize. And of all the musicians who have come through here, you are the best, so I would like to see you win it. Please, play for me!"

"But of course, Mademoiselle. And what would you have me play for you?"

"Play for me a piece that holds a special place in your heart."

He smiles a warm, wide smile—again I feel that ache in the pit of my stomach—and he tucks the violin back under his chin.

(To Be Continued)

#Unhallowed Ground #Salutations dear reader. My name is Margaret Duvessa Young and I have long ebony black hair ('tis how I got my middle name)-#*snerk*#Marve writes fiction sometimes. Unfortunately.

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faejilly · 2 years ago

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I'm sorry I forgot to post my "Tangential Tuesday" thing this week (or last week? Idk time is a lie) but I am 1: always accepting prompts and 2: STILL WORKING ON THINGS I PROMISE

Here, as proof, a teaser for the next bit of #wtf the clave is competent for @hopeswept (I mean, it's still before Malec meet in the Valentine-is-very-dead-verse, but we're getting closer!)

"And so it begins," a soft voice whispered behind him, and Alec turned just enough to catch his parabatai's eye and raised an eyebrow. She snorted at the expression on his face, and he would be willing to admit that he did feel better than he did five seconds ago. Maybe. Probably only to her or Izzy though, and they'd both already know so it wouldn't be admitting anything at all. He managed a serene nod, and Lydia swallowed another snort, discreetly enough he was reasonably sure he was the only one who noticed. Well, John would have, but he and Mary Elizabeth had insisted that all their peers help them take all the current trainees on an ‘exercise’ (camping trip) in Alicante, thus clearing out everyone who might interrupt a formal event with informal manners and fuck things up a little too much. It was very strange knowing he and Lydia were the youngest Shadowhunters currently in New York, and also about to be invested as Heads in front of the local Downworld. None of their instructors over the years had been locals, a purposeful decision to permit them a chance to fuck things up without leaving too terrible an impression with people they’d have to work with later; it felt almost standard, in fact, very similar to the way Nephilim usually transferred to a new Institute once they were of age. Except for them, the Circle Orphans who, despite their innocence, despite the way their parents had been removed from all the family histories, despite all Imogen’s claim of a fresh start… they were never going to be allowed anywhere else, nowhere further away from the Inquisitor’s control and the downworld’s judgement than New York City. Alec, whose appointment to the Headship of the New York Institute was more politics than anything else, but he’d made damned sure he was going to be able to take care of his people regardless. (Made damn sure if they were all trapped, they’d at least have one of their own to watch their backs.) And chosen his own parabatai and co-head along the way. Who wasn’t a Circle Orphan, whose parents had stayed the fuck away from Valentine and the Uprising, who had nevertheless decided to tie her fate to theirs. And not just so she could be Head of an Institute, though that certainly helped. (Especially since John wanted to be her Co-Head about as much as Alec wanted to marry a woman, and while occasionally there were exceptions, spouses or parabatai were pretty much the only people who could get invested as Heads, as those were partners you chose, partnerships blessed by the angels, even, if you took all the rune ceremonies literally.) Neither of them did, but that wasn’t something they were going to tell anyone, especially not if they wanted their parabatai bond to be respected enough to let them do their jobs. Especially not before they were Invested. It would be easy for Imogen to delay an investiture indefinitely; it was much more difficult to take a Headship away after it was granted. The clock chimed, and Alec breathed. The doors swung open, and he and Lydia clasped arms and walked into their future. Finally.

#tangential tuesday #adjacent anyway #wtf the clave is competent #hopeswept #jilly writes #wip posting #not on ao3 #shadowhunters #alec lightwood #lydia branwell #EVENTUAL MALEC #whenever I get them in the same room together #*snerk*

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