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Kyrie Eleison

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The language of Angels is a long-forgotten relic of a world before Jonathan Shadowhunter was a name uttered by his disciples. Yet it rings clear.

 

“How dare you!”

 

The strange lilt is less of a voice and more of lights, sensations that only Ithuriel and his brethren could decipher. Yet his outburst brings no reaction from the holiest of them all, Raziel himself.

 

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

 

“I shan’t,” Raziel finally turns to him, his eyes aflame with the purest of Heavenly Fire, “after all, few dare to disrespect like you have done so.”

 

“She was my blood and you have taken her from me!” Ithuriel screams. “What crime did she commit that wasn’t what the Nephilim haven’t done already!” Time passes differently to Angels. Seconds are centuries in the Mortal Realm and millennia pass in the time it takes for Ithuriel to ready his sword. One would think, with years spent outside of the Heavenly Realm, he would be accustomed to mortal time and yet it feels like centuries before Raziel deigns to speak once more.

 

“Her gifts, her immense powers have changed the Shadow World more than I have ever seen. But your child is only Nephilim. They were never granted gifts like that for a reason.”

 

The Angelic beings have existed for millennia, perhaps before time itself existed. And it is exactly for that reason that Ithuriel speaks.

 

“My brother, why would you lie to me? How lonely have you been, for you to truly not trust me?”

 

If possible for an Angel to look fatigued and as old as they truly were, Ithuriel would never tell a soul of the weight on his brother’s shoulders.

 

“The Nephilim are my children. Like a parent, children need to be kept in line, disciplined. You hope that they don’t suffer. Ithuriel,” Raziel moves closer, touching foreheads with his brother, hands linked not unlike Paratabai, “I feel everything. I feel every demonic wound, every time one is to leave their Mortal Realm and their stubborn refusal to do so, every Shadowhunter who grieves for another life lost. I can feel every thing they suffer .”

 

It is rare for an Angel to show any emotion. They are warriors first and foremost. But when Ithuriel opens eyes he hadn’t noticed were closed, he saw tears down Raziel’s face, glimmering like molten gold in a manner that would invoke sorrow into their children like never known.

 

“I am not omnipotent nor omniscient. It is not my duty to be so. But when I feel her suffering, all her pain, I think of what could be and every time, I feel suffering so immense that Angels couldn’t bear it. She is but Nephilim. More human than any of us could be. Is it not right, not fair, to ease pain where we can? I am the Keeper of Secrets, Protector of the Nephilim and I entrust this to you. If it were any Shadowhunter who dared betray their oaths to me, forgiveness wouldn’t come swift. But she is no ordinary Shadowhunter and I cannot be seen bestow preference.”

 

It dawns on Ithuriel. “You’re protecting her. You’re defying Angelic custom. I’ve never known one of us to intervene.”

 

“Apart from you, it would seem.” Angels lack the desire to breath but still, Ithuriel feels the sigh ‘cross his cheek and he can almost remember when Eden flourished and his siblings still ventured out of the Heavenly Realm.

 

“Clarissa Adele Fairchild-Morgenstern would never recover from her traumas, her memories. She has suffered too much and as a Nephilim, Clarissa would be another soldier who lost her family over and over again. I cannot bear to feel the immensity of it and I am no human.”

 

Ithuriel could almost smirk at his brother’s admission if he couldn’t understand Raziel.

 

“Clary Fray, mundane, an artist. Time would grant her space to heal. She doesn’t need to remember losing her mother, father, brother, nearly every one of our children who have come far too close to joining us. I believe the mundane saying is ‘cruel to be kind’.”

 

“May I plead for a kindness?” Ithuriel implores. “Clarissa is not the only Nephilim with my blood. What of him?”

 

Raziel bows his head in deference, a sight few could imagine.

 

“In her lifetime and in his, when the wounds start to heal, she will remember. She will see and she will question those with strange markings on their skin and those who seem otherworldly. I cannot say when but I promise you this,” with Glorious in hand, pure Angel blood drips into a similar cut on Ithuriel’s hand and when their hands meet, Ithuriel can feel the pledge in their souls, “Clarissa will find her way back home and to her people.”

 

And for once in millennia, they both smile.