mirror shards // matthew fairchild {1}

six // thinning of the veil

[cw: ptsd]

"We must bar the doors," says James. "They won't lock, and we can't be interrupted. Matthew, can you stand?" He glares at his parabatai.

James, Thomas, and Christopher are stripped down to their shirt sleeves and well-armed, Sydney has abandoned her cardigan and twisted her hair into a tight French roll, the usually free ends tucked in. Only Matthew remains unarmed: disheveled and wobbling, he collapses into an armchair as if he can no longer hold himself up. He likely can't.

"I am quite all right," he says, waving an airy hand. "Please continue with your plan." He squints. "What was your plan?"

"I'll tell you in a moment," says James. "Thomas?"

Thomas nods solemnly and picks up the sideboard, moving it in front of the door.

Christopher shoots Matthew a worried look. "Perhaps some water?"

"I'm quite alright," Matthew repeats.

"I found you in the Baybrooks' carriage," Thomas says darkly, "drunk as a sailor on New Years and learning bawdy Romanian folk songs from Sydney." He points a finger at Sydney. "You are the oldest sibling, and stone cold sober, so there is absolutely no excuse for your behavior, Sydney Rhiannon Linette Herondale."

Oof. Full name. Sydney deflates like a crashed airship.

"It was private there," Matthew explains, "and well-upholstered."

"His drunkenness is my fault," says Sydney. "I'd taken his flask away, I may have sort of let him steal it off me."

"Good God," says James. "I do not need to hear any more of that story." He turns to Christopher. "Christopher – was everything all right, dropping off Miss Blackthorn?"

Matthew raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

"Oh, perfectly," says Christopher. "I told her all about culturing bacteria, and she was so fascinated that she never spoke a word!"

"Better bacteria cultures than Elizabeth Bathory," says Sydney, hoping to give Christopher some support. People are hard.

James jams a chair under the withdrawing room doorknobs, locking them. "Did you have to tell Mrs. Blackthorn what had happened at the park?" he asks. She can't have been pleased."

Christopher shakes his head. "I confess I didn't see her. Miss Blackthorn asked that I drop her at the gates, not the front door."

"She probably doesn't want anyone to see the state of the place," says Matthew, yawning. "The gates alone are festooned in rust."

James eyes him. "Thomas," he says quietly. "Maybe a healing rune? No, not you, Sydney, I'm not letting you and Matthew within five feet of each other."

Thomas seats himself on the arm of Matthew's chair and starts coaxing him into taking the healing rune. Sydney paces toward a potted banana palm, rubbing the bridge of her nose. This is not how she planned on spending her day.

"We'd better check the locks on all the windows," James says. " Just to be sure."

"On it," says Sydney. That'll give her something to do.

"It seems somehow blasphemous to use Marks to rid oneself of the effects of alcohol," says Matthew.

"I've seen you use your stele to part your hair," says James.

"The Angel gave me this hair," replies Matthew. "It's one of the Shadowhunters' gifts. Like the Mortal Sword."

If Sydney had been drinking anything, she would've choked on it. As it is, her knuckles rap sharply against a windowpane as she shakes with silent laughter.