[BL] Shadowhunters; Where the silence sings

VI. Prague (1944)

When the sound of Mr. Fux's steps faded away, he remained sitting motionlessly on the bed. The warlock didn't bother to light a candle. He looked around the room – there was no candle to begin with. Perhaps he was getting old. The sly smile has slipped from his lips as he closed his eyes.

He imagined the holy grounds of the Silent City, the dark shores of this world forever restricted for someone like him. Sleepy corridors hidden in the shadows, yet place that is forever awake, carrying in its arms the pale bones and dusty, half-buried secrets. Secrets forgotten by even time itself, engraved in the hearts of the silent keepers, the careful watchers hidden in the shadows. He thought of Izri once again, sitting quietly and looming over a book, time passing through his fingers as the ink bleeding brush danced over the page. The warlock wondered what new illustrations he had done. He had never seen Izri's room in the silent city – nor was Izri ever talking about it, but over the years and centuries the warlock has created a certain image in his mind, image of walls made out of cold stone, the smell of moisture piercing the humid air. And yet Izri was there, and so the image radiated warmth and kindness.

His ears caught an unknown sound. He stretched like a cat and slipped out of the room, closing the doors behind him. The Institute was covered by night at this hour. There were several decorations on the windowsill, among which he recognized a candle that was clearly never used. He grasped the end into his hand and his swift fingers lit the knot with dark red flame resembling the color of his hair. The circle of light has enveloped his body and created malicious shadows stretching out further into the hall. With his face shielded by night he felt like he was standing in a different world, the past days of his youth swallowing him alive. Empty, cold nothingness, his own City of Silence. The warlock moved along the walls through carefully calculated steps, following the strange sounds. During his time in the institute he had never met a ghost, at least not on the Nephilim's grounds. Soft sound kept falling on his ears. He carefully followed the lead, moving silently through the veins of the old building. He stopped by the wide doors at the end of the hall. There was a sound of wailing wooden boards coming from the inside and rhythmic steps repeating in a loop.

He peaked through half-opened doors. His eyes caught a scene of a dancing young woman, her steps light but firm. The flowy nightgown was fluttering around the slim ankles and reminded him of a blowing flower, hands of the women holding hand of a young boy. The moonlight was falling on the ground in a bundle of silver needles, making the woman's fair hair look as if glowing. She was humming a soft song and they were both moving around the room in long steps following the harmony of tones. They were dancing.

As he slid inside, the humming stopped and so did the two Nephilim. He could tell they both had the angel blood. The features, sharp but beautiful as statues gave it away the moment his gaze fell on them. The young woman didn't appear phased nor surprised, chuckling in a sweet shy voice, as if caught red-handed stealing from a kitchen. The warlock noticed her huge eyes, her gaze feeling as there were two dinner plates watching him. Her face reminded him of a fish, happy one. He had never seen a happy fish before, and neither was he sure fishes could actually feel happiness, but if there was one happy fish in this world it was the girl standing in front of him. „Should gentleman truly enter a room of lady in the middle of the night?" she asked in a melodic voice, drawing the nightgown closer to her body, but drawing closer to the night visitor. Although taken aback, he quickly corrected his composure. The warlock glanced from the little boy back to her and pretended a disappointed scowl. "I seem to have missed the invitation to the ball."

She nodded seriously, nodding her head. "The post is not very reliable these days, I am afraid. Is that a candle?"

"I am a man of tradition, miss Alba."