The Men Who Rule New York

Through The Eyes of a Hawke (wingfic) part 2

The back of the makeshift wheelchair jammed uncomfortably into the base of his wings as it bumped over the uneven ground of the clearing. If it were a mundie chair with big wheels he could totally have pushed himself, his arms were mostly healed by now, but it had been put together by werewolves using agricultural materials they'd stolen from various shadowhunter's who had houses in the woods and, as such, it fell to Alfie, the gruff man who Warlock Fell had befriended to wheel him around whenever he got bored of being trapped in the barn. It was embarrassing, not being able to even move himself. Needing help in and out of the stupid chair. Stupid werewolves and their stupid chairs. There was a group of the younger wolves getting dressed out at the edge of the trees, a pile of dead animals next to them. They'd all been friendly enough, he supposed, but they were all older teenagers. The younger wolves lived somewhere else, probably.

"Hey, kid. I need to go talk to them. You OK here?"

Alec nodded his agreement and Alfie wedged a rock under one of the wheels before walking off. He tilted his head back and let the Alpine sun bathe him in its iridescence. Voices rose up from the group, Alfie scolding them for not butchering their prey before returning. Soon the clearing would be full of returning hunters and he'd go back inside and spend the evening shut in until the warlock came to heal him. It was a routine of sorts, he'd gotten used to it in the month or so that he'd been here. The clearing was mostly devoid of buildings apart from the barn which was for storage and where he slept and an equally falling apart building which was sleeping quarters for the wolves. There was a constantly stoked fire over on the other side to him, and the smoke was blowing into his nose and mouth. Of course Alfie had left him in its path. It probably smelled good to him or something.

A cloud drifted over the sun and he opened his eyes and frowned at the sudden cold. Alfie was still over with the wolves, some of whom were shooting glances at him. He suddenly felt very vulnerable and very exposed, with no way to move to safety.

"Your watchful guardian left you on your own?" He jumped, he hadn't noticed anyone coming up behind him.

"Relax. I'm slightly beyond my Nephilim killing days. Zoe."

He looked at the wrinkled hand the wolf offered him before hesitantly reaching out to shake it. "Alec Lightwood."

"Well. That's a name and a half for a little boy like you to carry," she said, her teasing tone turning more mocking.

"What do you-"

Ragnor Fell emerged from the trees opposite them and stride towards him. "There you are. Zoe, my love, it is good to see you. No, no it is excellent to see you. I had a question for you. What was it? Ah, yes. Do you know the history behind these marks. Where did I put that damned book. Oh, there it is. Must not forget to check my trousers!" He pulled an ornate notebook out his pocket and flicked through it. "Here, I kept forgetting to ask about these. It seems a popular tattoo among more urban wolves and I must, I simply must, enquire whether it's part of a tradition or..."

Alec let his mind block out the warlock's quickfire speech. Alfie was headed back towards them, evidently having lost the battle to get the other wolves to do their own work. He knew his family mattered within the Clave, they were heads of the New York Institute and Lightwood was an old and respected name. Not something to be ashamed of. Though, to a downworlder it was a mark of loyalty to a law which they hated and rebelled against. They hated him because his family was the best.

A hand touched his shoulder. "Well, all that being settled, it seems to me time for another healing."

Alec looked up at Ragnor, startled by the attention suddenly returning to him. He nodded and the warlock kicked out the rock before pushing him back towards the barn.

"Why does she think my surname is a bad thing?" he asked. He doubted he'd get a straight answer, not from a downworlder, but he might get something.

Warlock Fell hummed. "You know about the Circle, Valentine's Circle, I presume?"

He nodded. He knew all about those traitors.

"I'm sure you're well aware of their going against the Clave. And - no matter how often it gets forgotten in the official histories conveniently left out of history! - their genocidal intentions. Your parents, or plausibly grandparents mustn't forget the span of mortal lives, were part of the Circle."

"No they weren't. My parents are loyal to the Clave."

"Robert and Maryse Lightwood?" asked Ragnor and Alec nodded. "I'm sorry, young one. That is why I came when I did, to turn Zoe away from the conversation. She won't say a word, not to anyone. I know her - I trust her, even - and she has many secrets. Too many for my trust to be anything but misguided but she's well practiced enough to know to keep your secret."

"I want to go home." He doesn't look up as they pass through the door and out of the sunlight. Fell had rearranged the windows to be east facing so that he could use 'nature's alarm clock!' That basically meant he spent every afternoon in the dark.

The warlock sighed. "I'm sorry, Alexander. Soon there'll be nothing to stop you. But, and this is a warning I want you to think well on, from what you've shared with me going home seems a somewhat... fatal route to go down. You have survived, you will do more than survive I have no doubt, but your survival seems to hinge - to depend - on the Clave believing that you-" he stopped the chair next to to the cushion covered table that served as Alec's bed - "are dead."

"I'm a soldier of the Clave. If that means I have to die then I'll die!" He didn't mean it. Ragnor Fell could tell that he didn't, pity showing in his gentle eyes as he picked Alec up bridal style and gently deposited him down. He didn't want to die when they pushed him off a cliff and he didn't want to go back there to a fall that would be fatal for sure. He just wanted to go home.

The warlock lit up his magic and resumed his work straightening the bones in Alec's legs, reopening and reconnecting hastily sealed blood vessels. "Perhaps, though pride may be a pitfall here, you should consider a change in name for the present. Being a Lightwood may cause more trouble than is necessary or wise."

He's too distracted by the feeling of his body knitting itself back together to immediately respond, the words taking a second to sort themselves into an order that makes sense.

"Perhaps," Fell glances at his wings. "Hawk. Or Hawke, even. It passes for a name and it has a certain humour no! not irony! to it."

"I don't want to change my name! I'm a Lightwood."

The look the warlock gave him makes him feel like a petulant child, not a warrior on the verge of being an adult. He said nothing, though, merely humming thoughtfully and resuming his work on Alec's right leg.

"It'd be temporary, right?" Alec asked. "Just till I go home. When I'm healed."

"You must keep in mind the advice I've given you. It is imperative, vital, even. There are other options than returning to the people who threw you from the very literal ledge."

Hawke. Definitely a name, though he'd have gone for something less dramatic. Cliches never suited him much. But if he was going to survive in a camp of werewolves, he'd need something that was very very far from him. "OK so. I'm Hawke then. For now."

"And I am Ragnor. Not whatever last name basis nonsense that's been stewing around that head of yours."