Hallway of Open Doors

Summary: Isabelle never was afraid of the night before. But now, the silence is killing her. OneShot.

Warning: THIS STORY CONTAINS HUGE SPOILERS FOR "CITY OF FALLEN ANGELS"! I RECOMMEND YOU DON'T READ IT IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THE BOOK BEFORE. REALLY. Other than that, it contains my usual amount of angst, drama and tragedy.

Set: post-City of Fallen Angels, probably AU – my take on the happenings of the next volume.

Disclaimer: There is no way I could ever reach the brilliancy of Cassandra Clare. Standard disclaimers apply for I am not her.

The corridor before her was dark and silent.

Isabelle slid past the dark-paneled walls, her steps swallowed both by the dark, thick carpet and by years of training. She knew she moved gracefully – she had been told so often enough – but for once, she didn't care. Witchlight torches flickered ghostly, failing to illuminate the shadows that hid in the corners. They shrank whenever she approached and seemed to expand as soon as she passed, growing darker and more threatening. The air was cool. Somewhere, a window had to be open. A soft breeze caressed her skin and made her shiver. Wrapping her arms around herself, Isabelle continued on in her silent wanderings: past the stairs and the elevator, along the entire length of the hallway, past kitchen and library, living-room and sickbay. Past Alec's room, her own room, Max' room, Jace's room, her parents' room, her mother's office, Hodge's old room and the guests' rooms. She knew each door, the sound each one made when opened, the view that presented itself behind the concealing wood of the door. She knew every person that lived behind those doors. But no one was here tonight. Isabelle was the only person left in the New York Institute, the only person left to guard the place that once had been her whole life.

She was the last one.

And the Institute, the place she had always associated with having a family, a sanctuary and a home, was no longer the place she had known.

Jace. Alec. Max. Mum. Dad. Hodge. Clary. Jace. Alec. Max. Mum. Dad. Hodge. Clary. Jace. Alec…

She stopped in front of her elder brother's room. Since no one was there, she might as well enter.

Alec's room was not the way she remembered it.

White, empty walls greeted her, combined with a dark carpet and white bed sheets. He had left in a hurry but that wasn't visible from the way his room looked. It was tidy and clean instead, his bed made, his few books stacked on his desk neatly. His beloved collection of CD's was arranged in the single shelf to her right. There was no sweater on his chair, no socks in the corner, no scribbled notes on his bed. The room seemed empty, bare of any spirit. Alec's scent still hung in the air but that was all. Isabelle could almost see him striding through his room purposefully, picking up dirty laundry, arranging his belongings. From the way the room looked abandoned she knew he had meant to leave, and he had meant to leave exactly the way he had done: without a word and without a note when (if?) he would be back. This was a room left behind and abandoned. And she knew how it felt.

She had been left behind, as well.

Like a ghost, she slipped past the bed and to the desk. She had already checked a thousand times but she still did so every night. And still, there wasn't a note; there was no message to her telling her he would be back soon. Her brother had disappeared, entirely and final; and nobody knew where he had gone or why he had done so. Nobody knew – but Isabelle had an idea what he was up to. As desperation and loneliness threatened to overwhelm her again, she tried to search for the anger and hate she had felt the first time the thought had come to her. But she was unable to conjure it up. She couldn't hate Magnus, she couldn't hate him for the fact that Alec loved him. He loved the warlock so much he had abandoned everything he had been and left her and everything he had known behind to follow an ancient vampire who had promised him eternity. Isabelle still was sure Camille had lied when she had told Alec there was a way he could live forever, but her brother clearly had wanted to believe her. And now that he was gone Isabelle realized how much she loved him: Alec, her elder brother who had played with her when she was a child, who had taught her the first runes she knew, who had trained with her and had followed her wherever she went because he wanted to protect her. Yes, he had been annoying, a nuisance and a pain in the ass. But he had been Alec and she had loved him. Carefully, she touched the dark wood of his desk. A thin layer of dust had already settled onto it. She felt it more than she could see it. The moonlight filtering through the window wasn't enough to show every detail but she knew his room. She traced her steps back across the dark carpet and closed his door behind her silently. Not that it mattered if she had screamed and shouted: nobody would have heard her. Her heart felt raw and ragged. Refusing to cry, she moved to the next door.

Max.

This room was a child's room. It was visible in every way imaginable: There were children's books full of colorful pages and fantastic titles. The red and blue bed sheets were printed with the characters of his favorite TV show. The toy boxes stood in the corner, few but neatly arranged. Max had been more like Jace in his own ways, always wanting silence and tidiness. Isabelle and Alec were the messy types.

Now, finally, tears spilled over as Isabelle sank down on the tiny bed and cradled the plush dog Max had slept with every night in her arms. Her little brother. On the desk, also neat and not half as full as Alec's because Max hadn't started training to be a Shadow Hunter yet, no trace of the dust that could be found in Alec's room was visible. Max might have died months ago but both Isabelle and her mother had kept the room clean and tidy. They hadn't touched anything – neither the four toy cars on his window sill nor the open book on his night stand, the one Isabelle had read him from a few nights before they had gone to Idris; nor the sweatshirt on his chair. If Max returned right now he would find his room the same way he had left it. The thought was both painful and satisfying to Isabelle. Max might have died, but he never would be forgotten. In this place, he would be able to stay a child forever, that way he would be in the hearts of his family forever. The fact that he never would grow up, never would start training, never would meet people, never would fall in love – the thought hurt so much Isabelle buried her head in her lap, feeling the soft fur of the plush dog, and cried silently. Max. Little brother. You were too young to die. And your murderer is alive. Hate came bubbling up inside her but she pushed it down again. This was Max' room; his sanctuary and their room of remembrance. She wouldn't desecrate it by thinking of Sebastian here. She tried to picture Max – cute little Max, serious Max, too-old-for-his-age Max. Max listening with rapt attention when she read him a book. Max, watching Jace with an expression of hero worship in his face. Max, his little head bend over something only he and Alec could see. Max, taking her hand when they walked into town in winter, his eyes wide with wonder at the falling snow flakes. Max, in their mother's arms, so small and tiny. Max, sitting in the library, reading, forgetting about the world around him. Max, sleeping quietly, his plush dog in his arms. Max. Max. Max… The toy animal was wet from her tears. Looking up with a tear-streaked face, Isabelle bend over to kiss its plushy head and then set it down on its usual place on Max' pillow. On tiptoes, as if her little brother was only sleeping, she left the room and closed the door behind her. Her legs felt wobbly, like every time she cried. She leaned against the door, feeling the cool wood through the thin material of her top, and wiped her eyes hard. Max. Here, outside his room, the hate came back, burning her from within. Sebastian is still alive. And he hasn't only killed you, Max, but taken Jace away as well. She clenched her fists. And there is nothing I can do. Desperation filled her, along with the rage. She wanted to run after Jace, wanted to hunt him down, to track him the way she had already done before. But she knew she couldn't leave, she wouldn't find him. She was the last one left in the Institute. It was her duty to remain, to guard. And even though she resented the thought with everything she had she knew she must remain.

Simon had taught her responsibility. Sometimes she wasn't sure whether she was supposed to hate him or to love him even more for it.

Silently, she started walking again. Past the kitchen, the library, the living-room. The sickbay.

Hodge's old room.

They would have to empty it soon. The Institute couldn't afford to waste a perfectly good room like that when there were too many hunters that needed a place to stay and sleep in when they were in NY. The fact that she didn't enter Hodge's room wasn't born from hate or resentment. In her own way, Isabelle had liked the old teacher. He had been kind and strict and he had taught them well. She couldn't hate and love him the same way Jace had done. He hadn't been some kind of adoptive parent for her and he hadn't betrayed her. But he had betrayed Jace and she wouldn't forgive him for that. Still, she didn't hate him. She just didn't want to enter his room. She continued on.

Her parents' bedroom.

Her father hadn't returned from Idris since the Mortal War. Isabelle knew her parents had long stopped loving each other enough for a relationship. She had watched her mother drown in guilt and loneliness and her father go out with other women and the little girl Isabelle had cried but the adult Isabelle didn't. She just felt numb. And glad Max wasn't here to watch his parents fall apart. When the mess in New York had grown to a full-blown conflict, her mother had been recalled to Idris, as had most of the heads of the Institutes all around the world. Isabelle couldn't believe – didn't want to believe – that something like the Mortal War would repeat itself but there was no helping there. And someone had to remain, had to keep watch in the Institutes. The ancient rule that at least one member of Shadowhunter society had to remain in case of an emergency was older than time and there was no going against it. And, to be honest, Isabelle didn't mind being left behind on her own. She didn't mind to take the responsibility she had been taught to take – to care and to protect humans from Downworlders – but she felt like she was drowning in the silence that had, piece by piece, enveloped her world. No Alec. No Max. No Jace. No Clary. And her parents probably would get divorced as soon as possible. Isabelle couldn't remember the last time she had entered her parents' room and had seen both her parents in it.

She could remember the last time she had seen her mother in her office, though.

She had been crying. Not loudly and pathetic but silently and softly, while going through papers and doing her everyday work as the Head of the Institute. Maryse Lightwood was a proud woman and Isabelle prided herself in being like her. But seeing the strong, strict woman cry so pitiful was more than she could bear. Unsure what to do she had closed the door and run, searching for a place to cope with her own feelings. If Maryse Lightwood – her strong, proud mother – cried, the world was coming to an end. Never give away your heart, she could still hear her voice. Isabelle had been eight and had been perched on her mother's lap, her ear on her stomach, listening to the baby sleeping. You always will get hurt. She hadn't known what those words meant. But she had been proud that her mother shared those thoughts with her. She had felt special.

I love him. But he's still angry with me.

Now, of course, Isabelle knew what her mother had meant. She had been the one to join Valentine's Circle, and her husband had never forgiven her for it. And now they were both gone, Robert Lightwood somewhere in the world and Maryse Lightwood in Idris, and after they had lost their one son they now were hunting down their adoptive son. And Alec had gone rouge, as well. Isabelle understood her parents' wish to at least keep her safe. But this safety was relative and it was killing her.

She closed the door of her mother's study and passed on to Jace's room.

Jace.

She couldn't open the door. She leaned against it instead, her face warm against the cool wood. My Jace. Images flashed past her closed eyes and she battled hate, love and desperation. Oh Jace. She saw his smile, his frown and his haughty expression when he knew he was losing. She saw him concentrated and determined and desperate and injured. And again and again those images of the Jace she knew were interrupted by the Jace she didn't want to see: Sebastian's fury behind the familiar golden eyes, the maniac grin on his thin lips, the snarl in his face. The madness that spoke from every pore of his body. I should have made sure he was dead immediately. We should never have left you to stay with him, Jace. It's my fault. I should have forced you to come down with us. It's my fault. It's my fault. Oh Clary – I'm so sorry.

Sebastian.

How she hated him, hated him with an intensity that almost scared herself when she thought about it. Sebastian Morgenstern, Valentine's son, Clary's brother, the one who had caused the wards of Idris to fall. Sebastian, who had killed Hodge and Max, Sebastian, who had almost succeeded in killing Jace and then her. Sebastian, who had been killed by Jace and revived by Lillith and who had overtaken Jace's body and mind. And now Jace was dead, as well, or as good as dead. Except for Clary nobody had believed there would be a piece of Jace left in the shell Sebastian was now using. And see where it has taken you, Clary. No, Jace had to be dead, buried underneath the black madness and evil that was Sebastian. If there had been even a tiny piece of Jace left in him he wouldn't have let it happen, Isabelle was sure. She had seen the way Jace had looked at Clary, the desperation and the love clear in his eyes.

No, Jace never would have hurt Clary.

Isabelle remembered the face that had snarled at her from across the bars. Before they had realized what had happened to Jace, Sebastian had managed to infiltrate their lives and nobody – except for Clary – had realized it. Isabelle hadn't believed Clary when she said something was wrong with Jace and now she was paying the price. Sebastian had almost destroyed the Institute and had killed many Downworlders and even now the Conclave still was in a state of shock. They had managed to capture him after Clary had tried to bring him back by herself and Isabelle had gone to the prisons of the Silent City because she couldn't believe everything of Jace had been lost entirely. She had encountered a monster there, a demon, Sebastian snarling and spitting at her from Jace's features. He laughed at her attempts to talk to him, talked down to her as if she was the prisoner and not him. Of course, now she understood his triumph: he had known he wouldn't be imprisoned for long. His army of demons had freed him one night later and the Silent City now was devoid of any brothers, destroyed down to its foundation. Isabelle had desperately searched for something familiar in his face – Jace's humor, his sarcasm, his devotion, his love for his family and for Clary – but it had been devoid of it, had been nothing but an ugly mask of hate and arrogance. Everything that had made him so uniquely Jace had fled his features. And when Isabelle left she was sure: Jace was dead.

Sebastian hadn't only killed Max but Jace, as well. And, in a way, Clary.

Useless. I am useless. Clenching and unclenching her fists, Isabelle pressed her head against the wood of Jace's door so hard it hurt. The door gave a sound of protest but she didn't care. She hadn't been able to protect Max. She hadn't been able to hold back Alec. She hadn't been able to help Clary. She hadn't been able to save Jace. I am absolutely useless. The only thing she was good for was for guarding the Institute in the absence of every other grown and responsible Shadowhunter.

Jace. Alec. Max. Clary. Jace. Alec. Max. Clary. Jace. Alec. Max. Clary…

Clary.

She laid in the big bed of a guest room, her eyes closed, her hands loosely at her sides. Her red hair was a shocking contrast to the whiteness of the white pillow. It spread out under her head, surrounded her like a halo. It seemed to be the only thing in the room that had color.

And she looked like she was dead.

The witchlight burning day and night threw sharp angles onto her features. Her face was pale as a ghost's, only her lips had a bit of color. Isabelle carefully closed the door behind her and took up her usual place: the knelt on the carpet next to the bed, her arms resting on the blanket right next to Clary's own right hand. Numb with pain and exhaustion, Isabelle looked at the girl that had, somehow, become her best friend over the last months.

She had never known she missed having a girl friend.

She had grown up with brothers only, isolated in the Institute. She never had other girls her age before Clary came along and wormed her way in. They were so different: where Isabelle was like a black swan, beautiful and deathly, Clary was like a brown duck. Not ugly but unremarkable. Isabelle was a trained Shadowhunter. Clary was still training to become one and had been living like a mundane for more than half of her life. Isabelle was proud and outgoing. Clary was careful and protective, stubborn and insightful. She saw things Isabelle didn't pay attention to. She cared for others when Isabelle only cared for the people she counted as family. She was… She was special. And strange. And unique. And somehow Isabelle enjoyed talking to her, having a girl of her age she could spend time with. Clary might have thought Isabelle only wanted a dress-up-doll but for Isabelle those evenings they had spent together – walking through shops, chatting, having coffee, watching movies – had been some of the best nights in her life. She hadn't ever thought she would miss having someone to talk to that much. And now, it was killing her.

What also was killing her was the fact that Clary was in this state.

And it was her fault. I'm so, so sorry, Clary. Clary had told her something was wrong with Jace. It burns when he touches me. Isabelle had laughed. As well it should, shouldn't it? If she only had tried to dig further. Clary had been remote the last weeks, had somehow seemed as if she was far away. And when Jace had left for Idris with Maryse they didn't get the chance to investigate further. I should have believed you. Sebastian was just like his father, she reflected, hate and anger burning hot in her veins at the sight of her best friend. They destroy everything they love. Of course, Clary had been their target. Clary with her red hair and stunningly green eyes. Clary with her warm heart and her softness. Clary with her sketch blocks and pencils, her messy curls, her plain T-shirts, her fragile grace and her swiftness. Oh yes, she was quick. And she was a quick learner, as well. Isabelle had wanted to ask her – why hadn't she just gone ahead? She should have asked her to become her parabatai. Maybe Clary would then have trusted her enough not to leave without taking her with her when she had received Sebastian's message. But Clary, strong, little, dumb, intelligent, trusting Clary, had thought she would be able to bring Jace back.

She had failed.

And now Clary was here, in the Institute, and she hadn't awakened for the past two weeks. The silent brothers had wanted to take her into their city but Clary's mother had refused to let them take her away. Isabelle was glad, especially since the Silent City was destroyed now. But she hadn't thought for a minute the brothers would be able to do something for her. Clary's heart had belonged to Jace and Jace was dead, had died and taken her heart with him. Clary didn't want to wake up in a world in which Jace wasn't alive anymore, Isabelle guessed. She carefully touched the other girl's hand. It was cool. Her arms were covered with scars – marks and scars alike – and she shivered at the thought of how Clary had looked when they had finally found her. To love is to destroy and Sebastian had seen to that thoroughly. Isabelle wanted to scream, to rage, to hit something until it shattered. Instead, she clenched Clary's hand, hard, and buried her face in her arms.

I'm so sorry.

The night was endless. Isabelle alternatively wandered through the corridors, trying to listen to the ghosts of the past, and sat at Clary's side, willing her to wake up. But nothing than the soft rise and fall of the other girl's chest indicated at the fact that she still was alive. Isabelle had never been afraid of the night before but the silence was killing her. The feeling of being abandoned, of being left behind, grew inside her chest until she thought she was suffocating, was being crushed by a weight she couldn't bare all by herself. Max. Alec. Jace. Clary. Mum. Dad. They were all gone, had left her behind, and now she was drowning in the silence that was enveloping her entirely. Jace's face haunted her, Sebastian's insane grin, Alec's desperation, Max' trust and Clary's friendship. But she was the only one left now. She had to stay, had to keep watch, had to guard Clary, too. She wouldn't let anyone near her. Why did I have to find a best friend just to lose her again? Unanswered questions, undirected emotions. And nowhere to go.

Simon, where are you now?

When she fell asleep she dreamt of Clary's cut and shattered body. She dreamt of Sebastian in Jace's face and his voice calling her, a tiny voice screaming at her to save him. She dreamt of Max, looking at her with sad eyes, not saying anything, and of her mother's silent tears in her office. And then she was in her room again and she felt the comforting presence of her best friend at her side.

Clary.

They sat there for a while, the same way they had when this whole mess hadn't started yet and she and Clary had spend evenings together. Isabelle was afraid to move in case the dream would shatter and Clary would disappear.

They had spent many night like that, just sitting on her wide bed, talking about everything and nothing. Isabelle missed those evenings. She couldn't say when she had gotten used to them. She never had had a girl friend before and she imagined – from what her brothers told her and from the way she knew herself – she could be a quite difficult person to deal with. She was haughty, yes, and always guarded, and far too much into sarcasm. In a way, she was the female version of Jace. But a woman's feelings were made of glass, and one careless word could shatter them into thousand pieces. Jace only needed Clary, nobody and nothing else. Isabelle needed her family, and Simon, and her friends. And into the friend category, so far only Clary had made it.

She turned to look at dream-Clary and expected to see her hurt, cut and bruised, her body shattered and broken, her eyes accusing. But instead she saw her like she had been before Sebastian had overtaken Jace's body: smiling and warm, kind and friendly. The only strange thing was a rune glowing on her forehead, similar to Simon's Mark of Cain. But it exuded peace and calm, not danger. What was this? Why did she have the feeling this dream was important? Clary had told her everything, including the dreams the Angel had sent her during the Mortal War. Clary and her angel blood – was she sending Isabelle dreams now?

Isabelle, Clary's voice said in her head. You're not alone. Everything will be fine. Don't give up!

She woke up stiff and hurting all over, having fallen asleep at Clary's bedside. The images still were fresh in her mind, and there were tears in her eyes. She just couldn't say whether they were tears of sadness, loneliness, understanding or joy.

Or foreboding.

Maybe it was everything.

She straightened and smiled down on her friend. "I'll be back tonight." As the Head of the New York Institute, she had work to do. Dim sunlight filtered through the open curtains, reminded her of her duty and of the fact that the night was over. The sounds of life going on outside the glass was reassuring.

Isabelle silently left the room and went to take a shower. If Clary hadn't given up, she wouldn't give up, either.

There was a way.