A/N: Hi guys! Thanks for choosing to read this; not sure how many fellow Luke fans there are (I loved him in the books and then Aiden Turner, I mean, come on), but I can't help noticing that there's hardly any fics with him as the star. So here's something for those who would like some more of that! The fic is finished, so Ill probably be posting a chapter every day or two, and it won't hinder me from writing my other fic, for those of you who have read it. Anyway, Ive blabbed enough, hope you enjoy!

P.S. I have horrible spelling, especially when it comes to shadowhunter terms, so just correct me if I'm wrong. Sorry! :\

Chapter One: Luke
It was just supposed to be a normal patrol.
He trusted Valentine, he still did, even after what Jocelyn had told him. He knew that she was afraid of him, that she wasn't sure if he was doing the right thing anymore, but Luke still trusted his parabatai. If he didn't know that Valentine had his back, then where would he be?
But then his friend, his best friend, loyal companion, the person he trusted with his life, wasn't there when he needed him the most.
He brought him out to patrol, and then left him, right when the werewolves were upon them.
He'd never felt so alone than in that moment. Not when he'd been picked on in class, not when Jocelyn married Valentine, never.
This was a rogue pack, the members of which had nothing left to loose. They didn't care if they lived or died, as long as they could make the shadowhunters pay for whatever perceived transgressions had been committed against them.
He fought them off best he could, but he was surrounded within minutes. He had his training, he knew what to do; instincts kicked in as he slashed and hacked, protecting all sides with the power of the runes flaring to life on his body, granting him speed, dexterity, strength. Jocelyn had drawn them on him in the moments before they'd left, and they were burning away much too quickly.
He remembered thinking it was over in such an anticlimactic way. One of the wolves broke through his defenses, clawing the seraph blade from his grip. He cried out and clutched his hand to his chest, still looking for Valentine, still hoping that his friend would save him from this situation in which he was so clearly out numbered.
But no assistance came, and so he stabbed the offending shifter through the chest, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction from the wail it made as it died. He was just about to allow himself a small bit of hope; there weren't too many left, maybe he could get out of this with nothing more than a shredded wrist, when a werewolf came at him from behind, digging its claws into his back.
He bellowed and spun, trying to shake the creature off of him, but it simply snatched his shoulder up into its jaw, forcing him to his knees. His blood spread down the front of his black gear, worming its way down through the worn creases in the fabric until it dripped to add to the increasing puddle of crimson.
The wolf shook him once, knocking the breath out of him as it threw him to the dirt. He couldn't remember exactly what happened next, except that he was on the ground, and there was pain. A blinding, breath-taking agony that made it impossible for him to move.
He didn't know when or why the werewolves left, only that once he finally recovered himself, they were gone.
His wrist and torso were on fire, but he shoved it away, forcing himself to think. He was a shadowhunter, he'd felt discomfort before, he knew how to manage it. Deal with it, Graymark, you know what you have to do.
There was an angry splash of red around him as he pushed himself to his hands and knees. His left arm gave out when he put weight on it, so he pressed it against his chest in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding.
It seemed like things were happening in flashes of bright sensations, with periods of darkness between. It was raining, and he was somehow on his feet. Blackness.
He had to get back to the mansion, he had to see Jocelyn. Blackness. Why did Valentine leave him? Blackness. He could see the house now, but it was so far away and there was thunder rolling in the distance. Blackness. Would she miss him when he was gone?
And then somehow he was up on the porch. He couldn't remember crawling up the steps, but he must have. He was collapsed against the front door, feebly pounding on it, vaguely feeling guilty about the blood that stained Jocelyn's welcome mat. He'd have to buy her a new one if he somehow managed to live.
Someone answered, and he could see her bright red hair as she leaned over him, horror in her eyes. Relief rushed through him; at least he was going to see her one last time.
"Lucian? Luke?! By the angel, Lucian! Valentine! VALENTINE!" Her voice seemed to be coming through towards him in a fog, filled with terror, but he still thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard.
"Weren't you supposed to be on patrol with him?!" Jocelyn asked her husband, presumably.
"I lost him, I turned my back for a second, I swear! I thought he'd be fine, it's not as if we've had a lot of problems in the past few weeks-"
"YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED WITH HIM!" Jocelyn practically screeched, hysteria underlying her tone as she knelt over him.
His vision was fading, but he could hear her whispering to him as Valentine picked him up, like he was 12 instead of 20.
"Stay with me Lucian, come on, you're going to be just fine. It's alright, it's okay, oh god, Valentine there's so much blood, we need to hurry, please!"
The next thing he knew he was lying in a soft bed. He wanted to protest because he was probably ruining the sheets, but no sound would come out of his throat. The familiar burn of a stele marking runes was the only thing he knew, before the pain finally subsided and he let himself drift away.