AN: The chapters in this story may seem as if they lack continuity, but that is only because I have a whole head canon in my mind of which I only write down the scenes that capture my interest. After all, this story is only a writing exercise for me which I chose to share here on a whim. Nevertheless, I´m overjoyed that so many people seem to like it.

Symeon continued to watch over the descendants of Jonathan Shadowhunter. Raziel may have given the man the means to defeat the demon incursion but yet Symeon felt somehow still connected – responsible – for the fate of the people who dedicated their whole life to the defence of humanity, even if mankind left much to be desired.

They were full of idealism and hope when they started their society. They set down rules and laws to protect their wards and they swore to always uphold them. Symeon supposed it was nice, to know that not everything was corrupt and tainted. That there was still some light – some good – from the times of Creation.

But like everything good, this as well should not last long. The original Shadowhunters, well aware of their role as protectors and servants to humanity, died and left their responsibilities to those who had never lived through the suffering of the Demon Wars, who had never been humbled by defeat and the bone-shaking fear of looking your own eradication straight in the eyes. As their bones were laid to rest and their likeliness carved into grand monuments they would have despised, so were their ideals laid to rest as well.

Arrogance, hubris and vanity crept into the very society that had sworn to never fall prey to the trappings of the powerful. The monuments became grander still, the rules more elaborate and aloof and the original Shadowhunter lines shut themselves away more and more, believing in their own superiority and their legitimation through Raziel himself. They no longer saw themselves as serving humanity, but as someone who should be well paid and respected for deigning themselves to fulfil their original task.

Idris once meant to be a refugium for those that dedicated their life to the fight against evil became the very testament of the squalidness of a whole society. A peaceful place slowly being turned into one of squabbling, backstabbing and political manoeuvring.

It truly was a sad sight to behold, Symeon thought as he stood atop one of the hills surrounding the city. A beautiful façade hiding the ugliness behind. With a dejected sigh, Symeon took flight until his feet touched the shore of the lake where Raziel had bestowed the Mortal Instruments upon the first Shadowhunter.

There was no noise but the wind that wafted trough the trees, making their leaves dance to its tune. There was only silence and tranquillity to be found in this place and maybe that was exactly what Symeon needed right now.

One step after another he slowly walked forwards, the water flowing around his feet, encompassing them. It was cold and clear, not a single speck of dirt tainting its purity and Symeon could feel his very spirit rejuvenating with each step that took him further from the lake´s shores.

"We have awaited you." Symeon spun around to where the voices where coming from and saw two women standing on the shore of the lake. One was small, her body so lithe that one would fear that a single blow of the wind would knock her over. Her black hair framed her face like the finest of silk, contrasting her pale white skin. She took the appearance of a woman from the continent that the humans called Asia, but neither Symeon nor either of the two women had any use in these names and categories. The other woman looked at him with a frown, her blue eyes measuring him carefully while her curly blonde hair danced in the wind.

"There is one missing," Symeon remarked.

"Atropos does not care for the living," the black-haired replied. "Hers is the task of cutting the thread and it makes no difference what happenstances occurred before. One does not escape her and secure in that knowledge she has long since retreated from the world of the living."

"Then why are you here, Clotho?" Symeon wanted to know. "What does the Fate that spins the golden thread do here down on Earth?" He then turned to the other woman. "And you, Lachesis, what is your purpose in coming here? You, the allotter, who weaves the life of everyone from its beginning until the very end?"

"We have come to offer choices," Lachesis said. "Choices of life and choices of death. Choices of paradise and choices of damnation." Symeon let out a harsh laugh.

"Why have you come to me then?" He demanded to know. "It is humanity that Father has bestowed upon the gift of free will – of choices. I am an angel. It goes against our very purpose to chose."

"And yet here you stand," Clothoe replied, "of your own free choosing, of your own free will. You have overcome the shackles the Creator has imposed upon his firstborns and as such we have sought you out."

"What do you offer then?" The angel asked. "Speak." Lachesis lips curled into a smile.

"Such impatience from someone with so much time at his disposal," she chided him. "But we shall take no offense."

"This," Clotho began to speak and held up a golden thread barely longer than Symeon´s smallest finger. "is the thread of a human boy that would have grown up to make a difference in the fight between the forces of evil and good." She sighed. "But your presence on this plane of existence has disrupted a delicate plan in the making since the creation of existence itself and now Lachesis shall hand the boy´s thread to Atropos on the morrow. He will die in his mother´s womb, never to know what life would have offered him."

"Are you only here to tell me of things that I prevented from happening, instilling regret and grief?" Symeon interrupted her.

"No," Lachesis replied, "as we told you, we came to offer choice. Without the boy, evil will rise again and while there are futures – possibilities – where humanity shall prevail, they are scarce and few." She looked at him with her fathomless eyes and Symeon continued to listen. "We offer you to take his place, to make the difference for the creation of your Father that you treasure so dearly."

"Choices of life and choices of death. Choices of paradise and choices of damnation," Clotho repeated Lachesis' opening words.

"What choice is there?" Symeon asked. "To condemn everything or to save it?"

"It is a choice," Lachesis contradicted him.

"We never claimed it to be a good one," Clotho added. "So, how decide you, Symeon, Angel of the Lord?"

"You already know," Symeon replied barely above a whisper. "You knew from the start." Clotho and Lachesis just smiled serenely at him.

The last thing Symeon remembered was falling.

Simon Lewis opened his eyes to white clothed women in white staring down on him – to their bloodstained hands and a man starring down on him in wonder and awe – and started to scream.