Hello everyone =) Please consider the events in this between Clockwork Prince and Clockwork Princess in terms of storyline for all characters except Will. I'm updating this weekly, so keep an eye out.

I also want to dedicate this fic to my awesome sister, who gave me the tiny glimmer of an idea that became this story. So this one is for you, Coco-neechan. 3

Just a little to the left. Will let out his breath in a satisfied smile as the dagger he'd thrown had landed dead-centre in the moving target, which had then slowed to allow him to retrieve the weapon. "And that-" Will said to a group of about twenty in front of him. "Is what you're working towards. Everyone pair up, and practice keeping your focus on the targets."

As they made their way to the dozen or so stationary targets a few meters away, Will whistled to himself. It wasn't a bad job, really. Teaching the Mists could be fun, particularly when they looked at him in amazement like after the most recent demonstration. Will rushed over to stop one of them cutting themselves by holding the grip of the dagger incorrectly.

That wasn't fair on them, to refer to them as Mists. They were all Nephilim who had died recently and had ascended to here. Some people thought of it as heaven, others purgatory and others a kind of new life. Looking over the group, Will sighed. There were more and more young Nephilim, under twenty five years old. When you ascended, you arrive at the age you died – Will looked down at his own body, that of a seventeen year old. He couldn't remember how he'd died, but then again, it didn't strike him as something he'd want to remember anyway. However, the curiosity was always there.

Biting back a curse, Will helped another Mist, around twenty, who'd lost his balance. "My thanks!" He said. "I'm still not used to the wings."

Will nodded. "It'll become a natural reaction in time." That was the main reason he called them Mists; their wings were pearly grey, almost translucent. Every Nephilim had them – they became more corporeal as you adjusted. Then they changed colour as a particular path was chosen. Emeralds were researches, sapphire blues the watchers, deep crimson were the guards and many others besides. Glancing down as the grass-covered ground thirty feet below, Will mused that for all the training in balance and skill Nephilim received while alive, it took them a considerable amount of time to find their air-feet.

Will cocked his head to the side. Here comes trouble. This afternoon's trouble had fiery gold wings, the only of their kind, and their owner always had a sharp word for Will. A murmur ran through the Mists as they recognized the angel below them. Lord Raziel.

Knowing that they had completely lost their focus, Will told them to take a five-minute break. Letting his own black wings fan out, Will descended, landing easily on the grassy terrain. From there, it could have been any field on earth. "Raziel," Will said by way of a greeting. "What can I do for you?" The angel's eyes were empty of expression. The runes along his body seemed to shimmer and move.

"It grows late." Raziel chose to forgo a greeting altogether. He paused, casting his eyes to the green-blue sky. "How goes the training?"

Will followed suit and shrugged. "It goes as it does." He said, watching the Mists float in small groups, talking amongst themselves.

Raziel returned his gaze to Will. "As my most senior apprentice I would hope for a more comprehensive report."

Will bit his tongue to stop himself replying, after five hundred years of being an apprentice, I'd hope that you trust my opinion. However, talking back had never gotten him anything aside from additional cleaning duty. Instead, Will looked back up, pushing the ebony hair out of his eyes. That had been an occasional joke between the apprentices – did he dye his wings to match his hair, or his hair to match his wings? Will had the only black wings in heaven. It'd never bothered him, because they were like his dark blue eyes or pale skin. His wings just were.

"Those two," Will said , pointing to a small group of Mists who had their backs to them. "They showed promise with throwing daggers. Those-" His hand moved to indicate a group of five who had mastered sitting down while staying airborne. "-they'd be better off with swords. The others don't lean towards a particular speciality, but we haven't yet been to the archery field."

Raziel nodded. "You are to accompany the Watchers this evening." He said shortly. Will blinked, startled, but Raziel had already turned and walked away. As Will leapt into the air, he grinned. He'd always liked being with the Watchers, almost as much as he loved to fly. "Everyone, back into your groups." He called. To the two he'd singled out, he showed a different technique, one more likely to be used in combat.

Combat. Will had asked Raziel, once, why they trained themselves as warriors when they weren't at war with anyone. Raziel had looked at him, strain showing in his expression. "So we are ready when the end comes." Will had gotten nothing more out of him.

In his opinion, the end was still a long way away.

Evening seemed equally far away. Will kept glancing towards the sky, silently chastising it for not changing shade quickly enough from the palest blue announcing morning to the midday turquoise and the deep ocean-blue of midnight. The sky never had any other colour – simply a dozen variations of a blue that kept the Seraphim at their routines.

Eventually, a dark blue painted the sky, illuminated by millions of shining stars. He had been told that each star had been created for a seraphim who had died in the Great War that had seraphim and demons fighting on earth, before the demons had been banished to the lower dimensions. A star for each seraph that died to make the earth they watched over safe. But Will thought that was probably just a story to glorify history. That many seraphim were difficult to comprehend.

Will dismissed his class, and took a moment to collect the daggers still embedded in the targets, returning them to their respective sheaths, stacked in baskets. They would have to request new weapons – these were beginning to wear.

Stretching, Will moved his arms into an arch over his head and, folding his wings, flung himself backwards. Will closed his eyes, feeling the wind whip his hair back and whistle past his ears. His heart raced as he fell, counting time.

Five… four…three… two-

Will snapped his eyes and wings open, just a few meters from the ground. Laughing in exuberance, he turned west towards the Watchers.

The watchers' corner wasn't really a corner – more like a sprawling network of rounded mirrors, tall as people, with seraphim perched on glass stools with parchment resting on a worktop, taking down all the losses of Shadowhunters and the demons sent back to their original dimension. The parchments would then be taken to the archivists and used to track the progress of Shadowhunters…

As Will let his wings fan out, he knew he didn't care about tracking the progress. He just wanted to see earth, the weather and the people and their emotions. How they lived their lives always intrigued him – fighting for their lives and for what they believed. Landing by the head watcher, an elderly seraphim with a snowy beard, Will asked where he would be stationed. It was rare enough to have an old Shadowhunter, and rarer still that they would be of good humour. "William, you are at the London Institute. Twelfth row-"

"-fourth mirror to the left. I got it."

The old seraphim grinned. "How long has it been since you were here?"

Will laughed. "Three weeks ago, Institute of Madrid. Raid on a nest of seeker demons." He started walking across the orderly rows of mirror, each one marked with pale silvery runes announcing where the watchers would be observing. The younger watchers eyes tracked the fights with rapt attention and the older carefully took down the losses and gains. Will, technically old, found himself fascinated by the people. Sitting on the empty stool in front of the London mirror, Will pressed his hand to the glass, a verification of his purpose. The mirror's surface rippled outwards like a stone thrown in a lake and an image slowly formed. Shadowhunters were dressed in gear, arming themselves. It took several moments for the language to be translated, so Will sat and heard the foreign language and closed his eyes. The words remained indistinguishable, but Will could hear the modulations in their voice – a woman's voice laughed, and the other voices commented wryly. Then gradually the words made sense, like moving closer to the source of a sound and hearing more clearly.

"Henry, we needn't take the entire artillery. It is only a reconnaissance." A young, brunette woman was saying to a ginger man, presumably Henry.

"But Buford-"

"Is just fine." She finished. Her name- Will searched his mind for it. The last time he'd been at this mirror had been well over a year ago. Charlotte. That was it. And the pale boy who handed Henry a Seraph blade was James. For some reason, his name was easier to remember among the thousands he'd seen. Will sighed and picked up the quill, tempted to ignore his duty and fight with them, breath for breath and strike for strike. Anything to belong.

Hours later Will was drawn out of watching the London Institute at dinner, recounting the highlights of the day by a hand pressed to his shoulder.

"You were expected at the meeting, William." Raziel said, his voice making Will blink to see the fading dark blue sky illuminated by the gold of Raziel.

"Sorry. The time…ran away from me." Will's eyes strayed back to the mirror where a younger girl – a new Shadowhunter? – was sitting next to James, relief plain on her face. Why hadn't she been with the others? Jem reached over and took her hand, and suddenly Will understood. He wanted to protect her. Though what if he had not come back? So many Shadowhunters were lost, and yet the thought of this one's death perturbed him. Maybe Will could've helped in some way, maybe-

"We never interfere." Raziel said, holding up a single hand as though he knew exactly what Will had been thinking. Considering his position, Will wouldn't have been surprised. "That is the eternal rule." Will frowned. "What if they need us?" If Raziel was irritated by Will's questioning he didn't show it. "Our sons and daughters on earth have three tools to call us in times of dire need. To help them otherwise would break our vow to above, and cause nothing but harm." Will thought of the pale Shadowhunter, Jem, unable to properly live, unwilling to do nothing. "But we could help." Raziel shook his head. "We would only destroy. Come away from that, it only distracts you." Will reluctantly tore his eyes away from the mirrored surface. When Raziel ordered something, it was never disobeyed.

Later, for there were few accurate references to time in the ever-blue sky, Will was back at the mirror, having snuck out of his dormitory. He looking at the most fragile boy he had seen, and he had seen much. Years, decades of watching, and none of the Nephilim had ever held his attention this way. James, Jem as they called him. Will smiled sadly. No-one had ever shortened his name. It was all about rank and duty, with no time for friendship. Jem was playing the violin this time, an achingly sad tune that spoke of loss and grief, and most intriguingly, of hope. That was one of the things Will had never tired of seeing. When man went to war, committed unspeakable and unforgivable acts, there was always a tiny ray of hope somewhere, trying to grow, to share its light. Will sat, resting his arms on his legs and watched over London for hours more, with a strange and unfamiliar sense of longing for a different life, for something else he did not know.

Will woke with his head leaning on his arm, disoriented and confused by the palest blue in the sky. He was alone among the transparent desks and discarded quills, and covered his eyes to block out the light.

Then he heard the screaming.

The mirror's surface reverberated with the sound. Tessa had screamed as clockwork creatures attempted to storm the Institute through the sanctuary doors, and Jem had flung himself in front of her. The sun had long since been down in London, and only the moonlight illuminated their metallic weapon and grotesque faces, mockeries of life. Drawing a seraph blade from a sheath, Jem said its name and slashed the glowing light above him, and the closest construct crumpled in on itself. "Tessa," Jem held her arm to pull her attention from the monsters. "Get to the weapons room, tell everyone." When she hesitated, Jem insisted. "Tessa, go!" Tessa ran, skirts flying around her ankles. Jem slashed another clockwork creature and tried to force the doors shut and rune them locked. Stele in one hand and blade in the other, Jem was a fraction too late to stop the next one before it entered and landed a blow on Jem's chest that sent him flying back into the stone, loose chips flying free as Jem slid to the ground, trying to breathe through the coughs wracking his body.

"The Magister wants the shapeshifter. Where is she?" The metallic voice sounded like snakes writhing, the cogs and gears in its throat clicking audibly. Jem attempted to slice through its knee-joints as it towered over him, but the construct moved. "You will never get her, or anyone. Leave this place." The construct did not pause other than to readjust the angle of the blade that was part of its arm.

Will was speaking before he knew what was happening. Old Seraphic words that reached through the mirror, and as the spell became faster the resistance of the mirror's surface decreased. Jem attempted to stand, chest convulsing and hands stained with his own blood. Runes sank through the mirror and became reality in Jem's existence. Blinding gold runes of victory and destruction and protection formed a whirlwind of light that decimated the constructs, leaving Jem surrounded by nothing but pieces of scrap metal. He collapsed onto the floor, breathing heavily. "By the angel," he whispered, coughing. "What on earth happened?"

Will couldn't help but laugh. After a few tense moments to ensure there was no further threat, Will kept the mirror trained on them just long enough to see Tessa come hurtling through the doors with a broadsword and Henry in tow.

"James!" She ran to where he was slumped, throwing her arms round him. "You're safe." Taking that as confirmation, Will traced a rune of suspension with his fingertip and the mirrors image flickered and faded back into nothingness until all Will could see was his own reflection.

Slumping in his stool, Will pushed back his hair. "What have I done?" he muttered, the adrenaline of the almost-fight seeping out of his blood. Will had no doubt that there had been a reason he'd saved Jem from what would have almost certainly have been his death. The runes he'd carved into the mirror had come from a place inside that held knowledge he'd never thought of, and if Will had the choice, he'd save Jem's life again a thousand times over. But Raziel had been very clear that seraphim were only ever to observe and record at the mirrors, never intercede. Again, he'd not thought to reveal the reason, only commenting that his training would be used if the event of interference occurred.

Will spent the next several days avoiding Raziel by throwing himself into training the Mists. Their number was lessening as some found their callings, and smaller groups proved more effective when trying to teach them how to fight multiple opponents. Will himself was the one at the centre of the attack from a few Mists while the others watched as he demonstrated how to respond by covering all points of defence. The Mists were hesitant to attack him at first, but then worked well as a team, which was the second point of the exercise. Even that could not distract him from Jem's face as the clockwork creature's arm had swung down. Not terror, nor fear. Just sadness.

A Mist, Johan, landed a precise slash that sliced straight through the ends of his hair. The sight of cold metal anchored him to the present. "That was well done," Will commented, and vaulted over the five or so Mists that were his opponents. "But you should never get too confident." Will tapped Johan on the collarbone with the blunt side of his sword. The Mists laughed. "Form one pair and one group of three. Try the same manoeuvres." Time passed quickly, and all too soon it was the metallic blue of just-reached dark.

Will flew with no direction after the session had ended, just to feel the wind in his wings. No sun or moon, but stars and wind. Will often noticed differences between heaven and earth, and they had never seemed more pronounced. Maybe Raziel won't find out. The sky had darkened another shade and Will breathed in the night. Freedom was what he craved and just for a moment, when he'd acted for someone else, he had it.

"William, we must speak." Raziel said from behind him. Who had he been fooling? Of course Raziel would know. He always knew.

"I don't want to hear it."

"What you want is why we need to talk."

Will turned to Raziel, watching his expressionless face with exhaustion. "I saved his life, Raziel. That's all. Just one life."

Raziel blinked. "Do you regret it?" His voice attempted to reach neutrality but stopped short and revealed the anger beneath it. Will was shocked, both at the question and the display of emotion.

"No. How could I? People need him." Will's thoughts strayed to Tessa and the others.

"Would you do it again?" Raziel questioned, again the anger seeping like an undercurrent into his voice.

Will searched for the truth, and found it readily. It was not his place, but it was wrong that the seraphim only watched. "For him? Yes."

Raziel's fists clenched, eyes tightening. "I cannot condone this." He said.

Will was all but raising his own fists in defence. "He would have died!" A world without that hope, that life, would be unacceptable. Why couldn't Raziel, for all his status and glory, see that?

Raziel brushed away the protest. "It would have been his time. It is the right course of action." He turned to leave, slowed only by the currents of air and the exclamation of Will. "No! It's not right."

Raziel stopped, and turned slowly to face the impassioned boy standing before him. He was a sight, wings raised in readiness for a fight, eyes burning with emotion. That was partly why Raziel regretted his next actions, more so than he would have for any other seraphim, bar the consequences of one other's actions.

"William, you are not allowed to remain in this place that you have broken the laws."

Will froze, his expression still like the surface of a lake. "What do you mean?"

Raziel seemed to hesitate, then banish the thought. "You are to be exiled to earth, for it is where your loyalty lies. For the decision of whose life is worth ending and whose is worth saving you will be cursed."

Will's eyes turned from a still lake to a tumultuous ocean, fathomless and untameable. Inside, all he felt was panic. "No, Raziel, please-"

"You claim your actions stemmed from love of mankind, and so love is the root of your disobedience. Any who love you will perish, as the boy-Shadowhunter should have done. As you may."

Will gripped the hilt of his sword. "Raziel, are you insane?! This is my home, it always has been. Even if you were to banish me, why would you condemn others?"

For the first time, Raziel's cold demeanour cracked fully and the golden runes on his body flared with the anger. "Do you think I am pleased with this? It will begin with you. Anyone who defies a direct order cannot be allowed to remain. It is the law."

Will's eyes widened. "Sed lex dura lex." He breathed. "No. Please."

Raziel gripped Will's upper arms with the strength of iron. He stepped forward and suddenly they were standing on the edge of a high precipice, overlooking an expanse of black, scattered with a thousand flickering points of light. Above them, the ever-blue sky had turned a bright scarlet, reminiscent of nothing so much as a spray of blood. Will's wings unconsciously expanded, helping him keep his balance in the wave of unsteadiness that washed over him. Sickened by the void in front of him, Will dropped to his knees, trying to breathe. It was more than unsteadiness, as though Raziel's power had become material and choked him. "What are...you doing to me?"

His very soul seemed to shudder as he grew weaker.

"I am stripping you of your power. You will no longer be seraphim, but a man, a boy, just like the Shadowhunter you...saved."

"Bloody hell, Raziel," Will gasped, "Don't you need to run this by someone?"

Raziel answered by raising a hand, and clenching it into a fist.

Will cried out as his wings caught on fire, again and again as the flames bit into the feathers and bone, burning his skin until the pain was unbearable. Like a torch he cast shadows around him, wherever he tried to turn to put the fire out, but there was no end – there was nothing to stop the flames destroying him. He curled his arms around himself, desperate for the fire to speed up and kill him, to stop the terrible feeling that wrenched his whole being apart. Raziel wasn't just taking his wings; he was taking part of his soul. Will screamed for release, sometime words and sometimes just noise until when he was barely conscious, Raziel pushed him over the edge of the cliff into the dark abyss.

Will felt cold. Rain poured from the sky as though heaven were mourning for him, the water cooling on his burning back, from where Raziel had burned his wings. Each breath was a stab of pain and seemed not to be worth the effort. The cobbled ground he lay on was uneven, and Will lifted his head only to avoid the silt that ran in rivulets between the stones. His eyes narrowed against the silvery curtains of rain that pelted of the ground like tiny knives. Suddenly a shape darted through the downpour, wearing a pale coat that seemed to fade in and out of focus. With a jolt of recognition that pain and disorientation dulled down to a sickening lurch, Will recognized James. Will reached out his arm, not caring that it made the burns on his back bleed. "Jem!" He called out, his voice hoarse. The shape paused, and Will tried again. "Please, James, help me." Without warning Jem was standing in front of him, skin marked with black runes and soaking wet, hair covering his pale eyes. "You can see me?" He asked expression troubled.

Will nodded, and regretted it when pain lanced through his head. He felt as though he were drowning, trying to breathe where no air was left.

"Take it easy," Jem said, kneeling by him, "Don't move suddenly."

The pain had diminished slightly, but it had left a searing warning clear in his mind. Tell no one. His punishment was to be shouldered alone. It had to be that way. Will tried to make his eyes focus, but the world was a blur. The last thing he remembered before sinking into an empty darkness were strong arms carrying him through the lonely, winding streets of London.

How was that for a first chapter? Thank you for reading and the update will be in a week's time. Please review to let me know what you think :-)