Disclaimer: You know the drill... I own nothing except my pathetic attempts at prose, and we should all bow down to Cassandra Clare for creating such wonderful characters as Jace, Clary, Alec, Simon, and Magnus, for who could fashion them but a Goddess?

Enjoy!

He displays his frantic search for hope, hope that someday shecould belong to him again. It is hope of the worst kind, for the power to fulfil lies with someone else. He lays bare his emotions for all to view, hoping she would see it. It is in vain. To the one person he most wishes to understand, his plight remains invisible.

But others survey his dilemma, scrutinizing. He can feel the weight of their sympathetic glances always following, their verdict pressing heavily upon him. Little boy, they think, you have fallen for the wrong one, the one who will never love you back in the way that you desire. Not needing to gaze into their eyes, he knows the pity will be there. It is always there.

The glances change, from the familiar emerald, deep blue, and brown eyes of his parents and hers, to a new, younger group. These sets of eyes, golden, black and icy blue, house little sympathy, only wry amusement. But he could care less what they think, the arrogant blond and the snarky, raven-haired siblings, for after many years of this quest he has grown numb to the judgements of others.

So he trudges on, searching for something to ease his pain, some small hint of hope that she could ever love him as more than a friend.

He believes he found such hope twice before. First, when it was revealed that she and the conceited blond were siblings, and again when he finally joined her world as a vampire. But every time he holds a portion of that elusive hope in his hands, he slips. The delicate glimmer falls from his grasp, drifting to the ground in slow motion, as if to taunt him. It whispers, See what you have lost? You could've, would've had it, but for your mistakes. There are many of them. Mistakes. If he had only told her sooner. If only he had never agreed to go to that club. If only, if only.

And when the piece of hope touch the ground, it shatters. The tiny shards pierce his skin. They bring only more pain, more suffering, instead of the delights they promise. With the renewed agony comes insight. He realizes, among many things, something so extraordinarily simple he should have known all along. Once you transcend beyond blissful childhood, beyond simple, materialistic things, then hope ceases to exist.

Hope is a myth.

I discovered I rather like writing darker stuff like this, as it has so many more options for metaphors and such-like, even though people seem to enjoy reading the lighter stuff more. Oh well!

As per usual, review please!