AN: I wrote this for Angel Gidget, who gave me some drabbly prompts. Some of the prompts were based in an AU where Tessa was not saved by Will in Clockwork Angel. Instead, she marries Mortmain and suffers his captivity for some time. This runs with that idea, and I'll probably be writing more? I think.

Root of the Tongue

"She's obviously lying."

"You don't know that."

Will shrugged and headed for the fireplace. The parlor always seemed to be the coldest room in the Institute, a blessing in the summer months but a devil in winter. He tore his hands from his pockets and braced them against the heat of the well-tended flames. Charlotte watched him. The whole situation seemed to make her uneasy, and Will wondered unkindly if the things said about pregnant women and sensibility had not a little bit of truth to them.

Charlotte paced from the door to the arm chair where Henry was lightly dozing. "She claims that she's been Mortmain's prisoner, and if that's the truth, then we should do what is in our power to help her."

"She's his wife. She's the sister of one of his lieutenants—that tall fellow with the unpleasant face."

"She's a human being."

"You don't know that."

"She was capable of entering the Institute, and she bears no demonic marks."

"And you've given her a thorough examination, have you?"

Charlotte tensed, and her mouth pulled down in a small frown that Will had seen countless times before. It meant he had crossed a line. Good, he thought and met her disapproval head-on.

"I would not endanger the members of this Institute," she answered thinly.

"Then you've informed the Clave that we have her in custody? I'm sure they'll be here shortly to cart her away."

Charlotte hesitated. Will's hands dropped to his side.

"You have informed the Clave, haven't you? Charlotte?"

"I will," she said, all even lines and rounded edges. "Once we are able to properly ascertain her identity."

"Bloody hell…"

"Language."

"When they find out we're harboring that madman's wife, they'll—"

"She saved Jem's life."

Will snapped his mouth closed so quickly, his teeth rattled. It didn't matter that Thomas had already filled him in on all the explicit details of the evening's events. The unexpected discovery of Mortmain's London home. The subsequent ill-prepared infiltration attempt. Jem and a handful of other hunters taking on more than a dozen of those damned automaton creatures. The quiet discovery of Mrs. Mortmain. Will was still smarting from having missed all of the action. Hearing about his parabatai's near-brush with death for a second time did little to alleviate his ire over it. The lengthy ride back to the Institute had only given him time to bury any fear and horror deep down beneath the righteous anger he felt toward those responsible for putting his brother in harm's way. It seemed intensely unfair that they weren't here, waiting for him to beat them senseless.

Will noticed that his jacket wasn't getting any dryer. He shrugged it off. "Where is he?"

"Jem? With Mrs. Mortmain. He has hardly left her side since our return."

[ - ] [ - ] [ - ] [ - ] [ - ] [ - ] [ - ]

She had the saddest eyes he had ever seen.

His thoughts kept coming back to that. Maybe because he read A Midsummer Night's Dream the day before, and Shakespeare's depiction of eyes as the windows to a person's soul had been troubling him ever since. Or maybe because her eyes—bright and trapped, like flickers of moonlight caught on the choppy surface of the Thames—kept seeking his out.

She kept looking at him, and he couldn't help but look back.

"What are you going to do with me?"

"I won't do anything with you." Jem tried to smile reassuringly. "Charlotte has decided that you'll stay here for a while. Then the Clave will have to choose the best way to protect you."

"You mean the best way to imprison me."

"It may not come to that."

Tessa refolded her hands atop her lap. (Yes, he made sure to think of her by her given name and not Mrs. Mortmain because that was how she had introduced herself to him: "My name is Tessa. Tessa Gray.") She was seated in front of the bedroom's window, dividing her glances between the wet streets and Jem's presence at the writing desk in the corner.

"It doesn't matter," she said, looking as though it very much did matter. "It cannot be as bad as being with him." The sadness in her eyes deepened into wells—a darkness deep enough it threatened to drown the entire room.

"You do not sound convinced."

She looked out the window. "Mortmain"—she spoke his name as if it were difficult to pronounce—"told me stories about Nephilim. Some things I have no desire to repeat. But I'm sure that they are not all true."

Jem could imagine the sort of things a man like Mortmain would have to say about the nature of Shadowhunters. When Jem first saw the manifesto that had been inscribed in blood on the Tower of London he had been horrified by the gruesome message and its final, chilling line: THE INFERNAL DEVICES WILL NEVER STOP COMING. But he had not been shocked. Suffering begot death as often as death begot suffering. It was a cycle all Nephilim were relentlessly born into—without pity, without regret, without end. Mortmain saw this and nothing else. Revenge made his world smaller, simpler. He need only march forward and crush every obstruction underfoot—including this sad, determined girl.

"Perhaps not everything he told you was a lie," Jem mediated. "Nephilim are far from perfect. And we are not all alike.

She nodded, but he could not tell if she took his words to heart. She had no reason to. He was a stranger, and had she not saved his life, there would be little more between them than the subtle recognition of a fellow captive. It was strange, but there was something about the way she sat—about the way she held her hands—that made him feel that she was as much trapped in her own body as he was in his.

"They won't…send me back, will they?"

It was the first time he'd heard fear in her voice. Jem was reminded of the locks he'd seen on her bedroom door. The chains dangling from the bedposts. "No. They won't make you go back."

In the long silence that followed, Jem stood to take his leave. "You must be tired. Sophie will be up shortly, but is there anything I could bring you? A blanket? Or some parchment? A book—"

"Yes." She stood up so suddenly her legs wobbled. She steadied herself with a hand on the back of the chair. "Yes, a book would be greatly appreciated."

Jem nodded, surprised by her intensity. "Of course. I'll send something with Sophie. Goodnight, Ms. Gray."

She did not return his farewell. As he turned to the door, she said, "You have the loveliest eyes I have ever seen."

AN: The story is marked as "incomplete" because, like I said in my first author's note, I'll probably be continuing this in the future. Short bits every now and then. I would have put this in my TID drabble collection, but it's AU, so it doesn't really fit. Thanks for reading!