light_of_the_world | And who are you, my pretty fair maid...

There were a multitude of things that Hild enjoyed about working at Graymark Books. The owner, of course, was the best boss that Hild could possibly have. But the store itself was still a marvel to her, crammed full of books, which were so precious in her time and place, so rare, none of them so neatly formed as these, sturdy and precise. She had quickly learned how it was that a book smelled, and just as quickly learned to love it. The customers were usually polite, relaxed, unperturbed by Hild's still lingering accent or the way she had to pause at times before answering a question. She learned in leaps and bounds from these interactions and, on those afternoons when the store was empty, peaceably silent and still, all activity shut outside the broad front window, she read.

It was not very fast reading. English was more of a mongrel language on paper than on the tongue, Hild felt. The alphabet was familiar to her, thankfully, but whenever she sounded out words, their meanings eluded her. Luke would read things for her at times, when he was also in the shop on slow days, but sometimes that hindered more than helped. (How "receipt" could be spelled with a p was beyond her.)

One such slow afternoon had Hild behind the counter, bent over a more simply written book called The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. Her finger dragged slowly along the lines and her lips mouthed the words, but the moment she heard the front door open, she promptly greeted the new guest with a well practiced "Hello. Can I help you find something?"

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She misspoke, somehow. She insulted him or... rubbed salt in a wound that she had not known was there. That stare was heavy but blank. Dull. It was an old wound, one that troubled him often, so often he did not have the energy to lash out as a man might when he felt injured and cornered. An old strife between father and son? But if the father was displeased with the son, why give him such a weapon?

Unless there would be no sons. Hild spoke from her own experience, from a world where men fought and women worked. Luke's world was more modern than that. A daughter could carry a weapon as well as a son. But their would be neither.

She stared at him, brows slightly knit, wondering if it was illness or injury, or some curse he carried. The woman he loved was dead and no other would do? She could not decipher him.

"What is seraph blade?" Hild asked, moving to sheathe her sword again, now that he was done with it. "Wait... I think Luke says this one time. But I do not see it."

Alec was quietly grateful that she didn't push him on the issue of his father. He'd been prepared to shut the conversation down and refuse to answer any further questions but she hadn't pressed. His father's guisearme had buoyed Alec's hopes at the time, given him hope that his father would understand if Alec decided to open up but that was all for not now.

His father wasn't here and the more Alec thought about it, the more he knew his father would never understand. His father had offered a weapon instead of encouraging words or a comforting touch. His father wanted nothing more for his son to be a strong warrior, carrying on the Lightwood name. His father wanted more than he was.

"This is a seraph blade," Alec said, pulling the blade from a sheathe at his waist. It was about the size of her short sword, possibly slightly longer, but it looked dull and blunt. In this form, it looked like any other short sword but Alec knew better.

The seraph blade was dormant, not yet named, and Alec wasn't sure if he'd ever name it since it was the only blade he had with him. Once it was used, it was gone.

Hild examined the blade with polite interest, but she could not help but lift her eyebrow questioningly at him. It looked like a blade, not particularly well cared for, something that would lead to his death rather than his survival. He was either playing with her or there was something more to it.

"It has magic," she guessed. "Is it secret Shadowhunter magic?"

"It has to be named," Alec said, turning it over and picturing the brightness of the sword when it lit up, adamas glowing like no other material Alec had ever seen in his life.

"Once it's named, it looks much different," he said, taking the seraph blade back and turning it once to examine the blade. If he hadn't been a Shadowhunter, he'd have been underwhelmed and unimpressed with the blade but he knew what kind of power and beauty it held.

"But, it depletes," he sighed, sliding the blade back into its sheath. "It's the only one I have so I don't want to waste it on just anything."

Her eyebrows rose. She was not sure what to make of that, a weapon that had only one use, that could not be wielded in battle after battle, sharpening itself on bone and oiled in blood. It was a little like having a sword that you knew would break, at some point, and so you had to be careful with it. There was nothing careful about battle, in Hild's experience. Only man against man, body crashing into body, desperate hacking of blades and bashing of shields.

"How do you name it?" she asked, then corrected herself before he could answer. "I mean to say, what name? How do you choose name? It is name of power, yes?"

"An angel's name," Alec provided, resting his hand on the hilt of the seraph blade. "It's infused with heavenly fire and the spirit of whichever angel you choose when you name it. Good for killing demons."

With the lack of Iron Sisters in Darrow, Alec had no way of recharging his blade so to speak so he'd been careful not to name the blade just yet. It was a valuable and powerful weapon that needed to be saved.

"It still works as a sword even when the power of the angel is exhausted," he clarified. "It's just not as powerful."

And who are you, my pretty fair maid...

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