Disclaimer: Everything belongs to the amazing Cassie Clare.


"She is clothed in strength and dignity,

And she laughs without fear of the future~"

Proverbs 31:25


Charlotte Branwell was having a truly horrendous day.

As the newly appointed head of the London Institute, Charlotte often felt like she was in over her head. She had woken up to a letter from Benedict Lightwood, coldly informing her of a group of minor Shax demons wreaking havoc on Piccadilly road, and which was full of insinuations that she should have known of this matter beforehand. This led to a morning of demon vanquishing which left her with scrapes and cuts and an ache deep in her bones. A pack of werewolves decided to amuse themselves by terrorising mundanes, which led to meeting with their poncey leader, Woolsey Scott. There was a shortage in a new shipment of daggers for the weapons room, which brought forth an evening of cumbersome paperwork. As if this was not enough, she had to dine alone at supper, with Henry in the crypt working on his latest invention, and Will staying stubbornly in his room.

Charlotte now sat behind the heavy oak desk in her study, and pressed her palms into her eyes to keep the tears at bay. Angel, give me strength. As a woman, she had learnt to ignore most of the jibes and sneers and looks of disbelief, but she was also only 19. Days like this made her doubt her own capabilities. Days like this made her wonder if anyone really loved her at all - Henry definitely did not seem to.

She stood up from the desk, straightened her spine, and lifted her chin up (the way her no-nonsense father had taught her). Exhaustion weighed her down, but she somehow made it to the predictably empty bedroom. She sighed; she was not in the mood to lure Henry away from his precious tinkering.

A few blissful moments of sleep later, a scream pierced the air. A boy, screaming as if in terrible pain.

Will.

He was screaming in his sleep, as if in the throes of a nightmare. Sweat glistened on his face and collarbones, making his damp hair stick to his forehead. Dark eyebrows were pulled down and his eyes were moving rapidly under his eyelids. Charlotte put her arms around him and made him sit up. Will stopped screaming, but his mouth seemed to be silently saying no no no no. Now Charlotte was truly alarmed.

"Will," she shook him lightly. "Will, wake up. You're having a nightmare." Tears were flowing down his face now, in a way that he never would've allowed if he was awake, so Charlotte rocked him back and forth, and brushed his dark hair away from his face, all the while saying it isn't real, it isn't real, it isn't real.

"What were you dreaming about, Will?" she asked softly, once he had calmed down.

"Charlotte," he opened his eyes and looked at her now, dark blue eyes wide with horror, "you must go."

"No." she was resolute. "Why must I go, Will? Why must you always be difficult?" Charlotte tried to understand this strange boy ever since he arrived from Wales, small, tanned and decidedly independent. He was very much unlike any other twelve year old she knew, with a tendency for biting sarcastic remarks instead of childish jibber-jabber. He almost seemed to be deliberately pushing people away. But there was a vulnerability about him, in the way he kept to himself, in the set of his thin shoulders, in his large blue eyes as he looked at her now. She could never hate Will. Too soft, she could hear Benedict Lightwood saying, a leader must be rational, ruthless, logical. Not qualities possessed by this woman. It was disturbingly similar to her recently-deceased father's criticisms.

"I cannot tell you why," he replied, lashes lowered. "Please, Charlotte." It was the crack in his voice as he said please that did it. Charlotte nodded, got up, and smoothened her skirts. She was almost out the door when Will spoke, softly.

"Don't worry, Charlotte," He was looking down, fiddling with his bedcovers. "You'll be bloody marvelous as institute head." Then, as if sensing this was out of character for him, he added, "but your taste in books is absolutely dreadful. Not a novel in sight."

Charlotte stared at him in surprise. Then she smiled slightly, her eyes watering more than she cared to admit. But she only said, "Do refrain from swearing, Will Herondale. You are only twelve."

Will smiled at her, slowly, a rare smile that transformed his face. He settled back into his bed, pulled the bedcovers over him as if he meant to go to sleep once again. "Henry loves you too." She gaped at him once more, astonished that this boy could be so perceptive. "You must be daft if you don't see the way he looks at you. I noticed and I'm only twelve." He then closed his eyes hurriedly, having said all that he meant to say.

"Goodnight, Will." Charlotte was shaking her head bemusedly. Oddly enough, she felt like a weight had been lifted off her chest. Even cloaked in insults, she could see Will's good intentions shining through, like moonlight behind storm clouds. He was genuinely attempting to comfort her. He had woken up screaming from a nightmare, but even then saw Charlotte's distress and had tried to make her feel better.

Will believed she could do it, that she could be the leader London needed, as good as any man. Even though it seems silly and illogical, sometimes all a person needs is for someone to believe in them. Whatever the future would bring, she could handle it now.

In that moment, Charlotte Branwell thought she could accomplish anything.


Author's note: So I plan on making this a five chapter story, with each chapter being from a different character's point of view. I do have some of the characters decided, but please tell me which ones you think I should write about.

Reviews make me smile :)