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randomness-is-my-order · 10 months

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The Cruelty of Kindness

- an Infernal Devices fanfic

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Friendship pairing: Sophia Collins & William Herondale

Fandom: The Infernal Devices

Genre/Tags: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Pre-Canon

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A/N: I do not usually post my fics on here directly, nor do i write for the infernal devices’ series but this is a first and i’m posting this to try out if i like tumblr to also host my stories. :))

that character emoji looks horrifying in this font but eh, anyway, this fic’s just a short angsty piece exploring sophie’s mind with regards to will herondale.

i’m linking the ao3 post too if you prefer that method of reading:

hope you’ll enjoy!!

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The Cruelty of Kindness

Sophie was always of the opinion that Master Will was of the terrible sort, despite his young age of fourteen. She knew this from those first few interactions she’d shared with him – full of bluster and sly remarks, said with dark humor lacing his voice as he taunted her about her scar. At first, she’d deluded herself into seeing a sheen of profound guilt in his blue eyes, a kind of taut tension coiling his body as he passed a jest about the single most horrifying incident of her life.

But it had been a trick of light, a want of her heart to see good in the boy Mrs. Branwell cared for so deeply, the boy Master Jem cared for so deeply. However, she could not fool her mind, could not convince herself of some hidden goodness that might have lurked in the dark soul of William Herondale.

The truth of the matter was simple: Sophie did not understand Will and his behaviour never coaxed her to. She wanted nothing to do with him but she was the sole maid of the Institute, a diligent one at that and she would not let one unruly Shadowhunter boy keep her from her tasks or professionalism. Besides, she was used to cruelty by now and there were worse fates in life than bearing a few taunts, especially since she was given full permission to taunt right back.

She only felt a crack in her reserved temper when she was forced to look after the well-being of Master Will and he spit in the face of her generosity. He never looked down on her but she had the feeling he thought she was looking down on him. There was no other reason for his denial of her help or aid with wounds, whenever such an incident arose and it arose quite often. Even if her job mandated she administer care to any Shadowhunter under the refuge of the Institute should they be injured minorly, she would have wanted to help them anyway, no matter how difficult some made it for her.

“Heavens above, Master Will, is that blood on your knees?”

Will, with his tousled black hair, deep blue ocean eyes, looked at her with his usual caustic guardedness, as if annoyed by her notice of his evident injury. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, the door of his bedroom thrown open, a trail of mud and dirt caking the floor. Sophie had just finished the cleaning of this space an hour ago, the smell of soapwater still lingering in the room and doorway but now it lay dirtied once again.

“No, Sophie, it’s not blood,” Will said, grinning in a way that was meant to mock. “I decided to simply roll in a pit of strawberries, crushing them with my legs as they do in wineries with grapes.”

Sophie scowled at him, dropping the basket of washed white linens and walked inside, eyes narrowing at Will’s scratched up wounds. “I would truly appreciate the lack of your hilarious wit, Master Will. Seeing as how stiffly you are holding yourself, presumably from the pain of stomping on strawberries – it is no time for joking.”

“Joking is all I know, Sophie,” Will’s lips twisted up in a bitter smile, an oddly weighted expression for one so callous as him.

Sophie ignored the remark and extracted a wooden box storing a few basic remedies and bandages from the cabinet behind her. Had Charlotte not been engaged in a meeting and Master Jem sleeping soundly, she would have simply fetched them. A quick iratze would have taken care of this matter and she would not have to manage Master Will’s acerbic moods and challenging reception.

For just a second, she contemplated appealing to Jessamine’s kindness but that seemed as futile as appealing to Will’s.

She sighed, steadying herself for a headache and approached Will who had realised what she was about to attempt to do.

“Do not,” he hissed. “I will take care of this myself. I do not need a nursemaid!”

Sophie gave him a thin smile, “I do not mean any insult but how do you plan to do that, Master Will? Your application of the healing runes is still shaky, is it not? And has there been in any progress in your abysmal expertise at mundane methods of healthcare?”

“I grew up in a mundane household, I know how to put on a banda–” Will said through his teeth but stopped abruptly, his face going white, a muted horror dawning on his face. Sophie was surprised, too, for it was not often – it was downright rare – that Master Will mentioned anything of his life before coming to the Institute. She’d pieced together both enough information to satiate her curiosity and at the same time, not enough information to see the whole truth of his situation.

But the momentary suprise at his own words, the glimpse of fear, was gone as quickly as it had arrived, leaving only a blank coolness on his visage. “Leave me be, Sophie. I do not want your help.”

Sophie, duty bound, shook her head. “You are hurt. You are also not equipped with the tools to fully help yourself. I cannot leave you here. It would weigh on my conscience.”

“I do not care about your conscience,” Will scooted backwards even though Sophie hadn’t moved an inch towards him. “Why do you care? You should delight in my pain for how I have treated you.”

“I–” Sophie blinked, a little startled that Will would realise his poor behaviour towards her, towards anyone. He did not usually show good morals or a sense of responsibility for his words. “How dare you suggest that I would ever delight in the pain of others? You may treat me to unfair, harsh words but my forgiveness extends enough to not want to see you in undue pain. Now, stop being difficult and let me clean your wounds. There’s blood all over the rugs!”

Will’s face was a carved stone, his lips pressed together. What he asked her next caught her off guard but his delivery of the question was too matter-of-fact, too plainly said to be a joke.

“Tell me this,” he said, without inflection, his eyes meeting Sophie’s with a peculiar intensity. “In your heart, do you have any care for me, any regard for me?”

Sophie stared at him for a long moment, remembering the clench of her heart the first time Will had looked at her scar, eyes wide with pity or sympathy, she could not tell. The first time there had been no jabs, no cruelty, but afterwards, the candle had been lit and an outpouring of insults, however half-hearted they may have sounded, were barraged towards her.

“I care for every member of the Institute,” Sophie spoke without a waver in her voice. She was permitted to speak freely by Charlotte but she had always reserved a sharp straightforwardness only for Master Will because no one else had treated her with the same acidic attitude, save for perhaps Jessamine. “I care for you as a member of this house, a Shadowhunter that I have sworn to serve but beyond that, as a human, as a person, I have little regard for you, Master Will. I am assured in the fact that you know the reason, that you have ensured I think of you in this manner.”

She had expected a spark of anger or resentment or offence. Never before had she so simply stated her dislike for Master Will but she always expected to be met with similar feelings, if not stronger, worse emotions from him. Instead, the expression on his face was too much like grief, too much like sorrow. Of course, he didn’t show it for too long but it was enough to offset Sophie’s surety.

“I’d rather you not care for me at all,” Will said, the same former dark look colouring his face, his eyes. He eyed Sophie’s scar now, an unkind chuckle leaving him. “I hope my knees do not scar like your face.”

Sophie sucked in a sharp breath, her free hand hovering over her long, silvery white scar that made her avoid mirrors, and she wondered why she ever gave Master Will one charitable thought. He did not deserve her skepticism of his character, did not deserve her hope for him to be better than he seemed.

“Your soul is scarred,” she whispered, using the last of her resolve and heart to open up the box and pull a roll of bandage out. She would try once to heal him and no more. “Let me see your knees, now. Enough of your remarks.”

Will’s eyes closed, his body growing rigid, so much hostility in a boy so young. His eyes opened and blazed with fire that wanted nothing more than to see everyone burn. He picked up the ceramic vase from the table, looking at her with heightened annoyance and threw it at her, “Get out!”

Sophie winced as the beautiful green vase interlain with colourful scenes of gemstone powder crashed a few steps from her feet. She dropped the box in horror, looking between the ruins of the vase and Master Will’s cold expression.

She turned and ran out of the room, her heart beating fast, shocked still at the sound of the crash, ceramic against stone, the poisonous tone of Will’s voice as if she were only a disgusting worm he wanted to be rid of. Had she been a little closer, would the vase have hit her? She thought of her scar, the way she received it, the black memory of her previous employer, his breath thick with smoke, a knife glinting in the dark corners of the manor.

She thought of Will – the anger in his gaze, the abruptness of his actions, his thoughtlessness. She was not defenceless anymore but she was right to be wary. Afterall, she was still a servant, not an equal, no matter how much Charlotte said to support the contrary.

A look at her hands stopped her from her dash down the stairs. Her arms were empty, her clothes’ basket forgotten by Master Will’s door. More than scared, she felt simmers of anger within herself now, like she always did after an interaction with him.

He was fourteen but she was older, wiser. She could walk back and get her basket without getting entangled in another insulting conversation with him. He was impulsive and careless and she feared what would happen if he grew up into a man with these traits but for now, she could handle him.

Slowly, she approached his room again. But she did not go in or make her presence known. Instead, she pressed herself against the wall adjacent to the half-open door, ears posied for any sounds and she did hear something. A hitch of a breath, a choked sort of cry.

Frowning, she tried to hear more but only silence greeted her. Despite herself, she turned and through the thin gap between the door and the hinge, she saw the scene within the room. A scene that confused her wits to a very high degree.

There, kneeling on the floor, was Master Will. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, his hair still ruffled and wind-assaulted, his trousers a darker shade than what they really were, stained with his blood. His head was tucked low, his eyes unseen from below the fringes of his hair, his shoulders alternating between trembling and going rock-still.

What suprised Sophie the most was that Master Will was picking up the sharp shards of the vase, collecting them into a neat pile atop a sack, his hands bleeding from small cuts where the finer pieces had nicked him. He did this methodically, efficiently, ignoring the blood surrounding him.

Once done with the pieces of the vase, he put the items fallen out of the wooden box, assembled them neatly and shut it close. He did this all on his knees and Sophie did not want to imagine why he would inflict such hardship on himself. She did not remember him ever doing such simple chores himself. He was meant for greater tasks and greater glories, as all Nephilim were. And yet, here he was.

What shocked Sophie the most however was the look on Will’s face when he finally slumped down, against the side of his bed, his knees drawn up once again, released from the agony of scraping against the floor. His eyes were closed again but she could see them now, his hair swept to the side, sticky with sweat. His lips were trembling, his hands tied together loosely over his knees. When his lids opened, his expression was nothing short of torturous. As if he held in himself a great, grand hollowness, as if he was bothered to such extremes that tears had started eluding him. After all, weren’t tears a means to alleviate one’s sorrows? Will looked desperate to cry and yet his blue eyes were dry and bright and chasms of deep grief.

It took Sophie’s breath away, to see such a vulnerable, open display from the boy who had not seemed capable of such emotion to her. He was rude and cruel and thoughtless and that was the truth of him she believed. She did not want to dig deeper and yet she had seen something underneath the Will he showed to the world. Such openness from him was reserved only for Master Jem, she knew.

She took a step back and walked away.

She would not know the meaning of what she witnessed until years later, would not know why Will seemed to hate himself much more than he made others hate him, would not know that the guilt she thought she’d seen in him, the restraint, the inkling of a façade were all real. In the years to come, she would forget this moment, this memory – buried under the fresh and new stabs of Will’s insults and words and disagreeable demeanor. But when she would be told of the curse, the years of pain, of hiding, of forced cruelty that ripped him apart, she would think back to this moment.

She would remember the kneeling boy, the bloodied knees, the callused hands, the look that wanted to call for help, for comfort and the haunted eyes that wished for tears but were not granted that release, that luxury.

She would remember Master Will and how he cleaned up his mess, even if he had to hurt himself to do so.

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