I was briefly enamored by Jace Wayland, and the idea of him in real life, the idea of existing with him in one dimension on the same universe, inside one room.


He’s sitting on a carved chair by the floor-to-ceiling windows, much like a dashing prince perched on his anointed throne, entitled to anything he could ever want.

A dashing but lonely prince.

Behind him, sunlight filters through the large windows, unobstructed by the pushed back velvet curtains. In the pale morning light, he shines like a statue made of gold: fair locks of hair, molten amber eyes, and ivory skin reflecting the rich ochre hue of the morning.

A table stands idly beside his chair, and on top of it is a crystal vase with a fresh bouquet of dark, almost plum roses. The beauty of the bouquet, the set up, is magnificent on its own but their vibrant shade grays in comparison to the still figure of gold looking out of the window.

As I stared at the illuminated figure, I feel a pang of jealousy creeping inside my heart; jealousy over sunlight, the selfish and twisted sunlight.

It caresses his face in slow, deliberate measures called seconds, minutes–the smooth hollowed cheek, the peak of his nose, the aristocratic arch of his eyebrows, the frozen yet soft-looking pursed lips.

The silken strands of his pale hair glow gold, and all I could do is look, stare. I could never reach out and touch the sacred image of this boy, and the sunlight tortures me even more by highlighting his beautiful features like how one would highlight text to be memorized.

And I suppose that’s the best that I can do.

I could never touch him, but I could stare and commit into memory every breathtaking aspect of his beauty, even the less important (but equally exhilarating) marring of his perfection.

So I stare at him, deep and intent like the concentrated melancholy etched underneath his bored facade. I stare through his glamour and I swear I could almost see the faint outlines of his invisible wings.

And my imagination supplies what my naked eye could not: wings of pure white, large and strong, glinting with celestial air. Large wings that are obviously for flight, for freedom, yet they are folded and the golden prince is sitting calmly on his throne.

And, as if tricked by light, my eyes adjust and the iron shackles reveal themselves–suddenly everything makes sense.

The prince’s faraway look behind his blank mask.

The longing in his beautiful amber eyes.

The folded, suppressed wings.

The prince is trapped, tied down, into his royal quarters–an inescapable prison disguised under rich furniture and extravagance.

I am but a mere audience. I could not move, I could not touch him.

I could not free him.


Fun fact: I tried to copy the sketch of Jace that Clary “drew” in the movie adaptation of the Mortal Instruments. I failed miserably at the face–what’s new? I reaaaally suck at portraiture but it’s the genre that I like drawing the most.

20150116 (c) tricialucido.wordpress.com

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