please, please
remember me.

"I look like my mom," she said in surprise.
Isabelle raised her eyebrows. “What? Too middle-aged? Maybe some more glitter—”
"No more glitter," Clary said hastily. "No, it’s good. I like it."

ave atque vale.

"I have to fight," said Alec. "but that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? You’re part of the fight just as much as the Shadowhunters on the ship—and I know you can take some of my strength, I’ve heard of warlocks doing that—so I’m offering. Take it. It’s yours." [x]

"I’m Magnus Bane," He went on in a soothing tone, stretching out his ringed hands. Blue sparks had began to dance between them like bioluminescence dancing in water.  "I’m the warlock who’s here to cure you. Didn’t they tell you I was coming?"
“I know who you are, but…” Maia looked dazed. “You look so… so… shiny.”
Alec made a noise that sounded very much like a laugh stifled by a cough.

Suddenly my eyes are open,
Everything comes into focus,
We are all illuminated

"You know, when someone prefers their own brother over you, it isn’t a confidence booster. I thought maybe once she realized it would never work out with Jace, she’d give up and come back to me."

"In a hundred, two hundred, years, it’ll be just you and me." Magnus regarded Simon thoughtfully. "We’ll be all that’s left."

Valentine looked steadily at his son. “A cause for rejoicing,” he said in a low, contemplative voice, “I would have thought. Yesterday you were an orphan, Jonathan. And now a father, a mother, a sister, you never knew you had.”
“It isn’t possible,” said Jace again. “Clary isn’t my sister. If she were…”
“Then what?” Valentine said. Jace did not reply, but his sick look of nauseous horror was enough for Clary. Stumbling a little, she came around the table and knelt beside his chair, reaching for his hand.
He jerked away from her, his fingers knotting in the sodden tablecloth. “Don’t.” Hatred for Valentine burned in her throat like unshed tears. He had held back, and by not saying what he knew—that she was his daughter—made her complicit in his silence. And now, having dropped the truth on them with the weight of a crushing boulder, he sat back to watch the results with a cool consideration. How could Jace not see how hateful he was?
"Tell me it’s not true," Jace said, staring at the tablecloth.
Clary swallowed against the burning in her throat. "I can’t do that."

Valentine reached through the bars of the cell and laid his hand on top of Jace’s. The rough, callused texture of his fingers felt exactly the way it had when Jace had been ten years old. ”I want to trust you, Jonathan,” he said. “Can I?” Jace wanted to reply, but the words wouldn’t come. His chest felt as if an iron band was being slowly tightened around it, cutting off his breath by inches. (…) ”I must go,” said Valentine. “But we’re not done, you and I.” Jace put his hand to the bars. “Unchain me. Whatever it is, I want to be able to fight it.” “Unchaining you would hardly be a kindness now.” Valentine closed his hand around the witchlight stone completely. It winked out, plunging the room into darkness. Jace flung himself against the bars of the cell, his broken hand screaming its protest and pain. “No!” he shouted. “Father, please.” “When you want to find me,” Valentine said, “you will find me.” And then there was only the sound of his footsteps rapidly receding and Jace’s own ragged breathing as he slumped against the bars.

"You really want to know what else it was my mom said about you?" he asked. She shook her head. He didn’t seem to notice. “She said you’d break my heart,” he told her, and left. The door closed behind him with a decided click, and Clary was alone.

"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.” -
Stephen Crane

© hawtornes