"Any last words?" Valentine held the sword to Simon's throat, his teeth were clenched and his steely eyes were fixed on Simon's. There was an odd sort of desire that Simon could see in Clary's father's steady gaze; a hunger, a thirst that, like a vampire's, could only be quenched by blood. Simon was tired of fighting; he wanted it to be over. Closing his eyes he prepared himself to choke on the prayer which he longed to say, that he had to at least try to whisper before the end. He couldn't say it. Not for the first time since he had been turned, Simon felt like a child of the devil, or of the night as all the citizens of the Shadow World seemed to call his kind, when before he had been a child of God's. Would God have truly damned him, even when he still believed? He was already living a fate worse than death. Why hadn't Clary just let him go? "Clary..." he breathed (or rather, didn't). The word itself felt like a prayer. If it weren't for Clary, he would have baked himself in bright sunlight on the first day. She was the one he stayed for, it seemed fitting that she should be his last thought, his last word. An apology for leaving her. Valentine made a low sound at the back of his throat, clearly disgusted, and flicked his wrist, slicing Simon's throat as quickly as a breath.
The pain was incredible, but comforting. Soon it would be over. Valentine collected his vampire blood in small, golden bowls. At least he wants it. He can have it. The slash in his throat was on fire, a dull, steady burning. Simon felt himself slipping away as the blood poured out of his limp body. When Valentine was satisfied, he felt himself being lifted up, carried out of the room and set down none too gently in another. Maybe I'm already dead. He couldn't seem to be able to close his eyes, maybe this was how he'd stay forever. He could have been lying there on the cold floor for hours, everything had a dreamlike quality, sleeping with his eyes open. Hey, that's not a bad name for a band... If only I'd thought of it sooner. He heard sounds sometimes, like footsteps and doors opening. They could have been sounding at a distance or beside his head, his thoughts were all fuzzing together so that he could no longer tell what was real and what was imagined. He saw Clary's freckled face flash before him fleetingly, in various stages of maturity; there she was, the first time he had ever seen her, impossibly small with her flaming hair restrained into two even plaits. Even now, as he did then, he yearned to pull them out, teasingly. Rebecca, his older sister's image danced before him to a silent pop song, singing into her toothbrush with her mouth half full of spearmint toothpaste. As Rebecca faded and his mother replaced her, Simon began to wonder if this was what people meant when they said that, before death, one's whole life would flash before their eyes, because upon seeing the ghostly yet vivid images of the people whom he loved most appear before him, these were the only words that would come to him. My life. At least he would see them all before he died... Again. Simon began to see his father's form, not as he remembered, not sickly and pale but welcoming, beckoning, urging Simon to come with him. This is it, he thought with a mixture of dread and relief, but he was wrong. Simon felt the callouses of the strong hand clamping his shoulder through his shirt, a mild distraction from the incessant burning at the base of his neck and at his wrists, were they cut too? With the hand's touch the image of his father disappeared like the others had before and was replaced by another. A male other. A blond male other. An annoyingly attractive blond male other. This is not Jace image was looking down, directly at him, his golden eyes clouding almost as if he were actually standing over him, seeing him like this, thinking of how his demise, however much he might enjoy it, would upset Clary. So what was I just thinking about seeing the people I love the most? Could I not have left out JACE? Even in his final moments, it seemed that Simon was just as exasperated to find that he was half-pleased to see the conceited and vain (with good reason) Shadowhunter, although no one but himself knew this. If Valentine truly hasn't killed me, let me die now of embarrassment. A sound somewhere between a groan and a pathetic gurgle escaped him, and he felt what he hoped were the final signs of his body and soul giving up, a sharp ache deep in his stomach. It was then that Simon realised something; the Jace image was not nearly as fuzzy and distant as the others had been. In fact, Simon realised, the ache in his stomach was not one of release, but rather, hunger. Of course, being a vampire drained of blood, this was not strange, and this was already part of the agony he had been suffering. What was strange was that the pain had intensified so suddenly and seemed almost reactionary.
He soon found out what he was reacting to, a few seconds after the pain, as though his mind were struggling to keep up with his senses. As well as being able to see Jace more clearly than the others, apparently, he was also able to smell him, his sweet, sunlight blood. I am going insane. His thoughts and vision clouded once again as he felt another stab of intense hunger attack him, accompanied by a high cacophony of ringing in his ears. Past the ringing, Simon could hear the muffled yet unmistakable rhythm of human speech; his head cleared slightly as the voice spoke again, this time, clearer, "...blood, idiot. Drink it." Blood. When he felt the first, salty drop hit his tongue, Simon immediately gained a fierce desire which he had only experienced once before, the desire for blood. The desire took hold of his immovable body, and moved it, it found the source of the blood for him, and pressed his face completely to it. A wrist, Simon acknowledged distantly, his mind couldn't piece together whose wrist it might be and why it would be here, his body didn't care, it ached for the fast flow of blood into his mouth, and the wrist wasn't giving it fast enough. Simon was not aware if the person were trying to recoil from him, separate themselves from him, he couldn't feel any part of his body. The blood was all that mattered. Concentrate on the blood. His entire being yearned for more. He had to get it. Simon detached himself from the less-than-satisfactory wrist; he opened his eyes and could now see that the wrist belonged to a body. A whole body filled with blood. He thrust himself onto the neck, latching himself on with his fang teeth. He felt his razor sharp canines slicing through the sweat-soaked skin as though it were of no more substance than the skin on the hot chocolate he used to order at Java Jones during the winter months. The liquid beneath it was just as sweet. The hot ecstasy was too much, and Simon's vision went black.
When he came back to his senses, boy had they improved. Simon could hear, feel, smell, taste and see everything: nothing more than he could hear the steady beating of a heart coming from beneath where he was lying; than he could feel the sturdy and muscle-ridden shoulders which he was grasping so tightly and the human skin brushing against his nose; than he could smell the sunlight blood and the sweat which he was filled with and covered in; than he could taste the salty-sweet liquid pouring relentlessly into his mouth and the skin which his powerful fangs were piercing. Nothing more than he could see from the corner of his eye the golden tan of the neck which he was feeding on, and the gentle curl of golden hair resting upon it. Jace. He was feeding on Jace. Upon realising this, the human part of Simon made a speedy return and snatched the control away from his vampire desire, bringing with it the panic of what had happened whilst it had been lying dormant. How long had he been latched here to Jace's neck? How much of his blood had he cruelly stolen for his own body, how much was left in Jace's? Was Jace already dead? Had he killed him? At this final thought, Simon pulled himself away as violently as he assumed he must have attacked. He lifted his hand to his mouth and touched the fresh blood that covered his lips. A shudder of disgust started deep within his stomach, as though it were trying to reject the blood which was the life force which he had taken from another for himself. For his monster self. His eyes were wide as he searched Jace's face for any sign of life. Let him still be alive. Jace lay still for all of two seconds, before drawing in a gasp of air and parting his eyelids wide. His golden eyes, the colour of sun-kissed sand, searched Simon's face weakly, showing neither disgust nor hatred. He's not dead, he's not dead. Surveying the damage he had done to Jace, his slashed wrist, his punctured neck and the obvious blood loss, Simon realised that had he pulled away a few seconds later, those golden eyes might not be looking at him now. The horror of that thought struck him like a freight truck, and he slowly lowered his hand from his mouth to say something, anything, to the boy lying beneath his weight, between his legs. "I could have killed you," he managed to stammer out with a mixture of disbelief that they were both alive and pleading that Jace would forgive his blood-crazed madness and show mercy towards him, for Clary's sake. Simon had no idea how Jace would respond to this, could he hit him in his weakened state? Maybe try to finish the job which his father had started? What Jace actually did was more of a shock to Simon than if he had managed to kill him with so much blood missing from his system. Jace lifted his eyes to meet Simon's, and said steadily, "I would have let you."
The words Jace had spoken seemed so strange, why would he have let him kill him? Does he really love Clary that much that he would rather keep him alive to make her happy? Did Jace willingly give up his blood for him? "...my blood, idiot. Drink it." With a noise somewhere between a growl and a groan, Simon rolled off Jace and hit the floor on his knees, hugging his elbows. His head pounded with countless thoughts of Jace giving up his own life to save his, why would he do that for me? Does his life mean so little to him that he would give it up to save a blood-sucking monster? Looking down at his hands, he could see the veins in his wrists coursing with the precious blood. His blood. Jace had nearly died to fill his veins with this blood, so that he could keep existing, so that he could keep a hold of the life which he didn't even want, the life which he had been happy to leave behind before Jace showed up. His blood in my veins. What a waste. What an ungrateful monster. "I'm sorry," Simon said. "I'm so sorry." Jace didn't say anything, but soon Simon felt his hand grabbing the back of his blood-stained shirt and hauling him roughly yet gracefully to his feet. "Don't apologise," the other boy said, as he let Simon go with, yes, a trademark smirk on his face. Simon almost smiled. "Just get moving. Valentine has Clary and we haven't got much time." Clary. Snapping back into the present, Simon gritted his teeth and gave Jace a solemn nod. Despite everything else, Simon and Jace were united in their love for her, in their desire to make sure she was alright. As they charged out of that room together, Simon kept his eyes fixed on the dried blood at the neck of Jace's shirt. Maybe now, he thought, there's more than one thing which unites us. What Simon didn't know was that Jace, at that moment, was thinking the exact same thing.