Title: Memini
Summary: Simon remembers. Set after CoHF. Spoilers.
Note: If you haven't read City of Heavenly Fire, don't read this. If you have, continue on.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
And I'll remember the strength that you gave me
Now that I'm standing on my own
I'll remember the way that you saved me
I'll remember
—I'll Remember, Madonna
/
"Clary and Magnus keeps saying I'm a hero," Simon says, running a finger over the lines — runes, they called them — on the pages before him, the very same ones painted upon the skin of his friends. They are dark, harsh, and with meanings he doesn't recall. "I don't feel like one."
"You were something." Jace sits across from him, careless in his gestures, movements. "Special."
"But shouldn't I remember? If I was as heroic — special," he corrects himself, because that sounds more like him. Heroic is for someone more deserving, more brave, not him. "I'd…I'd remember, right?"
"Not necessarily," Jace responds. He gets that look on his face, the one Simon has started to associate with him, like he has so much to say, but no way to say it. A bit guilty, maybe. "Sometimes it's better not to. Let everyone else remember the person you used to be."
Simon frowns, and not for the first time, wonders what Jace has gone through that has made him so rough, tough, resilient. A deep clench of his stomach indicates he once did; he knew Jace, knew enough to put him on edge—enough because of Clary, his best friend, Jace's girlfriend. Now, he knows nothing, not even things about himself, things he's praised for.
Jace quirks an eyebrow, and Simon mumbles, "I guess. It's just. I wish—"
"Wish all you want, Simon, but the only way those wishes will come true is if you survive Ascension, and with that, you need to study." He drops a book on top of the others spread across the table. "What's this one?"
They've been doing this all day, testing Simon on the meanings of runes, on which marks will be of better use when. The one in front of him isn't the same as the others — Voyance, the eye; the mark of the angelic bond; that of strength; the mark of parabatai, a bond stronger than anything else in the world — and doesn't look like it's even in a book. All of the books of the Institute's library are old, with spines that look as if they are made of gold, or silver, and covered in dust. It looks like one of Clary's old sketchbooks, torn at the edges, stray pencil marks here and there. He knows she draws, aspired to be an artist once, before all of this. She had been good, too.
It's hastily drawn, this mark. Simon traces it, much like before, the pad of his thumb following every line. Granite from the pencil stains his skin, his movements seemingly shading the mark in, pressing it more into place.
Jace watches him, he feels it, feels the intensity of a gaze that knows more about him than he does himself, and Simon is about to say, "I don't know," when he feels as if he's been punched in the gut.
He gasps, pulling his hand away like he's been burned. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jace tense, ready to jump into action, but then the present is washed away, the Institute melting along with it, including blonde-haired Jace.
There's Clary in this vision, with her stele, and there's almost a sharp pain on his forehead as she presses the tip to it. Then there's a war, and there's fear — of an enemy he isn't too sure of, of him — every person who opposes him, everyone who is against him, is attacked without him having to lift a finger —
He's deadly; people are afraid of him. He's not supposed to have this mark on his skin, not even a Shadowhunter is, but he, as the vampire he once was, isn't allowed the same liberties as them. It's a surprise it even stays on his skin, he thinks.
This mark saves Clary, demolishes a demon's attack, and inevitably saves Jace when he trades it to the Angel Raziel for a weapon. Glorious. A sword.
He's thrown back into the present again, the memory vividly intact in his head, but he doesn't know what happened before it, or what happens next. They save Jace, clearly; he's bent over him, looking at him with that intense stare of his.
When he notices Simon's eyes focus again, he says, "You alright?"
"The Mark of Cain," Simon replies. "That's the Mark of Cain. I had it. Right here." He presses his palm to his forehead, right beneath his too-long hair.
Jace smiles.
/
Alec doesn't like him much. Probably because the Simon of his past was in love with his little sister, that beautiful girl that plagues Simon's dreams. Simon of the present wants to be the boy Isabelle knows, he just doesn't think he can. Not now. Not ever.
But still, Alec endures the travel from Brooklyn, takes the subways, and walks from Simon's house to the Institute. He's silent, for the most part, but sometimes he stops, tries to see if there's anything that sparks any sort of acknowledgement in Simon's mind.
Nothing does. Nothing is significant enough to warrant that kind of response. Nothing — until they stand in front of the Institute.
"Now, I know it looks a bit run-down. It takes a while for those without the Sight to see it for what it is, but eventually —"
Simon's lips quirk downward. "Run-down?" he questions, blinking up at the fortress before him. Maybe he's looking at the wrong thing, maybe Alec's seeing something else, or they're at the wrong place. This is in no way run-down. It's…strong, beautiful, dark. Like a castle in the games he used to play, where they kept the kings and the queens, where the knights resided.
"You don't see it?" Alec turns his head, looking perplexed.
"No." Simon swallows, heart pounding with familiarity. "I see the Institute."
/
Isabelle's room is pink and powdery, sparkles and glitter, which is kind of odd because she doesn't seem like that kind of girl, not really. She's all sharp edges and golden whips, defeating demons in outfits and shoes most girls don't want to ruin. She's also soft and scared, a completely different person beneath the hard exterior she puts on, the Shadowhunter facade. He notices this when she leads him into this very bedroom, sits next to him on her bed.
"Are you ready?" she asks. "For the Ascension, I mean."
"I think." Simon licks his lips, an apprehension settling in his bones. "I'm ready to be able to remember more, though."
"You haven't been?"
"I have," he says, and pauses. He has, truly, but not enough. Bits and pieces here and there when the things around him — the words, the symbols, the people, the gestures — are vivid, strong enough to break past the empty spaces in his head where the memories used to be. A demon took them, Magnus told him, but he won't say anymore. Not yet.
"But?"
"But… even after the Ascension I won't know everything. About me, about you, about this world."
Isabelle shifts, a hand on his thigh. "We'll tell you. We'll tell you everything."
"That's just it, Iz." Simon sighs, ignoring the effect she has on him. His body remembers more of her than his mind does; it remembers touches and bursts of excitement, the way his blood sings when she's near. "You'll tell me, but I won't know. My life will just be a story. I won't know it like I was there, like I lived it, but because I had to be told."
"Simon…"
"I want to remember on my own accord," he continues. "I want my memories to come back — I want him to give them back —"
"Maybe I can help with that," she murmurs, and she leans forward, pressing her palms against his cheeks, and kisses him.
It's the first physical interaction they've had since Magnus restored a few of his memories. Her mouth is soft against his, gentle in its movements, and she presses harder only when he starts to react. This kiss is nothing like the one he has tucked away in the corners of his mind; it's so real, so much like the magic they told him this world possesses, and in all of its entirety, it fills him with images of life he once knew, one that is foreign to him now, one that will always be foreign, no matter what happens.
He's unaware of their bodies moving, has no idea he's pinning Isabelle down on her bed. He sees her now, but also her months ago. In his mind's eye, it's the first time he sees her, the first time he kisses her, the time he was with both her and Maia. He's kissing her on a bed similar to this one, and she lets him drink her blood then — he can feel it, taste it; it rushes through him erotically. She's there again and she's shy; she's happy to see him. He recalls the uncertainty he felt when he wasn't sure what they were. I love you, he says in his memories, or he tries, and she doesn't let him, and then she does, and she kisses him again, and there's a cave —
He kisses her again, this time fully in the present, a short peck, and pulls away. Isabelle stares up at him, cheeks flushed, lips chapped, a twinkle in her eye.
Simon exhales slowly, a warmth spreading through his body like wildfire, and lets her pull him back.
He remembers.
/
"I see you found your friend," the lady behind the counter of Java Jones says, and Simon remembers her asking where Clary was, the pretty girl who was always with him. At that time, he hadn't the slightest idea who she was talking about, but now…
"Yeah." He smiles, turning to look at where Clary's sitting. It's a table by the window, her hair glistening in the sunlight streaming through the glass. She sketches on a napkin as she waits. "I wasn't really feeling like myself the other day."
The lady busies herself making their usuals. Like she said last time he had been here, alone, Clary likes her coffee black. He knows this like it's his own order now, can't believe he ever forgot it.
"And now?" she asks, placing the two mugs in front of him. "How do you feel?"
"Like I'm getting there," he replies, sliding a ten her way, and telling her to keep the change. "I don't think it'll be too long now."