Warning: Dark stuff ahead. Mentions of incest(ish?), but the TMI fandom aren't exactly strangers to that. Also slash, but it's brief.
Essentially this is an AU where Sebastian has won and Simon joined him. It's set in a castle, because I love castles. Enjoy.
"You have everything you want, Simon. Isn't that what you asked me for?"
Simon did not reply. He could not reply. He didn't talk much these days.
"Now, leave me. I have some things to attend to."
Simon knew very well what he had to attend to—either experimenting on the captured Nephilim or fucking that demon that had, once upon a time, called herself Sebastian's mother. In his past life Simon would have been thoroughly disgusted by such a thing. Now...he just didn't care. The thought of life before Sebastian's victory merely increased his rage. Simon would love nothing more than to have all his memories of that time just be...swept away. But the past was the past, and no one could change that. He knew this all too well.
He swept from Sebastian's throne room, shoving aside a smaller demon as it stepped in his path.
"Who am I to disagree?" he scoffed under his breath.
Everyone was the same. They only used him and then they left him behind to rot. Like Izzy. Clary had been right about her, all along. She only used him until she got bored with him. Well, she'd gotten her comeuppance. He should have listened to Clary.
Clary…
She was dead, too. They were all dead. Except for Simon and him.
Simon kicked open the door to his bedroom and slammed it shut behind him. There was a loud crack as the mirror on the other side of his door splintered in a jagged line.
How appropriate, he thought bitterly, staring at the multiple reflections of his face in the shards. The mirror reflect what the flesh-and-blood eye cannot see.
He sat gingerly on the corner of his bed, tapping his hand against his knee impatiently. He had to move. Had to always keep moving. It was the condition of his curse.
The Mark of Cain. Cursed forever to keep moving. A fugitive and a wanderer thou shalt be, or some other bullshit. Simon had read the Bible, gone to Hebrew school, but that was years ago, and ever since he actually met some angels and demons personally, he'd never bothered to remember any of it as it slowly trickled away from faint human memories.
After all, he was a vampire, so he was damned regardless. And on top of that, considering all of the things he'd done in his life, why should he pray to a deity that would immediately cast him into Hell anyways.
He wished, not for the first time in his life, that it wasn't so hard for a vampire to get drunk.
Thankfully, Simon had another kind of therapy, one that was richly satisfying.
Jumping up from his bed, the vampire boy retrieved a baseball bat from inside his closet. There were nails hammered into the end of it, turning it into a very crude mutilating weapon.
Holding the bat around the middle of its length, Simon left his room and set off through the castle. Demons and Downworlders who had joined Veronica's ranks alike scurried out his way. They had all heard about the Daylighter boy, the one who could bring down the wrath of God on anyone who touched him but walked the path of darkness.
And Simon could see it in their eyes (or, in the case of demons, what passed for eyes): Their fear. Of him.
It brought a sick pleasure to his mind. They should be afraid of him. All they were were meat sacks waiting for him to take his rage out on.
Arriving at his destination, a plain wooden door with a small window in the center, Simon turned the knob and gently pushed the door open.
Darkness greeted him, as well as the foul stench of demons.
A light clicked on, and he could see them, crouched in their own filth. Demons liked it that way, or maybe they didn't care, but they certainly didn't make any protests about their living arrangements.
The nail-bat slid from Simon's hand until he gripped the handle as the door swung shut behind them.
One of the closer demons made a shrieking sound, like a question.
In response, Simon took off its head with a sickeningly wet crunch.
It was pandemonium after that. The demons, knowing they couldn't fight back like they usually desired, lest they wanted to bring the Mark of Cain's fury upon them, screamed and ran for cover. But there was none to be found, as the room was as devoid of shelter as it was of purity.
Black blood sprayed the walls, overtop old stains of the past instances in which Simon had taken his fury out on other demons. It vaguely occurred to him that he was laughing, but it didn't matter. The kill was the only thing that meant anything to him anymore.
You have everything you want, Simon. Isn't that what you asked for?
Sebastian's voice whispered to him, and Simon's own mind muttered back.
I don't know.
But why? The pseudo-Sebastian-voice pleaded with him softly. Why don't you know? Why are you so angry?
I don't know!
Won't you tell me, Simon?
"I don't KNOW!" he roared, bringing the nail-bat down on the last demon, turning its head into a pulpy mess.
There was demon matter everywhere. All along the walls, the ceiling, even a little on the light bulb that hung from the ceiling. It was swinging back and forth, throwing odd shadows on everything in the room.
The bat clattered to the floor, forgotten, as Simon sank to his knees.
He was just so angry. But he didn't know why. Maybe he was crazy. Sometimes he saw this friends and family, in his dreams. Which was fine, he supposed, because they were nightmares and he could always wake up from nightmares.
It was the moments that he saw them standing there, staring at him, while he was wide awake, that terrified him.
Sometimes they looked completely healthy and refreshed, as if they had just woken up from a nice nap. Then, other times, they were horribly mutilated to the point where they should either be dead or screaming in pain and begging for death, but they did neither. They just stared at him.
But he knew everyone he'd ever cared about was dead. He'd seen their bodies himself.
Maybe he'd even killed a few personally.
"Oh, Simon."
Light flooded the room, and he turned around to look at the open doorway. Sebastian was standing there, the black crown ever-present on his head. His clothes were slightly rumpled, as if he'd hastily pulled them back on.
"I came when I heard the screaming," he said softly, but Simon knew she didn't care. Because he was Sebastian Verlac, and Sebastian Verlac didn't care about anyone but himself. It was his nature as this world's dark king.
He held out a hand to him. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up. You're covered in blood."
Slowly, he took his hand. He led him out of the room, and let go.
"Or maybe, if you're still upset, you need a different kind of…release?" he asked, scrutinizing him with black eyes.
Ah. Now there was a good suggestion. Simon nodded, and he smiled.
"Have fun."
Then he was gone, disappearing in a puff of black smoke and reappearing inside another room. This one was a jail cell, with bars on the only window, high out of reach. Moonlight flooded the cell, providing the only light. It shone on a prisoner, one with normally golden hair that looked silver in the moonlight. His torso was bare, and he was hanging from chains strung up to the ceiling.
Jace.
Simon yanked on a dangling chain, and the prisoner was released, falling to the floor limply. He made no effort to get up.
Simon picked him up carelessly and threw him against the wall behind him, pinning him there.
Jace's eyes were dead, but he offered Simon a weak, tired smile.
Simon gave him no reply except to capture Jace's mouth with his own.
Everyone Simon had ever cared about was dead, and the only person left was Jace. Simon didn't care for Jace. Jace was a tool, a tool that Simon used to relieve himself and that was it. He couldn't care for Jace, because he had no use for emotions of that kind.
Because he lived in a house of blood, and in a house of blood, there was no such thing as love.