So, I just finished Clockwork Angel. In less than five hours. And I have urges to a) punch William Herondale in the face, b) be like, "Gah, Magnus, you're so much YOUNGER!" and c) hug a certain James Carstairs (oh, doll!). And I also have an urge to write fanfiction… And who am I to resist such an easily dealt with urge? So here we go.
Warning for general suicidal thoughts.
If there was one word Jem would use to describe himself, it would be tired. He was always tired, somehow. Sometimes it was because Will would barge into his room at some unholy hour and wake him up so that he could pretend to be drunk on cheap alcohol and cheaper women, recounting merry tales that Jem knew were all false. Sometimes he was tired because he could never last for long once he'd been fighting. Recently, he was tired because he knew that Will, poor, tortured Will, had as many feelings for Tessa as Jem himself did, and with that knowledge, Jem would always feel like he was betraying his parabatai if he even thought of the girl.
Most of the time, though, he was tired because he knew that no matter how hard he fought, he couldn't ever win the one battle that mattered. There were times he could swear that he could feel his addiction eating away at him, body, mind and soul. It was ironic, really; that the one thing keeping him alive was killing him.
That tiredness was the worst. That was the tiredness that weighed upon every part of him. It fogged his mind and blurred his vision, rang in his ears and sat cold on his bones. That was the tiredness that tore his chest in two with every blood-stained cough that wracked his frame, and that slowed his actions and forced his exhalations into a harsh and cruel parody of breath until he collapsed, useless. That was the tiredness that earned him cuts and bruises, pained injuries that, as a Shadowhunter, he could have—should have—avoided, by order of his birthright.
Shadowhunter, Shadowhunter. What good was a Shadowhunter who collapsed in the middle of a battle, unable to defend even himself, much less those he fought with a for? What good was a Shadowhunter who was so burdened by tiredness that some days, it was hard to keep living.
It was that tiredness that drove him, night after restless night, to the roof of the Institute, where he sat in moonlight, star light, no light, and turned a slender knife over and over in his hands.
The whole matter, really, came down to an issue of strength.
Jem had a very blunt way of viewing the world. Unlike Will, he wasn't the eternal cynic, but he never had and never would believe in coating the truth in a dose of small lies. Things were very matter of fact for him, so, despite what everyone else told him, he was very aware that this addiction of his, forced on him though it may have been, was a weakness. In some way, it made him less than his fellow Shadowhunters, and while caustic Will wouldn't admit it, Jessamine had no such qualms upon her more sour days, though the other Shadowhunters were quick to try and stop her bitter outbursts against him. But then, she resented everything about their world, not just him and his sickening "disability."
So Jem was weak. He could live with that, most of the time. But when it nearly cost someone their life… That was harder.
That was why he was up on the roof that night. For once, it hadn't been Will who'd nearly died, but Tessa, which in a way, was worse. She wasn't as capable of defending herself, hadn't been trained.
Jem should have protected her.
But he hadn't been prepared, hadn't taken any of his cursed drug, and so both of them had nearly died.
The knife was looking particularly attractive tonight. Any failure, however small, always made it look more attractive.
Jem hummed softly, a snippet of a piece he played frequently on the violin, and turned his eyes from the knife to the practically full moon above him. The moon kind of reminded him of… well, himself, as a matter of fact. A near perfect circle, the moon was a bright silver-white, and shone with the same light as Jem's eyes, hair and skin. And, like Jem, it waxed and waned, full and serene one moment, then a sliver and a shadow of its former self the next.
He quite liked the moon. But it provided no more comfort than looking at his own washed out reflection.
With a sigh, he turned back to the knife. He always turned back to the knife.
It was a very simple knife. Polished silver blade, slim black handle. There were no runes carved on it, no ice-white metal that denoted a seraph blade. It was just a knife. Nothing special about it except its edge that was sharpened until it was so very fine. In a fight, a knife of such sharpness would do little good, for it would result in the knife shattering or the edges curling into themselves. But place that blade against skin, and you could barely feel the pain that caused a sudden blossom of scarlet.
Jem was far too aware of how easy it would be to slide that blade across his wrists, even his throat, and end the farce the had become his life. The swift cuts would be effortless for him, and with the agony that his addiction put him through, the pain and dizziness that his free-flowing blood would cause him would be easily dealt with, and he would drift into the bliss of never having to give in to his addiction again.
But death was a selfish way of dealing with something like that. A weak way.
Jem's mouth pulled down in a frown, and his hands began turning the knife over and over. It was no conscious effort on his part anymore; his hands had done this often enough that they didn't need thoughts to direct them. Such reflections were frequent, after all.
His soft, exhaled sigh was nearly silent as his eyes turned back to the moon. The knife did not stop turning within the pale cage of his fingers, and he was full aware that his hands and fingers would be nicked more than once by the razor edge of the blade. But what did it really matter?
It may have been hours that he stood there, the silent moon his only companion. He wondered many things as he stood there, about life and death, about friendship and love, about selfishness and selflessness, and about lunacy, the madness of the moon. He wondered, sometimes, if he had it. If he was moonstruck by himself, doomed to forever live under some spell he unknowingly cast upon his own being every time he looked in a mirror.
But that was ridiculous, wasn't it? A ghost of a smile drifted across his face. Best not to let Will hear that thought. Jem would never see the end of it. After all, Will was the only allowed to be enchanted by himself.
Jem gave a soundless little laugh. Oh, Will. Will and Tessa and Charlotte and Henry and Jessamine and Agatha and Sophie and Thomas. All the people who expected to find him alive tomorrow, and who would be horrified if his lifeless body was discovered on the roof, knife still in hand and bitterly amused little smile on his face.
But it wasn't about them, really. It was about strength and weakness. And while it was possible—probable, even—that Jem would never have the physical or perhaps even mental strength of the other Shadowhunters, he had found his own way to prove to himself that he was not weak.
It would be so easy. To touch that knife to his moon-skin and let the hidden blood run free, to end the pain and the sardonic self-loathing that he could never quite seem to rid himself of. But he was better than that. And, as he did every night he was up on the roof, Jem told himself that he would always be better than that. He would live his life, no matter what horrors had been done to him, and he would fight for his right to be called a Shadowhunter, and the blade that he held in his hands would never take his life.
His eyes flicked from the moon to the knife, the moon to the knife. And then he smiled, because he knew that no matter how tired he became, no matter how weak his mind or his body would become, as long as the knife remained free of his blood, there was a part of him that would always be strong.
And so James Carstairs flicked the knife into the air, caught it by its midnight handle, gave a final look to the moon, and lived.
A/N: Well, that was my first fanfic about any of Cassandra Clare's works… Brilliant. And I nearly added a scene with Will in there, but it just wasn't flying. And, for any of those who may have been wondering, "Vivez" means "to live," or "go live," in French. And I do apologize if the story was rambly and random and makes no sense at all. That happenes sometimes, with me. Oops.
Reviews are always appreciated. If you have a thought about what I've written, or something on your mind, please don't hesitate to share! You'll earn my undying gratitude, if nothing else. :)
Much thanks.
~SNake