A/N: Hello! I'm updating two days early because I'm going to be away next week and I won't be able to update for a while. And I didn't want you to wait for the last re-update/edit of Moments! I hope you all enjoy it :)
Disclaimer: I don't own the Mortal Instruments series or any of its characters, settings, or plots. Nor am I Cassandra Clare.
for chapter 11:
to the ticking clock: Daww, thanks! :3 Your reviews make me feel all fuzzy inside, I'll miss you :)
to To Love Is To Destroy: Thank you! You've been on this story since the beginning... thank you so much! I'll miss you and your reviews!
to dianscot: I sort of get where you're coming from, but I respectfully disagree. While I personally don't think that Jace expected to die, I do think that he realized that it was a very possible outcome. So yeah. (Also, thank you so much for your feedback. I like that you gave me some constructive criticism so I knew what to improve on.)
for chapter 12:
to VeniVediVici: Thank you! And yes, the angst :(
to the ticking clock: Thank you so much! You're waaaay too kind. I'm smiling goofily at my computer now, it's kind of disturbing. :)
to Xxdazzled by twilightxX: Thanks for all of your reviews! And yes, The Hunger Games trilogy is super cool. I'm really really excited for Mockingjay. The trailer was WAY TOO PERFECT AND TOO MUCH FOR MY FEELS (sorry for caplocking, it happens sometimes).
BAmbi Magenta ANn: Haha, thanks! Don't worry, I am quite fond of food in general (especially chocolately items) so that was a really nice compliment. :)
to To Love Is To Destroy: Thank you (again)! This is my favourite chapter, too (and I'm also a sucker for happy endings).
to bookworm116: Thanks! You can check out my profile for more stories if you want :)
to Clessa Winters: Me too! Thank so much for being super rad and just generally awesome and cool. Oh, and you should check out the author's note at the end.
to vampchick09: Thank you! Yeah, that scene would've been a good one to write, but I just didn't want to get into all the angst after CoG. Sorry :/
to DorkQueen: Thank you so much! :) Sorry about the formatting thing. I hope that it's fixed now.
to SpainBooks: Thanks!
to ughmanda: Thank you so much! (also, further dedication below)
to Guest: Thanks!
to dianscot: Thank you! I put in a little more Jace this time. I hope you like it. :)
Jace felt like smiling, crying, laughing, and yelling all at once. He'd just found out that he wasn't Clary's brother, and he didn't have demon blood, either. He could finally give into that half-repressed longing that he'd had since just before he met her; last night could be repeated dozens upon dozens of times—maybe even hundreds of times. The very thought made his head spin wonderfully.
Of course, there were some cons to the situation: Max, the innocent little brother that Jace'd never had, was dead, and Clary, his not-sister, was bleeding and bound on the ground. And then there was Valentine, Jace's not-really father. The older man was in front of him, and Jace had the tip of his sword against Valentine's chest.
"Last words," Jace hissed, staring down unforgivingly at the man that had brought him up, the man that had fooled him into thinking that Clary was his sister. The man that he now hated with every fiber of his being. "What are they?"
Valentine raised his head and looked at Jace as if he was looking at a close friend's casket. His eyes were somber, as if he was about to do a horrible something against Jace, and truly didn't want to. Right, Jace thought sarcastically. Like he's ever cared. "I'm sorry," Valentine whispered. "I am so sorry."
Valentine stretched out his hand toward Jace. At first, Jace thought Valentine meant to touch him, but then his adoptive father turned his hand palm up. He remembered seeing Magnus do the same thing when summoning an object, and realized belatedly what Valentine was about to do. But there was no time to think before the sword was in the other man's hands and he was thrusting it into Jace's heart.
When Jace looked down, he could see Maellartach sticking out of his chest grotesquely, like a real life Pablo Picasso, abstract and foreign. It didn't register for a few moments—Jace could see the blood and the gaping hole in the fabric of his shirt and feel the pain searing through his body, but it was all as if he were watching from someone else's point of view.
Valentine abruptly jerked the Sword out of Jace's torso, and a wave of fresh pain went through Jace. Without meaning to, without being able to stop, he fell to his knees on the beach, his sword falling out of his hand and onto the sandy banks of Lake Lyn. In that dazed state of someone slipping from consciousness, he looked down at himself and wondered what happened, what had gone wrong. He'd had Valentine trapped, for God's sake. How'd he gotten the upper hand?
And then there was Clary. All those hopeful dreams Jace had had about being able to spend the rest of his life with her had just vanished and turned hopeless, a faraway vision. He'd never be able to look at her and not feel guilt, to kiss her and just enjoy it, to just be around her and not feel a kind of resigned bitterness. Having them be a possibility and then torn away from him was almost more painful than the sword wound.
Clary might not know that Jace wasn't her brother. If Jace were to die right here and now, she might never know it, and forever wistfully dream about what could have been. Sure, Clary was strong and she would get better, but she would be devastated. And Jace couldn't—wouldn't—do that to her.
So Jace opened his mouth to speak to her, to say those words. To tell Clary that he loved her, maybe, or that she wasn't his sister. To tell her not to waste time in sorrow, to move on from him and continue her life after he was dead. (Or better yet, try to forget him entirely.)
But the only thing that came out was blood before Jace succumbed to the darkness and died.
The moment Jace re-awoke to darkness, he knew he was dead. He couldn't see himself and when his arm passed over where his torso should be, he felt only empty air. Guilt swallowed him. He'd left the others behind: Isabelle, Alec, Maryse, Robert, Clary—Clary—and even Luke. They'd miss him. And it wasn't just that they'd miss him—he'd failed them. Valentine would be taking over Idris now. Jace had failed in killing his adopted father, and because of him, the world would be forever changed.
Somewhere in the midst of his grief, a familiar voice spoke out. "Jace," Clary's voice whispered. "Jace."
And he felt a pull in his gut, and before he knew it, the world was spinning.
When Jace opened his eyes again, he wasn't in the shadows anymore. He was back on the shores of Lake Lyn, and Clary was lying a few yards away from him, her clothes soaked and torn and her body grimy and covered in blood (but still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen).
Was this heaven? No, he answered himself a second later, mentally snorting at himself. Like I'd land in Heaven. But Clary was there, so how could it be Hell? Cautiously, he scrambled up and walked shakily over to Clary, his pulse hammering in his ears.
Jace knelt down beside her when he reached her, leaning over her body with growing concern. Her eyes were closed, and she wasn't moving. But her chest was still rising and falling; she was alive.
Clary's alive, he thought, a slow relief sweeping through him. He almost laughed. I'm alive; we made it. Those nights… seem more of an option now.
Jace leaned over her further so that his body was hovering over hers. He was barely aware of whispering Clary's name, but let the words slip out willingly. "Clary," he whispered softly, and he heard the overwhelming relief that he felt lacing through his voice. "Clary. Clary. Clary."
But Clary still wouldn't open her green eyes, and Jace needed to see her beautiful eyes, to make sure she was alive. "Clary," he said, more urgently. "Open your eyes."
And Clary did, and he saw her eyelashes flutter and her eyes hesitantly open. He saw those eyes, the ones that shone with so much affection, latch onto his. When she saw him, her soft lips parted into an o. Jace saw Clary look over him and drink him in, she saw her look turn from affection to hopeful to surprise, and finally, to happiness.
"You're alive," she whispered, looking at him like she was a Shadowhunter who'd just gotten their first weapon, joy overtaking her features. "Really alive."
And we are alive. We're alive, and Valentine's gone. We can live again, and I can finally be with Clary... Jace reached down to touch her face, brushing his thumb over her cheek gently. We're alive. "I was in the dark," he started softly, a corner of his mouth turning up despite himself. "There was nothing there but shadows, and I was a shadow, and I knew that I was dead and that it was over, all of it. And then I heard your voice. I heard you say my name, and it brought me back."
"Not me," she said hoarsely, staring up at him as if transfixed. "The Angel brought you back."
"Because you asked him to." Jace traced Clary's face with the tips of his fingers, starting at her temple and running softly down her cheek until he was tracing the outline of her lips. "You could have had anything else in the world, and you asked for me."
Clary smiled up at Jace, and it struck him. When Raziel gave Clary a wish, she could have chosen anything. But… she chose me. "But I don't want anything else in the world."
And Jace knew he'd never felt this happy, this carefree. He still couldn't believe that he wasn't Clary's brother… "You're not my brother," Clary said. The words tumbled out of her mouth as if she couldn't wait to get them out. "You know that, right?"
Jace grinned down at her. "Yes," he told her softly, joy taking up his voice. "I know that."
There were about a million different questions going through Jace's head. So many things had changed, for better and for worse, that he wasn't sure if they were all real. He held his father's box in his hands. The bird designs on the silver of it seemed to be familiar to him but at the same time distant.
So Jace was a Herondale. Not a Morgenstern with demon blood, and not a Wayland. He was a Herondale. But am I really a Herondale if I've never met my parents, and never even known who they were? He mused, tapping his fingers against the wooden box. That there was the question, the one that had been bugging him ever since he'd recovered and could think anything other than Clary's not my sister. We're not siblings.
And speak or think of the devil and she shall appear, apparently. Catching a flicker of orange hair in his peripheral vision, Jace looked up. Sure enough, there was Clary, standing unsurely by a pillar a short distance away.
His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. Clary was dressed up in a sleeveless silver dress that made her look even more beautiful than normal, hugging her subtle curves in all the right places. Her freckled shoulders were bare, and her hair was down just the way Jace liked it, free and curling wildly like licks of fire. Someone, probably Isabelle, had put makeup on her; her green eyes were lined in gold, making them stand out even more. I might have to thank Izzy later, he thought distractedly.
Even in his sleep-deprived state, Jace felt his heart beat even faster just by looking at her. Overall, she reminded him of that display in a shop one could look at but couldn't touch, like a precious necklace, something delicate and sacred.
"Clary?" he asked softly, wondering if it actually was her. (After all, Jace didn't think she would ever wear something this girly willingly.)
"Who else would it be?" Clary retorted, smiling slightly. It was her voice, all right. But even with proof, it was hard to reconcile the usual Clary with the siren standing in front of him.
"You don't look like you."
"It's the dress," Clary answered, running a hand over the silky material self-consciously. "I don't usually wear things this…pretty."
"You always look beautiful," he said automatically. It was true, and now that they weren't siblings, he could say it all he wanted (and he wanted to say it a lot). "But you look—distant. Like I couldn't touch you."
Clary walked over and sat next to him. Though the step he was perched on was wide, she was sitting close enough that their thighs brushed. He watched as she held her hand out, noticing that it was trembling slightly. "Touch me," she said softly, looking straight into Jace's eyes. Her words brought fire into his veins. "If you want to."
And so Jace did. He took her hand and rested his cheek for only a moment. He had barely felt that spark he felt whenever he touched Clary before he forced himself to drop it back into her lap. Clary shivered a little, and Jace had an inkling that it wasn't because of the cold. "What's in the box?" she asked him quietly.
"I went to Amatis's earlier today, looking for you," he told her. "But you weren't there. So I talked to Amatis. She gave me this." He gestured to the box. "It belonged to my father."
Clary briefly looked at the box, and it looked as if she was wondering why Valentine would have a box like this. But then her expression cleared, and she smiled up at him. "Of course," she responded, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "Amatis was married to Stephen Herondale."
"I've been going through it," Jace said, looking down at the box with a kind of exhausted sadness. "Reading the letters and the journal pages. I thought if I did that, I might feel some sort of connection to him. Something that would leap off the pages at me, saying yes, this is your father. But I don't feel anything. Just bits of paper. Anyone could have written these things."
"Jace," Clary started softly, placing a hand on his arm.
But Jace plowed on. "And that's another thing," he continued, glancing at her subtly. "I don't have a name anymore, do I? I'm not Jonathan Christopher—that was someone else. But it's the name I'm used to."
"Who came up with Jace as a nickname? Did you come up with it yourself?"
Jace shook his head slightly. "No. Valentine always called me Jonathan. And that's what they called me when I first got to the Institute. I was never supposed to think my name was Jonathan Christopher, you know—that was an accident. I got the name out of my father's journal, but it wasn't me he was talking about. It wasn't my progress he was recording. It was Seb—it was Jonathan's. So the first time I ever told Maryse that my middle name was Christopher, she told herself that she'd just remembered wrong, and Christopher had been Michael's son's middle name. It had been ten years, after all. But that was when she started calling me Jace: It was like she wanted to give me a new name, something that belonged to her, to my life in New York. And I liked it. I'd never liked Jonathan," he answered, the corner of his mouth turning up. "I wonder if maybe Maryse knew, or guessed, but just didn't want to know. She loved me…and she didn't want to believe it."
"Which is why she was so upset when she found out you were Valentine's son," Clary realized, looking up at him. "Because she thought she ought to have known. She kind of did know. But we never do want to believe things like that about people we love. And, Jace, she was right about you. She was right about who you really are. And you do have a name. Your name is Jace. Valentine didn't give that name to you. Maryse did. The only thing that makes a name important, and yours, is that it's given to you by someone who loves you."
"Jace what?" he asked again, honestly being anxious for possibly the first time in his life. "Jace Herondale?"
"Oh, please," Clary said, as if the answer were ridiculously obvious. "You're Jace Lightwood. You know that." (And it kind of was, once she'd said it.)
Jace looked at her and met her eyes, holding her gaze as she continued. "Maybe you're a different person than you thought you were," she told him. "But no one becomes a totally different person overnight. Just finding out that Stephen was your biological father isn't going to automatically make you love him. And you don't have to. Valentine wasn't your real father, but not because you don't have his blood in your veins. He wasn't your real father because he didn't act like a father. He didn't take care of you. It's always been the Lightwoods who have taken care of you. They're your family. Just like Mom and Luke are mine." Clary reached over to Jace as if she were about to touch him, but then pulled her hand back sharply. "I'm sorry," she said. "Here I am lecturing you, and you probably came up here to be alone."
"You're right," Jace said. Valentine was as much a father to Jace as Stephen was, though Jace knew the comparison was not very nice.
Unfortunately, he'd said his words unthinkingly. Clary looked as if she had swallowed a bite of Isabelle's cooking. "All right, then. I'll go." She stood up hurriedly and nearly tripped on her dress.
"Clary!" Damn it, now I've offended her. Nice job, Jace. He set the box down and hastily got to his feet. "Clary, wait. That wasn't what I meant. I didn't mean I wanted to be alone. I meant you were right about Valentine—about the Lightwoods—"
Clary turned around and looked at him again. Her expression was slightly wistful and sad. "You know," she spoke, smiling slightly. "Aline said maybe you wouldn't be interested anymore. Now that it isn't forbidden. Now that you could be with me if you wanted to." Clary shivered minutely, and hugged her elbows to her chest. "Is that true? Are you not…interested?"
Jace almost laughed. Interested? He'd always be interested, even when/if they made it into their eighties and were wrinkly and old. "Interested? As if you were a—a book, or a piece of news? No, I'm not interested. I'm—" Jace broke off, searching for the right word to describe his feelings for Clary and finding none. "Do you remember what I said to you before? About feeling like the fact that you were my sister was a sort of cosmic joke on me? On both of us?"
"I remember."
"I never believed it," Jace told her, then backtracked. "I mean, I believed it in a way—I let it drive me to despair, but I never felt it. Never felt you were my sister. Because I didn't feel about you the way you're supposed to feel about your sister. But that didn't mean I didn't feel like you were a part of me. I've always felt that." Jace caught sight of her confused expression and broke off with an impatient sigh. "I'm not saying this right. Clary, I hated every second that I thought you were my sister. I hated every moment that I thought what I felt for you meant there was something wrong with me. But—"
"But what?" Clary looked breathless, staring at him intently.
"I could see the delight Valentine took in the way I felt about you. The way you felt about me. He used it as a weapon against us. And that made me hate him. More than anything else he'd ever done to me, that made me hate him, and it made me turn against him, and maybe that's what I needed to do. Because there were times I didn't know if I wanted to follow him or not. It was a hard choice—harder than I like to remember." His throat constricted painfully at just the mere memory.
"I asked you if I had a choice once," Clary reminded Jace firmly. "And you said, 'We always have choices.' You chose against Valentine. In the end that was the choice you made, and it doesn't matter how hard it was to make it. It matters that you did."
"I know," Jace told her quietly. "I'm just saying that I think I chose the way I did in part because of you. Since I've met you, everything I've done has been in part because of you. I can't untie myself from you, Clary— not my heart or my blood or my mind or any other part of me. And I don't want to."
"You don't?" Clary asked, looking so hopeful Jace almost smiled.
Jace stepped towards her, and looked her deep in the eyes. "I always thought love made you stupid. Made you weak. A bad Shadowhunter. To love is to destroy. I believed that."
Clary bit her lip, but wouldn't—or couldn't—look away. "I used to think being a good warrior meant not caring," He continued. "About anything, myself especially. I took every risk I could. I flung myself in the path of demons. I think I gave Alec a complex about what kind of fighter he was, just because he wanted to live." Jace smiled at Clary crookedly. "And then I met you. You were a mundane. Weak. Not a fighter. Never trained. And then I saw how much you loved your mother, loved Simon, and how you'd walk into hell to save them. You did walk into that vampire hotel. Shadowhunters with a decade of experience wouldn't have tried that. Love didn't make you weak; it made you stronger than anyone I'd ever met. And I realized I was the one who was weak."
"No," Clary said, sounding thoroughly taken aback. Her eyes widened and she stepped closer. "You're not."
"Maybe not anymore," Jace allowed, stepping close enough that if he wanted to, he could grab her around the waist and kiss her (and he wanted to). Somehow, he managed to suppress the urge. "Valentine couldn't believe I'd killed Jonathan. Couldn't believe it because I was the weak one, and Jonathan was the one with more training. By all rights, he probably should have killed me. He nearly did. But I thought of you—I saw you there, clearly, as if you were standing in front of me, watching me, and I knew I wanted to live, wanted it more than I'd ever wanted anything, if only so that I could see your face one more time."
Clary still looked stunned, and Jace continued. "And now I'm looking at you," he said, and shook his head in amusement. Interested? "And you're asking me if I still want you, as if I could stop loving you. As if I would want to give up the thing that makes me stronger than anything else ever has. I never dared give much of myself to anyone before—bits of myself to the Lightwoods, to Isabelle and Alec, but it took years to do it—but, Clary, since the first time I saw you, I have belonged to you completely. I still do. If you want me."
Clary still looked frozen. Then suddenly she was reaching for him and fisting her hands in the front of his shirt, using them to pull him towards her. Jace would have laughed if he'd had the time, but as soon as he had his arms around her they were kissing and it was the best feeling in the world.
That spark came back, a hundred times more powerful. All Jace knew about was Clary, and that her mouth was on his and they were kissing. A demon could have snuck up on them and Jace wouldn't have known, because for once in his life, he forgot about the world. He let everything go, and focused on Clary, just Clary and him and the feel of his mouth on hers and his hands in her hair.
After what seemed like only a few seconds but was probably a minute or two, Jace pulled away from Clary. She gasped in air as soon as they'd parted, her cheeks flushed. Belatedly, Jace realized that they'd both forgotten to breathe. Oops.
He cupped her face between his hands, brushing his thumbs over her cheekbones. "There," he said softly, feeling happier than ever. "That wasn't so bad, was it, even though it wasn't forbidden?"
"I've had worse," Clary retorted breathlessly, laughing somewhat shakily.
"You know," Jace told her, and bent over to brush his lips across hers lightly. "If it's the lack of forbidden you're worried about, you could still forbid me to do things."
"What kinds of things?" Clary asked curiously.
Jace smiled devilishly against Clary's mouth. "Things like this."
Also, a few last thank yous. First, to my loyal followers: the ticking clock, To Love Is To Destroy, BAmbi Magenta ANn, vampchick09, DorkQueen, VeniVediVici, Xxdazzled by twilightxX, and dianscot. There's a spot in my heart for all of you wonderful people. :)
Secondly, to Amanda (aka ughmanda), who has become a fan of my work on here and a friend of mine on tumblr and twitter. (And also for being super cool and having a great taste in bands.) Thank you so much!
Thirdly, to my best internet friend Clessa Winters. She's a great writer (go follow her on Wattpad!), and she's been so nice to me. Thank you from the depths of my heart for all your support.
Fourthly, to everyone who ever read, favourited, reviewed, or followed any of my stories. I started writing fanfictions just over a year ago, and I am deeply grateful to you all. Thank you so much.
Thank you all.
Love,
~Alex (aka dontforget2live) :) x
