Chapter 13

Jonathan never understood the concept of wishing for things. If you wanted something badly, then you had to go and get it yourself. Wishing was pointless. But now, as he laid on the couch unable to move, he understood the concept. Wishing for something was essential saying 'I'd very much like to do this thing(s) if only I were able to.' At least, that was the sentiment Jonathan was expressing. For example, he wished he could take a shower, change his clothes, eat, or drink something. But since he lacked the ability to do/get those things, all he could do was wish for them.

Since he heard Clary usher Max out, Jonathan had only managed to shift his position on the couch from vertical to horizontal, and even that small movement left him breathless. The pain he had been trying to manage since first ending up in the Queen's cells was finally overtaking him, forcing his body to remain motionless.

So for hours Jonathan laid on the couch, drifting in and out of consciousness. Every now and then he'd noticed the light change, going from bright to dark and back again. He wondered if he was going to die right here on the sofa. He thought about the possibility of Clary ever coming back, and if she did, the chances of her helping him or simply letting nature take it's course.

'I don't know.'

What kind of answer was that? It should be simple. Either 'yes, I want to kill you, murdering, rapist brother of mine' or 'no, I don't want to kill you, murdering, rapist brother of mine'. Not 'I don't know'. Clary was many things, Jonathan thought, but indecisive of whether or not she wanted him alive? That didn't sound like a grey area for her.

Then again, it's not like I know her well.

These were the only coherent thoughts Jonathan had in his head. As the second night since arriving at the house dawned, his mind was less interested in his sister's strange answer and more interested in how to escape the pain racking his body.

There were his injuries from the Queen herself: bruises and cuts and broken bones that probably needed tending to. There was also the slits on his back from his wings that definitely needed to be treated. But there was another pain in addition to these, and ache running from his heart through his veins causing him to curl in on himself, which made his other injuries burn.

Withdrawal.

The word sounded in his mind, and Jonathan vaguely understood what was happening. For years, he had been part demon. Demon blood had been flowing through his veins in addition to Nephilim blood. However, he wasn't a demon, but was Nephilim. His birth was akin to that of a baby whose mother drank and did drugs while pregnant. His body was used to a certain substance, and now being back at life without it, had no idea how to function.

I need help.

Help? From who? It had been two days. Clearly Clary wasn't going to come back here. Maybe she had decided that she wanted him dead and figured this was the best way to do it. This seemed especially likely considering Max didn't seem to want him dead.

Max. That's right. In the forest, he had managed to communicate with Max. 'Make a portal. Quick.' The kid had heard. Jonathan had that ability with certain people. How he had it with Max he wasn't sure. Maybe the Angels had something to do with it. But Jonathan knew he could contact certain people with his mind if they cast some sort of spell. He did it with someone once…

Please help me.

Once he sent out the message, Jonathan felt stupid. She's probably dead, he thought. The world went dark on him again, eerily similar to the cave in Hell.

….

''Good morning, Resurrected One.''

Jonathan felt the hardness of the floor under him. Either he rolled off the couch or had been moved. Possibly the later with the method of the former. He opened his eyes slowly, looking up into the brown eyes of the girl leaning over him. ''Hello, Celeste.''

Celeste smiled. ''You look like crap,'' she said sweetly. She got to her feet and turned into the kitchen, her blonde hair sweeping behind her.

Jonathan managed to sit up. He felt like crap, but it was an improvement to how he had felt before. He noticed he was shirtless and could feel tight bandages on his back and legs. ''I didn't think I would reach you,'' he called into the kitchen.

''I nearly didn't answer.'' Celeste walked back towards him, a glass of water in her hands. She handed it to him before sitting on the couch, which was somehow free of blood. ''I figured it must have been some trick since I thought for sure you were dead.''

Jonathan greedily drank the water before answering. ''I was.''

Celeste put her chin on her hands, leaning eagerly forward. ''Oh, do tell.''

''No.'' He put the cup down and leaned against the coffee table. ''Not until I know how things are going to turn out.''

''How do you want them to turn out?''

Jonathan let out a cold laugh, which quickly turned into a cough. ''I have no freaking clue.''

Celeste studied him strangely. ''You're not a demon anymore.''

The strange feeling inside of Jonathan tightened. ''I know.''

''Hmm.'' Whatever Celeste was thinking, she didn't share. ''Well,'' she said, getting up quickly. ''I'll be around if you need me. I just hope you won't be getting in the way of those Shadowhunter's again. You do know this is the city with your sister in it?''

Jonathan nodded numbly. ''I'm aware.''

….

Back and forth. Pacing first the length of the room, than the width. Back and forth and back and forth. Clary was grateful the apartment was all one floor, and that they had no neighbors occupying the place below her room. Otherwise complaints would be given about the constant nightly shuffling.

Clary had tried everything. She tried not thinking about it. She tried writing down everything that felt wrong and work out a solution. She tried distracting herself with training. She considered telling Jace or her mother what was wrong, but what stopped her was she didn't know what to say.

All Clary knew was that she felt wrong. She was just a bundle of nerves. Anxiety had a whole new meaning for her the past couple of days. The desire to chalk it up to being that Jonathan was alive and in the city was strong, but Clary knew it wasn't that. Or really, it wasn't just that.

Her dreams had gotten worse, more images of that room with the man waiting expectantly, and the boy with no pupils. Voices whispering to her, and that rune flashing in front of her face: Remembrance.

When she wasn't disturbed by those things, she kept thinking of Jonathan. 'No interruptions this time.' Why hadn't she been able to kill him? Why didn't she want to kill him?

Remembrance.

Clary thought- no, she knew- that the rune flashing in front of her face in stark red wasn't really a rune for remembering. She didn't know how nor why she would be thinking of a rune and word that didn't match up. Maybe if she remembered something, she'd know what the red rune's meaning was.

But remember what? Her memories from when Magnus took her sight? Maybe she had seen something that day when she and Simon were supposed to go to the comic book store, something that had happened in her apartment that had her mother so upset. But what?

It was as if she had a ballon in her chest. Every day, every second, it got bigger and bigger. Soon it would pop. When it did it would hurt, but it would be gone. Clary would be free. Knowing is always better.

But know what?

Faster she paced, She wanted to cry. To scream. To do something to make her heart stop pounding in her ears. She needed a rune.

Before she could lose the nerve, Clary turned to her desk and flipped open her sketch book. Still standing, she picked up a pencil. She remembered saying once that she couldn't use create a rune, she had to be inspired. Truth was, she had never really tried.

For a moment Clary just stared at the page. The blank white page, full of endless possibilities. Then she forced her hand down and drew.

Harsh lines. Thick lines. A diamond here, a star here. Spiraling up the page and then a sharp diagonal down. Faster she drew. Harder. Her anger, her pain, her annoyance she poured into the page. It wasn't working. It would never work.

If you have no advantage, make one.

There was that voice again, the same one that had coached her in the battle in the cells. Throwing her pencil down, Clary grabbed her stele. Sometimes to get things right, we just need to be motivated. She sunk to her knees. Pressing down hard, Clary drew on to her skin.

The stele burned. The harsh strokes she made on the paper were now copied onto her arm. Suddenly the shapes didn't seem so out of place. The harder she drew, the bigger the ballon in her chest grew. Until suddenly-

Remembrance.

Clary threw the stele down, barely registering the sound of it hitting the hardwood floor. She had to shove her fist in her mouth to keep from screaming. Blood flowed from the mark on her arm, dripping down her arm onto the floor. But she didn't care. The ballon in her chest popped, and like she figured, it hurt like hell.

But know she knew. Now she knew what she had forgotten. And now she knew what she had to do to get those memories back.

Me: If there are any silent readers out there, I hope you are enjoying the story. I sure am enjoying writing it! I have the next chapter ready and I really love it. I would love to hear any feedback you have to offer, but understand if you can't review and/or feel uncomfortable leaving a review. Nevertheless, I hope you are enjoying!

Happy Writing!