“As always, there was an all-American war hero look to him, coded in his tousled brown hair, his summer-narrowed hazel eyes, the straight nose that ancient Anglo-Saxons had graciously passed on to him. Everything about him suggested valor and power and a firm handshake.”
He traced the outlines of the black mark – the rune – on his lower arm with the tip of his finger. It wasn’t like the other runes he already bore on his body. Just looking at it moved something deep within him and it was yet a foreign feeling for him. Something he had to grow accustomed to.
Simon never thought he would be here or in this position. He never thought he would own this rune or any rune at all. (Expect of the Mark of Cain he once wore. He remembered it well now.)
“It’s kind of weird, isn’t it.”
Or return from following after thee—for whither thou goest, I will go,
He didn’t need to look up so know who it was. Who sat beside him on the drying, almost brown grass and whom he felt not just physically.
“It is. But it’s not bad,” he replied and looked to Clary next to him. Her red hair blew in every direction in the cold November wind of New York City and she shuddered a little due to the cold.
Simon moved closer to her – his fingertips had left his rune as soon as his best friend – no – his parabatai had showed up – and she instinctively put her head on his shoulder.
“I am really glad you know,” she whispered and Simon just murmured something back, nothing coherent but definitely affirming. He knew why she was glad. Not because of ther newly founded bond but because he just knew Clary in and out.
He wished he could claim that it has always been like this but that was not the case.
And where thou lodgest, I will lodge.
A few month ago he struggled to remember a lot of things. Magnus had helped him a lot and he knew many things, things that he had lost due to Asmodeus, but it was like a distant dream or a story someone had told him. It took him time to really feel himself into all these situations. How he felt when Clary once fell from the roof and Simon wouldn’t leave her side, not even in the hospital. When they would sit in Java Jones and talk about trivial things, complain about homework or Eric’s poems.
It wasn’t just memories of Clary that came back to him, that he started to feel again. He remembered how Isabelle had let him inside after Max had died. It was the first time he felt that prickling sensation in his stomach which was so different from the feeling he believed to be love before.
It was back now. He couldn’t relate to some thing yet – that was why Magnus still helped him out – but there were things he was absolutely certain of.
Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.
Simon felt the energy flowing through his body and he knew that it wasn’t his own now. It was Clary’s, too. She was one of the most stable things in his life. One person he treasured beyond measure. She wasn’t the only one he loved of course. He was ruinously in love with Isabelle after all. He loved his family. His friends. But Clary always had been different and he didn’t just remembered that - no - he was absolutely sure of it. She was his better half and it was just so self-evident when she talked about parabatai. He said that, as far as he could understand this concept, Clary would be his. And she just looked at him, her green eyes sparkling with excitement – like she saw a beautiful motif she had to draw – as she wrapped her tiny hand around his wrist. “You should be my parabatai,” she had said.
Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried.
“I always wondered one could read the mind of their parabatai,” Simon said and Clary raised her head to give him a skeptical look.
“What, it would have been cool, wouldn’t it? Like when we had the ring,” he mused on and Clary just smiled at him. “Then again, you probably wouldn’t want to be in my head at all times… and vice versa.”
Simon’s eyebrows danced up and down as he grinned at her and Clary knew what he was referring to. Her cheeks heated up and she punched his arm.
“You’re an idiot.”
“And to think that you are this idiot’s parabatai.”
“Call the Clave. Tell them I want a refund.”
“Oh, shut up.”
The Angel do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.
First I get a glimpse of the blond braid down her back. Then, as she yanks off her coat to cover a wailing child, I notice the duck tail formed by her untucked shirt. I have the same reaction I did the day Effie Trinket called her name at the reaping. At least, I must go limp, because I find myself at the base of the flagpole, unable to account for the last few seconds. Then I am pushing through the crowd, just as I did before. Trying to shout her name above the roar. I’m almost there, almost to the barricade, when I think she hears me. Because for just a moment, she catches sight of me, her lips form my name. And that’s when the rest of the parachutes go off.”
“I laughed as I twisted to face him and raised my arm to hit in one move. He caught my wrist and my laugh caught in my throat. A mischievous grin curved my mouth as I raised my other hand to hit him. He reached over me and caught that wrist too, gently pinning my arms above my head as he straddled my hips. The space between us boiled my blood.”