stretching back for decades and centuries, holding this same Cup before one mundane after another. So many mortals, volunteering to join the fight. They had always seemed so brave to Simon, risking their livesâsacrificing their futures to a greater causeânot because theyâd been born into a great battle between good and evil, but because they had chosen not to live on the sidelines, letting others fight for them.
It occurred to him, if they were brave for making the choice, maybe he was too.
But it didnât feel like bravery, not now.
It simply felt like taking the next step forward. That simple.
That inevitable.
âI can,â Simon answered.
âAnd when you are dead, will you give up your body to the Nephilim to be burned, that your ashes may be used to build the City of Bones?â
Even the thought of this didnât frighten him. It seemed suddenly like an honor, that his body would live on in usefulness after death, that from this time forward, the Shadowhunter world would have a claim on him, for eternity.
âI will,â Simon said.
âThen drink.â
Simon took the Cup into his hands. It was even heavier than it looked and curiously warm to the touch. Whatever was inside it didnât look much like blood, fortunately, but it didnât look like anything else he recognized either. If he didnât know better, Simon would have said the Cup was full of light. As he peered down at it, the strange liquid almost seemed to pulse with a soft glow, as if to say, Go ahead, drink me.
He couldnât remember the first time heâd seen the Mortal Cupâthat was one of the memories still lost to himâbut he knew the role it had played in his life, knew that if it werenât for the Cup, he and Clary might never have discovered the existence of Shadowhunters in the first place. It had all begun with the Mortal Cup; it seemed fitting that it should all end here too.
Not end , Simon thought quickly. Hopefully not end .
It was said that the younger you were, the less likely drinking from the Cup was to kill you. Simon was, subjectively, nineteen, but heâd recently learned that by Shadowhunter rules, he was only eighteen. The months heâd spent as a vampire apparently didnât count. He could only hope the Cup understood that.
âDrink,â the Consul repeated quietly, a note of humanity creeping into her voice.
Simon raised the Cup to his lips.
He drank.
*Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â *
He is tangled in Isabelleâs arms, he is curtained by Isabelleâs hair, he is touching Isabelleâs body, he is lost in Isabelle, in her smell and her taste and the silk of her skin.
He is onstage, the music pounding, the floor shaking, the audience cheering, his heart beating beating beating in time with the drumbeat.
He is laughing with Clary, dancing with Clary, eating with Clary, running through the streets of Brooklyn with Clary, they are children together, they are one half of a whole, they hold hands and squeeze tight and pledge never to let go.
He is going cold, stiff, the life draining out of him, he is below, in the dark, clawing his way to the light, fingernails scraping dirt, mouth filled with dirt, eyes clogged with dirt, he is straining, reaching, dragging himself up toward the sky, and when he reaches it, he opens his mouth wide but does not breathe, for he no longer needs to breathe, only to feed. And he is so very hungry.
He is sinking his teeth into the neck of an angelâs child, he is drinking the light.
He is bearing a Mark, and it burns.
He is raising his face to meet the gaze of an angel, he is flayed by the fury of angel fire, and yet still, impudent and bloodless, he lives.
He is in a cage.
He is in hell.
He is bent over the broken body of a beautiful girl, he is praying to whatever god that will listen, please let her live, anything to let her live.
He is giving away that which is most precious to him, and he is