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The problem was that Simon did not know how to pack like a badass.
He didn’t have the faintest idea how he had made her feel that way about him once, and so he didn’t have the faintest idea how to make her feel that way about him again.
Simon was still trying to work out how Shadowhunter government and also Shadowhunter family trees worked. They all seemed to be related to each other and it was very disturbing.
Simon suspected the Angel did not choose the asthmatic or anyone who had ever gotten hit in the face by a volleyball in gym.
Simon rolled his eyes. Apparently, all Shadowhunter dudes were underwear models, including his new roommate. His life was a joke.
The only other branch of the Lovelaces gave up Shadowhunting in the 1800s—I think they had a daughter who came back, but she died, so we were all that was left.
What can I tell you? The Lovelaces are quitters.”
“You’re Simon,” he breathed. “Simon Lewis.” “Right,” Simon said. “Hey. Is my name on the door, or—is there some sort of register I’m meant to be signing—” “The vampire,” said George. “Mary Morgenstern’s best friend!” “Uh, Clary,” said Simon. “Uh, yeah. I like to think of myself as the ex-undead.”
“Seriously, you and your hero group is all anybody talks about,” George said, returning to a more cheerful subject. “Well, that and the fact we have pigeons living in the ovens. You saved the world, didn’t you? And you don’t remember it. That’s got to be weird.” “It is weird, George, thanks for mentioning that.”
First, because Scarsbury was measuring them for their gear, which was a terrifying experience on its own. Second, because it involved hurtful personal comments about Simon’s physique. “You have such narrow shoulders,” Scarsbury said thoughtfully. “Like a lady.” “I’m lithe,” Simon informed him, with dignity.
He almost reconsidered when Catarina led him to his room. It was much darker than the last room, though laid out in the same way. The wooden bedposts of the two narrow beds looked decayed, and in the corners of the room the black slime had grown almost viscous, turning into tiny black slime waterfalls. “I don’t remember hell all that well,” Simon said. “But I think I recall it was nicer than this.”
“I mean, I can’t be your boyfriend, Isabelle,” he said. “I’m not him—that guy who was your boyfriend. That guy you want.” He almost said: I wish I could be. He had wished he could be. That was why he had come to the Academy, to learn how to be that guy they all wanted back. He’d wanted to be that way, be an awesome hero like in a game or a movie. He’d been so sure, at first, that was what he wanted. Except wishing he could be that guy was like wishing to obliterate the guy he was now: the normal, happy guy in a band, who could still love his mother, who did not wake up in the coldest, darkest
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Her trembling mouth sparkled, and so did her eyelashes. He did not know if this was indomitable Isabelle crying, or whether it was sparkly mascara. All he knew was that she shone, like a constellation in the shape of a girl.
Simon watched his roommate—a tan, muscled Abercrombie-model type—swing himself up the plastic rock handholds as effortlessly as Spider-Man. It was ridiculous: George wasn’t even a Shadowhunter, not by blood. He’d been adopted by a Shadowhunting family, which made him just as much a mundane as Simon. Except that, like most of the other mundanes—and very unlike Simon—he was a near-perfect specimen of humanity. Repulsively athletic, coordinated, strong and swift, and as close to a Shadowhunter as you could get without the blood of the angels running through your veins. In other words: a jock.
All shadowhunters are just jocks
Shadowhunter Academy had no nerds.
“We want you to tell us about vampires.” Simon grinned. “What do you want to know? Scariest is Eli in Let the Right One In, cheesiest is late-era Lestat, most underrated is David Bowie in The Hunger. Sexiest is definitely Drusilla, though if you ask a girl, she’ll probably say Damon Salvatore or Edward Cullen. But . . .” He shrugged. “You know girls.” Julie’s and Beatriz’s eyes were wide. “I didn’t think you’d know so many!” Beatriz exclaimed. “Are they . . . are they your friends?” “Oh, sure, Count Dracula and I are like this,” Simon said, crossing his fingers to demonstrate.
Maybe, he thought, you couldn’t know how much going away had changed you until you tried to go home.
Every decision you make, makes you. Never let other people choose who you’re going to be.”
“Do you ever notice,” George said, “how even the blankets feel wet, when you know they’re dry? And I come from Scotland. I know wool. I know sheep. But this wool? There’s something demonic about this wool. I cut my knuckles on it making the bed the other morning.”
Shadowhunters could draw runes for warmth. They didn’t need hypoallergenic down-substitute puffy coats.
Jace stayed in the tree the entire time, like some kind of rakish bird, at points smiling at the students below. Sometimes he looked elegantly bored and walked up and down the branch for fun.
Such an insufferable bastard
To his children, Will showed the same love he had always shown to her, fierce and unyielding. And the same protectiveness he had only ever showed to one other person: the person James had been named after. Will’s parabatai, Jem.
I really hope every time Jem shows up in TWP Will is mentioned, because jfc can we never just talk about ONLY Will
“Good night, Wiggles.” “Wiggles?” “Yes, Wiggles. Your nickname? It’s what you always made us call you. I almost forgot your name was Simon, I’m so used to calling you Wiggles.” “Wiggles? What does that . . . even mean?” “You would never explain,” Jace said with a shrug. “It was the big mystery about you. As I said, good night, Wiggles. I’ll take care of this.” He held up the letter and used it to make a salute.
This is why Jace is great
Simon felt the same way as when he and Clary had set a fire in his kitchen by trying to toast grapes and create raisins when they were six: amazed and appalled that things had gone wrong so fast.
His name was James Herondale.” “A Herondale? Another Herondale?” Simon asked. “Herondales without cease. Do you ever get the feeling you are being chased around by Herondales?” “Not really,” Catarina said. “Not that I’d mind. Magnus says they tend to be a good-looking lot. Of course, Magnus also says they tend to be strange in the head.
I bet that Matthew guy was a jackass.” “Oh, I don’t know,” said Catarina. “I always thought he was a charmer, myself. Most people did. Everybody liked Matthew.” This Matthew guy must have been a charmer, Simon thought. Catarina rarely spoke about any Shadowhunters with anything like approval, but here she was smiling fondly over a boy from a hundred years ago.
Look he's just a cinnamon roll for all
Mother said Father and Jamie had the same hair, but Jamie knew his own hair was always untidy. He had heard people call his father’s hair unruly, which meant being untidy with charisma.
James had gone on visits too, and never made a bosom companion. The only person who liked him was a girl, and nobody could know about Grace. Perhaps even Grace would not like him, if she knew any other people.
You never know when, and you never know who, but someday a stranger will burst through the door of your life and transform it utterly.
This is exactly how Will met Tessa and its exactly why we love Will, Will is the best Herondale
we will miss you terribly.” “Terribly?” James asked, shyly. “Your mother says she will be brave and keep a stiff upper lip,” said Father. “Americans are heartless. I will cry into my pillow every night.”
A parabatai was a friend who had chosen you to be their best friend, who had made their friendship permanent. They were that sure about how much they liked you, that sure they would never want to take it back. Finding a parabatai seemed to James the key to everything, the essential first step to a life where he could be as happy as his father was, be as brilliant a Shadowhunter as his father was, find a love as great as the love his father had found.
James had not seen Matthew in a couple of years, but he remembered him very clearly. At every family gathering where James hung on the edges of crowds or went off to read on the stairs, Matthew was the life and soul of the party. He would talk with grown-ups as if he were a grown-up. He would dance with old ladies. He would charm parents and grandparents, and stop babies from crying. Everybody loved Matthew.
James did not remember Matthew dressing like a maniac before today. Matthew was wearing knee breeches when everyone else was wearing the trousers of the sane, and a mulberry-colored velvet jacket. Even his shining golden hair was brushed in a way that struck James as more complicated than the way other boys brushed their hair.
Fucking queer fashion icon at THIRTEEN
“I’d prefer to be in a school devoted to art, beauty, and culture rather than in a ghastly stone shack in the middle of nowhere filled with louts who aspire to nothing more than whacking demons with great big swords,” said Matthew. “Yet here we are.”
Watch me love and adore every single thing baby Matthew Fairchild does and says
That was when Matthew Fairchild said, “Sir,” and smiled. James had forgotten about The Smile, even though it was often broken out to great effect at family parties. The Smile won Matthew extra time before bed, extra Christmas pudding, extra anything he wanted. Adults were helpless to resist The Smile. Matthew gave his all to this particular smile. Butter melted. Birds sang. People slipped about dazed amid the butter and birdsong.
Matthew’s smile became more playful. “I could deny it if I liked. I could deny anything if I liked. But my name certainly is Matthew. It has been Matthew for years.” “What?” Ragnor Fell looked as if he had fallen into a pit of lunatics and could not get out. James cleared his throat. “He’s quoting Oscar Wilde, sir.” Matthew glanced over at him, his dark eyes suddenly wide. “Are you a devotee of Oscar Wilde?”
!!!!!!!!!!
Thomas was older than James and Christopher, but much smaller. Aunt Sophie had kept him at home an extra year because he was sickly. He did not look sickly now, but he was still rather undersized. His tan, combined with his brown hair and brown eyes and his short stature, made him look like a small, worried horse chestnut. James found himself wanting to pat Thomas on the head. Matthew patted Thomas on the head.
“Mr. Fell,” he said. “Thomas. Christopher. Jamie.” “James,” James corrected. “Do not worry,” Matthew said with immense confidence. “I mean, certainly, worry that we are trapped in an arid warrior culture with no appreciation for the truly important things in life. But do not worry about things exploding, because I will not permit anything to explode.”
Why was he so fully well formed at age 13, this has got to be a joke
James looked up at the taller, older boy. He had light hair but dark brows, strongly marked, like very judgmental black brushstrokes. So this was Alastair Carstairs,
Matthew laughed in their faces. “Naturally. What use do sad, unimaginative little people have for plays?” he asked. “Or paintings, or dancing, or anything that makes life interesting. I am so glad to be at this dank little school where they will try to squeeze down my mind until it is almost as narrow as yours.” He patted Alastair Carstairs on the arm.
“Yes, you, the one with the peculiar eyes,” Alastair snapped.
Am i the only one who thinks Alaistair noticing Jamie's eye color is evidence that he's gay? Cuz i think i'm right, that was a CLUE
Family legend reported that his cousin Anna Lightwood, who was the least proper person imaginable, had said if they sent her to the Academy, she would run away and become a mundane bullfighter.
Anna is such a gd legend
“Mmm,” said James, a silver-tongued devil with the ladies.
James had wanted friends, but he had not wanted to be the kind of friend who people settled for, because they could not get any better. Except he was, as he had always secretly feared, tedious and poor company.
He did not know why books had not taught him how to talk so other people wanted to listen.
Or perhaps the training courses were the worst, because Matthew was at his most annoying during the training courses. “I must regretfully decline to participate,” he told their teacher once. “Consider me on strike like the coal miners. Except far more stylish.” The next day, he said: “I abstain on the grounds that beauty is sacred, and there is nothing beautiful about these exercises.” The day after that, he merely said: “I object on aesthetic principles.” He kept saying ridiculous things, until a couple of weeks in, when he said: “I won’t do it, because Shadowhunters are idiots and I do not
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I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM
He did only half the work and insulted everyone in the Academy on a daily basis, and he remained absurdly popular.
This is very much like Jace except Jace would be working twice as hard with half the effort, which is somehow more annoying
“Maybe your fathers don’t tell you stories like mine does,” James said. “Maybe not everyone listens to stories like you do,” Matthew said from across the room. “Not everyone learns.”
It was another reminder that Matthew had what James would have given anything for, that Matthew had friends and belonged here at the Academy, and Matthew did not care at all.
“Mr. Herondale has volunteered to teach you how to staff fight,” Ragnor Fell said. “If you plan to murder each other, go farther down the field where I cannot see you and won’t have to answer awkward questions.”
