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It was Ragnor who had saved him, James thought as the world tipped from bright, strange grayness into black. This was warlock magic. He did not know until later that the Academy class had all watched, expecting to see a scene of carnage and death, and instead seen a black-haired boy dissolve and change from one of their own into a shadow cast by nothing, a wicked cutout into the abyss behind the world, dark and unmistakable in the afternoon sun. What had been inevitable death, something the Shadowhunters were used to, became something strange and more terrible. He did not know until later how
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You love, and tremble, and burn. Do not let any of them tell you who you are. You are the flame that cannot be put out. You are the star that cannot be lost. You are who you have always been, and that is enough and more than enough. Anyone who looks at you and sees darkness is blind.
Demon’s eyes. James heard it whispered again and again. He had never thought he would long to be called Goatface.
Isn't "goat" a reference to the devil? Clever
Uncle Jem had a place in the world, had friends and a home, and the horror was that he could not be in the place where he belonged. Sometimes after his visits James would find his mother standing at the window, looking out at the street Uncle Jem had long disappeared from, and he would find his father in the music room staring at the violin nobody but Uncle Jem was allowed to touch. That was the tragedy of Uncle Jem’s life; it was the tragedy of his parents’ lives.
i have an endless problem with this framing; Jem made a concious choice to become a Silent Brother. He did NOT have to make that choice. The constant narrative that he didn't belong there undercuts any actual growth that could happen with his character and upends Silent Brothers as a whole; are they ALL not where they're meant to be?! This is bad storytelling, it's basically shitting on your own world structure
My father and Christopher are geniuses, do you know that? Real geniuses. Like Leonardo da Vinci. He was a mundane who—” “I know who Leonardo da Vinci is.” Matthew glanced at him and smiled: it was The Smile, gradual and illuminating as sunrise, and James had the sinking feeling that he might not be immune after all. “ ’Course you do, James,” said Matthew. “Forgot who I was talking to for a moment there.
This is so much like their future back and forth, i could cry
However, I still do not understand why you must make it so clear you detest the sight of me. I know, I know, you’re aloof and you wish to be alone with literature all the time, but it’s particularly horrible with me. It’s very lowering. Most people like me. I told you that. I don’t even have to try.” “Yes, you’re very good at Shadowhunting and everybody likes you, Matthew,” said James. “Thanks for clarifying that.”
“I’m a swot,” said James. “I read books all the time and I do not know how to talk to people. If I was a girl living in olden times, people would call me a bluestocking.
“Wait,” said Matthew. “Wait, wait, wait. You don’t like me because I am so very charming?” He threw his head back and laughed. He kept laughing. He laughed so much that he had to come and sit beside James on the step, and then he laughed some more. “Stop it, Matthew,” James grumbled. “Stop laughing. I am sharing my innermost feelings with you. This is very hurtful.” “I’ve been in a bad mood this whole time,” said Matthew. “You think I’m charming now? You have no idea.” James punched him in the arm. He could not help smiling. He saw Matthew noticing, and looking very pleased with himself.
ilovethemsm
“Why do people call you Demon Eyes, James?” Christopher asked one day when they were sitting around a table studying Ragnor Fell’s account of the First Accords. “Because I have golden eyes as if lit by eldritch infernal fires,” James said. He had heard a girl whispering that and thought it sounded rather poetic. “Ah,” said Christopher. “Do you look at all like your grandfather aside from that? The demonic one, I mean.” “You cannot simply ask whether people look like their demon grandfather!”
“Excellent. I will be partners with James,” said Matthew. “He reminds me of the nobility of the Shadowhunter way of life. He keeps me right. If I am parted from him I will become distracted by truth and beauty. I know I will.”
But Matthew was at his side, and both of them were armed. He could trust himself to kill a small, almost powerless demon, and if he could trust himself, he could trust Matthew more.
Parabatai 💕
“Jamie,” Matthew said, sounding unsettled but impressed. “That was terrifying.” “It’s James, for the last time,” said James. “No, I’m calling you Jamie for a little while, because you just displayed arcane power and calling you Jamie makes me feel better.”
“No hard feelings, old sport,” said Matthew. “As a bit of a jolly prank, I put all your belongings in the south wing. I don’t know why I did that! Boyish high spirits, I suppose.”
“Mr. Herondale, please!” said Matthew. “We cannot be parted.” James braced himself for the explanation about truth and beauty, but instead Matthew said, with devastating simplicity: “We are going to be parabatai.” James stared. Father said: “Oh, I see.” Matthew nodded encouragingly, and smiled encouragingly. “Then nobody should come between you,” said Father. “Nobody.” Matthew shook his head as he said “nobody,” then nodded again. He looked seraphic. “Exactly.” “Very well,” said Father. “Everybody get into the carriage.”
A) this is adorable, B) on the note of nobody coming between them, just wait til a girl named “Cordelia” shows up, C) again, I swear this is a CLUE
James had thought he wanted a friend like himself, a parabatai who was shy and quiet and would enter in on James’s feelings about the terror of parties. Instead here was Matthew, who was the life and soul of every party, who made dreadful hairbrush decisions, who was unexpectedly and terribly kind. Who had tried to be his friend and kept trying, even though James did not know what trying to be a friend looked like. Who could see James, even when he was a shadow. “Yes,” James said simply. “What?” said Matthew, who always knew what to say. “I’d like that,” said James.
“Uh,” said Simon. “Sorry, is the message I’m meant to be learning ‘get out, get out as fast as you can’?” “Maybe,” Catarina said. “Maybe the message is to trust your friends. Maybe the message is not that people in the past did badly but that now we must all strive to do better. Maybe the message is you have to work these things out for yourself. You think all lessons have easy conclusions? Don’t be a child, Daylighter. You’re not immortal anymore. You don’t have much time to waste.” Simon took that as the dismissal it was, scooping up his books. “Thanks for the story, Ms. Loss.”
Catarina is an underrated character
Today, showered in sunlight, the infinite possibility of summer opening up before him, he didn’t want to worry at all.
Robert let his focus drift, just for a moment. Better to tune out than to doubt.
Such an apt way of describing people's willing/conveinant denial
In the meantime, the less certain he was, the more certain he acted—there was no need for anyone to know the truth.
History, the way teachers liked it, was a racetrack, a straight shot from start to finish line; life itself was more of a maze.
What he felt whenever he looked at her was deeper than that, dwelling in some nether region of his mind. He felt like he knew her, inside and out. He felt like he had Superman vision and could x-ray her soul. He felt sorrow and loss and joy and confusion; he felt a cavemanlike urge to slaughter a wild boar and lay it at her feet; he felt the need to do something extraordinary and the belief that, in her presence, he could. He felt something he’d never felt before—but he had a sinking sensation that he recognized it anyway. He was pretty sure he felt like he was in love.
The only one of them still single, Michael disliked this line of conversation even more than Robert did. It was one of the many things they had in common: They both enjoyed each other’s company more than that of any girl.
Interestingggg
Marriage seemed like such a misguided concept, Robert sometimes thought. How could he care for any wife more than he did for his parabatai, the other half of his soul? Why should he possibly be expected to?
Is this really going where i think it is?!?!?!
Not that Michael cared how many feathers he ruffled or which traditions he overturned. He wasn’t particularly brave, but he seemed to have no fear.
Robert didn’t understand how you could be the center of someone’s world without even realizing it.
“Love?” Michael smiled down at his hands. “Love, real love, is being seen. Being known. Knowing the ugliest part of someone, and loving them anyway. And . . . I guess I think two people in love become something else, something more than the sum of their parts, you know? That it must be like you’re creating a new world that exists just for the two of you. You’re gods of your own pocket universe.” He laughed a little then, as if he felt foolish. “That must sound ridiculous.”
“They’re with Isabelle. Isabelle Lightwood—she’s not going to let anything bad happen.” “Oh, they’re with Isabelle.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “I feel oh so relieved.” “Come on, Beatriz. You don’t know her.” “I know what I see,” Beatriz said. “And what’s that?” “An entitled rich girl who doesn’t have to follow the rules, and doesn’t have to worry about consequences.
No lies here
“I’ve given the matter some thought, and I have a proposition for you,” Valentine said. “What is it?” He was afraid to hope. “Give up,” Valentine said. “Stop trying to pretend away your cowardice, your doubt. Stop trying to ignite some unshakable passion in yourself. If you can’t find the courage of your convictions, why not simply accept the courage of mine?” “I don’t understand.” “My proposition is this,” Valentine said. “Stop worrying so much about whether or not you’re sure. Let me be sure for you. Rely on my certainty, on my passion. Let yourself be weak, and lean on me, because we both
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Well this took a dark and terrifying turn
It was funny, Shadowhunters knew more than mundanes about almost everything. They knew more about demons, about weapons, about the currents of power and magic that shaped the world. But they didn’t understand temptation. They didn’t understand how easy it was to make one small, terrible choice after another until you’d slid down the slippery slope into the pit of hell. Dura lex—the Law is hard. So hard that the Shadowhunters had to pretend it was possible to be perfect.
He couldn’t take it. He’d worked too hard to become the man he was, the Shadowhunter he was. He couldn’t stand to have people looking at him like that again, like he was different. And he couldn’t stand to have Michael looking at him like this. Because what if he started wondering too?
What he’d said, what he’d done . . . it was unforgivable. Robert knew that. He told himself: It was Michael’s fault, Michael’s decision. He told himself: He was only doing what he needed to do to survive. But he saw the truth now. Valentine was right. Robert wasn’t capable of absolute love or loyalty. He’d thought Michael was the exception, the proof that he could be certain of someone—could be steady, no matter what. Now that was gone. Enough, Robert thought. Enough struggling, enough doubting his own choices, enough falling prey to his own weakness and lack of faith. He would accept
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Perfect example of a vulnerability exploited by someone else for their own personal gain. So awful -- never thought i'd ever have sympathy of any kind for Robert Lightwood, but this explains so much
He had it memorized. He could recite it to her right now, tell her that she was amazing, that even if his brain didn’t remember loving her, his soul was permanently molded to fit hers, like some kind of Isabelle-shaped cookie cutter had stamped his heart. But writing something down was different from saying it out loud—in
Simon had never realized what a sad sound it was, hope.
“So what are you afraid of? It’s obviously something.” “How do you know?” he asked, curious how she could be so certain, when he still had no clue himself. She smiled, and it was the kind of smile you give to someone who can make you want to throttle them and kiss them all at the same time. “Because I know you.” He thought about gathering her up in his arms, about how it would feel—and that’s when he realized what he was afraid of. It was that feeling, the hugeness of it, like staring into the sun. Like falling into the sun. “Losing myself,” he said. “What?” “That’s what I’m afraid of. Losing
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This is how a faerie loves: with her whole body and soul. This is how a faerie loves: with destruction.
I love you, she told him, night after night, for seven years. Faeries cannot lie, and he knew that. I love you, he told her, night after night, for seven years. Humans can lie, and so she let him believe he lied to her, and she let his brother and his children believe it, and she died hoping they would believe it forever. This is how a faerie loves: with a gift.
“Good morning, Si! I saw a rat in the bathroom, but he was taking a nice nap and we didn’t bother each other.” “Or the rat was dead of a very infectious disease, which has now been introduced to our water system,” Simon suggested. “We may be drinking plague-rat water for weeks.” “Nobody likes a Gloomy Gus,” George scolded him. “Nobody likes a Sullen Si. Nobody is here for a Moody Mildred. No one fancies—” “I have gathered the general tenor of your discourse, George,” said Simon. “I object strongly to being referred to as a Moody Mildred. Especially as I really feel like I’m a Mildly
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George did not truly understand the slow development of actual physical fitness. He’d probably been born with abs. Some were born with abs, some achieved abs, and some—like Simon—had abs thrust upon them by cruel instructors.
The thing that outraged him most was how familiar it felt. He remembered being trapped like this before. More than once. “Shadowhunters, vampires, and now faeries, all longing to throw me in prison,” Simon said aloud. “Why exactly was I so anxious to get back all these memories? Why is it always me? Why am I always the chump in the cage?” His own voice made his aching head hurt. “You are in my cage now,” said a voice.
Maybe Drusilla will forget as well.” Mark shook his head. “I do not think so, though. Dru learns everything by heart, and she has the sweetest heart of us all. I hope her memories of me stay sweet.”
“Julian,” he said. “Jules. My artist, my dreamer. Hold him up to the light and he would shine a dozen different colors.
Mark spoke like a poem and walked like a dance. Simon wondered, even if Mark found his way back, if he could possibly fit into the Shadowhunter world now. He wondered if Mark had forgotten how to lie.
The horses and the riders shrieked like pterodactyls, circling him, but Mark Blackthorn of the Los Angeles Institute stood his ground. “Run!” he shouted. “Get home safe! Tell the Clave that I have saved more Shadowhunter lives, that I will be a Shadowhunter and be damned to them, that I will be a faerie and curse them! And tell my family that I love them, I love them, and I will never forget. One day I will go home.”
I love Mark sm
his sea-in-the-sunlight eyes
They stood at the center of the ceremony, twin suns, and for a moment all the world seemed to spin and turn on them.
“How are you finding the training?” he asked, leaning forward. “I don’t bruise as much anymore,” Simon said, shrugging. “That’s excellent,” Jem said. “It means you’re finding your feet and deflecting more blows.” “Really?” Simon said. “I thought it was because I was dead inside.”
should beat, or if you should breathe. He and Clary were parabatai. All of Simon’s anger was gone. Now he knew. He had Clary, and she would have him. Forever. Their souls knit. “How did you know?” Simon asked. “It’s not that hard to see,” Magnus replied, and finally some of the usual levity was in his voice. “I’m also literally magic.”
Something flickered between Julian and Emma at that moment. It was so quick that Simon couldn’t tell which direction it had come from, but he’d seen it out of the corner of one of his eyes. Some look, something about the way one of them stood, something—but it was a look or a stance or something that he had seen before.
Every Night & every Morn Some to Misery are Born Every Morn and every Night Some are Born to sweet delight Some are Born to sweet delight Some are Born to Endless Night —“Auguries of Innocence,” William Blake
Magnus believed that many old things were creations of enduring beauty. The pyramids. Michelangelo’s David. Versailles. Magnus himself.
We finally got a true perspective switch to the best character in the Shadowhunters universe
