Her footsteps are soft, always soft, but he hears it all the same. Simon’s head lays on the pillow, his neck stiff and hurt, his hair tangled in black messy locks around his face. There are biting marks from the below of his ears down to his jugular, red angry trails her sharp polished nails across his chest, and two deep wounds on his left shoulder where she had bitten him. They are healing, he knows, but he wishes they won’t. For every new scar, there’s a new lesson and history in each one of them, she had told him on the second day of their training. Camille had smiled, a little bit tad too sad, and told him to attack her. She won fourteen times, but at the fifteenth, he had kissed her and he won for the first time. There were bruises too, but they all had disappeared.
And now, even at nights they were alone, she always disappears to fetch food for him, because he is still not good enough or clean to hunt. He wishes he can learn faster, but more oft than not, he wishes not to learn faster, because they both had sworn to themselves, that when it’s done, they will disappear from each other’s life and return to whatever their homes have left to offer.
Simon shuts his eyes and forces himself to sleep.
Camille leaned forward. When she did, the neckline of her black silk blouse gaped open. If Simon had still been human, he would have blushed.
“Will you let me see it?”
Simon could actually feel his eyes pop out. “See what?”
She smiled. “The Mark, silly boy. The Mark of the Wanderer.”
– City of Fallen Angels
“Eternity is a long time to spend alone, without others of your kind.”
“I have a… proposition to make with you, Lady Belcourt.” Cain says, shoving his thick black fringe back, revealing the Mark of Cain freshly painted on his forehead. She thinks it’s not going to disappear for a while. She knows she’s right the moment he tells her what he wants.
“Train me to be a vampire, and a hunter… and I’ll grant your wish.” He finishes, a bit doubtfully in the end, but he says it anyway. She stares at his face, searching for something, and finds a lot of things. Despite his threats and the corpses behind him, she guesses he really is just a boy after all.
But then she shifts her attention to the floor, finds her guards and her family clan all dead, and she inhales sharply although she doesn’t need to. The lights are broken and there’s burning mark all over the walls, down to the floor, reaching the ceiling. It’s the Mark of Cain.
It’s the first time in a long time that Camille feels like she’s going to break. Her new recruits are all gone, and she has Cain—the Black Raven, the Daylighter, formerly known as Simon Lewis—to thank for it. He smiles like an angel falling from grace, makes a deal with her better than the crossroad demons, and she really has no choice at this doesn’t she?
“You hold your end of the bargain…” she starts, voice soft, knees buckle, body trembling. “And I’ll hold mine.”
Cain smiles, and reaches for her face.
“It’s a deal.” He says before crushing his lips to hers.
“You’ll miss me when you’re gone,” she said, licking her lips. Simon leaned close, brushed his lips softly against hers, and said nothing. “The three weeks you’ll have to pass, for your Shadowhunter friends and Magnus, you will—“
“I know, Camille,” he whispered, smelling the scent of grapes and apple from her soft golden hair, pulling her close. “I know.”
yes i do~ i love them more than isabelle/simon or clary/simon or maia/simon. i love camille/simon like romeo loved—loves his juliet and tate to his violet. i love camille/simon like robert loved lyanna and rhaegar loved lyanna. i love camille/simon like prince charming to snow white and the beast to my belle. simple as that.
uhm, is this supposed to be spanish or something? cause if it’s not clear enough, i only speak english and indonesian, sorry ;___;
“Where’s Simon?” Clary asks, looking around. He’s not there. She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand, mud and dust slip underneath her eyelids, but she doesn’t stop.
“Where is Simon?!” she snaps, her voice becomes shaky and heavy, tears well up in her eyes. From her left, Jace coughs roughly. He forces big rock away from his back and looks at her, wide-eyed. She can see Isabelle standing up from the corner of her eyes and Magnus helping Alec to his feet, but there’s still no sign of Simon.
“SIMON!” she shouts at the top of her lungs in panic, her lips tremble and her body shaking so bad that she almost falls. Clary tries to stand still, calling for Simon’s name—
She stops, looking at the source of voice. It’s Magnus. He looks pained and sad, yet there’s anger and something else on his face as he speaks.
“Camille. He left with her. He—“
She doesn’t hear the rest and finally falls into unconsciousness.
The ground is wet and slippery against his feet. His shoes are shattered along with his shirt; the buttons are ripped, and the black thick materials shattered into million pieces. He looks to his left and sees Camille staring at him with her big emerald eyes; studying him, waiting for his next move. He shifts and flinches. She walks up to him and lays a palm on his ribs, where Jace had stabbed him with Michael.
“I did it myself, it’s—it’s fine. It’s fine.” Camille looks at him, this time with worry, genuine and not at all feigning like most of his friends, even Clary, did, and he sighs.
“Let’s just… let’s just go. Alright?” he asks, desperate, removes her hand from his ribs and squeezes. She nods.
“London it is then.”
For Sharon, because you broke my heart and cleverly turned me into a socially-awkward person afterward.
Simon does not want to obey, because he will and forever be a horrible person, more so than he already is if he does. But Camille presses her lips against his with more force than before, fingers brush lightly against the pulse on his neck, and he loses it.
The iron salty taste of blood on his dry stiff tongue does not make him feel much better than before as it should be, because that’s what blood does to all vampires, and yet; he cannot bring himself to like it, as much as he despises it, considering it comes from his eyes. Darkest of brown, so dark and so very cold that they look almost like black, have taken their turn into the brightest shade of crimson, with onyx diamond-shaped pupil in the middle. The mark of Cain on his forehead shines dimly through his damp brown fringe, looking unpleasantly ridiculous as usual, every time it delivers the seven folds upon those who may bring harm to him.
Simon despises the feeling of helplessness that is currently attacking his mind—as he does not have a beating heart any longer and his mind is the only part of him that still works properly despite the fact that he’s already dead—but he loathes the scene in front of him most, with every fibre of his being. There are blood, and heads and white bones underneath ripped flesh and torn skin and shattered muscles, he’s sure. His eyes land on a figure on the ground, his mother, so very beautiful without her neck, fresh crimson blood staining the expensive sapphire silk of her thin nightgown. She does not look peaceful as what he often imagines her supposed to be in her death. But again, he supposes he never imagines her to die with her throat ripped open as well.
There are wet trails down his cheekbones. He looks down at a puddle of water in the middle of a pool of blood, sees his reflection on the surface (his cheeks are stained with trails of blood, falling from his eyes, the rational substitute of humans’ tears; his hair, the colour of black mocha, mussed and ruffled and stained with blood; his skin, pale-silver and silk-smooth, glows underneath the dim light of the moon; his lips, thin and wet and stained redder than any apples), sees the reflection of the moon, shines upon him like he’s a fallen angel of some sort (because, Camille says, he looks astonishingly beautiful in every sense of way, particularly in the way he sinks his teeth into the neck of his very own mother—)
“Simon,” a voice calls out, more alluring than Beethoven’s Fur Elise, sharper than the Shadowhunters’ dagger, sweeter than the sweetest taste of honey (he forgets the taste of everything long ago, but he remembers that honey and a teenage girl with B-Negative tastes quite similar). Simon turns his head around and looks at Camille—always perfect, always beautiful, with her soft blonde hair that shines, curling perfectly around the crook of her slender pale-milk neck, and the big bright emerald eyes that never cease to amaze him—standing a few meters away, one arm crosses over her chest, the other is holding a black umbrella. He doesn’t realize that it has been raining for hours, doesn’t realize that the puddle of water he’s looking at is actually a piece of mirror he broke from her mother’s room, doesn’t realize that Camille is standing by his mother’s bedroom door, and doesn’t realize that the roof of his mother’s bedroom has been torn apart, not by the seven-folds, but by his own hands.
He swallows nothing but blood, forcing its way down his throat, poisoning him with its metallic taste and ashes. The blood of a vampire, especially his own, doesn’t taste quite as pleasurable as the taste of humans’ blood or the Shadowhunters’ (he has tasted a lot, but none of them tasted as good as Jace’s). He wants to scream for blood and more blood and more blood other than the blood that is offered in front of him, his mother’s, because he’s a horrible person to ask for more. But Camille smiles, a little bit sadly that Simon wants nothing but change it into that of happiness and mischievousness, and suddenly she’s in front of him, hair flows, umbrella falls, forgotten. She touches his cheek and brushes his lips with the faintest feel of her lips, her tongue flicks out at the blood on the corner of his lips, and she whispers:
“Drink, Simon,” she murmurs against his lips, pulls back, and touches his lips again. “Drink, then come with me.” She adds, smiling lightly, the good kind of smile that makes Simon wants to smile despite the circumstances.
Simon does not want to obey, because he will and forever be a horrible person, more so than he already is if he does. But Camille presses her lips against his with more force than before, fingers brush lightly against the pulse on his neck, and he loses it. The blood in his pulse starts racing and his fangs snap out of its cages.
Camille smiles softly and Simon shudders and sinks his fangs into his mother’s cold wrist with a strangled cry.
Camille is like a really simple question with a lot of complicated answers. She sets him off and alive then leaves him numb and dead and cold afterward. He does not complain because it feels strangely-right and intoxicatingly perfect.
She gives him the sense of freedom and his own little switch to feel nothing. He does not love her still, but he’s incredibly grateful to her.
She’s complicated and a lot of things, but that much he knows. At least.