The Morning Star.

Down the hole.

She didn't remember where she was, she didn't remember what she was doing there. She didn't remember a lot of things, but she remembered enough, nonetheless. She remembered her daughter's face- swarming colors of red and greens, like her own. She remembered her husband's voice, soft at times, but always with a touch of hardness beneath it, like silk over a slab of iron. She remembered the colors of her old room, soft pinks and yellows and blues to contrast with the bright reds of blood she had faced every day. She remembered her father's favourite phrase, telling her the glory of being Nephilim born. She remembered enough.
She also remembered what it was, when her heart used to feel like it was floating in her chest, whenever he'd spoken to her. She hadn't felt like that in a long time, years and years of a saddened weight on her; but there it was again. His voice, she could have known it was his even if she had gone deaf, had caused it to float again, to dance, to relish. If she could have moved, Jocelyn felt that she herself would have jumped up and down like a 3 year old, at his voice. Valentine's voice had always had had some kind of magic in it, for her, just for her. The hints of smiles she'd never known if they were really there, or if she was imagining them herself. The secret tones of determination, the shades of emotion. It was all covered, mostly covered, but when it was there- it was the best thing she'd ever known. Her husband. Jocelyn had wanted to sigh in content, despite the silent alarm ringing in some part at the back of her mind.

She remembered clearly the day she had decided to leave him, the day she'd decided that love may do beautiful things- but love could not save their marriage. The day she had ran away, it was all imprinted in her mind, her heart a mess, her thoughts a mess, her life a mess, everything she had ever known- all a mess. She remembered the pain like it was an old friend, and she remembered the determination she had felt. Determination that she would not, could not live with him anymore. 

She remembered hearing news that he was dead (that he had committed suicide), she remembered the shock that had gone through her system, and she remembered the dull hope underneath, that it could not be true. That he could not be dead. Because Valentine would never, in a million years, commit suicide. She knew him that well. She remembered hoping that he was dead so he may never find her, she remembered hoping he was alive because she could not bear to live in a world without him. 
And he had, turned out to be alive after all.

She remembered when he had burst in through her door, his face a equilibrium of hope and terror, she remembered her heart leaping out from her chest, she remembered wanting to kiss him; she remembered having the coma serum in her hand, and she remembered drinking it in her body, in front of his eyes, as they'd turned to despair. She remembered her last thoughts before it was dark; would her daughter be alright? Had she taken herself to safety? And the most pining thought of all, had Valentine finally sought her out, after 16 years, to kill her?

She hadn't expected to still have some bizarre form of consiousness during her self-induced coma, but there it was. She couldn't talk, but she could think. She couldn't see, but she could hear. She couldn't smell, but she could feel. She could feel a detached version of his arms around her when she had fallen, she could hear a million voices, human and inhuman, that she had never heard before.
She remembered a terrible thought gnawing at her; would he kill her? She remembered him whispering sorry to her, and she'd known she would be safe. She remembered the fiercest of her thoughts- would Clary be okay? She remembered hoping and wishing and praying that her one daughter, her only child, would be okay, would be safe from the hands of her father. She remembered begging the Angel to keep Clary far away and hidden from Valentine.

All Jocelyn could see around her was darkness. Valentine had taken her to the old house, lain her on a bed, told her things and secrets and feelings, and then something had happened and she had been taken out from that place, away from him, into a hospital where her daughter had talked to her daily, every day, saying the same things over and over. It soothed her heart to know her daughter was okay. But then Clary had came one day, told her she was going to go to Idris, the heart of Shadowhunters, the city of Nephilim, to find a cure for her coma. Jocelyn had wanted to stop her, but she couldn't see, couldn't talk, couldn't move. 

All she knew was darkness.