Title: Perfection
Summary: But she was not Clary's mother, not Jocelyn. Amatis the morning after the wards are broken.
Disclaimer: Don't own it, wish I did, yada yada ya
AN. This is just a little tiny insight into Amatis characters and a little idea that I had.
Amatis was used to a dull and simple life. Well, as dull and simple a life as a Shadowhunter's life could be. There had been a time when everything was frenzied activity, and love, and a werewolf bite that had ruined everything. But her life had been simple and easy for almost twenty years. She almost wished it remained that way, but there was energy buzzing in the air that brought life and color into even the most mundane of settings.
She'd been living a half-life. She couldn't remember the last time she had sunk a dagger into a demon. Couldn't remember the last time she had felt love, or alive for that matter. Lucian did have a habit for changing things, whether it was for better or for worse.
She was used to rising with the sun, but was unused to the stiffness in her limbs that didn't simply disappear, even with caffeine coursing through her veins. She kept her hands occupied: straightening the kitchen, cleaning her gear, wiping the blood from her weapons, checking her bandages for the umpteenth time, wincing as the gauze irritated the sensitive skin.
She sighed, rising from the kitchen chair, straightening the gear left on the table and starting up the stairs to check on her house guest. She stopped on the landing, staring at the closed door behind which Jocelyn's daughter lay. She and Jocelyn had never been close, there had been something distinctly unappealing about her. Not her personally, just the very idea of her. The wife of a man she had hated and the reason for her brother's suffering. Perfection to the imperfect was always offensive. And Amatis was about as far from perfect as you could get. She had always been dull and listless compared to the vibrant beauty. So she had never really liked Jocelyn. But she had admired her. How could she not?
Jocelyn had shone, she was a bright candle in the darkness and everyone drew almost instinctually towards her. They were enchanted by her, and admittedly, why not? She was beautiful. Delicate and fragile, with red shining hair and bright dancing eyes. She made the most stunning paintings and for some strange reason one look from her could make or break you. No, they'd never been close she and Jocelyn. Jocelyn had always preferred Luke's company and Amatis was fine with that.
She considered the girl lying behind the closed door. Clary was much like her mother, Amatis supposed. It wasn't just the pale skin or fiery curls. They possessed the same inner fire, but there was something more to Clary. There was a passion to prove herself, which Jocelyn had never had. She carried a heavy responsibility and it made her both too weary and too wise for one so young. It seemed to Amatis that she was always tired whenever she saw her. She didn't always seem like she was fifteen. It made her different than Jocelyn, who Amatis remembered as being gay and carefree at fifteen. Filled with righteous ideals and dreams of a new world.
Amatis rested her hand on the doorknob lightly, took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The first thing she saw was a pair of large boots at the foot of the bed, then a series of knives beside them, a jacket lying across the chair in the corner, and then finally her eyes came to rest on the bed. Jace Morgenstern lay sprawled across it, his blond curls tossed in disarray, one hand resting on his stomach his other held tightly by the other occupant of the bed.
Clary lay beside Jace her face turned towards his as if she had fallen asleep looking at him. In her sleep she frowned, shifting closer to Jace. Her hair mixing with his on the pillow, a clash of red and gold. In her head, Amatis knew that she should do something; there was nothing brotherly or sisterly about the situation. Amatis had never felt the need to hold Luke's hand nor climb into bed with him. She should wake them. Should give Clary a lecture about letting men into her bed, especially men like Jace, like her brother. But she was not Clary's mother, not Jocelyn. And maybe her morals were screwed up, but they were just kids no matter how many demons they've slain and so she simply closed the door to the room and let them sleep.