(( Disclaimer: The entire universe of The Mortal Instruments series, as well as the characters that come from it, belong entirely to Cassandra Clare. The only things that belong to me are the plot line, the writing itself, and any original characters I add into the Mortal Instruments universe. Thanks for reading, and please do review! Feedback is very important to me. :3 ))

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings."
- Julius Caesar (I, ii, 140-141)

The past couple of days had been, oddly, so glorious in Clary's mind that she wondered if it took great peril nowadays for her to feel happiness. It was only half a week ago that Sebastian's ichor-drenched portent staked itself to the floor of the Institute—only half a week since a clear threat of war had been dropped at their door. And, yet, Clary had spent every passing minute since then with the Jace she had missed for so long.

Though she had never given up hope that Jace would return to his true self, there had been some part of her that had grown exhausted of the wait, and in that exhaustion Clary had made room for small pockets of doubt. Now that she and Jace were together, uninterrupted by demonic forces or possession or mind games, it seemed perfect enough to be suspicious. Every few minutes she found herself staring at Jace, without words to accompany the intensity of her gaze. He seemed to understand, for he never looked away and he never asked for a morsel of sound to fill the space between them.

It was a painful sort of happiness, but it was breath-taking enough to numb the fear that stirred in her gut over Sebastian's ominous warning and the danger rapidly moving towards them.

After the sixth night, Clary finally found herself alone for a moment. Jace had gone to shower, and for once she did not sit in the bathroom with him. It had become a habit, one he had yet to object to, but tonight she had the sudden urge to draw. There was a burning image on her eyelids that begged to be unburdened from her imagination, and put to paper for relief.

She curled herself up on the stone floor, sketchpad in hand, and crouched over the smooth blank paper. Her eyes darkened as she narrowed her gaze. The image flooded her vision again, and without thinking her wrist began to move. The pencil was seamlessly delivering her wishes, in a way that almost made Clary wonder if the pencil itself was bewitched. She hadn't felt this in tune with the heart of a drawing since perhaps even before discovering anything about Shadowhunters or Downworlders, or Valentine.

Valentine. Sebastian.

Her wrist suddenly stopped. Clary focused her eyes and realized that her sketchpad had slipped from her grip. What lay in front of her now was a mostly blank piece of paper, with the exception of a small, shaded drawing in the lower right corner. Leaning in, cautious but blooming with curiosity, she scrutinized the image. The only times her fingers produced art on their own accord were to create runes. As Clary got closer, she could tell this drawing was not a rune at all.

It was nothing like a rune, in fact, or anything she had ever seen before.

"Did I draw that?" She found herself wondering aloud. It was the shadowed image of a young man with a dark jacket standing on a balcony. His hand gripped the rail, and just over his shoulder—the one turned away from the page—there lay another hand, slender and more angular than his. Clary lifted the sketchpad onto her lap, and let her back rest against the stone wall behind her, pulling her knees up to support the paper as she ran her fingers over it slowly.

As she traced its contours she could feel something grainy and rough bubbling underneath. Each time she ghosted over it again the drawing would jut out of the paper more, until finally it became a raised statue, almost like a wooden carving one might buy at a mundane carnival.

Clary hovered her hand over it, her breath shallow but even. After all this time, strange things did little to shake her. In fact, she felt a certain trust towards the supernatural. Everything that had power had the potential to be used for good. Whatever 'good' is. Were she and Jace good?

"Clary stop it," she chided herself aloud again. How could she be thinking of her relationship right now? Certainly there was something more important going on in front of her. Clary felt a sudden pang of disappointment. When had she become like this?

The fear of losing the Jace—the real Jace—had affected her more than she would ever admit to, but it did cause side effects that were impossible to cover up. Her constant need to be around him, the way her soul felt dry if he was not at least touching her in some manner, like his hands were the steady streams of life and her body would go limp without their nourishment. Now that they were together again, her brain was feeding on the high of their love, and it was clouding her judgment.

Clary brought her hand slowly down on the raised drawing, noticing that it had grown quite hot since forming a mere minute ago. In fact, it was so hot that when her palm came into contact with it Clary could not help but scream in pain.

The young man's hand—the one that had been gripping the railing—seemed to suddenly reach out from its statuesque position and expand until it was thick enough to grab hold of Clary's wrist and pull her downward.

She tried to scream again, this time for help, but before the sound could pass through her lips the hand had dragged her into the hot, distended image, and there was only a soft gush of wind left in her place. The stone hallway was empty, save for the sketchpad, slouching against the wall as if it mourned for the loss of its owner.

Footsteps came barreling down, their echoes reaching before the bodies they belonged to.

"Clary!"