Chapter 63 – Endgame

By now I was used to people staring at me no matter where I went. This was no different when Jace and I entered the spacious Clave chamber and slowly moved past the many Nephilim down the steps to the podium behind which the Inquisitor had already taken her position. People continued to avoid me, stepping aside before I could squeeze between them, watching me, following my every move. Every time, I asked myself what they were looking for when they looked at me. Were they looking for Valentine? For Jocelyn? Were they afraid that I would freak out and attack them? What were they waiting for?

Cluelessness. Fear. Concern. Boredom. Envy. Respect. Disgust. The mood was more diverse than at my first trial.

When I reached the foot of the auditorium-like hall, I stopped to look at the benches that had been set up around the podium. A long bench on each side of the podium and a single chair directly in front of it. The two massive black ebony thrones that rested against the wall behind them didn't seem as imposing as they had the first time. They had lost their charm when I had realized how limited the power of both Inquisitor and Consul was. How carelessly Malachi had given up his own power to make room for my father. And had failed.

I felt Jace's hand on my back. No pushing to move me forward. A reminder that he was here – with me – should I need him. The gold of his eyes had turned into a liquid, luminous tone; gentle and calm. "What do you think?" he finally asked, quietly enough that no one could hear us. Even though I was aware that there were probably hundreds of pairs of eyes following us.

"I think …" I began, unsure of how to continue. My gaze darted from the benches to the podium – to the Inquisitor – and our eyes met. There was no ice on her face, but the dissatisfaction with which she pressed her lips together, as if she were holding back from saying anything, was close enough to the bossy, calculating woman I had come to know. "I think your grandmother hates me, and you're not helping by making it look like I've got you wrapped around my finger."

Jace's mouth lifted into a smile. "I actually don't think she hates you," he replied, a strangely mischievous tone in his voice. He released his fingers from my back and took a step towards the podium. There was a malicious look behind his eyes that raised my eyebrows in confusion. "But I can just ask her. Should I?" As he said this, he continued to approach his grandmother.

"No!" it came from me in an almost panicked hiss. Jace grinned and Imogen's sullen expression seemed to deepen. She seemed to see it as her moment to approach us around the podium .

"Clarissa," she acknowledged me and then turned to her grandson. "Can you tell me why that childish grin is plastered to your face, Jace? In case you haven't noticed, we're here because yesterday Clarissa killed eight Shadowhunters, some of them minors. And as if that weren't tumultuous enough, the Cohort outside the Gard's gates is causing havoc that would require me to put half of them in chains. So please explain to me what reason there is to laugh."

Something changed in Jace's features. The amusement that he had apparently only feigned for me disappeared like a second skin from his face even as Imogen spoke. He stood up to his full height, towering several inches taller than his grandmother. "I'm laughing because your guard must have known about this protest, and yet you still couldn't adequately protect Clary from them. Your people not only failed, but without Luke Garroway and Magnus Bane, we would both either be dead or lying in the Basilias. Are the Shadowworlders already doing your job better than you? And on top of that, Cynthia Ashdown tried to kill Clary for the second time. In the middle of the anteroom, as if she felt powerful enough to dare to do that in front of so many other Nephilim. How much power do you even have over this community when–"

"Jace," I interrupted in a cutting voice. To my surprise, he actually stopped talking, although he didn't seem happy about my interruption.

"What?" Both Jace and Imogen looked at me. Imogen had clearly hidden her feelings behind a mask of sternness and authority, but you could tell she cared when her own grandson spoke to her like that.

"This is neither the place nor the time for such a conversation." I pointed my chin up to the doors and the two of them followed me silently with their eyes.

The Inquisitor's guard had gathered at the entrance to the Clave chamber. Without hesitation, they marched in a closed formation between the rows of benches, their uniforms disheveled, their hair tousled, and their weapons at the ready. If they had seemed grim to me earlier in prison, they now truly looked menacing. Definitely upset that the Cohort had made a spectacle of them like that. In their midst trotted six men and boys. Blake's friends. They all still looked intact. Most unfortunate.

"She's right," Imogen remarked quietly, watching her guards descend the steps. "We'll sort this out later. The process is a top priority now."

I didn't wait for Jace as I walked past the podium to the right bench. Some faces I knew had already taken a seat there. The woman from yesterday's escort who had returned to the Ashdowns' estate with us and seen it all with her own eyes. And next to her sat Isabelle. Her dark pupils were fixed on me. Widened, as if surprised to see me. Neither of us said a word for a few seconds, then she moved to the side and I sat next to her, Jace in tow.

I felt Isabelle's sideways glance at me, but no sound came from her lips. She wore a formal black robe and had her usually wild hair pulled up into a serious braid. Not even her normally bright red mouth showed any color today. Although she was a natural beauty even without the makeup, she appeared pale.

It was only a while later, when Blake's followers had been herded onto the left bench by the guards and someone had slammed the double doors on the upper level shut, that I realized that Isabelle might have been shocked by what I had done yesterday. Even though she had defended me from the Inquisitor after we had returned from the estate, that didn't mean she hadn't realized later, after all the adrenaline had left her body, what a monster I was. Maybe she had slept on it one night and decided that my impulsive desire for revenge was inconsistent with her morals.

Just as I was beginning to fear that our friendship might be lost because of what I had done, she suddenly cleared her throat. The Inquisitor had already started speaking, but I didn't seem to be the only one not listening to her. "I can't believe you're still alive," Isabelle whispered hollowly.

"What do you mean?" On my right, I felt Jace lean towards us, as if he wanted to listen to Isabelle's words.

"I keep seeing this huge pool of blood," she murmured tensely, the words coming so quickly that I had trouble understanding them. "Even with the Iratze, I can't believe that you survived this blood loss. It makes no sense."

"I know." It was all I could offer. "I don't understand it either."

To my surprise, Isabelle reached for my hand. Her warm fingers wrapped around mine. She had a firm, stabilizing grip. As if you could survive any storm if you just held on to her. Like she was strong enough to hold everything together. After a moment of hesitation, I squeezed back. My mother and Jonathan were the only people I had ever shared this kind of touch with.

"Blake got his punishment. Today, it's the other bastards' turn." She sounded confident. That calmed me down.

A murmur went through the crowd, and we automatically raised our heads to see what was going on. Surrounded by several heavily armed guards, Malachi was escorted into the hall through a back entrance. He had his chin raised almost defiantly, not paying any attention to our bench as he passed us. His hands were in chains. The former Consul looked like a felon and even his accomplices quickly backed away on the bench to keep enough distance from him as he sat down.

"Quiet!" Imogen's harsh voice boomed through the hall. She didn't need a Consul next to her to exert her power. Although Jace was right with the statement that this power seemed to be slipping away from her slowly but surely. Self-inflicted. Because she let her emotions guide her instead of using her mind.

"While I know that Malachi's interrogation is what you all are waiting for most, that is not our first item on the agenda. Since he has already confessed to kidnapping Clarissa Morgenstern in order to deliver her back to her father, he has less to contribute to the current conflict." The Inquisitor walked between our benches instead of standing stiffly behind the podium. She addressed the Nephilim directly instead of hiding. "A conflict that is actually more than unnecessary and that we actually cannot afford given the precarious situation our society finds itself in! And yet, we must gather here today because Clarissa Morgenstern, on the night of the celebrations for the new alliance, was apparently abducted by these individuals you see before you." She gestured with her hand to the left bench and the seven people, who sat there. Imogen let her words sink in to the crowd, looking at Malachi and Blake's friends for a moment.

Some of them returned her eye contact with bitterness, others had their heads bowed and were staring intently at their shoes. Malachi gritted his teeth in annoyance, as if this was all a waste of time. He seemed almost brimming with arrogance.

"What began as a kidnapping orchestrated by Valentine Morgenstern and executed with the help of Malachi Dieudonné has turned into a series of murders, resulting in the loss of eight young men's lives. Clarissa Morgenstern is held responsible for these deaths." No mention of Blake. I could understand why. Although my hatred was directed at him alone, it played no role in the Inquisitor's spheres. From a purely logical perspective, Malachi was the man who had started everything. The man who had to be eliminated. How the feud between Blake and me played into it was secondary to her because Malachi was the bigger fish, and Blake was already dead. That I had killed someone in the course of events was a trivial matter to her, which, to her dismay, had escalated into too big of an issue for her to ignore.

"Clarissa, since the story is about you, I would prefer to start with you." Imogen pointed to the chair.

I felt the eyes in the room shift to me. How they tried to read every little emotion on my face. Would they believe me more if I was vulnerable? Or would they say I was an actress looking for compassion?

My heartbeat quickened with the Inquisitor's demand. A broken breath escaped my throat and Jace stood up next to me to clear my way. Isabelle squeezed my hand one last time before I pulled myself together. Jace's gaze was glued to me, the warm intensity on me like a touch. He didn't tell me not to be afraid, or that it wouldn't last long, or that the pain would be bearable.

"Make them pay for it," was all he said.

From far away, I could hear Blake's voice in my ear. I'm going to enjoy hurting you so much. This was the moment I had the power to turn the tide.

My hands balled into fists as I walked towards the single chair. My nails dug into the insides of my hands and I squeezed harder. The pain kept me in the here and now. Pain would be the thread that guided me through this questioning. I allowed myself to look at the other bench. Darkness sparkled from the eyes that had the courage to meet me. Silent threats, even though they knew that even if I wanted to sweep the truth under the rug, I wouldn't be able to. And unlike the last trial, I wanted to reveal every snippet of truth, expose every one of their deeds to the public eye. I wanted them to suffer, to think about this day for the rest of their lives and regret who they had followed; who they had made their enemy.

"I don't think I have to explain to you how this works," the Inquisitor said when I sat down. Magnus Bane now stood up from the first row of seats. Like last time, he would probably cast the spell that strengthened the truth rune.

I shook my head and tilted my chin to the side so she could apply the rune. The last thing I saw was the confident glint in Magnus's cat eyes before a hand reached for my body and dragged me down into a lake of lead where every movement stretched into eternity and time almost came to a standstill.

It took my senses a few seconds to reorient themselves. My heart was pounding, searching for an escape from the trance that forced its way through my veins, forcing every muscle to stand still. Something was pounding in my head. I felt my body convulse beneath me as something pulled at my mind, disconnecting it from my nerves in an agonizing tug. And then I lost control.

"Clarissa, can you hear me?" The Inquisitor.

My head turned to her and my mind could only watch as my muscles obeyed the indirect command. There was nothing I could do to stop it. "Yes," my voice said, even though it didn't sound remotely like my voice. There was no emotion in it. There was nothing in it at all. As if my soul no longer existed. As if there was only an empty shell of myself left. My first instinct was to fight back. It went against my nature to endure this. Especially since I vaguely remembered being in the exact same situation before. And back then, a wave of pain had swept over me, burying me so brutally that I had thought I would die right there. A part of me had wanted to die.

The spell was too fresh to resist. As the Inquisitor asked her first standard question, it occurred to me that I didn't want to defend myself, that I wanted to tell my story, that I was only in this position because of Blake and he had to pay. My lips moved and the answer to her question was my name and age.

"Is it true that Malachi Dieudonné kidnapped you on the night of the celebrations in front of the Accords Hall?" asked the Inquisitor. I affirmed. "Tell us what happened that evening."

"I was drunk and alone outside the Accords Hall when Malachi approached me from the shadows on a side street. He wasn't alone there, but I couldn't see the others in the darkness. His dagger caught my shoulder and the alcohol made me unsteady on my feet. Before I lost consciousness, I was able to write his name on the floor with my blood." Somewhere, someone snorted, but my head was completely disoriented. It felt like I was vegetating in an infinite vacuum.

"Where were you when you woke up?"

"In a secret basement room in the Ashdowns' house, hidden behind a cupboard. Malachi and Blake were there."

"How did you end up at the Ashdowns' estate?"

"Malachi contacted my father. They set the country house as the pickup location for me. Afterwards, Malachi handed me over to Blake's care. He and his friends transported me to the country house on a horse."

"So Blake Ashdown worked for Valentine?"

"Blake never personally spoke with my father, but he mentioned that he expected a place in my father's new, political power structure in exchange for me. I assume Malachi must have promised it to him."

"Did you see Malachi again after that?"

"No." You are inferior to me, Clary. Even in the dimensionless wasteland that this spell gave me, Blake's voice haunted me. You are weak.

"How did they manage to transport a Shadowhunter as strong as you through half of Idris so easily?" Oh yes, they were all interested in my weakness. They took delight in it.

"I was drunk. Out of my senses. When we were in Alicante, Blake used the Malachi configuration to keep me in check. I was unconscious for most of the journey." Somehow I managed to tilt my head to the side. I couldn't see anything. Neither the room nor the bench nor the men sitting there. But I knew they were there. "Blake gave his friends orders to knock me unconscious as soon as I woke up."

"And then? Did you wake up in the estate or was there something else in between?" Imogen didn't sound particularly interested. As if she was casually checking off a list of questions that she had previously prepared in a makeshift manner.

"The next time I woke up, I was sitting in the basement of the Ashdowns' country house, tied to a chair." Even I, whose senses were miles away from this room, could hear the change in tone in my voice. I heard your dear brother didn't even hesitate when he rammed Mellartach into your mother's chest, Blake whispered in my ear. As clear as if he was standing right next to me. As if he was being held captive in this place with me. As if he were the only one who could keep me company here.

"Tell me what happened after that." The Inquisitor no longer wanted to ask questions.

It took me longer to respond to her request. Part of me resisted. My hesitation immediately got me the spell's comeuppance. It felt like someone had plunged a sword into my chest. Somewhere far below me, my body curled protectively over my stomach and an agonizing sound escaped my throat. I swam on a lake made of lead. I was still floating on the surface, but I had stumbled.

Another part wanted me to go ahead and speak the truth. I said we'd have fun together, Blake purred next to me. My body shook in response. "At first nothing happened." My voice sounded dead. As if I had just risen from my own grave. As if someone had brought me to life but had forgotten my soul. "Eventually Blake came ... He tortured me."

I didn't know why, but that last sentence catapulted me back to reality. Right past all the spell and rune security mechanisms. The pain in my core was gone as if it had never been there and my senses descended upon me simultaneously. I squinted against the witch-lights as my eyes frantically looked around the hall.

"And then?" asked Imogen, standing in front of me and examining at me with narrowed eyes. Judging by the suspicious look on her face, she had noticed the change in emotions on my face.

"Should I go into more detail?" I quietly asked in return, wide awake as if I had slept for days. The bold tone in my voice made the Inquisitor step away from me. Something flashed in her ice blue irises, but it disappeared too quickly to be defined as anything. "How exactly should I describe to you what happened in this cellar? Is it enough for you to know that Blake Ashdown was a sadist of the worst kind, or do you want to hear what he did to me?"

"Say it," Imogen whispered. She knew that my rune had lost all effect. Just like the magic. She ignored it. For some reason I couldn't understand, she didn't care.

"He had a table with instruments. Daggers, brass knuckles, a hammer. The only thing he didn't use was the axe. I don't think any Iratze in the world could have brought me back to life after that." I paused to collect myself. Almost instinctively, my eyes swept over the crowd, who watched me so intently, as if this were nothing but a performance. I found Cynthia Ashdown's face not that far away. "He smashed my kneecaps with a hammer. He heated iron rods in the embers of a fire and branded me with them. He broke one finger after the other with pliers, then my jaw." I lost myself in a monotonous narrative of what had happened in that basement. There was neither beginning nor end. I grabbed the memories as they came to mind and spat them at Imogen's feet. "Every time before I could lose consciousness, he would give me an Iratze that would heal everything he had done before. And then he started over or picked a new instrument. I lost so much blood in that basement that I should be dead. The Iratzes were all that stopped me. But at some point they also lost their effectiveness. Only when Blake realized that my body wouldn't be able to take it much longer did he stop. Not completely. Before leaving me alone with four of his friends, he forced me into a tub of ice water in front of them. He pushed my body under the water until I couldn't breathe anymore. Longer still. Only then did he leave. Not because he had enough, but because my physical limits had been reached and he needed me alive."

Maybe the Shadowhunters needed the full, brutal truth to wake them up. Perhaps they were a people so used to horror and death that they often forgot how real these things actually were when talked about in even the most distant terms.

Imogen Herondale, who usually kept a straight face, had lost color in her face. She wasn't alone. The crowd behind her whispered. Indignantly. Upset. Shocked. And their attention was no longer on me, but on Cynthia Ashdown.

Our eyes crossed; had been fixated on each other since the beginning of this report. She didn't have the decency to smile. Too many witnesses. But by now, that flame in her black pupils was familiar to me. Because by now, I knew where Blake had picked it up from. This hidden expression of madness. Itwas her. She had heard what her son had done and reveled in it.

Imogen, who had exchanged a long look with Jace, tried to regain control of the quiet voices in the room. She raised a hand, fingers clenched. "And then you ran away?"

"After that," I began quietly, lost in thoughts of a house in the snow surrounded by nothing but white waste. There are spare clothes on the table. Suddenly it was incredibly difficult for me to reach for these images in my head, as if the claws of the lead lake were gripping my limbs again, as if they were pulling me towards the surface again. It felt a bit like the basement when Blake had pushed my head under the water. A pale veil surrounded my body, separating me from the other people in the room. And when I blinked, all I saw was the pools of blood in the snow.

"In all the fervor, Blake forgot to take his instruments with him when he left," I continued, but I couldn't tell how loud or quiet my voice was. The rune had grabbed me and put me back in my cage. That wasn't me speaking. At least it didn't feel that way anymore. "His four friends ... followers or whatever they were, they were the first to die. They wouldn't have let me go. After they were dead I equipped myself with their weapons and went up to the ground floor. Another of his men was standing at the door to the basement. He died next. There were a lot of others in the living room who blocked my way to the door, so I fought my way up to the first floor. I killed one of them with my sword."

I told them about Cynthia Ashdown, which started a new round of whispers. I told them about my jump out the window, the arrow in my shoulder, the first fight with Blake and how Adam had intervened and Jace and the others had arrived at the same time. The Inquisitor had stopped asking me questions. They all just listened to me rattle off the story. No feeling, just pure facts. Until it was Blake's turn to die.

"After he ordered his people to shoot the arrow that hit Adam, he wanted to escape. Back up the slope. I threw a knife at him and hit his shoulder. He threw it back but missed me. I pushed him into the snow and crouched next to him." I'm already like Blake. I'm probably even worse. "First I plunged a dagger into his leg. The same way he had done it to me in the basement. Then I cut his throat."

I ignored Cynthia's cry, which cut through the crowd like the hiss of a knife in the air. A crowd that was surprisingly quiet. This woman deserved much worse than this. Did she? a voice in my head wondered. You as well. If you're worse than Blake, you're worse than her too.

"Then the rest of his friends joined the fight. I killed one of them before the escort from Alicante could separate us."

Imogen was silent for too long. I sat in the chair facing the entire community of Nephilim, waiting for her to say something, to respond. She took too long. As if she hadn't noticed that I had stopped talking. As if her thoughts were somewhere else entirely. Finally she raised her head and the spell pressed on my shoulders too hard for me to read her expression.

"You ended the lives of eight Nephilim yesterday," she summarized neutrally. No question. "Why did you kill them?"

"I had to kill the first six in order to escape the country house. Blake is dead because he deserves it. I killed him out of revenge. And the last of them fell in a battle started by his group. I defended myself."

"Do you regret killing them?"

"No." The response came as if fired from a gun.

"Why?"

"Blake tried to kill me in Alicante a few weeks ago. He hunted down Shadowworlders. He indirectly collaborated with my father. He didn't deserve to be called a Shadowhunter. His friends were collateral damage, but no better in terms of ideology. They tarnish the purpose of our existence."

"Very well," sighed Imogen and the next moment I felt a cool touch on my neck. A second later, the lead bonds around my limbs came loose and I emerged from the lake. I narrowed my eyes as the room spun around me. I had to grip my fingers around the edges of the chair to stay upright. Imogen was leaning over me, her stele in her hand. Our eyes met, but I couldn't see behind her mask. She twisted her stern mouth. "I think you've made your point clear. But know, Clarissa, that you are not in a position to make moral judgments about others."

"I know that," I replied hoarsely. "I don't kill because it gives me pleasure. But there are people who need to be stopped before they hurt others. Blake was one of those people."

The Inquisitor's mask wavered. For a moment I had the impression that I saw something like melancholy on her slim face. She pressed her mouth together as if to keep her lips from getting out of line. But I could see them trying to pull themselves down. There are people who need to be stopped before they hurt others. My father was also one of these people and for him they were too late. He had hurt them all; so many Nephilim torn to their deaths. Jace's father – Imogen's son – one of them.

With unsteady legs, I rose from the chair and padded towards my bench. Jace was already up and grabbing my shoulder. I slumped against him, ignoring the warning in my head that a room full of Shadowhunters and Shadowworlders were watching us.

"How are you?" Jace's lips tickled my ear, but before I could answer him, my body needed time to catch its breath. By this time, Imogen already had her next witness sitting in the chair. The woman from the escort who had accompanied us. I didn't listen to what she had to say. There was a rushing sound in my ears as if I were standing right next to a roaring waterfall.

"I think I'm okay," I admitted after a while. Jace had his arm stretched out on the back of the bench behind me, still holding my body. Part of me wanted to lean against him. The part that was still dazed from the spell wanted to close my eyes and sleep through the rest of the session. "How did I do?"

"Pretty to the point, I would say. A bit harsh at times, but I think that will do the Clave good." Jace shrugged.

"It was perfect." Isabelle grinned from ear to ear. A devilish, sacrilegious grin. She licked her lips in anticipation. "None of them will get out of here unpunished. Imogen will have no choice but to punish them. The Clave is shocked and that doesn't happen often."

This time it was me who reached for her hand. I didn't need anyone. Neither the closeness to Jace nor the friendship with Isabelle. If I had to, I could survive without either. But I couldn't imagine my life any other way, as I realized at that moment. And after the void left by Jonathan's transformation and my mother's death, I had spent too long in solitude and somehow struggled through. Even with Adam by my side, I had kept to myself for so long, with no expectation of ever feeling such closeness again.

The Clave meeting dragged on for eternity. After the escort woman, the Inquisitor called both Isabelle and Jace to give their reports to the community. The content of their statements was all the same and no different from my own. The only addition was a description of the condition in which they had found the estate when we returned there after the battle. Six corpses, a huge pool of blood and the mother of a sadist. They all confirmed what I had already mentioned: the Iratzes alone had made such a large loss of blood possible without resulting in death. A fact that, by the shocked faces of the Clave members, was obviously interpreted as evidence of the Ashdowns' cruelty.

Finally, it was the turn of Blake's accomplices. Unlike us, they struggled through their interrogations. They fought against Magnus's spell with all their might, trying to hold back the truth. This was what I must have looked like during my first trial. Bathed in sweat with distorted features, hunched over to defend oneself against the unbearable pain, mouth closed tightly so as not to let out a single word. It didn't help at all. It took a while, but the truth came. Some faster, others slower.

The last one, a boy of just fifteen, didn't even bother to defend himself against anything. He burst into tears before the Inquisitor had even asked him the first question. His older brother had recruited him into the cause, taking him to Blake's meetings without him showing any real interest. His brother had been so convinced of Blake's ideals that he had given the boy no choice and pushed him because they were the ideals of a true Shadowhunter. The boy had only been there because his brother had more or less forced him to.

Only his brother was no longer alive. I had killed him, and he had been in the same room, watching as I had murdered him. I had fought the boy after killing Blake too. He was just fifteen and had stood his ground against me until the escort had torn us apart. I couldn't blame him for throwing himself at me; whether he shared their ideals or not. I had killed his brother, Blake right after. In his eyes I was the monster; I was exactly who Blake had painted me to be in their heads. And every fiber of my being knew that if someone had killed Jonathan in front of me, I would have done exactly the same thing. I would have done worse.

The Clave chamber was strangely quiet, the likes of which I had rarely experienced. The boy was still crying, sniffling, and I could feel the tears in the corners of my own eyes. All this time I had been so focused on Blake and the desire for revenge in my chest that I had ignored how it would appear to the outside world; or what I would do to others with my actions. To me they were all nothing but puppets. No backstory, no family, no life. I should know better than anyone that the world wasn't black and white. But I had lost sight of it.

Do you regret killing them? I had said no, portraying myself as a cold-hearted killer. I wasn't any better than Blake. In no way. I had written the boy's brother off as collateral damage. I wasn't even cold-hearted; I was completely heartless.

"Stop it." Isabelle had her chin turned towards me. There was reproach in the hard brown of her irises. All I did was raise my eyebrows in response. "You feel guilty. Stop it right now."

"I killed his brother."

"And his brother helped hand you over to Valentine. That's how it is in war. People die." She sounded stern and stubborn, convinced of her point of view.

"Would you say the same thing if someone killed Alec in front of you? Wouldn't you want revenge?"

"Alec would never do something like that."

"Maybe not, but he's just a kid. Losing a family member in front of your eyes haunts you for the rest of your life."

"Nobody says it's fair," Jace chimed in in a gentle voice from my right. He absently raised his hand and wiped the tears from my face. He smiled understandingly. "Both sides are terrible. This is the dilemma of war. There are never just the good and the bad guys. The gray area in between has no defined boundaries." I thought you were the bad one. He didn't say it, but I could see it in his eyes.

You're not like Blake, Jace had told me a few weeks ago. You alone decide who you want to be. Blake had made up his mind and so had I. But my decision to kill yesterday did not shape my long-term decisions. There was a short-term view and perhaps my actions were not particularly commendable from that perspective. But did that necessarily mean I couldn't be better in the long run? Did the short term have to shape the long term? No, it didn't have to as long as I didn't make it a habit. Was I a good person? Probably not, but maybe it was enough if I stayed in this gray area and had at least a few virtues to show for it. It didn't make up for everything, but maybe for something. As long as I held on to the light and didn't give in completely to the darkness.

I'm already like Blake. I'm probably even worse. Yes, in some ways. Not in some others. Not entirely if I could find the golden mean in my actions in the long run.

Let me know what you think! :)

Skyllen