The blank canvas stared at Clary. There was a world of possibility within its linen just waiting for her to start it, but her brush stood still, unable to even decide the palette she was going to use.
Was this - grief? Clary had, unwittingly (or willingly, perhaps, but the entire event was a blur, too fast action for her to remember more than the bare minimum, remembering more the feeling of it, the detail that was inconsequent, the way light glinted in Edom, than the actual main event) took part in her brother's demise.
It felt - even though what she'd known of him, the asshole who wanted to kill the world and make the Shadowhunters the superior beings, Clary felt like she should be sad for the boy buried deep inside the demon, the one who had smiled and had been relieved that he was free of the blood that had cursed him for so long.
Clary imagined a life where that boy (the one with the same green eyes she had, her eyes reflected in another person, hauntingly so) wasn't her enemy, but her brother: joking with her and Simon as they went to class, helping her sneak out to go to Pandemonium, discovering he was a Shadowhunter as well, being the big brother she had always wanted and had found Simon lacking in, still dying in Edom because life wasn't fair and never had been -
Clary closed her eyes, let the brush fall from her hands noisily, suddenly burning her hands as if it were the stele that had all but killed Sebastian. The canvas could stay blank a little longer; it could bear to wait until her tears had dried and her sobs had stopped echoing, mourning the boy who would never be her brother.