Let me put it this way, /–/ when I saw him lying dead in a pool of his own blood, I knew then that I hadn’t stopped believing in God. I’d just stopped believing God cared. There might be a god, Clary, and there might not, but I don’t think it matters. Either way, we’re on our own.
— Jace Wayland, City of bones/The Mortal Instrumens (by Cassandra Clare)