I'm back! Ever had so much free time you don't know what to do with it? This one has been around for a while. Don't ask me why I didn't post it. Sebby and Valentine belong to Cassandra Clare.

I swear to God, it's not his fault- not just his fault, anyway. He has to take some blame for what he does, because he knows what he's doing it and why. But then that's means that I get some of that blame too. I'm the reason he goes off, I'm why he gets so angry. And I know I'm the reason. If I could do what he asked of me, and do it properly, he wouldn't be so angry. But I can't. No matter how hard I try, I can't ever get it right all the time. Father can do it right every time, and he's the one who trained me. So why can't I get it 100% too? It baffles him, and me, so he just... Loses it.

I don't blame him for it either. I think of it as more training. I mean, how many other Shadowhunters can re-set a broken leg with a dislocated shoulder? How many know what to do with a compound fracture, or how to stitch their own head wound? They all just use runes to heal themselves, the weaklings. I'm glad Father doesn't let me use my Steele afterwards.

And besides, I know the bruises are just temporary. Sure, the scars might last a bit longer, but not by much. They're like reminders anyway- marks to help me recall when I fucked up. I welcome them, really. That stupid angel boy is missing out. He's going to be weak from spending so much time with that gentle-ass tutor. I doubt he'll get knocked unconscious if he can't hold a conversation in Greek for an hour, or get third-degree burns if he doesn't finish making dinner in time.

But don't get me wrong- Father does acknowledge when I do well. It's just- he doesn't always control his pride. His "light" shoulder squeezes leave a perfect imprint of his hand. And once, his "gentle" pat on the back displaced vertebrae. It's not his fault. He just doesn't comprehend his own strength- especially after he's been drinking some of those spirits he mixes up. And to him, I'm not a fourteen-year-old boy. I'm a full-grown warrior, ready to fight in battles, ready to kill.

And I am. I'm ready to whip out all the weak and useless Shadowhunters. It's what I've been training for. I know the 13 different ways to kill a man with my bare hands, even it I can't always get the 9th one right. I know how to put my enemy on the brink of death, and still able to talk. Though they always end up dying after about six minutes.

Father tells me what I'm doing wrong, of course. Punctuated with a backhanded slap, or a blade driven into my hand. Nothing that would stop me from doing it over, but still a painful reminder of how I failed. Honestly, Father is just helping me. He doesn't want to see his son- his real son- falling short when it matters. And he isn't doing much un-repairable damage- I should be thanking him for what he's doing to me. Every hit, every insult, every time he draws blood: it's for my own good. That's why he's doing it. For me.

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