Hey guys! So, in case you didn't know (most of you probably won't) I wrote a fanfiction titled Destroyed during the end of August. After chapter 6, I promised 3 updates by the end of the week. It is now the end of December. Oops.

I decided to continue with Destroyed a little while ago, but when I looked back on previous chapters, a ton of things irked me to no end. Finally, I decided to just rewrite the parts I didn't like, correct errors, and change a few things in general under a new story. Most is the same, but if you read it before and got very excited by my return- which I doubt anyone will, since it's been so long- I would suggest rereading so you can catch up and enjoy the story more in general. If you're new- welcome and enjoy! So, without further ado... Chapter 1!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Mortal Instruments. I wish I did, but I don't. So leave me to my tears.

Past

The door to the weapons room creaked open, and Clary threw her knife with a flick of her wrist. It sunk into the white plaster of the wall, missing Jonathan's head so narrowly that the speed of the blade rustled his white-blond hair. He didn't even flinch before he shot a glare at his younger sister, his black eyes questioning and unforgiving.

"Nice of you to join me," She said in a deadpan, fighting down the sneer she desired to inflict her words with. Clary could fight well, very well for a nine-year-old, in fact, but Jonathan had her beat. She didn't want to send him too far over the edge. "You said you'd train with me at two 'o'clock. It's sunset."

Something flashed across her brother's face, just for a moment, before it faded. Something angry, something hostile, something evil. It had manipulated his features for such a small fraction of a second that Clary was sure she had just imagined it. "I'm sorry, Clary, but Father wanted me for private lessons again."

Against her will, jealousy curdled in Clary's stomach. She knew that she shouldn't be jealous of Jonathan's frequent private lessons anymore, not after the discussion she'd had with her father, but it was still there, hot as a poker in her chest. She pushed it down, going back to her father's words.

"Why do you have private lessons with him and not me, Father?" Clary had demanded the week before, feeling neglected and unloved and unfairly treated. Was it because she was a girl? Because she couldn't fight as well as her brother? Jonathan had received private lessons from their father- ones she was not allowed to attend for years now. Clary had never gotten any knowledge from Valentine that her brother didn't learn as well, and she was getting tired of it.

Valentine had kneeled down next to her and stroked her hair, a sign of affection that he rarely showed her. After all, as he'd taught her, to love is to destroy. "Clarissa, Jonathan is special. He is different from other Nephilim. These are lessons for only him."

"So, you're saying he is a better fighter than me." Of course, Clary had already known that to be true. Jonathan was faster than her, stronger than her, more agile than her. She'd never seen anyone fight as well as him, not even their father. She braced herself for those words.

Surprisingly, Valentine had chuckled. "No, Clarissa, of course not. There are just some… abilities your brother does not possess that you already do."

Clary had raised her eyebrows at this. "Really?" She'd breathed, impressed. There was almost nothing she could do that Jonathan couldn't. "What are they?"

Valentine smiled at her, an empty grin that didn't reach his eyes, and Clary's heart sank, the hope and curiosity wafting out of her like a deflated balloon. She knew what that smile meant- I cannot tell you, Clarissa. As always, it was for only him and Jonathan to know.

Clary frowned at the memory. It hadn't helped her at all- it had done quite the opposite. Her father was probably lying about Jonathan needing assistance with something she could already do. If he was teaching him that, then why were these lessons so frequent? Why didn't they ever stop? Wouldn't he have learned it by now? It would've had to be something significant that needed a lot of work, but if it was, wouldn't Clary have noticed his inability by now? Maybe not, she thought. I am hardly alone with him. He's always with Father, whether I'm there or not, and when Father is away, he ignores me.

She was drawn from her thoughts by her brother's annoyed voice. "Clarissa Morgenstern, I've said 'Father wants us for supper' at least five times now. Are you going to respond, or continue to stand there like a dimwit?"

Clary bared her teeth behind a closed mouth. "Yes, Jonathan, I am coming. Tell Father that I'm changing out of my gear."

"Alright, then," He said. "And do hurry, Father said he has news."

After Clary showered and changed from her sticky gear to evening dress, she walked slowly down the steps toward the dining room. She watched her feet as she went, contemplating the style she should use for the landscape she intended to paint before bed, when she heard hushed voices escape from the ajar doors down the hall.

"Where will he go?"

"I'm assuming the New York Institute- the Lightwoods were Jonathan Wayland's godparents, after all."

Clary's head spun with curiosity as she walked into the dining room. "Who are you talking about?" She asked, eagerness dripping from her words.

Valentine gave her a look, and Clary cowered into her chair. The look spoke for him: Clarissa, you're being rude.

"I'm sorry, Father," she said.

He softened a bit. "It's alright, Clarissa. Jonathan and I were simply discussing the fate of Michael Wayland's young son. His mother died years back, and Michael is fatally ill, expected to die soon."

"Oh," Clary breathed. "The poor boy, to be orphaned so young!"

Valentine frowned, sympathy shining from his features. "Yes, it is tragic. You are fortunate to have lost only your mother."

Clary frowned now, the mention of Jocelyn sparking something in her brain. Her father had told her that her mother had died giving birth to her, but Clary didn't believe that story. She had the smallest flashes of memory of a woman with dark red hair and thoughtful green eyes, singing her lullabies and kissing her banged elbows, thrashing on the floor, cursing and screaming, "Clary! Clary! Clarissa!"

She'd put it off as dreams, dreams and nightmares. Still, the first time she had recalled the last flash of her mother- or whoever the woman was- she had requested her father and brother call her Clary. Valentine had hastily refused.

Valentine cleared his throat, and Clary's head snapped up to his face, away from her meal. "In other news," He started, "I will be leaving late tonight for Clave business. I will return in two days."

Clary perked up at his announcement. Her father usually went on Clave business every other week, and was gone six, seven, or sometimes even eight days. Valentine stood. "I must go prepare. Finish your supper, children, and then please clean the dishes and put yourselves to bed. I will be gone when you wake up."

With that, he left. Clary pressed her lips together in a thin, painful line. "Well, that was abrupt," She muttered to herself.

"You know Father," Jonathan responded, hearing her even though she hadn't intended him to. "He is a rather abrupt person."

"Do you ever wonder where he really goes?"

Jonathan choked on his water. "What?"

Clary sighed. "Jonathan, he's gone every other week, for a week. I can't imagine Clave business is that often, or that long."

"What faith you have in your own flesh and blood."

"It's not that I don't trust Father- of course I do, he raised the both of us without any help and never once complained about it. It's just that I can't make sense of it. He leaves us so often. He's off on Clave business half as much as he's here."

Her brother studied her for a moment, making Clary bite her lip. Something in his gaze made her strangely self-conscious, and she gathered her long red curls at the nape of her neck. Finally, he spoke. "You're much cleverer than Father and I thought, Clary. Unfortunately, I can't tell you where he goes. It is up to Father to tell you."

Now it was Clary's turn to choke. A piece of meat caught in her throat, and it took a minute to pass. "You know?" She sputtered.

"Of course I know," He said as if it were obvious. "Father confides in me."

Jealousy returned to Clary, stomping on her chest like an angry demon. She felt pressure against her eyelids, but there wasn't a lump in her throat, just a thickness that made her food harder to swallow. She didn't have to cry, and she silently thanked the Angel for that. She would not cry in front of Jonathan. He probably thought she was pathetic enough already, with their father not trusting her, not thinking she was smart or clever or a superior fighter.

How could he do this? Her own father favored his son over his daughter, made it blatantly obvious, and denied it when she confronted him about it! She was furious, so mad she could spit. And yet, she was distressed at the same time. Her brother was rude to her, empty and relentless and cold. Her father put her second, after his precious son. Her mother had died before she had a chance to look at her, so how could she have ever cared about her? And even if her mother hadn't died when her father said so, she was still dead. The dead couldn't love- the dead couldn't do anything in their state. No one in the world loved her more first, more than anyone and anything else, and no one probably ever had.

It was then that Clary made the decision. Sure, her father would be angry with her when- if- he found out, but she didn't care. She deserved to know something for once, not be kept in the dark, or lied to, and maybe, just maybe, it would gain her some respect from Valentine. Maybe he'd see the warrior inside of her, burning as bright as his, or Jonathan's, or any other Shadowhunter. She wasn't going to sleep that night. No, instead, she was going to follow her father.

Chapter 2 will come soon, considering it's already written. Within the next hour, definitely.