Okay, so, this is a flashback scene. I'm thinking that Clary is about 14 in here so she acts differently than she does in the present. And it was supposed to be longer but due to extreme laziness, I only got this much done.

Now here comes the depressing part. The Disclaimer *dramatic music*

Disclaimer: All rights go to Cassandra Clare. She created Jace, not me. She owns The Mortal Instruments, not me. She is awesome and I am not. . . Need I say more?

Special thanks to my beta who got this back to me so fast! Thank ya!


She padded across the floorboards in her lightweight black slip-ons, her feet moving quickly but silently, trying her hardest not to make a sound. If she made it to the other end of the room without activating one of the steps, she would be safe. One step, that's all it took, one step and it was all over. This particular training session was supposed to teach her how to walk like a shadow, how to blend in with the darkness, welcome it into her open arms. As part of being an assassin, her kills had to be completed skillfully and soundlessly, no less subtle than a mere breath of the wind.

The very floor she walked on had springs under every single floorboard. That is, if she were to apply too much pressure on one step, the spring would let off a barely audible squeak, alerting Valentine of her mistake.

She balanced lightly on the tip of her toes, careful to even put her weight on each step. Her eyes focused, not on the floor beneath her, but straight ahead, staring at an invisible point in the distance. She'd learned that if she stared at something unmoving, she would be able to walk steadily without wavering from her rhythmic progression of movements. Just as she moved her foot to continue on forward, she saw something flutter out of the corner of her eye. Instinctively, her eyes darted towards the moving object, her mind going over the possibilities of what it could be.

Her balance lost, she stumbled and put her foot down harder than she had intended to, setting off the spring underneath.

Shit.

She didn't move. She hardly even breathed.

I failed, she thought desperately, I failed, I failed, I failed.

Her heart raced and her breath came in uneven gasps, the realization of what she'd just done striking her with fear. She knew Valentine was standing there in the doorway, arms crossed, his sharp gaze taking in the scene before him. She kept her eyes on his black business shoes, polished to a shine so severe that it could be used as a mirror.

Perfect, she thought, he likes everything to be perfect. His shoes. His clothes. Me. But I'm not. I messed up.

All she wanted to do was make him happy, to make him look at her the way a father was supposed to look at his daughter. With pride and adoration and love.

But all that seemed beyond his emotional reach.

"Clarissa," he spoke, his voice calm with an underlying tension. She almost flinched at the sound of his voice.

Too calm, he's too calm.

"Come here."

She walked over to him slowly, keeping her steps light so as not to set off another spring.

"Look at me," he demanded once she stood in front of him.

The air around her seemed to stand still. She couldn't meet his eyes in fear of seeing his anger directed towards her.

She should've known better than to disobey him.

His hand struck out, too fast for her to block it, and whipped across her cheek, "I said look at me!" he yelled and grabbed her face, lifting it up towards his own, squeezing hard enough to make her yelp and tug at his arm in resistance. "What happened?"

"I - I tripped. I saw something move and lost my balance. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- "

"What is the first lesson that I have taught you?"

Clarissa swallowed and tried speaking as clearly as she could, even though her cheek was numb, "To lose focus is to give the opponent the higher advantage. Never lose focus and never let the opponent win."

He gripped her face tighter in his hand and smiled with sick satisfaction at the tears that welled up in her eyes, "And what did you do?"

"I lost focus."

"And, if you were to be out on the field fighting another, what could have happened?"

"I could've died," she said no louder than a whisper, her throat felt tight with the tears she tried to hard to keep back.

"Well, it's good to know that you're not completely stupid." He let her go and smoothed down his suit, even though no apparent wrinkle could be seen on his starched jacket. She stumbled backward and caught herself just in time, refraining from rubbing her jaw or touching her cheek to let her father know how much he had hurt her. He stared down at her, his black eyes like that of a soulless bottomless pit, and beckoned her with a finger, "Come," he said, his voice portraying none of the anger that had erupted earlier, "I have decided what your punishment shall be."

Her father had never been one for kindness, he never showed that he cared for her, never offered any sort of comfort to his only daughter. Even so, Clarissa wasn't surprised when she found out what cruel punishment her father had conjured up for her.

He had laid out a pathway filled with burning hot coals, stretching twenty feet across and five feet wide, the steam radiating off like phantom snakes slithering in midair. The coals glowed the sort of orange you see at the first peek of sunrise - hissing when they moved. She had to walk across the coals, barefoot, in under three minutes, while dodging throwing knives. Her feet couldn't touch anything other than the coals beneath her and, if she tripped once, there would be hell to pay.

In the end, she barely made it with a couple shallow wounds from the knives and a minute and forty-six seconds to spare. Her feet burned with such intensity that it hurt to think about them. She lay, panting, sweating from the heat and tired from exhaustion, at the feet of her father who looked at her with that same emotionless gaze that made her feel as if she'd done something wrong. He kneeled down next to her, careful not to let any part of his clothing touch her filthy body, and picked up her foot in one hand, examining it for a brief second before carelessly dropping it. She was too tired to cry out at the amount of pain that shot up her leg, too tired to cry as her father walked away without so much as a backward glance, only stopping to say, "You know how to treat that." In a flat voice before exiting the room.

She could've laid there for hours for all she cared. Only when the pain became too much to bear did she attempt to stand up. It took her three tries of getting up on her hands and knees and trying to exert pressure on one foot, only to end up falling down again in a helpless heap of silent cries and pitiful whimpers before finally deciding that crawling was the best option of transportation she had as of the moment.

In every house they lived in, her father always established a room dedicated to healing ointments and deathly poisons. Cabinets upon cabinets were filled with jars of medicines and herbs, some of which she suspected were illegal. She only knew a select few of the herbs that her father kept well-stocked - the ones that she used on a daily basis to heal her when she had been cut with a poison-tipped knife during one of her training sessions. Carefully hoisting herself up onto a chair, Clarissa reached up to open the cabinet door and immediately spotted what she needed. She picked up the small container labeled Calendula and popped open the lid. An unpleasant scent immediately wafted out from the exposed cream inside and Clarissa struggled not to gag. Dipping two fingers into the jar, she scooped out a glob of the yellow substance and applied a thin coat to her foot, taking care not to rub too hard but massage it deep enough so it dissolved in her skin. She repeated the process with her other foot and put the container back in the cabinet.

Curling up in the uncomfortable, cracked upholstery, Clarissa was asleep within minutes. When she awoke hours later, her back stiff and drool sliding off her numb cheek, a light blanket had been laid over her. Her feet felt wet and, with a sleepy glance towards the table, she spotted an open jar, her eyes barely making out Calendula written in neat handwriting on the side of the jar, before she dozed off into oblivion.


So, yeah. Very short. Not much happens. It was more of a filler/torture scene. You get to see how cruel Valentine is and a bit abusive too. He's got some issuuuuues!

Okay, so, maybe he didn't hit Jace in TMI - did he? I forget - but he's sort of abusive in here. But, see! At the end he lays a blanket over her and applies some more of the Calendula on her feet. He's not all that bad.

And yes, Clary is faithfully dedicated to her father, heart and soul. She thinks the moon and sun set and rise on his command.

Questions? Comments? Hate comments? Fire away!