A/N: Ack, I've been experiencing technical difficulties with FF trying to upload this chapter. So annoyed.
Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me, xxmadworldredemptionxx. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.
CHAPTER 3: OF DOUBTS AND ACQUAINTANCES
September 3, 508 (part II)
Silence hung in the air as Jace walked alongside Michael. Despite the latter's numerous attempts at starting a conversation, Jace couldn't bring himself to amuse him with anything more than the occasional noncommital grunt and monosyllabic answers like "yes", "no" and "fine", that after a while, Michael finally sighed in defeat and left him be.
Jace's only excuse for his lack of response was that it would take too much of an effort—effort and energy he didn't think he had. He felt mentally incapacitated as his mind kept wandering back to his encounter with Clary at the market, replaying each moment over and over again.
Why can't I get her out of my head?
Jace frowned, the lines of confusion and bewilderment marring his face. He had never particularly cared about girls before…so why did he now? What was it about Clary that made her so special, so intriguing to him?
Sighing, he rubbed furiously at his temples, searching his heart, probing his mind for an answer that seemed to continuously elude him. As if the situation could not be aggravated any further, bursts of images began to dart across his vision in quick, rapid succession. They moved too fast until the images started to blur together, until the only things he could distinguish from all the chaos were two colors: green and red.
Clary's green eyes.
Clary's red hair.
Vaguely, he wondered what it would feel like to comb his long, pianist fingers through those beautiful tresses of hers. Was it as soft and silky as it looked? Or was it rough and frizzy?
She's your sworn enemy's daughter. You promised to kill him. You promised to kill his family. And that includes her! The hate-filled monster in him goaded, instantly crushing him out of his dream-like trance.
Jace's jaw set and the semblance of a smile that had graced his lips moments ago slipped away. Try as he might, he didn't know what to think.
Before today, he had been convinced that he would feel the same amount of loathing and ire when he finally met the people who shared the same blood as the fiend—that his heart would know before his mind did; that the pulsing hatred would course through his veins and fill him with scorching heat; that his only relief would come after he'd slaughtered them—every single one of them who was associated with Valentine, who was a Morgenstern.
Except, he didn't feel any of those things when he met Clary.
Nothing except for awe, that the very sight of her had knocked him into a speechless stupor. Had he not already been kneeling on the ground, he would have probably fallen to his knees at the first glimpse of her stomping towards him—or more than likely, towards Max, but that was a trivial matter of semantics he unwittingly chose to ignore.
He could still remember how his heart had slammed against his chest, how his palms had turned sweaty with nervousness, how his breath had caught in his throat when her green eyes met his; how he'd stuttered, grappling for words when she finally addressed him. He had never reacted that way with anyone before.
Since his mother's death, one of the many things that Jace had learned, taught himself to do, was to sever his emotional ties from anything and everything. With time, he realized that it was easier to be disinterested and apathetic towards things. He didn't need to worry about committing himself to anything.
All he ever needed, all he should ever need to care about, was himself.
"After a while, I just got used to it, I don't feel anything anymore when I fight, or when I kill. I'm just…I've grown numb to it, I guess," He remembered himself saying to Clary.
And all of it—everything about his declaration, albeit callous and sad—was true.
For the longest time, Jace had been numb. Emotionless. Desensitized. He didn't care about people, not when they existed as a mere passing in his life.
Gladiators like him didn't stay in one place for too long. That was the one thing Michael always made sure of. They traveled ever so often, with Jace competing in one arena after another. It was the only way to build his reputation and to spread word of his skill.
He had seen many things, met the worst kinds of people, cringed at some of them, but after everything, he was still numb. So how did Clary of all people peel away his numbness? How did she succeed in not only making him feel something, but things he shouldn't feel for the enemy's daughter?
How did she make him want her?
A selfish part of his brain reasoned that maybe, just maybe, the reason behind his desire for her was because of the fact that she was who she was: the enemy's daughter. Maybe he just desired a taste of the forbidden fruit.
After all, it is human nature to always want what we can't have, right?
The thought sickened Jace more than he thought possible, and he groaned loudly, one hand pressed against his stomach as a strong wave of nausea assaulted him.
"Are you feeling all right, Jace?" Michael asked, momentarily sparing him from his inner turmoil but forcing him into a conversation he didn't want to have.
Jace turned to his master, annoyance shooting through him from the look of concern he was giving him. He rolled his eyes and turned away.
"I'm fine," he grunted his response. "Must have been the apple I ate just now. There's nothing to worry about." He finished evasively, hoping that Michael would take the hint and not prod him any further.
He didn't.
"You look like you're going to be sick."
"And I told you before—I'm fine." Jace glowered at his master, a slight color returning to his cheeks. He felt embarrassed that Michael had called him out on his sudden bout of 'sickness' instead of letting him be. He was a gladiator, not a pansy. He didn't want to talk to his master about his feelings, regardless of whatever kindness Michael had shown him in the market earlier. He didn't owe him an explanation.
"Besides," He looked away from him, his voice cool, "Since when have you cared? I'm just your gladiator, not your son. I don't need your worry."
Michael seemed to consider this for a moment, his eyes flashing with hurt.
Jace swallowed. He contemplated apologizing, but what exactly would he be apologizing for? Technically, it wasn't a lie. Michael was his master, not his father. He should have known better than to overstep such boundaries that made them what they were—a master and his slave. There could be no room for attachment.
"Did something happen?" Michael finally asked, breaking the tense silence between them.
"Don't be ridiculous," Jace brushed him off, his tone cold and defensive. This was necessary, he told himself. He couldn't let Michael in—he couldn't let anyone in. "If something did happen, I wouldn't be here now, would I?"
Michael made a gesture to retort but Jace quickly cut him off. "When are we going to reach Dumont?" He asked indifferently, hoping to change the subject.
"Soon…" Michael finally obliged, though he continued to shoot him worried looks out of the corner of his eye.
Jace did nothing but hastened his steps, taking momentary comfort in the knowledge that the faster they reached Dumont, the sooner Michael's attention would be diverted from him. To his relief, Michael seemed to have finally caught on and left him alone to his moping. Save for the steady crunching sounds their boots made each time they came into contact with the concrete ground, it was silent once again.
Good, Jace thought. He liked the silence, void of interrogation and petty remarks.
But as he soon learned, silence was just as detrimental.
Silence gave him undesired time to think.
Against his better lack of self-control, Jace found his mind coasting back to Clary—to her delicate, porcelain-doll face, fiery-red hair, and enchanting emerald green eyes; to her sweet and gentle voice; to the way she had looked at him, wary and afraid at times, but mostly with kindness. He was no fit company for a princess, but she hadn't spurned him from her presence. Instead, she'd allowed him to follow her around, to sit with her, to talk to her. And to an extent, he'd liked talking to her, daresay even, enjoyed her company.
He liked her sharp wit, how she wasn't afraid to be blunt. But most of all, he was intrigued by the air of secrecy that surrounded her. The way she carried herself, almost as if she had walls of her own—like him.
She's Valentine's daughter, she's Valentine's daughter, she's Valentine's daughter, Jace forced himself to think.
But like most words that were often repeated in his childhood, the meaning of those three words—"She's Valentine's daughter"—became completely lost.
They were just empty words. Meaningless words.
So what if she is?
NO, STOP IT! An angry voice chastised him. Don't let her distract you from what really matters here—Valentine. It's always been about Valentine. It's always been about avenging your parents. Not Clary. This has never been about Clary. She's not important here. Forget her, Jace. She'll only ruin you. She'll RUIN you.
At this point, Jace was sorely tempted to rip his hair out by the roots. All of it was turning into a conundrum—an extremely unnecessary and maddening conundrum. He'd known Clary for all of what, one, two hours?
The more he thought about it, the more stupid he felt. How could one meeting change him so much in such a short span of time? How did he let himself care—let himself fall into such recklessness, to let her inside of his head?
He wished it was easy to put an end to his restless thoughts and emotions—to extinguish them, so to speak—but it wasn't. With any other person, it was easy to be indifferent. Easy to not feel anything. But his stupid, idiotic, asinine mind had decided that Clary wasn't just 'any other person'. And it unnerved him that he couldn't come up with a single reason as to why he thought that way about her.
Why was he so infatuated, so drawn to her? The way he'd reacted to her, the way he was still reacting to the mere thought of her, was akin to a sailor who had been enticed by a sea siren's spell.
She was dangerous, but mostly beautiful. And he was drawn to that dangerous beauty.
Was that all then? Was that all that had mattered to him? Her beauty?
There were plenty of other pretty girls out there too. Ones who were safer, easier—
Jace immediately squashed that thought. The last thing he wanted to do was to become a shallow-minded brute. He was raised to be better than this. He knew better.
Pursing his lips, he thought back to his brief albeit eventful encounter with Clary in the market, trying to dissect each detail with a detached and objective mind.
As the image of her, stricken and fearful-eyed abruptly emerged, singeing the deepest parts of his brain, he clamped his eyes shut tightly, shaking his head to get rid of the memory.
He knew that it was irrational of him, but he couldn't help the stabbing hurt he felt over the way she had shielded herself from him, as if she'd been afraid that he would strike her; as if she didn't trust him enough to be able to contain his anger.
Granted, he hadn't done anything to earn her trust, but still…
Everything about that memory stung him, more than he cared to admit. Jace was a gladiator, but he was no savage. He wouldn't have hurt her. Hell, he would never lay his hands disrespectfully on a woman, period.
Knowing that, however, did not stop the self-contradicting embarrassment and guilt from overshadowing his own hurt. Worse, he couldn't help but compare himself to Valentine, the vile monster who had violated his mother and then murdered her in cold blood. In the heat of his ire, he'd turned into a shadow of the man he hated the most.
So maybe you did, his inner demon whispered. But who's to say she was completely innocent in all of this? Who's to say that the blame wasn't partially hers to bear?
Jace clenched his fist, second-guessing himself yet again. He had a valid reason to be mad at Clary, hadn't he? She had insulted his parents—in turn, she'd insulted him.
Even if she didn't know of his true identity, she had no right to insult the Herondales, especially when she hadn't been there to witness the things he did that night. Clary had only ever been fed with lies by Valentine, and she'd naïvely believed the man and supported his actions of murdering his parents.
So what did that make her?
Was she the girl who felt a shred of humanity and compassion for the gladiators?
Or was she just a Morgenstern, a girl who had deluded herself into thinking it was her father's right to kill the Herondales?
Jace's head throbbed with the neverending list of questions that seemed to bombard him without pause. His quandary didn't stop there either.
Clary's supposed revelation about a history between his parents and Valentine had definitely thrown him off balance, splintering long, jagged cracks in everything he'd thought he knew.
His father and Valentine used to be adopted siblings? His mother was Valentine's former lover? Was it possible that his parents had been involved in all those treachery—that they'd framed Valentine for a crime he didn't commit? Was it possible that they had both been so desperate as to gain the throne that they'd resorted to such lengths?
But if any of it were true, wouldn't that make Clary right—that Stephen and Celine were both delivered poetic justice for betraying Valentine?
Jace cringed at the possibility. If that were the case then, where did he stand? Would it be right if he were to reclaim his so-called birthright, something that was never actually meant to be his? Or were they more lies that Valentine had created to cover his tracks, to make him appear as an innocent victim in his family's eyes?
And then…what about Michael?
Not only was his master a former citizen of Idris, but he was also his father's former General. Surely he would have known about all of this…mess.
Jace contemplated asking Michael, to clarify all of these unanswered questions, but if Michael did know, why hadn't he said anything in the first place? Whether it was true or not, Jace had the right to know about his parents.
So what did that make Michael?
Whose side was he on? And more importantly, whose side is he on now? Could he even be trusted? What if he had something planned with Valentine? What if they had agreed for Michael to train Jace as a gladiator, gain his trust, and when the time came, he would bring Jace back to Idris and lead him like a lamb to his slaughter?
It sounded like a terribly elaborate scheme, but Jace wouldn't put it past Valentine to come up with something as vile and manipulative as that. Nothing seemed to be beneath him.
Jace groaned. Why did everything have to be so complicated? Why?
Curse it, Clary! Why did you have to tell me all of this and plant this seed of doubt in me? I had a perfectly laid-out plan—I was ready to follow it through to the end, but you just had to come along and ruin everything! He thought, raking his fingers through his messier than usual curls.
Somewhere within the cavernous depths of his mind, he realized that the reason Clary even told him all that information in first place was because of him.
He'd asked her, and she'd answered. Simple as that.
So really, he was the only one to blame.
Stupid, stupid boy! Why couldn't you have just walked away from her?
"There it is!" Michael exclaimed, pointing to the tall, sturdy structure that loomed ahead of them.
Jace's head snapped up, and his breath caught in his throat as he took in the majestic sight of the Arena Dumont.
It was huge—astoundingly huge.
Standing at a soaring height of two hundred feet, the arena was a monumental façade that was built in an elliptical shape, comprising of four stories of superimposed galleries. Gracing the white marble stone of the structure were statues of avenging warriors who wielded a number of weapons, and fine, intricate carvings of ancient runes of strength, agility and fearlessness that were believed to be symbols of power drawn by the earliest gladiators when in battle. Just above the main entrance was an engraving of the royal crest—a falling star—an emblem belonging the ruling family of Idris, the Morgensterns.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Michael asked as they entered the arena.
Jace didn't utter a word, though his eyes conveyed his childlike enthusiasm. It wasn't often he openly showed emotion, much less any that bordered on wonderment. Usually, he tended to behave much older than his actual age, his expressions varying from bored to broody to inscrutable.
Feeling Michael's gaze on him, he nodded once, his tongue unable to form a single word to describe just how impressed he actually was. He could definitely see why Dumont was boasted to be 'the arena of all arenas'. It was amazing, really.
"If we had time, we could have probably taken a short tour of the place… But as it is, we are already running late. They've been expecting our arrival at the gladiator barracks over ten minutes ago, so I'm afraid we would have to forgo our little field trip of the place," Michael said, much to Jace's utmost disappointment.
"We'll have time to look around once we've settled in, Jace. No need to look so disgruntled," Michael added, mocking his sulky expression.
Jace shot him a dirty look but chose to say nothing, Michael's quiet chuckles filling the air as they navigated their way through the arena's tunnels.
"Welcome to the gladiator barracks." A deep voice greeted them as they exited the tunnels.
Jace examined the two guards, his expression stoic. The both of them looked to be in their early thirties, and were dressed in similar fashion—a simple leather armor worn over a red cotton tunic. They each carried a shortsword, which were sheathed on their belts, and while they looked intimidating enough, Jace didn't find them frightening in the least. He had seen far worse, men with scars and tattoos adorning their faces.
"Your name, Sir?"
"Scarsbury," Michael lied smoothly.
Jace had never really understood his master's reasons for concealing his real name, but he had done it for as long as he could remember. Everyone—his hired guards and gladiators included—knew him as Michael Scarsbury, not Wayland. He was the only exception.
"I believe my own guards arrived here over an hour ago with the rest of my gladiators…"
Having quickly lost interest, Jace drowned out the rest of the exchange between Michael and the two guards, instead taking in the sight of the gladiator barracks—his home for the next couple of months.
An expanse of lush green field stretched across from him, surrounded by evenly interspersed pillars to form the simulation of a battlefield. Just beyond the training space, to his right, were the standard holding cells to accommodate the gladiators; and to his left, Jace assumed, was the mess hall where the gladiators gathered for their meals.
"You may find the warden, Emil Pangborn, in the mess hall." The guard pointed to the white, run-down 'building'—if one could even call it that—located at the far-left side of the field.
Michael nodded his thanks before striding off, Jace trailing him at his side. They crossed the field quickly and before Jace knew it, they were both standing outside the wooden doors of the mess hall.
This is it.
Michael gave him a small smile, then pushed the doors open. Almost immediately, Jace sucked in a sharp breath.
In stark contrast to the grandeur of the arena, the mess hall was a shambles, with wooden floors that were so moldy and dusty he wondered when was the last time someone had even bothered to mop it. The stucco walls, which had been painted white, were peeling and yellowing with age. The same could be said for the ceiling, which was lined with cracks and had cobwebs dangling from the edges.
A rusty Gothic chandelier lined with old French candles hung precariously from the middle of it. Jace made a mental note to steer clear of said chandelier, lest it finally gave way to gravity and killed an innocent bystander.
"Grand indeed," Jace muttered in a flat tone, earning an elbow jab to the side from Michael. He turned to glower at his master, a quipped retort at the ready, when he realized—or rather, felt the burning stares from the rest of the room's occupants.
Exhaling a slow breath, he turned to face them, finding thirty pairs of curious eyes already staring back. Seven of those faces he already knew—Michael's other gladiators-in-training. They occupied one of the tables near the back, away from the rest of the native Idrisian gladiators. For once, Jace couldn't say that he blamed them; the latter group didn't exactly look like the welcoming bunch.
He let out a low whistle underneath his breath and turned just in time to see a tall, burly man approaching them. His black hair was cropped short, and he wore the most bored expression Jace had ever seen on a person's face. It irritated him so much that his mouth itched with a rude comment.
"Emil Pangborn, the warden of Dumont." The man offered his hand to Michael. "I am in charge of all the guards and gladiators here, overseeing their duties and training and such," he said in a blasé tone.
"Michael Scarsbury," Michael returned, shaking the man's hand civilly. "This is my gladiator, Shadowhunter." He gestured to Jace, who nodded curtly in greeting, his expression guarded and aloof. It was agreed between Jace and Michael, that for the sake of Jace's safety, his real identity would be kept anonymous and thus, he would only be known by his gladiator name, Shadowhunter.
"Ah, Shadowhunter. So you're the one they've been talking about. It's an honor to finally have you here," Emil said, his smile contradicting the insincerity in his tone.
I can't say the sentiment is reciprocated, Jace thought.
"Nice to meet you," he replied instead, but in a fairly jaded tone. He didn't even bother to look at Emil as he spoke. He found it far more interesting to scan the faces of the other gladiators who were, in turn, now eyeballing him with obvious distaste.
"May I go join them?" Jace asked, sparing his master a brief glance.
"Of course, I'll talk to you later," Michael answered with a nod.
As Jace took a step forward, Michael gently tugged his elbow back and whispered knowingly, "Remember to play nice, Shadowhunter. Wouldn't want to make enemies on your first day of school."
Jace pulled back, an eyebrow cocked at Michael. The latter threw him a playful wink but his brown eyes held the same stern warning: 'Play nice'. Jace's lips twitched into a half-smirk. "No need to fret over me, Master. I'm always nice."
Before Michael could put in another word, he marched off to collect his lunch, a cool smirk plastered onto his face.
At that very moment, his mind was the clearest it had ever been since his encounter with Clary in the market. All of it—his doubts, his confusion, his anger—had been shoved to the back of his mind, leaving him, admittedly, in a frisky sort of mood.
Jace's gaze landed on the youngest-looking group of gladiators in the room. All of them wore bitter expressions on their faces, and were still glaring at him. His grin widened.
Time to get acquainted with my new buddies, he thought as he stalked towards them, a swagger in his stride.
Deep down, Jace felt his mood improvement was a miracle in light of recent events, but he also knew how much Michael hated it when he was in such…high spirits. It was to an extent, according to Michael anyway, worse than when he was brooding or feeling waspish in general. He was always up to no good.
"Hello, there," Jace greeted them in an exceptionally cheery voice. He registered the immediate tension that came with his uninvited presence, but paid no heed as took his seat. The bowl of thick, lumpy broth looked far less inviting, but he dug into it anyway—it was either that or nothing, and he was already hungry.
"You know, I have a strong feeling that we're all going to be the best of friends," he said, deliberately showing off the masticated contents in his mouth. "Oh, I know! How about we all hang out in my cell tonight? We could braid each other's hair and get to know one another better. What do you say?" Jace prattled on incessantly, not concerned in the least as bits and pieces of food in his mouth flew all over the table and incidentally landed on one of the gladiators' face.
The man with jet-black hair and cold blue eyes seated across from Jace—the victim of his food spit, apparently—wiped his face with an undisguised look of disgust. He slammed his fist down against the table, causing the utensils to rattle furiously.
"Why don't you just step off?" He snarled in an acidic tone as he leaned forward in his seat. "Just because you're the oh-so-famous Shadowhunter, it doesn't mean you get to throw your weight around here. In fact, I'd watch your back if I were you. You're the first one I'll kill tomorrow," he threatened.
Anyone wiser would have backed down after such a threat, but Jace wasn't exactly wise or sensible. In fact, he enjoyed egging people on. It was a talent of his.
Wiping an invisible tear from his eye, Jace feigned a theatrical sob. "Why are you being so mean to me? I only want to make friends!" In a puerile tantrum, he flung his spoon across the table and began to weep loudly, purposely attracting the attention of everyone else in the room—Michael included.
His master gave him a desperate look, one that said 'Please don't do this.' But Jace paid him no heed, not even when the latter shook his head and buried his face into his hands.
"SHUT UP!"
The blue-eyed boy swung his fist forward, and Jace, having seen it coming, speedily ducked out of the way. Leaping into a crouch atop the bench, he took his own swing at the boy. His fist connected with the latter's jaw, hard, sending him sprawling across the floor.
"You're dead!" The boy yelled savagely. He sprung to his feet and charged towards Jace, his arms tackling him roughly by the waist.
Within seconds, both boys were on the ground, taking turns throwing swift kicks and punches at each other. None of the other gladiators even bothered to intervene. Instead, they stood at the sides of the mess hall, watching the scuffle with amusement.
A couple of bruises and a bloodied lip later, the two of them were finally disentangled from each other by a group of guards.
"This isn't over yet! You're a dead man, you hear me? DEAD!" The boy screamed, his body struggling viciously against the three pairs of hands that were restraining him.
Jace was the complete opposite. He held himself together in a relaxed stance, his arms folded across his chest as he petulantly made faces at the other boy. This only served to infuriate him further and caused his flailing to become even more forceful.
Three more guards stepped forward, forming a human cage around the blue-eyed boy. He stubbornly shrugged them off as they tried to grip him by the shoulders, and reluctantly followed them out of the mess hall. He paused just before he was out of sight, shooting Jace another dirty look and mouthing the words: 'I'll kill you'.
Jace's only response was a smile.
As much as he was determined to kill Valentine, he enjoyed starting fights among his fellow gladiators. To him, it was just as much as sizing up the competition as it was to send a message that he was not one who was easily intimidated.
And in this case, it sated his need for a distraction from all of his newer problems.
"What the hell was that, Shadowhunter?" Michael hissed, delivering a swift thwack to the back of Jace's head. He frowned and rubbed at the soreness. "Do you want to get thrown out of here before you even start?"
Rolling his eyes, Jace leveled his master with an insouciant expression. "No."
"No? Then why do you insist on behaving like this? Starting fights with people you've only met? You're only painting a target on your back," Michael tugged him sharply by the chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. When Jace sent a glare his way, the older man sighed, then lowered his voice to a whisper.
"I can't look out for you if you're being reckless, Jace. I understand how hard this must be for you, but you really need to learn how to control yourself. Stop making a scene. Are we clear?" Michael asked, his voice stern.
"Crystal," Jace replied, not sounding in the least bit sincere.
"See to it that you help with the dishes after lunch," Michael said, eyeing Emil from over Jace's shoulder. "I don't want to see you anywhere near the training field until every single piece of cutlery is spotless. Now go."
When Jace was finally dismissed to the field for training, he caught sight of the blue-eyed boy, a wooden blade in hand as he sparred with Bat, one of Michael's better gladiators.
Unable to peel his gaze away from them, he took stock against one of the pillars, his golden eyes narrowed in scrutiny as he watched the two spar.
Blue Eyes was good, Jace decided, a fairly proficient fighter although his fighting style was quite different from his own.
While Jace was much more acrobatic and depended on his agility to wear his opponent down, Blue Eyes relied more on his body strength, focusing on landing as direct, accurate and debilitating a blow as possible to end the fight quickly.
A few more traded blows later, Blue Eyes had Bat pinned to the ground, the tip of his wooden sword pressed sharply against his throat. His lips twitched into a victorious smirk, then as if he'd realized that he was being watched, his gaze darted to meet Jace's.
His reaction was almost instantaneous. Blue Eyes's jaw locked with rage and he made a move to lunge towards Jace—nearly succeeding, too—when a handful of guards stepped in and dragged him towards the opposite end of the field.
Jace didn't miss the slew of derogatory remarks that were thrown his way, one in particular that rhymed with 'ducking glassmole'.
He shook his head and walked towards his own corner, catching out of his peripheral vision several more of the guards eyeing him warily while communicating with each other using hand signals. Were they seriously worried that he would start another fight? He rolled his eyes again. Oh men of little faith, he thought before executing a series of basic exercises to warm himself up.
The temptation to slip into his internal tug-of-war mode was strong, but he fought against it with every ounce of self-control he had. Now wasn't the time to be brooding and miserable. He needed to keep his head on straight. He needed to focus.
So like every other time he willed himself to slip into that zone—the one that made him feel invincible, indomitable, untouchable—Jace conjured up the image of the man he despised the most: Valentine.
Instantly, he felt the anger scorch his veins, expunging every other emotion that rendered him weak and vulnerable. Sadness, confusion, loss—those were irrelevant when he was fighting. He let them go, pushing himself to escape into the darker, restrained part of his subconscious.
To become Shadowhunter.
As the seconds ticked by into minutes, and the minutes stretched into hours, Jace began to lose himself in training, even managing to spar with a couple of the gladiators who were more than willing to challenge the great Shadowhunter's skills.
Much like the name of his choosing suggested, Jace was a hunter in true form. He would often lie in wait, parrying blows while studying his adversary's movements, holding himself back from striking until the last possible second.
Despite his short temper, fighting was the one thing that he actually bothered with patience. Not realizing that his lack of offense was actually part of his plan to wear his opponents down, they would often hit harder blows in vain attempts to weaken him, only to grow progressively wearier as the fight went on.
It was the perfect strategy, or at least, one that had always worked well for him. He would wait until the tide shifted in his favor, and then, only then, would he best his opponents—each with only a single blow. He was just that good. He was really, really good.
If Jace was ever tired, he never showed it either. Michael often chastised him for this, claiming that such intensity reflected only a fraction of perseverance and a hell lot of recklessness. "Don't be stupid. Learn your limits. Know when to give yourself a break or you're going to burn out," his master had said, on more than one occasion, in fact.
But Jace never listened—not then, and especially not now.
Being back at home—and so, so close to the finish line that he could almost taste it—he couldn't afford to slip up and miss the only shot he had at earning his redemption. There won't be another chance if he failed.
His pride and stubbornness was another factor. More than anything, he wanted to be ready. He wanted—no, needed, to prove to the spectators and to Valentine that not only was he a top contender, but an absolute force to be reckoned with.
And if by any stroke of misfortune he did fail, he would not regret it as much—because he knew he had poured in his all. Nothing short of his all.
Jace kept reminding himself of this—anything that helped to keep his mind on the straight path—even when night fell over Idris and the moon rose to take its place amongst the constellations. While the rest of the gladiators retired for the night, he remained awake, too keyed up for sleep. He was like a livewire, his body buzzing, thrumming with adrenaline.
Turning over onto his back, Jace tucked his hands beneath his head and looked up at the ceiling. It took a long time before his mind quieted, images of a red-haired girl blurring until he had them wiped out of his mind completely.
He knew it wouldn't be long before she became an issue again, but for now, he was content to leave his worries about her to rest.
The trial games first.
Earn his freedom next.
And then…Valentine.
That was the only order of things he should concern himself with.
Watch out, Valentine. I'm coming for you. I'm ready for anything you throw at me, he thought darkly. Nothing mattered more than being focused and confident—the only thing he needed to be walking into the trial games tomorrow.
You are my target, and I am the arrow that's ready to strike you down.
A/N: Next chapter's going to be more action-packed because that's where we see Jace in all his gladiator glory. Stay tuned!