A Dark Hate Chapter 9:

Punishment

Clary wiped her forehead. She was already drenched in sweat frrom the hot sun and the exertion of dragging Jace to a small hiding place. At first, she had sat there for hours after Jonathan had left, lost without him.

She had stopped behind some small shrubbery. It was enough to c onceal her and Jace's unconsious body. Clary tore off the sleeve of her pink shortsleeve shirt, then she began to wipe his face. Blood matted the side of his head and coated his lip, but she wasn't that worried. She knew he would heal faster than any normal person, but it was more than that. When she looked at him it was not the same as it had been before her ordeal. No longer was there any heart wrenching pain or lust; there was no world shaking devotion or love. Of course she cared about him, be she felt so... different. Clary felt older and disconnected from how she used to be. As she was now, she could not bring herself to want or need him as she had before. Was she so changed? Was she still even Clary anymore if who she was a couple weeks ago is almost completely gone?

Who was she?

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Jonathan clenched the reigns tight in his hands as he stared forward. He was still pissed off at himself! How could he let a woman get to him so badly? It felt so raw inside, like someone was clenching his heart inside of his chest.

Around him his army marched. He had given thr order to keep up their guard. It seemed the rebels had been using guerilla war tactics as of late, and he had no intention of falling into their trap.

A horse trotted up beside of him and Jonahtna glaced over to see his co-commander. The man actually had the audacity to smirk at him! "So, our great leader is having woman troubles? Oh, how the mighty fall!" Jonathan hissed in annoyance as he glared at the man. Who was he to talk to his commander like that?!

"Shut the fuck up! I do not recall asking for your input, Timothy." The man was just about to retort when blood suddenly painted his face.

Time seemed to slow for Jonathan as he took in the look of horror on Timothy's face. At first, he thought that perhaps the young man had been attacked, or a nearby villager had thrown paint at them in a form of protest or as a taunt. It was not until he felt a burning sensation in his shoulder that he realized what had happened. He looked down to find an arrow head, still attched to it's shaft, had peirced his body.

His eyes burst with heat, turning red with his anger. "Rebels! Attack!" he yelled, his voice booming across the field. His men quickly drew their weapons as they looked for the enemy. Not far away they were found. On a hill, half a kilometer to the north, was a small group. However, he doubted that was all of them. The rest were most likley lying in wait. Not only that; he did not have many soldiers himself. He was meant to meet with a larger company approximately a couple of hours away.

And they had most likely known that... Why else would they attack in such a way? When they had been so prepared? Was their a spy within their ranks?

He snapped the reigns on his horse, forcing it into a gallop as he drew his sword. But who would betray him? Most would be too afraid of either him or Valentine to do anything of the sort.

Now was not the time for a witch hunt though. With an inhuman battle cry, he led the charge up the mountain. Another arrow narrowly missed him, only just grazing his cheek. He gritted his teeth as hot blood poured down his chin and he continued on.

As he had expected, another unit had lain in wait for them just over the hill's summit. The skirmish commenced and ranks dissolved as men shed blood like wild animals.

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The battle never turned in his favor. Of course, he knew why after glancing around him. Timothy, and others who had been loyal to him, lay slain. Blood of enemies and his own comrades soaked the fields, but that was not what had his attention at the moment. Jonahtan was surrounded by a few archers and those who were his own men.

He chuckled darkly to himself as the last thought crossed his mind. His men? No. Fucking traitors and spies were all they were. He wiped his eyes, still trying to glare at them even as he was overcome.

"Give up, Sebastian," one fo the rebels called out. It was a small girl, her bow aimed straight at his heart. "We do not want to kill you. After all, you are Clary's brother. However, we will, if you give us no choice."

Most would have been fearful for their life, but Jonathan threw back his head and laughed. He was angry, frustrated, and actually hurt, but there was no way in hell he would show anyone any sense of weakness. Around him, the group shifted uncomfortably. Even captured and bloodied, he still had the ability to turn people's blood to ice.

"Ha! Then fucking kill me!" he dared, his teeth bared as he held out his sword, ready to go on the attack at any moment. When he continued, his eyes had started to glow a bright crimson and his usually velvety voice projected out demonically, "That is, if you can, weaklings."

Instead of going straight forward, he darted to the right. He spun his blade by the hilt until he gripped it almost upside down. Jonathan's hand shot out, grabbing the nearest soldier. The coward tried to run, but Jonathan grinned gleefully before bringing the blade up. The man made not a sound as he was almost cut in two, starting from the right side of his waist and up towards his abdomen.

Someone let out a scream at the same time as confused orders were given. Jonathan turned, gripping the top half of the man's body by his left arm. His hair obscured one eye, blood splattering much of his clothing and coating his fine hair. Blood dripped from the carcass in his grip as he slowly advanceed towards the rest of them. His eyes seemed to glow brighter as he licked his lip, tasting his own blood. Around him, fear invaded the minds of his enemies as they watched the figure before them. A demon, born before their eyes.

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Jace and Clary trekked across the landscape. Even he was sweating under the blistering sun and she could not keep herself from smirking. It looked like even the mighty Jace could get exhausted.

It turns out she had been the only one captured. While she had fought to the death, or at least tried to, everyone else had hid. She couldn't begrudge them though. Their little resistance needed all their leaders, and she would not wish what she had been through on anyone. Of course, Clary doubted Jonathan would do what he had done to just any woman he kidnapped. Even though he had been horrific and monsterous, she believed he truly loved her. Or at least he had.

She faked looking into the distance to the east to hide her tears from Jace. Damn it! She was such a cry baby, and at a time like this too! But, she knew why it felt as if someone was clawing at her chest. Her heart beat only for her brother. No longer did Jace hold that precious peice of her, and she realized that he had known that as soon as he had awoken.

He had tried to hold her. However, she had pushed him away; she had closed her heart to him. At first, he had been confused, then crushed. Now? He was angry. Clary herself had no idea if it was because he thought she was traumatized or broken. Or maybe, just maybe, he knew of the taboo love she held for Jonathan. That possibility itself scared her for an unknown reason. Was she so afraid of being judged?

"Jace...," she whispered, before clearing her throat. Her own voice sounded so foreign to her just then. "How much longer?"

He glanced over at her, his eyes like twin glaciers. "Not long, less than half an hour to the encampment."

Clary nodded as she absentmindedly rubbed her chest just above her heart.

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Sebastian's breaths heaved from his chest. He was cover in sweat, blood, and probably many other bodily fluids he could not identify. He had wiped out most of the men and all of the traitors, but he himself was not unscathed.

A sword had sliced through his leg about an inch and the limb was almost useless; as it was he could barely stand. A shield had also bashed him in the head when he had not been paying attention and he would have new scars adorning his chest. Fuck! He had been so careless. His blood had taken over and he had been reveling in the deaths he had caused, only to get too cocky. Valentine had always warned him that it would be his downfall one day.

But... He would fight until the end.

He tried to step forward, sharp canines biting into his lip as flames of pain licked at his leg. Blood, crimson heat, fell down his chin where he bit through the thin skin. A light chuckle left him. It would not end like this. It couldn't...

"...Not without taking another one of you fuckers with me!" he screamed, finishing his thought out loud. Using both hands, ge grasped the hild of his sword. The blade was knicked, and small lines spiderwebbed the metal. It would not last either, not much longer...

With a blood thirsty cry, he challenged them, and a couple of fools answered. He would cut through one body only to be overwhelmed by another. He clashed weapons with a rebel before kicking them away with his bad lag. More liquid heat rang through him, but it only made him deadlier as the pain cleared his mind.

Only on the next blow did his trusty weapon break. It seemed all was lost as he took a blow to the ear, but he stilled tried to stand. On one knee, he held his broken instrument. He could get back up! He fucking could! But it seems that was not his destiny.

A few feet away was the little rebel girl, her bow fully drawnand an arrow aimed at him. Perhaps he would find peace in the netherworld?

Selfishly, in his last moments of consciousness, he wished for his sister. Wished he had not turned her away. Wished he could hold her once more before the end. But what were wishes when he faced his demise? His wishes would not reach his love, not tell her of his devotion to her.

As she let go of the string, he closed his eyes. Maybe this was his own punishment?