This chapter was going to be short, but I got caught up in bassass Jem and now its a novel in its own right. Enjoy.

"Hello!" I yelled into the empty air, inside the courtyard of the grand building. My voice echoed around the cavernous temple. A quiet voice, recognisably Chinese but clipped with an English accent, answered in barely a whisper, but the temple amplified it creepily through the willow trees.

"Come forward so I can see you."

I approached the centre of the square. I still could see no one, and felt slightly stupid speaking to the open air. But I remembered what Jace had said about how Zachariah felt about disrespect. I decided to keep my sass to myself.

"Brother Zachariah," I bent down on one knee and bowed my head, "I am unworthy to be your student."

"Be silent," the voice wasn't harsh, but still made me bite down on my lip, "Your accent causes my ears discomfort. Don't speak until spoken to. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, American?"

"Yes, Brother Za…" something hit me between the eyes and I yelled in surprise. It was a small smooth pebble, and was now rocking on the ground by my foot.

"That was a rhetorical question. You speak English, so of course you understand what I said to you, therefore there was no need for you to speak," the voice said darkly, "Jonathan Herondale is your master?"

"He is my…" I flushed, and decided to avoid the intimate details of my relationship with Jace, "Yes. He is my master."

Another pebble hit me and I gritted my teeth as to stop myself from calling Brother Zachariah some very nasty names.

"You're a liar, American," the voice told me, "Never lie to me again. If Jonathan Herondale is not your master, what is he? Your lover? Your husband? Do you make love to one another?"

I couldn't quite comprehend that Brother Zachariah, master of the Silent Brother's temple and most skilled warrior in all of Shadowhunter history, was seriously asking me about my sex life. I swallowed and answered in a shaky voice, "We are intimately involved, but above all he trains me."

"Does he train you well?" the voice sounded almost… smug, "Or do you just enjoy exchanging body fluids whilst rolling in the dirt with toy swords?"

My irritation got the better of me, "I thought I came here to learn from you, not answer snide questions about who I'm fucking."

There was a pause, and then another pebble came hurtling towards my head. I was ready this time, and caught it out of the air. I slammed it to the ground angrily and shot a bold look up towards the trees.

The wind was the only thing that made a sound for a long time. A tall figure wrapped in black robes stepped out of the trees, his hood pulled low over his face so I couldn't see what he looked like. His feet were bare, and around his neck hung a smooth, circular jade pendant with what looked to be Chinese characters carved into it.

"Jonathan tells me you're talented," I didn't like the scepticism in his tone, "Tell me, what training do you possess?"

"I am proficient in blade combat with a short sword, long sword and a large range of knives," I said, raising my chin, "And I am more than proficient in hand to hand combat."

"Is that so?" the hooded figure walked forwards, "Your arrogance both amuses and disgusts me. You are lucky I had trained a Herondale before you, or you would be dead at my feet by now."

I did not reply.

"Do you believe you are match me in hand to hand combat proficiency?" Brother Zachariah asked passively.

"No," I answered immediately, bowing my head again.

"And you are aware I kill with little provocation?"

"Yes."

"Do you wish to die?"

I shook my head quickly, "No. I only wish to train."

Brother Zachariah bent his head slightly, but I realised this was only so he could remove his hood. Beneath it, was a face I could only describe as… unexpected. Rather than the aged man with a white beard and glowing red eyes I'd pictured in my head, I saw the pale skin of a fine boned, young and angular face. Soft silver hair fell across his face gently, blowing like white feathers in the wind. Unlike most Silent Brothers I'd heard of, his eyes and mouth were not creepily stitched together, and his curious silver eyes watched me with an air of superiority. He let his robe fall from his lean body, and underneath he wore leather gear not unlike my own, but white, which surprised me. White was the colour of death in Shadowhunter culture. The gear hugged his body and exhibited the definition in his legs and chest.

I bowed my head as not to be caught staring. By the Angel, Brother Zachariah is hot.

"You breathe hard," his voice was still quiet, but it carried, and sent a shudder down my spine, "Did the steps rob your wind?"

I nodded carefully.

"So, your arrogance is matched only by your weakness. Do you do anything well?" I did not answer, as I suspected it was another of his rhetorical questions, "What was your name? Jonathan told me, but it did not stick in my mind."

"Clarissa," I thought it was appropriate to use my full name, as Brother Zachariah had only called Jace's by his so far, "Clarissa Fray."

His eyebrow arched, but he made no comment as to the clearly non-Shadowhunter name I chose to go by. He took a few steps forward, his bare feet so light on the ground that I could have sworn he was floating.

"Clarissa Fray," he repeated, seeming to muse over it as he cast his eyes upwards. He stopped a metre from me, head still raised to the heavens, "Should we see how good you really are? Land a single hit on me, and I will bow down and call you my superior."

At that point, I needed no second invitation. I leapt at him with my fists curled into fists, targeting the side of his torso. Most of the people I sparred with weren't used to people attacking them there, and often didn't know how to correctly block it. I assumed it was my best chance to land a blow on him.

Brother Zachariah moved too quickly for my brain to process. He spun away from my attack, and then spun back into me as I gathered myself and hooked his elbow around my throat and slammed me into the ground without twitching his eye. I gasped as the air left my lungs in a whoosh.

"Your attacks are sluggish and ugly," he noted, standing. Not a speck of dirt had touched his pristine white gear, "I think Jonathan has misjudged your talents as a result of him being enamoured of you. If I had known when he spoke to me, I would have struck the rose-coloured glasses from his face with enough force to make his teeth bleed."

I growled, and kicked out, hoping to knock him off his feet. Brother Zachariah jumped, avoiding my swinging feet and flipped over me. He landed lightly, without a sound, and had the nerve to gently brush non-existent lint off his shoulder whilst I lay in the dirt.

I jumped to my feet, and threw a hit to his face, not stopping my momentum when he moved away from my hit, and lunging into a roundhouse kick. Brother Zachariah jumped over my swinging foot and kicked out his own leg, catching me in the side of the face with the hard heel of his foot. I staggered away, my right cheek throbbing. I could feel the bruise already forming; my eye would probably be swollen shut by the morning.

I was a good combatant. I'd taken down Magnus, Sebastian, Maia, even Jace one, though I suspected he had been quite easy on me that time. But next to Brother Zachariah, my moves were sloppy, full of strain and frustration, whilst he effortlessly moved out of my path as if he could predict every move I made before I decided myself I would make it.

"I am one hundred and fifty one years old," Brother Zachariah had a spark of amusement in his silver eyes, "Can't even strike down an old man, Clarissa Fray? Your abilities are very poor."

His fist flew forward in a blur and stuck me in the chest, sending me flying backwards into the dirt. I groaned and rolled over onto my hands and knees, coughing up blood and spitting it into the dirt.

"I've fought children with more passion than you," he announced, "Now hit me!"

I attacked with the fury of a wild animal. Brother Zachariah spun like a leaf in a violent wind, hand outstretched with two fingers up. At the same time, my hand went up, and jabbed forwards towards his eyes, a self-defence move I had learnt in a mundane class in Brooklyn, not under Shadowhunter training. Brother Zachariah dodged this manoeuvre, but barely, my finger brushing past his hair ever so lightly. For a split second, we were separated by only by a hair length, his body an extension of mine, as if we were dancing. Our breathing mingled and our bodies became one. Our eyes met, and I saw something change. A flicker, for only a moment, of something other than apathy. A glimmer of… interest.

Then the side of his hand came down on my throat and I was falling to the ground, choking. Brother Zachariah took two steps back, folded his legs under him and gracefully sitting down opposite me, a curiosity on his face I had not witnessed before.

"I did not predict that final manoeuvre," he remarked, "You surprised me, Clarissa Fray. Little surprises me anymore."

"No one's ever tried to jab you in the eye before?" I said flippantly.

"It is a ruthless manoeuvre. A dirty tactic, you see performed by those without honour," Brother Zachariah turned his eyes to the sky once again, "You do not strike me as unhonourable, Clarissa Fray."

"I do not fight for honour," I assured him darkly, "I fight to win."

"Hence, why you surprised me," Brother Zachariah mused, "I dropped my sword whilst sparring with Jonathan on evening. The boy picked it up and handed it back to me," his eyes went hard, "I slashed a star in his shoulder and left him bleeding in the dirt while he was repositioning his feet."

I winched. I had seen the scar. Jace had never told me how he'd gotten it.

"The honourable fall," Brother Zachariah turned his eye to me, "The determined survive. Me and you, Clarissa, we survive. With training, you will be a fine combatant."

"You'll train me?" I was baffled, "But you beat me."

"And I will beat you time, and time again," he stood, his white gear still pristine as ever, as if his had a protective glow around him repelling dirt, "But would you fight me again?"

I nodded slowly, not knowing what answer he wanted from. To my surprise, he smiled. It soon disappeared.

"Clean your face and body, you are covered in dirt," he commanded, "Your training will begin tomorrow. Begin bandaging your fists for my lessons, or you may have no skin remaining on your knuckles by the end of the week."

With that, he left me, a soundless white beacon, moving through the air as if he commanded it.

For all I knew, he did.

Training under Brother Zachariah was laborious. My whole body took on a dull ache that never ceased nor subsided, as a day off was out of the question. I was woken every morning at 3am, and I ran cinder blocks up and down the temple stairs until 6 whilst Zachariah watched, mostly spending the time criticising my posture and 'heavy' steps. At 6 we ate breakfast, green assorted salad Jace had warned me of and tea, which Brother Zachariah made from his own trees. From 7 until noon as conditioning, which involve absurd exercises such as punching willow trees to strength my hands, running over hot coals or sharp rocks to toughen the skin of my feet, and plunging into the freezing river completely naked. From noon until the sun was setting, he'd train me in combat, whether he was beating me time and time again as he'd promised, or demonstrating techniques that made me seriously doubt his denial of being a god.

Sometime in y fifth month at the temple, I was watching him position his fist inches from a wood block. Without pulling back to swing, and without making a sound, he put his fist through the wood effortlessly. He tugged it free, and turned to me.

"Can you do that?" It was not bragging. I had come to learn that Brother Zachariah, aware of his skill, was not one to flaunt it.

"Not from that close," I admitted.

"Then you cannot do it," he turned away from me.

"I can put my hand through at six inches," I protested. It was probably more like eight, but it didn't want to seem utterly pathetic.

"I did not ask if you could put you hand through at six inches, I asked if you could copy my demonstration. You cannot," Zachariah replied, "It your enemy is three inches from you, what will you do?"

"Slice off their head," I suggested.

"And your enemy in this situation, your obstacle of a block of wood, will crumble if it loses its head?" Zachariah snorted, and I felt my fists clench. I shook my head, no.

"Not all your enemies will be so fragile as humans," he concluded, and gestured to my block of wood, "Now, can you do that?"

I set my jaw, turn, lined up my fist, and slammed it into the wood. I only managed to stain the wall with the blood from my scrapped knuckled. Gritting my teeth, I hit it again. And again. And again.

At the dinner table that night I could barely feel my hands. The chopsticks I was using to shovel rice into my mouth shook in my hands. Eventually, I just slammed them down on the table and begun scooping the food into my mouth with my hands. I felt something hit the top of my head and I yelped in annoyance. Brother Zachariah was holding his own chopsticks in his hand away having whacked them over my head and wearing a look of disgust.

"If you eat like a dog, you will live and sleep outdoors like a dog," he threatened, "Would you like that?"

I thought about the freezing temperatures of the hills during the night, and gently picked up my sticks. Satisfied, Brother Zachariah went back to his own food.

"Why do you wear white gear?" I asked, the curiosity getting too much for me, "I thought white gear was only for mourning."

"And I thought you had been instructed to speak when spoken to," Brother Zachariah responded, and I sealed my lips together. We were silent for a long time, and the Brother Zachariah spoke, "Perhaps I am mourning."

The rest of the meal was digested in silence. The cogs of my mind whirled in my attempt to figure out who a man like Brother Zachariah could possibly be mourning. His fellow Silent Brother, who fell by his hand for speaking out of turn? A lost love, perhaps, whose death or rejection left him so bitter? Or someone much, much more significant?

I beat at the block of wood for two more months, and only succeeded in getting it bloodier and bloodier with every day that passed. When I finally stuck through the wood, he was not present, so I treated myself to doing a rather undisciplined victory dance in the centre of the temple. Then I ran to get him.

He was alone in his chambers, lying flat on the ground and staring up at the ceiling. I was quiet as not to disturb him. Out of the blue, seemingly to the air, he laughed, and murmured something along the lines of, 'By the Angel, Will.'

A floorboard creaked under my foot, and he rolled to his feet in a blur, and humour from his face gone, replaced with an impassive and displeased glare.

"You disturb me for what reason, Clarissa?" he spoke with his same gentle yet sharp as a blade voice, but he sounded a little shaken. I wondered if he was pondering how much of his conversation to the air I had heard.

"I'm sorry, Brother Zachariah," I bowed my head, "But… I did it. I put my fist through the wood."

He inspected my work of the block of wood, running his fingers along the splinters that stuck out and the decently sized hole I'd created. I rolled back my shoulders, preparing myself for his praise.

He turned to me, "Would you care to demonstrate?"

I nearly threw up my hands in frustration, but thought better of it. He might well have cut them from my wrists, "Of course."

I moved in front of the wall, taking my position. I curled my right hand into a fist, reaching out my left hand to touch the place I would strike. I felt my body brimming with energy, locked and loaded my fist into position… and struck it.

The wood shook, but did not break. I snuck a look at Brother Zachariah, who looked quite expressionless.

"I think having you here is putting me off," she told him quickly.

"It also has you speaking out of turn," Brother Zachariah said, but mentioned the disobedience no further, "Try again."

I did, repeating the same process, taking a deep breath before striking again. I felt the energy of my body transfer into my target. This time, my fist went through it.

I smiled, and looked up at Brother Zachariah for approval.

His face did not change, but he murmured a sincere, "Impressive."

I bent to my knees, "Thank you, Brother…"

He pulled me up, shaking his head. I watched him, confused, as he made his way around the back of the wood. Carefully, he moved it one inch closer to me.

"Begin again," he said blankly, and began walking back to his chambers.

"You… you!" I began to stammer, but as he started to turn back I quickly bowed my head, "Of course, Brother Zachariah."

The tiniest smile seemed to tug at his lips, and then disappear, "I knew a girl like you once. She infuriated me."

"Did you kill her?" I asked nonchalantly.

"I married her," Brother Zachariah seemed lost in a daze, and then snapped quickly back to reality at my small noise of horror, "Do not get any ideas, Clarissa Fray. Unlike you, she was also very beautiful."

I pursed my lips, insulted, and then wavered, wondering if it was safe to ask what I was thinking of, "Is she the one you are mourning for?"

Brother Zachariah's eyebrow arched, and I prepared myself for the punishment I would undoubtedly receive for speaking out of line. But Brother Zachariah did not move.

"I do not mourn for Tessa Gray," he said gently, "For Tessa Gray is not lost."

The name stuck me. I did not recognise it, but if felt important, precious, a fragment of Brother Zachariah's soul transferred carefully into my rough and raw bleeding hands.

"Is Will lost? Is that why you call out for him in the wind?" I asked, but Brother Zachariah had already ascended the steps and had disappeared behind the doors of the temple. Turning back to my wooden block, I narrowed my eyes on it like an old enemy.

Lining up my fist two inches from the wood, I landed my first strike. Nothing happened. I drew back my fist and hit it again. And again. And again.