Author's Note:

Hello lovelies! Yes this is me, xxmadworldreveriexx, making an official return to the TMI writing community (and hopefully here to stay this time).

Long story short, I've done a lot of soul-searching during my time off the radar, which has led me to decide to abandon my old account and start anew with this one because honestly...I just want a fresh clean slate for myself. This new account is a representation of the more mature version of me because I think I owe it to myself to acknowledge that while I have made some mistakes or decisions that I've regretted in the past, I have grown up and I am ready to move on and move forward with my life. Plus, after a FF user tried to plagiarize this particular story of mine, I realized how all the more important it is for me to stick around so I can be proactive against the plagiarism risks. It's time I reclaimed ownership of the stories I have written and allowed the readers who have enjoyed reading them to have access to them once again.

Now onto the A/N for this story:

I first wrote Redemption and published it on March of 2014. Since then, I have made plenty of revisions to this story, among them the shift of the story timeline. The language may still sound modern, but I hope that won't be such an issue. Timeline-wise, huge difference. The story has taken a huge leap back to the past, and now takes place in the early 500s. That's a more turbulent time, I would think, and therefore, would help set the story better. If you chance upon certain things that you are very sure doesn't exist in such an ancient timeline, please pardon me and take this story as it is: a fiction.

I really hope you guys will enjoy this story now that I have made lots of changes to it, among them adding new scenes and giving deeper insight into the characters and their development.

The inspiration for this story, or rather the concept of star-crossed lovers featuring a gladiator and a princess, struck me when I watched the movie Pompeii starring Kit Harington and Emily Browning. Some elements like fight scenes were inspired by the movie Gladiator starring Russell Crowe, and Troy starring Brad Pitt and Eric Bana.

Rated M for some coarse language in some scenes and violence and gore. Romance is all a definite K-T as I am doing my best to keep everything as clean as possible.

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. (Let's take this disclaimer seriously).

Last revision: July 2020

PROLOGUE: THE DEVIL'S WORK

December 31, 499

Darkness as black as ink and as thick as velvet engulfed the land of Idris. Save for the tiny specks of silver-white embellishing the ebony sky, the kingdom was plunged in shadows and the air was heavy with the pungent smell of malevolence.

To some, the night was a blessing, a time for solace, peaceful contemplation and respite. But to others, it was a curse, an accomplice to the Devil, abetting him in his sinister plans of wreaking pain and destruction upon the Earth and its inhabitants.

And that night, the Devil was very much at work.

Soft flames flickered from the candle that sat upon the mahogany bedside table, providing an infinitesimal amount of light in the otherwise dark room.

The air, usually still and tranquil, its quiet broken only by the melodic chirping of crickets and the sporadic hooting of its resident owl, was anything but serene. But then again, it was the eve of a new year. They weren't just welcoming another January, but a whole new century. A new era. It was expected to be different.

For as long as the young boy could remember, the 31st day of December had always been imbued with zest and excitement. Each year, even despite his parents' same insistence that he went to bed instead of staying up late to watch the festivities and the celebratory fireworks go off at midnight, he could always, always hear the sounds of people rejoicing in the town square not far from where he lived.

And before he went to bed that night, he did hear them. He had watched from his window, both of his parents by his side, and marveled at the sight of the beautiful lights that decorated the town.

He'd smiled as he heard the upbeat music waft through the air, spurring the people's energetic dance, and laughed when his parents tugged him to his feet and twirled around the room with him.

They had always done that, he remembered. They would dance with him until his feet would tire and his eyes began to droop with fatigue.

His mother had noticed his exhaustion first and coaxed him into bed, but being the wilful young boy that he was, he'd stubbornly tried to argue with her, only to end up yawning like he hadn't slept the entire year.

Eventually, he had caved in and crawled into bed, and even though he felt that he was too old to be kissed goodnight, he could never bring himself to push his parents away from him when they did.

"We love you," they had told him, his father with an old teasing smirk.

"I love you too," he'd mumbled his response, a little embarrassedly, then fought to keep his eyes open the moment they left his room.

Every New Year's Eve, young Jace Herondale had the same resolution: to stay awake long enough to watch the fireworks go off at midnight. Alas, the young boy had never managed to. Year after year, he found himself succumbing to the alluring pull of sleep, only to be roused in the morning.

Up until then, nothing had changed.

The young boy had turned over onto his side, watching the window from his bed as he waited for the pivotal moment, when he would see the sky light up with a magnificent explosion of colors.

There wasn't much he could do when he was only left with a small candle for company, but he did his best to occupy himself. He'd fiddled with his favorite wooden toy soldier—he'd carved an entire set with his father when he was only seven—turning it over and over his palm until sleep took him in its clutches, and the toy soldier fell from his limp hand.

Many times this has happened, and every other time, Jace would wake up in the morning, pouting miserably over his failure.

Except this time, he didn't quite get through the night—not in the way he wished to anyway.

January 1, 500 (Part I)

The first thing he remembered were the voices. Deep, unrecognizable and yet sharp, they had sounded like an undecipherable argument between two men. It hadn't been enough to pull him out of his slumber, but sufficient to have roused him a little. Even then, it had been so vague he'd dismissed it as part of a dream.

Then came the piercing screech of metal; that was what had truly awoken him.

Loud and deafening, that even within the inner sanctum of his sleep, Jace could tell every sound apart—the sharp clanging of swords, real, deadly swords, accompanied by the hauntingly shrilling screams of people as they fell, men and women alike. It was a chilling noise, one he reckoned he would remember for the rest of his life. It reverberated off the walls, penetrating, intrusive and encompassing, as if it seemed to come from everywhere. And worse still, it sounded so close. So, very, very close.

It was just outside his bedroom, he realized. Only a single oak-wood door separated him from the chaos outside. He was unarmed. He was still too young. He was not ready to embrace death yet.

Oh God—

Jace's body shook with fear, and he gripped the hilt of the wooden sword he kept underneath his pillow, hoping it would help instil some courage into him. Yet, he knew that the effort was futile. If an armed man were to break through his door—and he had no doubt that one sooner or later would—the wooden sword would be useless in fending off the threat. Wooden swords were for training, not killing. But then again, he was only ten—almost eleven—years old. How could anyone his age even consider killing?

There was a sudden flash of movement, and Jace nearly screamed when a dainty hand clamped over his mouth, cutting his cry for help short. His golden eyes shot wide open in absolute terror and shock, even when he connected the hand to its owner: his mother.

She gazed down at him, her eyes as familiar as his own, and he unwittingly released the wooden sword from his grip. It tumbled to the hardwood floor noiselessly—or at least in his mind, it was noiseless.

He couldn't hear anything above the pandemonium outside, not while it rivaled with his inner turmoil; for on the inside, Jace was screaming in terror. It didn't matter that his own parents had told him, time and time again, that he was braver than most. Right now, he was just a child, and a terrified one at that.

"Shh, it's all right. It's going to be all right," his mother murmured against his soft, golden-blond locks.

Guiding him to his feet, she cradled him against her body before shifting them to hide underneath his bed. Notwithstanding his height—he was growing quickly enough to almost surpass her stature, bearing a lanky frame like most pre-teens—his mother tucked his head underneath her chin, as she had done so many times before when he'd been a much smaller child.

Had circumstances been different, and if he weren't so consumed by fear, Jace would have shrugged his mother off with an embarrassed smile and grumble, "I'm a big boy now." But such wasn't the case. For all his eagerness to grow up, Jace was still very much a child—and at the moment, a very frightened one.

And like most frightened children, he wanted—no, needed his mother.

That need tugged and pulled at him now, shaking through his body and hammering straight into his chest. Feeling desperate, Jace wrapped his arms around his mother's waist, his hot, quick breaths blowing harshly against her neck. He felt her soft lips touch his sweaty forehead once before she began to rub his back soothingly, though her arms weren't holding him quite as tightly as he'd hoped.

No, no, not enough. Not safe, his mind whispered. Tighter, tighter. So he tightened his arms around her and opened his mouth, trying to convey to her what he wanted. But instead of words, only choked gasps came out of him: loud, unrecognizable, and…strange.

"Jace—Jace, calm down…"

An even louder gasp escaped him as he reflexively tightened his grip on his mother, his body convulsing violently against hers.

Help! He thought desperately. Help—Can't breathe!

Somewhere within the recesses of his panicked mind, Jace knew that he knew the motions, had memorized them, had practiced them his whole life, yet, he couldn't, for the life of him, remember how to breathe now. His breaths were coming out fast and choppy, the oxygen entering his mouth in shallow gasps, not nearly enough to properly fill his lungs. He felt himself growing more and more light-headed by the second.

"Breathe, sweetheart," his mother coaxed him again, her voice wrapping itself around his mind like a final tether between reality and blackness. "Breathe..."

Letting out another sharp gasp, Jace took in another breath—deeper, slower than the ones before—and captured his bottom lip in between his teeth, willing himself to calm down. His eyes were shut impossibly tight, his grasp loosening the longer he allowed himself to focus on his mother's voice.

Sleep, a part of him whispered. Sleep is an escape, a wonderful escape into a land of blissful dreams.

But the rational part of his brain warred against the suggestion. He couldn't pass out now, even if it seemed to be the better, safer option as opposed to remaining awake in this very real, unexplainable nightmare. What would his poor mother do if he were to black out?

"Stay with me, Jace," his mother was begging him now. It would have been so easy to cave into sleep—or to fall into the darkness that was tempting to lure him in—but he knew it in his heart that he couldn't be so selfish. His mother needed him. Besides, what would he do if he woke up and she was no longer there with him? He needed to fight. "Stay awake for me…please, sweetie…please stay awake."

Letting out several more unsteady breaths, he shut his eyes tightly and willed himself to focus solely on his mother's voice—a familiar gentle sound that, on some nights when nightmares haunted his sleep, was his only source of comfort. He allowed it to anchor him.

Reaching for his mother's hand, he gripped it, trying desperately to match his breathing with hers. In, out, in, out, in, out. And as he did, he couldn't help but admire how strong his mother was. He wasn't deluded into believing that she wasn't scared; he knew that she was. He could feel it in the rapid thumping of her pulse. But the difference between him and her was that she was strong enough to put on a mask of bravado for him. She knew better than to let her fear consume her.

"Mom," he rasped tiredly, just to give her an indication that he was still alive and awake.

In return, his mother pressed gentle kisses onto the crown of his forehead and released a long, deep sigh. It was one of relief, he knew. Jace mentally patted his back; he'd done the right thing, staying by his mother.

"Mom, I'm scared," he whispered, his scratchy voice sounding frail and weak, even to his own ears. Tears welled up in his eyes and he shivered once. "I don't want to die." His voice cracked on the word.

"I know, sweetheart. I know," she whispered back. "But we'll be okay. I'll protect you." Her voice wavered, but Jace didn't doubt the sincerity of her words—not the latter part anyway.

Jace knew how fiercely his mother loved him; she would walk into a raging inferno and take multiple arrows to her chest if it meant that she could save him—protect him from harm. He didn't doubt it.

You're safe, Jace, he tried reassuring himself. You're safe as long as she's here. This nightmare will be over soon. It'll pass. There's nothing to be afraid of…

Slowly turning over onto his back, his aureate eyes flickered towards the burning candle on his bedside table. He expelled another breath, a more controlled and quieter one this time, his gaze transfixed on the soft orange glow, and allowed himself a shaky smile.

Besides his mother's sweet lullabies, it was the candle flame that often times lulled him to sleep. He watched, as he had done so many times before, with slightly bowed eyelids as mythical shapes and creatures took form, emerging from the gentle flames.

They were often similar, almost constant: dancing faeries, howling werewolves, and the heroes of his imaginary exploits: brave demon hunters that prowled through the night, protecting the innocent from the vile monsters that descended from the dark.

It was a childish, mindless habit, he supposed, but one that comforted him more than he cared to admit. Having an active imagination kept his mind occupied with a distraction that so often proved amusing. And right now, distractions were much welcome.

Jace allowed himself to believe that for as long as the candle burned, he would be able to get through the night. He would be protected. He would survive.

As his mother stroked his hair, pushing back the few rebellious strands that hovered over his eyes, he focused once more on the flames, imagining that the sounds outside his room weren't that of men killing men, but his valiant demon hunters slaying demons.

He imagined himself as one of those hunters, wielding a powerful weapon forged from adamas—a seraph blade, he named it. Black powerful marks—which he called runes—decorated his arms and neck; one, in particular, shone like gold on his chest: a fearless rune.

Jace watched the phantom scene, smirking to himself as he sliced his weapon through the demon's heart, causing it to crumple in onto itself and be transported back to its infernal home dimension.

Fearless, he repeated, congratulating himself for his demonic kill. I am fearless.

Just as he allowed his eyes to slip shut, the sliver of a smile still tinging his lips, a tormented masculine yell pierced the air like an earth-shattering quake.

Jace jumped an inch high, as if he had been dumped with a bucket of ice-cold water. That voice. It had sounded so achingly familiar…like…like… His eyes widened as he strived not to complete the thought.

No, God—please—No! Not him! His mind screamed as sheer hopelessness began to claw its way into his heart, his calm façade disintegrating until they were no more than cold, useless cinders. The candle flame no longer bore the shapes of the characters from his stories, but remained as it was—a flame which glow was quickly petering out, much like his.

As Jace turned away from the dying candle, a muffled sob escaped his lips, even as his mother huddled closer to him. She tilted his chin towards her, gently forcing him to meet her eyes—identical golden eyes laden with the same emotions he felt: love, worry, anxiety, fear.

"Hush, sweetheart. Your father's fine. We're going to be fine," his mother told him, her voice catching mid-sentence as she gently stroked his fair curls.

But Jace wasn't to be fooled. Even for a child, he was perceptive enough to detect the thick feeling of doubt beneath her words.

That voice, he repeated. That voice had belonged to him. That voice had sounded like the voice of a man dying, succumbing to death. He closed his eyes as tears sprung forth and his throat grew heavier, thicker. No, it isn't going to be fine. Far from it, he thought.

If he—his father—couldn't defeat what evil laid beyond his bedroom door, then how could his mother? She was undoubtedly a strong woman, both in spirit and mind, but skilled in combat? Absolutely not.

"He's fine. Stephen's fine. He can't be dead. He can't," his mother continued to mutter, as if she didn't even realize that she was speaking aloud, or at least, loudly enough for her son to hear her.

Try as she might to hold it all together, he could see the grief and submission seep into his mother's eyes. Her stalwart hope and courage was faltering, and she was close to breaking down and losing it completely. He knew it from the way she was trembling, and how her breaths had turned slightly choppy, as if she was crying, but silently and without tears. The sight of her cracked veneer—of possibly, a widow mourning her dead husband—was almost too painful for him to bear, so he averted his eyes, looking at anywhere but her.

Jace fixed his stare at the cursed door over his shoulder, willing his father to walk through it, unscathed and smirking carelessly like he always did.

But the longer he stared, the stronger it hit him that it would never happen. Stephen would never come through that door again, because he was d—

Jace found himself blinking back tears furiously, unable to complete the thought, even though he knew it to be true. He didn't want it to be.

And yet…

He didn't know if they—he and his mother—would ever be able to get out from underneath his bed, to see the other side of that door…if they would even last long enough to see the light of another day.

If he really is dead, then there's no hope for us. Oh well, better dead than alive to mourn my father, Jace thought, quite crudely. It seemed horribly morbid, for anyone, much less a young boy, to be so resigned and submissive to the idea of death, and truth be told, it was extremely hard for Jace to accept it either.

He didn't want to die. He didn't want either of his parents to die. But the prospect of living seemed like a foolish ambition now—and it was maddening.

Jace felt the crippling tension of fear crawl over him again, but this time, it was layered with a dose of hysteria. It made him want to laugh, although he was also fearful that doing so would only prove his insanity. He didn't want to be insane—but a part of him so desperately wished that he was.

If he were, it would mean that this entire nightmare was no more than that—a nightmare, a hallucination. It would mean that his father would still be alive. That he and his mother were in no danger.

Please God, please. Let this all just be a dream—a terrible dream, but a dream nonetheless, he urgently prayed. It's not real—Don't let it be real. Please.

Time dragged by at an agonizingly slow pace that each passing minute to Jace felt like centuries. At that point, he was forced to confront the fact that he was very still much sane, and that hallucination—or the overactive imagination of a young boy—had nothing to do with his present situation. Everything was real, and if Jace was sane before, then there was a possibility that this very real situation would drive him to actual insanity—if he didn't die first, that is.

"It's almost over," his mother's whispers broke past his gloomy thoughts. She pressed a kiss to his forehead and smiled shakily when their eyes met.

Are you okay? He wanted to ask, but chickened out at the last minute. Her golden eyes still conveyed grief, but for the most part, he could see that she was making an effort to keep it together for him. He wished he could be strong enough to shoulder all of her pain for her. His mother deserved better.

"It'll be okay, Jace," she assured him.

Jace could find no words to speak.

The battle outside waged on.

It must have been at least an hour later when the bedlam finally showed signs of abating, the spine-chilling sounds of fighting and massacring dwindling as the night waned. The sounds of swords clashing became quieter and less, and there was less screaming, less yelling, less groaning, less begging, just…less.

Then finally, the silence came—and it was louder than anything Jace had ever heard.

He lifted his head a little, and glanced at the door the exact same time his mother did. He didn't expect it to be possible, but he realized in that moment that the silence scared him even infinitely more.

What's going on? Is it over? Are the bad people gone? He wanted to ask his mother these questions and a dozen more, but found that he, too, was held captive by the delicate silence. He feared that if he were to break it, then all hell would break loose again.

In the end, it was neither him nor his mother who spoke first, but a voice on the other side of that door.

Jace strained his ears, trying to listen, trying to discern whose voice it was. But the door separating them from the outside was surprisingly thick, and muffled the man's speech—at least, he was certain that it was a man. The tenor of his voice was too deep to be otherwise. More noises followed soon after: three cries of huzza from the triumphant group, the voices of commanders giving orders, and the dutiful responses of the remaining soldiers before they set off to do as they were told, punctuated by another garish silence.

Jace found himself holding his breath, his fears warring against the return of the smallest flicker of hope. He didn't want to be lulled into a false sense of security, but he couldn't help but mull over the good possibilities. What if he and his mother had both been mistaken? What if his father was still alive? That voice—it could have belonged to someone else—if it belonged to his father, it could have been a cry of pain; it didn't necessarily have to have been a cry of death.

Jace prayed so hard for these possibilities to come true. He had cut himself off from his deluded thinking that it wasn't real, and that the moment he left this room, he would likely be met with the gory sight of corpses and blood—a lot of blood. Nevertheless, a boy could still be hopeful of good things, the things that mattered. Right now, Stephen Herondale being alive was what mattered most, so Jace focused on that in his prayer.

Please, God, let my father be alive.

I still need him.

My mother needs him.

Please.

"Please," Jace whispered as heavy footsteps equaling to the sound of crackling thunder began to dangerously approach his bedroom door.

He blanched as an ominous feeling overtook him again. Nothing about those footsteps—heavy, calculative, measured—alluded that their owner was a person with 'friendly' intentions. If anything, he probably had a face that was akin to a demon's, with horns sprouting from his head and sharp talons protruding from his long, scaly fingers. Jace knew who it wasn't—

It wasn't his father.

And though there was a chance that he could be mistaken, his gut feel told him that it wasn't anyone else he knew either. It wasn't his Uncle Robert, his father's councilmen or his guards.

His mother seemed to know it too as she began to crawl forward from their hiding position, a dagger encrusted with jewels and rubies clutched tightly in her right hand. Jace's body stiffened, and his hand shot out to tug his mother's arm back.

Their aureate eyes locked, hers hesitant and torn with loss and conflict, his marked by a single, silent plea: Please don't go, Mom. Hide with me—Don't leave me.

Her eyes glossed over with tears before they hardened—not in a cold, unfeeling way, but one that conveyed obstinacy, purpose. "No matter what happens, keep quiet and stay hidden," his mother whispered, her tone sounding so heartbreakingly melancholic that Jace felt his own heart squeeze.

She took several moments longer to study his face, tracing each of his features—his eyes, his nose, his cheeks, his mouth—with her fingertips, as if she were memorizing him; as if she were saying to him, "I want my last memory to be of your face—my son."

"I love you—Jace," she said, her voice cracking painfully as she spoke his name. A lone tear escaped her left eye and rolled down her cheek, and Jace realized in that moment that his mother didn't want to leave him as much as he didn't want her to; that it physically pained her to do this.

But this was Celine Herondale, a mother whose love for her son surpassed any amount of self-preservation she had. The determination was transparent in her golden eyes. She wanted to protect him, no matter what the consequences were for her.

So when she planted a soft kiss on his forehead, and gently pried his fingers away from her arm, Jace did as he was told; he didn't fight his mother on her decision.

Not when she shakily rolled to her feet and trudged towards the door, each step bringing her closer and closer to the unknown threat, and further, further away from him.

Not when the footsteps on the other side of the door grew louder and louder, threatening them—the only two occupants in the room—that he was coming for them next.

Not when he saw his mother falter minutely in her step, barely discernible in her hesitation, before she recovered, inching closer to the door.

It only took a second, but just as his mother let out a shuddering breath, the sound echoing loudly in the taut silence of the room, the door burst open with such brute force that the wooden panel flew apart from its hinges. Jace flinched the exact same time his mother did; she narrowly dodged the flying piece of wood, but the moment the imposing shadow came into sight, she ran forward, raising the dagger shakily but resolutely, the honed tip poised to attack the intruder.

She was only seconds away from sinking the dagger into the man's chest when his arm flew out, throwing her backwards with an insurmountable force. Her skull hit the polished wooden floor with a loud and sickening crack, making Jace shudder furiously. He pressed his trembling hand against his mouth, biting down on his bottom lip hard to repress a sob.

A heavily-built man strode into the room casually, arrogance and aggression radiating from him in waves. Despite the darkness that shrouded the room, the moonlight provided enough illumination for Jace to discern the man's features; his hair was a salt-white color and his eyes an inky black. A long, fresh wound ran down the side of his face, and a splatter of blood stood out garishly against the sleeve of the white shirt he donned underneath his armor.

He looked down at Jace's mother with pure disgust writ all over his harsh, angular face before raising a heavy boot and landing a sharp kick to her abdomen. There was a resounding snap that followed his mother's loud cry of agony, indicating either a cracked or broken rib, or several—Jace didn't know.

His heart ached with wretched despair when she clutched at her stomach protectively, and the man abruptly knelt down beside her crumpled form. Her body was angled away from him so he couldn't see her face. Still, he saw as she lifted her head gingerly; he noticed when her back stiffened and the man flashed her a crooked, predator-like grin.

"Valentine—"His mother choked, her voice barely even a whisper.

Had it been any other situation, Jace would have snickered at the sound of the man's name—what sort of man called himself Valentine?—but this was no laughing situation.

In fact, there was nothing laughable about the man. Just the look of his eyes: a deep, black swirl resembling the bottom of an endless chasm, was enough to make him shiver irrepressibly. Suddenly, Jace couldn't think past his growing itch for the man to turn his head away, to spare him from having to look at…him.

"Celine…" The man—Valentine—drawled out his mother's name in every manner that sounded suggestive and…sick. "We meet again, at long last. Time has been kind to you, I see…" Jace clamped his hand tighter over his mouth, fighting back a whimper as he watched the man slowly caressing his mother's face. "You are still as radiant as the day I left…"

As if awoken by his touch, his mother flinched away from Valentine's hand. "Don't touch me!" She shrieked before jerking forward and spitting into his face.

Valentine lurched backwards with a menacing growl, and his body shook, the furious pulsing in his neck a testament to his rage. He harshly swiped a hand over his face to get rid of the saliva, then turned his glare on Jace's mother. If possible, his black eyes grew even darker.

There was no hesitation on his part when he backhanded her, causing her head to whip to the side from his blow.

His spite didn't stop there. He pounced on top of her and straddled her hips, making her writhe violently from beneath him. Her hands flew everywhere, shoving uselessly at his solid chest and shoulders, savagely scratching his face.

Valentine let out another outraged yell before catching both her wrists in his vise-grip, then pinning them firmly above her head. Even then, Jace's mother continued to scream, a sharp, piercing sound that made him wish for silence.

"Get off of me! Let go!" Sobs racked her as she fought against his hold. Tears streamed down Jace's cheeks at her struggle. "Stephen! STEPHEN!"

"SHUT UP!" Valentine roared.

Grabbing her by her hair, he smashed the back of her head against the floor roughly, eliciting another thundering crack. With a stuttered cry of pain, his mother went slack with defeat, her head undoubtedly bleeding and pounding from the impact of the Valentine's menacing assault.

The white-haired man grinned. Pressing more of his weight on her, he leaned down until his mouth was directly next to her ear. "Now that your husband's dead, I shall make you mine, and I will take you just the way I like it."

Jace froze. Ten years old or not, he understood what Valentine was implying with those words. Still, he could do nothing but shove his fist into his own mouth and bite down on the skin, the excessive stream of tears clouding his vision. A quick death would have been so much more merciful than having to endure…this.

For a fleeting moment, he considered leaving his hiding place, knocking Valentine out with a brass candelabrum, and fleeing this hellish scene with his mother, but he knew it was a foolish notion.

Valentine was bigger, stronger, and infinitely faster than either of them. They wouldn't stand a chance—not against Valentine, and definitely not against his army if they escaped his clutches. He could only imagine how much worse their punishment would be then.

Jace couldn't let that happen. He couldn't disobey his mother and lead them to a fate worse than this. He just…couldn't.

Through rheumy eyes, he watched as his mother shook her head vigorously, pleading with Valentine to not do it, to show her mercy, but the sadistic fiend only gave her a cold and unsympathetic smirk.

"Go on—beg. I like it when women beg," he sneered. His hands tugged at her dress as he grinned and ran his tongue over his bottom lip salaciously.

"Please, don't! No! No! NO!" His mother squirmed and kicked at Valentine's hands but it didn't slow his advances one bit.

Instead, he let out a deep, grating cackle that seemed to resonate from his belly, his hands moving deftly to undo his own trousers, the heavy, metal buckle of his belt hitting the floor with a deafening clank.

The next few minutes flew by in a torturous daze. Jace watched in hopeless silence as the spiteful man ravaged his mother, her piercing screams permeating the air as he continued his merciless assault. With each passing second, he felt his every breath leave him in a shudder, yet this time, it wasn't entirely because of fear, but rather, an increasingly burning hatred for Valentine and the situation that he and his mother were put in.

He wanted so badly to put an end to the loathsome fiend's actions and punish him ten times over for what he had done—and was still doing—to his family, but he couldn't. He couldn't move. His limbs felt as if they were made of lead, and his soul was as good as detached from his body. Shockingly, it filled him with even more anger and hatred towards himself.

Logically, he knew that the reason he was holding himself back from doing anything was to stave off an even worse punishment than the one his mother was going through. But it still did not tamp down that feelings of self-resentment, nor did it subdue the assault of questions such as, 'Why aren't you doing anything to stop this?' and 'How could you watch him do this to your own mother?'

Worse, he kept hearing those questions in his father's voice, and could even imagine the look of disapproval and disappointment flashing across his face.

'I've already taught you all I could so that you would have the knowledge to defend yourself—and your mother in my absence!' He imagined his father berating him. 'How could you, her only son, be so pathetic and weak? Where is your sense of duty? Your mother is your responsibility—yours to protect. Why aren't you helping her?'

Jace turned his face toward the floor, eyes clamped shut, and smothered the pained moan lingering in his throat. More tears flowed down his face as he mourned for his father and mother. For all of his cowardice, he knew that he probably didn't deserve God's favor, but he still prayed for forgiveness, for neither of his mother nor father to fault him for his weakness.

Please don't let them hate me. Please let this end soon. Please just make him leave.

He's a vindictive man. You know he won't just leave, his subconscious whispered. Nothing will ever be the same again and you know it. You can't hide down there forever—He'll find you next and kill you. This nightmare is far from over.

A loud grunt from Valentine pulled Jace out of his self-pitying thoughts. He looked up in time to watch the fiend freeze above his mother, shudder, and then slump forward as if incapable of bearing his own weight.

Another eternity passed when Valentine finally detached himself from his unwilling partner, a baleful smirk on his face as he readjusted his garments. Not an ounce of guilt lingered on his face as he looked down her. Instead he only looked fulfilled and pleased with himself.

Anger surged through Jace, and for the first time that night, his hands involuntarily clenched into tight fists.

Monster, he thought derisively. How could any human being look like that? To look so proud of himself for invading another man's kingdom? To have murdered innocents in cold blood? To have hurt another man's wife, to have assaulted an innocent, grieving woman into a broken shell of herself?

"Cover yourself up, you filthy whore. And don't expect me to clean up after you," Valentine spat.

He nudged his boot against her skull, causing her head to loll to the side—in Jace's direction.

His heart clenched and his scowl wavered when he saw his mother's face. Her eyes were closed as if she were sleeping, but she looked far from at peace, her expression tortured and pained. He could barely even hear her breathing anymore; nothing about her indicated that she was still alive.

I did this, Jace thought, horrified. I could have tried to stop him—but I didn't. I let him do it. I'm a failure of the worst kind.

Unable to stop himself, Jace let out a small whimpering noise—one that, regrettably, reached Valentine's keen ears and lured his rapacious attention.

As soon as their eyes met, the latter's coal-black ones charring into his gold, the corner of Valentine's lips curled up into a hideous smirk, and he charged towards him with an undeterred purpose. Before Jace could even react, his large hands shot forward, clutching his arms tightly.

Jace fought and thrashed against his hold, but Valentine proved that he was, indeed, a far more superior opponent. The moment his body hit the hardwood floor with an unceremonious thud, Jace let out an audible grunt. His arms ached and his heart was racing so fast, but it all became inconsequential when he noticed his mother lying motionless next to him.

Willing himself to his knees, he swept the strands of her dirty blond hair—now matted down with blood and sweat—away from her face. As if recognizing his touch, his mother's eyes fluttered open slowly, revealing a pair of golden irises that mirrored his own.

"Mom," he whimpered, carefully lowering himself to embrace his mother. She responded to his hug, though noticeably weakly, before pulling back to brush away the curls hovering over his eyes. Jace's eyes fluttered shut at the familiar gesture.

"Jace—" She could barely even manage a whisper at this point, not that he blamed her. He opened his eyes to look at her; her eyes reflected the same fear she'd held moments before, only now it seemed to have amplified. She shook her head, as if disappointed in him for disobeying her orders. "R-run. Run…"

"No—I'm not leaving you," he said stubbornly. His gaze trailed down her body. Bruises in the shape of Valentine's rough hands and teeth littered the bared skin of her body, and blood… Blood trickled down the apex of the thighs, marking where the beast had been.

Rage surged through Jace once more, filling him with a foreign itch to make the older man bleed. He had done this. He had hurt his mother.

"I'm sorry," she rasped. "I can't. I can't anymore. Leave now, Jace—Leave me." Each of his mother's word pierced him, making him feel as if splinters of glass were being pushed into his chest. Deeper and deeper they went, until they were almost impossible to pull out. How could she say such a thing? How could she possibly tell him to leave her?

Him—leave—her?

"Don't say that, Mom. I can't leave you," he said, his jaw clenching with emotion. "I'm not ready to lose you yet. You—"

You're supposed to watch me grow up. You're supposed to be there for me when I fall in love and marry some day. You're supposed to grow old enough to watch me become a father, to hold your first grandchild in your arms. Not now. Please, not now. I'm not ready yet.

But his mother's life—and death—was never Jace's decision to make.

Just as his mother lifted her hand to console him, her eyes suddenly widened in horror, and before either of them could react, a sword descended upon her neck, splattering blood all over his face.

A gush of breath left Jace's body in an instant, and for the longest minute, he was paralyzed in shock.

His mother was gone.

She's dead, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead, an emotionless voice buzzed repeatedly in his head. He couldn't even bring himself to move an inch of his muscles or even cry anymore. He felt like a vessel, empty and hollow on the inside.

A sadistic and manic laugh broke Jace out of his catatonic state, and he whipped around, fury and loathing blazing in his golden eyes. He didn't even think twice before the foul, hateful words came hurling out of his mouth.

"YOU MONSTER! I'LL KILL YOU!" He snarled before racing towards his mother's dagger, which laid discarded several feet away.

Just as Jace's fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger, Valentine raised his own sword, and brought the hilt down harshly onto his temple, seizing his movements instantly. His vision blurred,

As Jace slowly faded into unconsciousness, he took a final glance at his mother's corpse and silently swore to avenge her death.

A/N: So there you have it! The revised prologue of Redemption. This story is the first complete multi-chapter story I've ever written, and though I would agree that there are definitely better fanfics out there, this story is ultimately my pride and joy. My baby.

If you guys enjoyed it, please take the time to review, follow or favorite it! I will be most grateful for it.

Until then, xo!