"Why should I love myself? No one else does."
The boy ran as quickly as he could on his burnt bare feet, only years of pain beforehand keeping him from breaking down and crying. He could only focus enough to make his face, neck, and hands appear smooth and human. His stolen clothes scraped irritably against his mutilated flesh, and he bit down on his lower lip. The boy spotted a building that had a large glowing red sign with the word, PANDEMONIUM. The music was loud and pulsating, and he didn't care about anything other than getting away. Now.
He darted inside, uncaring of the people waiting in line that yelled after him to stop, to get back there. He wove in between the people dancing to the beat of the music in the crowd, slipping past them without a word. He all but crashed into a man who had just stood up from his seat, flailing for a moment and falling into him. The boy lost his balance, and he landed awkwardly on his side, hitting the smooth floor with his hip first. The tinkle of glass shattering against the floor vaguely registered in his mind.
Clear, bitter smelling alcohol spilled out from broken champagne flutes. He scrambled up into a low crouch on his knees, lifting his eyes from the floor. The boy could feel the power exuding from the man with dark hair, and he whimpered. He crawled forward on aching knees and grabbed his black pant legs with trembling fingers. He knew his eyes had to be black by now, he was so nervous, but he could only hope that the warlock would listen.
"Help me! Please please help me!" the boy rasped. "They're going to find me. Please!"
He continued to whisper his pleas against the warlock's cloth covered calf, shaking. He remembered the man he had called Father talking about them. They had demon's blood in their veins, too. Like him. Not quite the same. He was an experiment. Warlocks were more... natural, but still. He needed help. He needed it. The boy furiously blinked his eyes, willing them back to bright green. He quivered on the floor. The warlock stared at down at him with a war of emotions on his face. The boy reached under his pant leg and touched his fingers to the smooth skin of his ankle.
Magnus closed his eyes with a gasp as a vision flooded his mind.
There was a pentagram, filling with red orange fire all along the drawn symbol. But this one had a boy in it. A young, little boy with blonde hair and green, green eyes. He was screaming, crying, begging - begging, and begging - for help, to be let out. He was saying that it hurt, that he hurt. There was a fire rising from the lines of the pentagram, fire rising around him. It was vivid. Bright. Burning.
Magnus could feel the heat from the fire, could feel what the boy felt. He felt the pain, the betrayal, the despair. Little Jonathan didn't know what was happening to himself. Jonathan was probably about ten or eleven. His pale hair was shaggy, falling into his eyes. The same green eyes. These eyes turned black as he stared at the fire, a fire no child should ever have to see. He screamed and screamed and screamed.
"Father, please! Take me out!" he cried. There was no reply. No one was there. Jonathan was yelling for shadows. His Father would never come. Ever.
Magnus couldn't breath. His lungs were filling with smoke. Every inhale was more smoke than oxygen, and every exhale became lesser and lesser. The ground shifted. It was like an earthquake, but it was only focused beneath Magnus' feet. It was terrifying. Magnus watched on in horror as the floor fell out from beneath the blonde boy, and he was screaming for him.
Magnus knew where the boy was going, and he also knew that he would never come back. Hell was real, and it was merciless, unforgiving.
The warlock's eyes cleared, yellow slits fading back to human brown, as he let go of his ankle, and the boy whimpered. Magnus came back into reality with a jolt. He could feel steady tears streaming down his cheeks, clinging to his jaw. Every time he shut his eyes, he was seeing the boy fall into the hole. Over and over again. Magnus noticed that there was pain in the boy's eyes as well. Magnus had never before met a demon who had had emotions. The boy let go of his black pant leg and backed away slowly, his apple green eyes trained on Magnus's. The warlock wanted to move forward with him.
"Please. Help me," the boy whispered.
"You're Jonathan," Magnus said. "Valentine's son."
"No. Yes. No. I'm - I'm Sebastian," he rasped. "Please please please please."