"Prepare that child for the altar." A stout, short-statured man spat, pointing at one of the many children behind bars. The man's raiment was a crisp, black, suit. They say black is slimming, but that was not so in his case. "Our audience tonight loves the likes of boys with blonde hair and blue eyes." the child in particular was limp, head 'resting' against the bars.
At the notice of his orders, a tall muscular man clad in only a simple shirt and slacks went to one of the dog cages that lined every wall of the basement room. Upstairs was an old cathedral used for the rituals. All crosses were overturned.
"Wake up," the muscular man growled upon arriving to the little blonde boy's cage. Though it was cramped with one child alone, each cage held several children who were perfectly 'intact'. Imperfection was not tolerated; the intolerable were discarded. So it was not unusual for a child's 'roommate' to be changed regularly. This was, after all, a place for the forgotten and uncared for children. No one would miss them; no one would care.
It was terribly easy to find ragamuffins like these on any street in the slums and business streets of London, England.
"It smells terrible in here!".
Dirt.
Grime.
Blood.
Disease.
Rats.
In-sanitation.
These were the smells of the room that were amplified by the heavy rain. The pattering rain was soothing, providing the children with the only solace in their hopeless situation.
"Hey!" the man yelled as he grabbed the paper thin child by his arms, shaking him back and fourth. He did so for a few minutes, causing the child the to bang his head against the bars a few times. But the child did not stir. "Dang. he's dead."
In response to this, some children whimpered. Some tried to hold back their tears. The ones who were far gone chased Death in their dreams. One little boy merely glared at the muscular man from behind the cage with his cruel azure eyes that pierced through the darkness of the poorly lit room.
" Who do you think your glaring at!?" The piggish noble Yelled. "Alright. we will use you instead, Little Azure."
With that, The navy blue-haired boy with deep azure eyes, no older than the age of eight, was pulled out of his cage; Squirming and all. To 'subdue' him, he was cracked over the head. The little boy did not faint, he merely laid still as he was dragged by his waist length hair. It's smart to lay still the boy thought to himself, trying to convince himself that he wasn't afraid. What could struggling do? He laid limp, but fully conscious as maids cleaned him in a large metal basin. They then dressed him in a sheer white toga.
If he had the power, he would run away. But then what? He was a child. What would he do on his own? If he had the power, He would kill all the adults here; even maids. He would then live a leisure life, but to accomplish that, he needed power.
He knew his predicament well. He was going to be the sacrifice for an important ritual. His job was to to be the vessel and portal for the demon to arrive. So far, all of the other rituals were failures. He had heard the agonizing screams from up stairs. There had been so many failures; it was not likely for him to live.
Little azure knew it. It was so unlikely for the demon to be summoned, until the adults upstairs in their ridiculous masquerade ball outfits, now just have rituals for lighthearted entertainment. They'd put in requests for the type they'd want to be sacrificed next. Occasionally, children were soiled before they died.
The list of atrocities were endless. Luckily, since he had only arrived recently, he was spared. Until involved except for children deserved to perish. At least, that is what Azure thought.
While he laid still like a doll, the mute maids combed his long, silky hair down to his waist, and attempted to cut it.
"Stop! Stop! No! Don't cut it!" The boy stirred as they attempted to put sissors to his waist length, thick hair. After a few maids received a kick or two, they settled with just trimming his split ends.
Their excuse for the six of them being unable to tame one young boy was, "We might as well let him choose how he looks at his funeral."
After one lady said that, Another snorted into fits of laughter saying, "When he dies, he won't even have a funeral!". Afterwards, they tucked his waist length bangs behind his ears. As calm as he would like to claim, he was truly terrified on the inside, complete contrast to his outer exterior. He was not staying still to avoid being hit a second time, but because of his fear paralysis. One of the maids then blindfolded him and dragged him upstairs to the church.
Full moonlight shown into the room and was kaleidoscoped by the stained glass. Red, blue, purple and indigo lights, shone on the altar that had five pillars. It was a nerve-calming sight, ignoring the chains on the altar and the blood aqueducts that when blood ran off from the altar and onto the carved symbols on the ground, formed a complex pentacle within a magic circle. In the center of the room, leading up the altar was a red carpet going down the isle, as if someone was getting married. On each side were pews full of a half-attentive audience.
Some were chatting to one another about politics and such, discussing the not-so private life of King George II. Others Looked upon the boy in lust or greed, as if he was a meal and they were ravished. Upon the boy and the maid arriving to the altar, everyone ceased talking as if they were told to. Their mask-adorned eyes stared with unreadable expressions. At a sketchy event like this, masks were absolutely necessary so identities could be sealed.
The now mute maid that made the nasty comment about the boy 'not having a funeral' stripped the boy of his sheer toga, proudly revealing his delicate porcelain pink skin, all the while trying to hide her grinning face by bitting her lips. She had to admit, it was as exhilarating as feeding meat to a bunch of ravenous lions. She then tugged on his blindfolded gently. She was more than happy to get rid of this brat who, caused alot of trouble by yelling and cursing, throwing a tantrum whenever he was forcibly washed or fed. 'I KNOW MY RIGHTS!' he screamed at the time.
He was fiery and bratty, Like a noble's child. Always thinking things should go his way.
He was then spread on the altar and his arms and legs were chained. Shivers went down the boy's back as the maid left the room silently with a bow and a smirk. The stone altar was so cold. It was like lying down naked on ice. Spectators looked at him with lustful and starving eyes.
He felt sick to his stomach and wanted to scream at the tip top of his lungs. Fear and anger boiled so deep in him that tears dripped from his eyes and pattered against the alter and dripped onto the aqueduct. The boy was on an emotional roller coaster and his feelings altered between anger, despair, and fear. Up, down and right. He wished that he could 'not' care anymore and that he could 'want' to die.
But to his disappointment, he wanted desperately to live. He would to cling to anything to live. Even a demon. A man adorned in a cloak and a dog mask slowly walked down the isle as people uttered reverse hymns. He carried a beautiful bejeweled dagger in his cloak.
"I will now present our fresh lamb to our Master." The man said. The words were announced, not said in a harsh tone. But they still managed to be acid dripping and unsteady feeling. Reverse hymns quickened and intensified. The dog masked man tightened his grip on the dagger, raised it towards the sky, a few candles that failed to provide proper lighting blew out. The little boy began to scream at the top of his lungs.
The pain was unbearable though the dagger was yet to reach him. When it pierced him, he couldn't tell the difference. His imaginary pain matched the real. Searing pain, that began cold, caused by the cold dagger. It heated up rapidly, causing the boy's body to burn up as if it was on fire.
His blood ran off and filled the symbols dug on the floor as the boy's thrashing and screaming reduced to huffs and lying, only having enough strength to writhe. This gasps of air became more ragged and his lids began to flutter as a small chalice was filled with more of his blood. And placed on the podium, next to the altar. Gentle winds began to surge through the room, blowing the remaining candles' light .
"Its working!" A man from the pew screamed over the now whistling winds. He was immediately silenced by a glare from behind. Winds began to quicken and pick up immense speed as peoples' hats, masks and hoods blew off of their faces. Crows had began to enter through shadowed windows. But the little boy didn't notice because he was experiencing his last few moments of life. He was going to bitterly bid this world farewell... until he heard the clacking of stiletto heels.
"My, my," a voice echoed thought the room as heel clacking got louder and hymns ceased as soon as the wind created a small twister in the center isle. From it a demon emerged. A grotesque looking beast with twisty horns, heels, fuchsia eyes and raven wings. The beast remained unseen and masked by the darkness. With that, the winds stopped.
Everything stopped.
Time stopped.
Everything except for the boy and the demon.
"It seems I have been summoned." he said.
"It seems so indeed." the boy coughed and stumbled his words. He was no longer trembling; no longer afraid. He felt hopelessness. It was foolish of him to believe that he would be free. But he still wanted it; desperately.
He was a prisoner all his life. Even to his mother, who was brainless for as long as he could remember. He wanted the death of everyone here. He wanted to live. His thoughts were not quickly changing and spur of the moment, but deep-rooted and strong.
He was dead, right? He wanted desperately to live. "Am i dead?" He was never one to believe in the afterlife. But everything was dark. Maybe he had been wrong all these eight years.
"I assure you that you are not dead, nor in the afterlife." The beast answered cut-dryly. He just wanted to get this over with. It was not that time was of the essence, for he had billions . He was choosy; selective.
He wanted a soul that was the opposite of his favorite animal, the cat. Something that was strong and consistent, but pure. Shrouded in evil, despair, and agony, but graceful and undiluted. He knew this one was the one that fit his description. He knew everything about each, and every one of his prey.
"But, if i were to leave you alone, that would be the case." His voice was as deep, like an ocean. Smooth as butter. Tempting and mesmerizing like the devil he was. "Do you understand your predicament, boy?"
"I do." The boy said as a smile played on his lips. He did understand his predicament. He was going to cheat death only to fall into a demon's clutches instead. He understood fully.
"Think care carefully. Should you reject the faith, even this once, the gates of paradise will forever be out of your reach. Do you still wish to forgo this forbidden path?"
"Yes." the boy said. "As I do not believe in the afterlife, I want to live. Because when I die, I will rot."
"But the afterlife is indeed real." The demon mused.
"Alright. Let me rephrase this. I do not care. I want to live. I do not want to die. And when I am done, cease to exist I shall. Place the mark of the beast upon me. I am ready."
"You seem to have your resolution. I understand," the demon chuckled. "So what is it that you wish?" he already knew. It was only formality to inquire.
"You are a demon," the boy went on. "You already know, what I wish for. Why save the breath?"
" I understand." The demon finally said while listening to the boy's thoughts. " But, are you sure?"
"I AM. Now, just do as I say, as my subordinate." The little boy replied.
The beast simply replied as with a purr which could be taken as laughter. Moments later, the chalice on the podium had fallen, Spilling tasteful blood on the ground.
"What was that for?" The boy inquired. He had heard that demons not only ate souls, but had consumed the blood and flesh also. His mother would tell him the same story every night, of a handsome man who had made a deal with the devil and in return, was eaten whole. She told him the unfortunate man was his father. She said; "To a demon, blood is like fine wine. It is full of life and therefore tasty."
But at the same time, It was presumptuous to believe an old fiend who sold off her son to pay her taxes.
"I am a demon, not a vampire." The beast simply replied. He was a demon, not a fairy-tale beast that prowled around at night looking for prey like an animal. "Though," he admitted. " I could be likened to one." A hand reached out to the boy, pale and and slender. It looked disembodied. Like that of a puppeteer when he tugged on the strings to move the puppets' joints.
A sense of relief washed over the boy as his joints started to relax, and his wounds quickly mended itself.
"As much as I enjoy the fickleness of cats, I crave a soul that strong. Consistent. Do you think you are worthy enough to become my meal?" He left out the part of purity and despair because a soul can not become pure. It has to maintain it. As for despair, it comes with tribulations.
"Yes, I feel that I am more than able to fit the bill." The boy said slightly agitated. It was almost like he was being deterred more so than encouraged.
"May I ask your name, boy?" the demon asked.
"August Smithson" the boy answered.
"For your 'gutsy' display earlier, I will gift you with my mark in an easy to hide area." The monster said, words rolling smoothly off his tongue. "Grab my hand."
In response, the August did as he was told. The mark of Faustus was carved into his cheek. And the beast took another form. From a, to the boy, an unseen beast in the dark, he transformed into a tall and lean man with a soft grade of curly black hair that framed his face. His lips were slightly curled, giving him a devilishly handsome appeal. He looked familiar to August.
Like the old portrait on the mantel of his house on the outskirts of London. The large and lavish portrait was a direct antithesis of the small and rundown shack. The boy often wondered how his mother could afford to have the portrait. Why couldn't she sell the portrait instead of him?
The only thing that separated the demon from the portrait was that in the place of the painting's big slant green eyes, it was replaced with very similar rusted red colored ones. Even the thickness of the man in the painting's long lashes was mimicked to perfection.
Another thing about demons; they don't come to you with pointy horns or barring large fangs hidden by red cloaks. The boy recalled his mother say. They come as something you are most familiar with; everything you have wished for.
The boy almost knew for sure that the man in the portrait was his late father.
His name was,,,
" What shall I be called, Master?" The demon asked, easily braking though the boy's wall of thoughts.
"Seth."
The church morphed back to normal, only thing changing being the audience. Some were spattered. Some were missing parts. but, all were dead. And all that could be heard was the loud sound of the loud pattering rain.