A five year old boy stands with his back to the wall in the middle of the small kitchen. The table and the chair have been moved to rest against the far wall. The little boy stands with his feet shoulder width apart and his hands behind his back. His white-blonde hair glints in the sunlight and his big blue eyes shine with unwanted tears.
The little boy looks just like his father but he has his mothers eyes. His ears are just a little bit pointed at the ends but you can only tell if you look closely and concentrate. His mother abandoned him three months after he was born. Random servants have been taking care of him ever since. Not that they even attempted to do a good job at it.
After his second year of childhood his mother decided that he should be trained as what he is. A shadowhunter. Heavy footsteps sound outside the kitchen door and the little boy braces himself for what is to happen next. If only he was able to land the flip. He would not be here right now if he had tried harder. His trainer comes in with the whip.
"Take the shirt off, boy," the man says harshly. The little boy shakily lifts the shirt over his head and sets it on the floor. "You are aware of what you are to be punished for?" The man asks. The little boy gives a quick nod. "Okay," Says the man before bringing the whip down on the little boys back.
The boy holds back a cry of pain. Crying out will only make it last longer. He just wants to be back in his cell wrapped up on his cot. The man whipps the boy untill he is near passing out. Then he directs him to sit in the chair as he cleans his wounds and bandanges him. He is too young for a healing rune and even if he was old enough he would not recieve one. His punishment is ment to leave scars.
The little boy sits still untill the man is done and listens as he talks. "You ought to know better by now, boy. You do what your told, always, or you pay the price. You ought to have been killed before you were born. You are a disgrace to Shadowhunters and Fairies," The man sneers, pulling the bandages tighter than nesscisary.
"If it was up to me I would have ended you the same way they did your father. But they didn't, and now they need you. You, of all people. Son of Johnathon Morgenstern going to save us all? I've been here for years and have never once thought the Seelie Queen foolish, but this is foolish..." The man is rambling now so the boy let's his mind wander.
He knows who Johnathon Morgenstern was. He was his father. But he was a horrible man. Even though the boy was only five he knew the difference between right and wrong. The boy is very smart. His reading, writing and mathematical skills are that of an eighth grader and he is already fluent in Spanish, Latin, Greek, and French.
He knows that Johnathon was responsible for the death of hundreds and was the leading cause in the war. He knows that Johnathon was a rare breed of Shadowhunter. Part Nephilim, part demon. He also knows that that demon blood runs in his veins.
The man has stopped talking and is cleaning the blood splaters off the floor. The little boy's body aches and he craves sleep. His eyes start to fall shut and his head falls forward. Soon soft snores fill the small room. The man looks up at the boy and his face softens. He is not a cruel man, he is only doing what is ordered of him. The man is like any other mortal, he fears death. And death at the hands of the Seelie Queen would be a horrendous fate.
He gently lifts the boy from the chair, carful of his back, and carries him from the kitchen. He makes his way down the hallway to a hidden door next to his bedroom. He slides it open and starts the long descent down the stairs. When the boy first started his training, the man would travel to where the boy stayed to train him. Only recently did the little boy move to his house.
The man opens the cell and walks in. The cell is big enough to hold a stall-like toilet and sink. The boys toothbrush sits on the back of the sink. He is allowed showers every other day in the bathroom upstairs. The man lays the boy on the cot in the corner and covers him with a thin cotton blanket.
He sits for a log time beside the cot, watching the boy sleep. The man is not heartless. He feels a crushing guilt for what he did and has done to this small boy. He feels built for what he will continue to do. He knows what is to await the boy. He is to be shown no love, only harshness and pain. The Queen thinks that this will make the boy bitter. Make him cruel. Make him like Johnathon.
The man cringes at the thought of what is to come. It will only get harder for the boy. Sadness fills the mans eyes. He leans close to the boy and moves his hair back from his forehead. Despite warning he has grown fond of the boy. But he is not permitted to show it.
He thinks again about what is to happen to the boy. He leans closer to him and whispers in his ear. "Good luck, son of Johnathon," The man stands and walks out the cell, locking it behind him. He pauses only once more to look at the boy who is still soundly sleeping.
"Good luck," he whispers once more.