They were considered cells, something one would feel safe knowing harbored creatures of the dark depths. A beast, a creature of legend, a man risen from the dead and even a mythological construct of an ancient time, all found home within the confines of these rooms known as hearth, and home. There was however comfort in knowing that rooms were precisely what they were. Decorated with a certain form of extravagance, each prisoner would come to know a sense of comfort within the locked confines of their quarters. Reminiscent of the Victorian era, these abysmal beasts knew mercy in form of respectable decor, where the alternative was a cold, sterile and unforgiving steel cell. Willow had come to know that cell, in the past. A young teenager at sixteen years old, the boy was no older than fifteen when his powers left his body without permission, where they proceeded to nearly destroy a Knight of the Holy Presence. Unacceptable, for sure. Death was a response which would have come swiftly, but again, there was mercy in the action of those doing God's work. A month in solitary confinement did the boy well, they reasoned. Indeed, the scenario had not come to repeat itself.
Willow was no stranger to abuse, nor was ruthlessness unknown to him. Indeed, it had come to draw his life a norm, one of misery and destruction. A Holy Knight would however not deny this sentence, considering it just. Willow was, after all, given the mercy of life by those who would otherwise unmake his existence.
Dark, raven eyes stared into the mirror they had seen so many times in the past, a pale figure meeting Willow's gaze in turn. "You ready, hun'?" An all too familiar voice trickled down the boy's ear, as his attention slowly shifted towards the feline presence gently licking its paw upon the desk otherwise harboring Willow's books, and notes. He had been allowed the freedom to draw, something keeping him calm.
"They won't be silent," a weak voice returned, tired eyes moving to the reflective surface of that mirror. "They never do." Generally, Willow placed a pair of headphones upon his ears and drowned the voices out with music. Often, the Devil's very own rock, but there were things considered below even the Knights' attention. They often found resolve in that the luxuries they offered, gave them more leeway in the ruthlessness afforded the boy.
"You'll do fine, babe'." The cat winked, a feline known as Midnight who had made sure to keep Willow on the path of sanity, "just keep calm, yeah? Don't want an incident to make things awkward, love."
"I know," Willow finished silently, his raspy voice filling the upcoming silence for but a moment before it was drowned out by the door unlocking. Quite difficult to express, the boy had grown jaded to the treatment, a feat he had acquired before ever appearing within the halls of the Holy. A common form of punishment Willow has not been able to withstand however, was meeting the presence of holy ground which proceeded to torture his soul. Without a word, strong arms grabbed hold of the scrawny gestalt and dragged him along before he was tossed into the chapel. Clenching his teeth, Willow was starting to feel that hellishly uncomfortable sensation wash over him from having to maintain his stay within those blessed walls. Quite ironic, to consider the burn one of holy nature.
Willow never chose to be touched by the Devil, neither did he ask for these powers. His soul was his own, and his body the very same. However, as he ascended to his feet, meeting the eyes of the man he would know as his warden, Willow remembered all too well that it mattered not. "Hey..," he forced out, keeping the torturous air surrounding him, at bay. The screaming voices within his skull however, they were wearing him down constantly. 'Kill them all! Willow! Like mother and father, kill them! Rot them! Raise them, make them your puppets!'
, the screeching wail of a banshee filled his mind, clawing at the fabric of his sanity. 'It burns! This place, this fucking place, it burns! Burn it, Willow! It burns, burn it! Burn it with darkness! Raze it! Raise it! Make it yours!'
Balling his hand into a fist, Willow felt his short nails digging into the pale surface of his palm, the presence of another man barely noticed, besides him.
"I'm here, hun'." A soft, soothing voice strangled the screams for a moment, before Willow finally managed some comfort in the only voice within his mind, that brought safety, rather than insanity.
"Thanks..," Willow finished, his words aimed at the familiar indivisible to others. However, it was easy to mistake these words for appreciation towards the empty gift offered by the Knights.