Work Text:
A young boy sits on a stone-cold floor. The floor was in fact stone, actually; stained with blood from just barely a fortnight ago.
The boy isn’t extremely young, no, he’s old enough to know that this place was once a place he called home; old enough to know what homes he had before it too.
The boy was alone. So, so very alone on the stone-cold, blood stained stone floor.
He hadn’t any friends. Well, actually- no; he hadn’t any friends. He was alone. So, so terribly alone. Under him he could feel the rough chips from where swords had clattered in training spars and a light layer of dirt they had tracked in from outside adventures.
He wasn’t meant to sit where he sat. In fact, after leaving the stone-cold, blood stained, chipped stone floor for the first time, he told himself he’d never be back. But here he found himself sitting, engulfed in complete silence with the thought that nobody wished to have him around.
He was completely alone, surrounded only by the deafening roar of silence and the cold, stale air.
The deafening roar of silence concealed the clatter of a sword and the very last bit of chipping the stone floor would ever see.
Nobody would come to find the boy sitting where he sat, the floor’s pale red-grey color now much more red than before. Nobody would come to find the boy’s body, probably infested with maggots and roaches feeding off the dead skin and organs until there’s nothing left.
Nobody would ever know, because, as it stood, the boy was so, so terribly alone.