A boy, likely all of seven, and doomed to not see eight, had managed to curl himself against a boulder. This hadn't been the first time he'd been forced to sit, lurch over, or bend until he thought he'd break - some illness, some disease riddling and rattling through his lungs, seeping and seething within the organs. A few wracking coughs pierced the air, and though he'd tried to tuck the expulsion of air into his elbow, the bellows could still be heard. So accustomed to it, he wasn't even bothered by the line of blood left from his mouth to his skin, taking a rag, a cloth, from his pocket, already covered in previous stains from similar circumstances and instances.
But it had never hurt this bad before.
He leaned his head against a rock, staring up at the sky, incapable of chasing and clambering after his friends. He likely should've been in bed, but his mother had been preoccupied by the other children, and the Infirmary had given him a little medicine some days before, but it didn't seem to take, to hold, to stave off anything. Maybe he could go get some more? But the thought of moving was enough to leave him on the ground, and another similar round of coughs ricocheted from his space.
But it had never hurt this bad before.
He leaned his head against a rock, staring up at the sky, incapable of chasing and clambering after his friends. He likely should've been in bed, but his mother had been preoccupied by the other children, and the Infirmary had given him a little medicine some days before, but it didn't seem to take, to hold, to stave off anything. Maybe he could go get some more? But the thought of moving was enough to leave him on the ground, and another similar round of coughs ricocheted from his space.
