Value of Silence

Where most children fidgeted while adults stared, the little Wordsmith sat perfectly still, hands folded in his lap, and stared down at his bare feet. The breeches he wore - uniform cast-offs from an older Rosenkreuz student - came a couple of inches above his ankle and pinched too tightly at his already-thin waist, but he made no complaint.

“How old are you?” Haschen asked. Every moment of the boy’s life was documented in boxes and boxes of files, but he liked to hear the boy speak. So rarely did the boy speak for himself - his skin spoke for him - and so his voice, a nervous tenor, was a pleasant sound.

“Seven, sir.” The Wordsmith met his gaze briefly.

“What’s your name?”

At this, The Wordsmith looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“What is your name?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“What do people call you?”

“I am The Wordsmith,” he said.

Haschen smiled. “Perfect.” He rose up, gestured to a stack of books some minion had set in the corner. “Absorb those in time for our next meeting.” And he left.

He paused outside the door to listen to the soft gasps of a boy trying to suppress the pain of absorption. The last Wordsmith had been a girl, and she’d screamed so prettily, but Elder Deinen had been right - the boy had learned the value of silence.

(227 words)