Alone he sat upon the ancient throne, his empty court bustling with the myriad echoes of long dead men, the heroes of another age, and the poetic tones of women’s voices, their forgotten beauty only dust. But the magic held him there in perpetuity, a king; a king of nothing now. Nothing save bones, and leathery traces of skin which still hung from him; and his crown remained, the bejeweled diadem upon his head.
Alone his body lay sinking, always a new depth he found, sinking deeper and deeper into the mire. And drowning thus, he sinks farther and farther away from light, and life, and people and places, and everything but that dread darkness devouring him. A forgotten man, his body hidden by his murderers never to be received again unto his family home, never to leave this dreaded swamp. His forsaken body descends.
Alone in his little box, his troublesome door locked, he lays his body out. Day and night mix together in his windowless hole. No light but what sneaks in with the meal tray. No voices to comfort him, or even to insult and deride. And the hours and the days and the years are one.
Alone he sleeps in unnatural rest, in deep sleep not far from death. He sleeps through the journey of countless lightyears. Alone in space, without an anchoring star, he drifts on in that perforated darkness, the night sky, dreaming of the lonesome.
Alone, they dream.