Authors Note:I own nothing. That's all Atsushi Okubo, man. I wrote this in boredom and would love any constructive criticism! Just, please refrain from being blatantly rude. :)
Also, Crona's gender IS NEVER specified in the manga. In Japan they have a term that basically gender neutral and is used in it's native print. When it is translated, a sex is chosen for ease.
ALSO, if you want to argue about hips and a girlie frame, I have tons of male friends, my own husband included, that could make a supermodel jealous.
The darkness encompassed all as his tiny shaken frame cracked open a single, moist, palm-covered eye. Crona ignored the pounding fists and the hurtful jeers of the demon residing in his blood, crumbling to allow his beaten face to rest against the scratchy yet cool cement. Not knowing how to deal with yet another senseless murder, he deserved this punishment. Just like the countless others.
Dank calignosity and soothing, porous floor served to hide the angry violet bruises littering his face and emaciated body, providing a certain comfort of which he was not quite sure he deserved: for Crona was a bad child, pushed into the sanctity of terrifying pitch, a necessary action to teach him to cope. It was a chance to mull over his misdoings and prove himself to his mother, even though he was not yet privileged to call her as such.
Validating his worth, show that his metal had some sort of significance, and maybe, just maybe the child could gain the warmth of an approving hand, a word of praise from her lips... Love, from a heart that he knew she had, that he longed for with every fiber of his contusion-decorated body; Crona was sure that one day he could earn it, if only he obeyed her word and became a good child.
Time pressed on, both too quickly and slow; he didn't know how long he had been kneeling, folded in upon himself. His body was numb and tingling with the sensation of tiny needles prickling at his aching flesh and his limbs were stiff, creaking at the joints. Crona's cheek stung with the bumping indents, sore from laying flat against the floor and his eyes burned, sticking to the backs of their lids from his lack of blinking. No presence of mind, heated words from the violent Ragnarok -such an unwilling companion- had long since silenced.
Hazy frost-colored eyes gazed sideways from beneath choppy pale-rose tresses, stained with the inky consequence of his misbehavior, at a sliver of blinding bright white light that stretched across the rough foundation as the door gave a familiar eerie creak.
"Crona, are you going to complete your task, or do I have to continue to show you how much of a disappointment you are?" The woman drawled the question through bared teeth, looking at the piteous pile with frigid slitted gold in obvious disgust.
A personal reminder of everything shameful to herself, the brat was weakness personified in need to be purged, fired and forged; transformed into an ultimate weapon, strength with no morals, a living tool to be used at her own will.
Crona paid no mind to the trobbing jolts of pain, surging throughout his frail body with every beat of his heart. Slowly, he turned his features to face her, lifting his posture upright with sickly audible cracks and pops, and forced an aching smile upon his tiny gaunt face.
"Yes, Lady Medusa. I'm ready now." He let the words he knew she'd want to hear fall from chapped, cracked lips, eagerly forced from his sore, hoarse throat.
"Get up then, filthy child!" She growled at the dizzy fumbling boy as he struggled to obey through both injury and malnutrition just to stand, staring at her with the eyes of the dead. Crazed and broken, ready to comply in complete submission, gleaming from the shadows of black-bagged sockets.