The first night could be worse.
Yes, it's true that it's cold and he hurts and he is scared and he is alone.
Yes, it's true that his thoughts tick along the back of his consciousness like maniacal clocks, the build-up to an explosion of some kind.
Yes, it's true that the sky terrifies him, because for the first time in his recent life, he can't recognize the stars.
It could still be worse, though.
He wraps himself as small as he can, like an infant trying to fit into a crack of a crevasse, and he empties his mind like he's going to meditate (though he doesn't end up doing so, because the world is far too hostile even to consider it) and he thinks about emptiness. The feeling of cold. The sound of wind.
He doesn't have nerve endings, but he feels pain. He has no vocal cords, but he has a voice. He has no viscera, but he can hear his pulse.
His world is anguish and bereavement, a sea of torment the ebb and flow of which he wants never to contemplate again. He bottles everything up in the hollows of his bones, and he clears his thoughts and he is everywhere and nowhere.
Something inside him has lost hope. His heart continues to beat.
A/N: Somehow, a lot less people have written about his time in the Faceless Ones' dimension than I expected, so this is my ever-evolving interpretation thereof.
Sunshine and laughter and dead butterflies~
Sweethearted.