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He was hiding in an old tree with strong arms holding him. Blood was oozing slowly from those strong, firm arms, staining his already dirty clothes.
His old life seemed like centuries away, when people had bowed to him, had shown him the respect that had been his birthright.
Now he was only Louis Charles Capet, a boy with no parents, no home and no future. In what seemed only a moment in the history of France, he had been robbed of all that. Only the confusion remained. He didn't even know how to be afraid anymore.
He only felt gratitude towards this strange man for giving him the chance that one day he might spit upon Robespierre's grave.