Thread: ~Clash~

It was day four thousand three hundred and sixty five, and as always, the period between his dreaming and waking was an impossible to distinguish blend. He sat upon the cold stone floor with his legs folded over each other, long black hair cascading down his back and pooling around him like a puddle, more then ten years of growth. As his eyes opened, slow and steady, like most of his movements, he began his ritualistic morning routine, the steps so deeply ingrained within him that to break the habit would be a kind of suicide. First, his eyes rolled back so far that if there had been any light, all that could be seen would have been the milky whites of his underused orbs. Next, he began to construct an image of himself in his mind, running a hand over the parts of his body that he was unsure of, feeling the soft lightly tanned skin, still much darker then that of the people who had imprisoned him, yet much lighter then that of his native folk. Once he held the complete image in his mind, complete with the rough stone walls that boxed him in, he let a slow and careful smile spread across his face, one of the two expressions he was familiar with. Finally, he moved the last step, his hands stretching out above his head, joining together as he bent backwards, feeling his muscles stretch and his joints pop. He held the pose for a good while, counting the seconds silently, until an hour had passed. With a sigh of relief and another smile, he resumed his usual posture, and began to think. He had been very young when he was taken, but the handful of years he had spent spent with his people had been enough to instill the basic tenets of their discipline within him. It was this discipline, this religious meditation, that had preserved his sanity through the dark and lonely years. Much of it he had been forced to learn on his own, sitting in his cell, much like he was now, thinking and exploring the limits of those thoughts, and of his control over his body. It was an old trick that even the dullest child of his people knew, but the prisoner had been made to learn it on his own. Given the irregularity of his meals, it was a useful skill to have, and one he exercised now. Slowing his breathing to a single exhalation every minute, he felt inside himself, found his center, and slowed it. The effect was immediate. It was a little like sleeping, his body moving to a restive state, but the only way to truly understand the feeling would be to experience it yourself. The most useful effect of course, was that it let the prisoner subsist in nothing but air and water for weeks at a time when need be, which was unfortunately often. So when he heard the steps coming down the hall which led to his cell, he was hopeful. He savored every meal like a little moment of divinity. With so many years of isolation, of nothing but time to kill and nothing to do, his one hobby had become, a penetrating awareness of his self, of his body and it's processes. He had mastered it thoroughly, which would have made his parents proud, had they lived to see him. The approaching footsteps sounded lighter then usual however, and the unnamed prisoner thought to himself that it must be the lightest guard there had ever been.