Day 64: Word Training 2

Day 64

I continued to hang, tied to the ever-shifting surface as I was.  There was no point in resistance – any movement simply caused the thing to rotate in another random direction.  Any spatial sense of where I was or which direction was up or down had been lost days ago.  I had lost that after the first hour.  No sense was permitted to me to help recover that awareness, save the few moments each day that the blindfold was removed.  I can't even truly smell the room I'm in, as the warm smoke of incense scours my nose and throat.

After the second hour, I screamed for the nauseating sense of loss to go away.

Some time after that, I ceased to do much of anything at all.

I don't recall how many days it has been.  The thirst has gone from ever-present to unbearable to a sort of comfort.  The nausea gave way to dry heaving, to a feeling of hollowness within every inch of my body.  Even the hunger had become completely silenced.  I knew that I had grown weak from fasting, but my body no longer felt the need to remind me of the fact.  The only thing that remains constant is the exhaustion.  No matter what I might do, sleep doesn't come to me.

I still dream, though.  And when I dream, it is of the comfort of food and drink.  I can taste the rosewater teas of that elf-girl – what was her name again?  And the savory breads that she makes from crushed seeds that's tough, yet flavorful and pleasant.  And I dream of sleep.  Warm, comforting sleep in a soft bed with a pillow holding my head up and a thick blanket holding the rest of me down.

The blindfold comes off, and once again I'm looking at the sharp, beautiful features of my trainer and torturer.
“What are the words,” she asks.
I pull apart my dried-together lips, and I can feel the tearing of skin and a line of warmth and wetness running down my chin. My voice cracks as it all but silently answers “Power.”
“Power to do what?”
“Save people.”
Her voice is as harsh and as cold as it was when I first heard her spoke.  “That was your first answer.  Is that all that you can think of?  I've given you ten days to think on it.”
I shake my head.  It's my only answer.
“I'll give you another chance to change your mind.  You don't want to keep doing this, do you?”
Please don't, I silently plead.

It's my only answer.

“Well, that's good, then.  You were right the first time.”  I can feel something moving my wrists, and then my arms fall forward to hang in front of me as the swinging pole I'm on tilts forward.  Another vigorous motion – the release of the straps holding my chest – and I fall.  An arm catches me before I hit the ground, and the alien sensation of actual movement catches me off guard.  My legs move under me, following weakly after a body that's going somewhere.  I see color and shapes, and my mind pieces together that I am being set at a table.

I'm dreaming again.  Food.  It looks so colorful and vibrant.  I reach out, and my hand hangs limply next to the glass of water, deep gouges of red make my wrists seem so small and thin, and my fingers won't move.
“Here,” I hear her voice again, and such pale, soft hands touch mine.  There's warmth, and a sense of profound comfort as the flesh fills out again and the redness circling my wrists fades back to their normal tone.
I look at her again, still dressed as she is in her armor.  “Healer,” I ask, or try to ask.
“Indeed.  Eat.  You need your strength.”

I reach out and lift the glass and take it to my lips.  The water feels like it immediately saturates every inch of my mouth that it touches, and the first feeble attempt at swallowing causes simultaneous pain and relief as it rushes down my throat.  The flesh scoured by hot incense at all hours and days of dehydration burns more intensely than ever before at the touch of cool water.  Still, I empty the glass in seconds.  She is already holding a pitcher when it hits the table again.
“Slowly, now.  Most tell me that the second session is the most unpleasant.”
“Why?”
She raises an eyebrow.  “Did it not strike you as uncomfortable?”
I shake my head again before reaching for some bread.  “No, why do this?”  My voice starts to settle back into its usual tone, though it still hurts exquisitely to speak.  “How does this purify me?”

She leans back silently and watches me.  I take the pause as an excuse to drink more, and eat, and thus finally end the unrelenting discomfort that I'm only now realizing had never truly left me.  As I do, she begins to speak. “During your first session, the days of questioning, I forced you to actually consider your every action.  Humans don't normally do that.  You think you've got a reason for what you do, and sometimes you're right, but rarely are you consciously aware of it.”

The sweetness of a simple slice of pear is so overwhelming that I could cry.  I don't, but the urge is there.  “This time, you were placed in a position that forced you to become completely still and silent.  For a brief time, you were an empty vessel.  There were no thoughts or feelings.  Your body still had urges, but your mind had no compulsion to follow them.  The only difference between what you've experienced and death is that your body would have been still, also.”
After this there's only the sound of my eating and drinking.  Hearing her speak, somehow the food loses its appeal.  I'm forced to be aware that I'm just a pile of meat shoving stuff into itself so that it can keep going, and the thought is repulsive.  Somehow, in front of her, I feel disgusting.

I need a shower really, really badly.

Stopping when I realize that trying to eat anymore might make me sick, I offer “Then knowing that makes me pure?”
She stares at me severely.  I've grown accustomed to it.  “What do you think?”
Thoughts are still coming slowly to me; with the exception of  a running commentary on how nice it was to eat food again.  “I don't know.”  Does thinking things through – or not at all – make me purer?  “It doesn't feel like it.”
Her expression doesn't change, but I could swear that she was smiling at me.

We sit in silence for a moment, before I ask “How long was I up there?”
“Nine days.”
Two thoughts come to me immediately in spite of my otherwise sluggish thoughts.  I voice the first.  “I went nine days without food, water, or sleep?”
“I am a proficient healer,” is her response.  I wait for a moment, before realizing that she doesn't intend to add anything after that.
Finally, and with reluctance I ask “Then I have one more day of purification?”
“You do.”  I nod once, and am about to rise when she continues “Do not to speak with anyone for twenty-four hours.  You may leave, though.  Shower, rest, eat, drink, and contemplate the time you've spent here.  Then return, and I will teach you the next word.”

The sense of relief is so intense that I almost thank her.  I straighten my back, smile, and nod to her.  I lift myself up – again marveling at the sensation of actually moving – and head to the door.

Come tomorrow, I will be able to rest safely again.