TRIGGER WARNING...Forced confinement and psychological abuse...

Had it been a decade?. Two of them? More? Time no longer belonged to him, stolen as everything had been, including all hope. Non-existence was his only existence. He finally knew the full meaning of the word alone. He had been erased, and it was the most oppressive thing he had ever imagined. In fact,it was a thing he had been incapable of imagining. He tried to break through. He fought to regain himself. But now, the life of a cipher was his fate and he was yielding now. Sinking into it and hoping never to return.

He used to keep track of the hours and days, but now his mind was no longer able to keep the timeline straight. The last years were a muddied stream of continual existence. Breathing, eating what was brought before him, allowing his body to eliminate, intake, eliminate, intake... he still walked the perimeter of his nondescript yurt, stripped of all that had indicated what, who he had once been. A deep rut traced his repeated path in the dust. Silenced and unable to communicate. Except when his captor arrived at camp and visited to torment him. It was only then that he was allowed a voice. One that had roared until it bled, at first. Had been reduced from that to trying to reason. Then trying to bargain, trying to plead. Then his enemy had cast a silencing spell;, completely robbing him of his ability to speak, after a near escape on his part had proven that a weak-minded guard had helped him.

He cursed himself today. He lost count of how many turns he had made. All that work, one foot in front of the other for how many hours? Idiot! Stupid, fucking waste of energy...time...Damn It! What?  20.? 30 turns so far? If he could have screamed, he would have. DID IT REALLY FUCKING MATTER, ANYWAY? 

He had tried to starve himself but forced feedings happened, and their remorseless hands on his body, prying his jaws apart to pour tasteless gruel down his throat, became too unbearably obtrusive, and he relented and ate all set in front of him, knowing it contained the potions the robbed him even of the will to end it all. The meals drained him of even that choice. 

A bed remained., so half his day was spent sleeping. Books lay in a corner, but he ignored them. The fire was kept going by muted attendants, who brought the same meals, drugged so that all he could do was exist, unable to rebel, although every molecule in his core screamed incessantly at him to either attack or kill himself. Only his memories remained under his control and his despair was eroding even that lately, in slow and cancerous increments. It was more than his fading, warrior's soul could take at times. He strove to maintain, even early on as he heard of the suffering his loved ones endured without his protection, younger than him, vulnerable and dependent on the mercy of others. It was their memories that kept him alive, and in desperation, he had even cursed that, weeping as he did.

He did not even feel the hobbles on his wrists and ankles any longer. Light but unbreakable, fashioned by spells, they had been a part of him since the night he had been taken captive. He had been broken by the screams of his tribe as they were tormented and used to coerce him into submitting. It was his last act of leadership, his capitulation to cease their calls for help. It was the only way he could help them in the end. So he took his responsibilities as their young leader to heart, breaking it into shards by doing so.

He could only seek a small solace in his visions of races across the steppes, tiny voices cheering him as he rode his horse, hell-bent for leather, long braids streaming behind him, carnelian eyes glowing in gleeful ferocity. Occasionally, the faint aroma of Mother's camel stew would drift through the stale air of his lonely yurt, and his stomach would gurgle in reflexive remembrance. Father's stories of gods and glory would tickle his ears. Songs sung in clear, exquisite notes that repeated handed down legends. These were his most private thoughts and his enemy had not found a way to erase them, tear them from his heart...yet. They were his last spark of humanity that he could warm himself with as he sat isolated and bereft. 

At times, he had felt the temptation of insanity. At least, if he lost all reason, his enemies would lose him as a trump card. Their twisted object of amusement would be of little use. Then the edge of a sword would end it all for him. But the warrior always stuck his nose into those plans and refused to comply. He had been raised to fight until his last breath. Even if all avenues to victory were blocked; these moments of mental transport delighted him but broke him further. Yet he never stopped them. They were all he had now, and he at least had their masochistic nostalgia to bring some stimulation to his sterile and maddening existence.

He found himself praying for nothingness after he died. Let me die tonight and let there be nothing, he begged each time he began to feel drowsy because he was terrified of the idea that if there were a next lifetime, it would be another one, just like this. That was a thought he could not stand. He would rather sink into the depths of hell then live another existence like this one, staring helplessly into the eyes of a deranged, revenge-seeking monster he had once called a brother and a friend.

But then the good memories would resurrect, and for those brief moments, he was free again in his core's mind. They prodded him into admitting, even for a brief, infinitesimal moment, that he was still someone. Perhaps, even if he only lived in long-distant others' thoughts, then he still existed.

That he had been someone, loved, admired, and treasured.

That he had been a warrior, a beloved son. An adored brother among many.

He had once been Gan Chono of the Great Eagle Tribe