There is something in this moment that feels very old to him, something that makes him think of times in his life long ago when everything, every action, every thought, even his very existence was potential for punishment. And in those times he endured as he could, suffering quietly as he could, believing that his punishment was deserved. He can be quiet, he can be still, he can be obedient.
Lying now on the floor of this place (which smells not of graves and burial but of commonplace dust and dank places in the City--or is he mistaken?) he will fall still and quiet again. He will obey--not out of a sense of obedience or devotion (that, in those former days, was reserved only for his father), but because, as he learned, it was a wise way to avoid more and worse.
He wills himself to stop trembling (much as that works) and permits himself to breathe. But nothing more. There can and will be nothing more.
Not yet, at least. He will stay still, but his mind will continue to move--considering ways to escape, to send out his call for help, to determine where he is, to discover who his captor is. His mind cannot be stopped--not even his father's whip could stop that.
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Lying now on the floor of this place (which smells not of graves and burial but of commonplace dust and dank places in the City--or is he mistaken?) he will fall still and quiet again. He will obey--not out of a sense of obedience or devotion (that, in those former days, was reserved only for his father), but because, as he learned, it was a wise way to avoid more and worse.
He wills himself to stop trembling (much as that works) and permits himself to breathe. But nothing more. There can and will be nothing more.
Not yet, at least. He will stay still, but his mind will continue to move--considering ways to escape, to send out his call for help, to determine where he is, to discover who his captor is. His mind cannot be stopped--not even his father's whip could stop that.