Every Stone Turned
5th day of Fall, 513 A.V.
5th day of Fall, 513 A.V.
It was two bells before dawn when a form shifted upon the dried rushes that made his bed. One hand seemed to crackle like gravel as it pushed against the worn floorboards of the tiny room, shadowed figure sitting up slowly, letting the sleep slide off of him like water pouring over river stones.
If there was a time Coal enjoyed most, it was probably now. He grunted softly as his legs picked him off the ground and brought him slowly outside, dark eyes gazing up into a sky that was going to get lighter by the chime. It was quiet now, save for the chirping of insects and peepers, tree frogs and the sometimes the call of a loon or owl. Most everything was either settling in for the daytime hours, or not yet woken, which went for slaves, freeborn, and dynasty families as well.
Dark black fingers, smooth as marble and hard as granite slid up along his neck, feeling for the mark in his skin, the brand that marked him as Radacke property. He took comfort in knowing precisely where he belonged sometimes, and it was a bit of a habit in the mornings before he began his routine.
First he paced behind the wooden shack and began his morning stretches. He always began with his dark left arm. It wasn't that he faulted his right arm, but it had neither the strength nor the finesse of his left, and thus, it simply needed the extra care, or so Coal liked to think. He pulled it across his torso until he could feel his shoulder creak with the effort, then rotated his arms and leaned them forward along his toes, leaning forward until he felt his back crack. This continued with his legs, his neck, even his fingers. He was simply a tool, like a plow behind a horse, as many of his overseers liked to say, but no tool could be kept in good condition without a little work.
Any tiredness was gone at the end of his stretches, and the Isur rose off the ground, turning to lie flat upon his stomach, placing his hands beneath him and pushing his full weight off of the ground, then lowering himself back down until his chest brushed the dirt, only to do it again. Often he would try this trick with one hand, which he could almost accomplish with his left, but never with his right. It wasn't long before his breathing got heavy and he took a short break, just long enough to fit his feet beneath a loose slat in the shack, and begin doing sit ups, arms folded neatly across his chest.
When he was done he gazed back up at the sky, a lightness to the fields around him that hadn't been there upon him first waking, and Coal rose once more and returned to his room for the simple shirt he wore over his chest. Now he could here the stirring of his fellows, and see candle light from the plantation houses. Now his bit of peace was nearly over.
"GOOD MORNING, SLAVES!"
Rang a voice whose cheeriness had long stopped being amusing. The day had begun, and it was time to get to work.