Thanks for clicking the button. the button thanks you.so, we have the first chapter. much longer than the first. No more keeping you though, go read...please .

Warnings- No warnings for this Chapter.

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Chapter One- Lost and Found

Imagine my surprise, opening my eyes to find myself in an empty room. Not an interesting one, the walls were white, as were the floors and ceiling, so white that the distance from one to another couldn't be guessed just by looking. It all just blended together into a single white world, a single world that seemed of pure solitude. Defiantly not home.

I spent quite a bit of time just sitting there, the surprise still lingering, but slowly fading as I tried to piece together what had happened. What was the last thing I remembered? Going to sleep. Before that? I jumped up as it came to me. Those Royal Priests, they had said something, something about punishment, right? They did this to me. Yet, I couldn't think of what the punishment was for; only that it would be bad.

Was this what they had in mind? I surveyed the walls, my wondering quickly becoming fear as I realized there was no door here. My eyes strained against the white void probing for something, anything. As things go my mind went from horror to pleading, pleading for a door, on to which my eyes could settle —then suddenly, there was a door where I know one had not been before. My mind raced, could I have missed it, passed over it in my haste to discover it? I didn't care, it was there now and my eyes locked to it, not willing to risk that it might slip away if my eyes drifted away even for a second. A second, I laugh to myself as I remember the memory of that thing which until now went unremembered. But here was a door nonetheless, where none was seen before.

Without a second thought I rushed through the door only to find myself in the same room as before. I looked behind me: no door. It was in front of me. I ran through that one, to no avail my eyes found only the same room broken only by the same door. So I went to the next one, and the next; an eternity of the same black doors that led, it seemed, nowhere. At some point I did not pass into the next door, choosing, no willing myself not going thorough, I just looked through this time. Seeing the same blinding white space filled my view, only broken by another black door standing ahead to be opened.

Dazed, I closed the door, sitting where it seemed the middle of the room was, facing the door. I would try and tell myself that this wasn't happening, wasn't real. If only I could prove it. There must be away to end this madness, to escape this prison. Maybe, just maybe this was a prison of my own design. My brain raced from idea to sad idea and it came to me in a cold wall of reality. Perhaps it was I who held the key to my own freedom all I had to do was understand the means of my escape. Then, in my hand, appeared a golden handled knife, with a fine edge which appeared finer and sharper than anything I'd ever seen, and it was perfect the perfect key to my freedom from this pit of nothingness. A single thought or hope raced through my mind, I believe one can't feel pain in a dream or a hallucination, right? So, as if the act was predestined, a practiced everyday occurrence, I pulled the knife smoothly across my hand. The edge of the blade came off red as my hand went numb and was taken over by a sharp stinging. This was real, defiantly not some mind-made hell, the red blade and injured hand proved that to me. But that didn't mean I wouldn't be let out.

Someone was sure to come through that door, smirking down at my pathetic act, and drag me out, throwing me back onto the streets of Egypt. And so I waited someone. I don't know for how long, but long enough. The wound on my hand had been healed for some time. Even the thin white scar had faded from my pale skin. It struck me then that I hadn't had anything to eat, or slept at all in these last weeks, I had just sat there, staring into the white prison, or at the black door. The cut would have taken at least five weeks to fully heal like that. Yet, I didn't want any food; I didn't feel lulled to sleep as I would have before this. I had been content to just sit there and do nothing but wait for my rescue or release from here.

Rescue? Speaking of which, where were they anyways? This long of me just waiting here; people aren't kept that long for an unknown reason. No one would waste high skill to keep someone from needing food or sleep unless they tried to kill the King. Not even then, maybe if one tried to kill a God they would, but nothing short of that for sure. I certainly did not try to kill a God, that's suicide. So what did I do to be left in here? I didn't even know where here was. A room. It was just a room where things appeared out of nowhere. Not quite nowhere; after all, I had wanted the door, I had wanted the knife, and I had gotten them.

Now, the glaring white was getting to me, and all I wanted was something different, and suddenly I wasn't in the white room, I was on a mountain; Sheer sides fell away around me, a deep gray sky surrounded me. It was as isolated as that room, maybe more so, and I was stuck there for a while. That is, until I jumped off. I felt the fall and the hit and the death. I closed my eyes then—and opened them again to the white room. Back to the beginning, I realized, and cursed every known god, King, and any person that I'd ever held the slightest grudge against. What was this! I didn't need to eat or sleep, and now I couldn't even die properly. If I ever got out of this hell, I will skin whatever bastard put me into the place. Just to finish him off, I'll throw him in here before the door closes; let him live like this for a while. Maybe I'll even slice him up a bit first—

When did I start thinking these things, hell visualizing them even? Well, he, maybe she, deserved it though…right?

Better not to think about it, instead, what could I do here? Not die apparently, or eat, or sleep. But that knife and the door, even a mountain had come when I wanted them. So I could bring thing then. By thinking about them? To test my theory I thought of fire, pictured the smoke curling up into the air, above red and orange flames. I felt the heat first, and then came a smell. Not the normal smells of fire though. I opened my eyes to see the tattered robes beginning to burn intensely, to strong to stop by now. It was hopeless, so I sat there and waited for the burning to end.

A few minuets later, I think, I opened my eyes again to the room, minus any fire. Well, that wasn't so bad, not nearly like the scene that those black witches always make at the stake; with all their pointless screeching and cursing and carrying on. So, if burning, what people considered the worst of the fates, wasn't so bad, what were the others like? It's not like I had anything pressing to do.

After that I tried it all: filling the room with water, dirt, bees, ants, I tried hanging, stabbing, grinding, bashing, suffocation, spontaneous combustion, bleeding out, self-dissection, acid. I even went as far to make the room too small for me. And after each death I would close my eyes, or not, it depended, and opened them to the white room, clear of all blood, beasts, guts, or anything else from the previous experience. Starving wasn't an option for me, I was slightly disappointed about that, and I'd always heard that it was horrible. Then again most deaths were supposed to be horrible things, but that seemed to be overplayed. I guess that since no one can actually tell you what it's like, we don't really know. Or the people that can tell you are trapped inside a room with no means of ever leaving.

But this wasn't just about the passing time aspect; no, I got more then just the experience from it, the chance to feel something new. I learned what I could do in here. Which was almost anything, except food wouldn't come, not that I needed it, but nor would people. Every time I tried to bring in another person to—help me out, nothing would happen. That was fine with me though, I never liked people anyways. Things, though, I could bring just find. And that's what life's about isn't it? Getting gold so that you can buy things, own things that would make others bend to your every word, to live in total and utter comfort, not worrying about others, the world revolving around you and only you. Yes, that's what life was about, and that's just what I now had.

The room became larger; the walls a rich stone veined with gold flakes, the floors were now the finest wood and marble covered with the pelts of rare animals. Gold and sliver sheer silks hung from the ceiling, framing tall priceless vases and richly engraved weapons of every kind: bows, blades, spears, javelins. Anything I wore was of the finest quality, near transparent silks and the most pliable leather sandals, rich red and violet cloaks. In the center of it all was a bed, thick furs and soft rugs piled knee high to provide a resting place. Once again, I didn't need it, but why not have it? A place to lay and close my eyes, count the seconds, or at least what I thought were seconds, mimicking that which I once did, sometime. I was rather hazy when I tried to remember now. But that didn't matter yet.

My personal hell had become the dream of both rich and poor, something that people everywhere would gladly kill for. And it was mine. I stayed there just lounging on the bed or even the floor, or practicing with weapons I would never be able to have otherwise. I don't know how long passed, year's maybe, maybe just days or hours. But it didn't matter to me. I simply lived, if you can call it that, relishing the change, from having nothing to having anything. Surely being trapped in this place was worth it. To be stuck, with out sleep, death, or hunger seemed a fair trade.

I had fun with it too. Every once in a while I'd change things. Experiment with different styles, new ideas. After all, I had forever so why not? I made things too. When I went through my writing phase, I got fed up with the quills, so I found a cloth and soaked the ink into it. If you took that and placed it inside the quill, then pulled a small piece through the tip, you didn't need to worry about refills. This I called a par, and they now replaced all quills. Another time, I made a study; great ebony shelves lined the sturdy wood walls. The floor was covered with a second invention of mine. Instead of placing sever furs, I created one large one, which covered the expanse of the floors. I called it carn. So I covered the floors with a rich brown carn.

A problem came when I got to the scrolls, something that made my retreat a prison once again. You see, I knew what they looked like, and they appeared as simply as everything else I wanted, but they held no knowledge. Every one of them was blank or filled with scribbles that were nonsense to me. Perhaps some language I made up, or had seen in the past. So I stared at them, desperately trying to understand them. If I could not understand them, then what was their purpose? It was a slow process to realization. The language wasn't imaginary or even foreign. I just couldn't remember it. Maybe not remembering isn't the correct word for you to know, it was more like everything having to do with my language was lost, completely wiped and forgotten. Forgotten by myself, alone perhaps. It did cross my mind that perhaps no one knew the language anymore. I had heard stories of whole empires being lost to time: people, worship, sciences, magic, and their language. That was silly though wasn't it? It couldn't of been so long in here. So I dismissed it almost instantly. Losing language wasn't so bad, where or when was I going to use it anyways?

So I moved on before that feeling possessed me again. I went to art, brought in priceless woks, my favorite being paintings of gardens and mountain and the sea. I would use them as windows and lay on my bed, staring out at anywhere. This comfort didn't last long. I noticed differences. And it didn't matter what I did or what I used because the differences between life and here where slapping me in the face now. Forcing me to notice. After all how could something as simple as a painting capture the sheer power and life of the sea or the skies? Even still lakes and puddles changed too much in the subtlest ways for me to replicate. Wind moved plants and that I could not replicate. The room was laughing at me, mocking me. It knew that I was escaping and interfered, dragging me back to the beginning.

It threw at me this proof and made me realize once again that I was trapped, but not as much as showing me my lack of memory. Smells wouldn't come, I went back to fire but the smoke was just an odorless swirl; the flames were just a pretty image. I once again just sat there; allowing everything to revert to the white after the flames had their way with me, not that I felt it. Once my eyes reopened my mind froze, trying to grasp the fact that everything I though I had, probably wasn't real. I've been over this before though, but just incase. I grabbed the knife once again at my side, this time reaching down to my leg and quickly sliding it up from ankle to knee. No pain.

I was shocked, scared, happy; forgotten feeling being found. Confused I tried again, across my chest, then again down my shoulder, again up my wrist, the wound ending at my mid-arm. Soon dozens of cuts and stabs littered my body. Nothing. No pain at all, not even the slightest twinge. I almost missed it. But then, pain only exists in the real world. So this wasn't real? But before there had been pain, what was different now that there wasn't any? The room could have been playing tricks on me, not allowing me to know what was real or imaginary. But my mind wouldn't have it; it wanted an answer.

A scroll appeared before be, and I picked it up, not feeling the material in my hands, and opened it. Blank. It was blank because of me though. Because I couldn't remember, not even what the writing looked like. The scroll turned red and I saw that I was bleeding more then I should. I closed my eyes to stop everything from spinning, and opened them again to the white room. The room was clean and clear, but my mind still lingered on my last thoughts.

What was the point of any of this? I sent myself into my marble and gold room, covered with hanging silks and priceless objects, and walked among it. None of it had any use to me anymore. I grabbed a nearby sword off the wall, watching it flash, mirroring my anger, as I raised it and let it fall through the silks, not hearing the ripping. I went to the next one and the next one, on and on, till the room was filed with strings instead of cloths. I moved onto the arts, anything within my reach because shattered, thousands of pieces if glass and precious stones cut into my feet and hands, not that I noticed any of it. I wasn't angry either, as I had expected to be. I was just numb; I didn't know what I should be feeling. I thought I would feel anger, but it wouldn't come. Neither would happiness or boredom. So I kept trying, hoping to fell something. Some time was spent simply calling things in like statues and vases, only to shatter or blow them up on appearance. Once again, I don't know who long was spent destroying, but by the end millions of objects had been destroyed by my hand.

I sat in the mess; glass shards glinting in front of the mountain of stone rubble. I picked up a large piece of glass; in its reflection was nothing. I wasn't surprised. After so long, or perhaps not, I'd lost feeling and most of my memories, it wasn't surprising that my physical appearance alluded me. I was punished for something that I'll never know, and kept in this room, and this room has done its job. It erased who I was leaving me to drag another 'me' together. Something I couldn't do until I was released. After all, how can you create something that you know nothing about? The room was absolute. When you enter as yourself, it decides it doesn't like you, at least, not as you are. So it erases you, leaving it to you to rebuild yourself. But that won't happen. Once it's done with you it leaves you. You're floating in this space alone and blind to anything around you.

I can hear someone coming now, oddly enough, after what seemed like forever of just nothing, I didn't think I would e able to hear. Then again even if I forgot what I'm hearing, my ears are fine. There it was a slight tapping, I didn't know what it could possibly belong to, it was just there.

I continue to wait in nothing, just a world of total solitude surrounding me. I would say that its while or black or square or round, but I can't. I don't know what those are. I may be sitting in water, but it wouldn't matter because I wouldn't feel it. Cold or hot, maybe warm, none of it would make a difference to me. A door's appeared now, you can imagine my surprise here because I wasn't, didn't know what surprise was. Doesn't matter, there's a door, I know that's what it is but I also know that until it's open and I'm found, this room is one that makes you completely lost. It's done its work well; I'm lost of everything. But now there's a door out, and someone is willing to open it.

So I waited and willed and waited some more before the door slid opened silently, reviling… something. I don't know what though it makes sounds. Sounds that call out to me weather I understand or not.

It stayed there for a while; just watching me, making these sounds, before anything made sense, and still, all I could catch was something like this.

"I hear you my Yami."

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So thats it for now. I may or may not continue this, depending on your reaction to it. No point if you dont like it right?

So Review please, let me know what you think about it.

so I hope you liked it. thanx for reading.gives out candy

-s.o