Though his body was fully rested meditation was more difficult than he had anticipated.
He had resisted the biological urge to slip into a healing trance once again. The nightmare of death was too close to his conscious mind. The hours of unconsciousness in Starfleet Medical were excruciating. He was unwilling to take the time to revisit the memories at this time. They were too dangerous.
He had come to purge the demons of emotion, not relive them.
He sat for hours seeking the most basic of calm. The anguish and fury swirled like wisps of dust on the periphery of his thoughts. Memories of the killing lust danced on his very fingertips. The air seemed to be infused with the thick damp scent of blood.
His arms and legs ached from the forced stillness. The more he focused his mind on his goal of stillness them more it seemed to protest him. Like a wild animal, caged then set free, it bucked and brawled against his futile attempts at control.
Finally he rose from the dusty corner of the dark stone room. His body ached and his bones crackled and popped as he moved. The sounds brought back the memory of the bones of pirates cracking in his hands. He pushed the thought away.
Stillness had become ineffective, his mind reasoned. It was time for action.
He lifted the simple white robe from the wooden hook on the wall where it had been left for him and slipped it over his head. He turned to the door, did not pause to wait for it to respond to his approach. It slid open without a sound and revealed a labyrinth of rough-hewn passages. He confidently turned right and headed out to the sun lit square.
Once there he found a broad smooth area and took up position for a simple and familiar D'vun Kaltor routine. The ancient art of meditative dance had served his people for millennia, bringing together the benefits of aerobic exercise and meditation.
It was logical enough, if stillness would not bring peace, perhaps movement would. That was his intent. But when he closed his eyes and began, he immediately found the images there emblazoned on his eyelids.
He lifted his arms to a perfect Tree position. He tilted his head back and promptly lost balance almost toppling.
Jaw tight, he opened his eyes and looked around for the barest on instants for his father's stern stare.
Swallowing against the emotional outburst that threatened, he began again. This time with eyes open, concentrating only on the muscular movements.
Through the first positions his form was perfect. Pace and rhythm mathematically precise. He brought his hands down to the ground swiftly and gripped the dry sandy stone, hands shoulder width apart. Slowly he tightened his abdominal muscles and lifted his legs perfectly piked to a 90 degree. He held the position for twice the required time out of sheer stubbornness. Then he inhaled deeply and brought his legs fully over his head. Blood began to rush to his head and the hissing sound of the desert took on a sinister memory triggering quality.
'Control' he whispered angrily to himself.
The desert whispered back. It whispered so softly and persistently that he had to hold his breath to hear.
It whispered something in Klingon. It whispered of his weakness and his shame.
It called him barbarian, little more than an animal.
A bead of sweat trickled from his forehead and dripped on the red sand. The hiss of the sand and the hum of the memories and the trembling of his own body were too much for his brief tenuous control.
He bent his trembling arms held his breath and exploded up and back to a standing position with an angry growl.
For a long time he stood trembling and breathing heavily.
His jaw tightened and he turned angrily back to his cell.