Chapter 2
Whimpering, Celia crumples beside me as we are both thrown to the ground. Bile comes rumbling up my throat, and my question about what would happen if dirt from the court yard got lodged up someone’s nose is answered. It tastes distinctly like slugs and it is most definitely not for eating.
Looking over, Celia is clutching her wrist, her face contorted with pain and a soundless tear streaks down her cheek. So many times in my life has this happened to me; someone is hurt and I must selfishly watch when I know quite well that it would take less that a moment of energy to end their suffering. They can’t know, if they do, it will mean the death of me. It’s selfish, and maybe it would be worth it to just die, to end it.
Waking me up from my self-pity was none other than the kicking guard, and apparently, he changed his mind, or so says my ribs. “In line,” he orders, I wonder, does he ever smile, or is his face just naturally scowling? Regretfully, I do as I am told, and I join a long line of orphan girls.
To be quite honest, the entire thing looks very creepy. It’s like every slave/orphan girl is in this courtyard, about seventy of us. Everyone except me has their hair up in a dirty head wrap, but other than that we all look the same. I guess we mostly resemble a large group of anorexic girls who just got out of a dirt fight in dresses that were made and sown together by drunk men, but I think that’s an understatement. We are all standing haphazardly in a line inside the courtyard. Normally, it’s such peaceful place. Birds will come to rest on the trees, flowers will line the grass and the dirt path, and people will gather to talk; but today, it’s just ominous. The summer breeze brings dark storm clouds along with its stifling humidity. Combine that with the guard patrolling all the exits, I say it’s a recipe for several emotional breakdowns.
In the center of it all is the head master; know by us just as ‘The Master’. His gray beard is trimmed close to his face and his balding head is oddly not shiny. He is dressed in a white shirt with black trousers and an impressive, emerald green robe. Behind him is a large group of middle age men who, in my opinion, all look like they are trying too hard to be impressive and are only here because they mimic The Master’s every move. The wannabes look very confused, it appears that Mr. Head Leader wannabe didn’t inform the group about what’s going on today, I hope it does them some good, they need it.
“All of you will roll up your left sleeve and allow us to inspect your arm,” he says, not even bothering with subtlety.
No one really complains, after all, they have nothing to worry about. On the other hand, my fear rebels against my grip. If I show him my arm, he will execute me on the spot; I'm too dangerous to be left alive. If I don’t, he will force me to do it anyway. I could rebel and try to get away, but that would mean killing them, I may not like them but I will not kill them.
“Your arm, now.” It looks like decision time, and mine is made.
“No.” Strike me down if you dare.
He nods to a soldier standing behind me, and without any other warning, excruciating pain ripples up my shoulder as it is nearly twisted out of its socket. I'm not trying to be some brave little mercenary here, but I just don’t want to give him any satisfaction for what he is about to find. I know I am going to die, I want it and bid the waist of a life I have good riddance. My spine shivers as the man draws his blade. I'm kneeling here for what feels like an eternity before he actually gets around to cutting off my sleeve. Ugh, why do moments like this have to take so long!
“This is it.” I say to myself, and the warm blood trickles down my arm. Every eye is on me, waiting to see what it is I am hiding; I don’t care, let them stare, they deserve to know. I can feel Celia’s eyes most of all, yearning for me to turn my head, to give her some sign that I'm okay. Oh I want to, but I have a bit too much pride for that, one look at my best friend’s face will send me and my composure crumbling down.
“Her arm, it’s black. It’s all black,” says and obnoxious seven year old in a failed whisper. At least everyone
else has the politeness to keep their mouth shut, sort of; they just let a gasp out, that’s it.
Abruptly, the agony in my arm is reduced to a painful throb and as the oh brave and valiant soldier drops it in fear of an emaciated, 14 year old girl.
I’m not stone, I know what comes next; my execution. A black arm, that means an arm with any amount of black on it, signifies a person with magic. The more black on the arm, the more magic the person has. Nowadays, most people have about 25% if their arm covered at most, if any. Mine is almost completely covered, so I can’t really blame them, if I was them, I would be afraid too. Combine all that with their fear of an orphan rebellion; I’m as good as dead.
I don’t want to look up; I can’t bear to see their faces when they see me for what I am. A tear sneaks through my tightly shut eye lids and I do my best to hold on and not fight back; I will not be remembered as the girl who was to selfish to accept that the world didn’t want her alive. I know that’s me, why would they want me? One slip up, one relaxed emotion, and they are all dead.
At that very moment, a pungent reek rushes though my nose and I struggle not to gag. It’s like some rancid blend of rotten alcohol, body odor, and mold; more than enough to wake me up to the world. Standing right in front of me, and by that I mean no less than two steps in front of my face, is by far the most disgusting, arrogant, narcissistic looking man I have ever seen in my life. Clearly not one of the wannabes; I would have noticed his stench well before now if he was, although I'm not really sure when he got here. He has absolutely no hair accept his dirty sand colored, scraggly beard. His eyes are a muddy green and he looks to be about 50, although his pruneish skin says otherwise.
“Do know you what are,” he whispers to me in broken Galavarhn.
“Get away from me or I will burn you where you stand.” I’m not trying to be rude, I just can’t breathe and I don’t know what he will do. He steps back, eyes widening in shock; apparently little slaves aren’t supposed to be fluent in a ‘dead’ magic language.
“You be un-halting,” he states, still in shock.
“Do you go to a foreign land and ask a native if they are fluent in their own tongue?” Like I said, I would rather he be frightened to death of me and leave me alone, than think he can walk right over me.
“I watch mouth if you. I study years 10 in court, where you learns?”
I just smile. He can babble all he wants, I will never tell him anything; but before I could do anything, pain explodes from the back of my head.
*a/n I completely changed this chapter, actually I broke the 1st chapter into two chapters so the comment below isn't related to this. Also, the part that the 1st comment below is refering to is gone. Basicly I'm redoing that and my brain gave a massive OH MY GOSH MOMENT and now the story completely changed.*
Well, this has been up for a loooong time with no review, so here I am. Hopefully to help you out 
