Young Writers Society

***This is based off of the song 'Now We Are Free' from 'The Gladiator.' Want to listen? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xButjfhZWV***

She whirled around a circle, leaping over a fire, her heart beating with the music, her entire being within the words braided into a haunting melody, a melody that meant Nothing. And Everything.

Anol shalom

Anol sheh lay konnud de ne um

Flavum

Nom de leesh

Ham de nam um das

La um de

Flavne

The rhythm pounded in her blood, a rhythm of the Wind, of the Lone Eagle in an endless sky, of Freedom; the words of Nothing and Everything twirled around her soul. Free. She was free. They were free.

An extra beat. An extra drum?

She stumbled and tried to continue with the dance. She couldn’t; there was silence, dead, empty silence. She stopped with the other dancers, looking around in confusion. The golden disks sewn on her skirt slowly rocked to a quiet, unnoticed end with the bangles on her wrists.

And they all heard a new rhythm, a rhythm of Galloping Horses, of Anger, of Death. A different beat began within her, a beat of Fear.

There it was again, that single crash that echoed over the rolling plains.

The chief stood, the flames licking his painted face, a white, grinning skull. “Go! Run!” he screamed.

Her clanspeople began to move around her, scrambling away as the Angry Death beat of the Horses approached and the explosion that was the extra beat rang again. She stood,for the Fear was a binding cadence that tied her limbs. Someone ran into her, flinging her out of her trance. She whirled around, a blur of red, yellow, and blue. She began to dash away, lifting her skirts.

She made a strangled sound as a tight grip caught her arm. The Angry Death sang out as Fear pounded against the ground.Rat-ta-tat-a-rat-ta-tat-a...

“Mirna, Mirna Biri. The Quiet One.”

She looked down into the light eyes of an withering woman at her name croaked into the chaos. The bony fingers dug into her arm as those sharp blue eyes burrowed into her soul.

Rat-ta-tat-a-rat-ta-tat-a...

“Quiet One, I have seen your path.” The fire glinted off her wild silver hair that struggled to escape several braids. “I beg you. Do not forget the Sounds of Freedom. If you forget they will forever be silenced.”

Rattatatarattatata...

Her throat tightened, and Mirna shook her head desperately. She moved to wrench her arm away when the woman loosened her grip, but was caught again by the hand.

“Our people’s fate will rest on you, Quiet One."

Rattatatarattatatarattatarattatata- Boom.

That huge drum sounded again, seeming to rattle her very bones, and the mad pulse of Angry Death was upon them.

“Don’t forget the Sound of Freedom!” the old woman shrieked and faced the Musicians of Death, Anger, Fear. She didn’t flinch at the screams of Galloping Horses as they careened towards the camp, eyes rolling, mouths frothing, black hides glowing a dull orange. She began to chant ignoring the staccato cries of the Musicians. Her words were of Defense, of Pleading. An observant ear could catch the countermelody of Despair.

Mirna turned to run, but the horses were right behind her, beside her, before her.

Fear. Angry Death. Galloping Horses.

Defense. Pleading. Despair.

They all burned hot through her blood, beating their primitive rhythms inside her skull.

She opened her mouth in a silent scream as her heart began its own wild tempo. Trapped. Fear. Despair.

She was grabbed by the arm, yanked up on a horse. Rough, foreign words rasped by her ear, but she understood their melody.

Lust. Power. Brutality.

She struggled, but his arm was hard and tight around her arms and waist. She turned to look behind her.

The woman stood with her hands in the air. Defense, Pleading, Despair slipped through Angry Death and Fear to Mirna.

Remember the Sound of Freedom.

The drum cracked again, and the woman’s head jerked back.

Mirna’s mouth parted in a muted gasp as the woman sunk beneath the horses and was trampled. She looked around, eyes stinging with tears, and saw the same happening all around to her people.

The drums created no music. Only cacophony.

Massacre. Ruthlessness. Hatred.

Tears slipped silent down her cheeks, and she tried to break free once more when she saw her clansmen being herded into a huge cage on wheels. She didn’t see his fist behind her.

Blessed Silence in Darkness.

. . .

They didn’t realize how smart she was.

Mute. Dumb.

That’s what they called her. They didn’t know she understood, more and more every day. They spewed trash in their rough language as they fed her, as they transported her, as they lay over her, falling from whatever height they reached, and she let them. She gleaned from them, stole from them.

Their language. Their knowledge. Their secrets.

She would lie in her cell at night when they were through with her, and the new music within her would swell.

Bitterness. Hatred. Revenge.

She listened to the songs of her clanspeople around her.

Grief. Fear. Despair.

And she waited, let them believe they soiled her, ruined her, broke her; she let them give her their defeat.

Because she would. She would defeat them.

She knew the tools they carried on their belts, the booming drums of the first night. She recognized them as the things her clanspeople found under the earth from time to time. It was technology created before The White Blast, Great Ancestor technology. She knew that she only had to press a button and point and the person it was pointed at would be dead.

That wasn’t the only secret she knew, but it was one of the more important ones.

She knew that they worshipped a being they called King. He told them what they could and couldn’t do. No one liked King. She wasn’t sure why they worshipped him.

Her peoples' Mother forgave, gifted, loved.

King did not. He beheaded, imprisoned, tortured.

Mirna didn’t know exactly what these words meant, but she knew they were bad.

It was King’s fault that she was here, ripped from her homeland. She would find him, squeeze her revenge from him.

Her cell door slammed open as it did too many evenings after the bells sang six times. She cursed the words they sang.

Shame. Weakness. Powerless.

Whore. Harlot. Impure.

She didn’t rise from her cot, refused to make any part easy for them. They jerked her up, dragged her out.

Rat-ta-tat-a...

Her heart beat a familiar rhythm. She had seen girls taken by two guards, often the ones expecting, the ones no longer of use. On two feet or slung over a shoulder, they were always more bruised, their eyes always glazed with terror. They had no song.

With two, each man fed the other’s pride, lust, hatred. The girls were lucky if they came out of the room at all.

She eyed the Great Ancestor weapon. They thought her too stupid to need tying up. All she had to do was reach down, point, and push.

They went up steps, turned down halls. Soon, she was helplessly lost. They had never gone to such great lengths to find a room before.

One bent forward to open a glossy, new door. She stared at the weapon, if she moved her hand a fraction of an inch she would be touching it. She licked her lips, her fingers twitched.

They shoved her into the room and closed the door behind her with a bang.

It was dark. She stood slowly, rubbing her bruised knees, and peered through the dimness. She jumped when a candle was lit, shielding her eyes.

“They told me you don’t speak,” the voice wasn’t rough like that of the guards, not slurred with spirits, not fast with excitement. It drawled, flowed over her skin, soothed frazzled nerves. “They think that’s my problem.” He chuckled. “Pillow talk.”

She didn’t understand all he said, just stood frozen just before the closed door.

He sat on a bed, lounging back, and grinned lazily. He was fully covered in finer clothing than she had ever seen before. “I hear you don’t even scream.”

She felt the heat of a blush travel up her neck and looked away from his dark, bored eyes. She was not used to being actually spoken to. She was used to being ordered, threatened, ignored. She shambled to a desk, fingering the objects sitting on top for something to do.

A bowl of fruit.

A strange looking stick with a point.

She refused to look up at the rustle of sheets.

Rat-ta-tat-a...

Her heart thumped against her chest, begging for release.

“That’s a pen.”

She jerked her hand away from the stick, only to trace her finger along it again, glancing at him from under her eyelashes.

He was standing now, soft candle light bronzing his pale skin, glittering off of his black hair. “You write with it.” He frowned at her puzzled look and approached her slowly. He circled the desk to be on the side she was on. He opened a drawer and brought out a book, opening it to a blank page. He took the pen and wrote slowly:My name is Magn.

She made a little sound of delight in her throat, and a true smile broke across his face though she was too engrossed with the strange characters to see. She traced them once forwards, once backwards.

“They’re called letters,” he murmured. “This is a book.” He pointed at it and caught the hungry glitter in her eyes before she smothered it.

She was starving for knowledge.

He pointed at the letters. “I can teach you.”

Her head jerked, her eyes searching his, a frown of concentration on her face.

“Eh... You...” He pointed at her. “Write.” He made a motion with the pen still in his hand. “I.” He pointed at himself. “Show you.”

Her eyes lit up though he could see the internal battle raging behind them. Finally, she nodded.

. . .

She danced over, around, in fire. She leapt and twisted. Her skirts were clean, her bodice whole, and a smile played at her lips. The music of easy Happiness, ofContentment, of Life tinkled in her head. She stopped suddenly, facing the fireplace, and looked back shyly.

He had been watching her for several moments, soaking in the quiet song of Grace, a song he didn't know he was listening to, a song he didn't know how to listen to. He bit his lip when she stopped and took one hesitant step forward.

She whirled around to face him, still nervous after all of those months, and her eyes followed his every movement.

"What do you dance to?" he asked slowly, sauntering toward the desk in the opposite direction of her. He watched her as she blinked in surprise before beginning the strange, ethereal language of her own.

She pointed at her head, bobbed it back and forth, and swayed her hips to and fro.

"In your head?"

She nodded, then thought for a moment, and waved her hand.

"Kind of."

She pointed at the fire.

"The fire."

She pointed at the window, glancing at him for comprehension when he said nothing.

He watched her for a long moment, frowning. "…The window?"

She glared at him and stuck her arms out above her head, waving them about wildly.

He blinked at her and shrugged helplessly.

She rolled her eyes and made a face. She pointed at the window, waved her arms, and blew air through her teeth.

He stared at her for a long moment, gasping suddenly. "Oh! You mean wind."

She gave him a bright smile and put a hand on her chest, where her heart was.

"Your mind, the fire, the wind, and your heart?"

She grimaced and finally gave in, moving to the desk to write in slow, wobbly letters:That are the fuor I here in this place.

He nodded, listening for a melody in the sounds he knew every day. He heard nothing but the wind rattle at the window to be let in and the fire pop, hissing it’s warning. “But there are other noises?”

She nodded excitedly.

He couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on his face, finding her rare emotion endearing.

At that smile, she drew away and looked down. Shyly, she glanced up to see his face hard, and tight.

“That’s a very nice sentence,” he muttered and grabbed the pen from her. He made quick notations below hers and ignored the smell of her as she tiptoed closer to see what he was writing. “That is singular. You meant those. Four is spelled f-o-u-r. I know I’ve told you that before. There’s more than one ‘here.’ You meant h-e-a-r. H-e-r-e is the place. Like, ‘I’m standing right here.’” He looked back at her, face completely composed now that he was teaching.

She stared at the paper for a long moment, nodding slowly. She touched his arm when he turned to leave and pressed a kiss to his cheek. When she pulled back, he could see the words she meant in her eyes.

For a second he could have sworn he heard a soft voice singing as his pulse roared in his ears, as the fire crackled, and the wind jumped at the window for a vicious moment.

Her eyes said I'm not ready. And the voice sang, Wait and you'll receive. He blinked and shook his head, backing away into the desk. He swore as the ink went tumbling and whirled around to clean it up, stuttering his apologies as she watched him curiously.

"I- um… Good night," he muttered and ran out, heart still racing as he did so.

. . .