There was Music

Part 1: Prison-1

Part 1: Prison

Children singing, laughing, playing, dancing; over a field of yellow flowers, cloud-dappled skies of liveliest blue. An echo, it is all only an echo.

Was it ever true?

Why are you here?

Her eyes flickered open.

Cords held her wrists to the arms of the chair. She clenched her fists to ward off the swelling of her hands, against the pain. Her feet were also bound, and gloved hands held her head in place. For a moment, she struggled to think as her vision remained blurred and her temples hurt.

The air smelled musty, with a sting of urine. It did not disgust her anymore, as it first did; she had grown accustomed to the stench.

Slowly, details of the chamber came into focus, shadowed but for a lamp glowing dimly above her. Decay colored the stone walls: smoke stains and b****y pigments framed in black mold. A long table stood against the left wall. Chains dangled from the far right corner. Near her, a smaller table displayed tools for painting the room with human suffering.

“I will repeat my question, Prisoner 43-1-12,” a mellow voice said. “Why are you here?”

Her head throbbed at the sound.

A guard slowly poured water onto her head. The water slid down her face and neck, drenched the coarse threads of her tunic, and dripped down from her fingertips. A pool formed around her bare feet. The cold of the room clung to her with renewed fervor. She shivered.

“Answer my question,” the voice said, still calm.

The speaker materialized from the shadows: Nabilak, the prison warden. As he crouched before her, she stared at the thick scar running from the corner of his lip down his chin, drawing that side of his face into a grimace. She still could not decide if it was an expression of disgust or amusement.

“Well?” Nabilak pressed.

“You know why,” she replied, her throat burning, barely managing a whisper. “What do you want from me?”

A part of her sought to move, to fight back or flee; but another part of her ached. She felt exhausted. Faltering, she realized with a pang of despair that the strand connecting her body to her will was beginning to fray.

* * *

My unraveling began during the Illirium War. It did not happen at once, or obviously, but with a gradual isolation. So many women were widowed. Fatherless children and orphans ran wild in the streets, many found dying of disease or hunger in corridors and alleyways. Most of the good men had been killed in the fighting. Those who returned, even in victory, were not the same.

The truth is that none of us were the same. Desperation and loss pervaded our town of Hamath. Life entered a new age, bidding us to bury the past; yet death is not easily forgotten, no matter how hard we try.

The previous age, that of the Alöwean Empire, stirs confused sentiments: awe and contempt, a sense of security and fear. Opinions vary, but for better or worse that empire has fallen. Another has risen in its place.

I am no historian. Until more recently, what happened outside Hamath meant little to me. There is a lot I still do not understand. Growing up, I mostly did not care. I was young and my world did not extend beyond the borders of our clan. I had met a few Alöweans, and knew none personally. Youth has a way of shielding one from the differences of others, and prejudices are generally taught. Unlike many of my fellow Illiri, I never felt any bitterness toward the Alöwean people. I suppose I learned that from my parents, especially my father.

The few Alöweans I had met acted courteously, but also seemed so distant, serene, ageless—quiet but attentive, as if they perceived a world beyond our own. Is that what makes our two races so different? Except for their pointed ears and the crimson in their complexion, they look the same as us. Some of them refer to us as “Mankind.” What led to such distinctions, to the antagonism between our two races? I do not understand politics and war; they seem little more than games where the stakes are power and peoples’ lives.

When I think of the Alöwean Empire, I mainly remember one man. He was not even an Alöwean, but a fellow Illiri who served their empire. At least that is what my brothers, Ürstus and Sindor, would say. Father, on the other hand, considered the man’s appointment an opportunity for our people to gain influence. My brothers contended that Father’s views were rare. Most others, Alöwean and Illiri alike, considered the man a threat or even a traitor to our people.

That was before the war. I was five years old when I met the man, too young to grasp such opinions. I mainly remember his eyes: two bronze suns of welcome. They looked at me with such warmth.

He would kneel to meet my eye level and talk to me like an equal. Sometimes he would lift me off the ground, hold me high above him as if I was gliding like a hawk, and then sit me on the fence of our main corral. As he held me securely in place, we would watch Father lunge one of our horses.

I wish I could remember the man’s name. Mother would probably know, for she had a good memory.

The first time the man with bronze-colored eyes came to our ranch was to purchase one of our horses. He was accompanied by an older, grim-looking Alöwean who held some important rank in the Empire. I think they referred to themselves as Guardians. The Alöwean knew of our ranch, which was encouraging, for Father worked hard to maintain his family’s legacy of being the best horse breeders and trainers west of Mirror Lake.

After a second visit, the man with bronze-colored eyes settled on my favorite courser, Swiftsoul. Swiftsoul had speed, stamina, and agility. I had named the hazelnut-colored steed myself, helping Father raise him. Swiftsoul was a true stallion, full of spirit and power; he suited his new master well. Though I was sad to part with Swiftsoul, I was glad his new master sought to foster peace between us Illiri and the Alöweans. The man passed through our town often during those early years, which I appreciated, for it allowed me to see how Swiftsoul was faring. Seeing him happier and stronger made me glad.

I share this because it was when I was the happiest. Those were moments soaked in sunset, the most vibrant colors I have ever known. Time was simple. I was enamored by everything. The memories comfort me, just as the presence of the man with bronze-colored eyes once comforted me. I am not sure why he made me feel that way. Nonetheless, the memories also fill me with sadness, for they remind me of what has been lost.

So much has been lost.

* * *

“Take her out of here.” The prison warden’s calm voice sounded disappointed. Or was it calculating?

Prisoner 43-1-12 felt the cords loosened from her wrists and ankles. Rough, gloved hands reached under her armpits like hooks and pulled her from the chair, which stuck to her legs a moment then fell to the floor with stark wooden echoes.

She gritted her teeth against the burning pain of her bare knees and the top of her feet dragging along a stone hallway. A door creaked open ahead, but she could not lift her head to see it. Inside, the cell was dark. As the gloved hands released her, her head struck the floor, leaving her vision blurred and spinning. The door clanged shut, and a gust of stale air passed over her body.

She shivered and coughed. The damp material of her tunic itched, yet it was the only clothing she had—the only layer against the cold. She crawled toward the back of the cell, but quickly tired from the effort. Lying still offered some relief. She tried to pull her tunic down, but the cloth was not long enough to cover her knees. So she clutched her legs against her chest while her hands grasped her arms. The movement provided little improvement, though her body eventually calmed in numb submission. If only she had more hay to insulate her from the stone floor. If only her head would stop throbbing.

How often had this routine occurred, and for how long?

Everything from before seemed little more than a dream.

A soothing voice: Mother humming a lullaby. Her tender fingers stroke my hair, their touch whispering like the leaves of trees outside my window. A child’s voice joins the melody—my voice.

Mother, where have you gone? Who stole you from my side, leaving me alone in the night? Who will sing to me now, or sing with me?

I miss you.

I have tried to be strong like you. Have I made you proud?

For a moment, she thought she heard a melody. Had she been humming to herself, or had it been in her mind? She was not sure.

Her throat hurt.

Conscious of a trickling sound, she recalled how moisture gathered at the corner ceiling of the cell and fell in steady drops to a puddle below. Her thirst overcame her exhaustion. She crawled on her hands and knees to the puddle. The water quenched her parched throat, and eased some of the tension in her body. She accepted the dirty stone taste, for the water revived her a little, and the choice to drink from it was something she could control.

The darkness of the cell no longer seemed so pervasive. It must be morning, she thought. The day brought relief; for only at night did her tormentors come. Only at night did they really try to break her. She had lasted this long, however long it had been—days, weeks, months. She resolved to defy them still. They would not break her; not her spirit, anyway.

Touching her head, she remembered that her hair was a few inches long. It had been shaved upon her arrival to the prison. She tried to calculate how much time had passed by the length of her hair, but could only guess. It did not really matter. Knowing would not improve her situation. Knowing might actually make it worse.

She felt her face and winced. The fresh bumps were tender. She wondered what they looked like, what she looked like—filthy, unkempt, hollow, she imagined. Would they tire of looking at her in such a state, and leave her alone? Growing up, people had commented on her beauty. It used to fill her with confidence, but now she considered it a curse, a beacon to predators.

* * *

“You are a lovely young woman,” Mother commented.

Having finished brushing my long hair, she braided it back to look like hers. Only, while her hair was blonde, mine was auburn—dark like Father’s. I was thirteen years old, and could tend to my own hair, but I think she sometimes liked to do it just to be with me. It provided one of the few opportunities we could be alone together. I never protested, for those times were when I felt closest to her. She otherwise acted so withdrawn, as if behind an invisible shield. It sounds strange, but those small moments of letting her brush my hair reminded me that she was a woman like me. That we shared something unique between us, something my father and brothers would never understand—something deeper. I am not sure what to call it.

“Men will take increasing notice of you,” Mother continued, her hands working my hair methodically. She stood behind me as I sat. “Some may be quick to say they love you.”

“Is that wrong?” I asked.

“You need to be careful,” she replied. “Look beyond their words; observe the patterns of their behavior before opening your heart to them. A man’s so-called love may have no regard for who you actually are as a person. Such a man may only care about using your image or presence for himself. Therefore, do not embrace a profession of love too readily, for it could be a lure.”

I had an idea of what she might mean. A year or so earlier we had discussed my body, examining and considering its distinct features. I understood what s*x involved, at least the concept of it. “A lure to what exactly?” I asked, wanting to make sure I understood.