At first, she doesn't speak. She can't speak.
She doesn't know how.
Her language is one of motion; one of movements, one of fights, one of violence, one
of a sonnet and a dance and a cry.
It's a cry.
She doesn't know how; at least, not initially, until David Cain sent the first knife spiralling into the gut, and then, it's the first of the many as she cries and screams and shrieks, but in a language without words; a quiet wail and a solemn whisper as she begs for him not to, as he laughs and stabs his blade into another man's torso and slices the head off two more, as the cerise blood splays the walls and paints the stony canvas of the cave sanguine, and leaves her staring, hollow, still, broken at the corpses he left behind, her mind torn and gutted and ravaged from the inside out.
Then, before she knows it, she's crying. She's screaming, fading away from the threads of sanity, haunted by the petrified souls of her past and by her own grotesque self. She's singing a wail, dancing a spiel, communicating without sounds, in a language without words, in a language that was hers.
It's her cry.