Silentium means "Silence" in Latin.

Silentium

This was born out of the Margarita idea, but I've developed it now, and the plot has finally formed in my mind. I have deleted the other story. Enjoy and please review.

Prologue

She sits in the large armchair, her eyes half-closed, her hands resting on her chest. A small, tattered old book lies forgotten on her lap as she stares into the flames, her face deadpan and expressionless. Silence triumphs all around, even the fire makes no noise.

No one could call her pretty, but there is something interesting in her face nevertheless. She is tall and very thin, so thin you think you can snap her in two if you tried, with gingery-blonde hair that falls in messy curls just below her jaw, and a pale oval face. Her sharp, hawk-like nose is covered in freckles and her thin lips are pressed together in a stubborn way that shows she is strong-willed. Her eyes are not large, but long, like those of Egyptian goddesses, and light-grey, flecked with green. Most of the time they are heavily outlined in black kohl, but tonight they are clear and bright under white eyelids.

She is sitting in a small living room that contains only an armchair, sofa and writing desk. The fire is the only source of light, apart from the large golden moon peering in through the window. It sends a narrow moonbeam that rests on her legs, which are bare and stretched out before her.

A light breeze suddenly blows, stirring her hair, and snaps her out of her reverie. She looks up and stares at the moon, a slight shudder passing through her. For the first time, her face betrays emotion and we see a small tear slipping from the corner of her eye. It slides down her face and falls onto the yellowed page of the book, creating a stain. She doesn't seem to notice this, but continues staring out of the window with a look of some strange longing. Then she quickly gets up, walks over to it and pulls the curtains together. Thendraws her nightgown more tightly around her. She is shivering...

The door creaks and she spins round, startled. In the doorway stands a large man, a black sweater pulled over his pyjamas. He is thin, with a short beard and unkempt hair.

"Papa…" she says quietly, and for a moment she looks like a small child.

.In many ways he resembles her, the same hair and eye-colour, the same nose, the same face-shape…

The man walks in, holding two mugs of steaming tea. She smiles slightly and nods at him. He passes her a mug and sits himself down in the armchair, picking up the book that had fallen when she stood up.

"You're reading it again?" he asks, and there is a note of anxiousness in his voice.

She doesn't look at him, but sips her tea.

"I couldn't sleep…" she whispers.

"Another victim of the moon?" he says with a little smile.

She stares at him for a second, then replies -

"He doesn't deserve light…"

"He deserves peace," finished the man quietly.

These lines, though probably sounding like nonsense to us, meant something extremely special to the pair and brought comfort to them both.

There was a pause, when the man reached out his hand and put it on her shoulder.

"Are you ready for tomorrow?"

She nodded. Her conscious always pricked at times like these. How she found the strength to leave him each time, she didn't know. He was so alone, so vulnerable…

He reads her mind, and pats her head, as though she is a little toddler again.

"I'll be fine," he says. "I've got work, haven't I?"
She looks up at him, scanning the lines of his prematurely-aged face. There are silver threads in his hair, and unless he smiles, his eyes looked sad.

She takes his hand in hers and leans her forehead against it.

"Poor Papa, poor, poor Papa," she repeats over and over, trying not to let the tears fall.

The man watched his daughter silently. Although she generally looks old for her age, now is one of the moments when her inner child suddenly shines through. She is growing up so fast…

"Papa…" she murmurs finally, lifting her head. "Papa, you have to finish it. You have to."

He sighs but does not answer. She squeezes his hand.

"You have to. For me."

He looks into her eyes, and they stare back, wide and pleading.

"For Mama," she adds quietly.

He lowers his eyes, then nods. She smiles and leans her head against his hand again. Then, in a voice barely audible, she starts to sing. And her voice seems to mix with the soft summer breeze, and the bright golden moon and crackling of the fire. It is a beautiful melody, and it seems as though we have heard it before, as though it was long forgotten. As though it came about when the moon was young and time was just being born…

Listen to the silence,

Listen and you'll hear,

What you did not receive,

In your living years.

Listen and you'll strengthen,

As your troubled mind,

Leaves memories of suffering

And pain far, far behind.

Listen and you'll learn,

Of things you never knew,

And long-awaited peace

Will finally come to you.

So close your eyes and listen,

To what is yours to keep,

And nothing will disturb you,

For I shall guard your sleep.

One word - Review…