Disclaimer: I don't own it.
A/N: this is the revised version.
In most places and most times there is music. It greatly varies, but in one aspect it is the same: it reflects the feelings of those near it.
In my village there was the song of the sea, the song on the pounding tides as they raged during the storm, the sounds of the gently crashing of the summer surf, and the slow roars of the waves that the children jumped in. There was the song of the trees, the salty wind ruffling their branches, rubbing them against the sides of the houses. And last of all there was the song of voices, the people that lived there because it was their protection from the world that can be so cold and cruel. Later the sounds of the peoples' voices grew subdued, and later they were not heard at all, but the times I like to remember were full of their voices.
But now, in this new world that I knew so little about, I encountered something that I hadn't experienced before: the silence of pain. There was a strange and dark music here, only the oppressive silence of those that keep quiet to save themselves, their loved ones, and their city.
But even in silence, music must be heard, so the heart will sing when there is nothing else to rely on. Some have tried to stifle the song of the spirit, and they have failed, for the strong are those who persevere, and the strong are those who hear the music most clearly. There was something in the fortress that tried to quiet the songs, and it nearly succeeded. But not quite.
Some would say I am insane, to hear such music, and I beg to differ: It is these sounds that have kept me sane, the sounds that can never leave my memory and will always be there for me to escape to, should the need arise. No, it is the ones who would call me insane, they are the ones who will bear any burden without the help of a guiding song.
I had not been there long, even though it seemed like forever. There was little sense of the passage of time, because we never saw daylight. But I knew, somehow, that I had not spent much time in that place of suffering. The guards, dressed in bloodstained armor, had brought me food six times, and I had not yet seen anyone but them: no other prisoners, no one more important than a guard.
Something happened that day, something that lingered in my mind for years afterward, even when I had more important things to think about than my past experiences. It was on that day I heard the first traces of music in the city.
The guards were more irritable that day than they usually were; I heard them yelling at each other, their voices echoing down the halls. They dragged people in and out of the cells more than usual, and I could hear them kicking at the prisoners as they took them down the corridor.
Farther down, I heard a door open, a door that I had never heard before. I sat up straighter, wondering if perhaps the opening of this door might have something to do with me. It was just a cell door, with more of a creak, as if it had not been opened as often as the others. There was a short, shrill scream, and the sound of a hand hitting flesh.
Then, an hour or more later: song. High, clear notes, sung in a voice with the lisp of childhood and an innocence that would, surely, not linger much longer. It was a girl-child, I was sure. There was a child in this place, and I cried for her soul. I did not pray. Perhaps once I may have been able to believe in some kind of god, but not after everything I knew had been laid to waste.
That was the last time I heard the true music in that place. Days later I saw them, dragging her, a girl of perhaps five years old, with azure hair and ebony skin, something I hadn't seen before. A trickle of dark liquid streamed from her mouth, and by her pallid skin and limp stature I knew she was dead.
I made a vow: to live, to escape, to hear music of the world again.
Even as I vowed, I wondered whether it was a vow I could keep.