A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry I've been so lazy about updating, but I've finished my other story, so this is my sole project at the moment. Updates should be fairly more frequent now :)
Silence Dies
Two more things had changed by autumn. The first was that Brigitte was gone: my aunt had sent her off to finishing school in Evermore. The weeks beforehand were a flurry of activity; Brigitte had to have a whole new wardrobe made, and my aunt constantly lectured her on the importance of making connections and the risk of embarrassing the family—in high volumes at all hours of the day and night. By Hearthfire, she was on her way, and despite it being her first time away from home, I could swear the look on her face as the carriage rattled down the street was one of relief, not apprehension. The second change was that I had started school.
Later, when I would speak to others about their school experiences, the answers followed a fairly predictable pattern. They learned how to read, how to write, history, basics of magic, the best ways to smuggle discreet weapons (I knew several Shadowscales—more on that later). But this was High Rock in the height of the Empire, and we were Bretons. On the first day, twelve of us traipsed into the classroom and sat at our desks while our teacher handed out daggers. Our task? To prick a finger and heal the resulting wound. Let me remind you that we were six.
That was the way of things, and we didn't question it. Magic is something instinctual to a Breton, something that should come as naturally as breathing. Life was harsh, and we had to be prepared. Simple basics of language and arithmetic were something we were supposed to have already learned at home; whoever fell behind was left behind. Only the strongest—the best prepared, the most well-equipped—would survive; this was something we all understood, even at six.
But if those stringent standards weren't enough to motivate us, out teacher was. An Altmer with a frizzy white mane and bulging eyes, he would stalk the rows of our desks barking commands in a voice bordering on a shriek. We called him the Master, and for the first several years, we lived in constant terror of him. By the time we were about nine, however, he had become a running joke. During our breaks, as we gathered out in the garden, a casual passerby might hear us loudly mocking him to a string of constant giggles. This, I'm ashamed to admit, was largely my doing.
Understand, though: after years living with my aunt, very little intimidated me anymore. Yes, The Master resembled a wraith. Yes, he was prone to raging fits of near-hysterics when presented with anything less than perfection. Yes, he was unafraid to let us know exactly what he thought of our performance. But he had ever raised a hand against any of us—which was a constant threat with my aunt, although I hadn't required any trips to a healer since the kitten incident.
My fearlessness had made me a source of admiration among the other girls. In the complex social hierarchies of children, I ranked quite close to the top. But I was never the reigning queen—that title belonged to Carolara.
As much as my classmates feared the Master, I think they feared Carolara even more. Because although the Master's authority disappeared once we stepped out of the classroom, Carolara's did not. She had some noble title—the daughter of the Queen's second cousin twice removed, I think, or something similar—and she had the attitude to match it. The school's garden was her kingdom, and she ruled it with an iron fist.
In some ways, it was similar to the old games Brigitte and I had used to play. However, instead of gallant knights and swashbuckling adventurers, we were Carolara's ladies-in-waiting. Instead of slaying trolls, the other girls would bob around and curtsy while I braided her hair.
This pattern could have continued nicely until graduation, but for that one fateful afternoon. It was toward the end of the school year, and spring had arrived at long last. Weak sunshine became common in the mornings, but strengthened by afternoon. Plants sprouted to life, and the few species of songbirds that made their way this far north began to make their music. On the first truly warm day, we were gathered at our usual spot by the fountain, when we heard a cry from the corner of the garden. Our heads all immediately swiveled in that direction, and we saw Aurnie hurrying toward us.
Let me explain Aurnie. If Carolara was at the top of the social hierarchy, Aurnie was most decidedly at the bottom. She was the poorest of my classmates; her clothing was always sporting worn spots and frayed hems, and the lunch she brought was meager. Her hair was often disheveled, her nose was always running, and she had a narrow, pinched nose and a set of eyes too big for her face. She was frequently the object of Carolara's scorn, and in the cruel, cowardly way of children, I said nothing—deep down too afraid of Carolara to stand up for her. But despite it all, Aurnie Hawkston was about to alter the course of my destiny.
"Carolara," she wheezed as she approached. Aurnie also had a breathing problem—another detail Carolara used to mock her incessantly. "Oh, Carolara, you have to come here, you have to see." In all honesty, I don't know why Aurnie would dare to approach her—much less address the queen directly. But for the first time in her life, Aurnie had some interesting information—and judging from the notes of fear lingering in her tone, I think she thought it would be just enough to curry favor with the queen.
"I don't think so." Despite the fact that she was perched on the edge of the fountain and Aurnie awkwardly loomed over her, Carolara still managed to look down her nose at the other girl. "Now can you move? You're standing in my light," she said pointedly, tilting her face up to the sunlight as the other girls tittered. Aurnie backed several feet away, looking distinctly uncomfortable, but she doggedly persisted.
"You have to come here," she repeated. "You have to see it. I think it's dead." That got Carolara's attention.
"What's dead?" she asked sharply. She abruptly stood, and the rest of us followed suit. Aurnie swallowed nervously.
"It's…it's a little bird," she stammered, "and it's hurt. Really hurt. It's not moving, but I thought I saw some trace residuals when I tried to detect life…" Allow me to point out for a moment that despite her lack of social skills, Aurnie was smart. Smarter than all of us, in fact. She would eventually outdo us all; although that would inadvertently lead to her demise. I've met her—here, I mean. Even in death, she was still the strangest little thing.
But that was enough to pique Carolara's interest. Narrowing her eyes, she swept past Aurnie, the rest of us trailing after her. She stalked across the garden to the far corner, beneath the massive spruce that grew there. And we all gasped as we caught sight of it.
The little sparrow was very much alive. It fluttered frantically, struggling to gain momentum—but there was a dark stain on the ground beneath. My stomach clenched as I instinctively knew that it was its blood.
"Well," Carolara said. "We have to help it."
"Should we go get the Master?" a girl asked, and Carolara snapped around.
"Don't be stupid, Felicity," she growled. "He won't care. And we'll just get a lecture on how we should have known how to handle it ourselves."
"I could try a healing spell. If we could at least—"
"Shut up, Aurnie," Carolara hissed. The other girl wisely fell quiet. She may have earned some favor, but she was not yet securely in the queen's good graces. "No—we'll just have to take care of it. We need a box to put it in. Somebody get their lunch basket." There was a murmur of conversation, and some girl volunteered, dashing off back across the garden.
"And we need to get it a blanket. Jeanne, take off your scarf."
"But my brother just gave it to me. It's from Summerset Isle, and it—" Jeanne tried to protest, but Carolara's icy tone cut her off.
"I said—take it off," she ordered though clenched teeth. Jeanne meekly obeyed, and Carolara continued. "What do birds even eat? We'll need to get it some water, too—does anyone have anything to put it in?"
The brainstorming continued, but I had knelt down beside the bird. It let a few faint cheeps—cries of pain and frustration, not a merry song. As I looked closer, I miserably realized nothing we could do for it would do it any good. Not a Summerset Isle silk scarf turned makeshift blanket, not a few crumbs of bread torn from Sylvia's sandwich, not even one of Aurnie's healing spells. Whatever had attacked it, it had put up a good fight—and lost an entire wing in the process.
I reached out to stroke its silken feathers, but it barely even noticed, its eyes glazed over in shock. I jumped as several drops of moisture spilled onto my hand—I hadn't even realized I was crying.
It's too late for it. The faint whisper drifted across my consciousness. It can never be made whole. It will never take to the skies again—never raise its voice in song.
My vision blurred as the tears fell harder and faster. Do it now, the voice crooned. End its suffering.
A sob wracked through my body, and I reached out and gently took hold of it. Set it free…
"I'm sorry," I croaked. One quick twist, a faint crunch—and the bird went still in my hands. The fever faded from its eyes. The brief brush against my cheek may have been the breeze—or its spirit rising to join its feathered brothers and sisters in the sky.
"What did you do?" Carolara's voice suddenly lashed out. I set the bird's body down with shaking hands, and stumbled to my feet.
"I—I had t-to." I was really crying now, and my words broke with the sobs. "It was in so much pain, and its wing…w-we couldn't have…we couldn't …"
"What is wrong with you?" Even through the sobs, I could feel Carolara's voice rising, and I froze. "You—you killed it? Just like that?"
"I had to!" I sniffled, stifling back a sob. "It was in pain! We couldn't have helped it! Not even the Master can regrow limbs!"
"We were going to make a bed for it!" Carolara's face was turning crimson. "We even went and got an eggshell to put water in and everything!" Her eyes narrowed as she glowered down at me. "And you ruined it."
There was an old, familiar rage welling up in me. The poor bird still lay by my feet, its mangled wing facing skyward—and Carolara was angry that she didn't get to treat it as a living doll?
Insufferable little floozy! The inner voice welled up again, trembling with rage. How dare she? How dare she!
I could feel the tendons of my hand tightening, the muscles tensing along my forearm, up my bicep, through my shoulder. Make her pay.
My fist smashed forward like a blast of lightning—and I punched Carolara square in the face. She let out a shriek, her head flying backward, and I saw a spurt of blood. But she recovered, and the fury welling up in her face matched my own. "How dare you?" she roared, and then she hurtled forward, tackling me to the ground. And the fight was on.
I think the other girls were in a state of shock as we rolled around on the ground, ferociously exchanging blows. Faces were scratched, hair was pulled, and I think even teeth got involved in the mix. I was smaller, but scrappier, and in the end, I managed to wrestle Carolara into a headlock, punching her repeatedly as she wailed.
It was Aurnie, actually, who finally pulled me off of her, and several other girls managed to restrain Carolara as she rose to her feet and lunged for me again. She finally ran out of steam, slapping away several of the girls as they tried to help her straightened her skirts and smooth her hair. Once she had everything adjusted, she turned to me, eyes burning with malevolence. "Gods, Antoinetta," she snarled, wiping at the blood trickling down her lip, "you are such a freak."
She turned and stuck her bloodied nose in the air. "Ladies, we're leaving." And she set off across the garden. The rest of them followed, all stealing nervous glances in my direction as they went.
I had been unseated from my position as Carolara's lieutenant, I realized as I turned back to the poor, fallen bird. But I could hardly bring myself to care as I silently dug a grave for it. The other girls had gathered back by the fountain by the time I finished, but I knew better than to join them.
No one would even look at me as we gathered back inside to resume our lessons. But at the end of the day, I strode out of the building just as haughtily as Carolara. I should have been devastated, crying, groveling for forgiveness—but instead I was untouchable, filled with a burning sense of righteousness. That's the feeling, it would seem, when one takes the first step toward fulfilling her destiny.
