For the greater part of her day, with guarded breaks for meals and bodily functions, she sewed.
Kalifa. Jabari.
The tips of her fingers where she pulled the needle through the canvas, again and again, were thick with unfeeling calluses.
Adanna. Kwame.
But still, they bled when the slipping of the thread wore fresh grooves into her beleaguered skin for long enough. She had never been given a thimble. It mattered little to her now.
Isabis. Hasani.
The thread came away red between her fingers. She kept on sewing, weaving her own life force into the masterwork that would grace the walls of the new monument that was rising on the palace grounds just outside her cell window. Sometimes she caught a glimpse of the workmen before the sun went down.
Binah. Eshe.
Her duty was to complete two tapestries. One for the dead, the other for the survivors. The data had been collected in the latest census of the city, as well as the older records that had survived the Aldmeri Domain's scouring of the palace. Even so, she was sure that there were names missing.
Asha. Kasim.
It would be a long time before she would make it to the survivor's tapestry.
Zuri. Tibor.
She wondered if she would even recognize her name by the time she reached it.
*.*.*
The hour between dusk and night belonged to her alone.
She was permitted ink and writing utensils, though the guards were careful to collect the pens by the time the hour was up. An upturned crate was her makeshift desk and she wrote by the fading light of the setting sun as it slowly sank behind the bars of her window.
It was difficult to write under such constraints. An hour was scarcely any time to fall into the trance required of composition. She was getting better at summoning it on command, but with so little time it never felt as thought she were getting enough practice. Hence, she wrote precious little.
Editing was even harder. It was one thing to dash out a slew of words in a fit of inspiration but quite another to squint at them critically, trying to decide if she'd said what she meant to say.
One particular poem, she'd been editing for months. Sometimes she'd spend the whole hour staring at it before changing one word in the moment before the guard was due to take her pen away. Sometimes she wrote pages of stanzas before crossing them out furiously the next day.
But now, as she looked at it, she felt something that might have been contentment. It was finished, as near as finished as any poem could be. Doubtless she'd look back on it in months and see something wrong that she was unable to see now, but for the moment, a lightness that she hadn't felt in months filled her thoughts.
She closed her journal and handed the pen through the bars.
*.*.*
There was a bird in a gilded cage
beautiful and lonely
her plumage the envy of all
her song, ascending to heights of sweetness
and bitterness alike
but no one could hear her voice
her cage swung so high above the city lights
that her song grew weak from straining to be heard
so she pecked at the hand that fed her
drawing blood until the cage door was thrown open in shock
and flew into the night
Outside, her plumage was plucked by greedy hands
her song grew hoarse and ugly
but she cared little because the wind
was under her wings
the horizon spread before her
she cawed to hear the sound of her own voice
scarcely heeding the blood that stained the cage she had left behind
There was a bird in an iron cage
lonesome and homely
her plumage plucked to the skin
her song faint, but sweet
its bitterness fading away
few could hear her voice
her cage below the ground, hidden away from common sight
but her song grows strong from straining to be heard
she pecks not at the hands that feed her
the blood she draws is her own and with it, she feeds those who come after
long into the night
Notes:
Thank you to everyone for reading! This was my biggest project to date and I am so proud of myself for powering through and finishing it.
There's a good chance I might be doing a bit more editing in the future and also maybe-possibly:
- A short story about Rayya and Carolinne in Hammerfell
- A small series of additional Iya stories from Redguard mythology
Keep your eyes peeled and see you there! 3