Post by wolf turing, d3. ✨ zoë. on May 9, 2021 17:49:15 GMT -5
Through the dull drumming of her pulse in her aching head, the gurgles of her famished stomach, the slow and torturous drip of water somewhere out of reach, Terra hears it.
She thinks it birdsong at first, like the tweets from the sparrows that rose her from sleep at Montague house. Then she thinks it just a figment of her imagination. A memory of bombshells whistling through the air before impact. The Keepers had bashed her over the head so far the last thing she remembered was their batons hammering against her body as she wildly brandished her knife.
Now she lies in an unfamiliar cage, dark and dreary, her knife long-gone and her skull pounding with pain.
Again, the birdsong. A whistle. A language only Terra could recognise. At its sound she sits up sharply, grunting with the movement, slowly making her way to the steel bars of her enclosure.
A quick scan finds not a soul near her, not even a Peacekeeper. As the song fades she wets her cracked lips, desperate to answer the call. All children of the Circle were taught many methods of communicating should words not be available. Whistles were an old war method, left for treetops and stealth - but right now, it was all she had.
Excitement beats weakly in her chest, the tiniest crackle of hope. Two short blasts of sound, then another for two seconds.
Friend? she asks through the air.
“and men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.”
You used to be scared a lot, when you'd see the kids playing soldiers and the Peacekeepers playing killers. Back when the bombs blowing up the school, or the factories, or the neighborhoods were louder than everything else. It's like that down here, everything sounds like a bomb in the silence. The drop of water somewhere other than your cell, the footsteps of Peacekeepers swapping shifts, or even cries of another child. You need something softer, closer to human than machine. You don't even realize you're whistling until the lullaby's last few notes trickle from his lips.
Your soft fingers follow the lines of your cell, like a bird trapped in a cage. That's what they called you after the war: bird boy. All them other kids spitting and throwing mud. Cause it must be your fault that they lost the war. Don't count the dead family and the drunk Uncle. Don't count how y'all never even threw a punch. It's okay though, you think to yourself as you curl into a ball against the bars, you've always felt like a grounded bird anyway.
You're about to close your eyes and try to sleep against the hard ground when you hear it. Your eyes flutter open and like a curious pup in the kennel you peer out as much as you can from your cage. You can't tell where they come from, who they come from, but the two whistles are as clear to you as a beautiful red rose atop a vat of oil.
You drop back away for a second, hesitation holding your throat. Since the war no ones wanted to be your friend. You're the freak. But... You quickly crawl back to the bars. They understand your song. It doesn't matter here, these whistles are your voice. Both of your voices.
You purse your lips gently as a short five note song known in Ten fills the air. Mama used to say they'd sing it in the factories after accidents. You don't even remember the words, but the message is what matters.
Post by wolf turing, d3. ✨ zoë. on May 15, 2021 0:05:35 GMT -5
Perhaps they've come to save her.
Are you okay?
Perhaps they're not a friend at all.
It's instinctive to assume she cannot trust anyone, doubled down by years of training to always act as if everyone is an enemy. She never really had a childhood. How could one when they spent it running from aircrafts and pressing hands over ears, willing that the bombs wouldn't hit them tonight. Despite a youth destroyed by warfare Terra can't help but allow herself to childishly hope that whoever is out there, communicating to her in a language only someone from what constitutes as home would understand, is on her side.
Yes, she responds - although the throbbing in her head says otherwise. The Keepers could've stabbed her, shot her in the knee, rendered her helpless when thrown to the wolves. The fact that they left her whole tells her they're not allowed to damage her.
After a moment spent toying with trust versus blind faith, she whistles out her name one letter at a time.
She doesn't need to tell them what District she's from. Their language does that just fine.