A Song of Silence

Chapter 7

Astrid

We are of two worlds. Those who obey, and those who choose not to. But why should we choose a path of destruction if we can instead choose a path of dignity that will lead us to our desires? It is entirely illogical. Freedom over destruction every time. So we choose the Imperium, who will take us to exactly that.

I lift my quill – an elegant copper-colored feather – with a graceful flourish, satisfied with my work. That should be good. I gather up the pages of the loose-leaf paper in a neat pile, then step up. As I do so, I make sure to push my chair under my desk as the Imperium would want me to, perhaps partially out of habit. Mr. Amery smiles wider as I hand my essay over to him to turn it in, seeing my tiny, careful handwriting and the length of my essay, which exceeds the minimum by far.

The bell rings as the rest of my classmates hand in their work. One of them, Erinne, looks back at me with a smile. We were once friends, but that ended when we started in this school three years ago. Since then, we have only drifted apart. She has made new friends, being ever the extrovert, and I was left alone. Unless you count Callisto. But I don't think she counts me as a friend, nor do I think she will ever. Erinne stands next to her other friend, Charlise, I recognize, who pulls her away toward their next class. As they disappear around the corner, I realize for the first time how envious I am of their uncaring, effortless beauty with their heart-shaped faces and bright blue eyes and jet black hair that falls in perfect sheets, both contributing to the common misconception that the two of them are twins. Much prettier than my own dirty blond hair and dull grayish eyes, the color of clouds warning of an impending storm. They're still nice enough to me, but I doubt we could ever go back to the friends that I wish we could have been, could have stayed as. Oh, well. At least now I have nothing to distract me from the ones that truly require me to do my duty for my country, the Imperium.

We have been taught from young that they are our supreme leaders. We do what they say, and in return, they do what is best for us. It is only a fair tradeoff that we do our best to uphold the system and keep it running, or else our whole world will collapse once again into what it was before they revealed themselves and their insurmountable grasp of the way humanity works and the science and developmental progress of medicines that would surely allow our nation to sustain for years upon years, generations upon generations, into the future.

Next up, the whole of our school has the Pouring to test us once again. We march into the auditorium with rows upon rows of tables and innumerable glass jars filled with crystal-clear water in uniform lines and silently move to the desks at which we have always done it, and as the gong rings, I lose myself in a whirlpool of their control.

***

"To those of you still here, congratulations on your successful completion of another Pouring. The Imperium applauds your loyalty and your appreciation for a cause larger than yourself."

This is strange. They don't usually end the Pouring with an announcement. What is so different about today?

"As a reward for those of you who have shown your allegiance to our rightful leaders for all these times, you will be offered a temporary position to assist the Imperium in their works. This will mean that you will accompany a member of the Imperium and learn their ways to prepare you for a future of joining them, if you prove yourself. To the others, you will be...disciplined accordingly."

What do they mean? No one at my school has failed the Pouring for years. At least, I think so. Then, from my rigid, wide-legged stance, I spot her. Way off to the corner, her long golden locks shielding her face from view. Her soft cheeks are red and stained with the tracks of tears, but somehow the edges of her lips are still quirked up in a smile. She is tiny, one of the smallest at our school. I have seen her before, but I do not know her well. Graece, her name is. She is one of those people who hides in the corner, observing as the world goes by. One of those who spends their time watching instead of ignoring, listening instead of speaking. Quiet and sweet. She can't be more than twelve or thirteen.

Graece is quickly ushered away from the rest of us, deemed as subordinate and unwanted and dangerous. All that time of sitting by and surveying must have been a cold calculation to destroy us, not simply a meek disposition. That had surely meant to fool us. And it did. It made a fool out of us all. Except the Imperium.

It's as if someone has actually pulled our attention in one direction all as our gazes shift in unison to this girl who has failed the Pouring. She will be punished.

The glass lies at her desk on its side, gently rocking back and forth. A couple times it comes close to falling, falling, falling and shattering into a million pieces, but it stays on the wood until it eventually grows still, no longer shaking and rolling. The water that is so delicately contained in the cups and jugs of all the others' stations is spilled, dripping steadily from the table.

Drip, drip, drip. The even sound is somewhat soothing, but in this room of painted gray walls, marble gray floor, the ominous feeling of being aware that one mistake would throw your life away and would have you killed, it is hard to stay calm and tranquil.

At least it wasn't me, is all I can think.

"You," the Pouring administrator – whose name I still do not know – says to the young girl cowering before his glare that pierces like a thousand knives, voice dripping with venom and through gritted teeth. "You have disappointed us all."

"I didn't...I wasn't...I'm not..." Graece stutters, unable to come up with anything to halt her rapidly coming demise.

"You...You what?" the tester asks mockingly.

She raises her head very slightly. "I'm not a traitor. I never wanted to disobey them. Your control slipped."

The officiator's eyes narrow further than I thought was possible, filled with rage and fury. "Are you insulting me?" he asks.

"N-no, never." Graece is quivering, scared and terrified and pleading. "Please, have mercy."

"On a traitor? Have mercy on a traitor to the Imperium, our great rulers?" The sarcasm is evident. He gives a one-toned and sharp, mirthless laugh, his whole face showing the hard-etched lines that speak his anger. "Seize her," he orders the guards waiting outside carelessly.

They come and drag try to her away but she refuses to let them, firmly planting her tiny feet. All the while she is screaming "I never would! I am loyal! It is a mistake!"

But her words are nothing and pointless.

I feel a moment of heart-wrenching sadness for Graece as she is led away from us, to her punishment for her accidental defiance that only grew with everything she says to defend herself, only to remember that I must not feel this way about someone who defies them.

She is no longer the quiet one who sits by. Her picture will be known by us all, but for her misdeeds against the Imperium, for her "mistake," as she called it. Her body becomes motionless and tense, overcome with dullness and emptiness. What comes from her lips is not her own.

"No traitor deserves to live."

Her own hands are around her neck, and she is choking, but they only squeeze harder until she is gasping for breath, trying to force air down her lungs.

They will not forgive her. I do not forgive her. I must not forgive her.

"It was an accident," she whispers hoarsely, feebly, like the small child that she is. No. I cannot be sorry. This must be done.

Then I watch the light die from her eyes as she goes limp in their arms. Her silence is the only thing that can be heard.