A Song of Faithless Shadows

33. The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

Gwyneth

I'm rushing through the stacks without much mind for the labyrinth of it all. I rely on my feet to pull me out of it. I needed four walls and some quiet. Though when I pass Clotho, of course she doesn't let me go with just a nod.

She steps in front of me, brows raised. I know well enough to sit.

You lose your voice yet you never come to me? She writes. Why? Thought I wouldn't understand?

I lean down over her desk, grabbing for her other quill, unable to look up at her as I write. I've been busy. I'm sorry.

I'm sure you have, she writes in return. But you've been hiding from me. It's alright.

My eyes well. It's all starting to spiral now, the hopelessness of it all. Hell, moments ago, I even considered that maybe my voice was taken from me not to inhibit my speech, but my singing. Singing, the first thing I ever did for myself after...

I had forgotten what it was like to have no volume, I write, feeling guilt wash over me in a tide of the unavoidable. I'm sorry I had ever taken my voice for granted.

Clotho's round cheeks pull sweetly with her smile. There was a kindness in the way she looked at me, not laced with pity. Understanding. Perhaps the only person in Prynthian who might understand.

Your voice, Gwyn- that's a thing nobody took for granted, she smiles as she scrawls. The sound of it stilled waters. You used it for good, lifted up your volume in worship. That's more than most people can say for their voices.

I run my palms across my pants.

She picks the quill up again. Take it from an old woman without a voice. To see someone with that sort of gift... to watch them waste their words on hate and cruelty... it's a slap in the face, but you, Gwyn? You honored that voice of yours.

I'm not sure if it's coming back, I admit.

Clotho takes a moment, her eyes trained on the parchment in front of her. Then, she writes, your handwriting could use some work.

From anyone else, the comment would've dug. Writing is presently all I have, and Clotho intends to tell me that it's not good enough? But she's trying to cheer my up. I know it. Could it?

She nods, a smile tucked into the corners of her lips as she writes, things get better because you make them get better. Whether that's finding your voice. Whether that's practicing your handwriting. Don't quit before you've started.

I squint at her, her meaning lost on me.

Sometimes you recover your voice. Recover it like you never lost it, she writes in summation, stalling before she writes the next bit. And sometimes, your handwriting gets better.

...

Nesta and Emerie walk alone into the training ring to retrieve me, sending Cassian and Rhys on. I don't know where the Shadowsinger is- and I'm not sure why I care. "You must be hungry," Emerie says, her and Nesta rounding opposite shoulders.

I shrug, continuing to swing at the bag.

"I've never known you to be a girl who abandoned a rainy day in the library," Nesta says, eying me with an abundance of caution, looking past what's concealed. I chew on my lip, glad there wasn't a quill and parchment available as my eyes flick to the training ring.

"You wanna spar then?" Emerie tilts her head. It wasn't like me. I struggled to spar either of them, constantly afraid I'd hurt them, pulling my punches. But I feel too tightly wound in this moment. I needed an outlet.