Songs of the Horizon

(Part 1: The Rumour) Uzma Chapter 1:

Is it fate or choice holding Uzma's hand steady against the breeze? She breathes out and closes one eye. The question had been haunting her ever since she woke up this morning.

The string of the bow digs into her bare fingers. She exhales slowly, her cheek grazing against the wooden shaft of the arrow as she zeroes in on her target. Around her, the wind blows harder than it was a few moments ago, rippling violently through her clothes as she leans over the edge of the rooftop. 

It was fate when she met Sibyl, that's for sure. There was no choice when Sibyl selected her. In the same manner that standing precariously on the rooftop is both a choice and not. Which is Uzma's roundabout way of saying that she is not a killer. Even though she is excellent at it.

Below her, the hubbub of daily crowds chatters up to her like a warm breath against her neck and chin. She takes no real notice of them. She breathes out, ignoring the ache in her shoulder and legs.

What she cannot discern, even now, in this moment, as her muscles hold taut against the fighting air, is how much Uzma has to and how much of her wants to. Not that she wants to kill. Not necessarily... no, it's more about who she wants to save.

Sibyl's soft, wide eyes peer up at Uzma from her mind's eye. There is no choice, not really, not when it comes to protecting Sibyl.

Uzma releases the bow.

With a silent whoosh, the arrow soars into the air. Uzma watches it with a detached sort of pride as it curves up and then spindles down in one smooth stroke. My time is coming, she thinks as the arrow flies. By tomorrow, everything will have changed.

Uzma doesn't need to watch— she knows her aim is perfect— but she does, regardless. The scene unravels like a silent vignette. The weapon pierces the back of a bald head and through an eye. Uzma sees the blood, splattering out haphazardly and landing on the face of the woman sitting across from him. The man stays frozen for a moment, held upright simply by shock. Then, his head falls forward like a heavy weight against the table.

"Poive yva Venzia," Uzma whispers under her breath, raising one gloved hand to cover her left eye. For Venzia. Although, in her head, she thinks only of Sibyl.

An earth-shattering scream splits the sky in half. The crowd, which had been milling around the markets only a few moments ago, morphs into raging chaos.

Uzma is always surprised that it is the sound of a belated scream, not the arrow itself, or the blood, which resumes time.

Is it only fate, then, that the woman who was sitting across Uzma's mission witnessed a death? 

Uzma should be running now, not contemplating morality. She should already be on the steps of the fire escape behind her, scaling down the walls and then blending into the stampeding people below before someone catches sight of her. Uzma, go! Go! She screams to herself, willing her legs to move, but she is frozen in place, her eyes trained on the woman across the table from her target.

The woman stares at the man, horrified. She doesn't scream. She doesn't move. Not even to wipe the blood from her face. She doesn't blink.

A twinge of pain leaves a paper-cut slice against her heart. Uzma knows this feeling well. She holds onto it tightly.

The woman, as if startled out of her reverie, suddenly stands up on shaking legs. The chair tilts and falls behind her, but the woman takes no notice of it. She straightens down her hair with bloodied hands, trying to blindly tame the mess it must be in. As if she knew that the shock must have raised each strand to the ends like static electricity does. It hadn't. Her hair was still wound in the tight low bun, not a single strand out of place until she smeared her bloody hands through it.

The sight of such a mundane, frivolous act feels jarring against the rest of the scene but Uzma understands it. The woman wears a long full-sleeved dress under her thick, red velvet coat. This must have been a date for her. The twinge returns like a bubble trapped between Uzma's lungs. She breathes around it. The woman topples in her shoes, even while standing in place. Uzma is reminded of a toddler taking its first steps, or of an old, drunk man taking his last. The woman regains balance by grabbing the table; inadvertently, she places her hand in the pile of blood and brains. That's when she starts to scream.

The sound wavers like a mirage, up and down, up and down, all in one single breath. It breaks off when she loses breath, but she finds another voice, at another tone and the wail continues, this time shorter and more sporadic. Uzma wonders what snapped the woman into motion in the first place. It wasn't the initial scream of a passing witness. Was it a flutter of cloth? The sound of another footstep running? Was it the twitch of his finger, far after death, like some perverse attempt of clinging to life? As if hearing Uzma's thoughts, the woman looks up. Uzma's heart falls into her throat. She stumbles back.

It isn't clear whether the woman saw her or not. What if she did? The thought enters her mind, uninvited. Uzma cannot tell whether it is relief or something else that she feels. She shakes her head, trying to calm her suddenly nervous heart. She couldn't possibly have seen her from down there. Uzma was tactically concealed by houses and trees. Still, she moves backward, crouching. What am I doing? She grabs her things quickly and bolts.