The Girl Behind the Words

Brian Kesinger Challenge

Alora was running for her life, thanking her late father for giving her his black hair and dark skin, making her harder to spot in the dark. She was also grateful for the moon, the only light she could use without being spotted immediately. She spun around a tree, her leather satchel bouncing against her hip, her pet dragon Miath hidden deep inside it with the Script.

Her heart pounding in her chest, branches narrowly missing her eyes, she raced on until she saw the dirt path merchants used to cross the woods. Beside it was a large rock. Checking no one was behind her, she flung herself over the rock and crouched behind it, using nearby bushes as cover and wincing as the jagged branches scratched her arms. She listened for her pursuers, but they soon went along the path, thinking she'd used the cover of the trees. When she was certain they were gone, she allowed herself to breathe.

A noise in her satchel made her smile.

"All right, Miath. I think they're gone. You can come out."

She opened the satchel, releasing a small purple dragon which clambered up her arm and settled on her shoulder. As he did, Alora reached up and stroked his scaly back. It rubbed its small head against her cheek.

"Shh, not so loud," she cautioned when he let out little groans of contentment.

Soon enough, though, she smiled, softening.

"But I love you too," she added, kissing the top of his head. "I'll keep you safe, I promise. No Trader's going to catch us."

Dragons, like Scripters, were prime targets for Traders (who were essentially poachers), who captured any they found and sold them off to the highest bidder. And they had found Alora.

Nella, Alora's mother, had been ill for months and was growing weaker by the day, despite Alora's best efforts. Eventually, Nella had called for her.

"You know about Scripters, and how your father was killed because he was one..." she said weakly, her tired face looking up at Alora.

"Yes, Mumma..." she replied, though she didn't quite follow.

She could read, write and draw because her parents had taught her, but she'd never used her skills with a Script. The idea terrified her. Scripters were little more than objects to the people. They had a gift but didn't choose how they used it, if they did at all.

"But... you have to know... you are one too. And that they'll come for you."

"But, Mumma, I neve-" she began.

"Because you didn't have this..."

She reached for her drawer and produced a long, thin object. It looked like the expensive fountain pens one found in the cities, but older, and with less silly flourishes. Deep red with a gold tip, it was clearly different from the rest.

"Don't let... anyone find it... or they'll know at once. Even if you claim different... they'll force you to prove it and then..."

Nella shuddered.

"Mumma!" Alora gasped, taking her hands. "What should I do...? I don't want to be a Scripter... I don't want to die like Pappa..."

"Don't fear your gift, my darling," Nella told her. "Embrace it. It is who you are."

Alora looked down at the object in her hand. A Script.

"Mumma, I do-"

She turned back at her mother, whose eyes were closed, her face peaceful.