Darkness and Silence
dark. And quite. It was always dark now. But it was never quite. Never.
He didn't like the quite. He wasn't used to the quite. He never would
There was always noise. Soft sounds, he called them. Sounds that made
you shudder. Sounds worse than battle.
Battle he could handle. Battle was loud. Eveyone heard battle. Battle
was loud. There was always noise. Blades clashing against blade. Rocks
smashing into human flesh or stone. Screaming men. Dying horses. Water
spalshing. Feet stomping. Running.
They were loud noises. He knew the loud noises.
Soft sounds were worse. The soft sounds were the ones that made you
hate things. That made you hate sound.
The sound of a man weeping alone in a dark corner. The crunch of gravel
when a dead man's foot gave one last spasmic jerk. The whisper of a rat
feasting of a corpse's face. The wind hissing through dried grass like
the moans of the men who were gone.
You could hear the river.
He hated the river.
The river had carried his brother away. His brother was dead--killed by
loud noises, carried away by soft sounds.
But it was quiet. He didn't like the quiet.
His father had turned away, without saying a word. He had been quiet.
He had never said a word.
Sometimes, when he had still been a boy, he liked the silence. Then it
was nice. Then there was only silence--and sometimes soft sounds. A man
A cricket chirped. A bird called. A door slammed.
Stars were silent. Mountains, snow, the moon and the sun. Beautiful
things were silent.
Tears were silent. Pain was silent. Death, now, was silent.
He hated the quiet.