I have always wanted to write a Deltora fic. So here it is. It is also my 100th fic written the day before my 10-year anniversary of fooling around on !

The land was not right. It was dark, desperate for rain, and covered in dying weeds that frightened a long-ago memory. Her people's memory. Tira did not know much history. It was not the way of Noradz to bother with the past's details. The people knew what they had and they obeyed the Rule.

The Rule did not help them now.

Emotion had always come rather quickly to Tira. As a child she had been teased, called a crybaby, told her tears alone would suitably wash the floors of the halls. The tears came quickly, and Tira made no effort to stop them. There were no floors to wash. Those floors lay untouched, gathering dust, growing ready for the evil that would come. Those floors were the reason she cried. Those floors and the halls and the kitchens and everything so grand about Noradz.

The marching did not stop. Her legs had long lost feeling, but they moved anyway in the hopeless rhythm of the people's march. The rhythm wanted to be soothing, apologetic; Tira only let her legs follow.

She wondered if she should speak to anyone. Here she was, surrounded by her family and friends, and nothing wanted to come from her mouth. What would she say? She was no good at cheering people. She was but Tira, a too-small girl who served the food. There were so many others . The cooks who perfected food. Those who made the halls shine. The artists. The singers. So many wonderful people from a wonderful city who should be raising a voice or two.

But the march continued in silence. Their captors made no sign to care and their attention devoted itself the walk over the filthy land.

Tira hated the very sight of it all. The trees were not pruned, but gnarled and wild. The ground was rough. Creatures, all hideous fur and staring eyes, moved through the yellow grass.

The people of Noradz were not made for this. They were a clean people, a civilized people. They had strictly kept the Rule for generations. Every little aspect of it, no matter how much a tiny voice inside of her wondered why. They had kept the Rule. Tira had kept the Rule.

Now the Rule was no more. They were just a herd of people marching through a silent wasteland.

Tira wanted to scream. She wanted to throw back her head and belt out one of her famous screams only much better, one that could cut through the madness and terror and the chains that bound them. The scream would be as senseless as their position, but it would be the one thing she could do. It would feel so good.

The scream pierced the air before she realized she had given it. Nothing broke. In moments a leather fist struck her jaw and she stumbled only to be yanked back to standing by the chains.

The fall had been enough to further dirty her.

The scream had meant nothing. Merely a sound, albeit one a little louder than the drone of footsteps. It was nothing special. Who was not capable of a single scream? And who did not know a scream could not tear metal?

Ah, well. She had done what she could. It was time to fall back into the pace of things, to go wherever they were going.

Except something had changed.

Perhaps that something was the reason she no longer cared about the scream. Who could think of simple sounds when mud and moss clung to your leg?

The people were chained together so tightly that sight wasn't all the necessary. Tira's gaze wandered from the endless stretch of nothing down to her leg. Something was touching. Mud. Dirt. Unclean water. Strange plant. The mess sent a chill up her spine and her skin wanted it gone. Rub it off, scrape it off. Clean. Clean.

The rhythm of the march did not allow for it. So it remained, a touch of evil on her very skin. She could not stop looking it. It was on her and she could not get it off. Pain increased with every step. It might as well be burning into her.

Stop it, commanded the tiny voice inside of her.

But it was…

Stop it.

It was touching her. Mess that hid cleanliness. Mess that attracted evil.

Evil is already around you.

She laughed, a softer sound than the scream, and no one turned to look at her or hit her. They might just think her mad, someone to fear now. Perhaps she was mad. Just as well.

The mud remained clinging to her leg. Just a bit of mud and moss. Hard work kept that at bay in the halls of Noradz. A little work later would clean it right off. The moment she got a chance, it would be cleaned right off and she would be perfect and clean again.

Though such a plan did not do much for the dust and sweat that still covered her.

Another laugh broke the silence. Tira again. Yes, she had to be mad. This was what the Rule protected them from. Hard work first so it wouldn't happen later. Such a silly thing to be a Rule. Good advice, to be sure, but sometimes things couldn't be helped. They were all filthy, the people of Noradz. Every last one of them. They were drenched in sweat, mud up to their ankles. They had not bathed in days.

Too late for a silly thing like mud to be a problem.

She studied the mud. It was strange. Not neat and sharp. Just a blob of dirt and water, held together with moss. Amazing how such things could be kept together. Impressive.

Tira of Noradz was impressed by mud. What would the Ra-Kacharz say to such a thing? She would be killed for sure.

But that was not happening. She was headed elsewhere. No killing at this time. She was alive and no one had yet to say a thing about her death.

The Ra-Kacharz, at this moment, were nothing.

And all it would take was the break of the chains and she would be free.

She forced her feet from the rhythm; not by much—just enough to force her feet further into the dirt. Her shoes were filthy.

But the air was fresh. Deliciously so.

She laughed a third time, and this time she was unable to stop.

Oh, she was mad. She was in chains and she was filthy and she was crazy.

She was also outside the walls of Noradz.

She had made her escape.

The End