Deliver Us (Moira)

[Layla Amisi]

• Time: 6:30 PM
  
• Setting: Opening of the Nile/Pond right outside of Palace
  
• Weather Conditions: Very warm with a soft breeze
  

Only a short time ago had Layla's curiosity gotten the best of her as she was discovered by a foreign woman and the general of the Pharaoh. It was a rather unusual meeting, for she was greeted with compassion, something the little girl had not experienced since her mother and father were still alive. When they stepped aside in another room, however, Layla fled. Her chores were still not done, and it was unsafe for her to meander around here with the royals. She had to go, and so she did. The water was brought to the kitchen indeed without no further ado, though it did not go without a good scolding of tardiness. Frightened, Layla performed the rest of her duties hastily and did not speak or wander off again. Still, she could not help but let her mind wander off on the thoughts of Moira and her kindness. It was highly unusual for one with a status such as she to even speak or look at a slave. Layla did not understand.

Like the curious child she was, Layla wanted to know more. Especially what Moira had said in her strange though musical language, that thought puzzled her. One day she'd be told, but when would that one day come? It was a mystery. How did the general expect her not to be frightened of him? He wielded so many weapons, and he looked like any guard from the Hewbrew communities, the others who slaughtered...Moira looked at him with glares when Layla noticed. She of all people did not seem happy, in which yet again the little girl did not understand. It was an interesting thought, but it bothered her. It would not surprise her if Layla did something to anger the woman, for her curiosity often created that among adults. These thoughts bustled in Layla's mind as she skulked among the Palace to reach her favorite place; the opening of the Nile.

Layla dodged in and out of stone columns and hid from guards as she made her way to a forbidden area, though she knew the queen and maidens themselves had been there. She earnestly hoped that no one occupied it at the moment, for she needed a place to think. The child was mixed up in her mind, and maybe the soft waters would calm her. Stealing herself, Layla finally slipped past the guards and out of the Palace doors, in which above her was draped with white silk, as though a canopy shelter from the harsh sun. Her brown eyes no longer darted around, for they were too busy appreciating the beauty around her. And when she reached her destination, she pulled the silk curtain back to reveal stone steps leading down to the mouth of the Nile, curtains surrounding every side of her to keep the area private. The little girl was still in awe, for she had only visited once before.

Her surroundings were peaceful and quiet, as the Nile did not move in this part. Layla took a shallow breath, almost afraid of disturbing the tranquility around her. Slowly she descended down the stone steps until the very last, where the waters met the edge. Water lilies floated gracefully about the water, cranes resided upon the surface. With slow movement, Layla kneeled down upon the last step and looked down at her reflection, a dirty Hewbrew slave. As a water lily floated by, she reached down gracefully with a bronze arm and gently scooped it up. Examining the flower for a few moments, she sighed quietly and set it back down, watching it move back across the waters. Kneeling, Layla began to pray with her hands together, looking up at the see-through canopy of silk. Her voice became soft in pain.

"Lord Elohim, I beg of you, deliver us. Please...Deliver our people..."

[Moira Andriu]

May it be an evening star shines down upon you, may it be when darkness falls your heart will be true. The fair woman from Ireland hummed as she walked through the palace, her white bell sleeved dress barely brushing the stone floor. She had been told that white was easier to wear in the desert, and she had believed them. She ran a hand over her blond hair, and heaved a sigh as she stepped into the still hot sun.

Moira lifted her head as she heard shouts, and cries of pain. On legs that were long like a thoroughbreds she ran gently to a small rise, and looked down below her. Faster! A voice shouted, followed by the crack of a whip. Gray eyes watched as slave upon slave carried boulders, our hauled up huge pots of water. She watched a man fall, his fellow man attempted to help, both were punished. She squeezed her eyes shut, turned her head away. She looked back eyes open in hatred for the men with whips, her pale pink lips formed a tight line, and faint white lines appeared around her mouth.

She moved away from the scene below her, disgust sour in her mouth. The words formed in her mind, words that could’ve been said, but what could she do? As Osir had said she didn’t know their ways. It was true, but she was learning them. She had learned that if dropped a stone you were whipped and beaten, if you were slow you were yelled at and whipped, if you were a child you were torn away from your family or they were killed, like Layla’s. Shaking her head she moved back inside.

She wished her brothers were there. They would know what to do. Calder, Malcolm, and Ian had been her best trainers, her good friends Larkin and Balin had been her worthy opponents, and her sad excuse for a younger brother Thom had just settled on being a scholar. She remembered her father telling her every so often that she should have been born a boy, that she would have made a great knight like her brothers. She had the training to be a shieldmaiden, and she would probably be such a thing when she returned home…if she returned home.

Moira’s wanderings led her to a silk covered entrance. Curious she peeked inside, and let out a small pleased sound. A pool! So pretty too. Glancing behind her she moved past the cloth. She didn’t know if it was forbidden for outsiders, hell she could blame it on just that. The woman ran a hand over her fair hair, toying with some strands as she glanced around. There was a small form by the waters edge, and a small smile drifted to her lips. Layla.

Lord Elohim, I beg of you, deliver us. Please...Deliver our people...

A small ache began in the warrior’s heart at the girls words. She wondered how many of the other slaves or servants wanted that. Who would they have to lead them to a rebellion, to freedom? Back home—she stopped her thoughts. Egypt would never be Ireland. There were no fierce warriors to ride into a battle by themselves, there were no mock fights about a senseless matter, no loud parties or balls with jigs and stories of old being told by the fire. Egypt was tamer, as were her slaves. Somehow a bitterness crept into Moira’s mouth, relying on the Gods was one thing, begging them was worse.

“What if ye could deliver yourself, A leanbh na páirte,” She approached slowly from behind the child, the sunlight catching the silver belt of the dress. Moira crouched by the waters side, and glanced at the little girl. “Fight Layla,” they were words that would send the slave into a panic probably, but the child needed to know. “This isn’t what yer meant ta be doin’.”

Translation: My darling child

[Layla Amisi]

"Hoshiana, Elo'im. Be'vakasha, cheved..."

Layla cried softly in something like a song. Something to keep her hope alive. But where has Elohim been, all these times? Had he not been watching or answering prayers? She did not understand. They were all children of Elohim...Me'eifoh?... It hurt to believe in a God that seemed not there. Her soft brown eyes teared up slightly before she brushed them away and looked back down at the pool below her. She dipped a small hand into the water again to clean the dirt off of her hands and began to watch the fish swim freely about the pool, then the cranes bobbing. Layla suddenly made a stupid wish that she could swim or fly without a worry. Why, why them? Was it all apart of Elohim's plan? The Hebrews needed deliverance, or they would all be gone.

The little girl studied herself in the clear water with a certain longing. However, she was surprised when a figure's reflection appeared beside her. Layla let out something like a gasp, but then realized it was only Moira. She gazed at her newfound friend within the pool after listening to her bold words, and then her foreign language she admired. Layla lifted her head to look at the woman, unable to say anything yet. They could not deliver themselves, for it would never work! If they ever even though of rebellion...But fight? Her eyes widened and she shook her head as though she would never stop. The very thought scared her. "L-lo!," Layla protested. She hated violence. But calm returned to her once more as she only whispered, "We can't fight..." The little girl looked down at her hands. "They'll kill us again to keep our numbers down..." Layla involuntarily teared up at the thought of her baby brother, her father trying so hard to protect him, and the women, close friends being pulled away from their own children.

But Moira was right about one thing. This wasn't meant what the Hebrew were supposed to do. They were meant to be free. Layla abruptly stood up and looked back at the woman to signal to come, too. She reached the curtain beside her and gently opened the silk curtain. What lay beyond was the entire city, and monuments of the Pharaoh rising. Little figures could be seen, and there was the occassional crack of the whip sounding in the distance. "Look at my people. We cannot do this alone," she said sadly, watching a few more moments before she could not stand it anymore and let the silk glide back into it's place. "We cannot fight," Layla whispered and walked back to the water's edge. She wanted to help to free them, but what could one little girl do to help an entire race? Fighting would not solve anything, it would only create bloodshed and chaos. She'd seen it before with her own eyes.

Layla looked back up at Moira with her chocolate brown eyes but then looked down again. It was wrong, she corrected herself. "What can I do...?" if there was anything she could do about this slavery. She did not want the infant Hebrews killed again, or the elders trying their hardest in building to get whipped, or her people to take orders from an arrogant Pharaoh. She wanted to see the Hebrew at peace, free from slavery. Layla did not want to work and fear death in this golden land. Curious once more, the little looked at Moira's reflection and spoke up. "Is your homeland...is it like this, too?" This little girl had never been anywhere outside of her city, outside of her community. She remembered the better days when she was younger and her family was alive, when she would smile and laugh and play with the other children. That did not happen anymore. She often wondered what it was like to be free; to live. Would Layla ever live to see it?

Help us, Lord Elohim. Where is the promised land...? Where is freedom...?


((translation:
1. Deliver us, Elohim. Please, have mercy.
2. Where are you?
3. N-no!))

[Moira Andriu]

As Layla had seemed mystified by the Gaelic words Moira spoke so was the Irish woman with the girls own language. Was she praying as Moira had once done? Was she cursing as the Irishwoman did constantly? Or was she simply losing it all and letting words flow as the Nile did. She remembered once going to the river Shannon, crouching beside the edge and wondering when her reflection would so who she was. When she gazed at the face of the Hebrew girl she saw a younger version of herself, lost without a guiding hand, unsure of how life was supposed to be. The Ireland native lifted her face toward the white silk above them as her memory slipped unbidden to her childhood.

The wind blew gently through the tall oaks that lined the dirt road leading toward a decently sized plantation. A young girl with hair the color of corn skipped down the path, her gray eyes were bright with laughter as behind her a boy around the same age ran. “Moira, ya can’t go ta the river alone!”
“C’mon Larkin t’would be fun!”
“Mal’s not gonna like it!”
“We’ll get Balin, we’ll be fine!” Moira called back. The ten year old turned down another path toward a large stone cottage. “Balin, oh Sir Balin!” A black haired boy their age turned from chopping wood, and grinned.
“What’re ya doin’?”
“Goin’ ta the Shannon. Ya comin’?” Moira asked breathlessly.
“Don’t do it,” Larkin panted out. “She’s crazy.”
“Oh aye, I’m agoin’.”

Such friends like that would never be in the child’s life. Moira looked down at the girl as she returned to the present. Her eyes fell on the water, Layla met her gaze. The shock that went over her face had given Moira the grim satisfaction of being right about the child being afraid. They couldn’t fight. That was the biggest bunch of malarkey that Moira had ever heard. No, that wasn’t true, she had known and heard more than that.

”Ye can’t fight,” Alana told her daughter sternly as her sons gathered their armor, and called for their horses. Seventeen year old Moira through up her chin as she tugged on her hunting boots. “I won’t let ye.”
“I can fight!” Moira argued as one of their servants led her horse.
“I won’t let ye!” Alana shouted as her husband dropped a hand onto her shoulder. “Yer a girl!”
“I’m a fighter Mamaí,” Moira replied as she mounted her horse. “The English will go home. We’ll see ta it.”
“Gods be with ye,” her father said. Moira nodded once and cantered off joining Malcolm, Calder, Ian, Marek, Balin and Larkin. That would be the last time she fought beside her brother Marek.

“Numbers have nothin’ ta do with the outcome of battles,” replied Moira softly. She saw the tears enter the child’s eyes, and closed her own to fight off anymore lingering memories. “Battles and wars are fought each day with less than a hundred. Senseless killin’ as population control, tis unnatural.” She knew about the so-called cleansing of the Hebrew kind, she had read of it. She knew of the battling kingdoms in Ireland from she was young. She knew of the English invading her homeland for power over them, they had never cleansed Ireland of her natives. They couldn’t.

Moira shifted back as Layla stood. At the follow me gesture she rose with a dancers grace to follow Layla. Curiosity piqued as Layla drew aside the curtain. The woman closed her eyes for a moment head turned away as she saw what she had seen earlier. More monuments, more slaves being used. Dove gray eyes watched a statue stand upright. She heard Layla’s words, and knew that a child of nearly ten or eleven should not sound so old. Yet hadn’t she when she was only seventeen coming back from the Battle of the Shannon.

”How many?” Her father whispered to his dismounting daughter.
”Hundred at least, Moira replied. ”We lost Marek. He fell.” She gazed at her father with eyes that had aged thirty years in one night of bloodshed and death. ”We need more people. Call the Clans, we cannot do this alone.”
”There are no more clans.”

The white silk cascaded back into place as did her thoughts. Moira followed Layla back to the pool thinking over the girl’s words. “Ye won’t haveta do it alone,” she said finally. “If ya don’t fight then ya damn yerself, and yer future to this life of—of slavery of sitting in cage, being held back until there’s nothin’ but death and despair.” It might have seemed harsh to be speaking to a girl that age of such things, but it was true. She gazed at Layla as the child met her eyes briefly. The question was hard to answer. “Ye can rebel,” the woman offered. “That would mean fightin’.”

Moira looked down at her own reflection, and sighed softly. In the end everything she knew, everything Layla knew would need to blend as one or they would both die in the process. “Ireland’s nothing like this,” the warrior replied icily. “We do have servants, oh aye, but we would never take a hand or whip to them. Their almost family. We build our castles, our homes with the help of each other, with unity.” She looked at her reflection once more, and cupped her hand scooping the water away. She didn’t like what she saw. A woman in finery when she meant to be in armor back home fighting, not helping with trade.

[Layla Amisi]

Layla went silent, drifting off into the tranquility of the cool waters and the reeds surrounding them. Was the only way to fight? To kill? She did not want that, as she was sure the rest of the Hebrew did not as well. Did Moira understand that violence was not the only way? But if they were to fight for freedom, was there any other way other than bloodshed and death? Questions swirled around Layla's mind, ultimately confusing her. She was so puzzled, she could hardly gather her thoughts. The little girl highly doubted that Moira believed in Elohim as well, for when Layla was younger they used to recite parts from the Tanakh. Most commonly engrained in their minds was, "Thou shalt not kill." The Hebrew were peaceful people, as when she lived in her small community that they were confined to by the Egyptians. What had they ever done to deserve any of this? Why would Elohim punish them?

Layla was pulled out of her trance by the wise words of Moira once more. Again, she was baffled. Didn't numbers make up a war? The little girl often eavesdropped over conversations of war and the army's advances and numbers. For a girl of only ten, she knew more than a child should ever know of war. You would think her curiosity would stop after hearing so many stories of the battles, but it did not. After witnessing these stories and experiences, she herself became thankful that it was not her people to war. But it was more than just population control, more then Moira thought. When she still lived with her family, often she would hear rumors and theories why all the baby boys were killed off, one of them being to keep the Hebrew from overthrowing the rule of the Pharaoh. The rest of the world was blurred out from her vision as a distant memory came forth to her head.

Evening had come among the land of Egypt, but it was not the usual silence that followed; the peace. A hellish red sky was cast, a sky of death. Instead, screams rang out through the cities, screams of women and children.
Layla sat in a corner of her home holding her baby brother showered in blankets to keep him hidden, before her Father stood to fight off any guard who should try to take Issa from them.
The little girl was frightened as she tried to drown out the screaming and crying, watching the silhouettes on the walls bearing weapons and pulling women from their babies. She watched them near where they were hiding and called out to her father.
"Father, they're coming!"
"Do not worry, he will be saved." Her father tried to reassure her moments before the guards entered, wielding scimitars and shouting. All Layla could hear was the wail of her little brother...

Layla shuddered once, as though awaking from a terrible dream. She fought back against tears threatening to collect in her eyes. Turning to Moira at her words, she became terrified. Sure Elohim would not damn them to a life like this forever? She would not let it happen. "But you do not understand! We are peaceful people. We do not wish for violence." We do not need violence... she thought afterwards. Layla became silent again, horrified by what Moira had said. She drew her legs up to her chest. She didn't want to get hurt again, but if it was necessary for freedom. Was there something they could work out with words, not physical? Thoughts of the guards crept into her mind again, threatening to replay that fateful night when her brother was taken from her. Layla looked away for a few moments.

Father did not shout back to the guards. Instead, he stood in their way until they shoved him, but he did not move. Then they began to beat him, the little girl in the corner of the room screaming,
"Don't! Be'vakavasha, 'otseret!" But they ignored her cries. When her father fell, the guards came after her with the baby wailing in her arms.
"Don't take him!"
Tears ran down her dirty face as her baby brother was ripped from her arms and they raised their scimitar. All she saw was the glint of the weapon before Layla screamed and squeezed her eyes shut, sobbing hysterically.

Her heart skipped a beat as she flinched and opened her eyes, just in time to hear the ice cold words of Moira. The slaves here helped each other with compassion and kind words, but Ireland did not sound like Egypt in any way. She still did not understand what the woman was doing here. "You don't whip them...?" Layla asked, shocked by this. All she'd ever seen was cruelty to her people. She became quiet again and looked at the still waters below her, lost in thought, but refusing to remember anymore. Again she opened her mouth and whispered, "They'll never listen to me. We should not speak of rebellion around here. If they hear us...Elohim cheved..." Layla almost silently added. Her brown eyes drifted back at her hands, unsure of what to do or say.

((translation;
1. Please, stop!
2. Elohim have mercy))

[Moira Andriu]

The woman heaved a sigh as she felt the beginning of a headache coming on. It wasn’t Layla’s fault, it was her own damn fault for getting involved in something that she could have let alone. Though if she had left it alone, if she had never met Lalya, if she had never spoken to Osir about an uprising then what was she doing with her time there? Moira shot a cold look toward the child in the water. She had been told many times that she didn’t understand things.

”Ye don’t understand Moria,” Balin said as he walked toward the stables. Moira was right on his heels. “Ya can’t fight this one.”
“Why not?”
“T’isn’t yer fight.”
“Since when is the fight against another clan not me fight Balin?”
“Since I told ya so.”
“Listen ta ‘im little cub,” Larkin said from his horses stall. “Yer not goin’.”
“Damned if I’m not.”
“Then yer damned. Stay here.”

Moira sighed as the girl went on. “Peaceful or no, it all comes down ta what ye and yer kind wants ta die fer, if its worth dyin’ for.” Of every culture it seemed that the Irish knew exactly what was worth laying their lives down for. It would continue for centuries even after she was long gone. How else were they named the Fighting Irish? "No we don't whip them, if we have ta we scold, but nothin' more, nothin' less."

She frowned at Layla. “If ya never speak how do ya know they won’t listen?” Moira asked with a raised brow. “Shall we come up with another word fer it?” She replied with a bitter scowl toward her reflection. “If they hear us I’ll tell them I was tellin’ ya of Ireland.” She looked at the girl, dove gray eyes warm. “They’ll get through me before they get to ya, and ta get through me they’d haveta get through Osir.” She paused wondering where that had come from.