Rain tore into the desiccated earth, splattering mud over the boots and shoes of the trudging mass of people. It plunked on the helmets and mail of the soldiers and bit at the scalps and shoulders of the slaves.
Brigid marched at the head of the women’s train, head bowed to protect her eyes from the downpour and to avoid eye contact with the soldiers who dotted the pathway ahead. Her feet sunk into the ground where the mud sought to pluck away her worn sandals.
Edit: The story has been neatly organised onto its own lovely page where you can continue reading it here:
Short Stories -> Le Cirque Des Moirai -> Strength