"He closed his eyes and listened. Sky-song was gone. The wind moved through the trees, he knew it, but he could not hear the leaves fluttering. Earth voice died, and firesong, and waterspeech, and the sound of the growing of the grass all around him. Rainsong faded away, and then the thunder that was all and encompassed him, devoured him—that, too, died into the distance, and he strained for its echoes on the horizon, but none came.

He opened his eyes. Ceolene’s lips moved, but no sound came from her. Desperately, he cast out—for anything, any sound, any noise at all, anything to devour and consume him, but none came.

None came.

He glanced at the spear, but its length had faded to dull grey ash, and he closed his eyes again and cried out, a low, vibrating, terrible burning cry that echoed beyond the heavens and the earth, into death and life, until the very stars flickered and dimmed to hear his cry—but still he could not hear it, nor would he ever hear again.

....

Even that, the sound of their tears hitting the earth—even that he could not hear. Then, somewhere in the depths of his mind, and even resonating out over the fields all around him, for them to hear in a way—there came a voice. Her voice, laden with bells and overtones of wolves, a chorus singing adoration behind each syllable, and screams hidden in each phrase.

Her voice, dark and vibrant, low alto and baritone, bass that vibrated eardrums. Her voice, light and sweet, a high pitched noise beyond comprehension, that sent ripples in a shining sea, that woke the sun each morning—thin silvery bells and a high flute over all.

Universe song, and earth song—planet and sun song, star song, and the songs of the dark lonely distances between. Sand swept from the top of a desert dune; dolphin shrill, the sound of the smallest ant climbing the tallest tree.

Rain over grass, and fire devouring wood. Human voice, past, and present—and thousands of voices yet to come in the future. Language upon language unknown and unknowing, above and beyond every soul that had ever lived. Newborn cry, the wailing of women; ecstasy into the night, and dark drugs and green windswept pastures, horse and rider, shod hooves upon cobblestones.

Sounds, octaves, ranges uncomprehended—every score of music unwritten, every song unsung—the sound of the battle, blade on blade, the sound of the dying and the sound of the dead.

Arguments unfinished. Fist striking bone. Blood forth from a wound.The sound of wept tears falling onto the earth—each droplet raising a tiny puff of dust from the dry field.The sound of wind and the sound of hope and the thin infinitesimal sound of the breaking of someone’s heart.

....

Khyriad closed his eyes and let the noise sweep over him—life song, heart song, death song, and hope—and over it all, the steady low rumble of thunder that fell over the earth and faded away in waves—thunder, his noise, the sound of the storm and the stars glittering in an ebony velvet sky."

--Kristen M. Jones