Page 42 of Beyond The Maples
"You'll have to be a little more specific," she says, scrutinizing the room that's quickly filling up.
"I just mean. Why? Ya know. I just want to be left alone. By all of them," I share with a sigh, blowing a loose strand of hair out of my face. Farra is fully laughing at me now.
"Yes, yes I couldn't agree more. I saw the charming lieutenant walking away from you. Does he have anything to do with the fact that your cheeks look like they're on fire?"
I glare at her. Farra laughs again, pulling me by the hand.
"Come on, we gotta get going to do our practicals. You look like you need a minute away from the masses before our test."
I just let out a grunt in protest and follow her.
I sit in the silent classroom, staring at the paper in front of me, every minute that ticks by feels like another inch tightening across my chest, weighing on my lungs until I’m on the verge of tears.
Short Answer: What led to the creation of the barrier?
How the hell am I supposed to answer that in a short answer? My mind wanders to Willow's assignment. How in depth it had been. I wonder what exactly they are trying to get out of these questions. Why do soldiers have to know history to this degree? I wonder why a simple test can push me to the brink of a meltdown. Why is my bra so tight?
My dad's raspy voice pops into my head without warning. I'm transported briefly to a broken memory of me and him in the kitchen whispering after dinner.
We're being quiet. Mom's sick and we don't want to wake her. Dad has his paperwork spread out all over the table. "If you wanted to control a group of people, my sweet Maple, how would you do it?" he asks, eyes wide and sparkling.
I think, tapping my small fingers on the table.
"Threaten them?"
Dad chuckles.
"You are ruthless, aren't you? Yes, that would work, but not for long. Threatening only works for a short time. The best form of control is a special kind of manipulation. That's how they're doing it, Maple, it's how everyone is..."
The memory becomes hazy; it bleeds into another that's further from that time and I try to grasp the ends of it, but it slips away. I look around the classroom, at the other cadets who are all in various states of boredom, and unease grips me. I feel like there's an important piece I'm not remembering, some thread of memories I can't get to, and no matter how hard I pull, it won't unravel.
My head snaps back to the present. At the front of the class people are handing over the general knowledge tests and my stomach sinks. I know I need to stay calm. The more I worry, the more the words rearrange themselves on my paper.
Time passes and I become frustrated with myself. I read and then reread the questions, the words becoming foreign to me. Soon I realize I'm one of the last ones in the room, and I feel defeated as I wing the rest of the questions.
I've always been a great guesser, so I hope that will get me through. I walk to the front without making eye contact with the professor and hand in my pitifulexam, knowing it will be a miracle if I pass. Shoulders slumped, I head to combat training. Unwilling to let my foul mood rub off on the others. I get lost in the familiar rhythm of ducks and lunges, rolls and blocks.
I'm paired with Tarius, and he's not as timid during sparring as one might think. His height makes it impossible to reach past his arms when he holds me back, and the longer we go, the more frustrated I get.
We're wrapping up for the day when I feel a hint of awareness prickle my neck. I turn to the doors and see the lieutenant and his legion talking. He looks my way. He's assessing me again, and heat creeps up into my face. Briefly, I wonder if they're going to kick me out of here. My test scores are so bad that even my mediocre fighting skills don't warrant praise here. How embarrassing would that be?
I don't need another reason to feel bad right now. I hope I can get back to my room without talking to anyone else.
I feel utterly drained, and I know I won't keep a pleasant face if someone provokes me today. I tell my crew I'll see them later and duck out the doors, walking faster than I need to back to the dorms.
Once I make it to our room, I let out a shaky breath. I feel heavy, and not just because I exerted more energy than normal during training today.
The memories that popped up during the test feel like an itch I can't scratch, but everyone has memories like that, don't they? Ones they can never fully remember. Except, I realize,allof my memories feel that way. Maybe it wouldn't irritate me so much if I didn't so often feel like my brain was failing me.
Iknowthose answers. I could answer them right now if someone asked. I could argue I know more than most, thanks to my family. But when put in a room like that, I can't seem to calm my brain down long enough to untangle the mess in my head.
It doesn't help that I always have to decipher between what is common knowledge and what is beyond that. The added pressure of not wanting to draw attention to the fact that my dad's information about our history far surpassed most, and that was dangerous. What was more dangerous––andfrustrating––is worrying how I can even trust the things I do remember at this point? This only adds to my anxiety.
How many Gods were there?According to public record, there are four Gods, but the lore scrolls dad had... I think there may have been more originally. Which I never really understood, with our sacred compass plastered everywhere, clearly contradicting that notion. Our temples worship the four elementals relentlessly. Our current history claims that ALL gods have vanished.
That they'd been so appalled at our abuse of power, our corruption of magic, that they revoked their gifts and left.
But it never quite made sense.
