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Because lying to myself was much easier than facing the truth.
2
Loren had only beena Chosen for a few weeks at the most, but word of his fate arrived swiftly to the deepest part of the mountain.. I learned of his demise like everyone else, the sketch of his face plastered on the message board outside the training room. There was no such thing as a funeral for our kind because there was no need for them. We were glorified in life and forgotten in death.
I was bitter, so deeply bitter. My heart dry and brittle, ready to crack into pieces under the heavy weight of my grief. It was easier to be angry and blame the mountain for being unfair than to face the cruel reality of a life without Loren.
My feet dangled off the edge of the upper bunk, blood pooling in my toes until my slow heartbeat pulsed in my feet. I had been sleeping in his old bed since he left, sitting here since I learned of his death. I couldn't bear to leave the safe solitude of my bunkhouse and face the pity stares waiting for me outside. But I was starving, not just for food but for distraction. The longer I sat on his old cot, the deeper the cracks broke me apart, the more their edges sharpened until something more lethal remained in place of my heart.
My feet found the floor as I tossed my weight off the bunk, and for the first time in two days, I left my room. Careful eyes trailed me as I passed, their gaze like nails dragging down my back, stripping me bare of my confidence. I was barely out of Darrow Class when sharp footsteps approached behind me, like they had been waiting for me to sneak out my refuge. Their timing too impeccable to be coincidental.
"Arya, can I speak with you in private?" A smooth voice called behind me.
Instructor Mallo placed a bony hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward her private office located just a short walk away from the pit. An uneasy chill ran from the uncommon placement of her hand, and my heart rate spiked from the tension her touch triggered. The gentleness in her fingers spoke loud enough for the lack of explanation she offered—this wasn't going to be good.
I found a seat across from her desk, a worn leather armchair that had obviously welcomed many troubled runners before me. My fingers spread wide across the arms, finding a loose thread in the stitching to pick at nervously while I waited for Mallo to stop pacing behind her desk. "Your name came up the other day with the Elders," she finally said. She glanced to view my reaction but found only the blank mask I wore like a uniform with the rest of my training leathers.
"Well, that's not completely surprising. You said the other day I would be chosen soon." A pang of excitement ran through my chest at the news, a small spark of life among the barrenness. The Elders were directly under the queen. Their job was to watch us train and meet to discuss our futures, to be the queen's eyes and ears while she was busy doing gods knew what. No one knew what they looked like or who they were, but I always expected Mallo was one of them. Her white hair always pinned tightly in a bun, the lines of wisdom and experience carved into the corners of her eyes, the very respect she demanded in the way she held herself—it all seemed very Elder-like to me.
She stopped pacing and propped her weight against the desk with her hip. Her deep gray eyes desaturated with doubt as she took a steady breath. "I'm going to be honest with you, more honest than I've ever been with a runner since my time here."
I swallowed the lump forming in my throat, not enjoying the sudden feeling of being cornered. The end of the loose thread was growing frayed between my thumb and forefinger as I fumbled with the stitching. "There is no denying your talent. Your performance is off the charts on everything—speed, agility, defense, anticipation, reaction time. You're the definition of a perfect runner. They want to recommend you to the queen. They just have some…"
"Some what?" I asked, attempting to discipline the frustration rising in my chest.
"Reservations.”
My fingers gripped the leather, diving deep beyond the tattered stitching and into the stuffing underneath. "What else could I possibly do to deserve their recommendation? How else can I prove to them I am good enough? You said it yourself; I'm perfect. Those chosen before me have been called up for being less than half that." The words shot like arrows off my tongue, more out of defense than assault.
"It has nothing to do with your talent and more to do with your heart. You're a runner in your mind and body, but you lack passion, Arya." Mallo walked around the desk and sat on top of the cold metal across from me. "In there, in the pit, we try to replicate the outside world as much as possible so you are prepared when you go for your first run. You can do everything right on paper, but out there, it isn't so black and white."
"You’ve literally shot me with poison arrows. I've got scars as long as my thumb all over my body. I've been shot, beaten, burned, drowned, and sliced in that training room, and I have taken everything I've gotten—"
"Correct, you just took it. Which is why," she continued before I could protest, "the Elders have decided to send you to the Peaks. You’re too good to send to a lower kingdom, but you’re still not ready for the wastes."
Heat flooded my face now, unaware if it was from shame, anger, or something in between. The Peaks were an undisclosed location in the mountains, high above the world and isolated from humanity. It was where the instructors were trained to teach the next generations, where they learned how to scout new talent and push their classes to their breaking point. They were never forced to face the grueling fate of life in the lower kingdoms because they would never be made to leave West Mirth. They were given a life of luxury and protection until they retired, became an Elder, or died. Being given the role of an instructor would have been an honor to anyone—anyone but me.
"And if I refuse?" My voice was tight in my throat, the last bit of respect I squeezed through my teeth.
"Then you are free to leave." She folded her hands in her lap with a gentle expression. If I didn't want what they chose for me, I was free to choose my own way. Free to choose the lonely existence of a rogue runner, where no kingdom would accept me with my new title of Dishonored. I was free to leave the queen's protection, pioneer the wastelands of Valdihr, and pray to the dead gods I wouldn't fall to the creatures lurking in the darkness.
Was it really freedom if only one choice kept me alive?
"Please, Mallo," I whispered, not trusting the quiver in my voice to steady. "All I've ever wanted is to run outside."
She hopped off the desk and stood in front of my chair, letting her critical look assess my pitiful state. "Why?"
"Because I have to get out of here!" I pleaded, much firmer than I intended. "I have to have a purpose for it all, a reason I trained the past twenty years. I can't let that reason be to better other runners. I don't want this!" I stood suddenly from my seat. Mallo took a step closer, not letting me escape the trap I was now ensnared in.
"This is exactly why you will never be called up, Arya. You don't run because you love it or because you want to make our world better, you run because you want to escape the void it has created inside you. We cannot send runners out there who only do the job because they feel obligated to do so. Every single person in this mountain has been training their entire lives. Only a small percentage of you will ever see the outside world, and I will not let you die for something you do not truly care about!"
Silence sat between us after she spoke, and I didn't know whether to feel humbled or pissed off.
"One more trial," I offered.
"Arya…"
"Please, test me once more, and I will prove myself." My voice was pleading, desperate, but without shame. This was my future on the line, and I would do whatever it took to make sure I still had one. "I promise if you and the Elders still believe I’m not ready, I will go to the Peaks."
