Mother only taught me the skills to survive, and she rarely let me practice lying. That was something I never understood, not lying. She always told the truth, even when it could cost her wages. Although Mother rarely cared about the money she earned.
Reading, writing, and mathematics were crucial compared to anything Mother could earn in a brothel. She insisted I study those subjects very closely.
Insist.
Mother would always insist, instead of telling me, commanding me like other mothers I've seen. She would hand me any book she could get her hands on or read her accounting ledger. I would always do whatever she asked me to do. The chores Mother would give always involved those three subjects in some shape or form. Other than teaching me to survive, I never understood why she taught me this way. I never found reading, writing, or doing math troubling. On some days, I would look forward to practicing my skills with her. However, there was this one question that I always wanted to ask her: why didn't she teach how to lie?
We traveled on the road for years, ever since I could comprehend the world, until one day we ended up in a brothel. Mother said we would be safe. From who? I never asked her. Mother never gave me a reason to distrust her. If she said something was secure, then it must be.
She never lied to me. And she never taught me to lie, even though where we were, lying could've been beneficial.
But now, after meeting Arthur and the Inquisitor, after witnessing the Matriarch's attempt to consume, I genuinely understand Mother's reasoning.
When you only speak the truth, the truth is what others expect. When you only speak lies, lies are what others expect. When you speak the truth in a world of lies, you know what is false and what is true. When you speak lies in a world of lies, you'll never know what is authentic.
Mother wanted me to learn that
fundamental.
The room that Arthur left me in is crammed. But a bed was better than nothing.
What lay flat on top of my bed kept me from shutting my eyes: a change of clothes. Attached to the chance of clothes is a note from the Inquisitor, saying he expects me to wear them for breakfast tomorrow.
A black coat, similar to the Inquisitor's and Arthur's robes, except that there was white piping running horizontally beside metal-studded buttons. There's a pattern on the hip that's mirrored vertically, a symbol, but not the Inquisition's, but a 'T' shaped star portrayed within a pyramid. The symbol appears again on the cuffs, instead of within the pyramid, it's within an eye. It reminds me more of Ikaris's eyes.
The cost is clean and well-made, and the material is thick but not irritating to the touch. It makes me inspect my own clothing. The same trousers and blouse since the Somata chased me from the Ewe's Sanctuary. It's been over two days since then, since the Somara began chasing, since I've met a Dauntless, since my life was forced from my complacent home.
Thunder strikes in the background, rain pelting the thin window. I hear a knock against the glass. The rain outlines three tiny, child-like hands. The entire frame begins to shake. It was soft at first, but quickly turned into a violent vibration.
While my senses flare, screaming for me to move, to call for help, or to use the knife. Everything I should or would do when Somata appears, yet I didn't. No fear enters my mind, simply exhaustion.
The glass cracks as another trio of hands knocks harshly, banging on the window, as whispers of weeping children bleed through the wall. More fractures appear on the window, exciting the Somata. Their weeping mutates into snarling as they shed their innocent mask, revealing their forms, no longer hiding behind fog or rain.
In this moment, I expect to demolish the wall and seize my life.
That moment extends into two. Then into three.
It's been too long. The Somata should be broken in by now. I inspect the window, seeing the fractures still there. I notice the snarling and growling are entirely gone.
There. Along the window's perimeter, golden sigils of the Inquisition were inscribed, shining brightly. Light pours into this room as well as outside.
Finally, I hear the Somata make noise once more, though it's not the confident snarling or growling, but its whimpering, and its shapes begin to scatter away from the window, running from the light.
In the next seconds, the Somata are gone as quickly as they came.
A breath of relief exits from me. I can feel my knees tremble as darkness threatens to overtake my vision. The double exhaustion is clawing at me. No matter how much I have or how much resolve I have, I cannot keep standing any longer.
I'm tired, and my body knows. It's done too much work in the last two days.
I don't even move the coat aside; my body drops onto the bed, lying beside it.
Damn it, I should at least strip a little. My clothes are thick with grime. From sewer water, to dirt and rocky debris from the cliffs, to the crumbling Inn Ikaris and I fought out of, to the dusty, ruined church I slept in. These clothes have been through too much without rest. I must have a change of clothes.
I wonder what Mother would think if she saw me? Would she be disappointed in my appearance? She would always stress and point out how I look.
I miss her.
Even to others, a year and two months is a long time. However, to me, it might as well be an eternity since I last saw my mother.
I don't even remember her face. How can I forget the face of someone so important? A year and two months shouldn't be nearly as long to forget a face. I remember the old Shoemaker's face—the first person we met in Bruis.
How unfair.
I could go on about how Mother loved me when she was alive, and how she loves me through death. But I can't see her face.
I want to see her.
I want her to hold me and tell me it'll be okay.
I miss my mother.
It has been a year and two months since she died.
Despite it being a year and two months since losing my mother, forcing me to mature and take care of myself, I am still her son.
I am still a grieving boy
Even as I fall to sleep, that won't change.
Whether that be in these dirty, beat-up rags that I wear now.
Or a new change of clothes beside me.
It won't change my feelings.
So when I wear this coat I've been provided, I'll have no fear, I'll face the Inquisitor knowing that.
However, the Inquisitor isn't what worries me. It's that acolyte. That grin of his. The way he speaks. It's all false.
Arthur Lyn, the boy who will pierce my back with a knife, given the chance.
There's too much danger in Bruis. This place can't be my home any longer.
I must leave it. There is no other way.