Summary:
Spoiler! :
In the morning, I return everything the school borrowed me to the dresser in my room, then pull on the only clothes I came with - brown pants, a plain long sleeve shirt, a plaid vest, and soft boots. I haven’t grown much in the two years I’ve been here, so they’re only a little snug. As I final touch, I fasten on a string necklace Gavin gave me that has an underdeveloped pinecone for a pendant.
I pack my few other things in a beige carpetbag no bigger than a large purse, which has more room than I need.
I travel down the back stairs, careful for no one to see me. I don’t need any awkward goodbyes, anyone telling me to stay, and certainly not anyone questioning why I’m leaving. The answer’s too close to why I came. They can assume I’m an Adair - someone at one point forced to sell their body out of poverty. Those leave without warning all the time, though no one knows where they go. Of course, there's probably only one person here who might actually care if they caught me, but if I run into her... this would be a lot harder to do.
Outside, I skip through maintenance paths to the main building. It’s stopped raining, but everything’s still saturated with moisture. With high canopied trees and sprawling undergrowth crossing over the cobblestone paths, that’s not surprising. It can sometimes take the greater part of the day for the dew to evaporate.
At the door to the main building, I pause. Do I really want to do this? No, but I have to; if I don’t, he won’t allow Gavin into the military. And I can’t let that happen - I owe it to him to come back. And, despite my reluctance to admit it, there’s a part of me that’s excited for coming back. Not just to see Gavin again or be his training partner - though that’s a miracle in and of itself - but because I miss the cool weather and the dry woods. I miss my bow and arrows. I miss home. I just don’t miss the people.
Taking a deep breath, I push through the door. The main building is like the cafeteria in that it’s large - much larger than it appears from the outside - and also in its frequent use. Students congregate here regularly for lectures, announcements, dances, tutoring sessions, and a number of clubs that meet weekly, none of which I’ve had any part in. Right now, it’s empty save for a man standing by the entrance whose brown hair has tastefully bleached tips that no other dignified person could pull off.
The man sees me then departs, and I follow him. The air out by the drive is muggy, as though the fat drops of rain hang suspended and I’m plowing through them with each step. Passing palm trees, we both climb in a small black limousine, where the air conditioning saves us from the humidity.
Speaking for the first time, the man, who sits facing me, says, “We’ve never met. My name is Vanadis,” and daringly holds out his hand.
Not hesitating, I take it. “Adah Edric.”
You can tell he’s impressed with my disregard of snobbish royal customs - that is, shaking a commoners hand. I’m impressed he gave me the option.
And though yes, we’ve never met, never spoken to each other, I know him - know of him. He was my brother’s escort - meaning little more than babysitter. But he had a reputation of being too bold and behaving as others dared not. And while my parents adored him, I was never allowed near him for fear I’d learn bad habits, though apparently they didn‘t hold this concern to my brother. I guess my brother thinks I’m mature enough to handle his influence.
The rest of the short one mile ride to the train station, neither of us says anything, but I can feel his eyes on me, though I look away, out the window. Not necessarily out of embarrassment, but because I somehow feel he has the right to look me over. It's hard to think I'll never see any of what's out the window again while squirming under his stare, though.
The limousine stops, and I’m forced to go back out in the weather I hate. We walk hastily to one of the platforms and climb aboard a large, black train. The ticketmaster says nothing to us, so I assume we’re expected, that it was all worked out ahead of time. I wonder if he would have recognized me otherwise. I wonder if he would have pretended not to.
We pass through several passenger cars to a private one near the back. Inside is a sitting room with short, long couches and minute tables. I sit on a couch swathed in purple velvet. Vanadis draws two bottles of water from a miniature fridge and sits at a chair opposite me, then hands me a water. I accept and take a sip that moistens my dry throat.
The trained rumbles and through a window I can see we’re moving. I’m not really sad to see the island atmosphere leave as we transfer over a bridge that connects the tracks to the mainland, though I feel I probably should be.
“When we get back,” Vanadis says, “there are a few things you should know. First of all, the evaluations have recently been completed and there is going to be a feast tonight for the high-rated.”
I nod. It’s the last week in May; I’d already been expecting this.
“You will not only be expected to attend the feast, you will have to make a speech. Which, of course, I will recite to you through an ear piece. You will not alter a single word of what I tell you, and you will say it with all the emotion you can drag up, as though you wrote this.”
I take another sip; the salty island air made me perpetually thirsty.
“And lastly, you do not speak of your banishment. You do not recall your pain or struggle or anger; you do not pretend that it’s made you stronger; you do not so much as speak a word on how it’s affected you. If someone brings it up, thank them for their concern and quickly change the subject. If they press, I’m sure there’s another hopeless busybody for you to converse with. Is this clear?”
I know he's right, of course, but I grit my teeth. Does he really think he has to tell me this? Why would I talk about that to people I never met and didn’t care about? Because I like throwing the humiliation up in the air? Because I like reminding everyone of how my own father sent me away? Because I want to add injury to insult?
“Is this clear?” His eyes dig into me.
“Very,” I say.
Even while sitting casually in plain suit pants and a simple button down shirt, there's an air of charisma about him, as though he's royalty, not I. As if anything that comes from his mouth must be right, must be true, and must be obeyed, not like my brother must be, but rather because he really does make you think that he has all the answers and therefor everything will turn out well if you trust him. I understand now why my parents never wanted the younger me near him; I would have believed anything this man said.
“Good. I didn’t expect you’d think otherwise.” He stands. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to attend to before we stop at the border.”
He leaves, and I’m left wondering exactly what sort of position he’ll take in my life; one of mutual respect, or one of great tension.
I ride alone for a while, drinking the rest of my water and watching as the scenery transforms from the tropical coastline to a more mild farmland atmosphere. I'm amazed at how unattached I feel about the changes and about how I'm leaving and will never come back. I'm not sure if I'm simply numb, or if I really don't care; and I'm not sure which is worse. After allowing me in, giving me opportunities like the one I took when the Headmistress found me, can I really feel so little toward the country?
Of course, I'm not completely detached. There are a few things I'll miss, some things I know I'll never get again. Freedom to live without constant judgement. Freedom to act and dress and eat how I will. Freedom to not rely on everyone else for my needs. And a friend like Cassia, who helped me without knowing or caring who I was.
But still, if the situation I'm returning to were different, would I even think twice about leaving? Sometimes, my own detachment scares me.
My insides feel like ice when the train stops and Vanadis fetches me.
We exit onto a large platform with hundreds of people milling about. A tall, electrified fence runs parallel on each side, extending as far as, I imagine, the shores on each end of the continent. This fence divides Ithe, the country I’d been staying at, and Amhain, my country. Or which was my country. On the platform are three massive buildings. Vanadis takes me to the far left one.
“Passport and papers,” a man drones from behind a wooden ticket booth. Like the three other booths in the room, the top half is boxed in with steel rods, as though they’re afraid one of us will launch at them with a crowbar. Though, I can’t help thinking, working border duty, there have to be characters who would do anything to get past the bolted door into the neighboring country. I wonder their solution if someone brought in a gun.
Vanadis slides a metal ID sheet through a slot. “I think this will do.”
The man scans it and looks up at us, blinking, as though in a stupor. “Uh - yes, Sir.” He slides the ID sheet, along with two stamped tickets, back through the slot.
Vanadis takes one ticket and hands me the other as we move towards the security doors, manned by armed guards, where a strangely large line has formed. It’s a weird concept, since the last time I came through here, it was almost deserted. But I suppose since Amhain is hosting the Fields this year, wealthy spectators are swarming the country.
I'm trying to decide which is more lonely, leaving my country with absolutely no one by my side, or returning to it in a room full of people I'd rather not know, when I find myself at the front of the line. The guard runs my ticket through a machine and waves me on. Thick metal poles stacked horizontal across a doorway, which are normally rigid, yield at my touch and I pass through easily. The cold steel sends shivers up my spine as a memory attempts to surface. I shove it down and walk through a vaulted door that slides open before me.
Vanadis meets me on the other side and we board another train, which soon launches from the platform. He informs me that soon a team of beauticians will appear to prepare me for the feast, and leaves to retrieve my dress. I sit, once again alone, as I wait for them.
This time, I'm not thinking of the country I'm leaving; but what about the one that awaits? I have no idea how they'll receive me, if they'll even pretend as though they're happy for my return. I don't think I want them to; it'd be so much easier to be glared at, spat at, criticized openly than to be admired and loved when everyone knows its only a charade. But does anyone dare disapprove of the king's decision? Not if he's anything like the previous one, and I think I know him well enough to say he'll be worse.
I don't even think about what will happen after the feast - I push away the hole in my stomach - because that's too much. I try not to think about anything at all as the beauticians work on me and as I wait for the train to stop.
By the time we arrive at the palace grounds, I am entirely sick of waiting around for things.
So, I guess by now people pretty much know what sort of things I prefer in a review. I've been in a slump lately, which I only recently got out of, so if this is disjointed, that's probably why. I should probably fix this up more before posting, but right now I'm pretty anxious to just get this out here, so here it is. But it's lovely, amazing, full of wonderful, interesting prose, and poetry-like sentences, and has characters and plot much too sophisticated for anyone who doesn't love it to understand. (Happy, Skinsles?) So, do your worst.
So yeah, sorry if this is kind of lame...
I guess I'm not fussy... or Rach and Ribbit just know, like, everything there is to know about writing and probably life too... 
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