Late at night, in dorm 349 you can hear the scratching of ink pens writing. Inside an older girl with dark brown hair and grey eyes sits by lamp light. Her brows are scrunched together in concentration, her jaw is clenched. Her hand shakes as she writes in the leather bound journal.
Dorian Academy, March 13th is the place and date she scribbled, she pauses in her writing when her roommate stirs in her bed. Nuri glances at the clock on the wall, the time reads 01:19 in the morning. Nuri swallows her anxiety and resumes her writing.
No matter how far you turn the pages in the history books, one thing remains the same. This country has always been at war in one way or another. Times of peace are met with stress, hesitation, and distrust. War is greeted like an old friend, the fear of war has been washed out by years of melancholy. Since I was 10, there has been a fragile peace among nations. Stability, hope and peace flooded the war torn nations of Caline, all of them but mine. My father, a veteran from the war has refused the idea that it's over.
"Just you wait Nuri," He would mutter, staring at the newspaper filled with articles about the end of the war, "This won't last long, it never does." My mother would shush him, telling him to have some hope for once. When poets talk about love and how opposites attract, I think about my parents. About their love. I've watched them dance in the living room together while music plays in the air. I witness their quick kisses, quiet 'I love yous'.
When Dad came home from the war when I was 9, we all thought he would heal and be sent back out. The house was filled with tension as each day my father got better. No one spoke about the times we snuck away to cry at the thought of him returning and not coming back. But a miracle happened, as if the gods themselves intervened, the war stopped. Peace talks began, reparations were made and finally the men returned home. Brothers, fathers, nephews and uncles, they all came back. Some were worse for wear, you hear rumors of shock and the way some men react to normal sounds.
My little sister, Elowen was born a month after peace had truly started. An unexpected but welcome surprise to the family. Little Elowen, I write this for you. I write you to let you know that Dad is right, the peace won't last. The peace is false, behind the scenes, noblemen and women conspire. I hear their whispers behind closed doors here. Mom and Dad were overjoyed when I received the scholarship to this school.
"Our little girl is going to Dorian!" Mom cheered, sweeping me up in a hug while Dad sat back with a reserved smile. I was happy then, not many lower class students got into Dorian, only 20 seats opened each year. On average, seven of those would graduate and the others would be kicked out. But I worked hard, late night studies, days with eating and very little if any social interaction. I would lie to say I'm not proud for making it, even now with the knowledge I have, I'm proud.
But I live with, eat with and learn with children of noble classes. I hear their whispers, of what their parents talk about. They talk about how Doria's army is still active, how more troops are being trained each day. They whisper about court politics and schemes. I know now, and I write this so when the time comes, you will too. Here in Dorian, you are set on a schedule. Every minute of your day is planned.
When you get here as I'm certain you will, you will be placed into this Dorm 349, where all lower class students sleep. You will find my journal, you will know then if you don't find out before. When I go to the noble courts, to take a job serving a noble house, I did not chose to not contact you or mom and dad. I did not chose to disappear into the dark with all the other lower class students here. I did not abandon you.
Signed,
Nuri Everglass.
Nuri closes her journal quietly and silently sets down her pen into the spot she had it before writing. She slowly turns the lamp off and creeps back into her bed in the corner. Behind her pillow, she loosens a brick with a cloth she stole from the laundry room. Slowly and methodically over a time span of 20 minutes, she wiggles the brick out of place and places her journal into the wall. She whispers a prayer, slowly sliding the brick back into place. "Three hours, fifteen minutes and," She glances at the clock again, 01:59 blinks at her, "and sixty seconds." she whispers watching the final blink before the numbers change.
Nuri lays back onto her pillow and closes her eyes, imagining what her sister looks like now and what she will look like when shes older. Faith, she thinks to herself, have a little faith.