“I want you to remember your first real experience with failure.” The instructor paced around the circle of desks, his voice drifted down behind our shoulders, “This isn’t failure as a student or an adventurer. Or a squire or sword fighter. I want you to go far back to your childhood.”
Quintilius bas Gervais moved his mouth to the side, thinking. Ink pooled into a large tear drop on the tip of his quill then fell down, staining the paper into a black blitzball sphere.
“Maybe it was the first time you rode a chocobo and it wouldn’t let you stay on the saddle. Or a time when you couldn’t tie your shoes even though your father showed you how to do it 99 times.” He stopped himself and held his hand up with a laugh. “I know some of you didn’t have fathers. Use whatever example works for you.”
He continued pacing.
“How did it make you feel? What did you experience? What did you learn?”
---
Quintilius was five years old and he was only 11 months and three weeks younger than his brother Orcus, so they could take mathematics, science, and engineering lessons together with Magistar Cicero.
Cicero was an Elezen and from Dalmasca, because their father’s campaign at the moment was in Dalmasca. Squashing down resistancce cells or something. Quintilius just knew he had to stay down here in this awful desert because his mother was very fragile right now and when she was fragile, she liked to be near his father. Even if it meant living in a savage wasteland.
So their instructor was Magistar Cicero and he had to teach them mathematics, science, and engineering. Apparently he was a genius. Even by Garlean standards. Which meant he was good enough to teach a pair of five year olds calculus.
Dalmascan crafters had to craft extra small desks for the two to sit in. The desks had to be inspected for incendiary devices when they were delivered. Because sometimes that happened. But otherwise they were pretty comfortable.
They started their lessons every day with a stack of work sheets. And if they got an answer wrong, that was the topic of the days lecture. That and how stupid they were.
Quintilius wasn’t stupid. It was rare he got an answer on the worksheet wrong - math was just formula memorization and application. Sometimes Magistar Cicero tried to trick him. But he usually didn’t get those questions wrong either.
He finished the stack of worksheets and dipped his quill deep into the ink well. He liked when all the ink sat on the tip and he could guess how many droplets it would make. Sometimes he was wrong.
Usually he was right.
“Nngh... damn it.” There was a cry to his left. Another quill tore against the paper. “...damn it!” A high voice burst into frustrated, snorting tears.
Orcus didn’t cry often. But when he did. It was ugly.
Quintilius turned. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s hard.” Large tears rolled down Orcus’ red face. “I don’t get it.”
The tear drops made three droplets on the paper. Which was one more droplet than Quintilius thought they would make.
“Damn it.” Orcus shoved the heel of his palm into his cheek then dragged it upwards to wipe away all the water.
Quintilius slid out of his desk and moved to his brothers. Right now, he was 1/4th of an ilm taller than Orcus. Three months ago, Orcus had been 1 and 3/4ths ilms taller. Their father liked to measure them and rank them. Maybe it was a sport to him? Like raising pugnax or chocobos. Sometimes you wanted the biggest ones.
And the others went to the factory.
Orcus hunched over and held his hands under his desk and cried. And while he was doing that, Quintilius took his quill and began to fill in the answers. He was careful to show his work. Because you had to always show you work. Even if you knew the answer. “I’ll help.” He told Orcus. “Don’t cry.”
“It’s hard.”
Quintilius looked over his shoulder. Magistar Cicero was gone. He dropped the packets off and went to get coffee in the office. They were the only two people there. If Magistar Circero was six fulms and seven ilms tall and his leg length was four fulms and two ilms tall, then the stride of his step would be THIS MANY ilms. And if the coffee pot was THIS MANY fulms from the classroom door and seven minutes had already elapsed....
Quintilius filled out the packet, every page, and was back in his seat before Magistar Circero returned. Orcus had mostly calmed himself and stopped crying before Magistar Circero returned, though his shoulders were still shaking.
Magistar Cicero had his coffee in one hand as he snatched up Orcus paper. Then he snatched up Quintilius paper. Magistar Cicero was on some big weapons project, because he was so smart for an Elezen. He was so smart, he didn’t even need to look at his answer key to grade their work.
Magistar Cicero looked at Quintilius paper first, because it was on top, and he sighed. He sighed and tossed it onto his desk. Then he looked at Cicero’s paper. He didn’t sigh. But he did look angry.
“This isn’t your hand writing, bas Orcus.” The paper was thrown down on his brother’s desk. “Are you so stupid that you have to ask your little brother to do your warm up exercises?”
“N..no...” Orcus’ eyes were so large that none of the tears under them could bubble up and fall out.
“Are you so stupid that you can’t do a five year olds work?” They were both five for another month, but that didn’t seem like the sort of thing the Magistar kept track of.
“No!”
“These are hyperbolic functions! FIVE YEAR OLDS UNDERSTAND THIS!” The Magistar looked curious. He grabbed a new work sheet and slapped it on Orcus desk. “FIGURE IT OUT.”
Quintilius stared forward. He could hear his brother sniffling and he looked to see if he was crying. At that moment, Orcus was looking at him. But his eyes weren’t crying. His eyes looked hateful.
---
The next day, they were working on a new lesson. Magistar Cicero had explained the process then gave them a work sheet with twenty problems to solve using the new method.
Quintilius stared at his sheet. His eyes roamed back and forth. With this new process, he could see how this type of problem expanded and could be worked out. He figured out the answer for question one, two, and three just by glancing at them.
It was kind of fun applying the new method. But by question four (which he could also solve by looking now) and question five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten being the same way, Quintilius just felt bored.
The only thing that kept him in a state of momentum was having to show his work. He sighed and dipped his pen into the inkwell. Twenty problems seemed gratuitous for this easy of an equation. Maybe the next method would be more interesting?
“Ngh... ngh...”
Quintilius went still.
“...damn it...”
Magistar Cicero already had his coffee, so he was walking in a circle around them. “You know this, bas Orcus, look at the bored.” He sighed.
“...I...ngh...”
“Look at the bored. FOLLOW the formula.”
He could hear Orcus pen dig into the paper.
“What is this?” The Magistar leaned over Orcus. “You aren’t even following the order of operations. Where did you get THIS variable??”
Quintilius chewed on his lip slowly. He dipped his pen back into the inkwell and began to scratch it on the paper. “...ngh...” He said.
Magistar Cicero turned around and his eyebrows went up. “Are you done, bas Quintilius?” He went to grab a worksheet he prepared with some harder examples. “Then---”
“No, it’s hard.” Quintilius looked up and he tried to make his expression look pleading. “...I don’t understand it, Magistar.”
The Magistar looked at the five year old, then he looked at Quintilius first set of flawless answers. Then back at the five year old. “Are you trying to play a game here, bas Quintilius?”
“...n... no Magistar...” Quintilius stammered, feeling cold. The Magistar had never yelled at him before.
“Are you bored? Are you trying to have fun?” The Elezen demanded. “Or did you just catch your brother’s STUPID?
“Look here,” he jabbed a finger angrily between a pair of parenthesis. “when you see this which app--” (Approximation - Sopholicus’ Rule, named after Tommon cen Sopholicus in 5603,) Quintilius thought (popularized in his textbook series Miscellaneous tracts and Garlean Palladiums though savage scholars argue the rule was established 303 years early by Sharlayan scholar ---) “--roximation, what method should you apply?”
“...um... I... I don’t remember...?” Quintilius looked over to his brother. He hoped if they made eye contact, they would feel like... Like they both were connected. Together.
“Don’t give me that! You GET it! Look at your other answers! LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU, NOT AT THAT IDIOT!”
There were tears in Orcus eyes as he stared back at Quintilius, but there was also hate.
------
Two weeks had gone by and they were four chapters further in their text book.
Quintilius had been rushing through his lessons lately. And during his free time, he had been practicing his hand writing. Magistar Cicero didn’t notice, because Quintilius said he was practicing for his music theory performance.
Quintilius and Orcus also took music theory together. Which was 3 hours every forth day. Quintilius played the harp beautiful. Orcus was very good on the trumpet. And Quintilius thought Orcus really liked playing it. But brass bands weren’t very popular right now, so Orcus was studying the violin.
The day began with a stack of work sheets and Magistar Cicero went to go get his coffee.
Quintilius hurried through his sheets. Then he slipped out of his little desk - the one that wasn’t rigged with a bomb - and padded over to Orcus. “Orcus, give me your paper.” He whispered.
“Nngh...” Orcus was already struggling. “What? No. You’ll get me in trouble!”
“No, I won’t.” Quintilius looked delighted. “I’ve been practicing your hand writing. The Magistar will never know.”
Orcus stared at him hatefully.
“Let me see your quill.” Quintilius reached to take it from his hand.
Orcus pulled the quill back then he jabbed Quintilius with it.
The two fell over in a heap. Orcus desk fell with them to the side. It fell on top of them. Orcus was still angry. He was punching. “I hate you! I hate you, I wish you died! I wish you were dead and I never had to see you again!”
Quintilius had never been in a fight before. He didn’t know what to do. And his eye really hurt.
And for a moment, the world around him seemed to speed up. There weren’t twenty questions in front of him that he instantly knew the answer to but he had to write out his work. Or sit there and painfully wait for the other person to finish speaking.
For a moment there, the world seemed to be moving at normal speed.
Quintilius brought his hand up and tried to catch the fist going towards his face.
“I HATE YOU! I hate EVERYONE!”
Orcus fist slid from Quintilius palm and struck him in the face. They were both five and spent all day at school desks. So even if Orcus was trying his best, he was failing at that too. Quintilius would walk away with a few red marks that would fade in ten minutes.
The hatred wouldn’t.
Quintilius wondered if this is what Orcus felt like. When he was trying his best. On his work sheet. At the violin. When he was trying his best, but he failing anyway.
The hatred would never go away.
----
“Hmm....” It was twelve years later and Quintilius was back in his desk. This one was bigger. He had rolled his us sleeve and was poking at a very, very tiny tattoo he had. It was just a little black dot no bigger than a pour. It looked like a mole. Not even a mole, a very short arm hair.
He dipped his quill in ink and brought it to the paper. ‘My earliest memory of failure is getting all the answers wrong on a math test.’ He wrote. ‘Boy did I feel stupid, but it taught me hard work and I also learned not to give up. I always try my best! =)’
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