"Use Your Head"

The first thing my father taught me was "Use your head."
 
I was puzzled. Use your head? My little mind was confused. I believed hunting was about strength and skill. It was the first time I ever felt anxiety; but I couldn't describe it at the time. It was the first time I thought, "What if I wasn't enough? What if I did something wrong and I couldn't fix it?" At such a tender age, I made a promise to myself that I would never feel that again. If I was strong enough, if I fought with all my might, I wouldn't need to be inside my head all the time.
 
And I remember the dam breaking when he died. And how I had to put up so many walls in order to quell the floods.
 
I snapped out of it during Acacius' class. He spoke about magic in a way I didn't believe I could relate to. How it was primal, how it was fundamental in everything. I was easily able to understand, having relied on instincts my whole life. However, I quickly felt shame, as along with Gulm's teachings, I began to realize very quickly that while I wasn't incorrect in trusting my instincts, I had to hone my skills more effectively in order for them to shine. Raw power is dangerous. And today was a bad day because it was one of the days where I felt something I haven't felt in a long time: weakness.
 
I was asked yesterday rather simply how I was able to create the lights for my dance shows. I stood up, walked to the front of the class, and just...did it. The lights were bright and shone in different colors. For a second, my body immediately wanted to move in their blinking rhythm--until I heard his voice bellow, "STOP." When I opened my eyes, I saw that one of the students was nearly blinded by one of the lights. Acacius pointed out that this was an example of a lack of discipline, that if I kept accessing my magic this way, things would go horribly wrong. The idea that I could hurt someone in this way humbled me. I slunk back to my seat, where Hilde noticed that despite my large frame, I was hunched over, wishing to disappear.
 
It was in order to fight the feeling of lashing out. Of roaring and even slashing at him. It was terrifying; I had never felt so angry and ashamed at myself in my life. Lack of discipline? I learned nothing but! You had to in order to get food, to get up at the crack of dawn and hunt, to take care of such a large family. I felt insulted and it wasn't until Hilde saw my jowl tremble that I calmed myself down. This wasn't a personal insult. This was a fact. I lacked magical discipline. It was like I said last time I wrote; I was a fighter, not as much as a tactician. So when I went back to my room, I cast it again, but this time, I asked questions.
 
How did I make these lights? What was the process? I didn't just conjure them out of thin air; my brain had to have done something in order to create these, like a complex math problem that needed to be dissected in order to be solved. Soon, my desk was covered with books regarding probabilities and maths that I never dared consider reading. There were times where I stopped and started again, my attention span being tested more than I ever believed possible. Eva had to gently shake me awake once as I'd fall asleep at my desk studying this. Even while cooking a roast ham and vegetable dinner last night, I was lost trying to figure out the calculations and soon, I felt myself making progress.
 
Next week, I have to bring my calculations in front of the class and explain in that form how my lights work. While instincts are powerful tools to survive and thrive, it's the discipline and the inquisitive desire to know why that makes it much more important. Don't get me wrong. I am frustrated beyond all comprehension and there have been many times that I wanted to throw my books out of the window. Yet slowly, and ever so surely, I'm starting to understand.
 
Maybe I can shed this "dumb fighter" trope away after all. Like my father said?
 
"Use your head."