254: The Orphanage (Patreon)

“That will be all for the day,” Janani announced. “Class is dismissed!”

A round of aww’s and no fair’s resounded through the room.

Some of the children rushed out of the room, talking animatedly. Others stayed, clustering into groups and stealing glances at Vir. There was little doubt that he’d be the talk of the orphanage for a good while.

“May… I help you?” Janani asked hesitantly. There was fear in her expression and mannerism, as if Vir might’ve been there to spy on her. Greesha’s badge had assuaged her fears enough for her to divulge her tale—something Vir suspected the Chitran authorities would not take kindly—but it was clear she didn’t trust him completely yet.

“Greesha sent me here. I’d… er, I’d like to spend some time with you and the orphanage, if that’s alright.”

“I… see,” Janani said, obviously confused. “Greesha sent you, did she?”

“Look, I’m no one you need to be suspicious of. I… Let’s just say that, like you, I have no love for the Chits.”

Janani’s eyes widened, and she mouthed an ‘O’.

“Please, come in!” she said. “This is no place to talk.”

Vir stepped into the orphanage, following her into a tiny room attached to the cramped teaching hall.

A small bed sat tucked into a corner, while what looked to be a rudimentary kitchen dominated most of one of the walls. Her living quarters.

“It’s where I cook for the orphanage,” Janani said, seeing Vir’s gaze. “Not the most lavish space, I’m afraid, but it suffices.”

“Not at all,” Vir said. “I’m amazed you’re able to cook for all those kids here. It… can’t be easy.”

Vir couldn’t even guess where she laid out all the food for the kids with such limited counter space.

She must use the floor…

“It can be difficult at times, but it isn’t our place to complain. Not when the Outcasts have it so much worse. I must apologize for my earlier caution. We don’t get many visitors here, and when we do, usually not for anything good. Tea?” she asked.

Vir agreed, sitting at the small table.

“How did, uh… how’d you come to run the orphanage?” Vir asked. Janani had mentioned in her tale that she’d once been a teacher before the fall of the Garga, but teaching a class and running an orphan were different beasts entirely.

“Many parents perished during the war. There was a dire need to feed, clothe, and shelter the family they’d left behind. I started with a relative of my own. A nephew.”

Janani prepared the tea with the refined motions of an expert. From her movements, Vir suspected she was well raised. Demonkind didn’t have Sawai aristocracy like the humans did, but Vir wouldn’t have been surprised if she was high up in the Laborer Calling world.

“And well, I couldn’t very well leave kids wandering out in the street, could I?”

“That’s incredibly noble of you,” Vir said, thinking that many would do exactly that, passing it off as someone else’s problem.

Janani shrugged. “I admit, it helps me sleep at night. For every child I help, I am sure there are three others who go hungry. But alas, I can only do what I can with the means I have.”

Her words were filled with regret.

“I’m sorry,” Vir said, earning him a look of bemusement from the woman.

“What for? Not like you caused it!” she said, setting down the mugs and taking a seat across from Vir.

Vir could only smile wryly in response.

“Not all the children lost their parents directly from the war, though,” Janani continued. “Some were executed long after it ended. Others were worked to death by the Chitrans. There are always more children becoming orphans these days.”

“What did they do to deserve execution?” Vir asked.

“Oh, the Chits always have their reasons. Few legitimate. Those saddled with the Outcast Calling have little hope. The best they can do is beg and pray they’re not beaten. Some tried to seek a better life for their children by working jobs not… suitable for their Calling. It didn’t end well.”

“Are there many Outcasts?” Vir asked, sipping his tasty and aromatic tea. Vir was sure the leaves she must’ve used couldn’t have been anything expensive, which spoke to her prodigous skill.

“More than there ought to be, which in my mind is zero. But I can’t say that life as a Laborer Calling is much better.”

Vir frowned. “I’m sorry. I’ve been away from Samar Patag, training in the Ash. Most Gargans are now Chitran Laborers, aren’t they? Can’t the Laborers change their Calling or shift to a different specialization within their Calling?”

“You truly know nothing of our situation, do you?” Janani asked incredulously. “Only the Kothis—the true Chitran—have that luxury. Gargans are locked into their Calling, and their children are doomed to inherit that restriction.”

“That must be difficult,” Vir said. “Still, weren’t most of you Laborers before the fall? What’s the difference?”

“We’re Laborers in name only,” Janani said, laughing sadly. “In reality, we’re stuck. We pay higher taxes than the Chitrans do and we’re banned from any opportunity to make better lives for ourselves.”

Vir ground his teeth. “Then the Warrior and Ruler Callings…”

“Forget it. No Gargan will ever rise to those stations while the Chitran are in power.”

“Then why stay?” Vir asked, his desperation growing. “Your situation here sounds little better than imprisonment.”

“It sure sounds that way, doesn’t it? A brave few attempt to leave the city each year. Some make it, but most are captured and tortured. Then they are publicly executed.”

“You’re… not allowed to leave? For any reason?”

“Not without explicit Chitran Ruler permission.”

Vir revised his earlier opinion. This wasn’t like imprisonment. The Gargans were imprisoned.

A girl barged through the room and came running up to him, interrupting their conversation. Her face was an expression of excitement mixed with a hint of fear.

“What’s wrong?” Vir asked.

“O-oh, nothing,” she replied bashfully. “H-Hey mister! Do you wanna come and play with us?”

“Hiya!” Janani scolded. “Where are your manners? And can’t you see he’s an adult? Don’t bother us. He’s too old to play with you, and we were just in the middle of a discussion.”

“O-oh,” Hiya said, looking utterly crestfallen. She looked as though she’d break down sobbing right then and there.

“No, it’s okay,” Vir said. “I, uh… I know it’s a burden, but would you mind if I stayed here for the time being?” Vir said. “I’ll earn my keep, and then some.”

“Can he stay, Janani?” Hiya asked, bouncing with excitement. “Can he stay? Please?”

“I assumed he would,” Janani said, smiling at the girl’s antics. “There is no issue at all. If you are a friend of Greesha’s, you are our friend as well. Please, stay as long as you wish. And, well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to get to know the kids if you are.”

“Yayyyy!” Hiya cheered, grabbing Vir’s hand and pulling him away.

“But before you do,” Janani said, “I’d recommend changing into more suitable clothing. It’s a wonder you haven’t been found out already.”

Vir looked himself over and realized she was right. Seric armor was no outfit for a Laborer Class Calling. Let alone for a Gargan indoctrinated Laborer. While he’d hidden it under his robe, it was obvious to anyone that he was wearing armor.

“Right.” He turned to Hiya. “Just gimme a sec, alright?”

“Alright!” the girl replied, giggling.

— —

Vir’s new home was more of a closet with the barest, thinnest bed of hay he’d ever laid eyes on. It was attached to the other end of the classroom hall and had clearly been designed as a utility closet. Filled with mops, brooms, and other cleaning paraphernalia, it was hardly fit for habitation. Nevertheless, it was a roof over his head, and it was safe. Vir would have given anything for such security in the Ash.

Shedding his armor didn’t mean giving up his weapons. While Vir was confident in his skills, he’d be a fool to leave his Artifact chakram lying around. It hung off his back, hidden safely under the robe along with his katar.

“Lead the way,” he said, after he’d finished removing his armor. His old robe, having weathered the Ash, blended perfectly with the rags everyone else wore.

The girl grabbed his hand and showed him to the playground where her friends were at. The ‘playground’ appeared to have once been a garden attached to the building. It’d long since been neglected and overrun with weeds, but the children’s’ continuous romping had flattened it into an ideal play area.

“What do you think, Neel?” Bolin asked. Neel was, once again, one of the several aliases Vir had chosen. He’d thought long and hard about his fake identities, discussing it at length with Cirayus while in the Ash. Unlike the Human Realm, his goal wasn’t simply to remain hidden.

Vir wanted to create a name for himself. That way, when he did finally reveal his identity to the world, they’d recognize—and hopefully respect—his prior actions. Doing so would build trust with the clans.

It was also dangerous. It was one thing to stay completely hidden, and another entirely to build a reputation while keeping his true identity hidden.

Neel was the anonymous name. Vaak was the name demonkind would come to respect, trust, and fear. Or so he hoped.

“It’s very nice, Bolin,” Vir replied, scanning the junkyard. The children had taken refuse and turned it into castles and other structures to roleplay with.

The sight was a tragedy. Each and every boy and girl was skinny to the point of emaciation. All barefoot. Their clothes were rags, and none fit. Most were covered in tears.

These were the children Janani was able to help. What of all those who had to fend for themselves? How many starved? How many had perished in some back alley, neglected and forgotten? How many elderly? How many women?

Vir supposed the only blessing was Samar Patag’s temperate climate. Snow was nonexistent here, and while the temperature decreased in winter, with the sun dipping even lower on the horizon, there was little risk of freezing to death.

“C’mon, Neel! Let’s play tag! You’re it!”

They began to run circles around Vir, who pretended to be unable to catch them.

“Ack! Got me again!” Vir said, prompting a fit of giggles from the kids.

“You’re pretty bad at this, aren’t you Neel?” Hiya said, laughing.

Vir smiled. “I suppose I am.”

Even suppressing his powers, as strengthened as his body was, he could’ve grabbed them blindfolded in seconds.

Still, as the Akh Nara, he had his reputation to uphold. He couldn’t allow himself to lose so easily to a bunch of kids. After allowing them to become supremely confident in their victory, Vir turned the tables, catching them one by one.

Bolin and Ekta flopped onto the ground, exhausted.

“Liar! You weren’t bad at all! You were just pretending!”

“Actually, I just had some great teachers to show me how to play,” Vir said innocently.

“That’s right! It’s because of us that you got so good! Heheh.”

“Y’know? I feel like you could be our friend, Neel! I dunno why.”

“Because he’s not a stuffy old adult!” another child said.

“Yeah! How old are you, Neel?”

Vir took a moment to respond.

“Seventeen,” he said. He was about to say sixteen, but seventeen was more accurate. Though less than a year had passed outside the Ash, he’d spent two years of his life in that desolate place.

“I’m nine!” Hiya said, raising her hand straight up. “You’re old!”

“I’m twelve,” Bolin said. “Seventeen’s not that much older, is it?”

It really wasn’t. Vir would’ve been five when Bolin was born.

Despite that, Vir felt well into his twenties. There was all the knowledge he’d gained from his predecessors, of course, but he also felt like he’d lived more in the three years since leaving Brij than he had his whole life before then. In all honesty, he related more to Janani—a woman in her thirties—far more than he did to these children.

“Eh. I still think you can be our friend,” Ekta said, holding out her pinky. “I’ll make an exceptation. Just this once.”

“Exception, Ekta," Bolin corrected. “But I agree.”

The others thought hard for a long moment, rubbing their chins. After what looked like a period of intense deliberation, they finally agreed.

Vir did his best not to laugh as he pinky shaked with each of them.

I really hope no one saw that, Vir thought with embarrassment.

“So? What should we play next?” Hiya asked.

“I’m tired,” Bolin replied.

“I have an idea!” a new voice said. It was deeper, older, though it was not an adult’s voice.

A teenage boy turned the corner. Five of his friends followed. In their hands, they menacingly twirled makeshift wooden planks like bats.

The sinister grin on their faces said it all.

“How about… punching bag?” the boy said with a vicious grin.