#1 — The Orphanage

"Casival, you've left your dinner! Don't make me regret taking you in, boy, or I'll have you cleaning out gutters." Marilyn called upstairs, sounding thoroughly vexed, as she so often did these days. Casival, who in the tradition of all orphans in Cyrodiil had never turned down a free meal, and wasn't about to start now, hurried to hide the book he'd been reading under the loose roof pane that jutted out from the roo's edge, keeping his ill-gotten gains from the elements as well as discovery.

"There you are." The matron said impatiently as he tried in vain to tame his hair at least a little bit while he came down the stairs, "It's one thing for Daryn to keep me waiting, but he's got a proper job these days. You don't have anything of the sort, and I heard you haven't been studying either from father Varrius. If you don't shape up soon, you're not going to be allowed back, you know. It's quite an honour they let you attend, so don't waste my efforts." She lectured as she ladled more soup into his bowl.

Casival murmured something appropriately grateful sounding as he shovelled the soup into his stomach. It was filling as always and the taste was good, though the vegetables had long turned to mush.

"You'll be helping me clean up the building after you're done, or so help me Mara, I will send you to the streets." Casival flinched, and nodded. She wouldn't kick him out, not while he was still young enough that the legion wouldn't take him, but she would kick him out for the rest of the day, or if she was particularly incensed, he'd have to find somewhere else to spend the night. And the Imperial City's streets weren't safe at night, not in this part of the city.

"Don't nod, tell me 'yes, ma'am'. I didn't teach you to be so impolite! You've been hanging out with that layabout Aurelius, haven't you?" She asked suspiciously, "I told you, you're going down a dark path if you continue associating with her. That girl will bring you nothing but pain, you'll see. Now, hurry up, I've got to get the building spick and span before tomorrow. The Census is doing a check-up, and you'll exactly where I need you to be."

His spoon made a clacking noise as he put it down in the cleaned out bowl. The matron handed him a piece of bread—still relatively soft, must've been from this morning, and he used it to sop up the last bits of soup.

"Yes, ma'am." Casival said. The Census was the office in charge of keeping a watch on the orphanages in the Imperial City, and the amount of drakes they got depended on how well the orphanage was functioning. In other words, acting proper tomorrow would make the difference in whether they'd be able to afford a proper repair of the leaky roof, or if they'd have to make do for another year or five.

"Should I draw a bucket of water?" He offered, well-aware that her opinion of him might not be the greatest, but that she always appreciated if they tried to help.

"That's a start. You do that, and go buy a new bar of soap at Cyrile's Tradehouse while you're at it. We're nearly out." She tossed a small pouch at him, and he caught it, the weight and feel of it recognisable as a handful of coins. Enough to buy what she asked for, and not much more.

The buckets, mops and rags they used for cleaning were stored in the corner underneath the steep stairs, and he grabbed two buckets, hiding the pouch under a loose flap of clothing, exactly how he'd been taught.

Cyrile's Tradehouse was not so much an actual business, as it was the old woman's home, where she sold soap bars she made, as well as anything else she could get her hands on for cheap, if you managed to knock loud enough for her to hear. She tended to experiment with the smells she added to the soap to make it smell nicer than the lye it was made with, sometimes to less than favourable results. He endured her talk about the healing properties of the lavender oil she'd made it with, and tried his best to haggle the price down—lavender was a flower that grew on every street corner, it wasn't special enough to warrant a price increase.

With a wrapped soap bar in hand, and only three septims left, he took one more coin out of the pouch and hid it in his sock. Cyrile's prices were erratic enough that he'd be able to explain it away, and he was getting older now—soon he'd be out on his own, and a few coins might make the difference between starving or finding a job.

The well was not far from the orphanage, and there were only a few people waiting to use it, so it didn't take long to draw the water and carry it back home. Matron Marilyn had gotten the brooms and rags out and had enlisted a few of the younger kids who weren't sneaky enough to get away on time to help her with the cleaning.

"I got the water," Casivar said as he put one of the buckets down in the dining room, carrying the other up the stairs, "And Cyrile had lavender soap, so it'll smell nice too."

"Good. Take two of these misfits, and clean up the bedchambers, will you?" The Matron said, waving him up as if to hurry him.

"Will do, ma'am." Casival answered, looking for two of the younger boys, who weren't as likely to know soap from a scuttle. They followed him up the stairs without protest, and he set them to work on wiping down the lower shelves and dusting the floor while he worked the higher areas of the room clean of dust and other accumulated filth.

The cleaning took time, and by the end it felt like most of the dirt had transferred to him instead of being washed out into the street, but the place did look as clean as they'd be able to make it with what they had. They'd fit clean linens on the beds in the morning, after they had slept, so all there was to do now was getting clean themselves.

There was a bathtub, though it was more of an enlarged bucket if anything, but getting the water here was a bit of a chore that nevertheless tended to come down to him. He was the oldest in the orphanage these days, after Rea had left to become a priest of sorts. She'd always had an interest in the divines though, so it had come to no surprise when she had announced at dinner one day that she had been accepted into an apprenticeship that would take her far away from them.

After the last chore of the day was done, and Casival's fellow orphans had long gone to sleep, their bedtime zealously enforced by the matron, Casival got up from his bed, and opened the window, carefully holding on to the familiar ledges and roofpanes. With a grace that belied familiarity, he swung himself up high enough to wedge himself into the corner between the roof and the chimney, his book in hand.

As he looked up at the moons and stars, he wondered what would become of him.

The light of the moons was just bright enough to read by, and so he settled in for a night of reading.

—

The morning broke in a rush of last-minute things to be done. Beds needed to be made, dirty laundry put away for later, food to be made, dishes to clean. Casival spent his morning helping the matron, enduring a deluge of comments about whatever she thought of. A repeated point was his own appearance, the way the prices had gotten so high recently, the chaos of dealing with the rest of the children. Casival remained quiet, letting her talk. It was the way she always was, so there really wasn't any point to replying.

It was almost noon when the inspector arrived, the younger kids having had their lessons—they learnt their letters, and how to count, and a variety of knowledge on different topics—the seasons, animals, manners, how to address one's betters, and were now playing in the yard. Despite repeated admonishments for them to keep it down, shrieks and shouts occasionally could be heard from outside.

The inspector's visit went without much fanfare, in the end. Casival took it upon himself to gather a few of the more troublesome kids and to entertain them for the duration. He was in the middle of telling them a story—something about a hero fighting against a mythical dragon, perfect for getting some of the wilder kids to listen to him for a while—when he felt eyes upon him. The matron was looking at him with an indescribable look, before being called over by the inspector and disappearing out of view.

The inspector's departure was a relief, and the tension popped like a bubble. He let the children go back to playing on their own, and entered the building, preparing himself to deal with however the inspection had gone.

The matron was sat at the table, some document in front of her. He set a kettle to heat some water, then when it had finished boiling, he made tea and brought her some.

She had noticed him, but hadn't acknowledge his entrance. And now she said with a choked voice, "Foolish boy, you're too good for me. Don't you know that children should be troublesome? Ah, but then you were never as disobedient as that group you always ran around with."

"Ma'am?" Casival inquired, a little confused. "Is everything alright?"

"You'll be sixteen soon, won't you? I remember when you were brought in, so small still. A little babe, barely weaned, wrapped in sackcloth, nothing to your name except for a wooden toy." She took out a handkerchief, dabbing her cheeks dry.

Casival wondered what had brought this on. It wasn't like he'd ever know his birthday, and had only been able to figure out his birth sign because after he'd figured out how to cast a basic magelight, his magicka had never regenerated. He'd eventually figured out that praying at the shrine to Julianos would restore his magicka. He supposed that a potion of restore magicka would work similarly, but potions, even the cheapest out there, were still well out of his financial reach. At least at the shrine you could get away with leaving only a small offering, and nobody would mind that you weren't there long.