Dagen checked his appearance in the wall mirror hanging beside his front door. He wasn’t a particularly vain man, but after having appeared in public one too many times with uncombed hair and/or a raisin stuck to his tooth, he’d decided that putting a mirror near the door would be easier than restoring his dignity. Today, all looked shipshape and ready for operation. He sighed in exasperation when a hand run across his chin discovered a patch of stubble hiding underneath the curve of his jaw.

“Rats,” he muttered, hurriedly walking back to his bathroom sink. He didn’t want to be late to pick up Victus, but neither did he wish to present an unkempt appearance. He passed a razor over the offending stubble, double checked his work and nodded his satisfaction. Another habitual check on his way out the door showed nothing amiss this time.

His eyes fell on a light-orange folder sitting on the small table under the mirror. It contained his adoption filing, and again he paused. It had arrived precisely when the Abbot suggested it would, and Dagen had scrupulously read over each page contained within until he knew the restrictions and permissions inside and out. So certain was he of his commitment that he’d signed on the dotted line even before asking Victus what the boy wanted. Although it was tempting to believe that his young friend would jump at the opportunity to have a home outside the orphanage, assuming something like that would certainly send the wrong message.

No, he thought, pulling his hand away from the folder and reaching for the door controller instead. This was something for which he would have to ask permission.

He signed out the monastery’s groundcar and found it sitting precisely where he’d left it the evening before. Anyone on the staff could use it, but since ninety-five percent of them had nowhere to go it usually stayed where he put it. Strapping himself in behind the wheel, he paused to consider why he was so nervous. Victus would have to be crazy to be unwilling, wouldn’t he? Not that Dagen felt himself to be any great catch as fathers went, but any chance to escape the orphanage had to be a good one, didn’t it?

In his mind, that reasoning rang false. He knew he should have discussed the possibility of adoption before today, and he felt somewhat guilty about that. He decided that the only logical course of action was to admit his error to Victus and hope he would be forgiven. Varii could be somewhat mercurial about personal offense. Some minor indiscretion might make a Varius not speak with you for years, while what appeared to be an obvious major transgression would be shrugged off without a care. Victus, he reasoned, might not even feel that an offense had been committed…or he might.

Enough! Dagen stopped his mind from spinning out of control and turned on the car, feeling very much like a young man about to ask a girl for a date.

***

When he did air his proposal to Victus, the boy’s response was as unpredictable as Dagen had suspected. He truly had not imagined that the first question out of the boy’s mouth would be, “Would we go back to Earth?”

“I’m afraid not,” Dagen answered, wondering if this answer might bias Victus’ decision. “The Abbot says that I will most likely be posted to Galise for the foreseeable future, should you say yes.”

“Good,” Victus said, quietly. “Nobody there wants me, anyway.”

Dagen felt relief, and suspected that Victus needed reassurance as well. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and gently turned him so they faced each other. “If it sounds like a good idea to you, you will live with me at the monastery. I would like that very much,” he said, “but the final decision is entirely up to you.”

Victus was overwhelmed. Only yesterday, he had been fighting back sadness that Dagen was going to leave him. But now, upon learning that Dagen wanted to become a family, Victus felt such uncertainty that he was having a difficult time seeing past it. Part of him wanted desperately to say yes and run into the man’s arms. Another part of him felt fear that he might be making a poor choice. This did not seem like the kind of thing where you could change your mind later. Intertwined throughout the warring factions of his mind and gumming up the works was a thick, rancid glue of disloyalty. No matter how much Victus liked Dagen (and he liked him a lot) his father was a tall, handsome lupine Varius man, who died in a plane crash over two years ago.

Victus looked at the Kenzine, really looked at him, and his heart melted. Dagen looked so hopeful, so scared of rejection, that the boy found it difficult to maintain his resolve. Hurting Dagen hurt Victus, but he had to be sure. “What if I say no?”

Dagen spread his hands. “Then we will continue to be friends, and I will come to see you for as long as I’m on Galise.” Dagen’s appearance didn’t change. His calm smile was the same expression he’d been wearing all during their conversation, but Victus recognized it for the polite, carefully constructed manipulation that it was. He could smell crushing disappointment boiling off the man.

“So if you don't adopt me, you can go home,” Victus said, with equal dispassion.

“That’s true,” Dagen admitted, then added, “eventually. I’ll be here until Master Nolan returns, at least. I could leave that day, or it might be much longer.”

Victus took a moment to think about this. “What about Charlie and Scott and Jack and Gabe and Roy and Peter and Mark and Joe?” he asked. “They need their teacher as much as you need them.”

Dagen’s eyes widened, surprised that Victus could remember the names of the boys in his class, and rattle them off without a second thought. “We will place them with other teachers,” he said, “It will take a few weeks before we permanently settle on who to best pair them with, but we’ll make sure they end up in the right class.”

“They love you,” Victus said. “You can’t just push them away like that, can you?”

Dagen looked hurt that Victus would even suggest such a thing. “No, my boy! Heavens, no.” The slumping of his shoulders was minute, but to Victus it spoke volumes about how much the man would be giving up by adopting him. “To accept the life of a Kenzine is to give up your attachments. Protectors must be willing to pack their bags and leave for months - or years - on end at a moment’s notice. Teachers must be willing to go where they are needed, when they are needed, and students must let them go.”

He shrugged. “It is the Kenzine way. In many ways, it is the same as the Varius way. There is a code of ethics, a pattern of behavior, and an acceptance of what is true for one’s group.” He sat down on a nearby park bench, playing idly with a loose thread in the armhole of his robe. “Come to think of it, I suppose I never really thought about how much you’d be giving up by coming to live with me,” he said, sounding sad. “The life of a Kenzine can be difficult. We move from place to place unpredictably, we own almost nothing, and live our lives behind walls of secrecy. It’s what I’m used to, but it certainly would not be fair for me to impose that sort of life on you.”

Feeling the rightness of what he was doing, he pulled Victus into a hug, then smiled quietly when the boy hugged him back. “I”m sorry, Victus,” he said, rubbing the boy’s back. “Can we please forget that I asked such a thing, and go back to being friends?”

“No,” Victus said, somberly. “You made the offer to adopt me fair and square, and I’m not going to let you take it back.” Still, he looked uncertain. “Not yet, anyways. Do I have to call you daddy?”

Dagen looked horrified. “Absolutely not! You can if you wish, but I certainly don’t expect it. But,” he added, “unless you object, I fully intend on calling you my son.”

“What about a sword?” Victus asked. “Do I get a sword of my own?”

“All students above second year must have a sword,” Dagen said, somewhat unsettled by this aggressive questioning. “It’s part of the dress uniform. Since you would be related to me, you would be permitted to have one sooner, if I thought it appropriate.”

“Do I have to become a Kenzine?”

“No,” Dagen answered, “I will not decide your life path for you. But I will be there to help you make your own wise decisions.”

“Will I get an allowance?” The negotiation went on that way for over a half hour, and although Victus could feel Dagen’s growing frustration he sensed no coercion within the man. “Okay,” he said, abruptly.

“What?” Dagen looked confused. “Okay to what?”

“You can adopt me,” Victus said, calmly. “I think it sounds like a good idea.”

“Well, don’t sound so excited!” Dagen said, exasperatedly. “I thought Rob was a tough negotiator, but you’ve got him beat by a mile!” He broke into a grin when he saw the boy’s slowly wagging tail, and started laughing when Victus launched himself into his arms.

***

“This is highly irregular,” Headmistress Blovena protested, peering at Dagen’s paperwork through pince-nez spectacles that went out of style a decade earlier. “There must be home visits, background checks, psychological evaluations...” her voice faded away. It simply wasn’t done like this!

“No psychological evaluation you might perform could be as rigorous as those performed by my own order,” Dagen said, knowing it to be true. “Technically, Victus was a ward of the state,” he said, “and this paperwork,” he indicated the signed and notarized copies she was holding, “releases him to our custody.”

Another thing Dagen knew to be true was that all of Blovena’s evaluations would be performed by orphanage personnel, and all payment would be made through them. Before she could protest further he raised an eyebrow and suggested, “You might wish to refer to page fourteen?”

She found the back of the seventh page, aligned it with the spectacles perched on her nose and stared at it for a moment longer than necessary. She’d adopted out dozens of children, and knew to the penny how much the tests cost to administer, and how much the agency billed the prospective parents. The amount that had been deposited into the orphanage’s bank account was precisely double that amount, which was even more impressive because Blovena wouldn’t have to pay technicians for tests since none had been performed. Explaining the overage to her superiors would be arduous and technical, so she had little recourse other than to transfer the money into her own holding account. For safe keeping, of course.

She smiled warmly. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she said, extending a hand to Dagen. “I’m so happy that Victus found a good family. Can we help you to the car with his things?”

Dagen smiled back with genuine pleasure. “That’s quite all right,” he said, “he doesn’t have much. We’ll just pack it up and be on our way.”

Sister Caroline was waiting for him on the other side of Mistress Blovena’s office door. “That was fast,” she said, crossing her arms sternly.

Dagen looked at the woman who could have been a tremendous obstacle to him, had she chosen to be. He bowed toward her with absolute respect. When he straightened, he matched her steely gaze with his own. “If you don’t believe that I’m the best thing for that child,” he said, confidently, I will not take him. Take as long as you must to ease your conscience, “ he offered, comfortably. “I will wait.”

Her posture eased. “No need. As many resources as the Kenzine have, my order probably has more. I’ve done my own research.” She took his arm and lead him down the boy’s dormitory hallway. “I’ll miss him, you know.”

Dagen placed a hand over hers for a moment, long enough to convey his feeling but carefully not so long that the gesture became cloying. “There’s no need for you to remain apart,” he said. “You can visit him any time you’d like. To do a...personal visit, to verify his well being, any time you wish.”

She laughed casually. “Thank you, Teacher Dagen. I would appreciate that. It’s not conventional, but little about this arrangement is, is it?”

“No, “ he chuckled, then turned his head to her, pausing her in the hall. “The Kenzine have no age limit,” he said. “A woman with your skills would be welcome in our halls.”

She breathed in deeply, considering his offer carefully. To be solicited by the Kenzine wasn’t unheard of, but neither was it common. Finally, she answered in the only way she could. “I’m sorry, Mister Dagen. As honored as I am that you ask, I’m already committed. And you know what it means to be committed to something, don’t you?”

“I do indeed,” he said, smiling at her. “I admire your spirit, my lady.”

“You’ll be the one needing spirit, I think,” she mused, continuing their walk. “I have the feeling that the Victus we have all come to know is not the Victus living beneath.” Dagen looked at her in time to see the corner of her mouth quirk upwards. “I have a feeling that he’s a high-spirited boy whom circumstances have repressed. Now that his fetters are being removed, I have a feeling that this child is going to jump out of the gates.” She looked at him with an expression that Dagen could only interpret as sympathetic. “I hope you’re good at hanging on.”

Dagen smiled back at her. “I can’t wait! I-” his reply was cut off when Bront stormed across their path and slammed one of the bedroom doors behind him.

The sister placed a hand on Dagen’s arm. “Hold on for a moment.” She walked to the door, knocked softly, then entered, not quite closing it behind her. Through the opening, Dagen heard Bront’s angry, choked words, and Sister Caroline’s quiet replies. A moment later she returned and continued their walk. “I think he’s somewhat distressed that Victus is the one leaving with you today.” She momentarily tightened her grip on his arm. “I don’t suppose you would be interested in a two-for-one special?”

At this, Dagen laughed. “As much as I do love a bargain, I’m afraid not. As you’ve said, my hands are going to be full with this one.” But when he thought about her words, his face grew somber. “I do hope someone takes that boy. In many ways, he reminds me of someone I knew when I was that age.” He looked around them. “Where are the other boys?”

“On the playground,” she said. “It keeps disruptions to a minimum to do this while they’re outside.”

They arrived at Victus’s room in time to see the boy pushing the last of his belongings back into the trash can from which Sister Caroline had rescued them a week prior. On the bed were his neatly folded shirts and socks. “Where are your pants and underwear?” Dagen asked.

Victus shrugged his shoulders and pointed at the trash can. “They’ve all got holes in them. Nobody else here has a tail, so I just threw them away.”

Dagen was perplexed. “What will you wear, then? You can’t run around naked.”

Now, Victus looked confused. “You don’t wear pants.”

“No, but…” Dagen stopped himself when he understood the source of Victus’ confusion. “You don’t have to wear robes,” he said. “Students can wear whatever they wish.”

Victus brightened. “Oh! Okay!” Dagen smiled down at him, pleased that Victus understood. Victus then said, with certainty, “I want to wear robes.”

Dagen turned to Sister Caroline, whose shrug mirrored his own. “He wants to wear robes.”

“He’s quite right about throwing away the old ones,” she said, “They won’t properly fit anyone else, so they might as well go away. You have proper clothing to fit him?”

Dagen pulled a canvas bag from the arm of his robes and moved to the small pile of belongings

“We have someone on staff who can sew him up something appropriate.” He put each of Victus’ toys into the bag with almost reverent care. “Is this all, then?” he said, looking around them.

“Yeah,” Victus said, not sounding the slightest bit sad. He took Dagen’s hand in one of his and Sister Caroline’s in the other, then walked out of the doorway he’d first entered so long ago. But instead of walking down the hall and out of the building, he stopped at the first bedroom door they came to. “Hold on,” he told them, then dug around in Dagen’s canvas bag. He pulled out a book, walked into the room, and put the book under one of the bed pillows.

He repeated the exercise at the next room they passed, and by the time they arrived at the last open bedroom door, the bag was empty save for one last toy, the most treasured one, the motorcycle Dagen had given Victus that first day.

“May I see that, please?” Dagen said, before the boy entered the room. Victus handed it to him, and Dagen could see that his name had been carefully marked through, and another boy’s name put in its place. In careful writing, Victus had penned, “DIGGER” around the other side of the rear wheel.

Dagen was sad to see it go away because it was the first toy he’d given to Victus, but even more he was pleased that Victus - his son - was willing to give it away to someone he felt needed it more.

“Are you mad?” Victus asked, hesitantly.

Dagen was annoyed to find that his voice was not quite steady. “No, my boy,” he said, attempting to regain his usual control. “I’m quite proud of you.”

Smiling now, Victus scampered into the room and shoved his best toy under Digger’s pillow, making sure it couldn’t be seen by anyone else before running back to Dagen and Caroline.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Dagen said, holding them back, “I’d like to have a moment with Bront?”

This request was not usual, but Sister Caroline had come to trust this man. “All right,” she said, in a tone suggesting that what she was agreeing to was not in the rule books. “A moment.”

Dagen nodded and handed his bag to Caroline, knocked softly on the door Bront had disappeared behind, and entered. He left the door open so that the others had full view of his actions, and crossed over to where the boy had thrown himself on a rumpled bed, facing the wall. He didn’t move when Dagen’s weight settled on the edge of the mattress.

Sister Caroline and Victus watched as Dagen put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, leaned closer to his ear, and whispered a few words. Neither of them could hear what the words were, and whatever the Kenzine said, it had no visible effect on the boy. Dagen then got up, straightened his robes, and walked out the door, closing it behind him. “All right,” he said, brightly. “Let’s go!”

“I am curious what you said to Bront,” Sister Caroline asked, once they were outside the school.

Dagen smiled. “Just four words. Feel free to ask him what they were. He might tell you.”

“But you will not?” she said, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

“No,” Dagen said, without shame. “They were between him and me. But I will tell you that they were four words that every boy needs to hear, and I suspect he never has.” He waved briskly at the sister. “Perhaps you can perform a home visit next Sunday? To check his condition?” His expression changed, subtly. “And perhaps to share dinner with us?”

“We shall see,” she said, sounding unnaturally bored. “Sundays are always busy for me.”

Dagen appeared unconcerned. “Another time, perhaps.”

“I have your number.” She waved and turned her back to them with excessive nonchalance, then disappeared back into the home.

Victus smiled up at Dagen, happily. “She likes you.”

“She likes you, too,” Dagen said, giving Victus a gentle poke on the shoulder. Victus grabbed the finger and gnawed on it loudly, leaning in when Dagen pulled him close. “I’m glad you’re here.”

***

“Where is he now?” the abbot asked.

“In the other room,” Dagen said, nodding his head toward his bedroom door, “asleep.”

“I suppose this living arrangement will force you to temper your impassioned outbursts after bedtime?” Wesley said, with dry good humor.

“Unfortunately.” Dagen grimaced. “It’s a pity that none of the teacher’s offices here have attached quarters with more than one bedroom.”

“Built in an earlier time, I’m afraid,” Wesley said, ruefully, “before there was call for such a thing. But if I’m remembering correctly,” he said, voice slowing as he recalled information which had long ago been relegated to long-term memory, “your office was built to be the Bishop’s private chambers. That means that at least you have a private bathroom.”

“Why on earth would you remember that?” Dagen asked, befuddled.

Wesley shrugged. “You know how it is. I can’t remember my daily schedule, but I can remember the layout of every Kenzine institution in the galaxy. But our little Victus is used to cramped quarters, is he not?”

"We both are," Dagen said, "but unlike my boy, I am unaccustomed to sharing that tight space with others. Privacy, I'm afraid, is a thing of the past."

"Does he have sufficient space to store his things? " the abbot asked. "I could arrange for an armoire to be delivered if you need."

"Totally unnecessary," Dagen said, "since he brought almost nothing with him."

"No toys? " the abbot asked., "No clothing?"

“They would have sent clothing with him had he wished to bring some," Dagen said, giving the orphanage it's due, "but he wasn't interested. He said he would rather wear robes.”

The abbot chuckled. “I wonder if he will remain so enthusiastic once he realizes how long it takes to properly tie a hakama.”

Dagen rolled his eyes. “If there’s a good reason we can’t just put zippers in the damned things, I’m unaware of it. Tradition be damned.” He sipped his tea, and made a face when he realized how cool it had become. “As far as toys go, I watched him give away his only unbroken toys to other children. The only things he brought with him were a battered old seashell and an empty tube of nose balm."

"They have significance to him?" the abbot asked.

"He thinks the shell is pretty," Dagen said, "although I don't share his aesthetic sensibilities on that point. The tube of balm..." he trailed off, considering. "I don't really know about that one. I can tell it's personal to him, but since he hasn't chosen to inform me, I have not pried."

"Probably wise," the abbot acknowledged. “He'll tell you when he's ready. Did you get him set up with new robes, then?”

“Archibald set him up,” Dagen said, “but not without the drama he injects into every stitch. “My work follows the ancient patterns!” he railed, doing a more than passable imitation of the tailor’s indignation. “And none of the ancient patterns came with a hole for a tail!”

The abbot shared his laugh over the tailor’s reaction, but he soon sobered. “That’s the first small hurdle in what’s bound to be a very long war.”

“I’m not sure that will be the problem you imagine,” Dagen said. “Everyone here seems to like him.”

“Liking him is not the problem. Training him up is the problem.” He shook his head. “Varii have been present since the first days of the Kenzine, Max, and I’m positive we were intended wait a certain period of time before allowing them to join our ranks.”

“Do you think it’s not yet time?” Dagen asked, dubiously.

“Quite the contrary,” Abbot Wesley replied, “I fear we may be too late. When tradition is allowed to take root, well-reasoned exclusion ossifies into bigotry. There are some who are so focused on keeping them out that they have lost focus on why they’re excluded in the first place.”

“And why might that be?” Dagen asked, disingenuously.

“Look at the time,” Abbot Wesley exclaimed, “Must be going!”

Dagen laughed at his abbot. “Good night, old friend.”