Long Things Break First
At Beril Orphanage, the first things to break were always the long ones. Brooms, dry branches, the poles propping up laundry lines, even the long sticks used to pull down sheets of freshly boiled cloth. Long, rigid poles were more than enough to stimulate the kids' boundless energy.
Like the other children, Beril would instinctively snatch up anything long that came to hand. Then she'd head to a corner of the yard and swing it around.
At first, everyone thought it was just a fleeting curiosity or a bit of mischief. But even when the other kids were lost in games of tag or jacks, Beril would spin alone with a hooked pole, whirling it round and round. Her hands moved first, and her feet followed naturally in their wake. It looked like clumsy imitation, but if you watched Beril swing that hooked pole for any length of time, you'd notice something remarkable. Her stance was surprisingly stable, and the timing of her power strikes was uncannily precise. Give her a short knife or wooden sword, though, and it fell apart. Her wrist wouldn't turn naturally; her body went rigid. Straight poles like spears didn't suit her either. But hand her something long that could mimic a curved blade, and everything changed. She'd swing it as if drawing distant objects close, or slice through at an angle—the sensations came instinctively, untaught. It was the orphanage kids who first realized Beril had a gift for wielding sickles.
"Here she goes again."
"Wonder what she'll smash this time."
"Third broom this week, right?"
"Shh. She'll hear you."
Beril ignored them completely. She brushed her sweat-dampened bangs back with the back of her hand and gripped the hooked pole with both hands. She lowered her stance, bent at the waist, and dragged her right foot forward a half-beat late.
And—whoosh!
The pole's end traced a perfect arc.
Crash!
An empty wooden barrel standing right in front of her toppled sideways with a clatter. Dust swirled up amid the cheerful racket. The watching kids erupted in laughter and cheers. It wasn't mockery. By now, Beril had become the orphanage's official spectacle, and this was pure applause.
Thud.
Beril scowled in dissatisfaction and slung the pole over her shoulder.
"Ugh, I really thought I had it that time."
"You say that every time."
One kid's retort drew a response from Beril.
"No, it was different this time."
"How?"
Beril glanced down at the pole in her hands. Her playful expression turned serious in an instant.
"I could've cut it, but I just shoved it away by accident."
The kids stared blankly at her, then burst out laughing again. The Old Nun, emerging after finishing lunch dishes, touched her forehead in exasperation at the giggling.
"…Beril."
"Yes…?"
"What did you break this time?"
Beril silently flicked her eyes toward the fallen barrel. The Old Nun pressed her forehead. But seeing the kids snickering excitedly behind her, she seemed at a loss to scold them properly.
"Just don't hurt yourself."
That was all she said. In the end, the barrel incident concluded with one more sigh from the Old Nun.
Several years passed like that. The orphanage kids matured faster than most, but they didn't mope around with long faces. They laughed easily, fought fiercely, and made up just as quick. They knew each other's weaknesses first—who was clumsy at what, who was overly sensitive, who was timid, who was brave. And Beril? She didn't stand out much, except when she had something in her hands to swing.
She wasn't antisocial. She'd laugh when her friends did first, join in when they invited her to play. But she preferred quiet mornings basking in warm sunlight over rowdy group chatter.
There was one thing even Beril couldn't contain herself over: the days Vergilius—aka "Uncle"—came to visit.
He didn't come often, as always. But he never stayed away so long it felt like he'd forgotten them. One day he'd leave a huge bundle of fruit without a word; another, gift boxes perfectly sized for every child. Scary, quiet, with cold eyes and a long scar across his face—yet the kids awaited him eagerly.
And Beril was no different. The only distinction was her reason for waiting. She'd hover nearby whenever he arrived. Never clinging openly. If he was in the yard, she'd twirl her pole casually close by; if he spoke with a nun, she'd peek from behind a pillar.
One time, as he turned to leave, she couldn't hold back and called out.
"Uncle."
Vergilius halted. Beril hesitated at the sight, then spoke.
"Do Fixers… save people too?"
He didn't answer right away. Beril bit her lip, wondering if she'd asked something foolish. But moments later, he replied curtly.
"Depends on the case."
"What about you, Uncle?"
He looked down at her. His face was cold and impassive. Yet his gaze wasn't one you wanted to flee.
"I'm not far from that sort of thing."
A frank answer. That's why it stuck with her so deeply.
The next morning, Beril was back in her yard corner, swinging a long hooked pole—one she'd deliberately bent at the end to make it more sickle-like. Maybe because it resembled a sickle more closely, or thanks to the kids cheering and clapping behind her, she got fancy with her moves—and tripped spectacularly over her own feet.
"Ow…"
A black shadow fell over the fallen Beril. Its owner was Vergilius.
"Huh?"
While Beril floundered in surprise at his sudden visit, he surveyed her sprawled form, the crooked pole in her hand, and the scattered fragments of a broken box on the ground.
"What's that?"
Beril scrambled up, dusted herself off, and gripped the pole again.
"Practicing swinging a sickle."
"It shows."
His eyes lingered on the hook's end, then her hands. They were covered in calluses from gripping the pole.
"Training, then."
"Yeah."
"Who told you to?"
"Huh, no one…?"
Vergilius narrowed his eyes slightly, as if checking if she was lying.
"Then why bother? Must be tough."
Beril couldn't answer right away. When pressed on why, it felt strangely hard to explain. "Because it's fun" didn't quite cover it anymore.
"Started as a game, but now… I want to protect my friends with it."
"…Hm."
A short, honest reply. Vergilius said no more. Instead, he studied her eyes closely. Unwavering. The kind of gaze only true conviction could forge.
He looked her over once more, then spoke briefly.
"We'll see."
With that, he turned and left. That evening, they feasted on soup packed with meat Uncle had brought as a gift.
Much time passed. On Beril's birthday, Vergilius arrived carrying an object wrapped in long cloth. Without explanation, he held it out to her.
Thump-thump.
Beril unwrapped it eagerly, face alight with anticipation.
Shh.
Inside the cloth-lined box lay a sickle. The handle was shortened to fit a child's size, but it wasn't a toy. The blade was properly honed, the grip made of premium alloy—solid as could be. She knew the moment she grasped it. This wasn't for play or pretense. It was made to cut people, to end lives.
As Beril stared at it, forgetting to breathe, Vergilius spoke lowly.
"Not the eyes of someone playing around."
Not praise, not dissuasion. Just confirmation, echoing her own resolve.
"If you're swinging, swing right."
Beril hugged the sickle to her chest with both arms. Heavier than expected, but it felt astonishingly natural in her hands. Like something that had always been hers, finally returned.
She squeezed it tight, gave it a light swing, then opened her mouth.
"I'm gonna be an awesome Fixer like you, Uncle!"
The kids giggled. The Old Nun swallowed quietly. Vergilius said nothing. As his silence stretched and Beril started fidgeting self-consciously—
"Not a good job."
Beril pouted instantly.
"I can still do it, right?"
"What makes you think so?"
Without hesitation, she held up the sickle.
"This."
It was fleeting, but his mouth seemed to twitch upward ever so slightly.
"Heehee."
Beril treasured that day forever.
And that year, the first snow began to fall.
It was Christmas Eve.