A wooden dish that contained an insipid-looking substance of unidentifiable color was placed in front of him. He reached out to the middle of the wooden table for one of the blackened metal spoons, but other children had already emptied the pile. Retracting his small hand, he lowered his head, shyly looking into the half-filled bowl. A girl about his own age, sitting next to him, burst into tears to the annoyance of the friar who served the food. The man ignored the lament as he finished unloading his tray, but when he reentered the room with bread, an epicurean treat reserved for Sundays, he found he could disregard it no longer.
"Marie," he crouched behind her seat. She turned around, face red and wet. "Why are you crying?"
"I don't want to sit next to him," the girl pointed an accusing finger at the pathetic, motionless child on her side, staring into his untouched gruel. The boy felt his heart flutter in fear, wondering if the girl's antipathy would get him into trouble. He did not dare look her way, though he strained hard to hear the clergyman's quiet reply over the noise of two dozen children eating.
"Why not? Did he do something to you?"
Unable to reply in affirmative, the girl let out an even louder wail, flailing her legs. The friar sighed and rubbed his face. "Would you like to sit somewhere else?"
The girl replied with a nod of fierce alacrity that was utterly unexpected from someone so thoroughly grieved. She took the cleric's outstretched hand and slid off the rough wooden bench, throwing Arkarian an evil, vindictive look. A bit depressed about the fact that the glare went unnoticed by her timid neighbor, she followed the friar to the end of the bench. The boy let out a sigh of relief, when the man returned.
"You didn't do anything to her, did you?" the man looked at him commiseratively. Arkarian raised his head slightly and shook it. "I haven't seen you before. What is your name?"
"Arkarian."
"That's a strange name."
"My mother gave it to me."
"When did you get here?"
"This morning. Today."
"You're not eating," the friar observed.
"I don't have a spoon."
"I'll get you one. Meanwhile, there's bread," the man pointed at the slice lying forgotten next to the boy's bowl.
"Oh." The boy reached out for it, his retracting sleeve revealing sallow bruising. The friar's eyes bulged at the sight, but he said nothing. When he returned, it was with a clean spoon and a thick slice of the best bread he could find in the kitchen. It was one of the only bits of kindness the child would receive in the months to come.