Fuck, this is not the punishment he expected for lying to his emperor, no. This is actually much worse. This is hell. No, hell is probably a lot quieter than this madhouse monkey circus. This new, modern pilot project thing that was just recently introduced in Vicovaro by some university guru-dude specialised in, what was it called again? Podology? Paedogary? Pomology? Paedophagy? Whatever. This thing called Kindergarten. Kindergarten, what a stupid word. Why misspell garden with a 't'? And is it supposed to mean 'kind of garden'? Or 'a kinder garden'? The word does not make any sense at all. What makes even less sense, though, is that he, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, former General Commander of Nilfgaard and Vicovarian count is supposed to be the kindergarten teacher. For a group of almost two dozen three to five-year-olds. And he is not even allowed to beat or whip them or hurt or threaten them in any way, not even yell at them or scare the little buggers with his deep commander voice or death glare. Okay, he has to admit it is better than being executed, but only marginally so. He will, no doubt, go insane after no more than a week of this.
Cahir heaves a heartfelt sigh and gets up from the privy - the only place in this nuthouse where he can enjoy a modicum of silence and peace for a minute or two. This is only his second day on the job and he already feels more stressed out than after the Siege of Cintra. It is so much easier to command thousands of soldiers to kill each other than keep a handful of tiny tots from constantly being at each other's throats.
For a brief moment before re-entering his group room Cahir considers deserting from this hellhole and fleeing north. But he has never before given up on a mission of his, never chickened out of any assigned task or yielded to a superior enemy, not even in Aretuza under torture. And this is his only chance to redeem himself in the eyes of the White Flame. No, he has to go through with this, no matter how much he hates it and how long his punishment will last.
"I can do this, I can do this," Cahir tells himself repeatedly, like a mantra, and, with another sigh, opens the door.
"Nuncle Chair, Demon took my buildin' blick!" a chubby kid whines, running toward Cahir the second the door opens, his nose equally running - with yellowish-green snot.
"My name's Damian, Fatso!" another boy shouts, throwing the brick at the chubby kid whose name is probably not Fatso either, but Cahir is too busy ducking out of the way of the flying wooden missile while, at the same time, trying to keep not-Fatso from wiping his snotnose on his only pair of black pants to remember the boy's real name.
"I'm thirsty!"
"I'm hungry!"
"Lusa pulled my hair!"
"I want my mummy!"
"Play with me, nuncle Chair!"
"I need to pee!"
Gods, maybe he should petition Emhyr to grant him a quick death on the executioner's block? After he has paid this lunatic arsehole who came up with the idea of this infernal kindergarten thing a visit - at night and with a sword in his hand. If only he had a sword ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Hours of whining, quarrelling, wiping of snotty noses and changing of shitty pants later when it is finally early evening and the last of the tiny monsters has been retrieved by their parents, Cahir sinks to the floor with a loud groan, more than ready to just collapse into bed and go to sleep. Well, bed is a bit of a hyperbole for the narrow and hard wooden thing in the small storeroom that is supposed to be his abode for as long as he has to stay here. Anyway, he is not done for the day yet, Madam Livilla reminds him with one stern look from her steel-grey eyes. There is still the kids' mess to clean away, including scattered around toys, dirty dishes and a puddle of vomit. He needs to clean himself, too, before he can hit the sack. Everything, his clothes, his skin and even his hair, feels like covered in goo and muck from dribbly kisses and sticky fingers. A big bathtub with hot water would be nice, but, of course, this would be far too much luxury to expect. He will have to do with the cold water from the well in the yard. And yes, he will remember to put the child safety lock back on. Cahir hates the little buggers with all his heart, yet, he cannot risk anything happening to them. Not if he wants to keep his head attached to his shoulders. And although it throbs painfully from the incessant noise, he does not wish to lose it just yet, no.
With another groan - this one much quieter so Madam Livilla would not hear it - Cahir heaves himself to his feet and glares at the building bricks and glass marbles, snotty handkerchiefs and all the other sticky flotsam and jetsam left by the messy little brats that he is supposed to pick up. What for eludes him, though. By tomorrow evening there will be the exact same cluttery chaos again. The kids would probably not even notice whether or not he cleans up after them. Well, Madam Livilla will.
Fuck, if this is what destiny demands of him, let's get it over with.
Sighing heavily, Cahir bends forward and starts with the mindless, tedious task.