Time passes again. This time it is barely one year until you step foot back in Athar. Yet, the city changes greatly as the war continues to take its toll. Plant life has taken over portions of what used to be concrete as if reclaiming abandoned land. Many buildings are shuttered completely, having lost hope their occupants will return. There is a foul smell hanging about the air.

You stand in front of the Twin Piers. The stones of the building’s exterior stones are covered in grime as collected over the course of multiple years. A number of the front-facing windows are missing shutters. Those that remain are in a sorry condition. At some point, the letters bearing the hostel’s name leaked some sort of black substance, as evidenced by its now-dried trail on the wall below.

You had to walk here yourself from the terminal. In your hand is a note once left on your desk from none other than Neal Schultz. Now here was a few mistakes in a row. You found out that Neal Schultz was a lot like drinking, and not just because one generally followed the other. Not just because you did a lot of both in between your time here in Edrye.

The note reads more like a heartbroken love letter than anything else. Among miscellaneous laments and pleas, Neal writes “I don’t know who he is, but he’s not me, and I don’t even think he’s a man in the same way that I am.” After laying out what you’re sure was a very convincing argument in his head as to why Edryeans are not worth your time, least of all some know-it-all living in the back of his own failing business, he writes “There’s not much point in trying to talk to a soldier. Their whole business is what comes after talking fails.” You fold the note and stuff it back into your bag. You wish Neal knew nothing about Bennett so that he might not have the opportunity to say anything about him at all.

You enter the hostel. It is busy, which is only to say that there are other people present in the foyer. Immediately you see Bennett. He’s kneeling down to talk to an old Wilskenn woman sitting on one of the floral-patterned couches against the wall. You catch his attention. Smile. He smiles back. You pray that your last interaction is water under the bridge by now.

“Deborah,” he says as he approaches you. The two of you embrace. It’s quick. It’s civil. He pushes a key into your hand. “I’ve prepared a room for you on the second floor. It’s private, don’t worry.” With that, he walks on past you.

It does not appear that your prayers have been answered. You turn around and grab the back of his sleeve. “Bennett,” you say, quiet enough that only the two of you can hear. “I’m sorry about last time. I want to put that behind us.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

He stops. Turns a little. “I’m sorry,” he says, “that I couldn’t pick you up, I had to sell my car just last month. The walking is probably better for me anyway.” Then he continues on, the cane like a third footstep.

*

In the evening you become resolute. You find Bennett in the kitchen with a teacup in his hand. The kettle is nowhere to be found, but there is a bottle of vodka on the island in front of him. “Is the kitchen serving alcohol now?” you ask.

“It’s on special request,” he replies.

“Go on then.” you grab a teacup for yourself. He pours you a drink and says nothing more. His demeanour dampens your previous determination. The two of you coexist in silence for a while. It’s uncomfortable. After a few drinks it slowly becomes less uncomfortable. Eventually you work up the nerve to speak. “You were right.” The words hang in the air. Bennett doesn’t respond, but he does look at you through the fog of his own intoxication. How full was that bottle when you first stepped in? You continue. “We don’t have to be swept up in machinations bigger than us. We can choose to stand against it. I’m trying to end the war. I believe that if we can draft some Ireoskenn, I mean, think of what ten thousand soldiers of their hunting expertise could do. The forests outside Potander are no different than upper Edrye.”

Bennett takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes with his free hand. Some agonized moan escapes his throat. He sets the glasses down on the counter beside him. His eyes look too small on his face now. They’re nothing more than dark marbles sunken into the streaked brown mass of his head. “You believe that the answer to war is more war?”

“We are so close.”

“More suffering?”

“It can’t all be for nothing. All the people who’ve died.”

“The people I killed.”

“Just because you didn’t find that bomb–?”

“I’m not talking about that!” You’ve never heard him raise his voice before.

You set down your empty cup. Your throat is like a clamp holding back a wracking sob. “This is the only way I know how to make things better,” you manage. Your eyes feel heavy and wet. You want to–need to–leave as soon as you can. You turn to the door.

“Don’t go there, Deborah,” Bennett says. His voice is soft again. In your head you imagine him asking you to stay. You imagine his forgiveness in so many words. In thoughtful looks and gentle touch. You look back. His face spells only a deep sadness. A graveyard of smiles. “We cannot afford many more funerals.”

Heartbroken, you leave.