“Why do you have a painting of Jorg Fnun above your bed?” you finally ask.

Bennett, who is lying beside you, looks up at the painting, as if to confirm that it’s still there. “No, you have to ask me what historical figure I would take to dinner.”

You scrunch your eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yeah, please? It’s like no one ever asks that anymore.”

You decide to humor him. “Alright, go on. Who?”

He smiles. “Jorg Fnun, and would you like to know why?”

“I’m dying to.”

“Well, before becoming the lord mayor of Ayaming, he was a sort of sociological historian. He studied how Edrye’s past affected the popular opinions of its present. In particular, he was very interested in the few dialogues between popular Wilskenn society and the Ireoskenn communities.”

Ireoskenn. There's a name you won’t hear brought up in conversation very often. Pangua’s information on the heretical sect is very sparse. It’s another curious piece of Edrye’s mosaic that is as touchy as it is interesting.

“Ireoskenn?” you ask, feigning ignorance.

Bennett pauses his speech. “Hm? Yes. Of the northern boreal forests, you know?”

“What is it they believe again?”

“That animals are not of the same origin.” He frowns. “You know this.”

“Oh, right,” you say sheepishly. “Them.”

Undeterred, he continues his lecture. “Communications have always been brief. It used to be popular to initiate a debate with an Ireoskenn to demonstrate one’s steadfast adherence to Skenn. Not important. Jorg Fnun boiled down the conflict to a simple base belief underlying the disagreement: If animals are of the Flesh, then it is not appropriate to kill them. This would be akin to killing your neighbour or your mother. If they are not of the Flesh, then there is no problem with killing them, as they are something other than yourself.”

“Seems simple enough.”

Bennett rolls onto his side to face you and rests his head on his hand. “But is the world ever so black and white? He proposed a third worldview: that it is not our origins that decide whether our murder is just.” He rolls onto his back again and stares at the wall. Somewhere through it is the hostel’s foyer. “He said we are like two piers on the same lake. Which should be kept? The one that is made by the most adept hands, surely. But while attempting to decide the origin of each, does anyone point out that they both host boats just fine?”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

A few minutes pass in silence. “Do you know why I came back?”

“I assume not to tell us the war is over.”

“For money.”

He laughs. “Do we look like we have any?”

“Pangua thinks your royal family still has plenty.”

“Deborah,” Bennett is facing you again. He’s looking right at you. “Every time you tell me about your job, you look sick. Or as if you are about to be sick. Why keep doing it?”

You take a moment to think about it. Then you say, “I get this idea that somehow I can make it better. That I can break the news more delicately, or describe the circumstances in such a way that makes it all okay.”

“But it’s not,” Bennett says. There’s no kindness in his voice.

“I know. I know it’s not okay. Maybe I want to believe it can be. What am I supposed to do about it anyway? I’m just a cog in the machine.”

“Tell me about a machine that still works without its cogs.” He appears to be waiting patiently.

“If you think that me quitting will change anything, you’re an idealist.”

Bennett gets out of bed and pulls his clothes on. The morning is over.

*

On your way back to city hall, you are stopped by a funeral. These are common nowadays, Bennett told you. The city is stuck in a cycle of mourning. This is expensive, you think as you watch the procession pass by. The coffins are still ornate. The musicians are still playing artifacts. Flowers are strewn about the street as the event passes. Despite the struggling economy, the funerals have not become less extravagant. The biggest difference is that a lot less people are here to watch them. You sit on the curb and wait for the foot traffic to pass. You try not to think about your role in all this. You try not to think about what Bennett said. You think about it anyway. The self-loathing sets in.

Then you notice the busts atop each casket. Not of Wilskenn likeness, but depicting human men and women. Looking for an answer, you follow the procession to a public mausoleum, an extensive building the size of Pangua’s finest museums. The crowd follows the caskets inside. The interior of the building is sterile. Much unlike the usual crowded Edryean decor, the great hall of the mausoleum lacks any furniture. Speckled white and grey granite surrounds you from floor to ceiling. The caskets are placed down across two stone blocks rising from the floor. A few sentiments in Skenyan later, the undertaker drapes a flag over each box. Not Edrye’s flag. Not even Pangua’s. White crosses cut up a staircase of alternating yellow and blue. Red stars are sprayed across like splattered blood. You hold your breath. This is the flag of the enemy. These are the bodies of enemy forces.

Why, you wonder. All this money for people they likely killed. For people who tried to kill them. Because they think every living thing was once a holy mass of flesh? Their people are starving. Their city is quite literally falling apart.

The funeral proceeds regardless. You leave before it is over.