“They say the Westside is covered in ash.” It was the first sound to be heard in the darkened room, and it echoed hollowly. The man’s voice, slightly higher than normal, betrayed his age as no greater than twenty. It was little but noise. It was clear from the tone that he desired no answer, at least not to what he had spoken.

 

“Who are they?” This voice was a great deal deeper, and slightly guttural. It, in contrast to the younger man’s voice, was clearly from a man well over fifty years. It was spoken as if in passing; anyone listening could detect the boredom of the speaker, though a more observant person might recognize a level of anticipation as well.

 

“Volo, of course,” the young man said sadly, as if in regret of the truth it carried. Nonetheless, with it was a certain degree of matter-of-factness, and a measure of pride was evident in the speaking.

 

“The esteemed Volo.” like the younger man, the older spoke this as if it were obvious. Although it was clear that the man didn’t believe what he spoke, he nonetheless spoke it as truth. Even the younger man, brash and inexperienced as he was, could detect the weariness in the words.

 

“Most esteemed.”

 

Silence filled the darkened room. The two men sat in thought, each attempting to discern the other’s features. Neither of them could be too careful, a fact they were both keenly aware of.

 

“Your thoughts?” This simple phrase was laden heavily with unspoken words, and though the younger man could not see it, the older one snapped up his head at the question. After a long pause, a response was given.

 

“Are my own,” murmered the older man. This, too, was heavy with that which the man wished he could say. It was spoken with pride, but of a hollow sort. This was the pride of a man who had spent his life obeying in everything but thought. He considered this an achievement, which was not entirely untrue.

 

“Yours or Volo’s?” The younger man’s words were spoken almost as an accusation. He was bold, the older man had to admit. He found himself admiring the younger man, but far from trusting him.

 

Once more, not a sound could be heard. The younger man had taken a risk, he knew, and prayed that it had been worth it. His eyes strained to pierce the murky veil of the darkness, trying to see the other, but to no avail. He heard his heart beating, and swallowed nervously. A moment seeming an eternity passed before he heard the other’s voice, drifting quietly across the room.

 

“My thoughts are mine only.” It was barely a whisper. The younger man suspected, and was correct in doing so, that he had been the first the older man had ever confided in so deeply.

 

He found himself sighing in relief. His gambit had been worth it. He could speak openly.

 

“What’s really happening,” spoke the young man with startling energy. The words seemed to burst from his mouth of their own accord, rather than of any will from him.

 

“Where,” spoke the older man, his monotone unchanged. If anything, he sounded wearier than before.

 

“There,” the youth said, beckoning widely through the room before remembering that the other was as blind as he. “Outside of the boundaries!”

 

“I don’t know,” the older man stated plainly. “Nobody knows.”

 

“Except for Volo.” This was spoken with more arrogance than pride. The young man seemed to think himself superior for this knowledge; for having the esteemed Volo standing behind him. The older man found his respect for the younger man waning.

 

“Nobody,” he said again, more forcefully.

 

The younger man was about to counter, but hushed as he heard the other inhale more sharply. He whispered softly, “What is it?” He strained to hear a response, and heard nothing. Fear began to grip him. He started moving slowly to the door, trying hard to keep from making noise. He felt a brush of fabric across his neck, and turned swiftly. His last thought was that everything seemed much darker now.

 

The light flicked on, to reveal an entirely empty room.

 

   

“They say the Westside is covered in ash.”

 

He barely moved. His head rolled to the side to stare at her, the intensity of the eyes seeming ill matched with the listless body, so reminiscent of a corpse.

 

“And why should I care?” the man muttered. “If it is covered in ash or in sugar, I’ll never see her again. I’ll never feel her touch. I’ll never hear her voice. What else could matter but her, and void of her absence?”

 

 

“Tch, let her go,” the mother chided. “We all must make sacrifices. You dinna regret your choice, now do you?” She waited for several seconds, and when it became clear that her child would not respond, she continued. “It woulda happened anyways. Ye can’t go about spyin’ forever, and when she was caught you woulda been hanged too. It’s good you told Volo ‘bout her. Saved yerself and yer family. Now don’t be regrettin’ it, eh?”

 

No response came, but a long sigh. This served little but to exasperate the mother, who spoke again with greater energy. To her own ears, it was a commanding, healing voice. To those of her son, it was a quick, desperate excuse. An attempt to dodge the gravity of his life; to live in blissful ignorance.

She spoke for nearly a minute, cleaning the room, before turning and realizing that he was no longer listening. His eyes had turned to his window, and he stared out. She followed his gaze, and gave a small cry. Before her eyes was a grisly scene. She chided herself for her weakness, for she should have anticipated such a thing, but nonetheless shuddered at the gruesome spectacle she saw before her. She stood, transfixed by the sight, for a moment. Soon, however, it became too much to bear. She strode to the window, closing the drapes.

 

The once well-lit bedroom plummeted to a murky gray. She shuddered once more, recalling the vision. That a person should suffer through that...

Her brief moment of quiet was broken, however, by a hollow laugh. She glanced around the room, at first disbelieving that her son could produce so evil a sound. He spoke now, and though it was the first time he had freely done so in nearly a month, she found that she had no joy in the occasion.

 

“You see my sorrow? The same force took my love, and your husband. It is this hatred, this never ceasing war, which causes it all. Every life lost is felt, and mourned, and still they fight. They have no souls, these beasts that command us, only eyes that see the prize another possesses. They care not for the lives lost, for there are millions still unspent. Tomorrow, a man shall be torn from his home to serve their fell purposes. He will die in a year, and his family won’t even know. Yesterday, a baby was orphaned when his father was executed for speaking his mind. He himself shall be killed, for the fear that he too shall believe in decency. And last month... last month, my Bianca was murdered by these same fiends to cover for their own crimes. She had a mother, and four brothers, all of them younger than her. Did they care? No. They tore her from this world without a second thought. They did not see Bianca; they did not see my love. All they saw was a shield to protect them from the repercussions of their own idiocy. How can you live in this world, mother, and not weep as I weep? How can you not see the perversity that these so-called humans have led us to?”

 

Now she did not respond. Her eyes filled with tears as she stared at her son, his face resolute. The truth of his words bit, and the pain of the memories he revived more so. For a moment she stood there, tears now flowing freely from her eyes. Then, in a flurry of movement, she stepped from the room, closing the door. Through growing sobs, she choked out two words, over and over; a mantra that she prayed would relieve her pain. “Never again...”

 

 

“They say the Westside is covered in ash…” The man glanced towards his new boarder, testing for a reaction.

 

 

“Mhm…” The boarder, a middle aged man, dismissed him. His features, already defined, were sharpened by the dull light emanating from the lantern above the two. Boredom could plainly be read on his face, and it was clear that he found the leg of turkey before him the more captivating of the two things vying for his attention.

 

“Real pity, that,” muttered the landlord, more to himself that anyone else.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Th’ Westside. Great neighborhood. Nice people.” This was sufficient to elicit a response from the man.

 

 

“Nice people?” The man swallowed the unchewed meat in his mouth. “Good lord, they were terrorists! Killed plenty of people! Hell, ‘sprobably the worst neighborhood in the world!”

 

“Not all of them,” the landlord murmured. He was pleased to have gotten the man’s attention, and seemed unperturbed by his outburst. “Knew some people there, few years back. Awful nice chaps, really. Wonder how they’re doin’, with all that’s goin’ on.”

 

“If they were nice people, they wouldn’t be in the Westside,” said the border, his eyes narrowing. “Say, you remember their names?”

 

“Sure enough, sir. There was Percy, great fellow, passed away few years back from cholera. Jonathan’s still there, far as I know, but I haven’t talked with him in years. He went a bit funny in the head when ‘is wife died, never really got better, poor chap. Richard’s the only one I still get a letter to ev’ry once in a while. Haven’t gotten too many back, though, lately. Think ‘e might of moved away when all this funny business started, maybe goin’ back to his ol’ house.

 

“Richard Middleton, by any chance?”

 

“No, Trevera. Rich Trevera, Why d’you ask?”

 

“No reason,” said the boarder. “S’just that there was a Richard Middleton who was executed just a few months ago. I helped with the bloody affair, sadly enough. He was caught trying to break curfew, then when he was brought in he was implicated in a robbery a few hours earlier. Poor bastard got hanged one or two days later. I tied the knot.”

 

“Oh, awful sorry sir,” said the older man. His words, the younger man noted, seemed quite genuine. “S’ppose we all got to pitch in to help, but I can’t imagine helpin’ to kill a man, terrorist or no.”

 

His boarder shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me. It’s my job. Can’t enjoy it all the time, and I can’t claim to approve of all that they’re doin’, but it’s still got t’be done. And if I didn’t do it, somebody else would, and then they’d be getting my money.”

 

“Duty’s a strong force, sir. ‘Suppose that you got to do it, and I can’t blame you, but tyin’ a knot an’ puttin’ it round someone’s neck. I just couldn’t do that. I’d kill m’self ‘fore I’d kill another.”

 

The younger man looked up, faintly surprised. He had never believed his landlord a pious man- there was one bible in the house, and it did little but gather dust. He had assumed the man to be typical of the location: surly, impious and greedy. Now, he found himself admiring him.

 

 

“Duty drives the world, really,” continued the landlord, seemingly unaware of his boarder’s new expression. “Duty t’family, duty t’country, and duty to yerself. Even Volo’s got it, if duty t’money counts.”

 

The boarder snapped up his head at the last sentence. “Oh, and what’s that supposed to mean?”

 

The older man seemed to register the aggression of his boarder’s tone, and spoke defensively. “Oh, no doubt he’s got a good reason to block off th’ Westside. But I’d say he’s really doin’ it for th’ gold to be had. Lots o’ people got problems with how he’s rulin’, and I imagine a fair number are doin’ somethin’ ‘bout it, but instead of dealin’ with them, he’s blockin’ off the richest place he can, and now he’s bleedin’ ‘em dry, if all I hear can be believed.”

 

“It can’t,” spoke the younger man, quite succinctly. “The people there are keeping all of their gold, whatever good it’ll do them. And they’re not being mistreated, either. They’ve just got all the time in the world to make peace with God, and show that they can go along with the rules that Volo sees fit to make.”

 

“And how many die every day? Y’can be shot for droppin’ the wrong word ‘nfront of a Darkman, ‘n what happens to your gold when you’re dead?”

 

The younger man huffed. “By breaking the rules that Volo’s laid out, they show that we were right about them. And if they’re a terrorist, then they’ve got to die.” The younger man took a quick bite from the turkey leg on his plate, and grimaced as a bone broke and stabbed his gum. Spitting it out onto the plate, he continued. “And their gold goes to their children, and if they don’t have any it goes to fund the Darkmen.”

 

“Exactly,” said the older man. “Who’s havin’ children, nowadays, when you know that you might die the next, and send your kid off to work in a factory? And how many people’ve got ‘em left over, since the School Wipe last year? Nine in ten of ‘em don’t even have children, but damned if they don’t have gold.”

 

His boarder glared at him with a startling intensity.  For a second he sat there, unmoving, before he ripped the meat from his turkey leg, shoving it into his mouth. “I’ve got to get to work,” he spat. He grabbed the briefcase by the door, and stormed from the house, without offering a word of parting. The Landlord shrugged, and turned to his own plate, absent-mindedly poking at the sausage.

 

 

“Damn Volo… still, I s’ppose that this’ll do…”