--In the cold breeze, a man stood alone, leaning against a burnt cherry tree. Tenderly, almost with loving care, he folded a cigarette, while listening to the cheerful song of the swallows. They danced in the air, beautifully, as though everything was the same as yesterday. But to the people who call this patch of land their home, everything had changed. The man lit his precious poison and gently pressed it between his lips. He inhaled deeply, savouring the tobacco’s bitter-sweet flavour.

--He gazed in lament as the villagers were trying to rebuild their broken homes. On their faces, he saw anguish. None of them had escaped the effects of “the great equalizer”. They had all lost someone in the tragedy that struck them three days ago. A brother. A daughter. A husband. To the smoker, they seemed busier than on the day he first arrived here. Perhaps they were trying to forget their pain by hammering away nails, or tending to the wounded? He couldn’t look away from their suffering. The smoker was no altruist, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to look away… Just like that evening, three days ago. His trading done, his coffers were filled with gold he had earned here. And clunking in his wagon, were even more supplies. Things he’d gotten here and was going to sell in the next village. And for good profit, too. He wound up giving it all back to the villagers for free. But he wasn’t motivated by altruism… It wasn’t practicality either, even though the fish he got here would get spoiled long before he got to sell it. No… He gave it all back for free because he felt guilt. Why? What was his crime?

--There he was, alone with his horse and wagon on that open road, three days ago, when he heard the screams. He looked back, and he saw the fires in the distance. He remembers turning around, and folding a cigarette. He was about to light it and be on his way when he noticed his hands trembling. He paused, confused. He couldn’t understand why. Cold sweat poured out of him as his heart was pounding. He was unable to move. Slowly, and anxiously, he turned back to gaze at the blazing inferno. He watched the show unfold in a mixture of pure terror and fascination. “But there’s no reason for me to feel sorry, or guilty! There’s nothing I could do for these poor souls.” He tried justifying himself, but to no avail. The guilt kept gnawing at him. He was no warrior. Going out there would be the death of him, for sure. And there wasn’t anyone to call for help either. But the guilt was still there… It was there because he knew within him that, the more he could see, the more alive he’d feel. So he wanted more. With a cigarette and some wine, he escorted many souls into the nether, making a toast for each and every one of them; sometimes followed by a sarcastic remark.

--But that was then. Now was surely time to go. He had paid his dues by giving back the trade goods for free, and helping bury the dead. He must have gotten rid of all that bad karma, right? No reason to feel guilty now, right? Rain was starting, and he should be on his way, before the weather got too bad to travel; before he lost his chance to escape this air, thick with ghosts.

--He grabbed the wagon with both hands, readying to pull himself up, when a grating voice, almost inhuman, hollered after him: “Hey, you!” The smoker at first cursed this place and its determination to keep him here, but he didn’t want to accumulate more bad karma just when he had cleared his slate. “Yes?” He politely asked, as he turned towards the voice’s origin. In front of him, a tall man had wandered out of one of the battered houses that were now make-shift hospitals for the wounded. He had long, coal black hair, bandages all over him, and he was wrapped up in a blanket. The man had trouble standing, so he held himself up against the house’s doorway.

-Got a smoke? – The wounded man asked.

-A smoke? You’ve just come back from the dead, and that’s the first thing you ask?

-So, do you?

The smoker pulled out some paper and tobacco and started folding. As he was hurriedly fiddling with his fingers, he asked -- You’re Aidan, aren’t you? I’ve heard about you. Quite a bit, actually.

--The wounded man watched his hands in silence.

-They’ve been cooking up quite a legend about your exploits while you were busy knocking on death’s door. The villager’s, you know? Many claim you slew four orks single-handedly. Tall tales, right?

--The smoker chuckled, expecting some sort of response from the wounded man, but there was none. The man was thinking about that name the smoker mentioned, Aidan…. Perhaps it’s best he used that one here. Zarak was the name of a murderer from Bartertown. Over here, it’s better if they called him by the name his mother gave him. That way, his true identity would be kept secret from… Whom, exactly? They were all dead. All dead. He laughed to himself, but no sound came out as he was chuckling, his right hand covering his face as though it was holding up a mask. He stumbled out into the rain, and opened his mouth to drink it. It was too dry for a cigarette, but this will fix it.

After wetting his mouth, he turned towards the smoker and replied in a healthier, but still rasp voice -- Yes, I’m Aidan.

--The smoker handed him the small bundle of vile joy, and lit it with a finely crafted lighter. Aidan inhaled it and coughed the smoke out.

-You sure you smoke, son?

Aidan replied, straining a bit -- I’m a social smoker.

-Well I ain’t much company. I should be on my way, anyway…

--As he was mounting his wagon, the smoker remembered something.

The smoker, turning back towards Aidan said -- Oh, that’s right! I’ve got some good news for ya laddie! Well, sort of.

Aidan, in a calm, but sceptical voice replied -- You don’t say?

-Yes, your little sis is alive!

--The smoker suddenly had Aidan’s full attention.

-Aye, she’s in that house right over there. -- The smoker, pointed. -- Although, I don’t reckon’ there’s much use going to see her right now. She’s been out cold ever since the attack, just like you. And I better warn ya, you might not like what you see if you go visit her now.

--Aidan was silent. He wondered how funny it was, that the body refused to die, even when the soul just wanted to disappear. The smoker couldn’t tell if Aidan reacted to his news at all, as Aidan seemed to be gazing at the rain puddles, and his eyes were concealed by the blanket. Disappointed, and unaware of how close he was to death at this very instant, the smoker finally climbed aboard his wagon and whipped the reins of his horse, letting him know it’s time to go.

“Take care of yourself, legend!”

--And with those words, the smoker left Bluegill village.

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--Thanks for reading. Next update will be on Wednesday. If you liked my work, please rate, follow or favorite, to support my content. Auf wiedersehen.