Samheed closed his eyes, then opened them and said, “I’m sorry, Aaron. I just wonder how you… feel. Are you struggling? About what Frieda is doing, I mean. You know—being evil and taking control like this. Does it…?” He sighed. “Does it bring back…?”

Aaron lifted his chin and waited, eyes flashing.

Samheed glanced around the group and saw that everyone was looking skeptically at him. He gulped, then confessed, “I think it’s the playwright in me, always questioning characters’ motives. I guess I want to know if this situation brings back any desires to be that way again. I’m sorry that I’m worried about it, and I wish I weren’t. It’s just a feeling that won’t go away.”

Aaron was quiet for a long moment. He’d certainly had temptations and desires for power over the years since he’d turned his life around. He’d punished himself mentally quite a lot for it too. And he laid much of the blame on the government of Quill and the High Priest Justine, who’d been so influential on him in that year after the Purge. Frieda was doing the same thing now in Artimé with the others. But being asked outright like this, in front of everybody, brought out his defensive side. He glanced at Florence and Claire, and then at the others as Fifer sidled over and slipped her hand into his in support.

“I’m not a character in one of your scripts, Samheed,” Aaron answered evenly. “I have no desire to be like that anymore. And I’m insulted and hurt that you think I do. I’m not sure what more I have to do to convince you that I’ve changed. It’s been… so long.” He shook his head slightly. “To be honest, I’m tired of apologizing for the same things year after year after year, but I believe I must do it, because what I did was terrible. That is the cost of my actions. So I apologize again to everyone here—I’m sorry for how I hurt Artimé.” He hesitated. “But sometimes I feel like if you haven’t been able to let it go and forgive me by now, Samheed, I doubt you ever will. And as much as I want to be your friend and comrade, well… perhaps… perhaps it would be better if we no longer spent time together.”

Samheed’s eyes widened. “Oh, come on, Aaron. No. I didn’t mean—”

Aaron raised his hand. “Please, Samheed. Don’t say anything more.” He turned away. “I understand now how it’s got to be for you, and I will accept it because I must. I hope we can coexist without making any of our mutual friends uncomfortable.”

Samheed stared at him. Then he shook his head and blew out a breath. Lani folded her arms over her chest, clearly frustrated. Fifer looked anxiously from her brother to her instructor, unsure what to make of them. She’d never quite understood the animosity between the two, and they’d done well to hide it from the younger generation until now. Fifer stayed still, not sure what to do besides keep out of it. The rest of them shifted uncomfortably. It had been a conversation ill-timed and not suited for extra ears to hear, yet it had happened, and there was no taking it back.