Alicarde did not remember how he got to his room or how he found himself on his bed; all he knew was that he did. He lay in his sheets as time flew by around him. He was left in a daze, his heart settling with a deep sinking feeling. He could not forget the amber eyes of the red-haired Argint, as she wept at her brother's tombstone.
Her tears hurt Alicarde more than any wound he had ever sustained. Not even the fleeting pain of being run over by a truck could compare to how he felt. Alicarde had taken small lives before—rats, chickens, goats, and even, more significantly, a cow.
But never a person.
"Guess it's like that, huh," he muttered to himself under the covers of his bed.
"Humans are somewhat hypocritical beings. Always preaching about the value of life, yet being the ones who take the most lives every day. When humans take a life, they subconsciously weigh the value of that life by the size, significance, and magnitude of the creature. A subtle revulsion starts to surface when they kill something around the size of a rabbit."
"Killing is just the way of people," he added, the words bitter in his mouth.
Even knowing that, Alicarde still felt horrible—he couldn't let it go. How could he?
Seeing how he was feeling, he couldn't help but think back to something he had stupidly told his grandmother when he was younger.
He still remembered the residence of his paternal grandmother, a moderately sized house filled with religious artifacts she claimed had belonged to his late grandfather, a man he never knew.
Alicarde recalled what he had told her back when he was at the height of his eighth-grade syndrome, deluded into thinking the world revolved around him.
He had told her, "All life was born for a singular purpose, and that purpose is to die. Everything that happens in between that process proves to be meaningless before the absolute finality that is death."
His kind grandmother had smiled and put on a thoughtful expression—he still remembered the wrinkles on her face as she indulged him.
He did not remember what she had said that day, but she had told him that life wasn't meaningless.
Death came and took his grandmother all but a month later. Alicarde remembered going to her funeral, surrounded by relatives—his father, his mother, his sister, his uncle, his cousin, and so many others.
Yet, Alicarde found himself in a situation where he couldn't shed a single tear for his grandmother—not a single drop. His heart was sad but not so much that he would cry.
Alicarde had enough mental awareness to know what was expected of him, so he had hidden, rubbed his eyes with his hands until they turned red, and then returned with a forlorn expression.
He recalled being surrounded by sympathizers who knew how close he had been to his late grandmother, all trying to console him, even though his sadness was merely an act. That hurt Alicarde more than anything, and the ugly guilt dug into his heart.
He did not understand his own heart or his own mind. It was part of the reason he had chosen to come to Evergreen and major in psychology, hoping to find an answer to a question he would never dare to ask or tell anyone.
And then he came here and got his just deserts for his hypocrisy—he died on his very first day.
Alicarde's eyes were tired; he hadn't slept in the past few days, weighed down by the burden in his heart. The mournful cries of Argint were a perpetual haunt in his mind; she could cry for a loved one. That made it hurt even more because he couldn't—he had not shed a tear for anyone.
He heard a knock on his door, followed by the familiar footsteps of Amena entering his room. His nose caught the familiar fragrance of food as Amena stopped by his bed.
"Ali, you haven't eaten anything in two days. You should..." Amena's normally stoic voice carried a note of worry.
"I'm not hungry," Alicarde replied in a low voice.
"Do you know that werewolves are of a warrior race? The strong are respected, and those who die in battle are considered to have met a noble fate," Amena said.
"Beowulf was a great warrior. I'm sure you remember how he died. He did not die with any resentment, only gratitude. If you ever feel weighed down by his death, know this you did not kill Aiden Beowulf; he let himself die." Amena left after saying those words.
She left the food behind and pushed away a room service cart before closing the door behind her.
Alicarde remained unmoving, ignoring the food and just lying there.
The door opened again, and the gentle footsteps of Carrisa entered the room.
She walked to his bed and sat down. She didn't say anything for a while.
"How long do you intend to sulk?" she asked, her voice calm and measured.
Alicarde ignored her, opting not to say a word.
She stood up and pulled the covers off his body.
"How long are you going to sulk?" she asked again, her tone more insistent yet still calm.
"As long as it takes. Now leave me alone," Alicarde grumbled.
"I'm afraid I cannot do that. You are bound to me for eternity," Carrisa replied, her voice holding a solemn finality.
Alicarde turned away from her.
"Now, get up and eat," she said sternly, her voice leaving no room for argument. She grabbed the food tray Amena had left and decided to spoon-feed him.
Alicarde tried to resist, but after receiving a cold glare from her, he acquiesced, accepting the fact that there was no refusing her.
After she had made sure he had eaten enough, she looked at him.
"How are you feeling now?" she asked, her tone softening slightly, though still formal.
"Like shit... but somewhat better... I think," Alicarde answered.
"Argint will be living with us from now on. She will be working with us to identify the real culprit. Among my siblings, I cannot be certain who it was, but whoever it is will certainly make a move again," Carrisa informed him, her words carefully chosen.
"Hmm, I see. Sure," Alicarde said.
"I... I am sorry," Carrisa whispered.
"Huh? Why are you sorry?" Alicarde asked, surprised by her sudden change in tone.
"Because you killed Beowulf because of me, and now I do not believe I possess the right words to console you," Carrisa said, her voice tinged with regret.
"I wish to tell you, if you feel that Beowulf's death is your fault, then know this, it is not. It is mine, so the blame falls on me. No one blames you for his death—not even Argint. She understands that you are carrying her brother's mantle, and she wants me to express her gratitude for carrying on his legacy," Carrisa's words echoed deeply in his heart.
"She wants to... thank me?" Alicarde asked, a note of surprise in his voice.
"Yes, she does. She wishes to speak with you, but you are secluding yourself in here," Carrisa said.
"Worry not; the chance will come. Tomorrow, you should rise early. I have decided to take you out for a change of scenery—a small healing trip, if you will. Argint will be coming as well, so you may converse," Carrisa continued.
"Really... huh... alright... Besides, you don't have to worry about me. My heart has a short-term memory, so all the things that hurt are usually forgotten in a few days. So I'll be fine if I sleep it off," Alicarde forced a smile.
Carrisa nodded. "Very well then. Get some rest. I shall see you tomorrow."
She leaned forward and gently kissed him on the cheek.
Alicarde's eyes widened in surprise as she rose to her feet and left the room.
Alicarde's heart felt a little lighter.
"Huh, she says thank you... I don't understand that," he whispered to himself.