What are monsters, beasts, or animals? By what authority did we dare to make distinctions among them—and conveniently exclude ourselves? God is neither merciful, kind, nor all-knowing. The horrors that unfold in His domain are hidden even from Him as Man ascends to play God in His stead.
The villages beyond the shelter of the Churches were nothing but hunting grounds for the vile and the monstrous.
"Five of the men are gone..."
"How are we to gather clothes or wood for the winter...?"
"Winter is the lesser worry. Those things are closing in... their boundaries shrinking, tightening."
---
Elphonse Flint Ritch: El Ritch, sat in silence, the faint hum of voices from above filtering into the basement where he waited. The light spilled down from the wooden slats of the trapdoor, its pale glow fractured as shadows of hurried footsteps moved across the bustling street above. The cold stone floor beneath him gleamed faintly.
Today was the day of his hanging.
He and his father had been infamous as a duo of carriage robbers, stealing food from nobles' stores to survive. But their luck ran thin; they were caught in the act. His father had been executed the same day they were seized. For El, only fourteen, the courts had debated his fate for months. Some argued for mercy, claiming he was a child, a victim of his father's influence. Others, bitter or eager to watch a spectacle, lied under oath to condemn him.
He'd grown tired of their faces, their words, their judgments. It was all noise to him now. Today was his final trial. His final sentence.
El stared at the golden rays of sunlight breaking through the cracks, their beauty indifferent to the chaos of the crowd above. He imagined their whispers, a thousand voices waiting to see him fall, to see the rope tighten around his neck. And yet, he felt nothing. No fear. No regret. Only the cold certainty that this was how it ended.
With a loud metallic clang followed by the grating screech of iron on iron, the heavy doors swung open. The guard entered, carrying a plate of boiled potatoes and rice, the meal as bland as the cold air in the cell.
"No spices for such fine delicacies?" El Ritch let out a gruff chuckle, the sound rasping in his chest, his lungs aflame from the exertion. But he managed it—he had to present himself properly. He was, after all, in front of his admirer.
"I'm sorry, Mr. El Ritch. I couldn't ask for anything better," the child said, his face earnest as he approached the bars. "Not unless I lied."
"What did I say about lying?" El Ritch rasped, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the room like the edge of a knife.
"Lying to others means lying to yourself!" the boy exclaimed, reciting the words with conviction. "That's why I didn't lie," he added with a hint of pride.
El Ritch studied him in silence for a moment, his weathered face betraying no emotion. He had never asked the boy's name—names were meaningless to someone like him, bound to die in a place like this. Relationships, connections... they were indulgences he could not afford.
The boy slid the plate through the bars and sat cross-legged on the cold floor. His small hands rested on his knees as he tilted his head, looking up at the man. "So," he began eagerly, "what's the new lesson today, Master?" His youthful energy seemed boundless, as if he could leap through the narrow bars at any moment.
El Ritch drew a slow, wheezing breath. He felt the infection clawing at his lungs, a dull and constant burn. Speaking was torture, but he forced himself to respond. The boy needed guidance, even if his teacher was a dying man in a forgotten cell.
"Today," El Ritch began, his voice barely above a whisper, "I'm not giving you a lesson. Instead, I'm giving you... homework." His lips quirked faintly, imitating a smile.
"Homework?" The boy frowned, his disappointment clear.
"Yes, homework. A very important one." El Ritch paused, his nails digging into his palms, drawing blood to distract from the searing pain in his chest. "I'm going to die today. At dusk."
The boy froze, the words sinking into the air like stones in a pond. El Ritch had spoken of life and death before, and he knew the boy understood—at least, as much as a child could. It was why he had chosen him, why he believed the boy needed a purpose.
"You know that, don't you?" El Ritch continued. "Good. Now listen. If life is a constant search for awareness, then what do you find in death? That's your homework. I need you to find the answer."
The boy stayed silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on El Ritch. The man's lungs burned as he struggled to understand the child's intent. He wanted to ask what was on his mind, but his voice failed him, crumbling under the weight of his illness.
At last, the boy stood and bowed, a gesture both formal and endearing. "Okay, Master. I'll find the answer. I promise." With that, the boy turned and hurried out of the cell, his small feet tapping softly against the cold stone.
El Ritch watched him go, his lips tightening. Strange child, he thought. Mature in words, yet immature in his hurried movements. A contradiction, like all things.
When the footsteps faded, El Ritch rose from the floor, his muscles aching with the effort. He picked up the plate of boiled potatoes and rice and stretched on his toes, reaching the small window high on the wall. The window was barely wide enough for a mouse to squeeze through, but it served its purpose.
He tipped the plate carefully, shaking it until the food tumbled out onto the street below. A shadow flickered on the stone floor as a dog padded into view. The animal always waited for him, as if knowing that a meal would come. El Ritch watched the dog's silhouette eat in silence before throwing the empty plate into the corner of his cell.
As worthless as that dog, my life. He knew it was true. He wasn't a victim. He'd never told himself otherwise. His father had been his hero, and he had followed in his footsteps willingly, even knowing those steps led to ruin. There was no regret in that.
Yes, no regret at all.
And yet...
The memories came, unbidden and sharp, clawing their way to the surface. Old scenes of laughter, fleeting joy, and choices long made. Why now? Why was his mind dredging up the past? He already knew the answer: justification.
Justification for what?
To live.
The thought struck him harder than the cold ever could. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as if the sting could banish the idea. But it was there now, gnawing at the edges of his mind like a rat in the dark.
The boy will die before he reaches my age.
The words echoed within him, his chest tightening. His eye twitched as frustration flared. Why was he thinking about the boy? He shouldn't care. There were no connections here, no bonds. And yet, his thoughts circled back, unrelenting.
What will the boy do after I die? Who will teach him? The prisoners? They'll twist him, ruin him. He's too young.
He wanted to live, and the thought gnawed at him like a beast skinning their prey alive.
The sun would soon set, and with it, his life would end. It was inevitable, written in stone, as unyielding as the iron bars around him. No justification, no last-minute resolve, no plea for a second chance could change that. He had always been worthless, and now, in the final hours, even the thought of redemption felt hollow.
And yet, a tear slipped down his cheek, warm against his cold skin, and more followed in silent surrender. He wept—not for himself, but for mercy from anything that might listen. A God, a force, an unknown power. He begged for a chance to live, not for himself, but for the boy.
The boy had made him feel worth something. Not his teaching, not the hollow ideologies he had pretended to pass on, nor the scraps of wisdom he had shared. It was the way the boy had looked at him, the way he had spoken. He had made him human. Such a simple word, yet one that had stirred something long dormant within El Ritch. It wasn't pity or reverence; it was acknowledgment. Recognition.
That was why he entertained the boy, why he spoke through burning lungs and shared his thoughts even as his body failed him. He hadn't realized it at first, but it had never been for the boy. It had been for himself. In those moments, he felt alive, as if his existence carried meaning beyond the walls of his cell. The boy's kind words gave him a purpose he had never known before.
You reap what you sow. He knew the phrase all too well, had lived by it in bitter acceptance. But now, for the first time, he wanted to be selfish. For once, he wanted to reap what he hadn't sown.
So he bowed his head and pleaded again, his cracked lips forming silent prayers to the Almighty, to anything that could hear him. Grant me mercy, he begged, his heart raw and exposed. Not for me, but so I can deserve the kindness shown to me. Let me live, and I will repay it.
The light from the small window above dimmed as the sun began its descent. El Ritch clenched his fists, his knuckles white as he whispered one final prayer, the words barely audible in the stillness of the cell.