The weight of survival was indeed unbearable, and El Ritch's thoughts churned relentlessly in his mind.
Excuses. Justifications. Anything to make the actions feel less heavy, to untangle the knot of guilt and confusion tightening in his chest.
The first man—the boy with the axe—he had killed him for survival. He could live with that. He felt no remorse for that act because it had been necessary. The instinct to live had overpowered everything else.
But this?
This was different.
Jol and Bada made it clear with their silence, their sidelong glances, their distance from him, that this was not the same.
But why? Wasn't he just trying to save them? Should he have stayed still and let it all unfold without his intervention?
The questions were dizzying. He turned his gaze toward Jol, who stood watch at the mouth of the ruined tent, his back a cold wall of rejection. Bada sat farther back, her posture rigid, her eyes avoiding his. Between them, the lifeless bodies of the man and the woman lay like specters of El Ritch's guilt, silent and accusing.
His throat tightened, and the words he wanted to say—needed to say—lodged there like jagged stones. He thought of apologizing, of lowering his head and confessing his guilt.
But what would he even apologize for? Saving them? Acting? Was that not the right thing to do?
The weight of it all pressed down on him, suffocating.
And then the earth itself seemed to shudder.
A violent tremor shook the den, sending branches and debris cascading around them. El Ritch barely had time to raise his head before Jol's hands seized his leather armor, yanking him backward with a force that left him breathless.
The den collapsed in a cacophony of snapping wood and crashing rocks. A deafening screech tore through the air, a sound so primal it felt like it pierced straight into his skull.
What is happening?
El Ritch's vision blurred, his head spinning. He tried to focus, but before he could make sense of the chaos, a heavy stone struck his head, and white-hot pain bloomed behind his eyes.
He slumped to the ground, his limbs unresponsive, his breaths shallow. The world tilted and spun, the edges of his vision darkening.
No, I can't pass out...
The thought rang hollow in his mind as his body betrayed him. Darkness crept in, despite his desperate fight to stay awake. He could hear Jol shouting, Bada's voice rising in alarm, but their words were muffled, drowned beneath the roaring in his ears.
The screech came again, closer this time, shaking the earth beneath him.
Move...move...
But his body wouldn't obey.
This is what he was worth?
Only getting saved, again and again? Only being a burden to the people around him?
Perhaps he should die.
____________________________
The thought burrowed into his mind, cold and sharp as the air that burned his lungs. It made sense, didn't it? If he were gone, the world would sigh with relief. Jol wouldn't have to carry his weight—literally—and Bada wouldn't have to glance back at him with that look, that unspoken frustration masked as indifference.
Yes, people would be relieved. Many people.
The dark pull of resignation tugged at him, dragging him deeper into the void.
But then, a scream tore through the haze.
"ELLLLLLLLLLL!" Jol's voice shattered the silence, jolting him awake. El Ritch's body convulsed as a rush of sensation returned—pain, cold, and the wet warmth of blood trickling down his face.
"You dare not die!" Jol's voice cracked, raw with desperation. His hands gripped El Ritch's armor, shaking him violently, as if sheer will could keep him tethered to the world.
And then they were moving. Jol had slung him onto his back, running through the biting cold of the forest. El Ritch's head lolled against Jol's shoulder, his vision swimming as the shadows of the trees blurred into streaks.
Behind them, Bada's hurried footsteps crunched against the snow, and her voice cut through the icy air. "Keep moving! It's still coming!"
Why? Why was Jol being so considerate, so desperate to keep him alive?
El Ritch tried to make sense of it. Didn't he ruin everything? Hadn't he been the reason Jol had to stain his hands with blood, to kill an innocent woman? Why did Jol care?
The questions swirled in his mind, but his lips refused to form the words. His strength ebbed with every moment, and the world around him blurred into nothingness once more.
The last thing he felt before the darkness took him was the rhythmic pounding of Jol's footsteps and the faint, steady warmth of being carried—as if he were worth saving.
The darkness flooded him again.
The memories burned like a fire rekindled, vivid and scorching.
[Sequence 3]
("-You can do this for me, right? Be a good child and go to them. Tell them what I wanted you to say."
His father's voice, tender yet trembling, echoed in his mind. His hands had been warm, but they shook as they cupped El Ritch's face, his smile more a mask than a comfort.
"-But why are you doing this to me?" El Ritch's voice, younger, rawer, cracked under the weight of betrayal. "I've been a good son!"
Then, the shift. His father's face contorted, as if shedding the last vestiges of gentleness.
"-Please, son, you need to lie." The words were quiet, almost pleading, but the moment shattered with the sound of armor clanking outside.
The warmth disappeared as his father's hands left him, rubbing his own face in frustration and despair. When he turned back, his expression was cold, harsh, alien.
"You are no son of mine!" he bellowed, his voice reverberating through the small room. His eyes darted wildly, searching for an escape. "You always come in my way! Every time… Every time we try to steal, you just have to be the better person!"
He unsheathed a chipped dagger, the blade trembling in his grasp. His next words came through gritted teeth. "Not today. I'll kill you and make sure to free myself from this useless sack of—"
The door burst open, soldiers swarming in like a flood. His father barely had time to react before they subdued him, his protests turning to roars of fury.
One of the soldiers scooped up El Ritch, holding him tightly, carrying him to safety. He looked back to see his father pinned to the ground, struggling, cursing.)
His father had saved him.
The realization gnawed at El Ritch. Why? His father could have turned him in, used him as a tool to bargain for his own freedom. He could have condemned El Ritch, the better person, the useless son, to face the consequences. Yet he didn't. Instead, he'd sacrificed himself.
The weight of the memory sank deeper, intertwining with the guilt that now filled every corner of El Ritch's being.
His father had saved him.
Doctor Adeline and Uncle Aldric had saved him.
Jol and Bada had saved him.
And what had he given in return?
Death. Pain. Trouble.
The boy with the axe, hacked to death. The man and woman he had forced Jol to kill. And his father, who had sacrificed himself for a son who couldn't lie, couldn't save him, couldn't even understand why.
He was a dog biting the hand that fed him, a weight dragging everyone else into the depths of his failures. How could he ever hope to stand beside Doctor Adeline or Uncle Aldric, when he was the reason for so much pain?
He wasn't just useless. He was worse. A burden. A curse.
He should be left to die.
The thought clung to him, growing heavier with every breath. It wrapped around him like a chain, pulling him into the depths of despair. Why were they saving him? Why didn't they let him go?
Maybe… just maybe… they would all be better off without him.
[Sequence 4]
("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 words echoed in his mind, louder than the sound of his own heartbeat.
"If life is a constant search for awareness, then what do you find in death? That's your homework."
The voice was his, standing just beyond the reach of memory.
Crawling.
Desperation.
Suffering.
Powerlessness.
El Ritch's body trembled as he Jol ran with him in back, his eyes staring into the void. These weren't just words. They were truths, carved deep into his soul with every scrape of his knees against the dirt, every silent prayer that the next blow wouldn't be the one to end him.
Where is the answer?
He searched for it in the hollow echoes of his memories, in the empty spaces where meaning should reside. He found nothing. The crawling, the begging, the mercy of something far greater—all of it was the same as death.
No. Worse than death.
To live as something inferior, something insignificant, always at the mercy of those above him, was a mirror of death itself. Was there a point to this? Was there meaning in being allowed to exist like this?
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, the faint sting bringing him back to the present for a fleeting moment. Jol roared but amidst such cacophony, he could hear none. He had always been a weight, dragging others down. His father, the boy with the axe, the strangers Jol had been forced to kill. The list kept growing, each name another stone tied around his neck.
Being alive had no meaning for someone like him.
Yes.
El Ritch decided.
He should die.
The thought settled over him like a heavy cloak. It wasn't despair; it was clarity. The answer had always been there, buried under the weight of his failures. In death, there would be no more burden, no more guilt. No one else would have to suffer because of him.
The homework was complete. Death was the answer.