All the emotions I kept bottled up for so long, without clearly realizing their intensity, burst out in one long and loud wail. I clutch at Father's skull as a cry of despair, guilt and rage with shifting tones of insanity continuously blaring out from my heart through my throat.

“Rhhaaaahh!”

I keep screaming my lungs out, through the hurt, through the pain. My tormented howls do not even stop when I breathe in as my voice merely transforms with no pause as the harsh winter air rushes into my lungs.

It makes it worse that Father's death was so sudden and so uneventful as to make it seem unimportant, natural, a mere incident. An arrow was knocked and released. The projectile flew and struck his chest. That's it, that's all it took.

No last words, not a plea to be heard, not any advice to receive, not even a farewell touch. Simply, death in the blink of an eye. One moment Father was alive, the next he was dead. And I wasn't even close enough to see it happen.

“Aaaahhhhhhhh!”

We remember the warmth we felt when we touched his body, the hope his heart yet beat and the crushing realization that it did not. All of it buried by the being I was at the time for it had to keep going, and it still does as a monster can never truly rest.

I fit the charcoaled skull between my knees to use my flapping left sleeve to wipe it clean, using snow in place of water. During the tens of minutes it takes me to get rid of the soot and return the bone to pure white, my throat sores and my voice falters until my wails turn into barely audible whimpers.

The cold wind gusts drown the sounds that escape my lips whilst dropping off snowflakes that add to the crushing weight on my shoulders. I relentlessly cleanse Father's charcoaled remains as I gather them.

I sift through the black dirt and melted snow to gather it all, refusing to rely on flow as the task is mine to fulfill without any aid from the Lake which has already done its part by welcoming Father in its fiery waters.

I start losing feeling from the tips of my fingers but it is no excuse to stop, even as I see some of my nails break. I don't even pause once I've gathered what seems to be a complete skeleton to make sure I haven't missed any.

After a long stretch of time without finding any more bones, the pressure to protect the remains from the weather overwhelms the one to seek more out so I return to the cart and bring back a piece of cloth to wrap the remains up.

I carefully knot it up and lay it in front of me before leaning down to briefly press my forehead against it over and over again. I'm unable and unwilling to let words get past my lips as I do not deserve to speak my way out of this crushing sadness I feel.

I don't swallow the pain or the hurt, I keep all my emotions in my chest to cherish them as the last vestige of my relationship with Father. I lose myself in the grief I refused myself for so long.

--- --- ---

I don't know how long I remained here, kneeling at the place of my Father's death. I don't even know if I wailed or cried. All I'm aware of is that there's snow up to my thighs, that the sun fled and the moon refused to rise, and that there are trails of ice stuck to my cheeks.

I know I need to rise but don't find the want in me to do so. I have to put Father to rest, no matter what. It is insane that I cannot rid myself of this mantra even though it was only meant to last until peace, but it tears me out of my lethargy.

I try to rise but something hinders me. Looking down, I find that my pants' legs are stuck to the ground by frozen snow. I grit my teeth and use my freezing fingers to pull the cloth away without tearing it.

I barely feel anything, not even the cold I should be, as I slowly make my way back to the handcart with the cloth containing Father's remains in hand. I store them safely in a corner of the cart and use rope to make sure they won't slip.

I then pick the cart to start trailing back towards the road. Unfortunately, the tracks I left are not gone and the only lights around come from the torches of the scarce patrols on top of Meria's rampart.

Not that it matters considering how slowly I'm advancing. My trembling legs are barely enough to pull the wheels through the thick layer of snow that accumulated throughout the day.

It gets harder to move after a mere few minutes of using the rope going across my chest to pull the cart. I slip and almost face-plant several times but I keep forging ahead out of sheer will.

That is until darkness starts creeping on the edges of my eyesight, signaling that I may be falling unconscious soon which ironically wakes me up to the danger I'm in.

I'll die if I keep going. Rest is not the task. But dying would prevent me from fulfilling it. I stop and go around the cart to clumsily open my leather bag with my stiff fingers, pulling my two blankets out.

I swipe snow off the cart and make just enough space for myself to climb in. I hastily build a cocoon of cloth with the blankets before assembling a fire construct that I leave hovering close enough to be warm but far enough not to set me ablaze as I fade to slumber.

--- --- ---

I open my eyes and am immediately assaulted by the light vividly reflected by the white snow covering the plain. I push myself to get off my ass to depart after eating cold gruel leftovers.

The frugal meal is invigorating, it clears my mind to the depressive state I fell in the day before while leaving my grief there, like a tight knot in my chest. I truly depart on my journey back home with my eyes set on the horizon to the north-west.

Walking warms me up about as much as it exhausts me so I rely on nourishing constructs to keep my muscles going, rejecting my body's protests as intolerable laziness.

My regeneration seems to have fallen a bit but it is hard to conclude anything because it might just be that my body is in such a state that it has started directly burning the flow.

When walking gets too hard, I switch to placing one foot in front of the other with my old 'Once more.' mantra to sustain me. I soon realize that my lips have chapped and that my fingertips are sore so I dedicate a small portion of my flow to healing my skin.

--- --- ---

I don't come across anyone on the first day nor the second, unsurprising considering that snow is intermittently falling. Few are as foolish as I am to travel in winter and those who do stick close to the coast. There are also few reasons to be crossing the Izla in winter apart for traveling merchants.

I try to hunt but don't find much success as my stops are short and many animals hibernate. My advance is slow because of the snow and my fatigued muscles so I take comfort in the fact that I am building myself back into shape.

A glint of light hits my eyes as sunset, bringing my attention to a small frozen river. I decide to stop and break the thin layer of ice to refill my gourd and clean up. I take the opportunity to change and wash my clothes under cover of a pine tree that blocks the wind for me.

As I slip my shirt on, I take notice that several of my scars show clean signs of fading while smaller scratches like the ones on the underside of my breast have entirely vanished. I feel like a weight has been taken off my shoulders.

--- --- ---

By the fifth day, I resign myself to acknowledging that my access has almost returned to a single portion, likely a result of Elizabeth Vil's exile and subsequent disappearance.

The ruthless and greedy won't support one who does not act to their immediate benefit while the sympathetic have likely turned to the Hospitaliers after Duke Meria's execution.

At most, a few dozen remain pledged to me. It doesn't bother me either way to lose the energy, it is simply further indication that people remain tied up in the traditions and laws they have been ingrained to follow since young.

Furthermore, I think that the stories about me aren't truly taken seriously as proven by the ridiculous claims Leomi told me people made about Elizabeth Vil and the fact that she does not bleed.

I went to slaughter to safeguard their peace and they take it as entertainment. If none have faith enough in us until we strike the first blow against Nobility, then why should I sacrifice myself over their freedom? I am making the right decision by pulling away.

Yet, my fury melts as I keep forging north-west through the snow with the mountain to my left. Every step reminds me of the guilt I hold in Father's death and the duty I have to bring him back to bury him next to Mother.

--- --- ---

The sixth day, I angle my course to avoid a village on the northern twin mountain's flank as I don't feel attracted to any company that isn't Leomi even to combat my increasing loneliness.

--- --- ---

During the seventh day, I angle to the south-west, engaging on the final straight line to return home. My depression makes a return as I near my destination, bringing with it a sickly feeling to my stomach.

I start questioning the massive lies about myself I told Leomi, I'll have to maintain them by omission at the very least. Perhaps worse is the surprise I gave Celyz that felt so good but seems so bad for the both of us.

I made things worse, all my choices have made things worse. Celyz was right to push for us to be engaged as I have no doubt it's how she treated me this entire time, but I was wrong in accepting it.

Yet, as much as I wish to, I am unable to go back on what I did to them. And neither would I as Leomi and Celyz have long been integral parts of what keeps the amalgamation of insanity that we are functionally sane. I'll keep doing what I have been doing and things will get better, they have to.

--- --- ---

I catch sight of a road on the eighth day, which is fortunate considering the layer of snow covering the lands, but unfortunate because it's coming down from the mountain and going towards the coast.

That evening I decide to set traps down, managing to catch a hare by the paw. I grill it, adding some variety to the same old gruel as I lie in front of the fire. After the meal, I find the energy to work on my blood-control construct, an amalgamation of the water and air-blade constructs.

Yet, without much flow to work with, the progress I make is mostly theoretical. Which I don't necessarily mind as it forces me to be attentive and doesn't prevent me from finding errors or redundant segments.

--- --- ---

On the ninth day, I arrive within sight of the small wood north-east of the village from which Baron Buton allowed us to forage and gather firewood within limits every year while he kept for himself the larger forest to the south.

The strata within the Empire that I burn to see shattered. Crime-slaves, peasants, bourgeois, Hospitaliers, Templars, Nobles, titled Nobles, and lastly the Imperial Lion.

No matter how much it disgusts me, the argument remains that shaking the established order may spell the doom of humanity. Risk, reward, justice, fairness, none of it seems to matter when survival is on the line. Only one who places those above all else would be able to affect change.

Yet, with the behavior I've observed, it doesn't seem like the possibility of extinction is on the minds of those who rule Caeviel or they wouldn't rely so much on the Empire to protect the Kingdom. But is our survival on the line? As much as I care for the Rykz, I am convinced they would take back the Empire's lands if they could.

I shake my head and focus on the lands ahead, determining the path I need to follow in order to go straight home. I use a hole in a thicket to enter a field and then head north to take the trail that leads to the village before heading south on a track that passes along a different field.

After a couple of hours of meandering in the farmlands, I catch sight of an odd wall on the horizon, one with several roofs but no alley. I quickly realize that I'm looking at the village and that they've erected stone walls to block the entrances.

I suppose it's faster and easier than building a small rampart but I wouldn't want to be the one who has to barricade their windows because... because of what? Cecil would have told me if the Rykz did anything and I don't see why bandits would have any interest in our hamlet.

Apart from food. I grit my teeth and accelerate as I realize that the only things of value to be found home are sacs of grain. There haven't been any looters nearby for as long as I lived but war changes things.

As I keep advancing, I realize that there's no way I should have spotted the village but not our stables. It makes no sense. I scout the area and prove myself correct as I spot the white roof of our house between two leafless oaks.

I stomp forward, pulling hard on the handcart to pummel through uneven terrain and make my way to our yard, anguished about the fact that the stables, that I intend to convert to house chickens, rabbits, and perhaps cows later, may have been buried under a layer of snow.

That would ruin my plans for days, maybe even weeks. As I approach, I grow confused as there is still no sign of the stables. All I see is a white expanse and... and our home's front door wide open that allowed snow to spill into the living room.

I drop the handcart on the edge of our yard and run inside. The cast iron stove is gone and there are enough marks on the window and ground where it was to tell me that it was dragged to then be lifted out of the house.

The barrel where we used to keep food for the week was split open by hammer or axe. Our table was broken and most of the resulting wood taken, same for the chairs.

I would be weeping if not for the rage simmering in my chest pushing me to ascertain the extent of the damage. I check our pantry, finding a handful of nails on the ground but that's it, even the small haystack we kept for house needs was taken.

I rush into my room, pushing the hanging cloth that has served me as a door for years, to find a gaping hole in the wall and a savaged room. The bed was destroyed, my clothes ripped, even my wicker laundry basket was stomped on.

As I breathe in, I choke under the smell of week-old piss and smoke. I seek out my clogs, a wooden pair of shoes I wore when younger, finding mere cinders as they were used to fuel a fire. Contrary to the theft from the rest of the house, what happened here was a clear act of hatred.

Alone. Alone. Alone. Elizabeth wails in my head with such rage that she gives me a splitting headache. Her crushing feeling of having been abandoned makes me stagger backward. No home, no Leomi, no nothing.

I stumble out of the house, E.Vil showing us towards the handcart. Calm down, Liz, please. I panically utter in my head, attempting to soothe her anguish. We know who had to have done this, we'll get them back.

I'll destroy them all! She responds while trying to untie the rope fixing the chest to the handcart which prevents her from opening it. We'll die, me, we're too weak to handle it.

Worth it. She tells me. I try to seize back the reins, frightened by myself, but I fail. In desperation, I throw my head down to the chest to knock us out. I fail but I do manage to daze us.

I take advantage to impress the image of Victor and Roger on an oddly shaped tree at the corner of the house, doing all I can to convince myself that it is real, using my own insanity to survive as I've done so often.

“There will be no surrender this day.” Elizabeth utters in an utterly glacial tone of voice.

She seizes our hunting knife, pulling it out while assembling a lion step. She leaps at the tree and strikes at one of the branches, lodging it into the wood. Liz tears it out with a lion strike while spinning us around, delivering a backhanded swipe that the trunk stops dead in its tracks.

I let her exhaust her rage, ourselves, and our reserve, for a little while before intervening. You got them, now we only have a day's worth of food. Liar. Elizabeth responds, having likely realized my trick as she struck the tree in our madness. We pant for breath. Yes, I won't let you kill us, not until we bury Father. And then they die. And then we will see.

I sheathe the hunting knife and stagger back to the handcart to seize the cooking pot, not even bothering to search our shovel as there is no chance it survived what happened here. They defiled the home you dreamed of for us.

I let the remark go to vent our anger, focusing on dragging us to the backyard where Mother lies in her grave. I kneel in front of it and slam my head into the frozen ground, apologizing for having failed to preserve the house they left us.

I don't let myself wallow as Elizabeth may use that to force Jessica's hand at revenge. We instead deliver our rage against the ground with the cooking pot, slamming the bottom into the hard surface to break the frozen earth before using the edge to start digging.