He winces as though struck, at those words. But he doesn't move away, won't dare move away.

"I didn't want to leave you." His own words come out in a tremble, a rare display of emotion for Little as well, who had always kept such things swallowed down. "I tried. I tried. But the others — they wouldn't. They wouldn't... help me. They wanted to leave, they cast a vote while I slept, I—"

Never had he felt so helpless.

"We were going to come back for you. As soon as we made camp again."

...Were they? It had been the intention, even Le Vesconte said as much, but all of them knew the truth, didn't they? They were all sick, most could barely walk as it was. Did intention matter, anymore? Were they just hollow words, some last desperate way to try and be decent?

His head hangs again, the words returning. Over and over again, they've repeated themselves within him.

"I tried."

But it wasn't enough. He wasn't enough.