It is with unease that Howard climbs onto Andromeda's back, raft tucked in her claws. He raises a hand in farewell to Gregor, says, "Fly you high, Gregor the Overlander." Gregor returns the gesture, and then they are off, hurtling through the tunnels. Below passes the Tankard, still frothing gently, but the serpents have quieted.
He does not like this. He does not like any of this. And he had said as much to Gregor, Ares, and Twitchtip. That being a rager did not equal invincibility in a foreign maze. That being the warrior did not equal authority over the quest. That, whatever their convictions, they ought not to face the Bane on their own. He had been rebutted at every opportunity — and, truly, he understands. He understands why he must go home, why he must not come. Mareth lies unconscious in front of him with a fatal leg wound. Regalia hopes for the return of an unruly queen who will not return. Gregor's family hopes in vain too. And then there is the matter of his own home and duty. There is… a lot. There is so much.
It feels so terribly wrong. All of this does. Howard has always been sure of himself — of his capabilities, of his convictions, of his values.
All that has been shattered.
He had sworn to save all creatures in water peril, yet with no hesitation abandoned Twitchtip in the whirlpool. Had Gregor not been there, had he not, in his foreignness, seen past what has come to seem as common logic of the Underland, they would all surely have let her die. It fills Howard with shame. His shoulders hunch.
He had always thought himself an amicable person, yet he had quarreled with Luxa. Yes, he had been angry — he had been angry, because she had judged him unfairly. But he cannot help thinking — if just he had made a slightly bigger effort, if just he had attempted to see her, beneath all her layers, maybe— well, it is irrational, but maybe she would not have gone under in the Tankard. Maybe they all would not have.
He ought to have saved them. And he knows, he knows that he could not have. That there is no world in which he might have bested the serpents, where he might have come to save those four, not when he had only Andromeda to share with Mareth, and—
And, perhaps, this is what it all comes down to:
Pandora.
I could not have saved her. They had her stripped to the bone in ten seconds. Ten seconds. I could not have saved her. I could not.
Howard thinks he might as well have died, too — not in those ten seconds when the mites consumed the flesh and the skin and all that was her, but in the time after.
When he woke up, and she was not there. Because he had not saved her, could not.
But he must return to Regalia. It is essential. Mareth will survive — Howard will make it so that it is. Andromeda will not come to feel what he is feeling.
Yet the guilt lingers.