He didn't want to think about it.
The entire trip back, that was of course all he could think of. His thinking of not thinking only made him think more. Gradually, that shifted to blame. He blamed himself.
'Killan could have lived if I had died,' He thought. 'Why didn't I die?'
Fortunately for Bell, he wasn't subjected to complete silence like earlier. The junk of metal he rode atop of made plenty of noise to help block out his mind—that and requiring enough attention not to slam into the side of a tree in this darkness.
The three of them all rode atop vehicles of a similar nature: Slim in design, older than an antique, and somehow louder than incessant screams of death.
The leather seats were slightly buckled and ripped apart, and patches of rust clumped underneath its plethora of compact instruments down its frame. While it was small in width, it more than exceeded in length, slightly opening into a V-shaped compartment by the rear, supposedly for storage.
Four prongs total poked out from its front and rear, emitting an odd pulsing wave of neon energy that lifted the entire vehicle up from the ground below. By all means, it felt like something stolen from the sci-fi books of old, something akin to that of a hoverbike, now long forgotten to the populace of Fylkreath.
Comfort was not its purpose. Or perhaps it was, in a time now long past. They merely serve as relics of a forgotten era, very few people even understanding enough about the technology to give repairs, let alone create new ones.
It's for the same reason that Killan's now pilotless vehicle, appropriately named a skiffer, was tied to the back of Bell's with a sturdy cable.
Something about the lifeless vehicle gave the boy chills. Every now and then, he'd glance towards Hoffman and see his fragile eyes passing a glance back his way—more specifically, towards the trailing skiffer.
Perhaps it'd be right to mention that the skiffer technically wasn't empty. Killan's severed arm still rode atop it, tied against the seat as if it were up for display. Hoffman had insisted on bringing back something to bury at home. If Bell had known it'd be his arm, he would've had someone else drag his craft along. It was disgusting.
Through the thicket of trees, they had to move slowly; the darkness was more oppressive than ever before. When the everdark would change, that usually only meant one of two things:
Either a storm was brewing, or it was simply getting worse for the sake of it.
Supposedly, only a hundred years ago, you used to be able to see up to ten miles out from the highest peak of Fylkreath. If only their ancestors would see what's become of that.
From the ground, visual acuity had become substantially worse off—a handful of meters at most, worse off when considering the vegetation that surrounded their current position.
Of course, they weren't driving completely blind. Setting off from the Hellgate, they had set a general course towards the northwestern forests. By that logic, one would assume their return-point would be the opposite.
Among this darkness, however, there'd be know way of knowing at what distance they were out at. They could be precisely where they think they are—or they could be miles off from their intended location. There was simply no way of knowing.
With that in mind, against the better judgement of anyone uninformed, they neglected heading east in fear of overshooting the Hellgate. Instead, they knew of a much safer, much more obvious solution.
They headed dead east.
This wasn't due to some ancient navigational technique they'd mastered after centuries of living in darkness- up to an extent, anyways.
By now, the golden beam of light already started to filter out through the tips of the tall pine. Amid the endless fog, it was a sight to behold, most certainly. One to almost make a grown man cry.
To people who've never known the suns glow, this was the closest they'd ever get. This was their salvation.
Approaching closer and closer, a small clearing began to be made underneath the towers.
Made of a chiseled dark stone, they jutted from the ground below, stretching both east and west in a never-ending parade. Coasting through their hollow tops was something that wa salready made apparent—a golden beam of pure, raw energy.
Bell had rememebered reading the stories of old; The towers a relic of a time now passed. Though the science is lost, their wonder still remains, as if an ever-present beacon of humanities continued survival.
It was from there, of course, that all they had to do was follow the light east, till it inevitably passes through the Hellgate.
Until then, it was a long, silent journey. No monster would dare step even near the illuminated glow of the channel, and no rock or stump threatened to throw them off balance.
As far as they were concerned, they were already home.
Nothing could surprise them now. Everything they knew of had already been accounted for.
But just then, something unknown decided to rear it's head.
Much to their surprise, it wasn't coming in the form of a beast or a murder. There was no odd anomaly of the everdark playing tricks on their minds and warping their perception.
For a change, it was an oddly pleasant—if not concerning—appearance.
Further down the golden path lay a girl—from a distance only being able to make out her small silhouette, though her state was as clear as day:
She was tired. Injured. A few steps further, and she'd be at the devils door.
A thousand questions began to warp through his already fractured mind, though he tried to hold it together.
"Kreuger..!" Bell exclaimed, passing over a subtle glance towards his skiffer.
"Yeah…" he muttered, "I see her."
Once they were only a few hundred meters away, they slowly began to decelerate so as to not ran straight into her backside.
"Hey, you there!" Kreuger shouted out, expecting an immediate response, though none was quick to follow.
They all knew what they had to do—they had to get in closer.