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Deep down, Eret knew it wasn’t his fault. He knew it wasn’t his handprint that painted the cheek of his closest friend, barely visible under the cover of darkness beneath which they met. He knew that he wasn’t the reason that Fundy had to hide like this; he wasn’t the reason Fundy snuck out into the woods every night so Eret could stitch up his wounds and they could reminisce about the long-gone days of pointless pranks and shared secrets.
He knew that he couldn’t erase what had been done.
No matter how hard he wanted to, he knew that he couldn’t save them all. His heart broke when he heard Tommys obnoxious British accent, his normally confident, almost arrogant voice quivering with the fear that if he stepped out of line, retribution would be swift and painful. Walking past L’Manburg, seeing Tubbo, but now rather than a smile, it was the swelling, the faded red bruises that would surely be reinforced soon, that lit up his face. He even felt sorry for Wilbur, he hated that because of him, the paranoia, the madness, and the anger inside of the general had come forth, he hated that he left and let the others feel the brunt of the pain.
More than anything, his soul ached during his meetings with Fundy. Seeing the total trust and comfort in the man’s eyes replaced with fear and pain. He wished he could tell Fundy that he knew, he knew that Fundy was the one protecting the younger boys, he knew that he had broken their bond, broken their trust, that despite Fundy’s attempts to hide it he knew of Wilbur’s abuse, he knew that he had started something that could never truly be finished. Eret didn’t know how to say all that.
He had to content himself with meeting Fundy out in the woods, prepared with a backpack full of bandages and food, enough to be brought back for the children. He pretended that he could still joke, still play pranks, still eat berries and he pretended not to notice the squeak of pain when Fundy laughed too hard, or how the light never really came back to the fox’s eyes, at least not as fully as it once did. He pretended not to remember the signs, not to have seen Wilbur’s sadistic tendencies, his fits of rage, his abuse of animals. Eret knew that for Fundy, his hell had become his reality, and as a friend, the least Eret could do was provide an escape from the problems he had caused. So for Fundy’s sake, he laughed along, even if the pain would return as soon as the sun peeked over the horizon and Fundy had to softly slip away with the backpack full of supplies, hopefully to reach Tommy and Tubbo and help them before Wilbur awoke.
Eret knew that Wilbur was not a monster that he had created.
Wilbur was a monster that he had released.