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If only he didn't drink so much of it. If only he was liked more. Enough that they wouldn't have kept filling his cup with malicious intent masked as camaraderie. Enough that they wouldn't have left him when he leaned back against the tree to rest his eyes. Enough that they would have gone looking for him and found him before the Fog did.
Now, when he hears the screams of the people who somehow look up to him, he's reminded of how useless he is. When he has to watch them die, he knows he'll be next, or else the guilt will eat him alive. He'll throw himself in front of the next hit, the next hook. Anything to spare them another tally, while only adding to his.
Death is something most people have the mercy of only going through once. The first few were a shock, until he had the idea to start counting. His eyes drift over the marks in front of him, each carved with shaky hands to the chorus of his thundering heart. He had stopped counting at three hundred, but kept tallying anyway. Maybe one of these times, he'll be spared long enough to try counting again. Not that there's any rush. They'll always be here to greet him. The summation is a tomb, closing around what should be the only peaceful place he has to lay his head. But he doesn't deserve peace.
When he woke at the campfire, he was already asking questions just so he didn't have to answer any. He's genuinely concerned for his people—his…friends. He always knows exactly where they are. He just wishes, sometimes, that someone would look for him too. The leadership he offers is a double-edged sword with every bad call. And while he feels most comfortable working together as a team, it only makes this loneliness that much louder.
He's dedicated to preserving his bridges here. He can't give them a reason to leave him alone in the dark again. He can't let this side of him show and let any doubt take root. But when he's alone—when he walks with a passing confidence and lies about being tired so he can duck away. When he's finally in the confines of his only solitary place, he lets his emotions free, digs the marker out of his chest pocket, and adds another line.
The marks almost completely cover the inside of his tent now, bleeding together in a scrawling mess through tears and foggy glass. Every mark is a death. Every mark is a reminder of the cycle, the failure, the perpetual continuity of the hell he'd let himself fall deep down into. Far enough that even if he lets himself scream, no one would hear it.
It doesn't matter. No one is coming for him. The tallies are his alone to keep.
He uncaps the marker.