The ethical dilemma of Ithys in Etheros: exploring ethics

Prologue

There was once a silent kingdom, hidden between the folds of the world, where births were not celebrated, and deaths were not mourned. It was called Etheros. There, no gods, no devils, no thrones, no borrowed morals. Only people. Only beings. And among them, one stood apart, named Ithys.

Ithys was neither the wisest, nor the strongest, nor the most loved. But he carried a question inside him—so bare, so uncompromising—that it could not be dismissed: how can one live without causing harm?

I. The Kingdom of Invisible Footsteps

Every morning, Ithys walked slowly over mossy paths, careful not to step on ladybugs, holding his breath so as not to disturb the gentle breathing of trees. He killed nothing, hurt no one. And yet, he knew: he harmed.

For when he drank water, he starved the stream. When he slept in the shade, he denied sunlight a place to fall. And when he smiled at one passerby, he stole another’s attention. He didn’t want to—but he did.

The Elders told him: “No one can live without disturbing something. That’s just how it is.”
And the Sages added: “Ethics is doing your best.”

But Ithys refused that. For “doing your best” was not the same as “doing no harm.” And he vowed never to confuse the two.

II. The Valley of Justifications

He descended into the valley where the Virtuous lived. There were vegan monks, silent hermits, builders of sanctuaries for wounded creatures. All of them claimed to fight for the Good. They listened to Ithys, then said:

— “You’re exaggerating, brother. Life means disturbance. But look how much good we do!”

Ithys looked. He saw a sanctuary in bloom. But beneath every laid stone, he saw crushed insects. Beneath every built roof, uprooted trees. In every extended hand, another one left ignored.

He replied calmly:
— “You reduce harm—but you don’t reject it. You’ve simply chosen an acceptable level. That’s no longer ethics. That’s just management.”

They dismissed him.

III. The Land of Mirrors

Ithys walked northward, to the place where, according to legend, mirrors did not distort. He wanted to see himself, without disguise. There, atop a bare mountain, was a pool of still water. Ithys leaned over it.

He saw a being who wanted to cause no harm. But he also saw a being who continued to live. And that was enough.

The mirror spoke, soundlessly:

— “Now you know. You can no longer say: I didn’t know.”

And Ithys answered:

— “Then I will never again say: I am just.”

For he had just confessed, silently, that he accepted harming others. Even a little. Even unintentionally. Even out of love. He understood: to live is to betray.

IV. The Voices of the Plains

On his descent, Ithys crossed crowds of cheerful people. Some were laughing. Others shouting. All were saying: “We do what we can.” “No one’s perfect.” “That’s life.”

He tried to speak to them of the shattered porcelain beneath their feet, of the countless lives crushed without notice, of the ants trampled in the name of haste.

But they answered: “You’re mad.”
Or worse: “You’re just sad.”
Or again: “You’re trying to make us feel guilty.”

Ithys then understood that no one really wanted to know. Because to know meant to choose. And choosing meant sacrifice.

V. The Temple of the Final Decision

Ithys withdrew. Not into death. But into absence. He built a shelter without foundations, ate only what fell naturally, drank water from the sky’s tears. He made himself as small as possible. He spoke little, came close to no one.

One day, a child came to him and asked:

— “Why do you live so far away?”

He answered:

— “Because even love takes up space.”

The child did not understand. But he felt something. A strange peace. And a kind of sorrow, too. As if what he saw did not fully belong to this world.

VI. The Final Harm

One evening, Ithys wrote a letter. To no one. Or perhaps, to the idea of ethics itself.

“I could not leave entirely. I stayed. But I stopped pretending to be innocent. What I gave does not erase anything. What I avoided does not redeem what I caused. I stayed because I am weak—not because I was right.”

He folded the letter, slipped it into a hollow stone, and closed his eyes.

VII. The Judgment Without a Tribunal

Centuries later, wanderers came to search the ruins. They found bones, a cracked stone, and an intact parchment.

They read it. And among them, some wept. Not out of sadness. But out of confession. For they recognized themselves in it.

They were no better. No worse. But now, they knew. And some of them fell silent, forever.

Epilogue: Truth Without Ornament

True ethics does not shout. It does not boast. It is not a flag nor a war. It is a fracture in the flesh, a lucidity without shelter.

And in that lucidity, there is no glory. No victory. Only a mirror that never fogs.

Ithys is not a hero. Not a martyr. Not a sage. He is simply someone who looked ethics straight in the eye. And did not run away into justification.

He was not pure. But he stopped lying.

And that, in this world, is already a form of innocence.