Backscene: A Night For Grief
Who: Rhocanth Garal, Lythe Gethon Where: At a camp point. When: 9:45, sometime just after the Frostback groups starts out. Summary: Rhocanth's loss finally catches up to him, and Lythe responds. Rating: E for Emo. Otherwise, should be clean except for maybe language.
The first sunset the boy had taken the time to witness seared the horizon at the bottom of the Frostbacks, turning the mountains into withered black burnmarks. He looked back at them for a while with reverence, with longing. His home, he realized, was such a small ink blot on the vastness of the world. He could wander out here forever and never find his way back, and every step was taking him further away.
Rhocanth leaned his head back on the log he reclined against, closing his eyes and trying to think. If he let the sounds of the rest of the camp fade away from him, he could still smell the musk of burning coal and imported perfumes, feel the crackling heat rising from the rivers. He was eight years old again, his fist balled up into Azrunath's gentle hand, being guided over the bridge to the Proving Grounds. They went in first, of course, amongst all the other nobility in whispering velvets disguising chainmail. The gap between the highborn and all else waiting outside grew as they crossed, and Rhocanth chanced a glance back. Over the empty bridge were a thousand eyes, watching and wondering. He had felt as though the entire world was staring at him, and he had stared right back.
The corners of his eyes stung terribly, and it brought him back up to a sitting position with a start. He swiped his sleeve from elbow to wrist over his face, bowing his head as though it was the campfire smoke that had made his eyes water. So far he had put up valiant appearances: laughing, joking, telling stories with Signy, and Falina whenever she'd let him, asking questions of young Lord Coan and riding with him, taking in the wonders of the surface, sticking his chest out just a little further whenever he thought the Legionnaires were looking. It was taxing.
He felt the need to rest now. Being amongst the others when he crumbled would be ultimately embarrassing and a terrible breach of what he considered right. No one needed to be burdened with his sadness, least of all the girls, who for all the world each looked so innocent. Rhocanth clambered to his feet and glanced around left and right. No one seemed to be looking in his direction, on the outskirts of the camp. He turned tail and slowly crept away through the tangle of roots and vines, far enough away that he would not be seen, or heard if he was quiet enough. The lordling plopped down in the dirt and wadded himself into a knot of elbows and knees, and breathed heavily.
The grief he had been ignoring came up in a wave, like nausea, forcefully pushing itself out of his system. In the safety of the dark he let it come up, first in a bitter tug of his features that wrinkled his nose and pulled his lips off of his teeth. He grit them together hard and bared the second wave, the scalding tears he was so ashamed of. The shame itself was the last, leaden and sour in his stomach, churning till it hurt. These few tears were for the way he almost died in the Deep Roads, hunted mercilessly by darkspawn. These were for his brother's life, which he held above all others. These were for the first time he knew the way it felt to feel a man's life dissipating on the end of his blade. These were for his dear mother's cries as he was marched away at swordpoint, through the gates and swallowed by the darkness.
He shuddered hard, realizing he had been gasping for air. Had anyone heard? His vision was too blurry to tell. He tried not to care, stuffing his face down into his arms.