Despite the depth of his involvement with sorrow, the lad was still aware of the noises around him, though not as keenly as he might otherwise. The shuffling did rouse him, and he bolted from his spot, stumbling back several paces and pawing at his face. Oh, who could have possibly caught him?! How much did they see?! Rhocanth stuck the pads of his palms into his eyes and rubbed away the stinging moisture to clear his vision.
It was the sergeant, and she looked troubled. Oh, no. His spirit met a new low as he stood there with reddened, snotty face and sleeves. The further he stared back at her, the harder the embarrassment bit in. Of all the people he didn't want to know about this, of all the people he really wanted to make proud, why did she have to come out here? The answer, it seemed, as her face illustrated, was because she cared. That's what he saw in her the moment she bent down to scoop him up off the cavern floor days ago. It was in her nature.
Rhocanth sighed in resignment, his shoulders slumping limply. He shuffled back to his spot beside the tree and dropped like a sack of potatoes, cradling his head in his hands.
"Say what you will," he muttered. "I am not made for this. I am not made for this at all."
He said no more for now, just sniffling into his knees, though he didn't quite push her away.