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[Morier]

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Rosar felt like a fool. He turned away from Phyrra. He could no longer bear to look upon her and he desperately desired to hide himself from her gaze. He cursed himself in his mind, but what had he been expecting? That this asinine baring of his soul would serve to ease the inevitable regret he knew he would feel once he was again alone, with nothing but his liquor and his delusions to see him through the day? Perhaps it might have been better for him if he had been honest with her, but that was something he could never do, and in any case, it was too late for that now—much too late. It was done, and after his foolishness this evening, he knew he could never go back, not to face anyone in the Council and certainly never her.

"Goodbye", he said. Without waiting for her farewell, he pulled his tunic off over his head and detached his cloak from his neck. He held his uniform briefly in his arms, running his fingers over the heavy blue fabric, thinking of how ridiculous he must have looked wearing the colors of Honesty, of how pitiful he must have seemed to Phyrra now. He closed his eyes and cast the clothing aside upon the grass. With a single word and this gesture, it was over. He walked past her, past the Den and toward Umbra, making certain his eyes did not wander over to her for a final glance. She did not try to stop him. He could not decide whether this was because she respected his decision, or if she simply did not care. It did not matter, though: the dull ache in his heart could not be soothed. He never looked back. He walked for hours, through the Umbran Moongate and across the Britannian countryside, motivated solely by his desire to put as much distance as he could between himself and Phyrra and the Council, cursing aloud at his own idiocy and dishonesty.

Rosar mulled over his words as he walked, finding fault with every one of them. Most egregiously, he had told her it was 'merely' "a childish infatuation". An infatuation it was—it could not, afterall, be called love—but it affected him more than he could ever admit to her—more than he could admit to himself—and it still affected him now. While he had many reasons for leaving, this alone would have been enough. He saw within her a kindred spirit—or at least, he thought he did. He wanted to. He had to. He knew it was a weakness, but he was tired—so very tired—of being alone, and he could have latched on to nearly anyone, imagining familiarity if there was none. By mere chance, it was Phyrra, and they had enough in common for the result to come without much self-delusion on his part. Had he stayed, they might have become close friends, but Rosar would never have been satisfied with merely being her friend, even though any such relationship would have been doomed—just as with Lira. He told her that he was taking command, to end it before it grew out of control, but it was a lie: the damage had been done. He ought to have known better than to have allowed circumstances to progress to such a point, and hated himself for having not, but he knew now, and knew it could—and would—happen again if he ever put himself in a position to let it. And Rosar knew that the only certain way to avoid that was complete isolation. It was the same choice he had made when he left Lira. It was the one he was making now. It was not ideal, but it was all he could do. He would not be happy, but he would not cause himself this particular harm again.

Rosar's mind raced as he moved ever forward. He could feel his heart struggling within his chest to keep pace with his exertions. His thoughts rapidly turned to Moonglow itself, and its ideals of honesty and truth. From the beginning, he knew he could never fully integrate, that he would always be an outsider. 'Semper Veritas' was Moonglow's motto. "Always Truth". While it could be said that such a lofty ideal must be impossible to achieve, Rosar never resolved to even make the attempt. Indeed, he lived his life in constant avoidance of the truth—specifically, the truth within himself. Throughout his life, he had always found a way to do it. When he was young and untested, he could simply will away the feelings of inadequacy. As he grew older and repeatedly stumbled over his seemingly endless number of faults, he found he was able to explain his shortcomings away, either by concluding that the pursuit was not worth his time, or by rationalizing that it was not he who was flawed, but those around him:

My lack of skill at swordsmanship is irrelevant; magery is a much more powerful discipline.

I am unable to produce results not because I am a poor leader, but because I am surrounded by incompetent followers.

I am unable to relate to others not because I am socially inept, but because they lack the intellectual capacity to understand my complexities.

These days, however, he did not find it quite so simple. He knew himself too well and he had done too much; it couldn't all be reasoned away. It took him some time to find his solution, and when he did, he found it came bottled. He began to drink shortly after he became a citizen of Moonglow. He started with ale, but he soon moved to stronger fare. Some drink to lighten their mood, but Rosar drank to forget and to pass the time. It did not rid him of his emotions—in fact, it often amplified them—but it did blur their intellectual roots. As long as he did not have to think, he could bury the truth and so endure—at least for a time. It would always be waiting for him when he awoke—alone—in the morning, and then only the fear of death kept him from ending the pain, the frustration and the self-hatred for good. As Rosar walked, he wondered how long until even that would no longer be enough. Even now, the seething hatred he felt for himself at that moment threatened to cripple him in his tracks.

Still, though, Rosar continued to walk, the longest and farthest he ever had in his life, until his legs could no longer carry his gaunt, wasting body. He collapsed beside a river, his heavily-laden backpack falling sharply upon his back, compressing his emaciated torso between it and the hard, rocky ground. The emotional and intellectual torment, the utter exhaustion and the constant biting, stabbing and throbbing pain in his head and his chest, his arms and legs—his entire body—at last overwhelmed him. He began to weep softly, gasping for air to fill his nearly deflated lungs as he sobbed. Severely dehydrated, his tears fell as if being squeezed from a damp sponge, dropping with tiny, insignificant splashes into the raging water, the fierce current callously bearing them downriver to be utterly forgotten in a vast sea. Soon, Rosar's weeping ceased, his head slumped, and finally—mercifully—unconsciousness overcame him.

[[Yeah, I know this really sucks, but I had to make an IC post at some point. I'm a bad writer; sue me!]]