On the second night, he gets himself utterly drunk.
Curled up in a dingy corner of the barroom with a never-empty mug for company, staring out a window at the slowly wheeling stars, somehow all he can think of is that Aelirn would’ve hated it. She’d never approved of hard drink, or running from hurts, and he never had either, even when he had stumbled through the door blind and dry-eyed three hours before, he’d cursed himself for it.
