Exhaustion, it seemed, didn't inherently lead to peaceful rest. Despite his bone tired weariness and deep desire to turn off for even twenty minutes, Beau found himself, once again, wide awake and fearful of the demons in his nightmares. The faces of his opponents in the fighting ring — so many faces — all blurred into one hideous being with the combined roars of all the beasts he wronged. Guilt always had a way of plaguing him (be it his mother's death or the friend in school he betrayed) but this was inescapable. This was a guilt he could never properly shed.

He kept his focus on the stars above. The cloudless sky reminded him of the astronomy classes at school and the countless stories behind the constellations. It was easier to refocus himself out here than in the humid air of his tent — easier to pretend all his fsults weren't his own. If it were only people he fought Beau might have been able to reconcile the fights, as they had to consent on their own volition. But the beasts...those poor creatures had no say. In those years he became his father, torturing lost souls for no reason other than to have an outlet for his own rage.

And that was the part which ate relentlessly at him.

Beau didn't bother turning at the footsteps behind him. The camp was so heavily warded against outside intruders (a necessary precaution in these parts) that he knew it had to be someone on the team. Finding it was Eavan, though, only reassured him more. "No rest for the wicked." He replied with a teasing grin and took the bottle from her. Beau took a long swig before handing it back. "You?"