thecapitol | a few missteps along the way but I'm really pretty happy to be here [closed]

That was not really the explanation Roland had expected. He wishes he could have seen Signless' face when he'd said it, but maybe that was the point - quite a bit of meaning can be missed when you can't see the speaker's face, and some things are easiest said that way.

"Come," he says, shifting to get out from under Signless' chin, tugging at their clasped hands, and pushing the chair beside him a little ways out with his feet. "Sit, I want to see you. What do you mean by unnatural?"

Signless sits, doing his level best to not let go of Roland's hands for very long if at all. He knew they'd have to have this conversation eventually -- there's too much of him that's tangled up in blood and signs and politics and philosophy. Even in Panem where his life's work means almost nothing it's still an integral part of him, and that means it's something anyone he's close to is going to have to know about.

"I mean what I say. My species is arranged in social castes based on blood color. There are twelve that occur naturally, ranging from maroon to royal fuchsia. I am a mutant with blood in a thirteenth color -- the bright red you see in my eyes, much brighter than natural maroon -- which puts me so far at the bottom of the social hierarchy that I'm off it entirely. I should have been culled at hatching for my defect, but an attendant in the brooding caverns took pity on me and smuggled me away into the desert."

It's clear from the way he speaks that he's both used to telling this story and a little uncertain how to tell it now. Usually those that hear it have some frame of reference but Roland, as a human, has next to nothing. Signless is well-aware that he may never be able to properly communicate the injustices of troll culture to someone who will never experience them, but that doesn't mean he won't try.

"Blood is everything in troll culture. Your blood caste defines you, from the maroons and browns and yellows marked at birth for slavery to the fuchsia heirs and heiresses to the throne. Anything that challenges or breaks that strict hierarchy is stamped out as quickly as possible. As a mutant, my very existence constituted a danger to the established order of things."

Now, mutant, that's a word familiar to Roland. The problem of mutants, of how to breed bloodlines completely free of them, it's one his world'd been working over even before Roland's home had been a twinkle in its founder's eye. He does not say this.

He'd looked Signless over once he'd heard the word mutant - an automatic, head-to-toe check for visible abnormalities - and decided that, so far as his world's muties go, if blood coloring was the only difference Signless would probably be considered a solid success. He does not say this either. It's true, but it is not remotely the point.

The point, perhaps, is how much of this Signless wants to tell him. He doesn't seem reluctant to tell it so much as a little uncertain, but it has not escaped Roland that Signless has not yet let go of his hand. "So you hid in the desert," he says, because interested as he is in the culture that created Signless, those distant, ingrained injustices are of less interest to him than the man sitting in front of him here and now. "The others weren't used to mutants going there for protection?"

He laughs, his tone only a touch hollow. To him it seems like such a ridiculous question, but how could Roland know?

"No, no. I don't think you're quite grasping the degree to which difference is not tolerated by my species. Most any troll grub with such a visible and drastic mutation as mine would have been culled immediately. None of them could have possibly made it that far on their own at such a young age -- and if they had they likely would have died before long anyway. The Alternian desert is unforgiving; I only survived past infancy because I had an adult troll protecting me. With her aid I was able to hide my abnormality."

He runs a thumb thoughtfully over the back of Roland's hand.

"I could have stayed in the desert for the rest of my life, only having contact with trolls other than my mother during the infrequent times we passed through settlements for supplies, but even those brief glimpses showed me what life was like for lowblood trolls not lucky enough to live outside of Alternian society. Poverty, slavery, the constant threat of abuse and murder, all because of the hue of their blood-- even as a child I knew that it wasn't right."

Roland's expression does not change much. There's no sympathy there. There is plenty of focus, though - he's leaning forward a little, not looking away from Signless' face. He's listening, cataloging what this tells him about the world Signless comes from nearly as much as what it tells him about Signless himself. And though he hasn't really seen the side of Signless that needs to stand up and change things it is not hard to guess where this is going.

Or might be going, if Signless chooses to take his explanation that way. Roland does not ask for more than Signless wants to give, and nor does he derail things by interrupting. He says nothing, but his look, expectant and focused, can speak well enough when he wants it to.

He takes that look to mean that he should keep going. It's been so long since he talked about this with someone who didn't already know most of it. It feels good to reaffirm who he used to be, the things that shaped him: they may not be immediate concerns anymore but they're still important to remember.

"I began to fight it. I would speak to anyone who would listen and tell them that things didn't have to be the way they were just because that was how they had always been. And people began to listen. I'd host discussions in abandoned caves and buildings and basements of those who were sympathetic, never staying anywhere for too long, sending out times and places by word of mouth of those who were trustworthy. I sailed across the ocean just to make sure those on the other side were able to listen if they wanted. I thought everyone should have that opportunity, even if they chose not to take it."

His hand tightens, imperceptibly at first and then a great deal.

"Things got out of control. So many people listened and so many people believed that their lives really could be better, but they wanted that as soon as possible-- and how could I tell them they had to wait? An uprising grew up around me and my words. It wasn't what I wanted but it was my doing and I had to see it through, didn't I?"

Perhaps that was his downfall, taking personal responsibility for the things others chose to do with his ideas. But all of these people had believed in him, had rallied around him as a symbol of something better, and he couldn't abandon them when he was all the hope they had.

"The rest I know because I've been told by others who come from after my time. If I ever go back to Alternia, I will fail. I will be captured and publicly executed for treason and heresy, and my world will remain just as violent and divided as it ever was."

It seems to Roland, privately, that 'out of control' was how something like that was always going to go. Change and chaos always go hand-in-hand, and to create one is almost inevitably to invite the other. To say so would only be cruelty - Signless had stepped up afterward, hadn't he? Set out to see things through anyway. And unlike The Good Man who'd set Roland's world to ruin on similar claims of being chosen by the people, fighting for them with no intent of his own to lead, this is something that Roland believes.

He keeps his grip firm in Signless' hand, takes a second to think over Signless' efforts as he's told them, brief and summarized though the telling had been. "Not so long ago you told me you'd had something to devote your life to, before Panem. That was it, wasn't it? Your Tower."

"Yes. And I think I did well enough, even if the change I wanted to lay the foundation for never happened. I gave people hope. That's something." He used to think it wasn't, used to think the harm and pain what he'd done had caused far outweighed any good. His time in Panem has taught him not to devalue even little victories; every good thing is to be treasured, no matter how small.

"What do you mean, my Tower?" he adds after a moment, clearly enunciating the capital T. It must be a human expression, or possibly just a Roland expression. Either way it's not one he's heard before.

The matter of Signless' thoughts on his life's purpose, whether his means were ultimately as worthwhile as their failed ends, would go uncommented on even if Roland's mind weren't being drawn toward his Tower, which is still something of a black hole in some dark part of his thoughts even if in not quite the same way it used to be. Because it's Signless' thoughts on his own life that matter - if he's at peace with the ending of his own quest, talks about it not because he needs reassurance but simply because he wants Roland to know, then that's all that needs to be said about it.

Either way his mind is now elsewhere, focused on the curious balancing act of trying to stay far enough from those memories that he won't get pulled back in, but close enough to perhaps dip a toe in. Access them. Roland's expression is distant and his grip, without him quite realizing it, does not loosen from Signless' hand. "Odd to think I've never told you. I've told you some of it." He sighs. "I don't remember what. Let's see."

Begin before, maybe, and then expand with generalities. It should be enough to talk around the specifics of his Tower and what exactly he found there. It should be safe enough. "One of the stories of my world," he begins carefully, feeling his way through the explanation as he gives it, "the ones that everyone knows but very few believe - believed, I guess - involves the... the center, you could say. The place where this world meets mine, and yours, that of every tribute who's ever been here and more besides. Every world and all the forces which hold them together. Sometimes it's a tower, as it is in the stories where my ancestor wins the wood in the weapons we all -"

He pats his hip and looks down, surprised briefly not to find a gun there. Best to focus on Signless' face maybe, just for a second, so he does. "All the gunslingers used to wear. But I'm getting off track. Where was... Ah. It's something of a keystone, the Tower, without which all we know would fall into the dark between. To skip a large part of a fairly long story, I saw it once. In a vision. I didn't truly find my way toward it for a very long time after, but I spent my life in seeking."

"Which is to say..." Why'd he mentioned this in the first place? Track the conversation back. He does so, looking at their clasped hands now and shifting his simply to feel it move against Signless'. "I know what it is to feel a life's purpose, the way it drives you onward no matter what may be waiting at the end." He smiles, not happily, and turns his focus toward Signless' eyes. "I may have told you that before. After Susannah. Or was that some other time..."

"It was after Susannah," he affirms, sensing that perhaps the certainty of that might be steadying. One dark corner of his mouth quirks and he shakes his head.

"So we both spent most of our lives chasing something we saw in a vision. We really are a well-matched pair, you with your Tower that holds universes together and me with my game that ends and begins them." He knows he's mentioned that at least once, when he was explaining Kankri and the nature of his double set of memories. That seems so long ago now, the time when the two of them still barely knew each other beyond a few conversations and that one odd thing that connected them.

"Did you ever find it?"

"Find it?" His mind is still on Signless and his visions and his game, and it takes Roland a moment. Once he does make that connection he looks surprised, because he honestly hadn't expected it. His mouth begins to go slack, eyes flicking back and forth as if watching something that is moving very quickly. "Oh."

"Oh, I, ah..."

Roland's begun to lean to one side, and the hard thump of his elbow on the table startles him. He jumps a little, tries hard to focus on the ash tray in front of him. Tries again. "I-I-I..."

His skin's covered in goosepimples; his hand, where it grips that other, is clammy. When had that happened?

"I think you'd- you'd better ask again," he says, soft, and searches for Signless' gaze. "I don't recall. What you, um."

Oh.

Oh, dear. Instinctively Signless reaches up and puts a hand on Roland's cheek, presses their foreheads together, tries to steady him. Finds his eyes and holds them, searing red on blue. His feelings, naturally blurred between quadrants as they are, become just a little more weighted toward the gentle worry of pale.

"Nothing," he murmurs. "I didn't ask anything. You're fine. Shh."

Mentally, he writes a note in large red text and files it somewhere easily-accessible: do not ask about the Tower, or at the very least do not ask if Roland ever saw it. That reaction was far too disturbing to be something he wants to cause a second time.

Roland allows the contact, mouth slightly open again, watching Signless' every move closely with furrowed brows. His eyes leave Signless' for an instant, then move back. It seems as if Signless wants Roland to keep looking. That expression can mean nothing else.

It's after a couple breaths, feeling his minute shaking begin to smooth in the same instant he realizes it'd been happening, that Roland breaks his gaze. He lets his head turn aside, bows it and feels their temples touching, hears his breaths drawn in steady and loud through his mouth. "I-"

The aborted statement there is born of something else, this time. It isn't that he does not know what to say, but that he can not bring himself to say it. Can't bear to ask.

"How many of your questions got answered?" is what he asks, quiet and frustrated. "I'd tell you everything, Signless." He sighs then, can't help it. It just comes out. "You deserve to know," he finishes, and continues the important work of not looking up.

"It's okay," he says, closing his eyes and letting his hand slip from Roland's cheek to finds its way around his back instead. A calming noise bubbles up in his throat, a wordless trill that would mean nothing even if his own language was available to him.

"I can wait to know everything until you can safely tell it. I don't need to know yet if it hurts too much."

He turns his head sideways, presses a kiss to the corner of Roland's mouth.

"Ask me something. Anything you're curious about. I'll talk for a while."

Edited 2015-03-06 04:19 (UTC)

That sound is one no human has ever used, nor one he has any reason to find familiar at all. Odd how comforting it is anyway. Or maybe it isn't; long, solitary nights, clear, dark skies, trees all around. It's not a memory that the sound conjures up, thankfully. More an impression of times long past, ones which he does not precisely think of fondly, but which are familiar. Comfortable.

A part of him cares little for that comfort. Cares little for needing it for something as simple as memory. But his eyes focus on something hanging in front of his bowed head. Something red and heavy.

The necklace. The token Signless has only just given him. He hadn't even realized he'd been seeing it. He picks it up, holds it closer to look at its patterns. Red and white, looking a little like their come had looked mixed on his bedspread all that time ago. He thinks for a second on what those colors mean in Signless' world, then straightens, looking up again and leaning back enough to look into Signless' face.

"Tell me about the desert you-" The desert. The colors of it, the dry smell, the heat and dread and so soon after-

"Don't." He opens his eyes, keeps breathing deep, using the hard edge of anger now to focus almost successfully on Signless' face. One of his hands searches forward and finds Signless' knee. "Tell me about- something. You were... a leader, weren't you? Tell me of that."

"Ah, hm. I've told you a little of it before. The why of it, and how it ended. I never meant to be a leader so much as I wanted to introduce a different way of thinking -- but I told you that too."

Still, he offered distraction, and distraction he plans to give. Less broad strokes and more detail, isn't that how he always did it? The vague outline of the thing first and then new depth with each pass?

"I crossed the sea once. It would have taken just as long and been just as dangerous to go around, but some stupid part of me wanted to prove that the water wasn't only for royalty. I did a lot of stupid things in the name of proving a point but that was by far the most foolish. The Alternian ocean is as unforgiving as its desert -- and it's home to Gl'bgolyb, lusus to the Empress, whose whispers drive trolls insane and whose maw is large enough to swallow ships whole.

"And they followed me anyway. My mother and the Psiioniic and the Disciple. Even though it would probably kill us before we reached the other side, even though they told me it was insane, they followed me."

He's struck with the sudden, intense ache of missing that time, those trolls, that he hasn't really felt recently. It's not often that he gets homesick for Alternia but he does often wish he could have that feeling of family back. That and the particular kind of optimism that allowed him to see things for how horrible they were and still somehow believe he could change them. Panem has beaten that out of him by now. Things won't change here unless they're razed and built completely new from the ashes, and he's already at the point where he's at peace with that and just waiting for the war to come.

"Maybe that's the measure of a leader. People standing by you even when they know what you're trying to do is insane, because it will all have been worth it if it works. I don't know. I wanted to help, not to lead."

Of course there's a bit of culture there that makes Signless' words harder to interpret - but that has precisely the effect Roland needs it to, whether or not that's what Signless intended. It's old habit to try and glean anything he can about a new culture whenever he can manage, and one he'd kept up even when it seemed every other culture had fallen along with his own. The more you understand about someone's background the better you understand how to deal with them, how to keep ignorance from tripping you up.

His mind is used to moving in this way, to sharpening its focus in an instant to glean whatever it can from little context, and as Signless speaks Roland's back and shoulders begin to straighten, though he doesn't move his hand from Signless' leg. The more he hears the more aware Roland's gaze gets, the more he seems to be here, rather than away in his mind swimming from the edge of some whirlpool he's like to be sucked into at any moment.

As Signless finishes Roland is still listening alertly, but in a different way; he's not hearing something he needs to figure out anymore, but something he knows. "Seems we're more similar than I thought," he says, lifts his hand from Signless' knee to brush slow over the back of his neck. "Knowing you'd be followed to hell, should you decide to lead the way - it's a terrible thing, isn't it? To be trusted so much. To be loved so deeply."

The hairs on the back of Signless's neck prickle just a little at the touch of those fingers, not entirely in a bad way.

"Wonderful and terrible, yes, to have that responsibility on your shoulders. Especially when you know -- I know what happened to them after I was executed. I know what following me brought them, and they all suffered far worse than I ever did."

His hand tightens in the fabric of Roland's shirt against his back, just a little.

"But they knew what they were risking, just like I knew I was a dead man the moment I first opened my mouth."

He nods and lets his hand settle a little lower, over the top of Signless' spine. "I can't speak for your friends, but mine - the ones I remember," he adds and says it without malice, because Signless' comment about knowing what happened to his own friends would never have been meant to refer to Roland, "Alain, Cuthbert, and even Jamie - I don't think I ever gave them the chance to cry off. Not in so many words. But they had their chances."

And they met their end, too, sure as Signless' men met theirs. So the two of them, the two who'd led so many to their deaths, may yet meet their own end, eventually. Which takes Roland back to the reason for this conversation in the first place. He slips a hand under the necklace sitting on his chest, looking down at it and then back at Signless' face. "I'll keep this, be certain. And now I know what it means - at least the broad strokes of it. I'll see it and remember."

a few missteps along the way but I'm really pretty happy to be here [closed]

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i went full drama and i'm not sorry

TOTAL DRAMA

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