[open]

[elfstone]

Who| Aragorn and you.
What| The cat is officially out of the bag: in the Arena, Aragorn's real name came out when he met Arwen, and he's given up on aliases. This is a general log for anyone who wants to approach him about that or who just generally wants CR.
Where| The Tribute Center and around the Capitol.
When| After Cyrus's announcement
Warnings/Notes| Feel free to approach him at any point described in the log! Also, if you have any kind of CR with him at all, feel free to start your thread by saying he's stuck his head into your District suite, trying to find you. "Any kind of CR" means "at least one thread that ended on friendly terms." He'll specifically seek out Aang, both Sams, Clementine, Maxwell, Gary, and Haruto, and will be on the lookout for Anna, Darcy, and Jack Sparrow, so he'll be on most floors at some point.
Also: FOURTHWALLING IS ALLOWED, but please don't mention any events to him past his canon point (just after Helm's Deep).

Aragorn is not sure what he expected, when he was revived. The loss of nearly a month, however, was not it.

The first thing he does is go down to the fourth floor. He won't talk to anyone on his way there, not more than a few brusque words. He needs to know where she is, needs to know if she's all right.

It is only after that that Aragorn makes his way to other floors. He will look in on those he knows; he will be distraught, on the first floor, to find Thranduil gone, and will grieve for Bilbo, as well. When he has found out who has returned and who has not, Aragorn can be found sitting in a removed corner of the cafe in a hooded shirt, re-familiarizing himself with his network-watch and gathering what news he can. He watches Cyrus's message, and his mouth presses thin.

But the weather is good, and he will not remain inside for long. The Capitol is a large city, and Aragorn is coming to know it well; he can be found all around the city, making a map of it in his head, learning it by sight and smell and feel. When he is not exploring (and not with Arwen), he can be found most often in the park or on the roof. He will sit beneath a tree, and stare up at the clouds or at the stars, and think about how few of them he can see. He will stretch his legs out in front of him and pull out a pipe, and if you catch him at the right moment, you may hear a snatch of song under his breath.

Comments

[needlebearer]

Arya's been spending a lot of time on the roof. She can almost pretend that she's away from the clutches of the Capitol here, overlooking the city the way a bird might, above it rather than part of it. At the same time, she can enjoy the luxuries the Training Centre has to offer, such as unlimited ice cream delivered to her whenever she wants. She sits in a corner, legs crossed over each other, sharpening a stick she's snapped from a bush in the rooftop garden on the edge of a tile. She's sure that she won't be able to keep it, that security will take it from her just like her weapons from the Arena were confiscated (she's still annoyed that she didn't get to keep the gun), but she focuses on it anyway, finding the motions familiar and calming, and just liking having something to occupy her hands and distract her from the frustration that just being here gives her.

She doesn't give too much thought to Aragorn at first, but after a while she'll sneak glances over to him, especially when she hears him singing a little too quietly for her to make out the song.

[elfstone]

Aragorn has been aware of her, listening to her movements and keeping her in the edge of his vision. He has not caught her glances, but he senses them, and eventually, he catches her eye, once, when she looks over.

"Is it the craft of arrow-making you aspire to, or is that simply idle play?"

[needlebearer]

She holds up the stick, gripping it tightly in one hand and waving it about like a sword. "Arrows need much better crafting. You need to be precise to get them to fly properly. I'm just going to stick them with the pointy end."

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn has spent a great deal of time in the park since coming here, wandering and wishing for a fresher breeze, stars she can see, a wider horizon. But it's better than the confines of the Tribute Center, and so she's a frequent visitor there, night and day.

When she sees him, it's night. That, she considers a blessing; in the relative darkness, it takes her long enough to be sure of who she's looking at that her initial frantic reaction - fear and relief and horror and joy - has subsided by the time she gets closer. Still, there's a sick feeling in her gut. If he doesn't know her - if another person turns out to be a stranger with the face of a friend - she isn't sure what she'll do.

But the only thing worse would be not knowing. So she swallows, draws herself to her full height, and pulls certainty and confidence around herself like a cloak, striding towards him, battling with twin prayers: let it be him, let him know me thunders every bit as loudly as let me be mistaken, let him be safe and well at home. She closes her eyes, briefly, then clears her throat.

"My lord Elessar?"

[elfstone]

He stands as she approaches: his eyes are good in the dark, and though he did not know her when she stood far away, for he did not know to look for her, well does he know her now. No sooner does he recognize her than he takes to his feet, the grief in his face an echo of her own.

"My lady Éowyn," he replies, and his unhappiness at the recognition is carried in his voice. "Forgive me -- I did not know that you had been brought here. If I had, I would have sought you out sooner."

Aragorn does not know her well, true; however, she is noble of spirit, she is proud, and it is against his will that she should suffer the indignities of the Capitol and the pain of the Arena. It also worries him that more from Middle-earth are coming here, just as few return from death. How many more, he wonders, will be brought here to die? How many more will suffer the fates of Frodo, Bilbo, and Thranduil?

"Sorely does it grieve me to see you here."

[shieldofrohan]

"No less sorely am I grieved to find you in this place," she answers, her voice low, and clasps her hands in front of her. Yet she smiles, and her eyes tear a little at it. "But though it grieves me, yet it gladdens me also, to see that you know me. I had begun to fear I was ever lost among strangers here."

She does not cry. She is too proud for tears. But she can feel them, at the back of her throat, a bitter wash of salt and emotions she has no words for. Once, she thought herself in love with this man. Now she knows better, yet still the sight of him, in this place, fills her with more feelings than she knows how to express. Anger, as ever, is foremost among them. How dare they? How dare they take him, how dare they put her in a place where she is even a little glad that he is trapped here? What right do they have?

But aloud, she only says with a little sigh, "You had no call to seek me out. I have been here but a little time." Although that little time is stretching out into longer than she realises. Longer than she'll let herself realise.

[ka_sera_sera]

The Capitol's parks are not as comforting today as he was expecting. Not that he was expecting much; what Capitolites call nature puts Roland more in mind of the carefully designed flower gardens they used to have back home than it does the plains and forests in which Roland's spent most of his life. And that only vaguely, because of course everything here is more. Brighter, more exotic, more elaborate.

Still. This park used to seem at least some break from the rest of the city. Today there's no feeling of relief in being here at all, no familiarity, because he thinks he may be getting used to the look and feel of this city. Maybe even getting used to living in it. Inevitable, probably, but that doesn't mean he doesn't wish he couldn't have put the realization off for a little while longer.

Seeing a tribute here, then, is a welcome distraction. At least, probably a tribute. The man's manner, when Roland had watched him earlier coming through the rooms for district four, certainly wasn't that of any of the Capitol's men. "Mind if I join you?" he asks, stopping about an arm's length away from where the man sits. "Don't recognize your tune, but it's a good change from anything else they like playing around this city."

[elfstone]

"Not at all," comes the reply, as Aragorn takes in the man's appearance. "You are one of those who dwell in Four, if I'm not mistaken." He had glimpsed the man earlier, though he had not stopped to exchange words.

[ka_sera_sera]

His appearance isn't much - he's a skinny, tall man with long greying hair and a weathered face, currently wearing a pointy and vaguely fashionable outfit. Easier to give in and wear what the stylists shove at him, so more and more that is what has been happening. But if he takes a walk in the park and ends up with a little dirt on these expensive and vaguely ridiculous pants? Well. Say sorry.

Roland hitches up the tails of his shirt and sits, knees bent in front of him, and takes a look at the other man. "Roland Deschain," he says, and holds a hand out. It's his right, the one with gears and cogs and little levers where the first two fingers would normally be, both covered in a clear, rubbery film. These fingers will stay fairly loose if the other man shakes; the other organic ones will do most of the work.

"And yes, I am. You seemed to know your business when you came through." He shrugs. There'd been no reason to greet him then, not a stranger who'd been so clearly focused on other things. "But don't let me stop your song. Was it anything in particular? Something from your world?"

[wizardplease]

Haruto almost doesn't believe his eyes when he sees Thorongil rushing through the suite and to the elevator. He has to stop, shake his head, look again, and by then it's too late to even call his name or try and stop him. Breaking into a run in an effort to catch him just left him standing in front of closed elevator doors, frustrated and confused and relieved and... and honestly, he couldn't take proper inventory of everything that he was feeling right now.

Halfway to reaching out for the elevator's call button, he stops himself, though. Why had he rushed away so hastily? Well. There was Arwen, wasn't there? His... 'girlfriend' seemed like the wrong sort of word for the kind of relationship that those two had, if what the Capitol was now excitedly broadcasting and rebroadcasting every chance that it had was a proper indication, but the exact word wasn't coming to him. She was important enough to ignore all else for, though. That he could see and understand. There's no need to follow. Everything's going to come together on its own, given a bit of time.

By the time Thorongil (or is his name something else now? Haruto is going to need to clarify this...) makes his way back to the District 11 suites, there's a fresh pot of coffee on and a young wizard waiting for him in the kitchen. It's been more than enough time for Haruto to tamp down any unseemly emotional outbursts, and just have an easy smile and a casual remark ready. "Welcome back."

[elfstone]

When Aragorn sees it, a smile breaks across his face -- a true smile, one that is not without relief, either. The gesture puts him in a good humor; he understands the reference and appreciates it.

"I wish it were better to be back," he says, "but it is better still than the alternative." Aragorn chooses his words carefully. There is that new restriction on anti-Capitol speech. He does not wish to draw attention. "Forgive me. I have not been told why it took so long."

[contrarianlibrarian]

China isn't at all dressed for a garden, however tame, but she has to make some sacrifices for her job; she's determined to make the proper impression by meeting all of her Tributes. Some are more difficult than others--after being unable to manufacture a crossing of their paths, she eventually concedes to having to seek Aragorn out. She doesn't check the roof until the sun is already slipping behind the horizon.

When she spots him, she smiles as if she's seen an old friend and approaches with a leisurely stride.

Standing before him, she holds a book in her one hand and rests the other on her hip. "You're quite an elusive man. May I join you?"

[elfstone]

He lets out a half-laugh, as if at some private joke; his eyes light up with immediate humor. "Elusive, am I? I assure you, that is not my intent. If it were, you would have had a far harder time of it." If Aragorn doesn't want to be found, few indeed can find him. It is only the cameras that take away his advantage.

"But you may join me, if you like." His eyes flick down to the book, and then back up. "Are you here to read, or is the book a pretext? An insurance against silence, perhaps? Or is it that you cannot bear to be parted from it, even when hunting down a wayward Man?"

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell tried to keep busy. Allowing himself to be ferried to and fro by Swann, losing himself for hours in the training area, sleeping long - if lightly and troubled. But occasionally there were lulls. A stretch here or there where he nothing to do but be by himself, with his thoughts.

It was one of those times that Thorongil found him. He was in the common room, standing by the window, watching the sun set and the shadows grow long outside.

The sight of the familiar face was a relief, in more ways than one.

"I appreciate the thought," he teased as he turned from the glass, trying to shake off the sadness with a light joke. "But I'm still in one piece, as you can see."

[elfstone]

"I am glad of it," the Ranger said; there was gravity in his tone mingled with relief. "Too many of those whom I know are not. I am glad to see that you, at least, are returned to us."

[theevenstar]

She has been told, of course, that sometimes reviving a tribute can take longer than a few days. And learning of Aragorn's own death so soon after her own brings a profound sense of grief, that she could cause him pain without meaning to. So she is patient the first week, and begins to grow anxious during the second. By the end of the third week, though, Arwen is beginning to wonder if some people cannot be brought back. If a full month, as reckoned here, passes without sight nor sound of her beloved, she plans on demanding an audience with whoever oversees the Tributes.

And if that does not work, well. There is always deliberate fading. She refuses to live in a world without him.

But such a dire circumstance remains firmly in the hypothetical future. It is easier to keep to her suite, exiting only for a meal each day, and then returning to meditate in solitude. Her behavior could quite easily be called sulking, and if she was still an elfling of only a century or two, Arwen would agree. However, she has bound her heart and soul to him, accepting the consequence of mortality at the end of her life. Mere sulking cannot describe the growing pain her fea experiences each day that passes without his return.

In this state Aragorn will find her when he hits the District floor dorms: curled up on a couch in training clothes, quietly reciting human poetry and ignoring a plate of food one of the servants was kind enough to bring. "I made my song a coat / Covered with embroideries / Out of old mythologies / From heel to throat..." She looks up at the noise of his arrival and stares, color slowly draining from her cheeks. Is this a ghost to mock her loss? Is it a trick of her own mind? Or is it (truly?),

"... Aragorn?"

[elfstone]

The relief he feels when he sees her is painful. Is it the intensity that makes it sharp? Is it the lingering fear that she had not been revived -- or, worse, had lost hope of his return? Is it the knowledge that what they have just endured they must endure again, until they remain unrevived or the Capitol falls?

He stands still in Four's doorway for a moment, his feelings naked on his face. There is no pretense, no attempt at concealment, no stoic reticence: he has been frightened for her, he has died of his grief for her, he has laid her to rest, and here she is, before him again, and he loves her more than he can stand.

It is not that movement returns to legs that had been frozen; it is not so conscious as that. It is that his feet bring him to her of their own accord, crossing the space in long strides, and if she stands, he will wrap his arms around her and hold her to him tight. If she does not, he will pull her up and do it all the same, closing his eyes and breathing in deep.

"Arwen."

There is terrible grief and terrible joy in her name.

[burningdaylight]

Luke cups a hand against the breeze, flicking away until the flame takes. The irony of stepping out onto the roof to clear his head and have a breath of fresh air is not lost on him, of course. Especially when his first smoke in years has him spluttering and fumbling to hide the fact like a kid quietly stuffing a trashy magazine under his mattress before mom came creaking up the stairs.

Not that he’d know anything about what that's like.

Thankfully, by the time a stranger comes by and settles comfortably for a smoke of his own, Luke’s mostly past the tickly-throated coughing and the now-I-remember-why-I-kicked-this-shit-to-the-curb phase, quietly accepting of the situation. This wasn't his best idea, sure. He'll be the first - okay, and ONLY person - to admit that while sitting here, taking in the Capitol skyline and trying not to notice the invisible walls pressing in on them all for just a moment.

But sometimes, it’s nice not planning too far ahead. Nice not having to.

He takes a careful drag and feels a little better, sparing a sideways glance at the man sitting a ways off.

“That’s a pretty sweet pipe,” He says after a beat, a touch amused and entirely too sincere.

[elfstone]

"It is a bit old-fashioned, I hear," Aragorn replies, picking up on the amusement and responding good-naturedly. "But I still prefer it to the paper-rolling that is the custom here."

[rediscover]

The fourth floor also happens to be where Anna takes residence; she's vaguely aware of a newcomer to Four, but hasn't heard much besides the fact that she seems to come from the same world as Thorongil, whom she'd met in the last Arena. Anna's also vaguely aware that Thorongil isn't his real name; she's alright with that--she can understand the mistrust that would bring someone to go by an alias here. Unfortunately, someone like Anna just doesn't have the tact required to do something like that. She barely had her wits about her when she came.

The Princess of Arendelle is lounging on the sofa, sprawled across it with a bowl of grapes balanced in her lap--her stylist has informed her that if she wants to avoid being rolled into her next Arena she needs to cut back on the junk food--and the TV blaring in front of her. But when she catches a glimpse of a familiar face over the back of the sofa she straightens up, barely catching the bowl before it topples.

"Hey!" Anna's eyes are wide, and she looks pleased to see him. "Hey, um--well, whatever your name is these days!"

[elfstone]

--that makes him burst into a laugh. Oh, that's something he deserves, isn't it? It's something he doesn't hear nearly as often as, perhaps, he ought to.

"I have many," he tells her, "and so can hardly blame you. But my true name is Aragorn, and now that it is known, there is no need to learn the others."

[a_minute_younger]

Gary isn't particularly hard to find. He doesn't get out much during the early afternoon on most days, preferring to make a small nest in his room and play video games until he feels suitably restless and needs to get out of the suite. The evidence of his presence, though, is obvious: old bowls and cups lie abandoned on the table in the main living area, the microwave is dirty with splattered food and the door has been left slightly ajar. Gary has the volume on his handheld game turned up high, enough that it can be heard through the door even before he kicks it open. One hand holds the bastardized Gameboy, the other cradles an empty two-liter of Hillside Dew, Special-Edition Red. He's in his pajamas and appears to only recently have left the shower, given his damp and un-styled hair. It's probably past noon by now. Gary doesn't care. It's not like he has anywhere important to be, or like he's expecting someone to come looking for him.

Like Thorongil! That would be silly, the guy's been gone for weeks. They probably sent him home, like they did with Davesprite, Gary figures. So imagine his surprise when he walks into the hallway and looks up to see the man himself, wandering in, just as Gary remembered him. He almost drops the Gameboy in his excitement.

"Thoron--" Wait, wait, that's not right. He called himself something different during the last Arena, didn't he? That was all over the news. Gary's enthusiastic grin wavers somewhat with his confusion before he gives up with a shrug. "--You! I've missed you, you big stud!"

Then he's running forward to give Not-Thorongil the big hug he deserves.

[elfstone]

"Whoa there--!" The exclamation isn't at all displeased. A laugh and a warmly returned hug are Gary's rewards; in fact, Gary might find himself lifted up onto his toes with the force of it.

(Aragorn is really, really tall.)

"--I can see that," he says when the hug breaks, and he clasps Gary's shoulder with one hand. "I apologize for the delay. I do not know what took me so long."

[smarterthanthem]

Clementine finds him in the cafe.

She winds her way through the tables, taking the most direct route she can without getting in anyone's way to slid into the empty chair on the other side of Thorongil. Or... is it Aragorn? She's not sure but he asked her to call him one thing, so that's what she uses to greet him before bringing up anything else.

"Hi, Thorongil. Are you waiting for someone?" If he is she'll clear out but he looked pretty alone when she walked in, sitting and fiddling with the communicator they'd all been given. Hopefully he won't mind talking to her.

[elfstone]

From the look on his face, it's clear that Aragorn has not forgotten her and is also glad to see her.

"I am not," he says, switching the communicator off, "unless it was for you to come along, and I did not know it. How have you fared?"