Alain smiles, his own eyes tearing up, and returns the hug tightly, resting his forehead against Roland's shoulder. Roland is warm and solid and undeniable, against every instinct screaming no, he's dead, he died, you saw him die!, and for a moment Alain just stands there, arms tight around his dinh, his tears mingling with Roland's as they roll down his face.

"One I'm glad for," he murmurs in reply, and breathes in deeply. The words I had feared it would not happen dry on his tongue, because they are obvious, and there's no need for them. Instead, he breathes in Roland's smell - dust and smoke and old leather, maybe half-imagined but plenty real enough for the moment - and smiles up at him, pulling away just a little. "Though I fear Cort is rolling in his grave at how it happened." For both of them, although he doesn't say as much. For two gunslingers trained and blooded, they made a pretty poor showing, and he's shamed by it. He thinks of pulling away properly, wiping his eyes and presenting a stonier face, but not now. Not to Roland. Not when Roland is weeping as well. Instead, he pulls his friend into another tight hug, clasping Roland's shoulder. "I brought cigarettes," he says at last, "if you'd share in them. Best way to hold palaver after a fight, after all."