Alain's eyes hold Roland's for a moment, then he reaches out, clasping Roland's arm. Grief shows plain in his eyes; grief not for himself, but for what Roland went through. He can imagine it all too well, even from that little description, and what he imagines twists his gut. He says nothing, though - what is there to say about such an experience? - only holds Roland's arm and his gaze for several seconds, hoping to express through his eyes what he doesn't have words for. That he's sorry for awakening such a memory, that he feels a strange guilt for not going through it at Roland's side, that he feels responsible for its happening at all. That he hears it, aye, hears it very well.
"It would have been all of them, I'd guess," he says at last, drawing away and tapping ash off his cigarette. "Shit and blood and death. I understand." Raking his hair back out of his eyes, he takes another long drag of smoke before speaking again. "And I understand why I would see it different. But I'd not have it so, if the way I see it is wrong." If there really is so little difference between them and Farson. If their cause isn't as just as he has always felt it, deep in his heart, to be. If they fought and died for no better cause than the men who fought and died for the Good Man.
He doesn't want it to be so. That is the last thing he wants, in all the world. But if it is so, then he has to know. Know, and find a way to come to terms with it, for he is young still, full of enough fire and righteousness to truly believe that it matters how noble a cause is.
"And if you'd have me set aside what I said," he adds after another of those thoughtful, weighted silences, "if you'd have me find a way to steel myself to cut down innocents in these Games, you have to tell me so. I look at them, and I see Gilead's children and wives, the ones who fought for their lives vainly when Farson came. If you'd have me put that aside..." He closes his eyes, looking away from Roland, and takes a deep breath, his cigarette dangling loosely from his fingers. "I can't do that without your help, Ro'. It's not in me."
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"It would have been all of them, I'd guess," he says at last, drawing away and tapping ash off his cigarette. "Shit and blood and death. I understand." Raking his hair back out of his eyes, he takes another long drag of smoke before speaking again. "And I understand why I would see it different. But I'd not have it so, if the way I see it is wrong." If there really is so little difference between them and Farson. If their cause isn't as just as he has always felt it, deep in his heart, to be. If they fought and died for no better cause than the men who fought and died for the Good Man.
He doesn't want it to be so. That is the last thing he wants, in all the world. But if it is so, then he has to know. Know, and find a way to come to terms with it, for he is young still, full of enough fire and righteousness to truly believe that it matters how noble a cause is.
"And if you'd have me set aside what I said," he adds after another of those thoughtful, weighted silences, "if you'd have me find a way to steel myself to cut down innocents in these Games, you have to tell me so. I look at them, and I see Gilead's children and wives, the ones who fought for their lives vainly when Farson came. If you'd have me put that aside..." He closes his eyes, looking away from Roland, and takes a deep breath, his cigarette dangling loosely from his fingers. "I can't do that without your help, Ro'. It's not in me."