[OPEN] The morning dove sings

[atouchofka]

Who| Alain and YOU
What| Alain's not-so-triumphant return to the Capitol
Where| Central commons; D4 suite (specifically seeking Roland, but open); D7 suite; anywhere else you'd like!
When| End of week 6, early week 7
Warnings/Notes| Death things, I guess?

Death is, somehow, easier than Alain expected. Embarrassing - of all the ways he expected to die, he didn't expect it to be at the hands of a child, and a girl-child at that - but easy. It's waking from it that's hard, pulling himself out of the darkness and fully expecting agony in its wake. But of course, there is no agony. He's whole again, and when first he awakes, he looks with wonder at the fully-formed callouses on his palms, which were so recently reduced to raw new skin and blisters. Wonder, and a kind of creeping disgust and horror. This is wrong. Even knowing it was coming, it's wrong. He spends several moments just checking himself over, flexing his hands and testing his weight on his no-longer-broken leg. That creeping horror doesn't fade. At last, unwilling to be left alone with the evidence of his own unnatural recovery, he heads out of the room into the Center proper.

i. Central commons
He makes for the stairs first, not sure what he hopes for, just knowing he doesn't want to stay sitting around in the aftermath. It doesn't hurt that the bars are down there; after everything, he could use a stiff drink. The crowds are a relief, after the echoing silence in his own head, although the numb lack of the Touch is nagging at him again, dragging at his attention like a loose tooth. He keeps his head lowered, though, not making eye contact until he's at the bar. Company is well and good, but he isn't interested in replaying his embarrassment in the Arena for Capitolite ears.

He settles down in the corner of the bar with a double whiskey, scanning the crowds, looking for a friendly face. Or at least one that shows something more than vulturous curiosity.

ii. D4 suite
After a couple of drinks, the noise and press of the place starts to get to him, as does the aching emptiness that's all that answers his Touch. He no longer craves busyness so much, and he has his own concerns to attend to. Some people don't come back. Has he really gone so long without making sure Roland isn't one of them? Sluicing down the last of his whiskey, he gets to his feet and starts back towards the stairs (the elevators are something he doesn't think he'll ever be comfortable with, trapping yourself in a tiny prison in the hands of a machine), but not back to his own suite. He stops at the fourth floor, takes a deep breath, and heads inside, going to knock on Roland's door.

iii. D7 suite
He can only stay out so long. Eventually, he ends up back on his own floor, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he curls on an armchair, leafing through his well-thumbed copy of Homilies & Meditations without really reading. He's tried to shake the heavy thoughts that have weighed on him since his awakening, but they won't leave him.

Death is a heavy thing. It isn't that he wishes for it to last - not for himself, not for Roland, not for anyone who's fallen that way - but he's a man who believes in things in their place, and death is, above all else, meant to be an end. It isn't just that this feels like a mockery. It feels dangerous, coming back time and again from things that ought to send you to the end of the path. He can't help how it makes his skin crawl to think of it.

He'll sit there for a very long time, even sleep there a night or two. He has a lot to think on, but nothing that seems fair to say out loud.

Comments

D4

[ka_sera_sera]

It's not often people knock on Roland's door, for the simple reason that there aren't too many people who visit. Those who do tend to meet him in the common room, and the only person who tends to come straight for Roland's door is the Signless. His knock is different, though, and anyway Roland isn't expecting him, so when Roland opens the door it's with an expression of curiosity. That expression does not remain curious for long.

"Oh, Alain." The look that replaces that curiosity is one of deep and grateful relief. His left arm goes around Alain's back and his right, with its working arm and shining mechanical fingers, settles itself at the base of his old friend's skull. If the clear rubber covering on those two fingers catches a few of Alain's hairs, well. Roland will cry his pardon later. Or maybe he won't. Some prices are worth paying for a good hug.

He leans forward, his dark hair mixing in with Alain's light, and keeps close enough that the tears sliding down Roland's cheek might brush over Alain's as well. "It's a gift to see you again, dear. A gift," he says, and doesn't ask after anything at all because Alain is here and alive and warm against him. What else is there that's worth knowing?

[atouchofka]

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."

[ka_sera_sera]

(ooc: if Alain wouldn't agree to go out on to the balcony/wouldn't follow Roland out there or whatever, tell me and I can change this.)


The second hug is just as much a relief as the first, and Roland does not take his hands from Alain even when he draws back a little to look at his friend's face. "Balcony," he says and nods in its general direction, although it can not be seen from Roland's room. "They prefer their smoke outside, and the air's clearer out there anyway."

He studies Alain's face a moment more and then does pull away, but only to walk to said balcony, and one hand stays on Alain' shoulder. He does not wipe the tear tracks away as he makes his way through the common room, does not even think to, no matter who else may or may not be out there. "I think often on what Cort might think of this place," he says as he walks, after a glance back at Alain. "Strange, having someone to tell that to who'll know what it means."

He squeezes Alain's shoulder, then lets go as he steps onto the small balcony and takes an automatic look around at the view. And it is one hell of a view, with the awe inspiring height and skill of this city all around and rising up toward him. "You'd hold palaver with me Alain, so soon after waking? Or is it soon? Have you had time for a rest?"

[atouchofka]

"A couple of hours," Alain says with a little shake of his head, letting himself be led out to the balcony and digging in his pocket for the packet of cigarettes. Snapping the filters off two of them and flicking them over the edge of the balcony, he offers one to Roland. He does wipe his eyes on his sleeve, though not thoroughly. "I stopped for a drink. Felt some need for it, after everything."

His eyes, like Roland's, go out to the view for a moment. It's beautiful, yes, but it's also alien, and with the thoughts that are still plaguing him, it makes his skin crawl. "I'd hold palaver," he agrees quietly, after a moment. Dan-dinh, if you'd have it, he tries to add, but his tongue tangles around the High Speech, and he gives up on that quickly. Leaning on the rail of the balcony, he lights his cigarette and closes his eyes. "Our conversation in the woods was cut short." There's a heaviness in his voice, a definite sense he doesn't really want to talk about this. But Alain, shy though he can be, has never been one to shy away from things that need discussion. "If you'd sooner it wait, though, we can talk of such heavy things another day."

[ka_sera_sera]

"We won't wait for my sake," he says, leaning close enough next to Alain that their shoulders press together. He considers Alain's lighter a moment, then holds out his own cigarette in a silent request for Alain to light it too. "Those things could be considered weapons. Matches, too. Was a warning about it on the network a while back. I'd be careful."

With that he looks out at the city again, no longer thinking about the sight but on the topic that's just been broached. He isn't too pleased about it, and his expression probably says as much before he sighs and wipes that expression away. If Alain is coming to him in this way to speak on it, then that's what they're going to do.

"What part would you have me explain? Afraid I haven't thought on it at all since we spoke on it then; my memory may not be too clear." When it comes to Alain, Roland's been thinking on something a little different. Like the moment he'd found out about Cuthbert, and the moments after when he'd climbed up to the roof to look out at the sky, stayed there a while. A part of him had expected a repeat of all that. Another part of him had refused to.

He's had other things on his mind.

[atouchofka]

Alain watches Roland from the corner of his eye, silent for a moment, lighting Roland's cigarette wordlessly and taking a drag of smoke. This isn't a conversation he wants to have, any more than Roland does, but after everything that's happened, it's one he feels is needed. Especially after he died at a child's hands.

Still, it's hard to find the words to open the subject properly, and Alain has never been one to rush. His thought draws out into a long, empty silence as he looks out over the city, blowing smoke out into the sweet-scented Capitol air.

"Do you really believe what you said?" he asks at last, his voice low, his eyes not on Roland but on the city stretched out in front of them. "That there was nothing real in it? No difference between us and Farson?" Swallowing, he turns to face Roland, leaning against the wall of the balcony. "The Signless said something similar. I think he takes Farson's side, from how I told it, and I thought... I thought that was only that he hadn't seen the war, that he spoke from his world, not ours. But then you... Are we sunk so low, Roland?"

[ka_sera_sera]

He'd forgotten this, the pace of conversations with Alain. It isn't that he minds the silences, it's only that there seems to be a part of Roland's mind now which is dedicated solely to making observations like this, digging out the old memories which match them and holding the two next to each other, demanding that he pay attention to the difference. That's what seeing Alain is for Roland, sometimes. Nostalgic and off-putting and surprising all at once.

In any case, it's no surprise when Alain finally speaks. Roland remembers him too well to start to think Alain has changed his mind about speaking on this. "Mm, I do remember you mentioning you and the Signless've spoken," he murmurs, and looks away from Alain as he thinks on the rest.

"I may have said this before, but it bears repeating. The war's over, Alain. For me. The memories of fighting in it, the stories we told one another about Farson's men and all their evils - those aren't fresh in my mind anymore. What I remember-"

He pauses, maybe hesitating, maybe just thinking back over an experience he's never actually put into words before. "I remember hiding afterward. I remember the smell below and above me. Everywhere. Without being able to look and see if there was paint on any of the faces, it was impossible to tell who that smell was coming from." He pauses again for a brief and much needed drag on the bland Capitol cigarette. "Do you understand?"

That newfound part of Roland's mind calls at his attention again, prompting him to turn and look fully at Alain's face, to note the familar youth on it. He frowns a very little bit, with a feeling that isn't quite regret. "The war's still alive in you. A part of you, I think, must be still ready to fight it. If you see it different than I do, Alain, then see it different. I've no wish to see you remember all of it in the same way I do."

iii

[conifer]

It's the smell that draws Emily's attention, from over in her corner where she's kneeling down attending to the small garden she's set up there, trimming away dead leaves and taking clippings of herbs to dry out. She's used to Jason's fancy scented vaporised cigarettes and turns to see who's there with curiosity that turns into relief when she sees that Alain has returned from the Arena, that the Capitol hadn't seen fit to kill him permanently. Her instinct is to offer a friendly smile, but she stops short when she sees just how deeply pensive he looks, recognising his expression all too well as one that's been reflected in her own face enough times.

"I'd ask if you're okay, but I won't patronise you like that. I know what it's like, coming back from the Arena."

[atouchofka]

Alain gives her a little nod, looking up from his book, and taps ash from his cigarette into the empty mug he's using for the purpose. "I've seen worse things," he says after a moment, replacing the cigarette (filter crudely snapped off) between his lips. "You say true, I'm not at my best. But I'll be all right." His smile is small and rather sheepish, but as reassuring as he can make it.

He's quiet for another moment, then says softly, "I cry pardon. I acquitted myself poorly in the fighting. You must be disappointed." He certainly is, and it's easier to pretend to himself that his embarrassment in the Arena is the cause of his mood. Easier than addressing deep, philosophical conundrums that would have even Vannay tied in knots.

[conifer]

"Quite the opposite, actually." She wishes she could be disappointed with him, it would be so much easier and would fit with the line of the stern, pro-Capitol Mentor that she knows she needs to be taking to keep herself and her family safe. "You survived for a long time in there. And there's always next time, unfortunately."

[atouchofka]

"Not long enough." Alain's frown deepens a little. "Still, as you say, there's always next time. And perhaps, between now and then, I can find the stomach for it." Because he doesn't have it, and he knows that. He has the stomach for killing, no question; his body count is higher than anyone in the Capitol probably imagines. But fighting women and children, and for no reason but that he has been ordered to? No. He cannot find that in him.

He's quiet for a long moment, smoking and glancing down at his book. At last, looking up at Emily again, he says quietly, "Will you tell me a little of what I fight for? I am willing to fight for the District, for your people. But I know nothing of them, and that makes it hard to draw them to mind, when it comes to blood and battle."

i

[tucky]

Tiffany isn't... really a completely friendly face, and she is curious - but not for the reasons that other people are. Now that they're outside of the Arena and she isn't feeling like she's constantly about to be attacked, her suspicion and paranoia have ebbed considerably. She even gives Alain a cautious little grin as she sits down a couple seats away from him.

"Hey."

[atouchofka]

Alain looks up, raising his glass to her. "Hi--" he starts, but his tongue stops itself halfway through hile - probably a good thing too, given the different association her world has with that word - and he swallows the rest of it, unaware that it still sounds like a greeting to most people. "Hello," he says instead, and knocks back a large mouthful of whiskey.

It's another long moment before he speaks again, his voice and body language both far more awkward than they were in the Arena. "Smoke?" He's dug in his pocket, and is holding out a pack of Capitol cigarettes.

[tucky]

Tiffany looks a little surprised by the offer, but she nods. "Yeah, okay. ... Thanks. You got a light?" Because she definitely doesn't.

[atouchofka]

Alain nods, picking out a cigarette for himself and snapping off the filter before he puts it between his lips. "No sense having smokes and no light," he observes with a little smile, pulling a lighter out of the same pocket.

[tucky]

"Well, you could've had, like... magic powers, or something," she reasons. "Fire powers, to light your own cigs."

She slides out a cigarette and lights it, muttering another thanks.

"You do okay in the Arena?"

[atouchofka]

Alain shakes his head dumbly, not sure himself whether it's in answer to her comment about powers or about the Arena. Closing his eyes, he takes a long drag of smoke (it tastes flavourless and dry to him, even with the filter broken off) and another slug of whiskey before saying quietly, "I made it maybe halfway through this week. A week longer than Roland. But we both should have done better. Cort would roll in his grave if he saw us."

He knows that means nothing to her, but that isn't the point. He's talking half to himself now. Another drag of his cigarette, though, and his eyes focus back on her. "As for powers, they've been taken from me here. No doubt because they'd be too dangerous to be worth the risk."

[tucky]

She shifts uncomfortably, because she'd done worse than him, placing-wise. If he's disappointed with himself and thinks he did badly, he'd probably look down on her if he knew. Hell, maybe he does know. It's not as if Arena deaths are kept secret.

"You just got that... mind thing. Right? Or do you have other stuff too?"

D7

[whatisay]

Jason doesn't give Alain long to sit and meditate on the nature of death. Despite the fact that most of Jason's Tributes are back and cluttering his schedule, as soon as he gets a notification that Alain's returned he clears up a slot and makes his way back to the Suites. He enters from the elevator, preceded as usual by his trademark puff of herbal vapor cigarettes.

Unlike when Alain last left, Jason looks as if something's off, some strange shadow clinging to the insides of his irises. He looks jumpy, unstable, and there's a mark on his lower lip where he's been biting it for the last few weeks. If he weren't wearing the usual Capitol makeup, dark circles would be showing under his eyes.

It's weakness, but he doesn't recognize it as he instead starts making coffee and tries to zero in on Alain's.

"Congratulations on getting killed by a little girl. That was impressive."

[atouchofka]

Alain sees that tiredness and instability, and were it anyone else, he might feel sympathy. But because it is Compson, who most of all the Capitolites he's learnt to loathe, and because of that targeted jab, he's as coldly empty of it as Roland at his worst. Tapping ash off his cigarette, he turns a page and continues to look down at the words without reading them.

He's silent for a long moment, closed-off and still-faced, and when he does speak around his cigarette, it's without looking up at his Escort. "I am not proud of it. But nor will I cry your pardon for my failings." Raising his head a little, he huffs a smoke ring up towards the ceiling, and closes his eyes. The Capitol cigarette tastes dry and flavourless as dust, but it's something to steady him. "I fought as best I could, I fell as all men must, and I died as fate willed. It's your people who chose to lessen that by returning me. If you seek to dig barbs into me over it, you may go on seeking; I am at peace with it."

That's a lie. He's hardly felt less at peace since that first panic at his arrival passed. But it's a lie he feels no twinge of conscience over, honest though he usually is. He's embarrassed, yes, and thoroughly unsettled by the whole thing, but he isn't weak enough to give Jason such an obvious purchase on his emotions. Better to push down that germ of anger, let it grow into something hard and strong as steel, something he can use when the time comes.

If he was another man, he might comment on Jason's own unstable appearance, riposte against the Capitolite's attack with one of his own. But he isn't, and to do so seems petty. No sense making a fight here, not if he can help it. Instead, he taps his cigarette against the empty mug's edge again, catching the ash, and looks back down at his book.

[whatisay]

"Jesus Christ." Jason jams his cigarette between his teeth so it doesn't move when he talks, giving him a certain lock-jawed grit to his voice. "See, you keep saying these things about how little you respect me, how you're not going to cry pardon or whatever it is, as if I give a damn about whether or not you like or respect me."

He leans against the counter and folds his arms, waiting as the coffee maker percolates, and glares at Alain's cigarette. "Put that out. Vapors only in here, I won't be having you costing the Tribute budget for repairs to the ceiling for cigarette ash."

Plus, Jason's allergic to the smell of traditional cigarettes, as he is to plenty of things that seem to wreak havoc on a bodily system that's too fragile for the way he treats it.

"I didn't realize you could read."

[atouchofka]

Alain takes another long drag of smoke, then, hiding his resentment remarkably well, stubs the cigarette out in the bottom of the cup. He may loathe Jason and all he stands for, but he's emotionally exhausted as it is; he isn't going to start a fight over something as trivial as a flavourless half-smoked cigarette. He doesn't even point out that it's smoke, not ash, that damages the ceilings, and that he can't imagine Jason's ridiculous flavoured cigarettes are all that much better for it.

Instead, holding the smoke in his mouth for several seconds before exhaling it slowly, he looks back down at his book. That book means a great deal to him, and not only because in his land - where paper is rare - such a thing is worth no small sum. Homilies and Meditations has travelled with him to Mejis, to the wastelands, to the foot of Jericho Hill. It was with him when he first killed a man, when he saw Gilead fall, and unless he misses his guess, it was with him when he died. His parents, who gave it to him; Bert and their ka-tel, who so often teased him for carrying it; Vannay, who taught him its meaning - all that is bound up in its tattered pages, and even if he couldn't read, it would be precious to him.

It's that thought which helps him keep his temper, which is no small feat, because Jason's offhand comment makes his hackles rise all over again. It isn't his own pride that's wounded - he's actually pretty used to being taken for a fool, and is confident enough in his self-contained way not to let it bother him much. What cuts is that casual disregard, once again, for the culture and the people who raised him - as if his parents would let their son go untaught, as if Vannay would fail in such a task.

"Where I am from," he says at last, his words slow and deliberate, "every gunslinger-in-training is taught from infancy. Reading and writing, arithmetic and astrology, history, geography, and philosophy, poetry and riddling... such things, we are taught, are every bit as important as how to fire a gun or fly a hawk or read a spoor. So, yes," he adds, a little bitterly despite himself, "I can read."

Getting to his feet, he closes the book and tucks it into the top pocket of his vest, then goes to dump the cigarette ash in the bin.

[whatisay]

"Congratulations?" Jason raises one hand in a dismissive shrug. "I'm sure they taught you to tie your shoes and play the harmonica, too, but that doesn't exactly impress me. I just said I was surprised you knew how, since I've had so many Tributes not know how to spell 'cat' in my years that as soon as they started being literate I had to start writing my notes in code."

Jason's developed a sort of shorthand for his notepad just so he can continue to not have to worry about his charges stealing it and using the unflattering things he's said about them against him.

"Alright, get up. Enough lounging around." Jason pours himself the coffee and dumps the rest out with no regard for the cost. If any Tribute wants it they'll have to make a pot of their own. "We're going over your new strategy, since getting anyone to like you on the Sponsor side was like trying to draw blood out of a stone. And then you're going down to the gym to practice hand to hand with a trainer."

[atouchofka]

Alain notes that, and files it away. Codes and riddles are his forte, after all. If he can find a way to Jason's notes - and he's sure, given time, that he can - might they hold some new information? He will have to think it over, perhaps discuss it with Roland if they can find the space and secrecy. He doubts Jason Compson, relatively low as he is in the tower's apparent management, will hold the key to its destruction, but it is as well to know as much of one's enemy as you can.

For now, though, he just shrugs and rinses out the cup he's been using as an ashtray. Anger is still burning low and hot at the back of his mind, but he damps it down. He's too guilty, too confused, and too bone-deep weary for that argument. "As you will." Turning, he leans against the counter, looking at Jason flatly. "You want to speak strategy, then speak. I'm listening."

[whatisay]

"Alright. You're not good-looking enough to be a heartthrob, you're not mysterious enough to be alluring, and you're not clever enough to be a real competitor." Jason sits down on the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table. "Not that that's all your fault, mind - you've got plenty of competition in at least two of those fields."

He takes a sip of coffee too fast and cringes as it burns his tongue. It'll be stinging and painful all day. Then he continues. "Trying to get Sponsor gifts for you was like trying to pull teeth out with chopsticks because no one was remembering who the hell you were. Half the people I talked to thought your name was John Alan. So what I say, we should focus on finding a way to make you stick in people's memory, and either you've got to do something big and surprising in the next Arena, start hitting the media circuit hard, or play on your relationships and make a love triangle narrative."