thecapitol | [OPEN] The morning dove sings

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[OPEN] The morning dove sings

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.

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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."

(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?"

"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."

"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.

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?"

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."

Edited (typo again D:) 2015-07-07 17:16 (UTC)

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."

Edited (typos all around!) 2015-07-07 21:16 (UTC)

"What I said to you when I was dying..." He sighs. "Truth is, there's no reason to why they bring some back and why they don't. Whim, so far as I can tell. Politics, probably. The most you can do is try to keep things interesting and hope. I was a hypocrite to tell you otherwise, but I- I wanted to believe." Roland studies Alain a moment, and one corner of his lips quirks up. "And here you are."

Roland had wanted to believe Alain would be here, that he'd see his dear old friend again. And here he is. Even in the midst of all their dark talk, that much is still a gift. "Just look at Signless," he goes on, "a pacifist. And he outlived Cuthbert, who loved these things, in his way." Roland shakes his head, his other lighter expression gone again. "This isn't war. If you believe the Capitolites, it's what these people do to prevent one. There's no need to sacrifice your own morals, usually. You do what you judge necessary, gunslinger. It'll have to be enough."

"That said, if there's a part of these arenas you do need my help with, I'll gladly give it. Ought to be the duty of your district's mentor, but some of 'em have other concerns." He says it dryly because, though Roland is not really the most social soul in Panem, there is one mentor he does know quite well and he has heard stories.

"And none of them are my d..." He doesn't try to force the word dinh out any further than that, not once his tongue ties itself around the word. He trusts Roland to understand. Roland does get a little smile, though, small and sad, as Alain settles the cigarette back in his mouth and takes a long drag of smoke. "Thank... you, Ro'." There's still that guttural kind of stop where thankee becomes thank, but he's learning to roll with the limitations on his tongue. There are other words he would say, words that have set form, for thanking your dinh or stating acceptance, but he won't try to force them out.

Instead, he stands and smokes for a moment, squeezing Roland's shoulder briefly in thanks. He's quiet for a long time, thinking. There's much to think on here, even beyond the troubles that still plague him with being a dead man walking. What you judge necessary. And isn't that an exquisitely Roland way to put it? Not right, but necessary. And then there's Cuthbert, whose loss grieves Alain somehow more, not less, for being before his arrival, and about whose brief stay here he knows so little. He sighs, staring out over the city, and dwells on those thoughts a while in silence.

When he does speak again, it's with a little lopsided smile, his light tone making it clear that he's done with that heavy topic - for the moment, at least. "These smokes are shit. Might as well smoke dust for all the taste it has."

Roland snorts, corners of his lips drifting up a little. "There're other tastes, if you like a little fruit with your smoke. Or chocolate." Why? Because Panem, where the only question ever asked is 'why not'. And often not even that. "Found a place that sells it loose though, rolling papers too. Real paper. I'll show you some time."

The pattern of Alain's speech, though, did catch his attention and he continues on from there without waiting for a reply. "Is that what your machine does to your High Speech? Only stops your tongue? Mine makes me sound like a stuttering idiot, even in the simpler words like tha- th-th-than- thank you." He grimaces and shrugs a shoulder. "'s odd, having only the vulgate to speak in. And not even all of that. Some of the terms my own tongue's replaced with I've never heard in my life."

"Having my tongue stopped is bad enough," Alain says gravely, his broad forehead creasing into a frown. "What it's done to you sounds far worse. I'm only glad I didn't get the same." Then, with a little smile, "As for the smoke, I know it well. You'll know of my Escort, I'd guess? Jason Compson? The whole floor stinks of the herbal mess he smokes." He smiles a little, apparently light, but there's a hardness behind his eyes that's unusual for someone so mild. He hasn't come close to forgiving Jason for all that happened back when he arrived.

Roland eyes that expression a moment. Even after their time together in the arena, Roland knows he can not read Alain as he'd used to. (And even then, he'd never been able to read him so well as Bert. That thought has nothing to offer Roland in the here and now, though, so he dismisses it.) There might be an expression on Alain's face there. Might be. "I don't know many of the Capitolites here. Cort would have me know every one of them, probably."

He thinks on that a second, shrugs. Cort would have him treat this as a mission, he's pretty sure. Another battle waiting to be fought. And in one way, it is. But if it is a mission, being here, it's never felt like his. This lack of attention, not knowing any of the important players in the Capitol's game, would not be something the Roland living in Mid-World would tolerate.

The Roland living in the Capitol does not care to think on it. So he doesn't. "But I ought to at least know the ones living close to you," he says, refocusing. "Tell me about your Jason the Escort."

"Cort would have us know every stone in this city and every weapon in the training room," Alain says quietly. "Cort would have us know every Avox and Tribute, if he could. Whether we fought for this place or against it. But Cort isn't here." Nor would he survive it, he thinks grimly. Cort was a sharp man, and a subtle one at times, but it would be the wrong kind of subtlety for this place. In a way, that makes him glad that Cort isn't here, though he misses his old teacher's guidance. To see him die again, or worse, would break both their hearts.

It's an uncomfortable subject. But it does draw things away from Jason for the moment. Alain falls silent, staring out at the city and smoking thoughtfully as he considers how to explain his feelings about Jason without sounding too traitorous to listening ears. At last, still looking at the flashing billboard on one of the high-rise buildings, he says thoughtfully, "As for Jason, he reminds me of an old friend of ours. Jonas."

Partly, he says that as the easiest way to get across to Roland how deep his loathing is without saying it straight. But also, he's realising more and more how true that is. Jason has that same self-pitying sense of injustice, the same sudden fierce rage and the same blindness that comes along with it, the same disdain and carelessness over people. Attuned as he always was to ka, Alain can't help wondering if it's a coincidence that even their names are similar: Jonas and Jason, barely a breath from one another.

Is Jason Compson as dangerous as Eldred Jonas? Alain isn't sure of that, but he's unwilling to underestimate a man like that. He's never felt Jason's mind, but he knows what he'd find if he did; that tight directionless anger that feels like sticking your hand into a hornet's nest. Alain is honest enough with himself to admit that Jason's dangerous attitude isn't why he hates him so much (look rather to his introduction to the man), but it's undeniable nonetheless. Jason is a ticking grenade, and one day, all that anger and self-pity will destroy not only him, but the rest of them forced into his presence.

"Oh?" Roland raises his eyebrows, spends a second considering this. Nods. "I'll keep it in mind." What that says to Roland, mostly, is that Jason is an enemy. A dangerous one. In a place where anyone with a mind to run to a peace-keeper with an accusation could cause serious trouble for any offworlder, anyone here is potentially dangerous, but Roland trusts Alain's judgement and notes this one in particular.

Roland takes another pull from the cigarette, then puts it out and flicks it in the same direction their filters had gone. Capitolites won't like that, litter in front of their tower. He wonders briefly how far the responsibilities of the avoxes go, whether one of them will be send out to clean it. Probably.

"Is our palaver done? I'd stay with you a while, Alain, but I'd like to get all these other matters out of the way first."

There's another of those long silences, long enough that Alain's cigarette is burnt down almost to his fingers when he stubs it out and says quietly, "I don't know. There's pieces I'm missing. I'd know more about Bert's sojourn here, and about... there are other things." He flicks the cigarette butt after Roland's, closing his eyes. "Done for now, I think, if you'd have it so. There's much I need to know, but I'm not so sure there's enough of me to know it right now."

Looking back over at Roland, he manages a little smile. He's tired as he's rarely been, bone-weary in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. That nagging absence of the Touch is itching at the inside of his skull, making him feel like a man among ghosts, and the smoke's done nothing to take the edge off his nervous tension (though seeing Roland has helped, a little). There's only so much heavy conversation he can take, at a time like this.

"Shall we go back in?"

Roland makes a wordless noise of agreement, but studies Alain a moment before actually straightening up. Alain looks tired. Roland's own first arena hadn't felt like it'd taken much of a toll on him, and he does not think for very long on whether that is the case for Alain now. But Panem in general - that can take a toll, he knows. A heavy one. He does straighten then, and sets a hand on Alain's back as he walks inside. "Aye, let's go in. I'll make you some tea."

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[OPEN] The morning dove sings

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alain wants the d

...i hate you

well if that's the thanks I get for pointing out the truth

YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH

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