thecapitol | mostly open

Entry tags:

mostly open

Who| Roland Deschain and the Signless; Roland and you
What| nothing big, just roland waking up
Where| central commons, district twelve, district four
When| week five, a little bit after Roland's death
Warnings/Notes| no warnings that I know of. I hope the way I did the prompts is clear, but if not just have your character meet Roland anywhere.

The room Roland wakes up in is well familiar by now. The worry he wakes up in, though, that's new, and for a moment it shoves the more normal questions of where and when and what into the back of his mind. He wakes with Alain's name on his lips, already half-sitting up and looking around - but no. Alain isn't here, is he. That wolf is dead. Killed before it could do Alain any damage. This does not mean that Alain is safe.

He lets himself fall back, runs a hand over his jaw and stares at the ceiling. But there is nothing he can do for Alain, not anymore. His old friend will be interesting enough to bring back after this arena, or he won't. Roland steels himself to this, to the waiting, and then sits up, breathes. Heads out.

The lobby of this building is as busy as it usually is, newsmen and hangers-on and sponsors, people in all manner of outfit with all manner of things to say. It's strange after the isolation of the arena, life and movement all of a sudden everywhere, and for a moment Roland simply stands near the center of the room, not caring whose way he's standing in. (A)

After that he makes his way to the bar, spends some time leaning on the counter even after he's gotten his coffee. Just looks around, less focused on whether he accidentally makes eye contact with anyone (though that ought to be a real concern on this particular level of the tribute tower) and more concerned with stirring in a good amount of sugar. More than he'd usually use but, though his body is refreshed, Roland's mind is still certain it's spent the last few weeks sleeping badly, and it isn't as if this place doesn't have the sugar to spare. Witness Roland Deschain, indulging himself. (B)

Once he's got a better feel for this place he heads up. All the way up, almost, and doesn't bother to explain himself to any residents of district twelve who may see him wandering around there. He peers into the common room, the kitchen, then heads to the mentor suites and opens one of its doors with nothing more than a brief, brisk knock. This particular room is one he's been in many times, and the way in which the Signless has it decorated is intimately familiar. The most familiar part of that room, though, is missing, and Roland still does not bother to explain himself as he heads back out of it. Surely anyone living on this floor will be familiar enough with the sight of him. (C)

Finally, to the level for tributes of district four. Given all the floors are arranged the same and the avoxes quickly clean any identifying clutter, there's little reason for the familiarity that greets him here. But the fish in their little bowls all around the common room are familiar, the view outside is familiar. He spends a moment in just standing there and then snorts to himself, more focused on his thoughts on that familiarity than on explaining to anyone who may be around to hear. (D)

(closed to Signless):
The tea sitting in the kitchen cupboards too, thankfully, is familiar. There's more coffee up here, but he's made tea so often in this room that that is where his hands first head, and he lets them. That is, until the metal teapot slips out of a loose grip, bounces off the counter, and clatters onto the floor.

"Shit," he says, and the frustration in his voice is not at the noise nor at the spill, although he does watch the water spread for a second, lifting up his right hand and running his fingers under the small metal box sitting where his lack of fingers used to be. The skin there is red and inflamed, and the hand's two mechanical fingers don't curl as the other ones do, instead sticking out from the metal all still and stiff.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Roland grunts something vaguely affirmative, watching Signless pick the pot up. "Feels like new." With what Wyatt had told Roland all that time ago, Roland knows the Capitol has a way of producing new bodies when the old ones die. It makes sense that those mechanical fingers, then, would be new as well, their connections fresh and unpracticed. He just hadn't thought of it. Hadn't realized how used to them he'd gotten, expecting them to simply be there and work properly, until they no longer do.

He isn't thinking of that, not really. Doesn't want to think on it, and there's a much more pleasant thought right here in front of him anyway. If anyone'd told him he'd been in the arena not even five weeks he wouldn't disbelieve, but it felt like longer than that. Long enough to be getting on with, anyway.

Once Signless is done with the teapot Roland steps closer, neatly avoiding the puddle of water, to slide a hand into the hair at the side of Signless' head and bend down, fully expecting no obstacles to the kiss he's intending to plant onto those black lips.

There aren't any whatsoever. For someone used to kissing far more regularly, five weeks without is a long time. He shifts up onto his toes and meets Roland halfway, resting his hands on Roland's chest because there's not really anywhere else for them to go unless he lets them hang awkwardly at his sides. It's nothing so mindblowing as books and movies would have one believe but it's warm and intimate and nice. It's something purely sweet and comforting after weeks of watching his friends and his tributes suffer and die, weeks that have been marked by ups and downs on both sides of the arena wall.

"Missed you too. I didn't leave you waiting long, I hope?"

Roland shakes his head, straightening. Not since the age of fourteen has Roland expected the actions of one lover to another to be mindblowing, a shock like to change a person's entire life, and he does not give a thought to the idea now. The corners of his lips are curled up, though, and his expression is warm. This arena had not been nearly so isolated as some others because Alain is, if not a talkative companion, certainly a steady and welcoming one, but there are some kinds of welcome which Alain has never given Roland. No matter what some of Panem's more passionate authors may think.

"Only arrived today," he says, and runs a fond thumb over the side of Signless' face. His thumb, at least, still works as it ought, and though that hand's first two fingers hold themselves stiff and away from the side of Signless' head the rest of Roland's hand is happy to stay there, keeping him close. "And you? Must've been waiting here. Nothing too urgent, I take it."

"Nothing urgent, no. I just didn't want to leave you alone for long." There's an unspoken I didn't want to be without you there, if one squints hard enough at the spaces between the words. Given the choice to be with Roland or be alone, he knows which he prefers. Unconsciously he lets himself lean into that hand, reaching up to cover it with his own.

"I had some things I wanted to talk about-- just some leftover worries. I thought having someone else to listen and stop me from thinking in circles might help."

Roland watches him closely a moment, matching Signless' expression and body language against his words. It's something important, he thinks. Important enough. Something happened here while he was gone, and finding out whatever context Signless is thinking of now will have to wait until he's settled down to speak on it.

Roland easily quiets his curiosity, makes a noise of agreement, and draws back, lifting his left hand to briefly squeeze Signless' shoulder as he pulls away his right. "Let me clean this up first-" But, on looking around, he stops. In a kitchen where avoxes are expected to attend to every resident's every little need, no one thinks to stock cleaning supplies. Not so much as a rag.

Roland sighs.

"There'll be a towel in the washroom. Come, you can talk while I get it. Ah- unless this is one of the times when you'd use one of your piles." He stops in the kitchen's doorway, looking over his shoulder. Foreign custom - even one he does not quite understand on the same, instinctive level that a troll would - is important, and Roland can wait to hear what Signless has to say until they've completed it.

Edited (forgot a word) 2015-07-14 16:13 (UTC)

He was expecting just to sit somewhere -- probably in Roland's room -- and talk over tea. A pile hadn't even occurred to him and yet now that the idea's been presented he's realizing exactly how much he needs one. There's something comforting about it that nothing else can really replicate.

"It is. It's not necessary," he adds, in case Roland needs an out. He knows some troll customs are still strange to him. If Roland is going to spend more time trying to puzzle out how to pile properly than he'll spend actually discussing things it might not be the best idea. "But it would help. I haven't had a pile since..."

Since the makeshift pile the Psiioniic made out of half of Roland's closet and that, in his opinion, is far too long -- and that wasn't even a proper pile.

The silence stretches for a second and Roland lets it, then crosses back again to Signless and puts a hand on his back. "Then go on and start it. I'll be there in a minute." He tilts his head toward the doorway, as if Signless needed any more instruction, and then goes in search of a towel.

Then he stands in the kitchen doorway again, taking in the clean, dry floor and the teapot and tea leaves, now back on their proper places in the cabinet. If Panem trains their military anywhere near so well as they train their servants, it's no wonder they won their war.

Nevermind. He slips into his room, closes the door behind him, and holds the large, fluffy towel out for inspection. "Didn't need it."

There's no need to walk on eggshells with Signless and mention avoxes not at all, no matter that the Initiate is still near somewhere and that Signless still grieves. But there's no reason to mention them more often than he needs to, either. "How's that coming along? Need more of those clothes to thicken it a bit?" He may be looking over Signless' shoulder and studying the budding pile as if he'd like to strip it down to its component parts, figure out how it works, but he is going to let Signless take the lead on making it. This time, at least, he's capable of doing so, and the Signless knows what kind of setup he wants.

So far his setup consists mostly of all of the sheets off Roland's bed, which is now stripped down to just a bare mattress. He takes the towel and adds it into the pile, which is now starting to resemble a circular nest: high walls, a comfortable dip in the middle large enough for two. For three, really, because he's used to building a pile large enough to fit the Initiate and wants to be sure that this one will fit Roland's long legs.

"It's coming along well, I think. If you could get me any of your clothes that don't have too many sequins or buttons on them, I'll add them in and then it should be ready."

Roland obligingly flips through the things hanging in his closet, taking a few from their hangers with probably less care than the stylists who created them would like and handing them over. Then he returns to his place by Signless' shoulder and hunkers beside him, settling one hand against the back of Signless' neck. "Will you want some of this over you?" he asks, looking at the obvious seat in the pile's middle and thinking on the last of these he'd seen. That had clearly been an emergency, hurried, and he's interested to see the way it's set up now in circumstances a little more regular.

"Oh, no," he says, adding the shirts in with the same fussy delicacy of a mother bird arranging her nest. With the shape the pile is taking it's fairly apt. "That was an emergency -- piles are meant to be reclined in, but you couldn't have moved me then."

He's guessed -- correctly -- that so far Roland's only experience with piles has been the hastily-made one the Psiioniic threw together after his breakdown. It served its purpose well-enough but it was hardly exemplary of what a pile could or should be. This will be a chance to show him how piles usually go.

"Here. Climb in." He settles himself back in the dip in the center, leaving enough room next to him that Roland will (hopefully) be able to arrange his leggy self comfortably.

Roland makes a fair attempt to do so. The question of what to do with his legs does take him a moment, because they're sitting far too close for him to cross them and, after a brief try at curling them to one side, he decides just to keep them bent, knees up in front of him. And then he's settled. Well, there is a second when he wonders, given what he's sitting on, whether he should have taken off his shoes. Nevermind.

And another moment when he does the natural thing and curls his arm around Signless' shoulders, relaxing just a little more at the feeling of their sides pressed together. And yet - still not settled. He realizes his right arm, out of habit, has hung awkwardly down this whole time, still and unmoving. Not a habit he wants to keep. Nor one he needs to, for that matter, and Roland reminds himself of this by rolling his shoulder, feeling himself make an automatic grimace at the pain his body expects there, and placing the unused hand carefully in his lap.

Right. Now he can turn to Signless, ready, and he does, marveling at the sight of him, and so close. "Now," he says, and lets go of the shoulder under his hand to slide the backs of his fingers down over Signless' face. "What troubles thee? I'd hear, if the two of us are settled well enough for your piling."

First a moment is spent, eyes closed, just appreciating the gentle brush of those fingers on his cheek. It's not quite a pap but it's the same kind of gesture and it calms him in much the same way. For all Roland claims to not understand a lot of troll customs he's remarkably good at participating in them, particularly when he's not really trying.

Moment taken, Signless opens his eyes again.

"It's nothing recent, just Celebrus re-opening old wounds. You know I have a vow against killing. I broke that vow once, here." He knows by now that Roland isn't going to prompt him for details. In a way that's comforting because it means he won't have to rehash the whole sorry mess for a third time.

"I've done things that I'm not proud of, but I've always tried to act according to my own ideals. I killed as an act of mercy but it was still murder, and no matter how much I try to rationalize it as compassionate I'll always worry that it really only makes me a hypocrite. Who am I to talk about nonviolence with blood on my hands?"

Roland studies the look of him - the look of him with his eyes closed, silent, and the look of him once he gathers himself to speak. And what happens when he does is, in its way, not too far from one of the duties he'd had in that other life, the one before Panem which feels so oddly distant to him now. When men who'd sworn their lives to him would put those lives in his hands and swear again, this time to follow both the spirit and the letter of his advice.

The man who sits with him now in this intimate little cocoon is a lover and a friend, rather than a bondsman, and will be well within his rights to completely ignore any advice should Roland decide to give it. But there's an echo of that same responsibility here, the same placement of Signless' self into Roland's hands, waiting for his judgement. So he considers Signless' words with the care they deserve. He still feels their long separation keenly, though, and keeps his arm around Signless tight, his knuckles moving idly up and down the line of Signless' jaw.

"You spoke of your vow when first we met," he begins, slowly. "But even then, I assumed. I think a friend of mine had a saying once about doing that." He gives his head a quick shake, shaking back confused near-memories of a man a little like Cuthbert, and not very like him at all. This isn't the time for that. Roland closes his eyes for half a second, takes a breath. "Anyway, suppose I assumed you'd killed already partly because of that vow. Only a fool or a madman would make such a vow - them, or a man who knew well just what it was that murder meant."

He lets that sit for another half second, then looks into Signless' eyes again. "I'd never take that road myself. Couldn't, maybe, even if I wanted to. But I can't see how having broken your vow once, some long while ago, makes you a hypocrite. If anything, it makes you the opposite."

Logical arguments are things Signless can follow. He spent most of his life debating morality and philosophy with people who thought very little of both. He's used to being one or two steps ahead of the people he's talking to, or at least he's used to keeping pace. That, though...

"I don't follow. You can't strengthen a vow by breaking it."

Much as he likes to advocate for the shades of gray in all situations, he holds himself to a much more black and white standard. It's never occurred to him that expecting so much more of himself than he does of anyone else might be the true hypocrisy, and it probably never will. He's already revised his expectations of himself since he came to Panem, shrunk the list of people he is obligated to protect, given himself permission to not care about those he can't. Those are little things, necessary for survival and easy to justify. Completely different from taking a life.

"And you don't need to kill to understand what murder means. I learned that well enough just watching other trolls go about their business."

"Maybe not," Roland says, after a moment of thought. "Not to know what it means from the outside, what it means to be effected by it. But knowing it from the inside - that's a very different thing, Signless. One you may never know, in some ways. But in some ways you do, and though that knowledge is painful, all it can do now is make you stronger in your quest. In your vow. See-" Roland looks around, looks down, manages to lean and reach far enough around Signless that he does not have to move his arm too far from him and soon has a long thin piece of fabric which used to be a decorative addition to one of his old outfits. Now it is a demonstration. He pulls at it, trying to snap the thing it down its middle. It does this easily, and he spares a moment for a derisive noise at the nonsense these people call clothes. The knotting he tries with its two pieces afterward, that part's a little less easy.

"Tie this," Roland says, after giving up on the two useless logs of metal masquerading as his fingers with a huff of frustration. At himself, as well as them. Could have done that easily even before having the things put on, but he's become too used to them now. "Then pull on either end, try to snap this in two as I just did. Do you see?"

Edited 2015-08-17 21:03 (UTC)

Roland gets a long look, but Signless takes the two strips of fabric and ties them together as instructed. Lo and behold, the knot holds up against his attempts to break it. He gives up after a few good tugs, flopping his head back into the softness of the pile and closing his eyes.

"Alright," he says, and there's a note of frustration in his voice that he feels a little bit bad about. "I see the point you're trying to make. I've tried to convince myself of the same thing ever since I decided it wasn't worth letting that one slip ruin me. Logically I understand it. It's done, I've repaired the harm caused to the best of my ability, there are ways to justify what I did. But that break is still there, do you understand, and it feels like no matter how I justify it and no matter how I try to atone it will never be enough."

He's less frustrated at Roland and more at the thing in general. This is something he wanted to think he'd put behind him, neatly boxed up with everything else he can't afford to be hurt by. He opens his eyes again and turns his head to look at Roland, his expression pained.

"I wish I could find some way to be rid of it for good, but it eats away at me whenever I think of it. It makes me hate myself, makes me question my right to believe the things I say I believe, and without that philosophical compass to guide me I have nothing. I've gotten better at telling myself to stop thinking about it, but ignoring it and just hoping that saying it's okay will make it so isn't a real solution. All the things I do are only temporary fixes; the root problem is still there, no matter how I try to minimize it."

None of this is coming out like he wants it to. Usually his words are so clear and measured, and he at least feels as though he's getting across the idea he wants to convey. Now, he's at a loss. How can he get across that this thing he's spent the last year effectively coping with still makes his chest ache every time he thinks about it? How can he explain that no matter how many times he tells himself one violation of his philosophy doesn't make it any less sound, no matter how many times he tells himself he did what he did only out of a desire to help -- how can he explain that those things are so easy to doubt when the magazines and the news and his own heart are whispering murderer, murderer, murderer?

"There's some key to this I'm missing that will make what I did okay and I can't for the life of me find it despite being told it's right under my nose."

Edited (smol typo) 2015-08-22 07:35 (UTC)

Roland's thinking, even before Signless is finished. He watches Signless' face, then looks down at his knees, gaze distant. That last clearly catches his attention, though; he looks up, studies Signless, then goes back to thinking again. His hand cups Signless' shoulder, his thumb rubs back and forth over Signless' shirt. Even once Roland has some idea what he means to say there's more to think on - if this comes out badly, it could do a great deal of damage.

"Who told you that?" His voice is low, more musing than actually asking. "Was it me?" Is that what Signless got from what he'd said?

When Roland continues, it's in that same musing tone. "Death is a hard thing, always. A sorry thing. I don't know who it is you killed, who they were to you, but if you did it for mercy - killing someone you never defended yourself from, or shouldn't have, that's even harder."

"What are your beliefs? No need to tell me, but think on them. Think on them, and tell me: If I decided to take your vow as mine, started speaking those beliefs to any who would listen- I've killed a great many, Signless. Many of them never had a chance. Some of them trusted me." Roland stares down at his knees, takes a breath, looks back up. "No matter how sorry I am, no matter my reasons, those people are dead. Things are different in the arenas, but there was still the chance your mercy killing would be final. You did what you did, Signless."

Roland tilts his head back, looks up at the ceiling and continues idly, thoughtlessly copying the tone and look of his tutor, Vannay, giving one of his old thought-exercizes. "With your beliefs still in your mind, tell me: How true are they, if I decide to speak them? If I convince others to take the same vow, and they go out and act on it? Even if all those I've ever killed appear in this city tomorrow, I did what I did. That isn't going to change. Are your beliefs real if I speak them, or would your vow be tainted, coming from my mouth? Would all the acts I'd perform in its name be wicked, because they've come from hands which've done what mine have done?"

"I don't ask for an answer to those questions now, Signless. But if you have your own questions, ask them. This is one matter I'd like to be certain I've spoken on clearly."

"It isn't... it isn't the same," he murmurs, running a hand through his hair and setting some of his curls askew. Either he doesn't notice or he doesn't care.

"If you took my beliefs as your own now it wouldn't matter what you'd done before, only what you did moving forward. Of course they would still be just as true if you spoke them, so long as your actions reflected your words."

He closes his eyes, scrubs at his face with one hand. He's trying to head off the tears he feels might be coming, but they're hard to deny. It's not just this conversation itself that has him ready to cry: he's felt so wrung-out lately, under so much scrutiny and stress from friends and government both, and he can't talk about any of it.

Roland sighs, watches him. "And if I'd done it after? Taken your vow, killed Felicity in that arena for love of you, tricked you into helping as I did? Nevermind." He puts his palm to the line of Signless' jaw, cupping it with that hand's warmer, more functional pair of fingers and trying to pull Signless' face to look toward his.

It's an expressive face, that. More than expressive enough to show Roland the general course the Signless' thoughts are taking. "Is it pride that has you trying to hide your tears from me? Or something else? Leave it, whatever it is. There's no need for it here. Here, of all places." Here in this pile. Here next to Roland, in his arms. Both.

"Weep, Signless," Roland says, and runs his thumb over the one of the bags that sit permanently beneath Signless' eyes. "Weep, if you would. We'll think on the rest after."

Edited 2015-08-29 07:46 (UTC)

Whatever was holding those tears back falls away. It's such a relief to let them fall, and it lifts a weight from his heart he'd grown too used to carrying to realize it was there in the first place. By the time the tears stop and he falls still and quiet, all the nervous frustration is gone from him, replaced by a tired sort of calm.

"I needed that, I think," he says, and his voice is like one long sigh.

"I think so too," Roland says, and rubs his hand up Signless' arm to his shoulder, down again to his wrist. "I also think we've some talking left to do, starting with just why you've been trying to find a way to erase what you did. But we needen't rush to it. Take a moment, if you still need one. We've got a few to spare."

Roland takes a breath and stretches his shoulders, taking stock of himself. It's true that his body is once again sure that it's spent the last few weeks in the arena barely sleeping, even if strictly speaking Roland knows that is not quite the case. Not for this body. The coffee he'd stopped for after waking, though, filled to the brim with sugar and large enough to last him through his whole conversation with Harley, seems to be doing its job and he decides that he does in fact have a good number of moments to spare. Good thing, too. This isn't the kind of conversation that Roland would ever allow himself to rush through.

Edited 2015-08-29 22:27 (UTC)

He will take that moment, thank you. He uses it to get the last of the shakiness out of his breath, to wipe the lingering red tears from his cheeks and eyelashes.

"I don't want to erase it," he says finally. "I want it there as a reminder of mistakes I should never allow myself to make again. I just want to be at peace with it. I want to be able to put it to rest."

"And to do that?" Roland leans back a little, feeling the soft wall of the pile shift behind him, and stares toward the ceiling. His gaze is absent, focusing less on what he's seeing and more on the memories of the conversation so far, trying to find his way near the heart of the problem. "Let's see. Signless, you've said being a murderer makes you believe yourself a hypocrite. I've spoken on that about as well as I can think to and your opinion hasn't changed. You've said you're searching for some way to make the killing okay - that no one can give you, because it doesn't exist."

"As I see it," he continues in a tone just as casual and matter-of-fact as the tone of the rest, still staring absently upward, "the problem is that you can't accept what you've done. Doing so would be to accept that you can no longer believe the way you do, for a man who's done the one can never again do the other. Have I got it right so far?"

He nods. "That's it. That's exactly it. I can't have both at once, but if I can't have that then I can't have peace."

He wishes this were easier, that all it would take would be some obvious words from someone else to illuminate whatever he's missing. But Roland is right: those words don't exist, and what is he supposed to do then? Spend his entire life with that regret in the back of his mind making him doubt himself? Fundamentally alter his entire worldview beyond recognition to account for it?

"Why can't you?" His tone here is not a challenge. Without context it'd sound like an idle question, inconsequential. Only curious. "Your philosophy - which I haven't heard in full, I grant you - accounts for change, doesn't it? That seems the whole purpose of it. Not the change of a man's essential nature but a change in which parts of it he cultivates. Your philosophy isn't a fine piece of glass, lost forever the moment it breaks. It can't be, or it never would have gained such a following in your own world. I'd be very surprised if more than a couple of its followers never broke that vow after taking it, especially given what you've told me of the lives many of those followers led. Can you think what might've been if they'd had as little regard for that philosophy as you do? But I doubt you think of it in that way. Perhaps you've forgotten just how violent change can be, even when its goal is peace. Maybe especially then."

"Signless, a gardner does not cultivate his garden, walk away from it, then declare it ruined beyond repair the moment he sees a weed. He does not love his work because he expects it to be finished. It seems to me you've forgotten that, see your vow only as a set of rules which must always be followed. I might call that disrespectful, I might call it arrogant - but what do I know? Any others who've failed that vow but repaired it, lived that philosophy and died in it, what do they know either? Certainly not so much as the one who taught it to them. Perhaps all of us've got the nature of your philosophy all wrong. I'm sure you know it best."

Roland arm, as he speaks, loosens a little from around Signless' shoulders. It's still there, but he's ready to let go should he need to. One doesn't say the things he just did without being prepared for some sort of reaction.

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