thecapitol | slaughtered moments and useless tales [CLOSED]

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slaughtered moments and useless tales [CLOSED]

Who| Éowyn and Jack; Éowyn and Roland
What| Jack comes to visit Éowyn; Roland has injuries and Éowyn has Healer training.
Where| Detainment Center
When| After the D7 mission
Warnings/Notes| TBD

[Jack]
Since her outburst after the District 12 fighting, Éowyn has been keeping her head down. It hasn't been easy or comfortable, and if she was only living for herself, she would never have made it this far. But they have the Ring. Perhaps more than one. That thought, dark and horrific though it is, keeps her going through days which seem to blur into one dull, too-bright morass. She isn't living for herself, not now. She's living for them. For all the people who will suffer and die if the Capitol can unlock the power of Sauron's Ring.

She still can't bear the idleness, though. She's been pacing in her cell non-stop when she's trapped there, muttering under her breath, mentally composing letters to her brother and her husband and even to Théoden. She talks occasionally to the other inmates, particularly Firo, but even then, she's restless, constantly moving. She braids and unbraids her hair probably twenty times a day, just for something to do.

She's surprised to hear she has a visitor. Surprised, and relieved for the break in routine. It's the first time since she came here that she's had any real contact from anyone but her fellow prisoners.

When she sees it's Jack, though, her jaw tenses visibly. "Finally deigned to see where they put your fellows, did you?" Her hostility is audible.

[Roland]
She hates the thought of the fighting. It's taking place, she knows, in civilian areas, and part of her almost thinks to ask them whether they'll let her go as a Healer. That, she would be willing to do, even for her captors. But they'd be mad to let her, and she refuses to grovel to them. Not for this. Not for anything.

So she waits, and paces, and hopes for the rebels to win a swift victory, without too much blood shed. And when the drafted fighters come back, she's there at once, as much from a hunger to know how it went as from any finer feeling. When she sees Roland is hurt, she makes a beeline for him. "How bad is it?"

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Jack's expression doesn't change much beyond a faint press to the corner of his mouth. He'd fully expected the vitriol in her voice, that harsh anger in her eyes. Expected and accepted the possibility of it, long before he'd decided to come out and see her.

"Aye." He answers simply, but doesn't remark further on it. He doesn't doubt his choice, not with the possibility of returning home, to the Pearl, hung so enticingly over his head. He'd rather not be involved in this mess at all, of course, but he'd decided his best bet would be to throw his lot in with the more likely and obvious winner.

Yet in some ways, the rest of this ordeal hasn't sat too well with him. For a man whose blood is more alcohol than not on most days -- it's usually hard to even tell when Jack has had more than his fair share of booze -- the scent of alcohol is noticeably thick on him today, even with the freshly pressed and clean clothes that he wears.

"But I've come to see how you fared, as well, luv."

"How I fare?" She's close to breaking, and it shows - in her paleness, in the dark shadows under her eyes, but most of all, in her eyes, which show a thinly brittle steadiness, the chaos underneath transparently obvious if you look with an eye to understanding. "Every day runs into the next. I am idle. I am useless. I am here. Does that not answer your question, without the trouble of coming here?"

Despite himself, and damn it all to hell now that he's looking her in the eye, seeing the ragged state the Capitol and its recent treachery has put her in, Jack is having a hard time keeping that usual steady, unruffled air about him. He's unable -- unwilling, more like -- to admit the notion out loud to anyone or himself, but he's more than a little concerned about her. And it pains him to see her brought down like this.

"Here, aye, and alive. I wanted to see it with me own eyes." Knowing how she is, knowing the vast contempt she has for the Capitol, he'd wondered if she would have even survived being detained. But perhaps he should've listened to his gut and stayed far away from here, saved himself the trouble, the inevitable confrontation about the choices he's made. Yet at the same time, some part of him always seemed to be a glutton for this type of punishment.

"I've only done what's best for me own survival, luv." He starts, by way of explanation, "Whether you hate me for it or not."

"I hate you for it," she cuts across him. "I pity you, and despise you for it, into the bargain. Have you nothing you hold dearer than survival, than waxing fat and gilding your cage's bars?"

She shouldn't be so blunt, and she knows it. She still needs to bide her time, to keep herself in a position to escape when the chance arises. She needs to lull them into a false sense of security or, at the very least, not anger them enough to make her situation worse. But right now, looking at him, her anger and upset and sense of betrayal is bubbling over, making it impossible to bridle her tongue. "I thought better of you, Jack. I thought there might be some honour in you, though it might lurk very deep. But I thank you for ridding me of that illusion."

A tightened smile flickers across his mouth at the last of what she says, a wholly unapologetic expression. "Aye, well. We all make mistakes once in awhile, don't we. Best to just learn from it." He doesn't pretend to even defend against the point or act affronted; honor has always been a fluid concept to him, flowing (most times) in whichever way would benefit him the most.

Jack inclines his chin some. "There ain't anything else of import, here, than surviving and finding me way home, luv. They've promised a way back, and I'll take my chances with it. Better than sitting around and rotting, hoping a bullet doesn't find its way into me."

Her lips press together tightly. She hates that he's so callous, so jaded, so... right. Without what she knows about the Rings, she doesn't feel the same holds true for her. But he doesn't know that, can't know it, and from his point of view... yes. Yes, she can see where he's coming from.

If she follows that train of thought, she's going to cry, and if she cries, she will forgive him. She tightens her jaw and hardens her heart, and when she speaks, her voice is clipped and cool.

"They have promised you? And you would place your trust in their promises? In them?" She shakes her head. "If you believe for one moment they will give up so valuable a bargaining chip as your freedom, you are a greater fool than I took you for."

Maybe if Jack had any sense of tact in a situation like this -- because, really, deep down, he knows she has every right to be furious with him -- he'd soften his words or tone. But his great sense of pride and ego has him balking at the idea that his decision is anything but the right one, and thus her coolness is met in equal with his own.

"I've no choice but to, that's been made clear as day these past few months. I'd rather gamble on the certainty of a way home, knowing what the Capitol is capable of in all their ways, more'n a group that'd poison us and scramble about shooting innocents in cold blood on TV just for the pleasure of it. The lot of them ain't any better than the Capitol, I'd say, and much less well equipped to win this." It was a matter of practicality, in his mind. Neither side had shown him anything worth fighting for, so he'd rather throw his lot in with the likely victor and hope, when the dust settled, that he'd make it out alive with what he wants.

"I do not doubt they have the ability to send you home," Éowyn says, her voice steady. "Nor that they would, if it served them best. But you are surely not fool enough to think that they will see it as their best course. Why, when they can hold it over you for evermore and bleed you dry of all that is valuable to them?" Her lip curls. "As for shooting innocents... have you so quickly forgotten the District children? Perhaps they did not shoot them, but the Capitol sentenced them to death no less surely. No, you delude yourself." She presses her lips tight enough to go white, shaking her head. She didn't mean to speak so boldly, but it's hard to bridle her tongue like this. "Go on deluding yourself, if it lets you sleep at night. But expect no help in it from me."

She draws herself to her full height, looking down imperiously at him. "We are done talking. Leave."

He regards her with impassive stare, unmoved. "I've not forgotten that, or the wrongness of what they've done to us. But I've no mind to place me trust, likewise, in a bunch of blundering, desperate fools that've shown themselves to be no better in nature." The Capitol was the monster that he understood; and the rebels, in turn, had done nothing to convince him their side had much value. It's simple enough to him -- either path has him fighting a battle that he'd rather have no part in.

At her dismissal, the pirate taps his temple with two fingers. "As you'd like, luv. Good fortune attend you, keep yourself safe in all this madness." And with that Jack turns, leaving.

"Hm?" Roland blinks at her and, after a moment, realizes she must be asking about the battle. One of his hands is pressed against his shirt, but the spots of blood soaked through the material hint at a wound that's a little too long for one hand to cover. His weapons have been taken from him - not that they were his, anyway. Alain has his. But that one hasn't been his in a very long time, has it?

"Oh, we did alright. Won a little, lost a little. That's the way of it, in wars. It wasn't so bad as you might be fearing. I did alright, too, didn't I? Yes, I think... I think whatever gods exist in this place might've smiled on me today." Roland closes his eyes, sees again behind them Alain, running away from him. Roland's posture sags as he forgets, for a moment, where he is. Or maybe he doesn't care. Roland isn't sure himself and he doesn't care much about that, either.

"Focus," Éowyn advises, her tone cool and brisk. "Move your hand. Let me see." She's perfectly aware, from how he holds himself and how distant he seems, that the worst injuries he's sustained aren't physical, but they're the ones she knows how to deal with. Feelings have never been her strongest suit.

Still, she feels deeply for him. Whatever happened out there, it clearly weighs heavily on him. She gets the impression, from what she's seen of him, that it must have been serious for him to show it this clearly.

He moves his hand. He doesn't look down because he knows what he'd see, if she lifts up his shirt to look. Not so bad it won't heal, or at least not so bad it can't, if it's treated well. Bad enough that he feels it every time he walks, or moves most anything. He's not unused to wounds like that, ones placed just so you feel them no matter what you do. It won't slow him down, if he needs it not to. It's been half-covered with a bandage, one of the Capitol ones whose edges stick to skin, except this one's edges are slicked with blood and starting to peel away.

Since there's been no question he doesn't speak. No reason to. What is there to say? He watches her face instead, feeling some mild curiosity about what emotion he'll find there.

For the most part, her face is unreadable, as she peels back the bandage and frowns at the cut underneath. She pats the bandage back into place after a moment and straightens up, wiping her hand on her thigh and leaving a red smear on her white uniform.

"Come on," she tells him, still in that brisk, sharp tone. "I can get needle and thread from the aid station, and patch this up. And you can tell me how you got it."

"A knife."

It does not occur to him to explain any further. The only thing going through his mind is the act of walking beside her, the image of Alain running away, the sight, distant, of Firo and the boy's bloody death. Roland watches her arm beside his, lifts his hand slowly to take hers, takes a breath that isn't entirely steady. He tightens his hand over hers, watching it with much more interest and much more caution than he'd shown for the slice in his side.

(ooc: if you need roland to give her more to react to at any point in this thread let me know, he's just not very responsive at the moment)

Éowyn is silent as she leads him over to fetch needle and thread, and a basin of water. After a moment's consideration, she nods towards the cells. "Which one's yours?" It might be impossible to get real privacy around here, but her instinct is to get at least the impression of privacy. When you stitch people up, they scream or faint or cry. She would hate to do that in front of people, and guesses the same is true of him. Even if the Capitol can see it, their fellow-inmates shouldn't have to.

He looks around and then makes his way toward his, and once he gets there he stands, looking to her. She probably doesn't want him to sit, not if she's going to take care of this wound. Might be hard for her to do when he's still holding onto her hand, but he doesn't mind that. She'll take it back when she wants the use of it.

"Firo was the last person to step in here," he says, because chances are fair that Firo may never step in here - or anywhere - again. "We agreed that, one day, we'd take a day and I'd tell him one of my world's stories. I don't know if he believed that any more than I did. Those things never go the way you plan, do they?"

Éowyn sets down the basin, pulls her hand free to start threading the needle. Then she processes what he's just said, that finality about it, and jabs her own finger with the point by mistake.

"Firo." Her voice is steady, but steady in that taut way which says she is very, very carefully making herself stay calm. "He went out with you to the District. Is he...?"

He looks over, and guilt pulls at his face. Forgot. Damn him, he'd forgot, and he shouldn't have. He does not apologize for it, although he would like to. That wouldn't make the news he's just thoughtlessly dropped at her feet any easier to bear.

"Aye," he says steadily, because plain honesty is the most she deserves, after that. "Aye, he is."

And Alain's gone, too, says a traitorous voice in his head, traitorous because Alain is alive, Roland got lucky and Alain is alive, and Alain is free. But the two facts, the two men who are gone to him and perhaps for good, seem equal tragedies, and he knows that for selfishness but can't bring himself to stop believing it. She didn't know Alain, anyway. Did she? Roland realizes he doesn't know, he doesn't know anyone Alain might have made some bond with here. There'd been a sick feeling in his stomach earlier, before the ride on the train back to the Capitol. He feels it now, again.

"My wound'll take care of itself. Or I'll take care of it. You need not be here for it, if you wish to go... go mourn." It's a word he wouldn't usually hesitate over. Mourn. But Roland, Eowyn, everyone in this place, they've done their fill of mourning, and more. It seems he's been mourning since he first arrived in this strange, rotted-out country. How could any of them still be capable of doing it?

Firo. Little brother. Grief tugs sharply at her heart, and she swallows hard. For a moment, she closes her eyes, thinning her lips. "Either he will come back," she says aloud, "or he has gone back where he belongs. I will not mourn for him." She isn't sure whether she's talking to Roland or to herself, but she wants to mean it. Wants to believe it.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she looks down at her needle and forces her hands to stay steady enough to thread it. That is how to handle it, she thinks. With work, and duty, and the reminder that she has a job still to do. Grief can come later, when she can afford to be blinded by it. For now, she has to stay sharp, and wait for her time.

"I will not mourn for him," she repeats, more firmly. "Take off your shirt, Roland. Let me get at it."

He takes off his shirt. The movement hurts and he doesn't try to hide that, because there's no reason to, but neither does he complain. He just holds the shirt in one hand and stands there, feeling the air moving over the slice in his side, and it occurs to him that she's the last. Isn't she? One of the last here who really matters.

There's Signless. Signless and Karkat and even the Psiionic, free far away somewhere with Alain in that rebel district. He can't forget that.

Susannah, she was free there, too. Before she disappeared. Died. Left. Whatever it is that happened to her. He's almost certain that he will never know.

Roland takes a slow breath. "How are you?" he asks, and it does not occur to him that the question sounds absurd, under the circumstances. This does not occur to him because he does not think of it as a meaningless pleasantry, and he's forgotten that it might sound that way. He asks because he wants to know. Needs to, maybe.

Edited 2016-01-16 20:04 (UTC)

"Still here." It's both a reassurance and a statement of despair. She's still here, and she'll go on being here no matter how black her depression or how many friends she loses. There's no alternative. Leaving is impossible; dying is cowardice.

She might say more, to the right person. Faramir could have coaxed more emotion from her; Firo would only have had to ask. But Roland... she owes him a lot, and means to repay it, but one thing she does not owe him is her feelings. He is a different kind of friend.

Ducking her head, she reaches for the bowl of water and a strip of bandage, and starts to clean out the cut. Her movements are gentle, even if her face is hard and set; she dabs firmly but not sharply, not hurrying. "I would they had not taken my herbs," she says aloud, as she wrings out the bloodstained cloth and goes back to work. "Comfrey and goldenseal, and willow for the pain. Speedwell, plantain... even rose or feverfew would serve better than water." Then, looking up at him, "You will tell me if it grows infected?"

It might be inflected as a question, but it's still pretty clearly an order.

Still here. It's what she shares, so it's what he'll take. It's enough. He knows, anyway, what she means, or thinks he does. He is here. He has always been here, kept moving on even after everyone who tried to tell him better was dead. Being here seems impossible, but less so than the alternative. Less, by a little. By enough.

"And what will you do if it does? What that I can't do myself?" He shakes his head. "I cry your pardon, Eowyn. You've been nothing but generous, and don't deserve a friend picking fights. I'd rather you tend this, at any rate, than them. Or myself."

"Wash it out again," she answers, raising one eyebrow. "Scrounge bread and salt, and make a poultice to draw the pus, and bind it in place without scouring at the stitches. See whether anything is caught in the wound, which I think you cannot from that angle. There is plenty that can be done for an infection, even without herbs, and it is easier done by someone else." Her voice is only a little tart, since he has just apologised, but she's not willing to let a challenge slide so easily. "And make you lie down and rest, for I know men like you. With a weeping, swelling gash, you would be up and trying to soldier through."

Of course, when she says she knows men like him, what she means is that she is like him in that regard. Which is, in itself, enough to make her cautious of it.

Ducking her head, she wrings out the cloth again and examines her work critically. "Are you going to need to bite down when I stitch?" she asks, putting one hand on her hip and looking up at him. "I can fetch a belt or something."

"I've seen the evils a bad infection can do," he says, and is surprised to find the words coming out warm, affectionate. That was a thorough answer she gave, wasn't it? An answer with some bite to it. Roland finds himself wondering, for a second, what kind of gunslinger she would have made. Then he shakes his head. "I'll be alright. Do your work as well as you can, with no worries about me. I'll be still."

Éowyn considers him for a moment, frowning, then nods and reaches for the needle and thread. "What was the battle like?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at the injury and making the first stitch. "It must be turning to the time for snow. Did it?"

Roland's jaw tenses, as much because of her words as her actions, and he takes a second before answering. "Mm. Made battle trickier. Not that it was battle - the peacekeepers stay with one another, and send the rest of us out on our own."

He remembers the other thing the snow'd done, too, the way blood showed up so bright over it, drawing the eye. His gaze goes distant for a moment, remembering, and he brings it back.

"Most of us had guns. Men hid in the buildings, and in the trees. One of them came down to meet me."

Why did he add that? Roland doesn't know. "I don't know who came out the victor, if that's what you want to know. Hard to say, knowing so little as I do. I'm sure we won."

Or so you'd hear, he thinks, closing his eyes, if you asked a peacekeeper about it. If they answered. We won. The glorious Capitol. All hail Panem.

"I'm sure we did." Her voice is blade-sharp, whetted with bitter irony. She isn't even sure which side he considers himself on, and she doesn't care to ask (in part because she's afraid of the answer). Pulling her second stitch tight, she knots it off and bites the thread, like she did with the first. "Did they have guns, as well? Are they better-armed, or worse?"

She knows she's asking a lot of questions, especially of someone so clearly tense about it. But after weeks in this place, she's hungry for any news of the outside world, any news not filtered through Peacekeepers and Capitolite news channels.

"Less body armor than the Peacekeepers. Just as much as us. Just as armed, seemed like. There's been a raid, at least one, and that may be where their weapons come from. One- A rebel told me he had my gun. My old gun. I had none when I came through. It must be Susannah's."

Susannah. Another name in the long list of those he's lost. A list he'd thought he was done with, hadn't he? Hadn't there been a moment when he'd thought- but no. He'd come here, and the list only keeps growing.

Susannah. Roland feels tears start to slide their way out from under his still closed eyelids, and does nothing to stop them.

"If you had any weapons on you when you left your world," he says, voice quieter and rougher by a little, "the rebels may well have those, too."

She shook her head, focusing intently on his stitches, mostly out of courtesy; she can do this easily enough without so much attention, but hating to have other people see her cry, she'll grant him the same clemency she'd like herself. "None of import. Only my knife and scissors, women's tools. I've never worn my sword at my hip day-to-day." Then, after a moment's thought, "Though I wish they'd left me my belt. There were herbs in my purse that I haven't been able to grow here, elanor and kingsfoil, and they might have helped in this."

Another couple of stitches, and she straightens up, looking critically at her work. "Move your arm," she tells him, still looking at the wound rather than at his face. "I want to see if they will hold."

Roland, on the other hand, has opened his eyes one he heard her stand and now watches her face quite closely. He's fairly sure she's avoiding looking at him, probably avoiding the sight of his tears, and a small part of him thinks to tell her that if there's shame in any part of this the shame'd be in denying those tears, denying what they mean. He's too heartsick, though, too weary. Let her pride keep her eyes turned away from him for now, although it picks at his patience, to be so deliberately unseen.

He won't make it easy for her, though. Roland stares at her face evenly and directly, and keeps staring as he moves his arm to one side, around, up - that last one comes more slowly and he doesn't lift it all the way, just holds it where it is. "How're they looking?"

"I'll put another in at the end," she decides, looking up at him briefly, her expression carefully neutral. "It might not be needed, but it does look to gape a little there, and better safe than sorry." Then, as she leans in to make good on her words, "You'll tell me if it bleeds through the bandages. A bit of blood is to be expected, but if it's bleeding enough to show, it will need restitching." Again, it's brisk and businesslike, pulling back into the persona of the Healer. Again, it's not a request but a command.

"Understood." He keeps still while she inspects him, still watching her. Then the formal tone drops out from his voice and when he speaks it's not to the healer, it's to Eowyn, the friend who hasn't really looked at him. "You may not need to grieve. But I do. And I'm afraid to do it alone."

He lets that settle a moment and then asks, just as evenly, "Will you stay?"

"Yes." She doesn't hesitate, although she doesn't meet his eyes either, leaning in to put in that final stitch. "I'll stay. More, I can't promise. For all my practice in grieving, I'm none too skilled at it."

"You don't need to be." Roland's silent a moment, feeling the stitch go in and watching the top of her head. His voice when he speaks next is not mild - it is not sharp, either, but it is getting there. "What you'll need is to bring yourself to watch me do it. A healer can sometimes get by never looking the injured in the face, if she tries, but I won't stand it from a friend. Being alone right now would be one thing. Grieving two men - maybe all of them - alongside a friend too ashamed of it to look me in the eye is another. Do you understand?"

Edited 2016-01-31 03:13 (UTC)

Éowyn looks up sharply, and frowns at him for a moment before ducking her head again to bite off the thread. "I am not ashamed of it," she says at last, straightening up and raking her hair back with one hand. "I would not wish to watch you grieve, if you did not wish it. I would wish the same for myself."

Roland nods, closing his eyes for a precious couple seconds while he runs a hand over his face. "I misjudged you. Different cultures, I expect. Eowyn, I cry your pardon, but I can't stand to not be seen just now. Enough who mattered are gone now and another who won't even look me in the eye, who's here but who isn't truly with me - I can't stand that. If I see you grieving I'll turn away if you really wish it, but if you stay with me, stay. Be here. Even if you don't like what you see. Even if you'd rather turn away. I wouldn't ask if I didn't need it."

Éowyn takes a deep breath, putting the needle and thread aside, and nods. "I should be a poor friend to deny it," she answers after a moment, and reaches for the bandages. "So long as you have need of me, I will stay. For now, raise your arm and let me dress this."

He raises his arm obediently, not allowing the slight pain and pull of the movement to show on his face. Pain is a tool, like anything else, and in this case it would tell neither of them anything they did not already know. He watches her face. He takes a slow breath, letting himself believe that she will be here. That, just for a little while, she will be here.

"Thank you," he says, and if he were any other man he might say it once more, for good measure. But he is not and, if he puts all the feeling and meaning into those words that sits inside of him, once will be plenty enough.

She only nods, and starts to bind the wound, moving quickly and neatly - bandaging is something she's had more practice at than most of the healing arts, being something they let relatively untrained Healers do. She doesn't speak as she works, but she no longer avoids his eyes, looking up every so often to check on his expression.

When she's strapped up his shoulder to her satisfaction, she ties the end off and nods. "I'll change it tomorrow," she decides aloud. "And the day after. It will bleed a little, still."

"I'd like that." He does not elaborate on just why. She knows. "Now come, Eowyn, if you're done all that to your satisfaction. Sit with me."

She doesn't let herself hesitate. Emotions may not be her strong suit, but she's said she'll stay, and she will. So she sets aside the remaining roll of bandage and, raking her hair back with one hand, sits down beside him. After a moment, if he likes, she'll take his hand.

It's been a long time since she sat so still for so long. It doesn't make her happy but, in a way, it's... almost a relief. Like letting go of a breath she's been holding too long. It's contact. She's never been good at initiating it, and she isn't even aware she was craving it, but to share time with someone - on their behalf, so she needn't feel like it's time wasted - is something that's been lacking.

She'll sit there with him until he falls asleep, or she does.

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slaughtered moments and useless tales [CLOSED]

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