Roland Deschain (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ka_sera_sera) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2016-01-16 03:52 pm
ka_sera_sera) wrote in thecapitol2016-01-16 03:52 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Who| Roland and the Signless
What| a reunion
Where| the Detainment Center in the Capitol
When| backdated to a few days after Signless died in the District 1 battle
Warnings/Notes| none
He keeps thinking of Firo. Thinking of the boy without thinking of him, his mind landing on the thought and flitting away from it. He remembers the sight of the boy torn apart, remembers seeing him in the halls of this building not so long after. He hadn't thought any of the offworlders would be brought back from war, wasn't sure whether the fools running this Capitol cared about their value as symbols to the people enough to try and keep them living, not now that the elaborate, idiotic plays that were the arenas are done with. Apparently they're worth something to those fools. Some of them, anyway. Gods know what.
Roland feels himself balancing on the edge of something, and doesn't like to think on what it might be. He doesn't like to think on the detachment he feels when he wonders if he's waiting, when he wonders just how much the life of an enemy footsoldier might be worth.
He'd rather think, instead, on the tools in his hand. Tools, at least, because he can't quite call them anything else. Brittle, breakable, dull on every side and much shorter than they ought to be, they're miles away from what he needs and all he is allowed if he wants to fix his hand.
It'd happened in that battle. He doesn't know when. He should, but he doesn't. It's taken this long to convince the peacekeepers to give him even this much. He tries one, two, three times to fit this stupid dull thing into the very tiny notch on the end of a very tiny screw and it should be no trouble, not for him. He leans forward, starting very carefully to turn the damned tool, turn the screw...
His necklace slips out from his shirt, knocks into the tool, and nudges it out of the very tiny slot of the very tiny screw.
"Damn it!" his hand is, at least, working well enough that when he moves to sweep the rest of the little tools, and the few parts of these fingers he's managed to disassemble, off the table, they go. They make a dull, small, and utterly unsatisfying sound as they hit the floor, and he holds a palm up in the direction of the peacekeeper just now passing near the open wall of his cell.
"It's alright. I only made a mistake. I cry your pardon. Shouldn't have raised my voice." He keeps his tone and posture submissive. It's a great effort but he does it, which is all that matters, and the man, after a second, keeps walking. Once he's out of sight Roland swallows, bows his head, sets an elbow on one knee and sets the fingers of his good hand to tugging at his hair. He swallows again, takes stock of himself, and wonders, vaguely, if he is about to weep.
What| a reunion
Where| the Detainment Center in the Capitol
When| backdated to a few days after Signless died in the District 1 battle
Warnings/Notes| none
He keeps thinking of Firo. Thinking of the boy without thinking of him, his mind landing on the thought and flitting away from it. He remembers the sight of the boy torn apart, remembers seeing him in the halls of this building not so long after. He hadn't thought any of the offworlders would be brought back from war, wasn't sure whether the fools running this Capitol cared about their value as symbols to the people enough to try and keep them living, not now that the elaborate, idiotic plays that were the arenas are done with. Apparently they're worth something to those fools. Some of them, anyway. Gods know what.
Roland feels himself balancing on the edge of something, and doesn't like to think on what it might be. He doesn't like to think on the detachment he feels when he wonders if he's waiting, when he wonders just how much the life of an enemy footsoldier might be worth.
He'd rather think, instead, on the tools in his hand. Tools, at least, because he can't quite call them anything else. Brittle, breakable, dull on every side and much shorter than they ought to be, they're miles away from what he needs and all he is allowed if he wants to fix his hand.
It'd happened in that battle. He doesn't know when. He should, but he doesn't. It's taken this long to convince the peacekeepers to give him even this much. He tries one, two, three times to fit this stupid dull thing into the very tiny notch on the end of a very tiny screw and it should be no trouble, not for him. He leans forward, starting very carefully to turn the damned tool, turn the screw...
His necklace slips out from his shirt, knocks into the tool, and nudges it out of the very tiny slot of the very tiny screw.
"Damn it!" his hand is, at least, working well enough that when he moves to sweep the rest of the little tools, and the few parts of these fingers he's managed to disassemble, off the table, they go. They make a dull, small, and utterly unsatisfying sound as they hit the floor, and he holds a palm up in the direction of the peacekeeper just now passing near the open wall of his cell.
"It's alright. I only made a mistake. I cry your pardon. Shouldn't have raised my voice." He keeps his tone and posture submissive. It's a great effort but he does it, which is all that matters, and the man, after a second, keeps walking. Once he's out of sight Roland swallows, bows his head, sets an elbow on one knee and sets the fingers of his good hand to tugging at his hair. He swallows again, takes stock of himself, and wonders, vaguely, if he is about to weep.
no subject
"So long as you know that, then."
He worries, privately, that he is a weakness too, another crack the Capitol can exploit-- is that why they brought him back, to use as leverage? The thought makes his stomach drop. Yes. Of course that's it. Why else?
"While I'm here I'll patch your cracks as best I can." While I'm here. Like he may not be soon; he knows very well that's something they'll both have to prepare for. With the way he's been thrown back and forth between the opposing sides he doesn't trust the ground under his feet anymore.
no subject
"Who can do that? Can any man? No, only stay. Stay with me. I saw you die and thought you gone from me for ever, and now you're here. You're warm and alive and I can feel your arms around me. For tomorrow, survive. Survive and come back to me and, for tomorrow, that will be enough. For tonight, Signless, only lay here a while. Remind me what it feels like to set your heart in someone else's hands. That will patch the parts of me which truly need the work. For tonight, that will do me well enough."