Alain bites his lip and pulls Roland the rest of the way onto his lap, ignoring the jagged, blinding agony that engenders in his leg. "And you and Bert ever the best at mocking me for it," he says, with the hint of a sad little smile. "As for send-offs... I died in war. No time for grief there." Wiping his eyes on his bare, bloody wrist, he pushes Roland's hair back off his face, looking down at the older man. "You ought to rest, Ro'. Close your eyes. I'm not going anywhere."

He means it, too. When Roland's heart stops and he turns to cooling meat, then Alain will move, if only to pull the wolf out of the fire before all its meat is scorched away. He'll gather what he can, leave what he can't, and move on. He's known enough death in his life to manage that, though few that have cut so close to the bone.

But for now, Roland hangs on to life, and so Alain hangs on to him, tears tracking freely through the grime and blood on his face. It doesn't matter that he's been told they will live again in the Capitol. Death still feels like death, and grief like grief, and this is his dinh and dearest friend bleeding out his life onto the loam. "Cry pardon," he says thickly, after a moment, his hand stroking over Roland's hair again. "Cry pardon, Ro'. If I'd caught you... if I'd been faster..." Even knowing that in all likelihood it would have changed nothing, it hurts knowing he was too slow. But he clears his throat, shaking his head (fault lies in one place, with him weak enough to lay blame), and giving Roland a tearful little smile. "Well. We'll talk it over back in the tower, I guess."