"Don' give me that shit," he mutters, pressing his forehead to Alain's side because he cannot quite work his arms well enough to grasp Alain's hand. And by 'that shit' he means all of it, everything Alain just said, although explaining that seems a task so enormous he'll simply have to say what he can and hope Alain understands. "Have my pardon. Don't need it. But, uh..."

His mind wanders then. He takes a breath, wonders what it was he'd been about to say. It'd been important. Ah, there. "But you have it. You have it."

Shouldn't there be something else? Something noble, inspiring? Roland, of all people, has known death long enough to know having time for noble last words is rare, and having the state of mind to speak them even more so. But that applies to other people, surely. Not to him. Not now.

Cuthbert had died in their first arena together. Roland had been stupid enough to get himself killed without even seeing him and Cuthbert had died. A mercy killing, for a boy too weak and hurt to keep fighting. He hadn't come back. There's something important there, something...

Ah. Alain.

"You fight. For your father's sake, and for mine. Fight. Play their game." Not that Cuthbert hadn't. He'd loved it. Roland's mind insists on reminding him of that even now, won't let him have even the small comfort of thinking there's a reason to why some are revived time and time again and some aren't. It's honest, that reminder, but he ignores it. He turns his face from Alain's side to look up at him, but his gaze is nearly as unfocused and wandering as his voice. "If I don't see you, don't think I could... I don't, um... what was I..."

Then Roland's voice drifts off, his thoughts fade, and he fades with them.