thearena | (no subject)

Who| Roland and Alain; potentially open
What| Roland dies
Where| the forest
When| week 5
Warnings/Notes| death, possibly Roland getting chewed on a little by a wolf. (eta: warning for a teensy bit of human barbecue) I marked this as potentially open because I would love for Roland to interact with anyone who wants it one last time before he leaves this arena, so although there is no general open prompt, feel free to pm me so we can talk over where they might meet, and then I can put a prompt up for you. (Or feel free to make one yourself, Roland could be found anywhere except the ship and the top of the castle.)

There's little point in not having a fire, at least so far as security goes. It's a testament both to luck and to their own training that the lights hovering over the two of them haven't attracted many threats, but it isn't as if the extra light is going to make any difference. A fire helps, too, with the constant damp - doesn't make it any drier, not really, but it feels like it does and that counts for a lot. Normally feeling wouldn't matter a whit against reality, but in the face of perhaps a month of this damned shoulder making every moment of whatever he tries to do - including sleep, including anything that requires two hands, and including many things that don't - into more of a struggle than he'd ever have expected, Roland will take any hint of encouragement that he can get.

Even if the extra light does no good for this damned headache.

His good hand rubs its fingers against his brow for a moment and then Roland moves his gritty eyelids back up, gazing again out into the trees and the darkness. "Where was I? Oh, Aang. And his spirits. You've seen him when you've come to visit me, I'm sure. Small boy, large tattoos. Watch for those spirits, Alain - think I've seen a few from the corners of my eyes, and it'll be a hell of a distraction if any of ours come for us."

If Roland's voice sounds as if he's not hearing all of what he's saying, sounds like he's talking just to talk, talking so he doesn't have to think about pain or sleep, well. That's probably your ears playing tricks. Everyone knows Roland Deschain only talks when he needs to.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Roland's legs still work. Maybe the only part of him that does, and it's enough to help Alain in dragging the two of them away from the remains of the fire. He tests his good arm, curious, and finds some resistance there. Looks over and - ah. The fire. Of course. Isn't feeling that yet. Might never feel it, he thinks, and pays attention to how it feels as he shifts, getting the ground under his feet and trying to push himself onto Alain's lap. If other wolves come, they come. Roland isn't thinking of that. He wants to be close to Alain, wants to feel his friend underneath and around him, and that is the only thing right now with which he is concerned.

"Tears." He murmurs it, because the unnatural sharpness the world had gained during his fight with the thing is beginning to fade, and whatever's happening on the side those huge teeth had bit into him is starting to - well, nevermind what it's starting to do. Roland locks those sensations away and does not look down at whatever it is that's causing them, because there is no point. He looks up at Alain's face, instead.

"That's two now who've wept over my deathbed." If ever there was a concept that needs a moment to chew over it's that one, and Roland takes it. "Strange. Better this way 'round, maybe. Already giving me a much better send off than the one I gave to you." The more he speaks the more his murmur slows, his words beginning to wander and his mind beginning to wander with them. "Remember? Must be why you're here, show me how it's done. You ever were the best of all of us at grief."

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."

"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.

"Don't linger too long in the Clearing," Alain tells the still form in his arms, and bows his head, pressing a kiss to Roland's forehead. After a moment, tears running unchecked down his face, he reaches up and gently closes Roland's staring blue eyes. It's a little longer still before he stirs himself to move, easing Roland's heavy form (dead weight now, nothing but cooling meat with the form of one beloved) carefully off his lap and struggling to his knees to take what he can from the body. The knife is first, of course, stuck through his belt, but there are other things as well. He won't let them go to waste. Not in such a place as this.

He thinks of taking Roland's shirt as well (savaged and bloody though it is, it's still an improvement over his stupid vest and bare arms; at the very least, it could make bandages), but that seems a bridge too far. Roland deserves more dignity than that. Instead, he just crosses Roland's arms over his chest and goes to drag the wolf out of the embers. The commotion may draw attention, and Alain isn't leaving good meat here if he can help it.

He's still hauling at the smouldering bulk of the beast when the hovercraft comes for Roland's body. Dropping the dead wolf, Alain straightens up as the claw closes around Roland. Instinct wells up in him - no, no, don't take him, I'm not done saying goodbye! - but it is a child's voice, hysterical and impractical, and he shoves it back mercilessly. As Roland's body rises, though, Alain does tap his throat in salute, watching his old friend lifted away. Only when Roland is out of sight does he go back to his work, retrieving his pocket-knife from the wolf's eye and starting to skin the beast.

No more than half an hour later, he is gone. All he leaves behind him is a wolf pelt and entrails, and the scattered embers now extinguished. And any doubts he had about what he must do. For my father's sake, and for his. The Games aren't over yet.