Even when the Psiionic tries to avoid the question Roland watches him, and if his stare turns heavy, if it might try to bore into the Psiionic a little, Roland is not going to stop it. This is not a question he intends to allow the man to squirm away from.
But he sees the Psiionic thinking, and he hears him agree. He hears the honesty in it. He agrees for the sake of the Signless, which turns that agreement into shit the moment something happens to the one they both love so dear, but Roland is at least self aware enough to know that he's got no legs to stand on if he wanted to complain about that.
No time, either. No time. The time for talking is done. Something in Roland is settled, or so much as it is going to be. He's settled, clasping the Psiionic's arm, settling this moment of touch with a friend into his memory and knowing that the two of them are going to be alright, if it is at all possible that they be so. Knowing that the Psiionic is going to try.
Roland watches the two of them and knows well the heft of the man, how much heavier the Signless is than he really looks even under that bit of weight he might've gained in the past year-or-so of soft Capitol living. Roland says none of it. The time for words is done. If there was a time for joking, that's done, too. At least so far as Roland is concerned. They've said what needs to be.
He watches them leave. He limps after them, a small limp, enough to excuse the delay but not so pronounced that he'll have to prove the injury, later.
There are too many patrols here. Too many. Roland lets himself look at them, at his friends. He fixes the sight of them in his mind. He runs, shouting, across the path of two Peacekeeper patrols, points out a group of rebels near enough to capture, if they're quick.
A couple rebels are captured not long after, but the right couple are safe. As safe as they can be. Roland contents himself with that. That contentment doesn't last him long, not so very long at all. It's all he's got.
no subject
But he sees the Psiionic thinking, and he hears him agree. He hears the honesty in it. He agrees for the sake of the Signless, which turns that agreement into shit the moment something happens to the one they both love so dear, but Roland is at least self aware enough to know that he's got no legs to stand on if he wanted to complain about that.
No time, either. No time. The time for talking is done. Something in Roland is settled, or so much as it is going to be. He's settled, clasping the Psiionic's arm, settling this moment of touch with a friend into his memory and knowing that the two of them are going to be alright, if it is at all possible that they be so. Knowing that the Psiionic is going to try.
Roland watches the two of them and knows well the heft of the man, how much heavier the Signless is than he really looks even under that bit of weight he might've gained in the past year-or-so of soft Capitol living. Roland says none of it. The time for words is done. If there was a time for joking, that's done, too. At least so far as Roland is concerned. They've said what needs to be.
He watches them leave. He limps after them, a small limp, enough to excuse the delay but not so pronounced that he'll have to prove the injury, later.
There are too many patrols here. Too many. Roland lets himself look at them, at his friends. He fixes the sight of them in his mind. He runs, shouting, across the path of two Peacekeeper patrols, points out a group of rebels near enough to capture, if they're quick.
A couple rebels are captured not long after, but the right couple are safe. As safe as they can be. Roland contents himself with that. That contentment doesn't last him long, not so very long at all. It's all he's got.