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thearena2016-05-02 04:40 pm
etcircenses) wrote in thearena2016-05-02 04:40 pm
If we met at midnight
Who| All those on the liberation mission and all those being made to fight against them.
What| The liberation of District 2.
Where| District 2.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.
The hovercrafts fly in over the tall mountains of the Rockies, dwarfing the towering trees. From the sky, the scene is beautiful, all glittering snow, blue water, and green that never fades. The planes stretch on into the east, seeming never to end. Nestled in the mountains is a city that doesn't appear to have ever seen better days. It's worn and patched, and were the temperature a little warmer, one's first thought might be of the old west. The trains only add to this image, going all over into the various mining mountains.
Propaganda can be seen everywhere here in the city; posters of Snow, of Capitol supporting Tributes, things seeking to inspire District unity. If it seems to rebels like they're the bad guys here, that's because they are. District two doesn't want liberation. A District home to people loyal to the Capitol, to their District and the Peacekeepers, fans of the Games, and full of indoctrination, rebels are not only unwelcome, they're considered threats. Loyalty means everything to them and rebels are disruptions to this loyalty. There will be no help from the people here unless you're a soldier for the Capitol, in which case, housing and bed are offered, as well as munitions. Poster of Albert, Anna, and Felicity have been placed up, saying "The Courage Of Sacrifice!", "The Light Of Victory Shines Ahead!, and "To A Bright And Protected Future!", respectively.
If you serve the rebellion, however, it's off to the mountains with you. It's not exactly safe, but it's the best that can be managed until a takeover is made. The hovercraft lands upon a wider ledge of the snowy mountainside, sitting there rather precariously. There's no cave, and only barely enough room in the hovercraft. Resources are heavily rationed. Camp fires will need to be made outside the plane, and food hunted. Simply pulling in breath in the high altitudes may be difficult. Fight off frostbite may be more so. The moaning winds inspire all kinds of paranoia. Best stick close to one another.
Although everyone is lucky to find the sun shines during the day, allowing for some warmth, as the night falls, the temperature drops. The District shuts down all power, putting it all into heating and leaving the city in total darkness. This provides an advantage of cover for everyone, but if you're not a Districter used to the dark, seeing what you're doing may very well be a problem.
The war continues, and in the back of everyone's mind is a familiar phrase; may the odds be ever in your favor.
What| The liberation of District 2.
Where| District 2.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.
The hovercrafts fly in over the tall mountains of the Rockies, dwarfing the towering trees. From the sky, the scene is beautiful, all glittering snow, blue water, and green that never fades. The planes stretch on into the east, seeming never to end. Nestled in the mountains is a city that doesn't appear to have ever seen better days. It's worn and patched, and were the temperature a little warmer, one's first thought might be of the old west. The trains only add to this image, going all over into the various mining mountains.
Propaganda can be seen everywhere here in the city; posters of Snow, of Capitol supporting Tributes, things seeking to inspire District unity. If it seems to rebels like they're the bad guys here, that's because they are. District two doesn't want liberation. A District home to people loyal to the Capitol, to their District and the Peacekeepers, fans of the Games, and full of indoctrination, rebels are not only unwelcome, they're considered threats. Loyalty means everything to them and rebels are disruptions to this loyalty. There will be no help from the people here unless you're a soldier for the Capitol, in which case, housing and bed are offered, as well as munitions. Poster of Albert, Anna, and Felicity have been placed up, saying "The Courage Of Sacrifice!", "The Light Of Victory Shines Ahead!, and "To A Bright And Protected Future!", respectively.
If you serve the rebellion, however, it's off to the mountains with you. It's not exactly safe, but it's the best that can be managed until a takeover is made. The hovercraft lands upon a wider ledge of the snowy mountainside, sitting there rather precariously. There's no cave, and only barely enough room in the hovercraft. Resources are heavily rationed. Camp fires will need to be made outside the plane, and food hunted. Simply pulling in breath in the high altitudes may be difficult. Fight off frostbite may be more so. The moaning winds inspire all kinds of paranoia. Best stick close to one another.
Although everyone is lucky to find the sun shines during the day, allowing for some warmth, as the night falls, the temperature drops. The District shuts down all power, putting it all into heating and leaving the city in total darkness. This provides an advantage of cover for everyone, but if you're not a Districter used to the dark, seeing what you're doing may very well be a problem.
The war continues, and in the back of everyone's mind is a familiar phrase; may the odds be ever in your favor.
in which roland is a bit silly
He's woolgathering. Isn't he? This isn't relevant, is it? "Drugs. This isn't, it isn't quite like mescaline, or like those others. Similar. Similar. It could be."
He looks over Firo's shoulder. The fear slips onto his face again, but alongside it this time is fascination. The door waits open. "My worst nightmares, Firo. The ones I could never remember on waking. All the worst moments of my life - and that is saying something. They all begin with that door. That place. I wish I could explain, Firo. You'll be wanting an explanation, and I don't think I'll be able to give it to you. I may not even be able to think on it."
"The center of everything. The legend. The one I followed half my life. Other men sought it too, other creatures, thinking what was at its top would make them into gods. I crossed time, and worlds- I gave up everything- I gave up everyone. But it never gave me up. Not when I begged, not when I screamed."
"But the end I was used for is past now. It's difficult for my head to hold all this at once, but I remember. For now, I remember. The light, the sound of the horn- just once, I only remember it the once. It was the end. My end."
"You say drugs. That I've been here all this time. Here, with you."
"I say that Panem could not send me back if they wanted to. It won't take me anymore. I've seen the end, and it has seen the end of me."
He looks away from the door. He hears it creak. He hears it shut. He pays it no mind.
"I say that I am FREE!" Firo's face may be too close to take a shout but Roland shouts it anyway, face breaking into his wide, widest grin, and he lets go of the leg of the bed, and he lets go of Firo's clothes and he moves to try and press his palms to either side of his dear friend's face. "For the rest of my life, however long or short that it may be. And after, whatever clearing awaits me at the end of my path. I am no tool of Gan, no servant of that which Is, and Was, and will be Again. I have no more part to play in the world's destiny than any other man. Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came. Childe Roland is dead, and it was you who woke me to his passing. You, Firo Prochainezo. You've done me a great service."
And here is where Firo had better hope he isn't too baffled by the world's most confusing speech to quickly act. Firo had better hope he can quickly act, that is, because if he does not, Roland might be about to kiss him. On the lips. Gently, briefly, with gratitude and love that is not intended to be in the slightest way romantic. This is the way of Roland's people, at times like this. Probably not, though, the way of Firo's. Roland is currently too moved to remember that. Perhaps someone ought to remind him.
Just a little bit
The more he rambles, though, the more Firo’s hopes flag—none of it makes sense. Such volume and so close—he’d flinch at the sudden shouting if he weren’t too busy watching it with wide, maybe even fearful eyes. He doesn’t move away when Roland goes to grab him; he’s too afraid to leave him without someone solid to hold on to. Firo doesn’t see it as such an occasion for the joy he seems to show. In fact, he’s pretty sure that he may have accidentally broken his friend and set him off in some sort of maniac fit. How is he going to bring him back from this? Think, think, think—
He’s still struggling to understand what’s going on when their lips touch. Firo’s hardly ready to draw away or ward it off—he hasn’t the faintest clue what’s going on or what’s coming to him until it happens. He’s never kissed or been kissed until now, and it seems so out-of-place in this moment that he can barely believe it just happened.
He tries to throw himself backward. “Wh-what the hell’re you--?” Normally such a gesture would have him screaming and probably trying to strangle someone. It takes a lot to tamp down that urge, and the only reason he can is because he’s so worried for what may have made Roland go even farther off the deep end.
Focus, damn it. He whips his head from side to side as if he can rattle the embarrassment right out of his head. Predictably, it doesn’t work, but he can at least force himself to look up at Roland.
It’s more important, anyway, to figure out whether or not the speech means he’s back to reality or not. Firo can’t wipe the blush off his face, but he can marshal his courage and soldier on to the more critical issue. “Wh-what’s goin’ on?! Are you—” What word can he even put there? “…Are you okay?”
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His gaze goes distant, not looking at anything that is or isn't in the room, only trying to remember. "I think I must have died. I met a man once, Firo. I think on him here, sometimes. On a question I asked him. I asked if he believed in the afterlife. He told me he thought this was it. 'This' was a desert, at the time. The desert. The Mohaine Desert. West of Gilead, or was, once. Many a failed gunslinger was sent there in Gilead's day. Some must have even crossed it, and I went in willingly. I don't know if I ever left. Firo, I think I might be rambling."
He thinks on that for a second. Considers it carefully. Thoroughly. If Firo wants his hands to move he'll have to throw them off on his own, because Roland seems perfectly content to leave them where they are. He blinks for a few more seconds at the door, still standing there in the middle of the room. Still closed.
"I feel fine. As fine as I ever have. Fine as I've ever felt sober, anyway. Quite fine, for a man who's just realized that he's dead. I'd thought the end of my path would be..."
He looks around at the white walls, the white sheets, the steel bedframe and the steel table. "Suppose I expected an actual clearing. At the least, I expected it'd be obvious when I was about to arrive there. If there was one at all. Guess I never thought much on it."
"I'm not sober, though, am I. Am I? Firo, are you doing okay? You look as if you've seen a ghost. There are none here, I don't think, don't worry about that. None of the usual type, anyway. Curious, isn't it? Almost makes a man wonder just what that makes us." That's probably important. The ones he's been trained to deal with can be tamed or banished, with the right siguls, with the right words in High Speech spoken from the right tongue. So it's less a philosophical question, and more a practical concern. If he is dead, if he is a ghost, perhaps he can be banished, too. Ought to watch out for that.
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Oh, fuck, not this death shit again.
As Firo listens, he twitches, about to shake his head. He only stops when he reminds himself that he needs to keep Roland grounded, so he shouldn’t mess with his hands. Even if having a conversation like this is a little awkward, it’d be more awkward when Roland’s completely bonkers. So Firo holds himself as still as he can for now.
“No! I already told you, we’re not dead. You’re not dead—they just fucked up your head. You’ll probably be fine soon. Yeah, you’re not sober at all right now, but I think this stuff wears off eventually…” Better not to think too long on what would happen if it didn’t.
“We’re both humans. Not ghosts—I didn’t…” He knows why he probably looks shocked, and it’s certainly not from seeing a ghost. He sighs; does he really want to get into that now? Or ever? It’s embarrassing and better off forgotten. At the same time, Roland could be in trouble if he never learns not to kiss other guys.
“…Look, it’s fine what just happened, but you really shouldn’t go around kissin’ people for no reason.” He frowns harder. That just sounds stupid in the middle of this conversation. "Anyway, the important thing right now is that we're not ghosts or dead. I'll punch you to prove it, if you want."
Firo doesn't believe in ghosts, but he knows that most people who believe in them think they can't touch things. So this is probably a good way to prove it to Roland.
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"I think I've stopped screaming," he mutters, sounding distracted. "Harder to hear after the door closed itself up, but now it's gone. What was it you were saying, Firo? You'd rather punch me than kiss me? No, I don't think that was it." He focuses, thinks back. "That wouldn't prove much, as we're already touching, but for one who's never learned much of ghosts past old wives' tales, it's not a bad thought. The kissing, now. Did I have no reason for that? No, no I think I did. I think I've seldom had better reason to kiss anyone. Wasn't that clear?"
It's an honest question. Roland knows as well as Firo does that he may be making very little sense, just now. Perhaps not so much as he'd thought he had. Best to check.
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Firo reaches over to lay his hand over Roland's. He could be relieved that his face isn't being touched anymore, but he's not; he doesn't like seeing Roland so scared and needy, and that trumps any physical discomfort or confusion by far.
"Uh... Well, no, not really. I mean, you said you were free and that you were grateful, and you seemed happy, but..." Happy. That's what really matters, doesn't it? Weird as the whole thing was, Firo trusts Roland and knows that he wouldn't do something like that for a bad reason. So just let it go.
"That's not important. We--we can just forget about it." Roland needs him now, he's pretty sure; Roland needs him to focus on what's important. To make sure he's okay.
If only Firo knew how to handle it. He huffs out a breath, frustrated at his inexperience and the slowness of his mind. "How do you... how do you feel?"
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His free hand brushes against the side of Firo's head, briefly. "Hm. Probably for the best I can't. How do I feel? Suppose I feel nothing which won't pass. Because of you, you know. Think I'd still be caught in the Tower's grip, if it weren't for you staying here, with me. That's why I kissed you. When a man of my station's been done such a great kindness by a man of yours- Are we forgetting that part too, Firo? I'm still very grateful. Very grateful. That's how I feel. Grateful and high. And you? I can't quite tell. I think my reasoning isn't, ah, what it ought to be. I can't read your face, or your voice. I can't focus."
His grip tightens on Firo's shoulder, and he finds his other hand coming up to twist itself in Firo's clothes some place. He can focus on that. Those feelings are real, they are here, and he can focus on them very well. "How do you feel? Tell me your truth wholly, now. No holding back, though I know you might want to."
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Roland’s saying important things, after all, because gratitude can be a very solemn and serious affair. Firo blinks, touched. “Oh. It—“ It was nothing. Probably not the right response right now, he realizes, even if he was only doing what he’s supposed to. “Then that makes sense, I guess.” See? He knew it; there was a reason. A weird one, but once again, now is no time to dwell on culture clash. It’s all Firo can do to keep up with where Roland’s mind is moving.
Firo glances down at Roland’s hands and then back up to his face. He tightens his own grip on Roland's hand just a little more. Is he serious? He really can’t tell anything from Firo’s expression? In that case… he could get away with anything right now.
God, it could be so easy.
…But that would be taking advantage of a friend in need, and that’s just not right. “You’re not supposed to ask about me right now,” he huffs. Because, all things considered, he’s pretty damn fine, relatively; he’s not ‘high,’ he’s not raving, and he wasn’t just tortured like he’s pretty certain Roland was.
“I’m just… just worried about you. And I guess, uh… I guess I was scared you wouldn’t come back from this--that you'd be stuck freakin' out like that, I mean. But I’m glad to see you’re alive. I thought they might’ve killed you.”
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Roland squeezes his eyes shut with a noise that starts as a moan and ends as something frustrated, impatient. "I remember this time. I remember the mountain. I remember that I knew, I knew what was in store for me. But not you."
His eyes snap open and he frowns at Firo, focusing. "I wasn't sure what they'd do with you. I thought I'd never find out. I thought I'd never remember you at all." He looks Firo over, making out what he can, trying to see any bruises or places Firo might be holding himself awkwardly. Evidence of something. "You said you were well, didn't you? Worried, but well enough, otherwise. Have I got that right?"
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The groan startles him, and his eyes stay glued on Roland's face. Is he in pain? Or just annoyed with his dumb friend who decided to put a wrinkle in his plan?
He holds his arms up and out for a moment to show how fine he is. "Yeah, you're right." It's the truth; there's not a scratch on him. Firo, after all, had been a good little Capitol soldier trying to protect that very important Capitol man. At least, as near as the Peacekeepers could tell. Roland laid it all out for them so very nicely, didn't he?
Firo stares back at him as he thinks on all of this a little more. "You knew and you still went and did all that?" Here his voice rises, almost angry. It's not what his friend needs right now, and he tries to hold it in check but can only do so much. "No offense, Roland, but if stickin' around to get caught was your plan, that's a pretty shitty plan."
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"Shitty plan. Is that what we were talking about? Yes, that was it. Was it one?" Walk through it. He remembers how it was up on that mountain. Lay out those facts, then decide. "They knew our faces. There was one way up that mountain and one way down, unless you'd like to try your own feet and spend a couple days lost in the snow. Or worse. There was no hiding the body. Not forever. Guards all around. Was there a better plan? High as I am, I may be missing it. You show it to me, Firo. What should I have done?"
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He keeps his mouth shut as Roland goes back through the plan; okay, so maybe Firo can concede a lot of those things. Still, there’s room for argument. “Well, to start, we coulda’ just cut his throat instead of shootin’ off a gun and lettin’ the whole mountain know. And we coulda’ dragged him into the hiding spot before killin’ him. That woulda’ bought us time.”
But perhaps not enough, he knows. Roland’s right that they would’ve been found eventually. This isn’t exactly like a gang hit, where everything would’ve been planned out and where nothing would’ve happened until escape routes were known and clear. They were working with what they had, which wasn’t really much.
There’s one big thing, though, that Firo knows didn’t have to go the way it did. He leans forward and doesn’t realize that he's almost yelling now, “Only one of us got in trouble for it, do you get that? They only needed one! You didn’t have to fuckin' stand out there waitin’ for ‘em to come get you!”
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He makes himself focus, and feels his gaze sharpening. They only needed one. "That's true. They did only need one. And you're angry about that, aren't you?"
And then it hits him.
"What great evil did I ever do..." he murmurs, half in memory, half quoting something he remembers thinking once, many times. He can't remember the rest. It's a fair question, anyway.
Focus. Firo. "You must never take my place, do you understand?" He leans forward, his free hand moving to try and clench itself over one of Firo's. It's the one with those two metal fingers, the fingers he can't feel, and in this state their grip may be a little tighter than Roland knows it to be. His eyes are wide, his expression one of great urgency. "When it's my sacrifice to make. It had to be me. You must never make it for me, do you see? Not even if I ask you. Not even if I demand. What in the world did you think I was going to do, up on that mountain, if not that?"
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It was Roland’s whole little play after the murder that makes Firo want to tear his hair out. It’s exactly the opposite of what you’re supposed to do in those situations, which is button your lip or deny, deny, deny.
Firo doesn’t think about his reasoning for arguing here, because it’s something he doesn’t have to think about. It’s just what’s natural. He looks down at Roland’s hand, then back at his face. Why is he talking like this is so important when he’s just spouting nonsense? “Why the hell shouldn’t I? You don't have to fight your battles alone.”
He recalls Maiza facing off against Szilard in Alveare, urging his sworn brothers to hide. To save them while giving up himself. The Martillos didn't let Maiza do it then, and Firo doesn't intend to let Roland do it now or ever.
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Roland closes his eyes, opens them to focus on Firo, and takes a breath that gets steadier the longer he makes it. "But I'm free of it. Why don't you see it? I'm free now. No more."
His hand goes again to the side of Firo's face, moves to brush back his hair. "I'd hate to see you become one of those names. I'd hate it. Men will die - you may die - but it won't be because of me. For me. Fight for me, if you like, but no sacrifices. I'm done with those. I've earned this much, haven't I? After everything. No more sacrifices. Why does that anger you so?"
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This time, he doesn’t track Roland’s motion with his eyes, and he makes no move to interfere.
“…To be completely honest with you, I’m not sure I understand the difference.” Even with Roland acting so bizarre, Firo’s not inclined to dismiss the distinction as meaningless. That doesn’t mean he’s close to knowing why there’s a distinction in the first place.
“It doesn’t…” He sighs and shakes his head. Roland asked him not to lie. “Maybe it does make me mad. It’s just—it doesn’t…”
He leans in, speaking more firmly. He can talk about what he does know, maybe that'll help. “Listen, the way my Family does things—the way every Family does things—you never woulda’ needed to even be there. And your guys woulda’ made sure you didn’t get caught for it. It just doesn’t make sense. You couldn’t’ve gotten free any other way?”
Roland keeps saying that, but it’s yet another thing Firo doesn’t quite get. He'd said he was dead before--is that the freedom he's speaking of? If so, how will he feel when he's fully aware again?
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There's still apprehension in his voice when he nods. "If that's what you want."
Need, though, that was the word Roland used. Firo studies his face, searching for clues on how to make him back to normal. Or at least to make sure he's comfortable
"What else do you need? I can't really read you either right now--not that I can usually do it or anything." The task is just harder when Roland's mind seems to be running around in ideas and in memories that Firo's not familiar with. ...Though he supposes that, too, is normal in a way.
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He shakes his head, corrects himself. "A good friend. That's what I need now. Just wait with me until this wears off. Then I'll see if I can't answer any questions you still have. Alright? That much makes sense, doesn't it?" Does it? He hopes so. They might both just have to make do, if it doesn't.
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Most people would have Firo hissing and spitting if they called him 'lad' or anything similar to the dreaded 'kid.' It doesn't even occur to him to make a fuss about it now. Maybe he does smile just a bit more proudly when it's corrected before he ducks his head. "C'mon, this is just what friends're supposed to do "
He looks back up. "The answers aren't that important anyway. Well, obviously I wanna know what the hell's goin' on, but I don't need to. I'm just glad you're okay." He shuffles closer now, close enough that they're just bumping together. "And I'll stay."
Of course he will. Even if Roland had told him to get lost he still would've hung around.
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"Maybe any friend would have agreed," he murmurs, his voice warm, still staring ahead, "to shut me up. See me calm. Not everyone would mean it."
Firo does. He knows that, and the knowledge settles into him. He doesn't have to be able to read Firo's face or his voice to know that he means it. He means to keep his promise, and he means to stay. That's enough.
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He twists his head over his shoulder to follow Roland's gaze. It looks to him like the same spot he was so fixated on before. Firo straightens his back and squares his shoulders when he turns back around, doing what little he can to try to block what might be there. "Are you still lookin' at it? Maybe you should turn around."
With the hand Roland isn't holding, he reaches out to try and nudge his friend's shoulder.
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His hand lets go of Firo's, moves as if to reach out- Roland stops it. His fingers curl against his palm and he drops his hand to his side again, keeps it there. "Perhaps I should turn away. Perhaps I should..."
"A little while longer. Just a little while. Until it leaves me be for good. That's alright, isn't it Firo? Just for a little while?"
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He's not sure why Roland's asking him for permission, and part of him wishes he wouldn't--how is Firo supposed to know what to tell him? He thinks it over, certain he's going to make the wrong decision. How could he make the right one when he doesn't even know what's going on? "I-I guess. Just a look. Don't try goin' near it again because I won't let you."
He presses his hand more firmly on Roland's shoulder. He's ready to dig his heels in and fight if he sees things go south.
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"This may be the only time I can explain," he realizes. "Some of it, anyway. A great deal of it. Would you ask? My answers may not make a great deal of sense; maybe Alain can help you decipher them, later. If he's- If he lives. My mind can't visit that time in my life otherwise, Firo, it layers over itself, the memories are... difficult. But now-" He shrugs. "I don't know. If there's anything you'd like to know about me, about all this, best ask it now."
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