thearena | If we met at midnight

Entry tags:

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Roland nods, smiles gratefully, briefly, then puts his hand over Firo's. There's been a lot of that, he realizes, a lot of touching, and Roland finds himself looking at Firo's face, trying to figure out if he minds. But he can't afford to wonder about it right now, with his mind trying to go in so many directions it oughtn't.

"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."

Firo blinks; he'd figured that there wouldn't be many answers, especially not while Roland still seems to be recovering. It's tempting, but then he shakes his head as something jumps to mind. "Wait... no, first I owe you an apology. For when I tried to hit you." In all the confusion, he doesn't think he got around to saying that. He said he would, so he will. "I apologize for that."

That taken care of... questions. Boy, does he have questions. What matters is finding which ones are most important; with that, as with many things, Firo thinks it's best to be as straightforward as possible.

Brisk and businesslike, he starts off: "You said you were free. Is this stuff still gonna bother you? What do we do if that happens?" His manner softens, and he smiles almost apologetically. "You'd think I'd already have the hang of this by now."

Twice. Both times he felt like he was going to stumble around in the dark until he lost his friend. He doesn't want that to happen again.

Roland's expression goes sour, disappointed, but certainly not with Firo. "You'd think I would."

He tilts his head back, watches the ceiling, closes his eyes to better hear the Tower, that chorus of whispers on the edge of hearing, the murmuring of a thousand... a thousand somethings. Someones. Echoes, maybe. The thought strikes him - and it might not have, were he not in this state, but he is and it strikes him - that his own, now, might be one of them. A moan starts up again in his throat and again he stops it, he forces his eyes open, he shudders and stretches his fingers out, feeling around with them, trying to figure out if Firo's hand is nearby. It is, and right under his. He takes a deep breath.

"But it will, won't it?" he murmurs, his voice quiet with resignation, slow and ashamed. "Of course it will."

"Only remind me of the here and now, Firo. Whatever that happens to be. I don't care how. Talk about it. Keep touch with me somehow. I'll come back to you. It's a sinkhole in my mind - suppose it always has been, in one way or another - but there's nowhere for it to pull me under to. Only wait. Don't let me forget about you."

He shrugs, the movement quick and jerking, the irritation that's been creeping into his voice making its way now onto his face, too. "I don't know. I only dealt with men like this briefly, years and years ago. During the war. New Canaan's war, that is. I don't know how to- how to live it."

"There's no need to apologize for hitting me, either." His gaze has moved, thankfully, back to Firo's face. The only safe spot in the room to look. "If you feel like you need to hit me, do it. I trust your judgement."

The words may be born from Roland's irritation and his need for some place to direct it, but he means it, anyway, means it so much that the last sentence almost sounds dismissive. It's an afterthought, something he feels he barely needs to say. Of course he trusts that.

That moaning again. It’s eerie and scary and all Firo can really do about it is hold on and watch. When Roland doesn’t seem to lose himself and instead keeps talking, Firo frowns; it doesn’t seem right for Roland to be so hard on himself. “Hey…” How to actually express that sentiment he has no idea, so his protest trails off.

As Roland looks to his face, Firo looks back at him, smiling just a little, “Whenever I think I need to? You’re openin’ the door pretty wide there, you know.” Not that he would want to hit Roland enough to take advantage of it, but still.

“I’ll remember that. All of it. If this happens again, I’ll be ready for it, and I won’t leave you. I promise.” Much as the thought of fumbling through this incident twice had needled him a minute ago, Firo realizes it’s a good thing too; they have proof twice over that the method Roland’s sharing will work.

He thinks a little more. “Is there any of it you want me to ask about?” When they spoke before about Roland’s past, he’d simply said that he wouldn’t talk about something if he didn’t want to. This time, Firo still wants to be cautious about the topic considering how much trouble Roland could be in if he falls back into raving. Besides, he doesn’t even know where to begin to ask about it all.

"I could tell you of the Tower." He shudders, listens to the noise of it, the echo of the place which he's spent his life in seeking, the place he'll never see or hear again.

He'd been saying something, hadn't he?

"Oh, yes. The Tower. My quest. Its end, and its end, and its end, and- no. That isn't the important part, anyway."

Roland laughs. It's perhaps the first time in this land, in Panem, that he has made such a noise, at least in this way. It's a loud, rust-covered sound, less a laugh than a series of enthusiastic croaks. "Isn't that strange? It's not important anymore. I spent my life getting there, you know. I sacrificed everything. Everyone. Have I said that to you before? And it's them I'd tell you about now. The very people I- well. They're gone now, anyway. Everyone is."

He looks at Firo again and then tries to keep doing so, aware that he needs to keep looking, needs the reminder. "Nearly everyone."

"But what to say? What would be enough? How do you remember a man to someone who has never met him? It's hard to think. What would you ask, Firo? What's the first thing you want to know about a man, when the two of you first meet?"

Everyone. Now Firo feels a little bad, maybe, for being angry at Roland for sacrificing himself. For very nearly asking why he wouldn’t have let someone else go in his place.

He can hardly identify that sound Roland’s making as a laugh, but he still tries to smile along.

“When we first meet? Then I just wanna make sure he’s not gonna stab me or something.”

That issue has been long resolved with Roland. Firo never trusts people from the start, but he has a pretty good track record of figuring out who will or won’t attack him without provocation. Roland has never been someone he thought would lash out at him with no warning, and over time he’s become someone Firo trusts implicitly.

These friends of Roland are another matter, because Firo realizes that he knows next to nothing of them. But it sounds like they’re well beyond stabbing him too, just in a different way. On account of being dead.

“I guess… You could always start at the beginning—how you met.”

"How we met? Usually, I..." He leans heavily against Firo and lets his head fall forward, already getting dizzy from trying to sort through all the memories, nearly the same, all layered on top of one another. But it's important. It's important and, right now, he can do it. "I stole them. Took them from their homes. I needed them. From New York - always New York, seems like. I stole them, saved two of them from themselves, and damned them all."

"How we met? Ah. Doorways. Always doorways, for the two of them. Susannah. She was here, you know." It's a relief to speak of that, even for a second. Those memories come easy. "Taken by thirteen after her death in an arena. I never saw her again. She's the one who left. Came here right after. She hoped she'd find Eddie, I think. You remind me of him, sometimes. Eddie. Couldn't be more different, in some ways. Eddie and Susannah. Gunslingers, both. Loyal and brave. Do meetings really matter? We met, that's the important thing."

"Was there something else? Start at the beginning. The beginning was- It was- There was a desert. The Mohaine desert. That's what I hear in front of me now, Firo."

Roland watches Firo's face and, for a second, two seconds, he looks afraid. "Ask me something, Firo. Or tell me. Anything. The first thing you want to know of a man is whether he's going to stab you. And the second thing? Once you're sure he won't?"

"Hey!" The exclamation comes more out of worry than any need to grab Roland's attention. Firo tries to wrap one arm under Roland's to help prop him up. "I--hang on."

It's all flying over his head, the goddamned doors, the desert. He holds onto what he can: their names, the comparison. Anything that might be important. Right now, he doesn't know if he's helping or hurting.

"God, I don't--" He rarely approaches getting to know someone so systematically. With the strong personalities he tends to meet, Firo often finds himself just along for the ride. He doesn't know what the second thing is, or the third, or all those after that. But he has to come up with something--he has to make that fearful look on Roland's face go away.

"I want to know... I want to know how they act, I guess. If they're the type to stand by you or run. But you already said they're loyal. Tell me what you guys did together. Is that gonna help?"

"Help?" He doesn't try to puzzle through that, that help would be the first concept to come to Firo's mind. He just shakes his head and explains as best he can. "Help doesn't matter. What matters- Eddie. And Susannah. Even Oy. And Ja-"

His mouth, his mind, stumbles over the word. Over the name. Something in him doesn't want to say that name but he tries saying it again, anyway. "Jake. My son. Jake. Jake Chambers. Eddie Dean. Susannah Dean. We traveled together, I taught them everything. Everything there was time or reason to teach. Eddie drove me crazy, that part never changed, he always drove me to the very limits of my patience. Past them. He knew me for what I was, always. Followed me anyway. He made me laugh."

"Susannah - She was kind. Thoughtful. Patient. Didn't take any shit, but she was patient. She'd have to be. She and Eddie were a good match. A fine match. Eddie sometimes seemed afraid to come close to me when I wept. Something about his world, I think. Like yours. Susannah never was. She was quicker than he was, too, a little. Quicker on the draw. Never liked to admit how natural it came but she knew how to harness those parts of her, aye, and use them."

"There's one other, one more I'd remember to you. I've told you his name. Told you who he was- What he was, anyway." Roland swallows. Then he does it again. Then he speaks on something else, something different. It's for Firo's sake. Firo might still be concerned. "Generalities. If you're still concerned about helping. The generalities come easier. Those tend to be the same, easier to think on. It's the details that crowd in on me. Do you understand? It must be very strange for you to watch. It's the memories. Too many of them. I don't suppose it's possible to explain to you just what that's like, holding too many lifetimes inside of a single mind."

Firo listens attentively, eyes fixed on Roland's face and not moving. He shakes his head. "No, you don't need to. I told you, you don't need to explain anything you don't want to or can't." There's a smile on his face that's almost amused. Multiple lifetimes, eh? Not quite what Firo has going on, but... "And, actually, I think I know exactly what you mean."

Coincidences are funny. Maybe someday he'll ask Roland how he came by all his other memories and Firo can share how he came by his. For now, they have business to attend to. Generalities, Firo thinks he can do that. He thinks that Roland, before he finally dispensed his advice, seemed like he was trying to point Firo to another topic. Firo'll seize on it and be glad for the guidance--coincidentally, he wants to ask anyway.

"You said... Jake? That's the other one you wanted to tell me about? Your son. You mentioned him earlier, but I don't think you'd ever told me about him before... before all this." He waves his hand vaguely, but he thinks it's clear enough what he means.

It seems weird to him, that Roland wouldn't talk about his son before, but only because it's Roland. Perhaps thinking of the kid is too painful even for Roland to dwell on, for all that he likes dragging things out of other people.

Firo moves toward the subject of Jake very quickly and Roland forgets, for the moment, that Firo's talk of knowing what Roland means when it comes to memory is something Roland is genuinely interested in. For the moment, he can only think of Jake.

"I never have, have I?" Roland's shoulders slump. "I never have. I'm sorry, Jake. I'm sorry."

"You have to understand, Firo, at the time Panem took me I remembered everything. Everything. It crowds in on me. That time in my life, anything from it, best avoided. You've seen what happens. Any memory from that time pulls me closer toward the Tower." He shudders. Breathes.

"Oh, Jake. He was just a boy. A fine boy, healthy in body, mind, in every other particular. Thoughtful. Brave." It's on that last word that the tears come. He stays silent a moment, feeling them move down over his skin. It feels right to weep, and it feels only respectful to be quiet, to give the tears and the grief the attention they deserve.

"He deserved more. More time with child's things, without my damned quest hanging around his neck. I could've given it to him, if only I'd done the one thing I never- Could have, or would have. I don't know which. I tried, I think. In- There were-"

Roland leans over toward Firo, dizzy again, pressing the heel of his hand hard against his temple. "There were times. Times I- I tried to, ah-"

"Did I try?" he continues, in a faint voice. "Did I? I might recall, I- Oh, Jake." He raises a hand to his face, feels the tears, remembering they're there. He takes a quick, shuddering breath. Has Roland forgotten again that Firo's even there? Well, maybe. Maybe.

Tears. He probably should've expected that, but Firo cringes with pain to see them nonetheless. "I'm sorry, I didn't--" A memory of something Roland said before shuts him up. He'd said he wouldn't speak on something he didn't want to. Firo doesn't know how that applies in this more vulnerable state, but he'll have to trust his friend's words. And do what he can.

He tries to loop his arms under Roland's to hold him up. The way he's leaning and sagging--that doesn't look good. Roland doesn't need to hurt himself falling on top of the rest of this. If the gesture also happens to be close to an offer of physical comfort, it's not unintentional.

He needs to be strong for this. Firm. He sighs, stern, when he speaks again, "More time as a kid? Come on, Roland, do you even know if that's what he wanted?"

Maybe the kid was like Claire, who'd yearned to stay a child forever. Firo doesn't understand that way of thinking and never has. He'd wanted to escape childhood--its loneliness and weakness, the big target painted on your back--as long as he could remember. That someone else might prefer his father and his father's quest over childhood... well, that only makes sense to Firo.

Firo won't speak for the dead, especially not Roland's dead friends, but can Roland either? Firo doesn't want to see him beat himself up over questions he may not even know the answer to.

Roland doesn't straighten, keeps leaning against Firo, feeling his friend's arm around him, but he does look up. His mouth is open, his eyes are a little wide - it's obvious that's not a question that's ever entered Roland's head.

"What he wanted." Roland's gaze goes distant and it's good he didn't straighten up, because he needs the arm around him again. He needs it while he looks back, tries to remember. Jake.

"Oh, Jake," he murmurs. "He left- That's right, he left them who called themselves his parents. Always. He came back- tried to, anyway. I think. He must've always tried. But he was a boy. A boy who called me father. It was up to me to choose, and I did choose. He wanted me to be his father, do you see? So the choice was mine. And I don't know if I made the right one. No, I know I didn't. But if I had-"

Roland pauses. Shudders. "I was about to say, 'if I had to do it again'. Is that funny? I think it is. I think it might be. Oh, Jake. Oh, Jake, I'm sorry," he says, and begins to sob. Because he did already, didn't he? Roland did it again. And again. He may not be able to admit it aloud, nor even too loudly in his own thoughts, but he knows himself, aye. He knows very well the choices that he made. Would make.

Edited 2016-07-21 15:29 (UTC)

It hurts to hear him cry like that; Firo feels the stabbing in his heart and almost wants to cry too. He squeezes Roland tighter when he shakes, and he moves one arm up to cup the back of Roland's head in his hand.

The clarification that Jake was born to other parents doesn't change Firo's mind at all. Jake wanted Roland to be his father. From what Roland's already said, it seems he agreed to the arrangement. That makes it real. And Firo can relate a bit; he can imagine, too, why Jake would sacrifice a childhood.

"What was your other choice? Tell him to beat it, that you didn't want him around?"

Firo only knows the barest details, but he thinks they're enough. Not to truly tell how this Jake kid felt but enough to point out the problems in whatever other options Roland may think he had.

He doesn't hurry to answer. He lets the sobbing pass, he doesn't move his head or Firo's hand from it, and he doesn't move the rest of him, either.

"Cried off," he says, voice a little rougher, after a couple moments. "Not told him to leave, but left myself. Left the Tower." As with every time he says that particular word in that particular way, a shudder runs through him. He waits for it to pass. "My quest, given it up. Given it all up, let it all sit in the past and be for nothing. Found a place to settle, a house, maybe a little farm. Let everything else go to hell. We would've had enough time. Time for him to live."

"I think- I think if I'd ever truly cried off, it might've let me do it. Go away with him. With the child who trusted me." His breath gets rough for a couple seconds, but this time, he doesn't weep. That's alright. For now, it's alright. For now he just feels his friend's arms around him, and waits for Firo's judgement.

Edited 2016-07-23 15:25 (UTC)

Firo thinks it over, wondering how possible that plan actually was. Wondering how important this whole quest actually was. It's hard to tell with how Roland speaks of it. And he wonders once more how much of this is Roland just beating himself up however he can.

He shifts, reasserting his hold around Roland. As he does, he breathes out, "That really doesn't sound so bad..." Staying in your own little corner of the world with your family. What more would anyone want?

He wishes for Roland's sake that things had gone that way. But they didn't.

Maybe there's another way he can go about this. "What'd he think of this whole T--whole quest thing?" He skirts the word 'Tower' because he can feel very well the reaction whenever Roland says it himself. "Was it important to him too?"

Roland closes his eyes. After a moment his breathing goes rough again and this time, tears follow.

"I remember. Oh, I remember. I wish I didn't. It's good that I remember those sacrifices he made. And such sacrifices, again and again and again and-"

"Oh, no father should be made to remember this," he goes on after a moment, in a very faint voice. "And more than once. So many memories, I can't- It's only right, I suppose. He made them willingly, and why? He would have followed me anywhere, that's why. And that's where I led. Of course that was always where I led."

Firo squeezes him again. Yes, he agrees that this is not something a father should be recalling. He can't relate from a father's standpoint, of course, but he can see and feel Roland's sadness and pain very well.

"You said he--" Firo cuts himself off with a sigh. He wants to emphasize what Roland said about Jake doing it willingly, but he recalls how against sacrifices he was just a moment ago. Would it help? He's not sure, and he's not sure he wants to risk it.

He huffs out a breath. He wants to punch the floor or the wall to get rid of this tension, but he doesn't dare slacken his hold on Roland. "Should you be thinkin' about this now? Why don't you tell me something different about him if you can?"

Firo's the one who got them on this line of questioning, so he feels guilty for leading them to this of all places. They've come a long way from the incoherently babbling man Firo encountered in the hallway, but they've also come a long way from the man who was beaming and kissing from gratitude. Firo feels more than a little responsible for the latter fact.

"Of course I should be talking about it. Might not get another chance. I won't cut myself off from it." Roland watches the inside of his closed eyes, thinking. He's spoken of it freely, of Jake and the sacrifices he made. He hasn't cut himself off from it, has he? He's spoken on it, as much as he's able.

"It should be alright, shouldn't it? I've remembered it. It mattered, and I have remembered it. And it hurts, oh it hurts. It should be alright to leave it again, think on other things. I think it's alright."

Roland searches for something else and finds it, after a moment. A general enough detail that it isn't too hard to pick out among all the memories shoving their way through his mind, something that mattered. "He had a pet, as a boy ought. I never did, not after the dog who died when I was but three. Jake's was a billy bumbler. Do you have those in your where? He didn't. They're like dogs, sometimes more intelligent, said to be more loyal. This one was both. Saved our lives more than once. And what did he get for it?"

Roland takes a breath, opens his eyes. He stares at the center of the room. "It's gone, I think." His voice isn't hesitant, but only because he may not be capable of sounding like that. It isn't hesitant, but it's very close. "Or fading. The- the- I almost don't see it any more."

Whatever criteria Roland's using to determine if he's said enough, Firo knows he's not the best judge. But he's satisfied--relieved, too--with Roland's conclusion.

He blinks up at him. "A pet?" That's where he goes after sacrifice? Well, whatever works for him. At least they're on a different topic. "No, we didn't."

Firo's hold on Roland only relaxes slightly when he whips his head around to look where the door should be. "What? The door?" Does he dare hope? Whatever the hell that thing is, he wants it gone. He'd kick it down himself if he could see it, as revenge for what it's doing to Roland.

"The door. The Tower."

For a second, he only watches. "The last I'll ever see of it," he says, and while there's no obvious sadness in the words, there's no joy or relief in them, either.

"If you'd ask the what or the how of it, now may be your last chance." But it isn't a moment before Roland goes on, wanting to tell too much to really consider that Firo might not want to know. "It was - What was it? How to explain? It was a legend. The Manni always knew there were thousands of worlds, even when the rest of us forgot and doubted. The legend came from them, maybe, the knowledge of one place where all of our worlds - yours, mine, this one, there's a Tower in this one, somewhere, in some form - overlap. Interlock. And it was falling. And I was the one who-"

Who what? He tries to remember. What was it he did? He remembers stepping through its door for the first time, and later, stepping through its door for the first time, and stepping through again, and he remembers, he remembers -

He's slumping again against Firo, his breaths unsteady. "Did I?" He asks it faintly, and if hesitant isn't a mood which belongs in Roland's voice, whatever quiet, uncertain tone this is ought to have stayed away, too.

"I must have. I remember so many things, but not after. Is there one? After even this world's Tower is shut from me, what more is there? What more could there be, for a man like the one I am? The one I've turned myself into, in pursuit of it? I remember. All these memories, and I can't find that one. I never expected there'd be an after, after all. After everything. Maybe there isn't one. Maybe I can't find the memory because it simply isn't there."

"You see more than I do, right now. Do you see it? If there's a path for me, once this shuts? Once it's shut forever, at least from me?"

The Tower. For all the trouble it's caused, Firo finds he's not too curious about the thing itself. It was there, it's relentlessly tormented his friend, and now it's going. Good fucking riddance. If the thing and it's influence on Roland are going to be gone, then all of Firo's questions about it really aren't too important.

He rocks a bit with the unexpected weight when Roland leans against him, but he's quick to right himself.

For the answer to Roland's question, Firo hardly has to think. Not because it's not an important question, but because the answer is very plain to him. "Of course there is. I can't tell you what it is--only you can figure out what you wanna do. But once this is all over, I can help you, if you want."

Roland stares at him. Then, slowly, he nods. "I do. I do want that. Thank you, Firo. Thank you for everything."

He watches, gaze steady, the center of the room. The door, the screaming behind it, the sand, it fades. It goes. Now this room is just a room, a cell, and Roland takes a deep, unsteady breath, and holds Firo's hand. I thought I was done with it, it was done with me. Now - now it's well and truly... Over. It's over. I did it, and it's let me go."

It may not seem to have occurred to Roland that this is happy news. He leans forward, head bowed and taking more deep, unsteady breaths which he keeps under control only with difficulty. The welts on his hand, he notices absently, have shrunk down, are nearly gone. He breathes.

"Good." He even smiles a little just to have the confirmation that Roland will go on and give it a shot. "It's no problem."

Firo sighs, the tension slowly leaving his body, and squeezes Roland's hand. After some thought, he moves the hand he's been using to support Roland up and down his back in uncertain, halting movements.

Maybe this is one question Firo will ask. It relates to Roland's wellbeing just as much as the Tower, after all. "Isn't that a good thing? You don't have to worry about it anymore."

"Since I was a boy." It may not seem like an answer, this, but it is one. It'll turn into one, in good time. "Fourteen. I've dreamt of it. This great black shape, amidst a sea of living red. And the sunset. Oh, the sunset. I remember. And I remember. And I re-"

He shudders. Feels the hand on his back. He focuses on the touch and it draws him back, and after a moment, he starts over. "I remember the dreams. I've followed them. Followed it. All my life - or a very great deal of it, anyway. To say it in a way which might come clearer to you, I served it, Firo. I served it, and k- damn it, I'll tell you in the words of my own world one day. You'll hear the High Speech from my own mouth. For now, it's enough to say there are forces which drove me there, forces I served. Ones we all do, in one way or another. We do what we must. And what I must do is done. The thing I always knew that I would do, the place I knew I would go, and I spent so much- I gave so much- Not all of which was mine to give, or oughtn't have been."

"But I was led there, so there I went, no matter the how of it. And now, now it's as if one of your bosses had sent you west - into exile, that is, in the parlance of my old home - without telling you what more they expected of you, or if they expected anything at all. Giving you no task, no direction. I knew what the end of my path looked like, Firo, I always knew. And I reached it. This should be the clearing - but that's more phrasing I've never heard you, nor anyone in this world save those from mine, use. The clearing at the end of my path. The end of this life, at least for me. And now I've passed it, somehow. Freedom is a great and terrible thing, Firo. But you're here."

He looks around at Firo, frowning almost as if the idea confuses him. "You're still here. After it's all ended, someone still is at my side. And that's something."

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