Roland shakes it off. Tries to. The attempt is not as strong as he would have liked, but it's an attempt nonetheless, made easier when the feeling of Inigo's words warm him. When Inigo's hand in his remains, and he moves to look at him in the eye. Inigo will see it; the reflection of someone broken, forced to be put together again to serve a greater purpose other than to succumb to the pain of losing it all. Roland knows Inigo has felt it himself. So he doesn't try, doesn't hide it, lets his head hang a bit lower still until he allows a moment of weakness. Just one moment where maybe he can admit the worst part of him to someone who understands the stakes.
Someone who's seen the loss and felt it with his own two hands. His forehead dips until it rests against the space between Inigo's neck and shoulder. He slips his hand free from Inigo's grasp so he can hold him by the other shoulder like an anchor, like he was sinking down unto the earth. There are no tears, but his voice is hushed, a cry of pain all on its own. ]
Maybe you can just ask Naga to save him instead. [ A hitched breath. His fingers grasp at the fabric it finds, his shirt bunched up, Roland's hand in a controlled tremor. His tongue is lead as he spills a confession. ] William is sick. He was born with an illness that has no cure. He's been bedridden for years. [ The tremor grows. He hides against this space, against Inigo, perhaps another son he will fail- ] The day my nation ended, he was probably watching from the hospital window...The missile coming in, exploding. The sky red, just like this. Just like now.
[ Roland coughs out a laugh, absent of joy. ] So if my world is gone, that's okay. That's on me. You can - you can ask Naga to save Will, though. Right? Just him. Be with him, live with him instead. Heal him. Give him a good life.
[ His sword trembles now too. This is all he's been thinking about, at the back of his mind. What the bleeding clouds remind him of; the hell he saw once, and never forgot. The father who buried his own child, turned to dust, swept away into the wind. ]
cw; terminal illness, child death
Roland shakes it off. Tries to. The attempt is not as strong as he would have liked, but it's an attempt nonetheless, made easier when the feeling of Inigo's words warm him. When Inigo's hand in his remains, and he moves to look at him in the eye. Inigo will see it; the reflection of someone broken, forced to be put together again to serve a greater purpose other than to succumb to the pain of losing it all. Roland knows Inigo has felt it himself. So he doesn't try, doesn't hide it, lets his head hang a bit lower still until he allows a moment of weakness. Just one moment where maybe he can admit the worst part of him to someone who understands the stakes.
Someone who's seen the loss and felt it with his own two hands. His forehead dips until it rests against the space between Inigo's neck and shoulder. He slips his hand free from Inigo's grasp so he can hold him by the other shoulder like an anchor, like he was sinking down unto the earth. There are no tears, but his voice is hushed, a cry of pain all on its own. ]
Maybe you can just ask Naga to save him instead. [ A hitched breath. His fingers grasp at the fabric it finds, his shirt bunched up, Roland's hand in a controlled tremor. His tongue is lead as he spills a confession. ] William is sick. He was born with an illness that has no cure. He's been bedridden for years. [ The tremor grows. He hides against this space, against Inigo, perhaps another son he will fail- ] The day my nation ended, he was probably watching from the hospital window...The missile coming in, exploding. The sky red, just like this. Just like now.
[ Roland coughs out a laugh, absent of joy. ] So if my world is gone, that's okay. That's on me. You can - you can ask Naga to save Will, though. Right? Just him. Be with him, live with him instead. Heal him. Give him a good life.
[ His sword trembles now too. This is all he's been thinking about, at the back of his mind. What the bleeding clouds remind him of; the hell he saw once, and never forgot. The father who buried his own child, turned to dust, swept away into the wind. ]