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Something adjacent to misery had taken him, in the years haunting Angelica’s death.
Not quite sorrow, yet- in the stages of denial; grief, moreso, but for that first while he hadn’t quite accepted it– woke up shivering in the night when there was no body beside him, the image of her ghost-pale hair brushing past his fingers, the sight of her hair and skin becoming harder to distinguish in his mind. The taste of metal, iron (not quite death; in these nightmares she holds on a little longer, lets him wallow in agony a hint more. His punishment for failure: two lives in one fell swoop.) He recalls in those dreams not the moment she died, but instead that false death, so long ago. That’s that and this is this. His skin still remembers her blood.
He’s awful, really. For a short while, when there was nothing he could feel, he prayed for something to strike him down while he slept; to pretend there was some cleansing innocence in dying unaware, to act like he’s something other than a coward— too lazy to do anything about the sorry state he so often finds himself in. Maybe, in some reality not far from here, he’s dead by his own hand; the more he lingers on the thought the more certain it seems. Maybe if he didn’t tend towards anger. Something in him had grieved all it could at the sight of that old Singularity. (He wonders, briefly, if Angela has any thoughts on them. His thoughts drift more towards her lately, in these lonely moments of weakness; it makes it difficult to wallow, which he supposes is a good thing.)
To tell the truth, Roland is afraid.
This isn’t something that’s difficult to realise, and perhaps isn’t something he locks behind walls as well as he used to; he’s scared– always has been– of something terrible striking again, pulling his life back up by the roots. He’s not quite sure why- he has nothing to defend in this place but himself (and Angela, though Angela is– he’s honestly unsure why he keeps thinking of her so fondly. They’re friends, but he can almost feel her slotting into the hole Angelica left behind in him; it doesn’t unsettle him as much as it should. It just makes him nervous, a luxury he surely can’t afford.) He exhales loudly, places the book he’s been pretending to read for an audience of none back into its spot. It’s fine if he leaves it out, but Angela’d probably have to go out of her way to put it back and… it’d be a hassle, is what he’s trying to say. He really shouldn’t inconvenience her more than he surely already has, you know?
He’s not sure why he’s justifying it to himself like it means anything. All it is is his selfish attempts to call himself a ‘better person’ even though that doesn’t really mean anything in a place where hardly anyone will be inconvenienced by it.
Still.
His dreams have taken a different direction lately, which is why he’s awake far later than he should be; he wonders if Angela is still awake, too, and figures she probably is. The point is, he really oughtn’t be awake at this hour if he’s meant to be paying attention when Angela asks him the answer to something she’s mildly interested in. He wonders why she keeps asking him; it’s easier to consult a book, isn’t it? It gives him the fleeting impression she’s fond of him, but that just seems like his own baseless yearning for affection— though of course he’ll indulge himself in the idea anyway.
His dreams have taken a different direction lately. Now, the ghost of Angelica is replaced wholly by Angela, still dying in his arms. Seeing red on her like a grisly accent is still so unnatural it’s woken him up several times, something he’s ashamed to be grateful for. When it doesn't, he’s trapped in that awful vision of Angela dying in his arms. He tries to avert his eyes, turns his face to God and prays for forgiveness, but there’s nothing he can do- there’s never anything he can do, when it’s all said and done. He’s known for a while now that every ending he’ll ever find is defined by someone else, but this feels like something he could fix if he wasn’t himself.
Angela always dies at the end. For once he’s glad to wake up alone, because sometimes he wakes up with the hint of a scream or a sob dying in his throat, and the times he has less of a reaction are still terrible, still leave him feeling sick, but that’s hardly of any consequence when he’s overcome with relief Angela is alive, pushing away thoughts of why exactly his mind made that replacement.
(Well, maybe he’s back in the throes of denial. Maybe it’ll take him a while to realise, but the second time is less difficult. For the first time in a long time he thanks God for something— not that he’s any more religious. Maybe Hokma would appreciate the sentiment.)
It’s difficult to keep his thoughts from those recurring dreams, though. He almost wishes (almost, because it’s a very close thing) he was dreaming of Angelica again, because this wound is so much fresher; at least with Angelica he could lash out at anyone else. When Angela dies in his arms and he looks down, the hilt of his sword lies in his chest. Those half-baked fantasies of ruining whoever had caused the Distortions, destroying them completely— physically, emotionally- maybe even conceptually, if he was able— for the chance at a dream of happiness come back and haunt him, now. When he closes his eyes the mask weighs heavy on his face, the gloves too tight on his hands. He can see it- her head disconnected from her body, the mechanical arc he could have cleaved through her neck, had he sought salvation through blood again.
It goes without saying he’s glad (unimaginably so) he didn’t, but he’s still afraid of the violence he knows he’s capable of. On occasion it’s hard to look at his hands without remembering death. Sometimes some part of him recalls the Smoke War, and he can almost see the soot on his fingers- so black it’s almost like he’s wearing her gloves again.
He runs his hands under water. The cold feeling of it brings him out of those heat-choked visions- the taste of rot mixed with smoke leaves his tongue, and his hands feel slightly less coated with grime, though there are some horrors he can’t wash away so easily. Angela is the one who suggested this ritual to him, which would be almost funny if it hadn’t brought a distantly familiar feeling to his chest; two people desperately trying to move past the darkness that stains them, binds them together inseparably.
(In a world where the War didn’t happen, would Angela even exist? Is it possible for something so awful to have an upside? Something in him has changed undeniably: for instance, now when he thinks of fingers he thinks, too, of clasped hands.)
“This is that,” she had said, “and that is this.”
He understands the sentiment better now, at least.
They’ll wipe their hands clean as they can together, and try to accept what remains by the end.