(no subject)

[lastgunslinger]

He spent yesterday upstairs, thinking -- and smiling. Today he wants to go outside.

And so now he walks around the lake, taking in the spring day, taking his time as the sun disappears behind the horizon.

He stops in front of the greenhouse at day's last light, watching from outside as the illuminated roses fade into gentle shadow.

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[sai_delgado]

"Is't, then? Is that all?"

[lastgunslinger]

And now he turns on her, stone face in place.

With voice to match, he asks, "What more do you want from me, Susan?"

[sai_delgado]

"Yer word--"

And oh, but she nearly chokes at the thought, and her hands clench together so hard as for her fingers to turn white, but Susan continues,

"-- yer word that thee'd not leave without bidding us farewell, not unless there's no way to avoid it."

Pale as death she is, now, but Susan faces him steadily.

"For thee has friends, here, and those who love thee, and we'd not wish to lose thee so."

[lastgunslinger]

His expression does not change.

"I've given it before. No need to do so again."

[sai_delgado]

"Nay, Roland. Thee hasn't, or not that I've heard. I'd not -- I don't wish--."

She looks up at him, now-- earnest and pleading but determined for all of that, say true.

"Thee told Alain that thee wouldn't leave for a land of death without saying something, first, oh aye. But-- thee -- thee will leave us, someday, for elsewhere--"

(again)

"-- and we-- we who can't follow thee--" Her voice breaks, and Susan Delgado takes a deep breath.

"--all we can do is bid thee farewell, at the last."

And oh, but she is thinking of Joe, taken from Mina and from all of them without warning.

[lastgunslinger]

A moment's pause; then, folding his arms, Roland looks down and begins to pace.

He stops.

Looking out at the lake, he says, "It's a land of death for me when I leave this place to resume my path, Sue. 'Tis how I walk. What I deal. All around me -- death. And I told Alain that I wouldn't leave without saying farewell. I meant it. It's enough for him. Why is that not enough for you?"

[sai_delgado]

(my first thought was he lied in every word)
"Because thee left--" Quick and without thought, and she stops suddenly, wishing she could take it back, oh aye, but she cannot-- and so, Susan continues more cautiously,

"--thee left, Roland, without a word. And we wouldn't have stopped thee; ye know that, ye must know that, say true. But thee walked away, as though we didn't exist for ye--"

(I chose the Tower)

"-- and I'm not Alain, and I'll say what he might not, then."

[lastgunslinger]

"Alain," says Roland, "is not seventeen. Alain is a gunslinger of Gilead. Alain understands that we do what we must, and Alain grants a man room to make mistakes in his grief."

He's still staring out over the lake. The moon is rising.

[sai_delgado]

And this, this stops her, as she looks at him, with quiet worry.

"Aye-- I knew then something were troubling thee, Roland."

(Are thee well, Roland? Truly well? - I'm never not.)

[lastgunslinger]

He doesn't say anything.

He's done his grieving.

[sai_delgado]

She sighs, softly, sadly.

"And none of us could help thee with it, is that so?"

What grief could be so great that he would leave his friends (ka-tet family) to follow after the Weeper into Death? She fears it, and for him.

[lastgunslinger]

"It is so."

The words are still toneless, still even.

Somewhere, he knows, Astarael understands.

[sai_delgado]

Silence, between them, then, and mayhap not as comfortable as it once might have been.

Finally, Susan says, "Thee knows, I'd think, that any of us would do whatever we could for thee."

And have, in the past, although she leaves that unsaid.

[lastgunslinger]

"I know."

And still he had to go elsewhere to find relief. He's aware of this. All too aware.

[sai_delgado]

As is she, now, and somewhere inside she feels that it is something to mourn, and that deeply.

(ka like a wind)

But at the same time, there is still the seed of something else, for have they not all done what they could for him? And paid for it, in great and grievous measure?

Susan sighs, and looks away, out over the lake.

[lastgunslinger]

He turns his head towards her. "Is that all you'd say to me, Susan?"

It's near perfunctory.

[sai_delgado]

"Aye." It's soft, but certain.

"Unless there's aught else that ye'd say unto me?"

[lastgunslinger]

A long silence.

There are things he could say.

But he won't. It won't help.

"No."

[sai_delgado]

"Aye, I thought mayhap not." It's not condemning; Susan's tone is one of weary acceptance, as she watches the light die over the water.

She turns back from the lake to look at him.

"I'll bid thee long days and pleasant nights, then."

[lastgunslinger]

Such a world-weary tone from a girl of seventeen, no matter how tragic her past, no matter how much Roland owes her...

It's too much.

"Nothing I would say. But plenty I could say."

Calm.

"I could say that Astarael and I have held palaver before, and that I make the ones for whom she weeps. I could say that she gave me the help that was not to be found in this godforsaken place for love, wealth, or anything I could give. I could say that I expected better from you, as only children continue asking for affirmation after they have already been given an answer to their liking. I could say that you should have expected no better from me, since you know me for what I am and what I do."

A steady look.

"But I will not."

He inclines his head. "Twice the number to you, sai Delgado."

[sai_delgado]

She whirls on him, then.

"Ye could say a number of things, an' ye would, oh aye. And mayhap it's better so, Roland, that ye say them, and not keep yer own counsel so close all the time, so that others struggle to find a way to aid and care for thee, despite-- anything."

"I'm no child. Not any more, and ye ken it full well, or should. And yer silence has done more to harm than anything ye could say."

[lastgunslinger]

And now his calm composure breaks.

Bombardier eyes crackle.

"If you're no child, Susan Delgado, stop playing the child. Say what you mean to say, and never mind with your sulky, mumbled words meant to get a rise out of me. Ye'd act like your Aunt Cord? I'd not stop you -- for it's your choice, do'ee kennit? But I'll not tolerate such stupidity. Not when it comes to things you can't understand -- or won't."

[sai_delgado]

"Oh ye fool. Ye great fool."

Choked and strangled; pale as salt with anguished fury is Susan, daughter of Patrick, whose own Aunt Cordelia had cursed her with the ashes and then flung the torch that set the Reap-Night bonfire alight with her at its center.

"Ye'd call me so? Ye'd compare me to the woman who killed me in her madness-- and her own blood, at that? Aye, and if it's so, then let it be so-- I've blood on my own hands, aye, and for thy sake. And I'd do it again, say true-- Way of the Eld or not, I did what were needful then, and I'll not run from it now."

"Ye've hidden from me, hidden from us all, and we've done naught to deserve it save to die for thee and thy Dark Tower. Ye've pulled away from us, from all of us, Roland, and if I don't understand it, then tell me why."

[lastgunslinger]

He faces her with the same stance he assumes when there is to be

(smiles lies gunfire)

killing: shoulders back, hands loosely at his sides, chin lowered, putting his weight forward -- easier to charge that way.

"Because Astarael was drawn to my hidden grief," says Roland Deschain, "and you -- all of you -- are the source of it."

He wants out. Five minutes of fighting for days of misery and no quarter. No prisoners. He wants out.

It's not an option.

[sai_delgado]

(charyou tree)

She stares at him, shocked to silence.

(they shot first an instant before they saw)

Blood on her hands-- and so much more on his, including theirs. All of theirs.

(go on then, there are other worlds than these)

In a strange, choked voice, very unlike hers, she says, "And whose fault is that but yer own? And still we forgave thee for it, all of us-- and loved thee anyway, despite it."

(I chose the Tower.)

[lastgunslinger]

In a low hiss: "You think I don't know I've brought this on myself? You think -- "

He turns away, biting off his words.

"I chose the Tower. And I never expected to see any of you again in this place. I never expected to be trapped here, unable to finish what I'd started. This?" He waves a hand at the lake, at the moon, at the bar with its observation window showing the end of the universe -- the very thing Roland has damned himself in order to prevent. "This is hell. I knew I'd be here, in time. I never expected it to come so soon. The Lady -- "

And realizing his error, he covers it by turning on her again. "So do what you'd like. Say what you'd like to whoever you like. You can't change what was, and you can't change what is, and you can't change what will be. No more can I. You might as well accept it -- accept that I will hold palaver with those who can ease my pain regardless of what you think about it, or what you'd have happen. Accept that I've changed, and I'm not the boy you knew. Accept that I'm not worthy of what you'd give."

He stands there for a moment, eyes blazing; and then, thick with scorn and laced with unhappiness, "Long days and pleasant nights."

[sai_delgado]

She can't speak. Can't answer him, can't find words in the face of his misery and his wrath as it pours over her like--

(fire)

--a storm.

He watches her for a moment as she stands there, frozen, his blue eyes cold-- and then Roland Deschain turns and walks away, leaving her there--

(ye'll leave me again, won't ye?)

--alone in the deepening darkness.

Susan sinks to the ground, then, in the grass by the stable, and stays there, silent and unmoving, with her knees drawn up and her face buried in her hands.