(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.

Comments

[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.