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lastgunslingerHe agrees, faintly, to serve in an advisory capacity.
They camp on the outskirts of the barony of New Canaan, by the ruins of one of the Great Roads. Some of the folk are talking of setting up two settlements, or perhaps three or four.
In the end, some set out for Lud, and some say they'll try for the Callas, and some plan to go north and some plan to go south. The majority say it's Gilead for them. Safety in numbers. They wish each other well and promise to send runners. They leave, and split.
Roland follows the group headed for Gilead. He's pretty sure they haven't realized that he's never actually offered any advice.
***
They ask him to come to meetings for their ad hoc committee. He makes sure he's elsewhere.
This lasts for months before they start to work around him.
***
He drops into place by the fire. Both old men startle, looking up.
Roland holds up his hands. "Long days," he says, almost gently, "and pleasant nights."
One of them rubs his eyes and squints in the firelight. "May you have twice the number. Do we know you?"
"Once upon a time," Roland agrees, "mayhap. I'd share your fire for the evening, and perhaps these." He holds up a brace of rabbits and a skin of wine. "Will you have me?"
The old men agree. Soon the rabbits are roasting, and the skin of wine gets passed around.
"You knew me," Roland says, turning the spit, "quite some time ago. When I was still a young man. When all of us were still young men."
"You're a gunslinger," Dennis says suddenly. "You're that gunslinger. Thomas, he's that gunslinger."
Thomas, the fatter of the two old men, lowers the skin of wine (of which he's had a little more than his fair share, but neither Dennis nor Roland cares), and looks very closely at Roland.
"Is he still alive?" Thomas asks, and his voice is low and hungry in a way that has nothing to do with the smell of roast rabbit. "Can we not kill him, and go home at last?"
Roland adjusts the spit a little more, and sits back on his stone. "Flagg," he says, "has been dead for years."
Dennis, in the middle of rustling among their gunna, stills, his jaw dropping open. Roland does not tell him that he will catch flies like that.
Thomas, blankly: "We had to catch Flagg. It's why we left."
Roland, gently: "He caught himself. Then the world changed."
"Why are we here?" Thomas's hands shake, and -- Roland knows the difference -- it's the palsy of age, and not any kind of upset. "Why can't we go home?"
"Delain," Roland says, "is not as you knew it, King Thomas."
"Don't call me that."
"Are you not still allowed the title?" Roland tilts his head.
Thomas says nothing.
Dennis, abruptly: "Is it still there at all?"
The crackling of the fire is the only sound for nearly a minute. Finally Roland says, "You'd find some of it. There are a few folk left. Young, mostly. Untrained. It is not the home you knew. It's something new entirely. They don't remember Flagg. They don't need to."
Thomas says, hollow, "Then they don't need a king."
Roland's gaze sharpens considerably. "No, sire."
"Isn't that your name? Shouldn't I call you that?" Now Thomas sounds like a petulant child. "That was my father's name. Aren't you one and the same?"
Roland leans over and plucks the wineskin out of Thomas's hands. "Rabbit's done."
"King Roland," Thomas spits. "Isn't that what you are, King Roland. You chased after Flagg like the rest of us and you didn't find him either. You're just as bad as we are."
One thing has not changed about Roland Deschain, and it's the way he cracks a smile -- in such a way that it shocks onlookers; how could a face like that produce a smile?
"You can rest now," he tells them. "Leave off your wandering. Go home to Delain. We're done, here, our breed. What need have we for kings?"
They eat the rabbit in silence.
***
In the morning Roland leaves the forest and goes back to the camp outside the ruined walls of the castle where he was born and raised.
There's only sign of one person; one set of boot prints, one imprint of a bedroll on the earth, one retired king. No manservants. No gentlemen from Delain in search of a dead villain.
No kings, of any kind, in that circle of standing stones.
***
They have stopped asking him about governance, but they still check on him, as though to make sure he is real.
He's very real, he tells them. He does not tell him that he's made his decision, and he knows where to go.
They camp on the outskirts of the barony of New Canaan, by the ruins of one of the Great Roads. Some of the folk are talking of setting up two settlements, or perhaps three or four.
In the end, some set out for Lud, and some say they'll try for the Callas, and some plan to go north and some plan to go south. The majority say it's Gilead for them. Safety in numbers. They wish each other well and promise to send runners. They leave, and split.
Roland follows the group headed for Gilead. He's pretty sure they haven't realized that he's never actually offered any advice.
They ask him to come to meetings for their ad hoc committee. He makes sure he's elsewhere.
This lasts for months before they start to work around him.
He drops into place by the fire. Both old men startle, looking up.
Roland holds up his hands. "Long days," he says, almost gently, "and pleasant nights."
One of them rubs his eyes and squints in the firelight. "May you have twice the number. Do we know you?"
"Once upon a time," Roland agrees, "mayhap. I'd share your fire for the evening, and perhaps these." He holds up a brace of rabbits and a skin of wine. "Will you have me?"
The old men agree. Soon the rabbits are roasting, and the skin of wine gets passed around.
"You knew me," Roland says, turning the spit, "quite some time ago. When I was still a young man. When all of us were still young men."
"You're a gunslinger," Dennis says suddenly. "You're that gunslinger. Thomas, he's that gunslinger."
Thomas, the fatter of the two old men, lowers the skin of wine (of which he's had a little more than his fair share, but neither Dennis nor Roland cares), and looks very closely at Roland.
"Is he still alive?" Thomas asks, and his voice is low and hungry in a way that has nothing to do with the smell of roast rabbit. "Can we not kill him, and go home at last?"
Roland adjusts the spit a little more, and sits back on his stone. "Flagg," he says, "has been dead for years."
Dennis, in the middle of rustling among their gunna, stills, his jaw dropping open. Roland does not tell him that he will catch flies like that.
Thomas, blankly: "We had to catch Flagg. It's why we left."
Roland, gently: "He caught himself. Then the world changed."
"Why are we here?" Thomas's hands shake, and -- Roland knows the difference -- it's the palsy of age, and not any kind of upset. "Why can't we go home?"
"Delain," Roland says, "is not as you knew it, King Thomas."
"Don't call me that."
"Are you not still allowed the title?" Roland tilts his head.
Thomas says nothing.
Dennis, abruptly: "Is it still there at all?"
The crackling of the fire is the only sound for nearly a minute. Finally Roland says, "You'd find some of it. There are a few folk left. Young, mostly. Untrained. It is not the home you knew. It's something new entirely. They don't remember Flagg. They don't need to."
Thomas says, hollow, "Then they don't need a king."
Roland's gaze sharpens considerably. "No, sire."
"Isn't that your name? Shouldn't I call you that?" Now Thomas sounds like a petulant child. "That was my father's name. Aren't you one and the same?"
Roland leans over and plucks the wineskin out of Thomas's hands. "Rabbit's done."
"King Roland," Thomas spits. "Isn't that what you are, King Roland. You chased after Flagg like the rest of us and you didn't find him either. You're just as bad as we are."
One thing has not changed about Roland Deschain, and it's the way he cracks a smile -- in such a way that it shocks onlookers; how could a face like that produce a smile?
"You can rest now," he tells them. "Leave off your wandering. Go home to Delain. We're done, here, our breed. What need have we for kings?"
They eat the rabbit in silence.
In the morning Roland leaves the forest and goes back to the camp outside the ruined walls of the castle where he was born and raised.
There's only sign of one person; one set of boot prints, one imprint of a bedroll on the earth, one retired king. No manservants. No gentlemen from Delain in search of a dead villain.
No kings, of any kind, in that circle of standing stones.
They have stopped asking him about governance, but they still check on him, as though to make sure he is real.
He's very real, he tells them. He does not tell him that he's made his decision, and he knows where to go.
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