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Nov. 10th, 2004 11:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lastgunslingerA dish of oil.
A rag.
Roland cleans his gun slowly, taking his sweet time. An act of devotion -- prayer, in his way. He thinks of Cort, his teacher. Of Eddie. Of Susannah.
Of Jake.
Roland dismantles his gun, taking it apart piece by piece, thinking of what Joe had said about the Landlord. It was not cruel, perhaps, but certainly not kind for the Landlord to bring him to the bar, only to see Jake there -- dead, yes, but somehow alive.
The first time Roland had watched Jake die, Jake had simply let go of the rail and faded into black space with no cry. Jake had not been a gunslinger then, had been a sad, scared boy as soft as the folken that Joe had mentioned, and yet Roland had loved him.
Roland stares at the parts of his gun lying on the floor. He reaches out with one heavy hand and touches the smooth sandalwood grips -- the same grips known to the touch of the gunslingers of the Deschain family for countless generations.
He quits hunkering and just sits, and stares.
It would be a good idea to find Joe again, ask him about the Landlord, ask him how the dead can appear in this place and seem alive. Joe does not seem like a gunslinger -- but there's something familiar about him. Not as good as talking to Cort, or his father, mayhap, but certainly better than nothing.
Roland stays there, sitting on the floor, for a very long time. There is much to think about.
A rag.
Roland cleans his gun slowly, taking his sweet time. An act of devotion -- prayer, in his way. He thinks of Cort, his teacher. Of Eddie. Of Susannah.
Of Jake.
Roland dismantles his gun, taking it apart piece by piece, thinking of what Joe had said about the Landlord. It was not cruel, perhaps, but certainly not kind for the Landlord to bring him to the bar, only to see Jake there -- dead, yes, but somehow alive.
The first time Roland had watched Jake die, Jake had simply let go of the rail and faded into black space with no cry. Jake had not been a gunslinger then, had been a sad, scared boy as soft as the folken that Joe had mentioned, and yet Roland had loved him.
Roland stares at the parts of his gun lying on the floor. He reaches out with one heavy hand and touches the smooth sandalwood grips -- the same grips known to the touch of the gunslingers of the Deschain family for countless generations.
He quits hunkering and just sits, and stares.
It would be a good idea to find Joe again, ask him about the Landlord, ask him how the dead can appear in this place and seem alive. Joe does not seem like a gunslinger -- but there's something familiar about him. Not as good as talking to Cort, or his father, mayhap, but certainly better than nothing.
Roland stays there, sitting on the floor, for a very long time. There is much to think about.
