lastgunslinger

Some dim part of Cuthbert is aware that the correct answer to what Roland's just said is not a new eruption of snickering. That's all that comes out at first, though.

Then he shakes his head, stepping--staggering--backwards, and holding the horn just out of Roland's reach, almost teasingly. "Oh, no, my friend. I blow it sweeter than you ever did. You can have it back when I'm dead. Neglect not to pluck it up, for it's your property."

It's possible he might say more, if not for the sudden interruption of two more bullets. One takes him in the upper right arm. The other blazes its way past the side of his head, and half the world suddenly goes dark.

There's a brief flare of anger--bastards, I needed that eye--but then a fresh surge of laughter takes him. When it finally passes, he fixes Roland with his one good eye, grinning from ear to ear.

"Roland! We've been betrayed, we're outnumbered, and our backs are to sea--we've got 'em right where we want 'em! Shall we charge?"

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Roland looks at Cuthbert, at his men, at their situation --

-- and nods.

Time to stand true.

"Aye! Aye, very well." He raises his voice -- another silver sound. "Ye of the castle, to me! Gunslingers, to me! To me, I say!"

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--And for just a moment, all traces of laughter fall from Cuthbert's face.

"As for gunslingers, Roland--I am here. And we are the last."

He never thought he'd be there, at the end. Part of him has always been certain that he would fall, probably through his own stupidity, and leave Roland and Alain to go on.

It's turned out the other way around, and in different circumstances, this might make him weep. Now, it just makes him laugh again.

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The end. This is the end.

The end.

He looks at Cuthbert, and for one spare moment twenty-four years of memories flood through him -- birth to death, now. And he embraces Cuthbert. The other gunslinger is trembling, and Roland holds him close. This is how he will remember Cuthbert Allgood.

Cuthbert is still laughing.

My dear, he almost says. But no time for that. No time for goodbyes. Time is up.

He pulls back, looks at the other men -- a spare handful against a horde.

"All right." His voice sounds hoarse, even to him. "We're going into them. And will accept no quarter."

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And in between pain and laughter that split Cuthbert's mind, there is still a core of fierce pride and love for Roland.

"Nope." His voice is almost cheerful. "No quarter. Absolutely none."

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He hears Cuthbert, and it's so hard to keep a smile from his face.

So he doesn't.

It's grim, and ugly, and right.

"We will not accept their surrender if offered."

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For some reason that Cuthbert is glad he will never be asked to explain, this strikes Cuthbert as the funniest thing Roland has ever said, and he practically doubles over with laughter.

"Under no circumstances!" he gasps out finally. "Not even should all two thousand lay down their arms."

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And he turns to Cuthbert this last time, friend to friend, gunslinger to gunslinger, brother to brother. That smile is still there, knowing, lethal, and somehow beautiful.

Magnificent.

His voice is strong and sure. "Then blow that fucking horn."

And there it is -- the sound of a lifetime, of a dozen lifetimes, a sound that is the heart of all the Way of Eld is and will ever be, and he loves it, and he loves Cuthbert for sounding it -- and Roland draws himself up.

"And now, my friends -- " He doesn't look around, but ahead. Forward. "Hile!"

Their answering cry -- and there's the red haze descending upon him. One last time, then, he thinks, descending into battle fury as though into a lover's embrace. Let it be so.

He raises his voice -- the last time. "To me! Forward!" And always --

"For the Tower!"

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Cuthbert thrusts his hands skyward, revolver clutched in one, Eld's Horn in the other. The motion makes him stumble and reel, and for one terrifying moment he thinks he will fall, that it will end for him now and Roland will have to face this last charge alone.

And then the ground is firm beneath his feet again as he screams out the final words of his life.

"The Tower!"

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He runs. Cuthbert is at his side. And it is right.

"No prisoners!"

Roland is screaming.

"NO PRISONERS!"

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They charge, magnificently, doomed, into a horde of barbarians and vandals and murderers and oathbreakers with their faces painted blue and the red light of Discordia in their eyes. They shout defiance and rage at the world's moving on, and Joe Manco shouts with them, inside of him, drowned in the battle fury, unable to tell himself from Roland, if he rages because the fire has taken Susan or the Dark preyed on Mina. All he knows is the hatred of Discordia, of the thieves of light and laughter, and the guns never stop working in their hands.

The gun and the bow and the lance--for a hundred years they'll tell the story of the swathe two gunslingers and ten ordinary men cut through an army of two thousand.

But they die. They die shouting defiance. They die shielded behind the strange statues that cover the hill, the grim blue-black stone faces. They die heroes. They die.

Roland turns to Cuthbert, raising the horn to his lips one last time, here in the lee of one of those ancient, broken faces.

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sai-interloper.livejournal.com

And one rises up from amongst the others, lips twisted into an unearthly snarl.

Eyes glittering and he laughs, draws the bowstring so high and fine against his cheek it rebounds and draws blood as the arrow whistles forward, screaming the last - born by the wind of your ka, you may say, he thinks, and titters.

It hits Cuthbert in the eye with a sickening wet noise.

Walter howls his triumph to the sky.

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And there is one more bright flare of pain, and then--

--Then, the thing that tells Cuthbert he's finally dying is that suddenly, he can see.

He's been shot in both eyes, and he should be blind--but suddenly, he can see everything with perfect clarity.

Everything--the strange broken statues, the dead men lying where they fell--and the woman walking toward him with her hand outstretched.

She's beautiful. And he knows her.

For one moment, he's angry. For one moment, he wants to scream at her.

Susan. Mother and Father, and all the rest in Gilead. Desmond. Jamie. Alain--and now Roland and I. Have we all died for nothing? Has any of this been worth anything?

But he doesn't say any of this, because her smile both answers his questions and soothes his anger.

Cuthbert doesn't know if he's ever seen so much love in a smile before. He doubts it.

And, with no bitterness in his heart, he takes her hand. (http://www.livejournal.com/community/milliways_bar/2710548.html)

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In the corner of his eye, he sees Cuthbert fall.

And he sees the Horn of Eld, the Horn o' Deschain, fall from Cuthbert's hand.

Roland turns away -- he'll come back for it later, if he can -- now his business is killing --

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And Joe comes forward.

There's a man in front of him/them now, a great bull of a man with his face nearly purple under the paint, with a lance. His only concession to armor is a tarnished brass helm. This is not going to be easy.

He stoops--slides, really, because he's in motion--and does something he'd never do in his own body. He tosses the gun in his left hand into the air. But this Roland is maybe two vital years younger, and has apparently had his nerves replaced with razor blades.

He swoops his left hand down and scoops up the horn, simultaneously cocking and firing the right hand pistol into the man's knee. He flips the horn in his hand like a man showboating a pistol, snakes his wrist through the loop and reaching up for the pistol it slides down his forearm, nearly to his shoulder.

And he's reaching up with his right, too, and cocking, and catching the left and cocking it and firing both into the face of the enormous man about to topple forward on to him with that fucking lance.

He stills falls on him, but the spear turns aside, into the ground and then snapping, and the man falls onto him with his full weight, the helm cracking into his skull, and for a while both Roland and Joe are lost to darkness.

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The first thing Roland notices when he awakens is the stench. Someone's bowels let go. Not his, though -- the ones of the man on top of him. The corpse is huge, and it's hard to shift -- but he tries.

His head hurts like hell.

But then --

Voices. "Fuckin' gunslingers, how many of 'em were left, how much damage they did, did you see -- "

Roland secures his guns.

Not time to die. Not yet. He's made it this far.

-- but what's that? It's -- the horn. He doesn't remember picking it up. But he might have. The whole battle is a blur, now.

It's time to play dead, if there's any hope at all of continuing to the Tower. He looks inward, to do as he'd been taught by Cort not too terribly long ago, to put himself into a trance --

-- something is not right.

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Hile, gunslinger.

This is fuckin' stupid. Howdy, I'm a voice in your head. Ain't there--

Then, suddenly, light.

It's Milliways.

Or a reasonable facsimile. It's a little dead--only two people here--and it gets fuzzy unless you look hard. And it's got a good bit of the Traveller's Rest in Mejis mixed in--Bernard would never stand for the mutant stag head.

Anyway, it's a bar, and there's a table, and sitting on one side of it is a young man--no more than 27--with fine fair hair and beard and typical gunslinger's wardrobe--wide-brimmed hat, long black coat, jeans, boots--and double strapped pistols and cold blue eyes that ought to be familiar.

Childe Roland sees them in the mirror every morning when he shaves, after all.

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Roland stares. Looks around him.

Looks before him.

Hands hang idle by his sides. By his holsters.

Low: "Tell me who you are, gunslinger. If gunslinger is what you are. And tell me where we are."

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Joe sighs. He should have known. He's going to be expected to explain, as if he knew any more than this Roland.

"I'm no gunslinger, and we're inside your mind." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder at a door in the wall. There's no knob on this side. "I came in here through that door an' I can't get out. You didn't see it followin' along behind when you turned your head, huh?"

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Roland sees the door, now. It's closed.

"No." Roland's senses are still thrumming, and he's trembling slightly. It's difficult to come down from an adrenaline high with no warning. "How the fuck did you get inside my head? And who the fuck are you?"

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Joe sighs again. "You can call me Blondie. Plenty of people have." He fumbles in a pocket, focuses his imagination. "Cigar?"

"Somebody put the door up and gave me a key and a reason to go through. As a trap for both of us, I reckon. Enemy of yours--name of Walter."

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"Don't know anybody by that name."

Roland smokes.

"If it was a trap, why'd you do it?" Flat, with no scorn.

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"I had a good reason, and I reckoned I could beat it," Joe says. He may sound slightly smug.

"Didn't quite reckon on the fucker closin'. As you can see it, don't open from this side. When we weren't in here, I could see it when you looked over your shoulder, bobbing along."

"Now, on the other side of that door, it can be opened. But only you and me can open it, and we gotta have a password and a key too."

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"You're here," says Roland. "So we can't get it open. Is that what you're saying?"

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