(no subject)

[lastgunslinger]

There are things that Roland Deschain does not see, because he is unconscious.

He does not see Blondie dressing the wound in his back, though when Blondie looks to see if the bullet is still inside, Roland moans slightly.

It's a quick job, but one that saves his life. The blood loss is stopped. This is what matters.

Blondie looks to the red-haired woman and they exchange a glance -- Blondie is tired, and he feels ill. They leave the gunslinger with the girl with the funny skirt and the boy who welcomed the gunslinger to Milliways, and they go upstairs.

The girl and the boy maneuver Roland upstairs as best they can without hurting him. It's hard, and it takes a while, and Roland Deschain does not see what Room 99 looks like when he enters it for the first time. He doesn't see The Complete Stories of Flannery O'Connor lying next to The Lord of the Rings, Gone To Texas and The Vengeance Trail of Josey Wales, Leaves of Grass, and Green Eggs and Ham on an end table. He doesn't see the blue blanket made for him by a woman he will not meet for years lying over his favorite chair. He doesn't see his gunna sitting in the corner.

Instead he lies on his stomach on the bed, and he does not move. He is unaware.

The girl stays with him, watching -- sometimes picking up a book and paging through it without reading.

Eventually Roland's eyes flutter open, and he sees her sitting in the chair.

Everything hurts.

Comments

[lastgunslinger]

There's no fear there.

"Milliways. That what he said?"

His voice is little more than a croak.

[balletrat]

That's where you are, *Meg agrees, and hops easily to her feet and heads over to a table.* Would you like a glass of water or something? Your throat sounds frankly awful -

[lastgunslinger]

"Aye."

He tries to move his head. It's hard.

It's a pleasant enough room -- sunshine streams in the window, and there are two chairs and a table by the window. The bed is close by, and over against the wall there's a writing desk. With paper. Lots of it. He blinks, and tries to shift -- and a sharp intake of breath.

"I got shot. Right?"

[balletrat]

I think so.

*Meg picks up a glass of cool water which happens to be sitting conveniently on the table, though it may not have been there a moment ago - Bar's reach is long - and brings it over to him, her arm steady.*

You probably don't want to move much until we can get you healed - did you get shot in the arm, or can you hold it yourself?

[lastgunslinger]

In answer, Roland winces, moves up in the bed, pushing himself up with his left arm. He takes the glass with his right, and, keeping his right arm close to him -- moving overmuch will hurt like a motherfucker -- he drinks three quarters of the glass at a go.

"If this is the clearing at the end of the path," he says, "it wouldn't hurt. And I've never heard it called Milliways."

Pause.

"You know a man named Blondie?"

[balletrat]

No, *says Meg, brow furrowing.* People seem to keep coming here and asking about him, though -

*She stops. There is no time, at this point to get sidetracked.*

And you're not dead. And you're not going to die now, either. Although you still probably shouldn't move too much, 'cause there's no point in making it worse.

*She hesitates.* Some people here are dead, though. So be prepared for that.

[lastgunslinger]

"He was here. On the couch. Kept me from going out the door."

Roland looks at her. It's almost a wary look, but he's too fierce, even now, for that to be a possibility.

Quietly: "There are vagrant dead in this place."

[balletrat]

- oh, Joe. Yes. I know him.

*And she knows better to say more on that score, at the moment; she has, after all, had her head invaded herself.

So she moves on to mildly safer subjects.* I dunno what you mean by 'vagrant'. They're not, you know, gypsies or anything. Just - people. Who happen to be dead.

- some of them might be people you know. Er.

[lastgunslinger]

It's all too fucking weird.

Roland closes his eyes.

Without opening them: "Are you dead? What's your name?"

[balletrat]

*Meg is back on firmer ground here.*

I'm not dead, and my name is Meg.

I'm a friend of yours. You probably won't belive me, but it's true.

[lastgunslinger]

"Right now I don't know what to believe." Eyes still closed.

When your world falls out from under you, sometimes you've got to be honest.

"The man who caught me. The man who went through the door. That was me. Right?"

[balletrat]

*Meg's face pales, and it is with great effort that her voice remains steady. But steady it remains, and she takes the cup calmly from his hands and puts it on the table again, which conveniently lets her turn away.*

Oui. That was you.

That was the you most of us here knew. So if people say they know you, don't be surprised.

[lastgunslinger]

"This was his room?"

Now his eyes open again. It's not a gunslinger's room -- not like the barracks he was used to. But in its way it's like the bedroom of his mother and father. Or like how their bedroom used to be.

[balletrat]

I think so.

*Meg pushes her hair out of her face and turns around again, almost perfectly composed.*

I mean, I hadn't been up here - you're a very private person. You know that, of course.

[lastgunslinger]

This is weird.

"I guess." Pause. "I shouldn't ask what he's -- what I'm -- like. Right?"

It's more that he can't imagine an older self calling this girl a friend.

Not that he can really imagine an older self at all. There was a battle, and Gilead is gone. He never expected to have a future.

[balletrat]

No. Probably not.

*She takes a breath.* You'll have to expect that it'll be - difficult - for people to get used to the change.

There are lots of people here you're very close to, you know - I don't mean me, *she adds hastily,* you mostly just tolerate me, but - people.

Expect them to be hurt. It's not your fault, but - expect it.

[lastgunslinger]

Roland closes his eyes again, and he doesn't speak for a long time.

"All right."

[balletrat]

*Meg considers putting a bright smile on her face and saying something jolly.

She rejects it as stupid. It might help her, but it certainly wouldn't help him.

So instead, she looks down, and says, quietly,* Sorry. To have to tell you all this.

[lastgunslinger]

Quietly: "Not your fault."

Pause.

"Did he ever speak of Gilead?"

[balletrat]

*Meg draws in a breath, and tries not to think about Paris, and Roland smiling.*

Yes.

[lastgunslinger]

Roland watches her through blue eyes that aren't quite so faded as those she knows.

Softly, he says, "I hurt you. Is it not so?"

[balletrat]

*And now she does put on that bright smile. Say sorry. She tried.*

Ask any questions you need to, Roland. Someone needs to answer them.

[lastgunslinger]

Suddenly, desperately, he wants to go home.

He doesn't have a home. Not any more.

So he closes his eyes, and doesn't speak.

Eventually it becomes clear that he's sleeping.

[balletrat]

*Meg settles herself back in the chair, and doesn't even try reading this time.

She knows she probably shouldn't sleep - she is, after all, meant to be watching him - but it's a relief when it comes all the same.*