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Apr. 2nd, 2005 07:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lastgunslingerSpin. Parry. Thrust. Move the feet.
It's a deadly dance that Roland is performing by moonlight on the far side of the lake, where the door used to be. And dancing is what it looks like -- only it's a little too halting, a little too dangerous to be graceful.
He has not mastered the sword yet. Yet.
It's a deadly dance that Roland is performing by moonlight on the far side of the lake, where the door used to be. And dancing is what it looks like -- only it's a little too halting, a little too dangerous to be graceful.
He has not mastered the sword yet. Yet.
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Date: 2005-04-02 06:41 pm (UTC)His left hand, the one without the sword in it, is still curled into a fist at his side. A tight fist.
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Date: 2005-04-02 06:44 pm (UTC)Then, soft, so soft, her eyes downward.
"Long days and pleasant nights, Roland."
She thinks of rough-but-gentle hands and rib-pokes and shoulder-checks, and is comforted.
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Date: 2005-04-02 06:47 pm (UTC)It's perfunctory.
He waits for her to leave.
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Date: 2005-04-02 06:49 pm (UTC)And is gone.
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Date: 2005-04-02 06:53 pm (UTC)When he raises it and the light returns, there is no trace of anguish.
He goes to take his sword upstairs, and make ready for the evening.