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[locks_it_up]

It has been some space of time since he found his Tower, and breached it, and fell into her arms.

In that time, he has walked with her, stayed with her as a guest before she walks him on to the clearing.

Today? They are at Disneyland.

They are sitting at a table in the Blue Bayou, as boats splash on in the distance to meet robot pirates, and recorded crickets chirp and fireflies flicker, and Chinese lanterns bob over their heads. In the distance, there is a banjo playing, picked at slow and mournful. She's sipping on a mint julep and grinning widely.

Comments

[locks_it_up]

"She would be glad to see you. And perhaps even more hurt when you left again."

She will not lie.

A pause.

Death looks at his hand in hers, because she cannot or will not look at his eyes.

"She'll have me. She'll always have me."

[lastgunslinger]

Whispered:

"Mo cuishle."

And then, steadier, Roland says, "It's -- different, my dear. You're the end."

He looks ancient, now. Monolithic. Like something eternal. And -- strangely lovely.

"I was her way."

[locks_it_up]

"I know."

[lastgunslinger]

There's no harm in telling her what he wants. No harm. He's dead. Wholly hers.
I have had dreams about dreams about dreams
There's nobody else here right now.
Only the phoenix arises and does not descend
"Lady." With love.
What is dreamed can never be lost, can never be un-dreamed
"I'd -- return to her. To Milliways. For a time. Before I continue down my path."
Everything changes
"One last way-station."
And nothing is truly lost

[locks_it_up]

"If that's what you want, that's what you get."

[lastgunslinger]

His eyes close.

He doesn't breathe, for a moment.

(It's hard to get out of the habit.)

His eyes open. Slowly, his free hand rises to cup her face, thumb barely tracing the edge of her mouth.

"I'd not leave you yet."

Apology.

[locks_it_up]

She looks down, tries not to lean into his touch.

Fails.

Smiles, soft.

"I'd not have you gone. Not yet."

This is still their time.

[lastgunslinger]

"It is very well."
MERRY
As he speaks, he pulls his hand out of hers, and pulls her closer. They've gotten used to this since he's been here. It's not a comfort he's forgotten. Doesn't mean he's not glad to have it, now. This is different, though -- he's wholly hers.
CHRISTMAS
And he won't ever leave her, nor she him.
Mit schlag.
And -- as he bends his head and their lips meet and hands begin to do other things entirely, slow at first and then not slow at all -- Roland Deschain really believes what he's always known, and sees the good in it as well as the bad (and for that matter, the ugly):
Omnia mutantur, nihil interit.
He's one lucky son of a bitch.