It's an hour since they last spoke. The sun is sinking into a pink sky, now, latticed by leafless trees and spreading a blood-red trail across the lake
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When he does, his voice is low and hoarse. One hand is still gripping Cuthbert's painfully tight; the other works at a loose thread in the blanket, and he watches it rather than look up.
"Some made it out, of course. Snuck out. Or bought their way." One way or another. He swallows. "Mostly, we never learned who. A few. Some -- Bridget Gamble, Richard Slotkin -- Dick, Ambrose Vane -- servants in our father's houses, that stayed for a time with us. Annie May Tunns, she the lady of the northern bounds, and William Roberts."
"We -- held while we could, then fought a retreat. Regrouped."
Rougher, "Buried our dead. Outside the walls. As best we could."
"We had nineteen gunslingers, then." He's too caught in memory to quite notice the number. "Forty-nine enlisted men. Some sundry folk who found safer homes soon, along the road."
A short paus, and his hand tightens on the blanket's loose thread. He's still mostly talking to the ground.
"It was a day later that the Beam broke. Connecting Hare and Bat."
"We -- saw the dust rising. Great clouds of it, as the walls came tumbling down. We were too far away by then to be certain of the damage, beyond -- I hope it killed most of the bastards." A brief, savage twist to his voice -- and bitter, because each corpse would have come from another piece of his city broken. "We never turned back."
She's thinking of Lud again; Lud and Fedic and Castle Town of Le Casse Roi Russe.
She was right when she thought Roland had his own lethal glammer. How many dead cities did he walk away from? It was never his fault, only his grisly ka--to survive.
To survive them all, every city, every friend. Every person around this fire.
When he does, his voice is low and hoarse. One hand is still gripping Cuthbert's painfully tight; the other works at a loose thread in the blanket, and he watches it rather than look up.
"Some made it out, of course. Snuck out. Or bought their way." One way or another. He swallows. "Mostly, we never learned who. A few. Some -- Bridget Gamble, Richard Slotkin -- Dick, Ambrose Vane -- servants in our father's houses, that stayed for a time with us. Annie May Tunns, she the lady of the northern bounds, and William Roberts."
"We -- held while we could, then fought a retreat. Regrouped."
Rougher, "Buried our dead. Outside the walls. As best we could."
"We had nineteen gunslingers, then." He's too caught in memory to quite notice the number. "Forty-nine enlisted men. Some sundry folk who found safer homes soon, along the road."
A short paus, and his hand tightens on the blanket's loose thread. He's still mostly talking to the ground.
"It was a day later that the Beam broke. Connecting Hare and Bat."
"We -- saw the dust rising. Great clouds of it, as the walls came tumbling down. We were too far away by then to be certain of the damage, beyond -- I hope it killed most of the bastards." A brief, savage twist to his voice -- and bitter, because each corpse would have come from another piece of his city broken. "We never turned back."
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She was right when she thought Roland had his own lethal glammer. How many dead cities did he walk away from? It was never his fault, only his grisly ka--to survive.
To survive them all, every city, every friend. Every person around this fire.
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Exiles.
Eddie knows he'll never see his city again, but at least he knows it's still there. He's a city boy at heart, and he always will be.
He always thought of the old-school gunslingers as creatures of the prairies and deserts. Now he wonders, and he sympathizes, and he hurts.
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