milliways_bar | (no subject)

River examines it.

It's heavy.

She nods. "Read it. When I was five. They carry jewelry. Seventeen commonly accepted modes of allegory according to the main school of critical thought."

A brief pause, and she frowns at the cover. "Prime number. Important number. They overanalyze it."

Roland isn't much for literary theory.

"Spend a lot of time walking," he comments. "The writer got a lot of the details right, though."

Distracted from prime numbers, she looks at him.

It's not what normal people would call an inquiring look, but that's probably what it is.

"Would you not say so, River?"

She contemplates this.

"I've never been to Middle Earth."

Roland smiles. "Nor have I. But journeying like that -- it's much the same. Day after day. Terrain changes. Meet a few folken -- some friendly, some not. Same thing to eat, most of the time, unless you can find game. The writer knew."

Another pause for thought.

"He was smart," she tells the book, gravely. It has the air of a stamp of approval.

Roland nods. "You say true." A pause. "You like riddles?"

She shrugs.

"Silly," she tells the air, after a few moments.

Pause. "Combination of logic and intuition. Can't get distracted."

"You say true." A pause. "There were riddling contests, in my youth. Very big affairs. The winner would carry home the largest goose in Barony, at the end. The folken took them very seriously."

River listens intently.

She likes stories.

"My teacher -- Cort -- was the best. 'Twas nearly always him who took home the goose. And yet it was Vannay, my tutor, who taught us riddles."

A small smile, as he thinks of Joe. "I've never been good at thinking around corners."

She frowns. "Brains don't have corners." Patiently, "They're wrinkly."

"Not literally," he says. Roland has seen his share of human brains. Spilled on battlefields, mostly. "And you cannot think literally if you mean to solve a riddle. Is it not so?"

River looks sulky.

That's probably a yes, and it's annoying.

Roland studies her for a moment.

"Vannay taught us things from books. History, and geography, and things gunslingers should know. How to think around corners. Cort taught us the rest -- the way of the gun. What we would need to survive on our own, and as part of the Tet of the Gun. Fighting. How to shoot."

She tilts her head and looks at him.

After a moment, "Don't need to teach. You learned."

"Had to teach," he says. "Eventually. When I drew Eddie and Susannah, and Jake."

A long pause.

"There are times when I wish Cort were here."

He's never said that to anyone outside his tet. He's not sure why he says it now.

There's a short silence.

She smiles a little. "Bar would confuse him."

Roland considers.

"Perhaps at first, as it did all of us. But I think he would settle in well, after he grew used to it."

Cort often went to Gilead Low-Town, after all, for carousing.

This makes sense.

She looks at him, after a little bit. "No students."

It might be a question; it might not. It might be about Cort, or about Roland. Hard to say, sometimes.

"Not here, for me. Not any more." A pause. "Jake passed his trial, as I passed mine."

She wraps her arms around her knees, and looks at him.

"All grown up now."

It's a sad smile, now.

"You say true."

She nods.

Solemnly, "Say sorry."