The boy was playing his lute alongside the road when the gunslinger found him.
It happened on the highway that ran straight through the magnificent, great plains that stretched all the way to the horizon and quite possibly far beyond it as well. Three days had gone by since they had escaped from the big prison fortress, occupied by bandits; three days had gone by since she'd broke out the boy. The boy had insisted on retrieving his lute, and had forced the two of them to go back for it when they had just left the cell block, and so they had made their way through the big corridors and hallways. They had found the lute but never had any time to rejoice; bandits cornered them and the gunslinger told the boy to get away while he still could, and she would stand and cover him, praying that he would be able to get out by himself.
She felled rogues and bandits, cut them down with her flaming blaster bolts, and now that she sauntered down the highway, looking for the boy, she held a powerful regret in her heart. The only reason she had killed that day was because if she wouldn't have those bandits would have taken her life instead. Kill or be killed. She hated it; it wasn't hers to decide when and where someone would die, was it? But death came and went as it pleased—it had always done that, throughout the centuries—and so Shannon just had to deal with it.
She was a gunslinger, after all.
Gunslingers killed.
It was part of who they were.
It was an internal conflict that she just couldn't seem to resolve herself, and she had come to doubt whether it could ever be resolved at all. Shannon O'Hara was not a killer—she was definitely not a murderer . . . but she was a survivor. And there was only one way to stay alive: take aim and pull the trigger. That was the paradox that was slowly tearing her apart.
While she walked on, further and further down the road, hoping that she would find the boy soon, she took her revolver out of the holster that hung low on her right hip. She held the gun in both hands and stared at the weapon in awe, as though she hadn't ever laid eyes on the thing before. She clenched its grip and its barrel in her hands and looked up, eyes on the horizon, and she pressed her lips, gritted her teeth in an attempt to prevent the tears from flowing.
I'm not a killer, she told herself. I only killed because I had to. But that doesn't make me a killer.
But it did, you see, that was the point. It did make her a killer. And she knew it.
She knew it full well.
She let the gun fall back into the holster and closed her eyes as she walked on, and this time . . . this time she couldn't help it. The tears came and flowed down her cheeks. She opened her eyes and looked up at the sun, her eyes shimmered and glistened and seem bluer than ever—luminous angel eyes showing a deep sadness.
But she was a gunslinger, damn it.
So deal with it.
She found the boy at dusk. The sun set in the west and he sat there, beside the road, playing his tunes. Maybe he did so because he was scared and he wanted to make himself feel better; or perhaps there was another reason why he was playing his lute here, in the middle of nowhere, somewhere along the highway that ran straight through the great plains, no end in sight.
He hadn't seen her yet because he sat with his back toward her; he seemed to be concentrating solely on his instrument. Shannon stopped at a slight distance, just to listen to him play; she didn't want to disturb him now. She had found him after all, time wasn't important anymore. She could wait. She would let him play. And she would approach him when the time came to do so.
She took off her hat and held it in both hands in front of her, her long, red hair wavered softly in the slight, calm evening breeze. Her luminous eyes glistened with tears, but not because of the killing anymore . . . this was about the sheer moment of peace and serenity. A moment in time that seemed so surreal because there wasn't a sign of violence or death. There was only the calming music, only the beauty of the haunting sounds.
Caleb played his instrument 'neath a starlit sky while entire worlds elsewhere in the universe burned to ashes, never to be restored.
He played his instrument, played his tunes, while wars were being fought all across the galaxy.
But only the music mattered.
Only the beautiful, ethereal music.
In her moment of sadness—as she watched the kid sitting there beside the road with his back toward her, all by himself—a real, genuine smile finally played on her lips.
It happened on the highway that ran straight through the magnificent, great plains that stretched all the way to the horizon and quite possibly far beyond it as well. Three days had gone by since they had escaped from the big prison fortress, occupied by bandits; three days had gone by since she'd broke out the boy. The boy had insisted on retrieving his lute, and had forced the two of them to go back for it when they had just left the cell block, and so they had made their way through the big corridors and hallways. They had found the lute but never had any time to rejoice; bandits cornered them and the gunslinger told the boy to get away while he still could, and she would stand and cover him, praying that he would be able to get out by himself.
She felled rogues and bandits, cut them down with her flaming blaster bolts, and now that she sauntered down the highway, looking for the boy, she held a powerful regret in her heart. The only reason she had killed that day was because if she wouldn't have those bandits would have taken her life instead. Kill or be killed. She hated it; it wasn't hers to decide when and where someone would die, was it? But death came and went as it pleased—it had always done that, throughout the centuries—and so Shannon just had to deal with it.
She was a gunslinger, after all.
Gunslingers killed.
It was part of who they were.
It was an internal conflict that she just couldn't seem to resolve herself, and she had come to doubt whether it could ever be resolved at all. Shannon O'Hara was not a killer—she was definitely not a murderer . . . but she was a survivor. And there was only one way to stay alive: take aim and pull the trigger. That was the paradox that was slowly tearing her apart.
While she walked on, further and further down the road, hoping that she would find the boy soon, she took her revolver out of the holster that hung low on her right hip. She held the gun in both hands and stared at the weapon in awe, as though she hadn't ever laid eyes on the thing before. She clenched its grip and its barrel in her hands and looked up, eyes on the horizon, and she pressed her lips, gritted her teeth in an attempt to prevent the tears from flowing.
I'm not a killer, she told herself. I only killed because I had to. But that doesn't make me a killer.
But it did, you see, that was the point. It did make her a killer. And she knew it.
She knew it full well.
She let the gun fall back into the holster and closed her eyes as she walked on, and this time . . . this time she couldn't help it. The tears came and flowed down her cheeks. She opened her eyes and looked up at the sun, her eyes shimmered and glistened and seem bluer than ever—luminous angel eyes showing a deep sadness.
But she was a gunslinger, damn it.
So deal with it.
——————
She found the boy at dusk. The sun set in the west and he sat there, beside the road, playing his tunes. Maybe he did so because he was scared and he wanted to make himself feel better; or perhaps there was another reason why he was playing his lute here, in the middle of nowhere, somewhere along the highway that ran straight through the great plains, no end in sight.
He hadn't seen her yet because he sat with his back toward her; he seemed to be concentrating solely on his instrument. Shannon stopped at a slight distance, just to listen to him play; she didn't want to disturb him now. She had found him after all, time wasn't important anymore. She could wait. She would let him play. And she would approach him when the time came to do so.
She took off her hat and held it in both hands in front of her, her long, red hair wavered softly in the slight, calm evening breeze. Her luminous eyes glistened with tears, but not because of the killing anymore . . . this was about the sheer moment of peace and serenity. A moment in time that seemed so surreal because there wasn't a sign of violence or death. There was only the calming music, only the beauty of the haunting sounds.
Caleb played his instrument 'neath a starlit sky while entire worlds elsewhere in the universe burned to ashes, never to be restored.
He played his instrument, played his tunes, while wars were being fought all across the galaxy.
But only the music mattered.
Only the beautiful, ethereal music.
In her moment of sadness—as she watched the kid sitting there beside the road with his back toward her, all by himself—a real, genuine smile finally played on her lips.
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