Sand on the Doorstep

Who can say how long it had been, how far they had gone, or how many lifetimes had been spent in this endless dance of theirs. How many lives had they touched? How many histories had they effected? How many worlds had they crossed? I doubt anyone could answer that truthfully, these two don't even know for sure themselves. Long and long again this chase has gone on for; few know how it started, fewer still know how it's progressed. All we really know for sure is that

"The man in black fled across the desert... And the Gunslinger followed."

Sand on the Doorstep

A work of fiction, say thankya...

The sun beat down as hard as ever, a fiery fist crushing all that lay beneath it in its torrent of life-bringing heat. The ground is hard and wind-worn, the strewn with desert sand. A harsh land, at home in a harsher world. A world which has moved on.

There is no life here; this desert is a place of death and hunger and despair. No living things come here with thoughts of survival in their minds. And no sane person would voluntarily venture into such a bright and lifeless abyss. Yet still he carries on all the same.

See him now, I beg you. See him for what he truly is, just once before our story begins. A wanderer, gaunt and grim, tall and dark, but with a certain handsomeness about him that betrays the face he may have had once, in a different time, and a different world. Upon his head is a hat, Brown and brimmed, and upon his back is fate of all the worlds that ever were and ever will be. He wears a leather vest over a simple cotton shirt. A duster may have covered him once, but it was tossed aside when the sun threatened to defeat him. A bound horn hangs from a makeshift band around his neck, a reminder of a friend long dead and a home long gone. A pair of long feathers hang from the leather cord that holds the horn, one of pure white and one as black as jet. Across his chest a pair of bandoliers hang, one from each shoulder. And about on his hips rest two massive revolvers with sandal-wood grips. He is a knight, anointed and blessed, worn and torn, wearily making the pilgrimage that he, and he alone, was destined to complete.

And so on he walks, undeterred by the life-ending rays baring down upon him. He walks at a steady pace, a water-skin in one hand which he sparingly takes sips from every mile or so. Another is bound about his waist, and six more are tied to the saddle of the horse that walks beside him. A strong and loyal companion, the noble stead is now little more than a kit-barer, carrying what little food and water the two have left. Rusher is his name, though whether the name was always his or if the Gunslinger gave it to him in memory of another has long since been lost to the fog of the past. This world has moved on, and would not do to dwell on what has been left behind.

An outcrop of wind-swept rocks appears in ahead of the two travelers. The remains of what was once a great mountain, eaten away by the sand-filled gusts of the desert. It is here that the Gunslinger has tracked his quarry to, following little more than a trail of burnt-out campfires left behind by someone who clearly knew he was being chased and meant to toy with his hunter. The last fire had burned down into the shape of letters, leaving a scorched "Turn Back" on the desert floor after the ashes had scattered to the wind. That man, if he could be called that, was a wizard of the worst imaginable kind. A monster with a sense of humor and a death wish for the entirety of existence. Still, if he could survive this foray into the desert, then how could the Gunslinger turn tail and flee back to civilization?

They took shelter in the stony fortress of the outcrop; a disturbing mound of twisted stone spires, each one the bright color of a burning ember. Yet within the confines of that natural fortress it was cool and the wind could not touch the Gunslinger and his mount. So it was here that they settled, around the smoldering remnants of yet another of the sorcerer's fires.

The Gunslinger placed himself against a smooth stone wall and slowly slid to a seated position. He surveyed his surroundings, his eyes red and swollen from the desert air. The small valley they were in was really little more than a cave without a ceiling. Overhead the spires loomed, stabbing at the sky like the turrets of some great castle. He thought to himself of the Tower, it was something which seemed to find its way into his mind no matter what he was thinking about. He gazed at the spires, thinking how similar they seemed to those of the mythical structure he had spent so long seeking. As he looked at them the sun began to shrink behind a particularly thick cloud of dust blew over the open ceiling of the valley. Black spires, dark as pitch and terrible to behold, yet somehow beautiful as well. Could it be that this was the place he was meant to find, that this was the Dark Tower after all? How beautiful those spires seemed now that the possibility that his long journey might finally be at its end.

And then, from out of no where, the sun shone through clearer and brighter than before and the spires turned a brilliant shade of white. Color flooded into the peaks of each of the stone needles, a golden hue that spoke of royalty. The pennants flying from their points were whipping soundlessly in the wind, Pink and white crested with the same gold as the towers themselves. A strange device graced their centers, too high and too distorted by the waving motion to be seen clearly. A fanfare blew in the distance. For the celebration. The victory celebration must be starting. I must to hurry or I'll be late. They would think me ungrateful and poorly raised if I were to-

He slammed his eyelids down, providing his retinas with much needed relief from the dry desert air and the blazing sun's glare. When he opened them, the spires were nothing but red stone once more. No pennants flapped on their zeniths, no banners hung from there shafts. This was not the Dark Tower. It was not the Royal Palace. It was nothing but an old decaying mountain, in a world that had moved on. And yet for a moment I could have sworn it was...

"Its the thirst, you haven't drank nearly enough and now your seeing things," the voice said from behind him. Lightning quick, Roland Deschain was on his feet. He spun around, ripping the guns from their holsters, only to come face to face with the wall he had been propped against. "And hearing things too, it would seem," the voice tittered. It was an evil voice, charming and sweet to hear, but so full of venom and malice that one could fall the man's very words were he not careful enough. Slowly, the Gunslinger turned toward the dying corpse of the campfire. There, in the embers, he saw what he had prayed he wouldn't. Two eyes were watching him from within two smoldering brands. A sudden flash burst forth from the middle of the fire, startling Rusher and reigniting the fire in its entirety

A pale man, hooded and cloaked, stared back at Roland through the ghostly glow of the flames. "Of course I suppose it could also just be the fumes coming off the fire thats causing your senses to betray you. Thats what happens when you burn devil grass, you know." He pointed down toward the base of the flames, and Roland saw a quick flash of purple beneath the pale fire. His head felt dizzy, his eyelids heavy, he sat back down against the wall. He let his hands slide off of his guns, just enough to take another swig of water and then dump the rest of its contents over his face. He blinked several times, clearing his vision once more. When he looked at the campfire again it was no longer looking back at him.

The fire had died back to nothing but a few smoldering embers, but in the midsts of them he could make out something else. It was a small, metallic object, one that was instantly familiar to his eyes. A bullet casing, spent when the flash had gone off which startled his horse. Another one of Walter's tricks. More of his encouragement to turn back no doubt. But did that really just happen? Was he really there or is it just the devil grass playing with my senses?

No one answered his thoughts this time. He allowed himself to drift, thoughts of the past spinning through his head in a torrent of half-forgotten memories. Some were his, he knew, but not all of them. How many of these visions were true and how many were false, he could not say. Still, they swarmed through his head all the same, a storm of bullets, blood, fire, shadows, and regret. These were the memories which haunted him the most, the ones that seemed the strangest, yet the only ones which he could say for certain were his. So much pain, too much for any one man to bare. That was not his voice and it was not his thought, yet sounded true enough all the same. How much easier it would be for everyone if you were to just end it all here and now, reject this foolish quest and be free of the pain once and for all. He knew such thoughts were blasphemy, yet he listened all the same. His hand went to the ground by his side, found his gun, and lifted it. Lifted it to his head and with a single smooth motion cocked the hammer back, evened off the barrel and-