Sand on the Doorstep

Roland jolted back upright. His head was spinning, his gun was in hand. He had fallen over, he realized. He must have lost himself in the damned glow of the devil grass smoldering in the embers. He replaced his guns in their holsters, thought for a moment, and then undid his gun belt. He rose stiffly, dragging himself to his feet and made his way over to Rusher. The horse had been grazing on something dry and green that was growing in the shaded portions of the cave, and continued to graze as Roland fumbled with the saddle bags. He wrapped the guns in a grey cloth and placed them at the top of the bag, ensuring that they would be far out of his reach should the voice of the desert reach out to him again. He took one last drink of water and returned to his wall.

With his preparations complete, the Gunslinger turned his gaze directly toward the fire. With the lack of wind within the cave itself the small tendrils of smoke rising from it climbed straight up, sparing him their poisonous aroma. As he watched the coals burn the visions began once more. They came suddenly and relentlessly, the visions of all of his past failures, too many to count. And it is here that our story truly begins, with our first glimpse into one of these tales best left untold. Whether it is a true memory or not I will leave entirely up to you, but you should know now that it is not the only one like it. Two other tales lie buried in the vault that is his mind, yet neither left as deep a wound upon his heart and soul as this. And so now let us join this battered knight as he ventures once more into that most unforgiving of battlefields: his memory. Let us sit with him and share his fire, for this tale is to be told, it'd be best if we tell it together, lest one of us may give in to that tempting offer by that whore of a desert before the end of it after all.

He looked deep into the coals, letting the memories of what he considered to be his greatest failures wash over him. Allowing these thoughts to harden his heart, to take away the pain and the doubt and to fuel the unending thirst for redemption. And so the memories continued to spin through his mind, whipping through his consciousness and battering his very soul. Finally his will faltered, he blinked at the dying flames, sighed, and fell to one side with his arm just barely intercepting his head before it hit the ground. As he surrendered to sleep and let the dream pull him down.

* * * * *

The first thing he noticed was how green the world around him was. He had been wandering the deepest reaches of an unloving desert for weeks before he came upon the pillar. The fact that he was now surrounded by lush green grass, thick undergrowth, and trees of all shapes and sizes came as nothing short of a legitimate shock to him. It was such a dramatic and welcomed change that, for several minutes, the Gunslinger simply laid there, his face buried in bright green foliage. Finally, he rose, getting to feet slowly and taking in his surroundings in their entirety.

It was still before noon and the morning sun was blanketing the forest with a warm, peaceful glow. The plants were basking in the rays, growing tall and wild beneath the trees that covered them. Birds could be heard singing from the branches, and small animals could be seen sparingly through the bushes. Behind where the Gunslinger stood, a massive door was swung open, its hinges mounted upon thin air, its base buried in the ground. The grass in front of it had died the instant it had opened, withering before the heat of the desert just beyond its frame. The ground closest to the door was even now being covered by a thick layer of sand, propelled through the open gateway by the fierce winds Roland had had at his back when he left Mid-World.

And it is the door which now commands his gaze, for he has seen it many times before now, yet not once does the sight of such a bizarre object cease to amaze those who look upon it. Beyond its border the bleak and cruel desert still burns, its sand-laden winds gusting in every direction at once. An unforgiving world it is which he has just left, a shattered world which is breaking more and more as time turns onward. Yet here he finds himself, once again a visiter in a land which is not only still whole, but still young in terms of what has transpired within it. Of course there had been war and bloodshed and chaos here at one time, he knew that first-hand. But that war had spelt the end of a dark and terrible era, the likes of which this world would almost certainly never see again. Where Mid-World's history was wrought in blood and lead, this world knew would not need to concern itself with such things for thousands of years.

The Gunslinger took a step away from the door, and found himself falling once more to the soft, sweet-smelling ground. The grass cushioned his fall, but did not take the sting out of the wound his pride had just suffered. Regardless of having been to this world once before, no amount of experience can prepare a person for the shift in motor skills that comes from suddenly having two extra legs, and two fewer arms. He had had this same problem last time, spending nearly a full day simply trying to get his limbs to obey him properly again.

He stood up once more, his hooves firmly planted in the tall green grass. He shook his head violently, throwing off the bits of plant-life which had clung to his face. His brown and grey mane whipped back and forth, now free of the hat he had been wearing before that last fall. He picked it up with his teeth, brought his head up, and then realized he would have to use his hooves to actually get it back on his head. Why here? Why this world? Walter could have fled to anywhere with that door, so why here?

The Gunslinger answered his own question by falling a third time as he was reaching up to replace his hat. Walter was a sadistic, self-loving, cowardly demon of a man, but he was no fool. Roland may very well have been the most formidable tracker that Mid-World had to offer, but all of his skills would be useless if all he could do was crawl after his prey. Meanwhile Walter O'Dim, a master shapeshifter in his own right, would surely have no trouble gaining a significant head-start on him.

It was that thought alone, the idea of Walter chuckling to himself as he galloped headlong toward whatever havoc he meant to wreak in this world, that brought Roland of Gilead to his hooves once more. And this time he stayed on them. Grabbing his hat in his teeth once more, he flipped it in the air, caught in on his head, and was off. A slow, plodding walk at first, but that quickly grew into a confidently-paced canter. The noon-time sun shone down bright and undisturbed in the clear blue sky, as the stallion in black fled across the countryside... and the Gunslinger followed.