Sand on the Doorstep

It was nearly midnight before he saw the flames, but the scent of smoke and burning foliage had been heavy on the air for hours already. As the Gunslinger moved through the forest he noticed more and more wildlife fleeing in the opposite direction. Squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, foxes, deer; all of the lesser beasts moving swiftly away from what he could only assume must have been a raging inferno. It was not until he glimpsed the flames themselves, however, that he realized the full extent of the fire's ferocity.

Nearly a mile from the forest's edge Roland finally came face-to-face with an impenetrable wall of blood-red flames. Thick black smoke rose off of fiery columns stretching more than forty feet into the air. The tops of the flames took on the shapes of dragons and serpents, clawing and snapping at the midnight sky from beneath their thick blanket of ash-ridden smoke. The spent ire scene was wholly unnatural and terrifying to behold, yet the gunslinger stood his ground.

With hooves planted firmly in the forest grass, Roland prepared to make his stand against approaching holocaust. Whatever this devilry is, there's no doubt Walter is behind it. Behind it and beyond it; so I have no choice but to press on. He wasn't sure what to expect, but he had faced countless trials of this nature before, surely something would come to him, some lost bit of knowledge that had saved him before. He stood there, staring at the flames, watching their movement as they slowly advanced toward him, the wall of crimson fire bending around his clearing in an attempt to surround him. Finally, after several minutes of analyzing the movement of the sentient flames, the Gunslinger came to a realization. The flames we impenetrable.

All of his previous encounters with Walter had left him battered and bruised, but there had always been a sense of playfulness about his attempts upon Roland's life. Rarely had he ever presented a challenge that was not simply meant to test the Gunslinger or dissuade him from pursuing. The wizard had always seemed to be taunting him to follow, his actions had always been meant to threaten Roland's sanity rather than his life. This was entirely different. Walter had clearly decided that, whatever it was that he was trying to accomplish in this world would be completed far more easily without the Gunslinger on his tail.

The fire was approaching faster now, closing off his only possible escape route. There were no flaws in the wall of flames, no points that could be exploited or areas that appeared any thinner than the rest. Roland, you fool, how could you have let your guard slip so far?

The voice was one he had heard endlessly all his life, and it seemed that even now his fat old teacher was standing beside him, just waiting to strike him for his incompetence. Did ya really believe that thrice-damned sorcerer would spend all this time baiting you along just so you could get some exercise? So you could see the world? He wants you dead, boy! Open yer damned eyes and look a' what ye've let yaself walk into. Are ya just trying ta shame me now? Ya just trying to forget your father's face? Cause if thats your aim I'd say your shooting pretty damned straight here and now. Might as well have gone ahead and pissed on his grave while ya were at it, least then ye'd have shone ya were committed ta this course.

The flames were drawing closer as Cort yammered on about the stupidity of the boy Roland had once been. How pathetic he was, how helpless, how useless. Well then I suppose theres nothin' left fa' ya ta do bu' burn. So go on, get to it! Though, truth be told, ye'll prolly just fuck that'n up 'swell, won'tcha? Ye'll jus leave yaself burnt an' crispy an' even more helpless than yar now. And then how ya eva gonna see that precious Tower uh yer's? The old man laughed at that notion, laughed long and deep. And in that moment, as the voice echoed through the Gunslinger's head, it was no longer Cort he heard laughing, but Walter. Walter, cackling madly at the idea of Roland burnt but alive, left to writhe and die slowly in the remnants of a once-lovely forest. A forest which surely would only be the first of many wonderful and peaceful parts of this world which the wizard would put to the torch. And the Tower. That was what drove him to finally break his trance, freeing him from the spell of the flames' dance. Whether he lived or died here made little difference, he was not about to forsake the Tower.

"So shut up..."

In one fluid motion Roland rose upon his back legs, brought his front down to the belts at his waist, and freed his father's revolvers from their holsters. His next motion was meant to bring them up to his chest and loose a pair of bullets into the fiery torrent before him. He did not know what it would accomplish, if it did in fact accomplish anything at all, but he had to do something. He refused to bow to Walter's magic without at least attempting to fight back. He would fire round after round into the swirling red inferno until his bandoliers were empty, the flames took him, and judgement was passed. He would go down fighting, die with his boots on. He would fall as his friends had back at Jericho Hill, denying their foes any easy kills. He would die a gunslinger... Or he would have, had he been able to keep a grip on the revolvers...

Even without fingers Roland had somehow ben able to pull the guns from their sheaths, yet there was no way for him to physically pull the triggers. A flood of memories form his first experience with this world suddenly washed over him. Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness from the first time that he realized his guns would be of no use to him mingled with those he felt now. Almost as soon as they were out of the holsters the two big guns slid from Roland's hooves, smacking the ground with a cushioned THUD about a foot away from where he stood awkwardly on his hind legs. Settling back to all fours, he suddenly became aware of how hot it had was in this ring of fire he had planted himself in. The air was growing thinner, his breaths became quick and strained. He looked at the fire once more, then at the guns that lay before him. He had failed after all, his glorious final stand denied by the cruel truths of this world he had found himself in. He WAS helpless, his situation WAS hopeless. He had forgotten his training and the face of his father. He had been broken by the will of this wizard from his past. Water began to run down his long, defeated face. But there were no tears left in him, and certainly none that he could have shed for himself. No one would cry for the loss of this knight of old, this gunslinger out of Gilead. There were no tears that man or beast could spare for such a pathetic creature as this. So nature played its part instead.

There, above the pillar of fire that was to be his tomb, the sky began to weep...