Baby, take my hand. Don't fear the reaper...
Through the Rift steps a young teenage man who looks much older than he actually is. In most worlds, he's still the age of a boy, but by rights and trials and suffering, he has qualified to bear the title of 'man' so the narration gives it to him.
He lands in a construction site on his feet, balanced and poised despite the strange drop from one world into the next, and his hands fly to his father's guns at his hips with amazing speed. There are two in holsters. One on left, one on right as it should be for any gunslinger, aye. Old, heavy guns made from the metal of the sword called Excalibur, handles made of sandalwood.
The world moves on, but this is not his world. The air feels different here that is most clear and he doesn't feel the pull of the Beam, more importantly, of the Tower and it's like a heavy ache and tear within his heart.
The man is Roland Deschain of Gilead who steps through the Rift into this construction site, which he, of course, does not recognize for what it is. His world is radically different than this one. He would not know that he was in Chicago, nor would he know the meaning of a strip mall, but if he had to guess... well, let's not go there.
It's rare that a gunslinger feel fear. Rarer still when that gunslinger is Roland, youngest to ever take up the legendary title. The moment the fear hits him, he reprimands himself, hears the voice of Cort in his head, and closes his eyes, hands on the guns, which remain in their holsters.
I do not aim with my eye.
He who aims with his eye has forgotten the face of his father.
I aim with my hand.
Roland pulls the guns out from the holsters and steps forward, eyes still closed. He'd walk further still, but oh yes, magical barrier and now he opens his eyes to stare at the barrier, thinking it must be Marten who's done this to him and feeling pleasure in thinking that, thinking he'll get to kill the man in black so soon.
Oh, Roland, if only t'were true...
He lands in a construction site on his feet, balanced and poised despite the strange drop from one world into the next, and his hands fly to his father's guns at his hips with amazing speed. There are two in holsters. One on left, one on right as it should be for any gunslinger, aye. Old, heavy guns made from the metal of the sword called Excalibur, handles made of sandalwood.
The world moves on, but this is not his world. The air feels different here that is most clear and he doesn't feel the pull of the Beam, more importantly, of the Tower and it's like a heavy ache and tear within his heart.
The man is Roland Deschain of Gilead who steps through the Rift into this construction site, which he, of course, does not recognize for what it is. His world is radically different than this one. He would not know that he was in Chicago, nor would he know the meaning of a strip mall, but if he had to guess... well, let's not go there.
It's rare that a gunslinger feel fear. Rarer still when that gunslinger is Roland, youngest to ever take up the legendary title. The moment the fear hits him, he reprimands himself, hears the voice of Cort in his head, and closes his eyes, hands on the guns, which remain in their holsters.
I do not aim with my eye.
He who aims with his eye has forgotten the face of his father.
I aim with my hand.
Roland pulls the guns out from the holsters and steps forward, eyes still closed. He'd walk further still, but oh yes, magical barrier and now he opens his eyes to stare at the barrier, thinking it must be Marten who's done this to him and feeling pleasure in thinking that, thinking he'll get to kill the man in black so soon.
Oh, Roland, if only t'were true...