Author's Note: Well, here it is--the Xenosaga/Dark Tower crossover I promised. While I'm trying my hardest to emulate the horror stylings of the wonderful Stephen King, I'm not nearly as good; nor do I own even a millionth share in the Dark Tower saga beyond being a very avid fan of Roland's adventures. Similarly, my ownership of Xenosaga is limited merely to my love of the game. Even so, let's see what I can make of a meshing of the two. My own contribution to the song of the Turtle, cry of the Bear (or perhaps song of the Phoenix, cry of the Dragon).
Warnings: Spoilers for both series, including the Dark Tower, book seven, and Xenosaga Episode II. Violence and graphic horror, some language.
White over red; thus is the will of Gan, forever and ever.
Prologue
Somewhere in the Can'-Ka No Rey
It is vast.
To say that is to do the Tower a great irreverence, bordering on sacrilege, but nevertheless: It is vast.
A black-clad monolith stretching to the skies of all existence, surrounded by a field of blood (or roses) on all sides, a veritable Aceldama of crimson flowers waving in an unfelt breeze or twisting beneath the influence of the Beams that support the Dark Tower and with it all existence. Men have died trying to reach the Tower. Many more have met their ends before even having an inkling that they were to begin a journey to this foundation of all creation. Drops of blood as innumerable as the rose petals strewn at the Tower's base have been shed, all for a glimpse of it, a single glimpse.
And why not? What more worthy goal could there be than this Tower? It is the spindle upon which all reality's been spun as thread, world after world after world woven through its infinite floors and wound around its base. World after world after world has been flung up on the Prim from this central point, like a web knit by a vast black spider. And should the spider die...
Catastrophe will follow, the sparkling net of worlds shattering apart like a beaded necklace snapped by a careless child. Even now the Beams that form the world's foundation have begun to falter and fail, those last legacies of the Old Ones who, in their hubris, thought they could make the world better through their technology. Each snapping Beam brings with it devastation and ruin, worlds destroyed and worlds flung away from their center to wither away in the dark. The Crimson King, enemy of all existence, has set his pets, the Breakers, on those Beams, hastening their erosion.
And even through all this, one gunslinger--one knight of In-World, the last legacy of Gilead, the last king from the line of Arthur Eld--forges on, bound by ka to those who may help save or lose the Tower and all the worlds with it.
But they are not the only ones who have a say in it. Worlds washed up further from center, spun farther out in the Prim than In-World and even the world we call our own, there are other gunslingers and other ka-tet, racing to save their own worlds before the Tower crumbles at last.
After all, you didn't think that Roland would be the only one to have a say in this, did you?
---
Here:
Three men or angels from one of these very worlds stand ankle-deep in roses (or blood) at the base of the Tower. Two of them have been playing this game of kings and worlds and lives for a very long time; the third is simply a pawn, but one tied more intimately to his world than even the two angels will admit. He is blindfolded, gagged, hands bound behind him as he stands, face turned toward the Tower. Silent tears stream down his face from eyes blinded and tight-shut against the beauty around him, for he knows well that he's already trapped within the web of this particular spider and can bear it no longer.
"This is cruel," one of the angels murmurs. "He has such a small role in these things. Hasn't he suffered enough?"
The other smiles distantly, an ineffable twitch of the lips that conveys a humor at the worlds' greatest joke. "His role is small, yes, but a pivotal one--one he will need to be adequately prepared to play. Some cruelties are--regrettably--necessary in this game. You know that."
A faint twitch of the first angel's wings, a breathy sigh. "Still--it doesn't seem right--" A muffled sob cuts him off and he looks over at their captive, reaching with a gloved hand to touch his shoulder gently. The angel can read the tension just beneath the man's skin, the agony that's warped his spirit, mind, and life. His frown deepens. "--This is enough. No more."
The other's little smile widens slightly. "If you say so," he says, voice gentle and smooth. "It is enough." He, too, rests a hand on their captive's shoulder, feeling the pain but not even batting an eye at it. (Angels, after all, have to kill women and children, raze whole cities to the ground, and destroy worlds, all on God's command.) "We will go.
"But you know you can't protect them forever, Joshua. Not him--not the girl--and not her. When the time comes, they will all play out their roles as predicted, and you will be unable to save them."
And to that, the first angel is silent.
Warnings: Spoilers for both series, including the Dark Tower, book seven, and Xenosaga Episode II. Violence and graphic horror, some language.
White over red; thus is the will of Gan, forever and ever.
Prologue
Somewhere in the Can'-Ka No Rey
It is vast.
To say that is to do the Tower a great irreverence, bordering on sacrilege, but nevertheless: It is vast.
A black-clad monolith stretching to the skies of all existence, surrounded by a field of blood (or roses) on all sides, a veritable Aceldama of crimson flowers waving in an unfelt breeze or twisting beneath the influence of the Beams that support the Dark Tower and with it all existence. Men have died trying to reach the Tower. Many more have met their ends before even having an inkling that they were to begin a journey to this foundation of all creation. Drops of blood as innumerable as the rose petals strewn at the Tower's base have been shed, all for a glimpse of it, a single glimpse.
And why not? What more worthy goal could there be than this Tower? It is the spindle upon which all reality's been spun as thread, world after world after world woven through its infinite floors and wound around its base. World after world after world has been flung up on the Prim from this central point, like a web knit by a vast black spider. And should the spider die...
Catastrophe will follow, the sparkling net of worlds shattering apart like a beaded necklace snapped by a careless child. Even now the Beams that form the world's foundation have begun to falter and fail, those last legacies of the Old Ones who, in their hubris, thought they could make the world better through their technology. Each snapping Beam brings with it devastation and ruin, worlds destroyed and worlds flung away from their center to wither away in the dark. The Crimson King, enemy of all existence, has set his pets, the Breakers, on those Beams, hastening their erosion.
And even through all this, one gunslinger--one knight of In-World, the last legacy of Gilead, the last king from the line of Arthur Eld--forges on, bound by ka to those who may help save or lose the Tower and all the worlds with it.
But they are not the only ones who have a say in it. Worlds washed up further from center, spun farther out in the Prim than In-World and even the world we call our own, there are other gunslingers and other ka-tet, racing to save their own worlds before the Tower crumbles at last.
After all, you didn't think that Roland would be the only one to have a say in this, did you?
Here:
Three men or angels from one of these very worlds stand ankle-deep in roses (or blood) at the base of the Tower. Two of them have been playing this game of kings and worlds and lives for a very long time; the third is simply a pawn, but one tied more intimately to his world than even the two angels will admit. He is blindfolded, gagged, hands bound behind him as he stands, face turned toward the Tower. Silent tears stream down his face from eyes blinded and tight-shut against the beauty around him, for he knows well that he's already trapped within the web of this particular spider and can bear it no longer.
"This is cruel," one of the angels murmurs. "He has such a small role in these things. Hasn't he suffered enough?"
The other smiles distantly, an ineffable twitch of the lips that conveys a humor at the worlds' greatest joke. "His role is small, yes, but a pivotal one--one he will need to be adequately prepared to play. Some cruelties are--regrettably--necessary in this game. You know that."
A faint twitch of the first angel's wings, a breathy sigh. "Still--it doesn't seem right--" A muffled sob cuts him off and he looks over at their captive, reaching with a gloved hand to touch his shoulder gently. The angel can read the tension just beneath the man's skin, the agony that's warped his spirit, mind, and life. His frown deepens. "--This is enough. No more."
The other's little smile widens slightly. "If you say so," he says, voice gentle and smooth. "It is enough." He, too, rests a hand on their captive's shoulder, feeling the pain but not even batting an eye at it. (Angels, after all, have to kill women and children, raze whole cities to the ground, and destroy worlds, all on God's command.) "We will go.
"But you know you can't protect them forever, Joshua. Not him--not the girl--and not her. When the time comes, they will all play out their roles as predicted, and you will be unable to save them."
And to that, the first angel is silent.