Several months ago, I reviewed everything I'd surmised about the ending of the 7th Dark Tower book, and as they sometimes do, a concept developed in my head. I decided to use LJ to test it out and it seemed good enough to keep. If anyone's in here, have fun, and keep the nature of the real ending in mind. It gets confusing.
Naturally, massive spoilers for the 7th book.
Roland put the gun down. A part of his brain knew it would never fire again, and that it was fine and right that it not. He didn't acknowledge that instinct, though. He was too busy staring at the Dark Tower, and spent uncountable moments trying to soak in the fact that he'd won. During the battle against the Crimson King, who was now a stain on the side of a balcony, he wasn't able to comprehend that his long quest was at its end. Now, with no obstacles before him anymore, reality caught up with him and hit him like an insane, riddling train.
It was time to enter the Tower, and set all manner of things right again.
There was something at the base of the doors. Roland stood and walked down the path of roses to it. Some form of pedestal had slots in it, and was clearly a lock meant for him. He returned to pick up his father's revolver with the sandalwood grip, and placed it in the slot shaped for it. The other slot was in the circular shape of a horn, and Roland drew the strap of the Horn of Arthur Eld from around his neck.
A rich baritone echoed off the walls of the Tower as the sound of the horn strove to reach the top. As it traveled, those who should have lived to finish the quest began peeking out from the infinite windows. They waved solemnly from the balconies, and came silently down the long stairs to greet him. And Roland sang their names, as he promised he would. He sang all their names.
The sun was long gone from the rose field when Roland finally placed the Horn of Eld into its slot at the foot of the tower. Ancient machinery turned somewhere within, and the doors swung open for the one they had awaited so long.
Limbs trembling, mind racing, Roland set foot inside the Dark Tower.
For the nineteenth and final time.
The door closed behind him. Stairs of stone wound their way up the inside of the Tower. At each nineteenth step was a landing that lead to a small room with a balcony. Each room showed Roland a turning point in his own life. In the first, his mother, weakened from childbirth, beamed pridefully at a babe in her arms. He assumed it was himself. In the second, Susan Delgado burned forever in a pyre made by her aunt. Here he spent long moments in grief. He began to think of the Tower as a purgatory of one. Yet, it took a great conscious effort to pull himself from this little hell back to the stairs, where he stopped to rest. The Dark Tower was wearying, even just in the looking.
The third floor showed him the test against Cort, and the death of the hawk David. Thank you, both of you, Roland thought.
He began to wonder, as he climbed to the next floor, was the tower made so long ago knowing in advance that he would be the one to ascend the stairs? Would the rooms have been different, had another been the one? Or would it still have shown the deaths surrounding Roland Deschain?
Fourth was the death of his mother. At his own hands. The fifth floor showed him the fall of Gilead and the death of his first Ka-tet. Cuthbert. Jamie. Alain. All gone.
The first eighteen floors showed Roland all the many failures and loses he'd suffered. Despair followed him up to the final landing. Here was a door. Would it give him the master of the Tower? He faltered a long while, mulling over his many, many ghosts. His first Ka-tet. His new Ka-tet. Old friends long gone. All his enemies, vanquished. Only himself remaining. The last of the line of Eld. The last survivor of Gilead. The last gunslinger. He was always the last.
Roland barely touched the doorknob before the door flew open. Beyond the threshold was grass and ice. He struggled to comprehend the meaning of this sight, and was too slow to stop himself from being pulled through the door. When he was gone, the door closed.
"What're you doing? Are you alright?"
Of course I'm alright, is what Roland meant to say. But the words were countermanded by a struggle. A struggle to keep . . . an image . . . an important thought . . .
No. It was gone.
Right. The park. The ice rink. Right.
"You're alright?" Jake asked. He looked like maybe he'd seen a ghost.
"Sure," he told his son. "I had a thought."
"Kinda thought?" asked Susanna, wife of his brother Eddie.
What kind of thought. He was certain it was important. Possibly the most important thought he'd ever had.
"Soup," he told her. "Lots of soup. It's getting colder."
"I could go for some soup," Eddie said, turning for the car, the five of them headed home. The dog Roy, with the funny snout and devilishly intelligent eyes, padded cheerfully along beside Jake.This is the original LJ post from I did a while back. It's identical.