As Roland entered the fog, he lost sight of the Tower.

This was unsettling, to say the least. All his life, Roland could see the tower. It loomed large overhead, an impossibly tall tribute that was a dominating part of the landscape. It seemed like some faraway mountain, barely visible against they sky, something that could be glanced at and ignored by everyone else in Mid-world.

For Roland, it haunted his dreams.

As he had left the comfort of his home, life had grown more precarious, more strange, more mysterious. Always, the tower had grown larger and larger. Even after a thousand years, it's size continued to dominate the horizon, never growing any closer. As the beam's pull grew stronger and stronger, it continued to loom overhead, growing to touch the very top of the sky, while it was still too far away too even think about.

The tower loomed overhead as such when Roland entered the fog.

The fog was dense, difficult for Roland to see two feet in front of him. He continued to walk, in the correct direction, for the pull was relentless.

As he walked, he felt something, perhaps a plant, brush against his leg. He crouched down to look, and saw a thistle of roses. It seems odd, having those roses here, an impossible beauty, hidden at the foot of something so dark. Roland peered through the mist. He realized that the entire ground, save for the path he was on, was covered in these same roses, for several feet in every direction. Roland was sure that they were spread out across many hundreds of miles. He got up and continued to walk.

The fog was silent, dead silent. the sound of his own feet, his clothes, his breathing, his torch's flicker. That was all he could hear. If he stopped and held his breath? Silence. A very true, deep silence. A loud silence. Inescapable, this silence could only be heard by other men as they lay dying. Roland did not expect this to upset him as much as it did. He continued walking.

Roland Deschain walked for hours. The valley had not been this wide across, but he continued to walk, unaware of the passage of time. Another thousand years could have very well gone by, and perhaps they did, and the gunslinger would be none the wiser. He supposed that was just the way of the world.

It came upon him suddenly, despite having always been there. The tower was before him, no longer a distant spire, but an impenetrable wall. Confrontations did not upset Roland, but this one was different. His whole life was spent in the distant shadow of this colossus, unimaginably huge, foreboding, consistent. It was a staple of the life of all who lived, on this or any world. A presence of finality, fatality. Now it presented itself as a wall, huge, black, coming from the fog dramatically, stunning Roland. It was in front of him. He was overcome with a feeling of dread, for truly, he had reached the end of the world, teetering on the void of existence.

The tower was still maybe a hundred feet in front of him. He began running down the path, unable to see what was stopping him. This was madness, this was his life's work, this was the object of death and horror that possessed him and destroyed him. Coming before it, he heard a rasping moan, and looked up. Above him, in the Tower, there was a blood-red eye. It rasped out a cry again as an exploding snitch whined through the air. Roland jumped aside, cursing.