Homecoming

Collin stands once more on the slopes of the mountainous Shienar border, wrapped in the mists grey and cool he remembered from his youth. His warrior's shif, the color of dried blood, hangs close to him, heavy and damp. His hair hangs in soggy locks, curled around his grey-green eyes, so much like the color of the mossy rocks around his feet. At his side hangs his battered straight blade, the weapon of a Shienar warrior.

He climbs slick moss-covered stones that have fallen over the ancient trail that he once followed as a child. So many years have fallen before him since last here. Like these stones those years rise up to slow him from coming home once more, from facing what he knows must be. Inside him hope is as slippery and elusive as the moss covering the stones. The fire of his Shienar heart, once thought gone to ash, struggles against the deluge of fear and helplessness to burn once more.

And still he climbs in silence.

Collin finds the path for a while, his footfalls steady, his breath even and calm. He let's his mind fall silent concentrating only on the rhythm of his steps, his breath, and his heart. He seeks the Void as Marc once taught him to do, and he falls short once more. But for a moment he free from the doubt and the fear.

And still he climbs, although the mists shroud any sight of his destination.

A deadfall covers the trail at it's steepest point. Collin's mossy green eyes study it for a way around. He nods and shoulders his pack, setting off throught the woods. He seeks memories of a child named Collin, almost forgotten, who used to find his way up the mountain often. A boy innocent and without fear who used to play here only miles from the Blightborder. The memories drag up sorrow and pain unbidden and Collin's eyes cloud with pain and tears. The sting of the past hits him to his quick, and his heart trembles at what he has lost.

And at last he stops.

He stands, his pain-filled eyes softening, the eyes of a child once more. Before him the mists swirl and part the greyness beyond solidifying into form of stone and mortar. The vague shadows coalesce into a shape so familiar despite it's ruin and age. A shape Collin knows like the back of his own scarred and ravaged hands.

Collin stands silently as tears hot and bitter streak his dirty face.

Before him lies the ruins of a tower, overgrown with ivy and moss. Once pround and several stories tall it is now only a single floor, the high arched entrance split and sundered. Around it's base flagstones are scattered, rounded and dulled by the years passage. The insignias etched into the base stones, once proud markers of those who called the mountain thier home, are all gone, scratched out and worn by time.

Collin trembles and lurches foreward, sobbing. He throws his pack to the ground, stumbling as it catches his leg a bit on the way down. He falls, clutching at the broken archway. He looks around, panic and shame clawing at him, his heart wrenching at all that he knows. Tears begin to flow freely as rain, fat and cold,begins to fall.

Collin looks up into the grey churning sky overhead sobbing, his face desperate and pleading.

"I'm sorry. So sorry." He slumps against the stone, the emotions rushing in a flood now, unchecked. "Please, forgive me."

Only the crash of thunder answers him.

* * * * *

Collin woke up slowly, first aware only of the thought numbing cold which had sunk into his bones. He sat up and shivered slightly. The hastily constructed shelter over him had bowed inward under the weight of the rain and his blankets and clothing were soaked through. As fortune would have it his pack had escaped the torrent and it and it's contents remained dry.

Quietly Collin changed out of his shif and into a simple shirt and breeches, pausing only to wish he had another pair of boots before slipping on his soaked furlined footwear. He stood and latched his belt tight and hung his straight blade at his side. He then turned and approached the ruined tower.

It still tugged at his heart hard to see the tower shattered and laid low. This brutal mockery of the once proud structure made his heart wrench and his throat grow tight with emotion and shame. Looking at this place there could be no denying what had been wrought; what bitter harvest had been sewn here.

Collin had not been able to bring himself to go past the doorway yesterday and wished it were not needed now. He hoped he could do what he needed to from where he stood. Silently admonishing himself for such balking he plucked up his resolve and walked slowly toward the crumbled tower.

As he walked toward the building he blinked slowly once.

When his eyes parted the world was awash in red and black and grey. All around he could smell them, animalistic and brutal. All around was the smoke and the beasts and the clash of steel. And walking amidst it all a young man, foolish and scared, barely visible in a pall of dark smoke.

Collin blinked again and before him was the grey ruin, now a bit closer. In his mouth he could taste the soot and smoke of the vision, as if he had been standing in the smoke only a moment sooner. Fear raced around his mind and his scarred hands began to tremble. Dimly he recognized the same panic that had come over him while fighting the Trollocs. Now the fear prodded him to flee, not fight, and he felt its grip tighten around his consciousness.

And in another blink he was back in red world, all around the sounds of the Dark One's forces and cries of the dying. The smoke swirled around him, thick and choking. His hands ached like fire and his mind swam, the world slipping in and out of focus. His eyes were wide and feral, his mind racing and fearful.

Then a figure strode out of the tower's entrance, massive and hairy, it's red-rimmed eyes seeimg to glow in the firelight. In it's right hand it dragged another figure, limp and unmoving. It strode at Collin throwing the body at his feet.

Collin looked down, reality slipping into focus, and saw the face of the body as it tumbled to a halt against his legs. His scream echoed through the night as he saw the brutally shattered form of his father, his blade still clenched in his dead hand.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

And in a blink he was back at the ruins, all moss and grey and ivy. The panic pushed hard against his consciousness. His legs threatened to buckle, his feet wanting nothing more than to seemingly turn him to run far far away. His eyes widened as he realized the archway was now only steps away and he flinched backwards involuntarily.

Somehow his inertia kept him moving forward, one foot falling foreward, bringing him closer to the arch. Only a half step from fleeing he paused.

Fleeing back to what?, he thought, This place is all I have left, my only chance to claim what is mine in this world. I may not deserve it but it is mine!

And suddenly he found the strength to silence the panic, if only for three steps, enough to puch him through the threshold. The one that had once framed the doorway to the tower, and the one so long barred in his heart.

* * * * *

Collin stood inside the wall of the shattered tower, his head hanging low, his eyes staring through his damp locks at the remains all around. The ground was littered with blocks of stone and moss encrusted timbers. The floorstones had long been covered with mud that had been washed by storms like last eve's torent. The layer of weedy ground was covered with a fresh layer of mud and squished slickly under Collin's boots.

Collin closed his eyes and sought for what his father had told him so many years ago. He breathed in deep and for a moment imagined the tower without the distruction. Banners and shields of fallen heroes adorned the wall. No mud resided under his souls, but white floorstones and a rug given long ago by a merchant from Kandor. He imagined that the years folded back and his father was not broken by the Trollocs and that all the pain of the years folded back to reveal for what he searched.

He could hear his father amidst the tower's glory, but Collin could not see his father.

"This tower was built with the hearts of all the people of these mountains son."

Collin looked but his father's voice seemed simply to issue from air, always behind his shoulder.

"And it is thier blades and shields that kept it standing. But it is one man's heart on which it is built."

As he looked to and fro, searching for his father Collin could see the banners flutter and the shields and swords on the wall move, as if blown by a strange powerful wind that did not touch Collin. Where the banner's fluttered he could here the warcries of soldiers, the cry of horses, and the screams of the dying.

Where the shields and swords shuttered Collin could here the clash of steel, the whish of the swinging blade, and the clanking of armor and shield. Ir was as if the sounds of a thousand years of conflict surrounded him like a whipsered cyclone.

"Collin, know the name of this man well, for it is from him we are descended. He was Jodan Aldier and among the Shienar you will be hard pressed to find a man with a stronger heart or swifter blade."

"It is said he once rode with Hawkwing and saw the world. But he returned here, his home, to rage war against the Blight. Only perhaps in the Aiel or the Seven Towers could you find a man more capable of slaying the Dark One's minions. He built this tower when Trollocs slew his Lady, the fair Deidri, during an invasion into the mountains."

"Many mourned her. She was kind and beautiful and seen always at Aldier's side. The village built her a tomb and it was on that tomb that Aldier built this tower."

"He said that as long as it stood, no Trolloc would find safety in the mountains of Shienar."

Collin opens his eyes and looks around. He feels a familair pain, the pain of his failure and shame creep into is spirit as he looks around. How many Trollocs find safety now? he wonders. How many deaths must lie on my shoulders?

He sighs and closes his eyes again. Now there is only darkness behind his eyelids. But in that darkness there is once again his father's voice.

"When Jodan finally found the warrior's rest, the warriors, including his own sons, laid him to rest with his love. The warriors pulled up the floorstones, one by one, and found the tomb. They laid Joran with all he wore in battle, so that in death he could still defend the mountains he had strove to defend in life."

Collin opened his eyes slowly and looked around the tower, his father's voice following him as he looked.

"Under there, under the firepit they laid Jodan. There. Under the firepit they laid him to rest."

Collin looked at where the mud sank into a natural bowl shape, the place where the firepit had once been. He knelt and untied his shovel from his pack.

It may not be much, he thought, but it is all that is mine.

He strode over slowly and sunk the shovel into the muddy earth.

* * * * *

Collin stopped and looked at the waist deep hole around him. The warmth of the day had dried out the mud, which was fortuneate indeed for the morning's digging had been a continual effort to fight back the flood of muck. The hole was irregular and wide but stable, the bottom of it showed glimpses of white marble through globs of soft earth.

Collin leaned on the shovel for support and breathed ragged and exhausted breaths. The day had warmed considerably and Collin stood in his trousers only, his lean muscled body sheened with sweat and deeply tanned by the days toil under the sun. Even as it made the job easier, the sun robbed Collin of his strength over the hours. Now the sun began to drift down past the tree line and Collin felt rest calling.

It was a call he would have to ignore, however. He was so close to completing his task and he felt a soul deep urgency. Not a feeling that what he looked for would be gone. But instead a feeling that this was his only chance to find what he personally needed. His only doorway to redemption.

Collin sighed and returned to digging. He scrapped away earth from the marble, searching intently. Then, rather unceremoniously, the shovel *clink*ed quietly over a seam in the stonework. Collin stood silently for a moment, the shovel held still where it had made the noise. Then Collin dropped to the ground, shovel forgotten and brushed away earth by hand tracing and following the seam. As the earth was removed it revealed a single tile, slightly larger than a meter a side, carved with a symbol. Although the symbol was worn Collin could make it out, a stylized feathered swirl, the crest of his family.

Collin grabbed the shovel once more and stood over the tile. He closed his eyes and steeled himself. Opening his eyes he thrust the shocel into the seam, putting all his weight into the push. The shovel wedged securely into the seam and Collin leaned hard into it, pulling back so hard he trembled with the efort.

Slowly the tile shifted, grating against the surrounding stone. It seized and Collin shifted his weight and pulled harder, grunting under his breath with the strain. The tile shifted and slid with surprising ease. As it flipped up Collin fell back into the earth with a thud. The tile stood open less than an inch now, open onto darkness, held ajar by the lip of the shovel. Collin stood and slid his fingers under the stone. With a grunt and strain he flipped it clear of the opening. He stepped back and peered into the opening.

Below him a simple rough opening of stone mergered with black gloom, with ony a few ladder rungs to break the seamless shadow before being swallowed into bleak obscurity. Collin nodded. I'll need a torch he thought as he turned to where his pack lay. He grabbed his shirt and began to tear it into strips.

* * * * *

The bright light of day retreated quickly into murk and shadow as Collin descended down the ladder. The dark stome pressed in around, almost seeming to want to press back the light of his small torch and send Collin into dark obscurity. However meager, the light of his torch prevailed throught the forty or so odd rung climb and lit a tunnel stretched forward from where the ladder ended.

Collin walked down the passage and noticed that the air was stale and musty, scented heavily with mold and dank earth. He became dimly aware, as he walked the tunnel, that despite the dank cool of the passage he had broken out in a fresh sweat. He glanced at the torch and saw the steady wavering caused by his trembling hand. I don't belong here suddenly bubbled to the surface of his thoughts, like an oily bubble breaking the calm of a serene pool. This is a place of heroes, not cowards, not drunks, and certainly not me.

Collin stopped and leaned against a stone ledge, trying to calm his now ragged breathing. I defile this place with my presence, damn and blast me what am I doing? he thought, his rage and pain churning the calm waters of his thoughts. Trembling overtook him and a pain-racked sob escaped his lungs, as suddenly in the darkness he suddenly felt so alone. So utterly outcast. He would have surrendered all for a familiar face, a kind reassurance, or a a friendly glance.

All that greeted him was darkness and the smell of decay.

He looked up shuddering, and found himself staring into the visage of old death. A web festooned skull stared back at Collin who took a shambling step backwards. He contacted something that clanked behind him and Collin turned to see a skeleton, covered with the dust of ages, half out of the alcove in which it had been resting. Collin sighed in relief. Many of the Tower's warriors had been laid here, all of the Warlord's in fact. This was their warrior's rest. Collin raised his hand from his sword hilt, suddenly glad he had grabbed it after making the torch.

Collin steeled himself, and turned to walk down the tunnel, the pain and rage calmed a bit. Now ignorable. The suddenly something grabbed his arm in a hard cold grip.

Collin jumped and turned, his breath caught hard in his throat. The skull of the skeletom now seemed to glow with an inner fire, hot and unholy, its eyes deep pits of endless fire. The jaw moved with a creak and words hissed forward from the flame.

"There is no rest. They are all mine. You will die, Rowanstaff. You too will be mine!"

Collin screamed, a primordial sound, devoid of reason. His blade sang free and split the skull. The skeleton sundered and fell to the ground in an irregular heap. Rowanstaff blundered in the near darkness, waving his battered blade at each flicking shadow, each have imagined threat. His eyes were wide and bright, dancing with animal panic. He broke into a shambling run, his gait unchecked and unordered, his will to escape overpowering.

Then he struck something that suddered at his impact but did not move. Hard. He fell back fast, his shoulders crashing to the floor painfully. The torch and sword fell from his grasp, the torch still burning, but barely.

Collin stood up shakily, clearing his head with a shake. He reached out and picked up the blade and torch, standing slowly. As he rose and straightened he saw a door before him made of stone, now slightley ajar with the impact he had delivered. Collin raised the torch and saw the feathered swirl, the mark of the Tower of The West Winds. As he raised the torch to eye level he stopped, a sharp gasp of surprise escaping his lungs. Above the mark of his people was another, a well made tile in black and white. A stylized flame of white against a background of black.

Tar Valon! Collin thought, his wonder and amazement apparent. He grasped at its meaning and found himself remembering tales of the kind and fair Deidri, Jodan Aldier's wife. Perhaps he thought she may have been more than kind. A healer. A mystic. An enchantress. Perhaps the blood of Tar Valon runs through my veins as well.

He nodded. It simply felt true. In his firy heart he suddenly just knew it was so and suddenly his thoughts wandered to Malak, and Marc and Alanna and the others. He wonjdered if they were well. If Malak had found shade and water this day. He wondered if Alanna had found what she had sought at home. He felt alone but this simple revelation semmed to soothe his fear. Collin did not know why, but somehow this changed everything.

Collin stepped forward and leaned into the door, opening it slowly. The stone grated loudly in the enclosed space. Collin stepped through and into Jodan and Deirdri's crypt.

* * * * *

Collin stepped into the dark chamber, his torch guttering, near extinguished. He stopped and wrapped another strip of cloth around the burning end and the torch sprang to bright life. Collin raised it out from himself and surveyed the crypt. The chamber was long, but only slightly wider than the two stone sarcophogi at the end. Between the coffins on the wall was a steel torch tolder, standing empty.

Collin walked down to the other end of the room and placed the torch in its place, its flickering light filling the narrow chamber. By that light Collin turned and studied Jodan and Deidri's final resting places. Both sarcophogi were carved from top to bottom with the image of Deidri and Jodan as they had looked in life. While worn and moss covered Collin could still make out details. Jodan was depicted holding aloft a banner, on which was emblazoned the swirl of the Aldier. Deidri stood holding a long knotted staff, her visage kind and serene. Collin marvelled at the love the people of the villages must have put into these lids, how much they must have respected and mourned these two fallen heroes. Collin stopped, closed his eyes, and said a silent prayer to the Light. A prayer that those who had come before him knew peace. A prayer that the future could be built on the sacrifices of the past. But most of all, a prayer that he could return the name his ancestors had given him to them untarnished when he found his rest.

From one he thought, looking down at Jodan's coffin to many, and now back to one. Collin looked at his own hands, scarred and battered, and nodded.

He lifted his blade and leaned back on his haunches, facing Jodan's sarcofogus. He pivoted forward, shifting his weight and bringing the blade straight out in a stabbing motion. The steel squealed as the sword was jammed deep into the almost imperceivable seam between coffin and lid.

Collin leaned his weight into the hilt of his father's blade and grimaced as he felt it bend slightly under the pressure. Then with a pop and exhalation of foul air the pitch sealing the coffin broke loose. The lid shifted and Collin forced his fingers into the gap, pushing hard. The lid slid slowly, then surged forward as inertia was overcome. It crashed on the other side of the coffin send in dust into the air.

Collin picked up his father's sword and sighed. The blade was bent in the middle and along the crack could be seen a jagged crack. He knew it was now broken beyond repairing. He shook his head and sheathed the blade, turning to the coffin.

Inside Jodan's remains were little more then bones and nearly transparent whisps of ages old shroud. Only rusted scraps remained of the mail with which he had been interred. Even the hardened leather of boots and scabbard had rotted in time. Almost nothing set these remains aside from any others, almost nothing would have told the casual observer that they were looking upon the remnants of one of Shienar's proudest warriors, one of the world's great heroes.

Almost nothing, save the sword.

Time had not touched the fine curved blade, except for the layer of dust that covered its surface. Collin ran his hand down the side of the blade gently and under the dust the blde gleamed like new, brightly reflecting the amber flames of the torch. The sword rested atop Jodan's rib cage, Jodan's skeletal arms crossed over the hilt and even the silk and leather wrapped around the hilt remained untouched by time.

Collin closed his eyes and remembered what his father had told him long ago. "It was said that in his youth Jodan was a wild swordsman. That he bore the blade of a master. That he remained as ever sharp as the blade at his side."

Collin opened his eyes and gently rested the sword from Jodans ages old grasp. Jodan's remains shifted and fell apart, some peices collapsing to dust. Collin lifted the blade's hilt to the light, his eyes wide.

"By the Light" he gasped.

In the dancing light of the torch he could see the carving of the heron standing on one leg, its head bent low to its neck.

* * * * *

Collin found the path on the other side of the deadfall as amber twilight claimed the mountains. His pack was slung over his shoulder and he was once again adorned in his warrioir's shif. he stopped and surveyed the sky and woods. His face was it's normal calm, inscrutible, but something danced in his eyes. Hope, perhaps? Or maybe something simpler. Something bright in the murky pools of his gaze.

Collin shifted the weight of the new blade at his side and continued down the path, dedicating himself not to camp until he had reached the bottom of the mountain.

* * * * *

Under the now replaced tile bearing the symbol of the Aldier the tomb of its heroes lay quiet and dormant in complete darkness. Everything was replaced at it had been when Collin had entered. Jodan's lid rested once more atop its coffin. The bones had been returned to thier alcove. Collin had left everything nearly as it had been when he arrived.

Except in one of the alcoves which had stood empty he had left something behind. In the darkness his father's sword sat silently, Collin having lain it with a crooned burial prayer hours earlier. He had buried his father finally, laid him where he belonged. His father now had rest, a warrior's rest.

And with it Collin had also buried the past. The pain. And the regret.

The past laid silent as a tomb and now Collin could know a warrior's life.