If there were a place for new beginnings, Erik knew its location. If there was an exact destination to discard the tatters and ruins of what once was and emerge anew, a different man, Erik had known it many time over. It was a thing of regularity, as cyclical as the Wheel of Time itself, the turnings of the day and the moon and a bowl of cherry wood. Every time he came to the spot he would kid himself that he would remain, get old and have cubs, smoke fine leaf and play Stones until his joints would seize and his mane bristled grey and silver. How many lives had he discarded coming here? How many times had he emerged, reforged from grief or loss or loneliness or pain, remade and different?

    The past remained a haunting howl on the wind, a cause to raise hair and bristle hackles with the sear of the tooth and claw long gone. Long past. Echoes remain; echoes that followed him, some resonating within his very flesh as scars and markings, all the way to where he stood.

 

    The Lodge. The cabin out in the woods, between the two massive Douglas Firs that stabbed the sky, beside the field of wild flowers marred only by the stone epitaph in the center, squatting near the crystal water pond, abandoned. The shingling held a dense collection of moss, but he would bet his life the shake was still in good shape. The thatching had been hard and laborious—so had everything been with building his once home. Perhaps that was one medicinal aspect of this place, the hardship its creation had been could commune within him the hardship he was facing or had faced.

 

    His first task was to dig out the wax. All along the door frame his knife blade sunk in and pulled out bits and tangles of wax, the year old seal. He worked at it hungrily until enough was free for the door to budge a hair’s width back and forth. Sheathing his claw Erik dusted off his hands.

    He hesitated.

    The smell of the memories wafted out to him, between the cracks of door, into the crevices of his mind, painfully. There was the pine and alder smell, the crisp tinge of cedar still in the air, long extinguished moth balls and hint of lavender and soap. Why he had left her perfume in there, Erik’s understanding of his own actions could go only so far before he just had to accept what he does in grief or instinct or both as the best course. Facing the decisions of the past, erupting regrets, were a path to destruction not even this bastion could resurrect him from.

    Thick fingers enveloped the large wooden sliding latch, more fitting on a barn door but that mattered little to him, as he grunted and pushed. Functionality had always outweighed aesthetic beauty in Erik’s mind, of course with the exception of wooden ornaments and women. Well, maybe just ornaments. Erik had grown up on the Caralain Grass along the River Ivo where women were known to build houses, fall trees, reap crops, and run the farm on their own when their husbands were inscribed to war or were never returned from the battlefield. There’s a town in Haevin made up almost entirely of widows, a town’s civil war between Houses like an inferno that consumed brothers and fathers and uncles and grandfathers in its flames. Erik smiled. Even a blind traveller was enticing to some of the women, back in the days he avoided much of the woods before he could shield himself from Kin and wolves alike.

    “Jarret’s Passing, three days west of the Black Hills, where the fields sing with golden chimes and the river roars like a drowning beast. Jarret’s Passing…” Erik’s smile stiffened as he slammed the latch the rest of the way, “where the women watch a man like a starving wolf stalks his prey.”

 

    The door groaned like a dying moose, long and hard and aching. The woods seemed to shudder along with it until the ordeal was passed.

    “Oil… I’ll need oil in town.”

    The air was old and made his nose turn. He could feel the passages of time roll over him, that a mouse had made it’s way through a loose floorboard into the room some months before but was gone maybe a week past, his own smell in and around the room from the last night he had been there, panic, concern, anxiety, excitement, and there was always her. She lingers in the corners and near the bed stand as if she had been standing there only a few moments ago. The pull just strong enough to tug him there before it evaporates and once again he would doubt his sanity.

    “Welcome home, Night’s howl.”

      His own voice sounded like gravel, but Light it felt good to be home.

 

“I am just a worthless liar, I am just an imbecile.

I will only complicate you, trust in me and fall as well.

I will find the centre in you; I will chew it up and leave.

I will work to elevate you, just enough to bring you down.”

 

 

Bloody dust.

His coughing was ragged and his eyes watered.

Perhaps, in hindsight's infinite clarity, he had sealed the place a little too well.

Dust clouds burned him all over; the tingle of itch crawled from his hair to his calves. If he twitched a sheet, moved his hand over a chair or desk, or Maker help him even breathe a new plume of dust erupted and he spent the next few minutes coughing it back up.

 

Bloody bloody dust.

 

By now Erik stood in his trousers, bare feet and bare chest, throwing out moth devoured rags or clothes that would not fit, ink pots that had dried up or a nest of twigs and his papers the Mouse had deemed fitting for a bed. The infirmary was his choice for where to take the clothes; his essay on Saldaen war tactics since the Hundred Year War had been well used by the unwelcome visitor and now good only for kindling... Anyway new bandages are always appreciated at infirmaries, be it in the Stedding or all the way in Mayene. He had no need for such things as silk and nice shirts anyway.

Apart from a majority of his wardrobe time had been kind to his small abode. The woollen mattress still felt less comfortable than straw but better than ground and rocks, and in fine condition, while his many tools and books remained unscathed.

“Thank the Maker,” Erik breathed as he opened his copy of the Voyages with Sea Folk, undamaged and the marker right where he had left off.

 

Basra put shore on the Tremalking island of Ellusia, two days west of Windbiter’s Finger, in a cove that was secluded and away from the villages dotting the coast. Basra’s men were uneasy, even the Master of Swords Jor looked as if they were all committing blasphemy for landing. The Sea Folk and Amayar seem to have a curious relationship, despite the fact that Sea Folk governors live on the main island of Tremalking and the Amayar live the way of the Water Way. Even Basra is hesitant in talking too much about the Amayar, though I have come to understand they are indeed much like the Tuatha'an, or Tinkers, and their Mahdi, or Seeker, with their Way of the Leaf passivism. The men keep saying something about the End of Illusions, in whispers, while Basra and Jor both feign ignorance. Perhaps the Sea Folk have a deeper misunderstanding of ideals than they act, seeing the peaceful Tremalkingers unable to see the Illusion? The seas are just as deep of mysteries, if not deeper, than any land I have travelled.

Basra made excuses to the sailors, explaining how repairs needed to be done and a land leg like myself needs time on dry land to steady my stomach. The men grunted, to my displeasure—I was certain I had convinced them I was as steady on the deck as any of their own—and went to their work.

Cliffs climb either side and the trees and plants seemed to be exploding from every corner. In a minute walk I found ninety poisonous plants, twenty man eating vines and trees that could swallow up a whole horse if it dared to close, and a pink weed that crawled along on the forest floor as if it were a Tear tortoise or Domani Spine-hog.

 

The book slid closed beside the Travels of Jain Farstrider and Wonders of the Legends. Erik stood to stretch, the muscles all over his body ached for movement, for exertion. The sun was steadily climbing to a noon time zenith, its blazing rays beginning to fill his home replacing the clouds of dust.

 

“The End of Illusions…” He had heard the phrase used somewhere else before but the memory was but a flicker and then gone. Tremalking… Now there was a land he would never see. Living in the Black Hills Erik had dreamt of the Topless Towered City of Cairhein or the Stone of Tear, having seen them now and many other wonders he had never dreamed he would lay eyes on… But two days resting your life in the capabilities of a boat when there are waterspouts the size of mountains and whirlpools as wide as a town, sea monsters and rogue waves and jutting rocks and underwater volcanoes waiting for you to pass over before they explode… Thank the Light no.

 

After a very cold and very short paddle through the pond Erik dressed himself in semi-decent clothes, loose white cotton shirt and dark brown trousers—both oddly enough from Jarret’s Passing—and thick leather boots. Gathering into his sad looking satchel the scrapped clothes and some trinkets he had come across in his travels that would trade, his baldric strapped on snuggly with his sabre hilt poking out over his left shoulder, Erik closed the lodge door. Crossing the small field of flowers with a small stop at Gena’s headstone, Erik began to trace his way back through the woods towards the centre of the Stedding.

He could feel the wolves around him; know all of them, their history, he opened himself up more. Breath filled his lungs for what felt like the first time in many Ages.

Erik smiled up into the trees. His stomach grumbled and near shook the leaves off of the Dogwoods in its ache.

 

“Some stew. I could kill for some good old fashioned homemade stew.”

 

"Promises have been turned into lies,

can't even be honest inside..

Now I'm running backwards,

watching my life wave me goodbye..

I'm running blind."

 

    Bundling Straw turned to The Kingfisher takes a Silverback, became Swallow takes Flight.

      The rich crack of the wooden sparring blade against the dummy clapped through the air.

      It was rare to find the sparring area deserted, regardless of how early it bloody well was, but Erik was far from complaining. The sun was near rising, everyday it took a little longer to break the horizon, everyday closer to end of summer's reign and closer to the grips of Winter.

Pushing harder he made the assault a steady rhythm, wary of the phantom blade, he blocked and parried as he strove to strike harder. Low Wind Rising, knock the blade away and put them on the defensive.. Strike the Spark again. Again and again he peppered the wooden target, muscles straining, his grip slipping, as he pushed more and more of his weight into every blow.

      Stepping back Erik realized how hard he was breathing. His skin was slick with sweat and his lungs ached for rest. The wood lathe was bent, his hand pulsing as the shivers began to dissipate, salt stung his eyes.

      Apple Blossoms in the Wind. He did not have to search for the Void, it simply came, and the pain and fatigue drained away. They were there, he would have to face the aching muscles and the bruises and the inflamed, and at the same time were another man's afflictions.

      Keep the blade loose boy... You're surrounded... Stay relaxed, quick thrusts. Nothing too far from the body. Keep it central. Make them work to open you up.

      Odd, six years later, deep within the Void, he can still hear his father's advice floating around near the edges of the abyss.

      Lizard in the Thornbush. The blade slashed through the air and Erik never felt freer.

 

* * * *

 

      Water still dribbled around in his ear as he walked along the banks of lake towards the Inn. Hair dripping still Erik whistled as he stepped up the path. After a few days coated in dust, a tumble from a tree he had no intension of climbing again, and form exercises that left him aching from eyebrow to toenail like back in the good old days, the common room of the Stedding's inn beckoned.

      "A soft chair.. a warm mug of.. something.. A book to doze off reading or a slow game of Stones.. Mmmmm. They might even be cooking something better than rabbit and hard leek."

 

      If it hopped on the ground or sang a sweet song, grew in the ground or tasted like cabbage but looked like a mushroom, Erik had eaten it. In every different combination, every possible way, over and over again for the last three Winters.

      Light, even a bowl of stew.. I just want to relax somewhere that doesn't have slivers, rocks, or dust. Please Light, no more dust.

"You remember the night that you left me

you put me in my place.

Got you in a stranglehold now baby

you better cross your way."

 

    This is the third month in a row you've promised to do something more, Erik growled at himself, his shoulders ached with deep knotted pain, the training blade braced against the back of his neck while his arms dangled over it. His shirt hung from his neck, dirt encrusted and sweat drenched. Each step was deliberate and focused, teeth gritted and face clenched. This is the third month you've wanted to do more than sit alone or go fetch Wanderers..

 

    Erik stripped to his small clothes, let the first sweeping rays of daylight to breathe through him, sing through him, before he slipped into the Lake's cool waters. The town was waking up, the first clatter of movement and doors filled the silence he had enjoyed. Maybe too much silence can be a bad thing.

 

    "And maybe I'm getting too self-analyzing in my old age as well," the twenty-four winter old reflected as he batted at his reflection in the water. Cool ripples smacked at his chest, the Lake's waters soothing his burning muscles. Blood of the land, childhood years were at the river Ivo's banks, splashing and swimming in the pools and fishing to kill a day away from chores. A cleansing. To wash away the dirt, wash away the dust from his eyes and his nails and his hair, its sticky cling in every pore, in every crack of skin and slope of muscle.

 

    Climbing out, Erik dressed quickly, the cool air lapped gentle kisses down his shoulders and up his legs as he dried. That was a custom of the southern kingdoms he had picked up quickly, that six winters ago he wouldn't think twice of, but swimming did not seem to be an excuse for a lack of.. clothes. Growing up it was expected to be conservative, a woman who showed skin in public was not one worth seeing the skin of at home, but going down to the river... was an exception. Few people wore small clothes as they dipped into the water, though women usually swam higher up the river, it just wasn't something that was seen as odd. The Mother made us from the ground, the Creator gave us the Light to fill us, and the waters filled us up.

    Erik remembered Ranger training... A few quick words from Owen, and the looks from the wolfsisters ranging from horror and mortification to laughter and.. Well, Gena didn't count.. The other wolfbrothers hadn't been too enthused either.

    After that, clothes began missing from his pile and no one else's during his swims after training. Owen and Lorelai and Gena and Nyn and John.. they'd all been in on it, he was certain. Enough proud walks through the village in his small clothes and Wolflover had decided she'd seen enough, must have talked to Owen if not the whole conspiracy, and suddenly Ranger training went more smoothly.

 

    Erik let the green shirt hang loosely around his frame, the training blade propped against his right shoulder as he held his pipe out to stuff it. A short walk into town and a coal from a smith's fire offered enough warmth to coax a plume of smoke. The tabac was sweet, a rolling warmth in the draw that reminded him of Tear in Fall. The pipe sat between his teeth as he walked down the stretch of road, the town grinding to life around him, Newcomers and Sisters and Brothers nodded to him as he passed. He kept his gait relaxed and steady, his eyes moving from each face as he placed the name and scent. He had remembered the Stedding with more to their number, unavoidable incidents and fewer Wanderers than a Winter past took their toll. So he believed, he knew few of the faces he passed, and the amount of times he had received the call to retrieve a Wanderer had dwindled in accordance.

 

    Do the wolves believe I have something to come to terms with still? Smoke had said as much when he last spoke with the black wolf. But Erik didn't believe it was simply the wolves' choice who was summoned... The Wanderer had an effect on who had the gleaming beacon in the back of their head and who was left to stew and brood in their cabin..

 

    Erik paused by the Ranger training yard, to let the sun's warmth sink into his bones and watch the Rangers at work. Dust swirled from the moving bodies and Erik cracked a grin around his pipe. He needed a battle. He needed a fight. He needed blood on his blade, to sing the blade song and feel something again.

 

-Erik

...And with dust in throat I crave

only knowledge will I save

to the game you stay a slave

rover wanderer

nomad vagabond

call me what you will

but I'll take my time anywhere

free to speak my mind anywhere

and I'll redefine anywhere

anywhere I may roam

where I lay my head is home

 

 

"Good. Now what have we learned?"

 

Erik stood before the group of young wolfkin. Many were breathing hard, several held their weight up by leaning on the wooden training lathes. Dirt and sweat stuck out on their bare chests, arms, and faces. A layer of dust held fast to his shoulders and across his neck, like it had worked into his joints, into his flesh.

 

Several breathless voices echoed various aspects of the practice session. The important points at least.

 

"Satisfactory," Erik scratched his forehead, a small red mark was the only evidence that a wild swing had almost caught him full in the crown before he could parry it.. If he had been fighting the Tender Paw he would have complimented him on his prowess, but since he'd been walking by inspecting, any merit in the assault was lost. The boy didn't make eye contact with him, clustered in the group of other new faces who silently appreciated their comrade's embarassment. Erik cleared his voice and the new wolfkin snapped to attention. "For basic combat, satisfactory. If none of you have lessons scheduled in two days time at sunrise, you may join for a second instruction of basic combat. Practice your sword forms, get comfortable with them, and maintain your stamina with running and swimming. Dismissed."

 

Erik exited the training yard, wet rag in hand, as he removed the last traces of dirt from his body. His shirt hung in his right arm while he made his way through the village. He had taken to leaving his scabbard and baldric in his cabin, the weight an ease off of his shoulders but press on his mind. He could appreciate the safety the Stedding offered, the tranquility, but an unease was always with him when he was.. near.. defenceless.

 

Dropping the rag into a pile of clothes and sheets waiting to be washed near the Infirmary, Erik pulled in the scent and memories around him, the sounds and vibrations of many lives happily nestled in their niche.

 

"Where's a Trolloc when you need one?"

 

The shirt slid on with ease, something green and light and far too gentle against his skin. Erik made his way towards the Inn, hungry for something fresh and raw.

 

-Night's Howl