Rolan hammered ferociously against the heated metal that glowed a brilliant red. Sweat dripped from his brow as he grunted and swung harder. His mind was gone, far away from this stuffy workshop, but his body continued to hammer. Harder and harder he swung more violently, until.

Snap.

The glowing, metal rod broke in two with one piece falling to the floor with a clang.

“Damn it,” Rolan bellowed as he spiked his hammer into the ground in frustration.

He let out a heavy sigh as he rested his hand on the anvil in front of him.

“Ah, damn!” he shouted and pulled his hand off the steaming, metal block.

Rolan glanced over to see a figure watching him from the shadows. It was an old man who wore a look of concern and disappointment.

“My apologies, Master Harold; I am not feeling myself today.” Rolan said as he drew himself up to stand as straight as he could.

“Come and have a seat,” he beckoned the young man over to him with a flat voice.

Rolan took a seat in a worn but comfortable chair as the warm glow from the fireplace enveloped him. He took this moment to draw in a deep inhale to try and center himself.

Harold took a kettle off the hearth. His old hands shook as he poured the aromatic drink into two, meager, ceramic cups.

“Gudblomst is healthy for the soul. Have some.”

The young man reluctantly drank the tea, and the fusion of herbs immediately gladdened his heart. Although it was the dead of night, the room seemed to lighten and he felt unburdened like he had not felt in some time. He leaned back and closed his eyes as he ran his hands through his shaggy, brown hair.

“Thank you, Master,” Rolan said with a slight bow. “I needed this break.”

The old master shook his head. His long, white beard swaying with the movement. “You need more than simply tea to fix what is in here,” He drew out a bony finger and poked Rolan in the chest. “Your heart has been broken, my boy. You must mend it.”

Rolan snorted, “How shall I fix a broken heart? Find some sorcerer or mystic to cure me? It is life. I must learn to live with what has happened.”

The old man nodded his head. “Yes, yes you must learn to live with it, but you must face it first. Trust a man who has lived far more winters than most, you cannot bury the past, Rolan.”

Harold stopped to stroke his beard and took a long sip of the warm tea.

“In all my years making armor for the royal army of Hailgalad, I have not had an apprentice like you. I am old, Rolan. I do not have any family to past my craft to and I do not have much time left. You are the only one who has shown me truly great potential, but if you do not mend this hurt, then I fear you would only lead my legacy to ruin.”

Rolan’s heart sank. The words were harsh, but true. Then, without any ability to hold them back, tears fell down his face.

“She died. She was everything to me, my only family. She died and I was not there to save her.”

The old man let out a sigh as he peered ant his apprentice through his tired, grey eyes. Then, he spoke softly as he said, “She would have died if you had been there and you would have died as well, right alongside her. Goblins are a cruel folk. Sometimes terrible, unimaginable things happen to good people, but we cannot let those events deter us from living the breaths we are granted each day.”

“What can I do?” Rolan asked as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

The old man took out a thick book that let out a cloud of dust when he dropped it onto the table. The cover had a number of strange runes that Rolan recognized from shrines to Areandel. The title of the book was Of Areandel Mother of Hailgalad. Harold opened it to the start of a chapter that said The Touch of Areandel.

“What is this?” Rolan asked curiously.

“It is said that when Areandel and the Divine Order created this world, she favored these lands above all others for the beautiful birch forests and wide seas of grass. It was because of this that she blessed these parts with a single touch of her finger.

“To the Northeast, north of Mendale, there is a solitary peak.” Harold turned to the book to Rolan and pointed on an ancient map within its pages. “It is of unimpressive height. In fact, if one was not looking for it, they would surely walk right by.”

“This is where she supposedly touched the land?” Rolan asked with his brow furrowed.

Harold nodded. “On the top, there is a smooth indent, like a finger that pushed into a lump of soft clay.”

“What can this place do for me?” the young man sighed as he sat back in his chair.

Harold gave his apprentice a disappointed look as he explained, “Long ago, when it was commonplace for people to read old, dusty books like these, many would go there with a lantern and some ashes of their loved one who had passed on. If you made it to this place with the flame intact, you put the light in the indent to give them up to Areandel. The act is meant to purify the soul of both the people who made the journey and the one that passed on. It is said that this gives them an easier journey to their final rest in the in fields before the Narcluplex, the land of the gods.”

Rolan grunted and shook his head. “That sounds like a fairytale. Old magic that no longer exists, or never did. We have work to do here. I do not have time to waste of frivolous journeys.”

Harold walked away silently and returned with an old oil lantern that was twisted and warped as if it had been cast into a fire of intense heat.

“This lantern was for my wife.”

He pulled out two more, “These were for my parents.”

Then, he pulled out a final lantern that was smaller than the rest, “This one was for my Ginny.”

Rolan saw a tear roll down the man’s wrinkled cheek. The young man’s heart hit the floor and his head hung low. “I am sorry, master. I did not mean to jest at this ritual.”

The old man sat down and stared at his apprentice. “Look at me.” Rolan obeyed and looked at his master. “Do not be sorry, be better. You must take this journey for both your soul and your mother’s.”

“What was it that mangled these lanterns? Will you come with me?” Rolan asked, still quite confused on the whole situation.

Harold shook his head. “I am too old and besides, this is a journey you must take alone. You will find out why these are in the shape they are in. All in good time.”

Harold took out a large pack and put it on the table. He removed an old map, fine leather armor, and a beautifully crafted steel sword. The hilt was gold and laden with red jewels.

“Long ago, I wished to be an adventurer until I put it aside to start a family, and take over my fathers smithy. Here, take these items for your journey. The road is plenty safe, but there are a few perils that you may face.” The man retreated once more to the closet where the pack was and returned with a lantern and oil. “There is enough oil here to last you eight days. It is five to the peak by foot.”

Rolan stared at all the gear in wonder. He was still trying to process everything that he had just been told. The young man weighed everything in his mind and wondered if he should go.

“Thank you,” was all he could muster in return.

Harold gave a smile and said, "I suppose that you could say I am also looking out for my own self interest. If I lose you, then I no longer have an apprentice.”

The two men embraced and Rolan felt a weight off of his shoulders. The journey ahead gave him direction which was something he had sorely lacked in the past days.

When they let go, Harold slapped Rolan on the shoulder. “Now off with you. Areandel willing, I will see you in ten days.”

Rolan game a smile and nod, and was off into the night.

***

It was not long before Rolan had gathered enough supplies to start his journey. He had made up his mind to go, but he could not get himself to move. He sat there at his table, starting at the small jar of ashes. With a shaky hand, he picked them up, and continued to look blankly at them.

After some time, he finally placed them in the lantern and sat back down. The initial rush of the journey ahead pushed him to this point, but now he was filled with uncertainty.

Just a waste of time, he thought as he found himself drifting off to sleep.

Rolan woke with a jolt as sunlight beamed down into his room. He stretched and rubbed his neck that was stiff from a night’s rest in his wooden chair.

He yawned as he looked over at the gear all ready for a journey he was not sure he would take. Then, t his shock, he noticed that the lantern was lit.

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“How did,” he started aloud as he stood up in wonder.

Must be a sign, Rolan though to himself. Looks like I am in for a journey after all.

***

It took a few steps for Rolan to get a feel for the pack on his shoulders. He had attached the lantern to an iron rod that protruded out the side of it.

Rolan shivered from the brisk, autumn morning air as he plodded along the streets of Javailty. The open gate of the city loomed in the distance, shrouded by a thick blanket of fog that coated the ground. He could not make out their faces, but two pikes of guards approached him. In time, the long spears cut through the mist to reveal two silver-clad soldiers.

“Morning,” one of them nodded. “Off to the road?”

The young man gave a nod in return, “Off to north of Mendale. To a point called the Touch of Areandel.”

The other solider gave a scoff, “I thought only greyhairs took those paths these days.”

The first soldier gave them an elbow, “Never-mind this one. I am sorry for your loss. I hope you find some peace there.”

“Thank you,” Rolan said with a forced smile as she shrugged off the joke. “Any advice for a first time traveler?”

“Stay on the road. Main ways will take you most of the journey. Regardless, you will be in the borders of Hailgalad, so you should not have much excitement out there.”

“Thank you, have a good day,” Rolan said as he left the guards, through the grand gates of Javailty.

***

The road traveled a steady way north from his city. It was broad and smoothly laid by generations long ago. It was now midday and the sun had burned away the clouded roads to make for a clear view. Fields as far as Rolan could see sprawled in the distance.

It suddenly hit him as he walked that this was the first time he came outside the city walls since his mother was killed. She had taken him to these fields countless times. They had been inseparable, always playing games without a care in the world.

A tear rolled down his cheek as he walked on.

"Are you alright, son?" a gruff voice asked.

Rolan quickly wiped away the tear, "Ah, yeah. Yeah I'm okay."

"Losing someone isn't easy," the man continued.

"How did you know?" Rolan asked as he stopped.

The man was old with short white hair and leathery skin. He was a herdsman by the look of him.

"That lantern you have there. It's a good thing you are doing. Not many take the time these days. Too busy with the hustle and bustle of the times."

Rolan smiled as another tear fell. "Thank you," was all he said in reply as he continued down the road.

Night was falling as Rolan tried to find a place to setup camp. His feet and legs ached as he stumbled along. That was when he came across a large building. Inside, there were many people making merry and the place had a cheerful glow about it. The sign out front read Riverbrook Inn.

The happiness inside called to him, but Rolan could not bring himself to enter. Something about the journey told him he should be in solitude until the task was over.

He found a spot by the Frostfall River, a ways south of the inn. He pitched his tent and took out his bedroll. Feeling relieved of his burdens, he stumbled down to the river to wash his face and take in the refreshing cold water. Within moments he was laid back in his tent munching on heinbrood. Not long after that, he was fast asleep.

***

Rolan could hear screams as he ran into the fray. Fires were burning all around him as people fled in a frightful terror.

Where is she, he thought in a panic.

At last, he found his mother, but it was too late. A nasty, goblin chieftain had her by the arm as he dragged her away. Rolan tried to run after her, but he was taken down by two of the feral beasts. He looked up just in time to see the goblin plunge a dagger into his mother's chest.

"No!" Rolan screamed as he shot up in his tent.

The young man quickly came to and realized it was just a dream. Just another dream that he had every night since his mother died. An unending torment of his mother's death.

Rolan buried his hands in his face and screamed as he cried. That was when the rain started.

***

Rolan woke up again, just after dawn, although he had no way of knowing. It was still dark as thunder rolled and rain came down with a steady beat.

Perfect, he though to himself.

The young man packed his belongings in the rain and readied himself for another march. He took the lantern off the iron rod and hit it under a piece of animal skin.

Not taking any chances with you going out mom, he said to himself.

The walk was difficult. He did count himself fortunate that the road was paved with cobblestone. There was no mud and get stuck in, but nothing on him stayed dry in the searching droplets of rain.

Every so often, Rolan would check on the lantern. The small glow gave him the push he needed to ride through the tough day.

After many hours in the steady downfall, night was falling once more and Rolan was not quite sure where he was.

Lucky to have this road or I would be hopeless, he thought.

The rain continued to fall and thunder rolled as the area around the road became increasingly more wooded. In the dark, the landscape was becoming for and more unsettling. Rolan reluctantly continued on, not sure where to stop for camp. Frustration and anxiousness was growing in him with every step.

Remember the guards words, he thought. You are still in Hailgalad. You are safe.

But your mother was in Hailgalad and she was killed, his mind countered.

At that moment, he could hear rustling in the trees. Rolan drew the sword his master had given him and held it tightly.

"W-who's out there," he uttered into the darkness.

Then, there was a flash of movement and a creature sprang from the brush. Rolan slashed the air and fell in the attack. The sword and pack flew from him as he stumbled in the dark, wet night. He scrambled to his knees, waiting for a strike, but none came.

To his embarrassment, it was only a squirrel. The creature grabbed some heinbrood that had fallen from Rolan's pack and scrambled off into the night.

The young man sat in a puddle, in the rain, in defeat. The lantern had fallen and laid on its side. The flame still burned faintly as he stared on.

Senseless trip, a waste of time. Who do I think I am? I couldn’t save my mother and I cannot even make a simple walk on my own, he thought as he picked up his pack and sword, leaving the lantern behind.

Rolan began to walk away when gust of wind threw him on his face. It felt like all the air in his body was thrust out with the strange blow that held him in place. Harder and harder it pushed him down so that he could not even breathe.

Then, as quickly as the gust came, it was gone. As Rolan stood up, he ran over to the lantern that was still untouched by the rain.

I am sorry, mom, he said with shame in his voice.

To Rolan’s relief, as soon as he picked up the light, the rain mysteriously stopped.

Another sign? He thought to himself as he looked around in wonder.

The young man decided to simply take the blessing as it came as he found a clearing and setup camp. Within moments, he was laying down in his tent, trying to fall asleep.

***

Rolan woke up with a steely determination on his mind.

No more going back, I am going to see this through, he thought as he shook off another restless night.

The next two days and nights dragged on Rolan’s will to continue on. His feet and knees ached, and he was exhausted from the dreams that kept him from a full night’s rest. The only things that kept him going was the thought of the long road back and the flame of his mother’s lantern that stubbornly continued to burn after the neglect of the second night.

On the fifth day, the young man walked along at a steady pace until he knew that he was coming close to the peak’s path.

There were few people on the road, except large shipping wagons from the city of Mendale. Here ,the trees grew tall and had all types of colors. The fresh, morning air invigorated him to pick up his pace.

He continued on until he came to an overgrown path and an old, faded sign. From his map, he knew this was the place to turn off the main road.

Once he was on the path, it was better kept that it originally looked to be at its entrance. Vibrant colors of the autumn forest and golden light showered him as he took in a deep inhale. It was a serene place that filled Rolan’s heart.

I wish you could see this, mom, he said to himself as a tear fell from his face.

After a few hours of walking, he came to a clearing. In the middle of it, there was a solitary peak that stood a few hundred feet from the forest floor. Its solemn grey was a great contrast to the beautiful woods around it.

When Rolan came to the base of the hill, he wiped his brow and looked to the top.

No need for all this, he thought as he took all of his provisions off. It was only him and the lantern that would make this climb.

The ascent up the rocky slope was steep. Rolan slipped a few times, but was sure to keep the lantern from harm as he climbed. The young man was exhausted and dripped with sweat as he finally made it to the top of the mound.

It was there that he saw a smooth crevice like a finger had pushed into a lump of soft clay. Some part of him thought that it did not actually exist and if it did, that it was only a happenstance of nature. However, at this place, Rolan knew in his heart that this was a sacred spot.

He fell to his knees with a heavy breath as he held out his lantern.

“Mom,” he said aloud. “I miss you so much. I wish you could be here with me now, but I know that it cannot be so. That is why I give you to Areandel. May she take you up in her arms until we see each other again.”

He placed the lantern in the hole and was immediately bathed in a brilliant light. There was a great cyclone of wind as a beam came down onto the lantern. Rolan held tightly to the rocks around him, but as much as the wind whipped, he was left unmoved. He felt a caress of some unseen figure that was fleeting and was quickly gone.

Then, the white light and wind vanished as the midmorning sun returned. His heart was light like he had never known a heart could be. He smiled more wide than he had ever done so. He knew his mother was gone, but it was not a feeling of sadness. It was hope for the days ahead, and a meeting to be had once more when the time was right.

Rolan felt invigorated as he leapt down the rocky hillside. He took up his belongings and began the journey home. He walked the cobblestone roads with a bounce in his step like his feet did not ache. He stopped at the inn he had passed. There, Rolan had a few ales and swapped stories with strangers. The young man had the best night’s sleep of his life at that inn.

He then returned home and lived out the rest of his days with a fullness that few others in his city would ever know.

***

Years later, Rolan climbed up a solitary peak, holding a lantern. He was joined by a woman and a young girl who held his hand tightly as they cleared the last rocks. Before them was a smooth crevice like a finger had pushed into a lump of soft clay.

Rolan wiped a tear from his eye as the little girl spoke.

"Dad, are you okay?"

"Yes, sweetie," he sniffed and smile at his wife. “I am just saying goodbye to grandpa Harold."

With this, Rolan placed the lantern in the crevice. A brilliant light and fire came down from the sky and as soon as it had come, it was gone.

"Thank you, master," Rolan whispered softly.