Nothing had prepared him for the onslaught of memories, or the despair that laced his happiness to be home. For seven years he had traveled and longed for this place. Now he stood amidst its decimated waste. His memory had shaped it into something less gruesome. His eyes now dispelled that myth, bringing him to the jarring realization. Although his heart dwelt here, Dorvan 5 would never be home again.

The sight before him was in fact just how he had seen it last. Nothing amidst the landscape had changed. Time stood still here, it's existence forgotten by the outside world. No birds sang. No leaves rustled. No wind blew. For seven years, he had known no privacy, no rest. Here, he was completely and utterly alone. He shook his head, acknowledging the horrible irony.

The only sound that reached his ear was the soot and sand that gave way under his boots as he started to move through the area that had once been his village. Where once a thriving community existed, ghost frames of old houses now stood. What wasn't charred black was gray as ash. Even the earth beneath his feet bore an unnatural shade. The only spot of color within eye's reach was the vibrant crimson of his Starfleet uniform.

He huffed. It was this very land and all its memories that had driven him away from Starfleet. And in his quest to protect those abandoned by the Federation, the spirits had thrust him back into their service. "You will never be a part of that other world," his father had once exclaimed. "And if you leave, you will never be a part of this one." The decision to leave had been conscious. The decision to stay, in the end, had been made by circumstance.

He hunched down and scooped up a handful of dirt. Turning it over in his hands, he examined it for signs of life. His fingers clutched more gray and chunks of black. No healthy brown. No insects. He deposited the collection, wiping his hands on his pant legs as he stood. Nothing could heal in this much misery.

Phantom sensations of days long past attacked his senses as he surveyed the destruction. His mother's perfume. His father's reproachful glance. His smile of approval. The smells of dinner cooking in the kitchen. The cool water of the lake as he swam with his childhood friends. The mud slicks after the annual spring rains.

He realized in that split second that it was the past he sought, not the possibility of what was to come. For seven years, he had longed for something that he could never have again.

His attention drifted to the sky, tears threatening to spill onto his anguished face. Did he curse the spirits for allowing this destruction or praise them for sparing his life? He was still undecided when his combadge sounded.

A warm, rich voice flooded his ears. "Chakotay."

Inside him welled an intense desire to be in her arms, to allow her scent and presence to wash over him, to erase the sorrow. He touched his combadge. "It's already been an hour?"

"And a couple minutes," she threw in. "I have the transporter locked on. Are you ready?"

He paused. Was he ready? He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure he would ever be ready to leave this place.

"What did you find?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said. "There's nothing here."

"I'm sorry."

He could tell without a doubt that the empathy in her voice was genuine. It made him smile.

"Bring me home, B'Elanna."