So who doesn't love road trips?
This: trudging in the footsteps of your father, trudging south, silently and solemnly bidding farewell — farewell to the jagged peaks, the thin sky, the caves and the hot springs and the snow — doesn't actually seem fun, does it? It actually kind of sucks. But it all happened so suddenly your parents' explanations continue to buzz around in your head like angry bees, echoing and echoing and distorting and falling apart. We're leaving. We're leaving. We're leaving.
The Basin is the only home you've ever known.
Suddenly every frustration you felt in that place pales in comparison to this overwhelming change. You can't be leaving because you've never really left. You can't be leaving —
Black eyes tilt back every few steps to stare at a home now invisible, a home no longer yours, as it recedes and recedes and becomes no more than thought and horizon. Why does it matter so much? Why does your chest hurt and your head feel weird...? Your steps angle toward Vesper's tracks every time worry clenches your heart in its fists. You want to feel her side against your own, the familiar bump of her shoulder on yours, and smell her still-fuzzy wings, and feel every last scrap of home still available to you. You won't chase if she skirts away, if she resents your touch — but you desperately hope she won't. She's all you have.
I mean, she isn't. Your father's right there, isn't he? But he's taller than you and flawlessly black and perfectly silver, and his eyes match Vesper's but not yours, and his wings are massive and flawlessly feathered, and the creature perched up in them talks to Vesper's companion but you don't have one.... And now Mama's gone and you feel small and a little naked, like you've forgotten to bring along something precious — like you arrived at the first day of school with your shirt unbuttoned and your shoes on the wrong feet, and you didn't even realize it. I mean, who is your father, really? You know his name, but not really what he's like.
What he's like: is far away, sad eyes looking into some other place and then looking at you. He's full of a darkness like you don't understand, and at the same time you want to touch him, pull his eyes toward you again, and you want to run. In between looking over your shoulder, you stare furtively at him. And as the miles pass by, the staring at him takes up more time, until eventually you forget to look back altogether, and it's only you, just the three of you, walking and walking in the strangely crisp air....
You've been here before. When your father stops, you remember to look at the scenery again, and it strikes you hard with familiarity from when you decided to be reckless and explore the southern places all on your own. Now you stare at it wide-eyed and silent, silent again as you were in your very early youth, and everything wild and reckless and ferocious curls up in you and goes to sleep.
This thing, with its teeth around your heart — that's fear.
Father smiles. Your head jerks; your ears come up, uncomprehending. For a moment, your expression fuzzes with confusion: a blur of curiosity and apprehension. You stare at Mesec with that dull look for a breath too long. "Why?" The word forces itself from your mouth in a low huff. Bewildered, you look at Vesper for a clue. How the hell does someone go exploring on demand? And anyway, you've already been here, haven't you? It's your father you're more interested in, not some damn trees —
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