Pater's hand was cracked and calloused from seasons of cold labor, but his grip was warm and ardent as a hearth. The rolling mists parted in his wake, and with every measured breath of his, small clouds billowed upwards. Naveil followed along in the fissure-deep bootprints. With wide eyes, he regarded the tall, gnarled pines; the hardy, snow-breaking flowers; the marble-banded outcrops gleaming with frost. Pater marched through the snowy steams in thoughtful silence, save for his booted footfalls.

Just how long had it been? Seven seasons, was it? For seven long and lonesome seasons, Pater had been in the war. The chilling gales howled at the revelation. Naveil felt his grasp tighten, and he matched his pater's strides, now walking alongside the man. There were new scars on Pater's face, and his sunken, sleepy eyes darted methodically from shadow to shadow. His fur-lined cloak looked more windswept and battle-torn than last Naveil had seen him.

"Pater?"

His pater's rhythm faltered, and he gave a light snort to correct himself. The crunching of snow fell hushed as Pater slowed to a more conversational pace, fondness sparking in his dark eyes as though he'd forgotten his son was even there. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, Naveil?"

"Where are we off to?"