#[[alas. not quite! pyralspite fashionably late and making his own entrance.]]

[graviconscientia]

Books. You had left your hive for books. Dirk had asked, so kindly, and for such a gentle reason. How could you deny him his request when it was for his Valentine? When it was for--

That, however, is speculation. What is important is to acquire a few novels (and a bag of chicken nuggets, per another dear friend's request), and be home as quickly as possible. Less time out, less chance to see a familiar face-- "Well, look at who it is! If it isn't Nettles! Where have YOU been?" Ugh. You can hear your former colleagues' voices already. They'll have you back in your office in seconds if they see you. But that's speculation, too.

You've been in the capital city a few times since leaving Asidea, and you've made sure all your favourites were still in place. Favourite florist, favourite cafe, favourite tailor… And same as ever, favourite bookstore. There's joy in the familiarity, something soothing in knowing that somethings haven't changed. It may not be this way forever, but it is this way for now.

Finding the books is easy enough. Something with a pretty woman in green on the cover, a few romances, a singular historical fiction, a book of poetry selected separately for another… It's quick work, and even quicker work is made of groceries, a few extra ingredients to add to not-quite-Valentine's-Day party treat, and a passing glance at flowers for that same event. Simple tasks, quickly done. And aren't you proud of yourself!

You begin the walk home, brisk in your pace so you are not caught by anyone, eyes focused ahead, distracting yourself with a mental to-do list once you return to your hive. But something catches your ear, and, along with it, your attention.

"What the fuck is THAT thing?!"

The comment isn't directed at you, thankfully, but your hand is quick to flinch towards the dagger on your thigh. Two young trolls are speaking to each other, excited, and when you find where their voices are coming from, you see them, and several others, looking up.

You do the same.

Your heart nearly stops, the commotion on the street fading away from you, the dagger, your tasks, everything else leaving your mind. When you look up, you see the moons, pink shining fully and green slyly smiling, the stars blinking in a inky sky, and great white wings attached to a great white beast nearly blocking the heavens from view. A dragon, you hear someone shout. A dragon back in the city.

Two, you think. Two of us, here. Both of us in the city, together.

You can barely look away from him, eyes kept skyward so you don't lose him, jogging along the pavement, then breaking out into a full run. You can feel every muscle burning, your lungs full of fire, but you have to keep going. You've been tracking him for ages, and now he's so close-- every lonely hour poring over maps and records from sweeps you barely remember, every sobbed frustration over missed opportunities and a lack of understanding, every terror that crept into your mind because of sleepless nights, every day you have spent missing the one entity in any timeline who has always understood you… they're going to be worth it. You watch the clouds, you feel the wind, you wonder where he will land. You have your guess. You'll be fine if you're wrong.

You are a blur in your hive, throwing books on the couch, shoving food into the fridge, grabbing the bag you prepared for this exact event, and exit back out the door before you realise where you are. You check upward again, frantic. He's lower now, but still in view, moving away from the shore, away from the city (idly, you curse Treekat for being right about this, but swear you'll thank him properly, too.), towards the forest. You don't know if you can run again. But if you don't?

That's not even being considered.

A guttural cry leaves your chest, a roar in a language lost to most trolls, one you know will be recognised by who needs it. Again, again, again… the sound of an animal's young, desperate to be found by its parent. Draconian, shouted through tears you didn't know were spilling from you, as loud as you can manage, as loud as your can will your lungs, your throat to be: "Dad! Dad! Dad, can you hear me?" You repeat it, breathlessly, every few footfalls, panting hard as you try to keep him directly above you. The wings turn, and so does he, towards the edge of the woods you both know so well. He outpaces you, though, and he's sinking lower, lower. You cannot keep up. You lose him to the trees.

There is fear, immediately, that that was all you'd see of him. That this begins another hunt for who knows how long. You have kept shed scales and crushed leaves and singed bark, clues and keepsakes both. And here? You will keep trying. You will keep chasing him, however deep into the forest it takes you.

You don't know how long you run for. Could be minutes. Could be hours. The moons still hang above when you think to check the time-- even then, you don't register the numbers you're looking at. You're out of breath, voice hoarse from your continued hollers, sore from tip to toe. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think you should start running laps as part of your trainings, then feel immediately nauseous at the prospect of ever running again. You hold firm to an oak for support, eyes staring without focus in the direction of a bright red berry bush. But the flora hits something in your mind, and you bring yourself back to your surroundings. You're almost there. These bushes are ones you used to pick little snacks from, the tree you're holding onto has your initials, alongside your ex-moirail's, carved into the bark, and there is a heat you feel underfoot. It's not from the earth. It's radiating from something-- someone-- else.

Carefully, you press on, finally catching your breath, watching your footing and making sure to be noisy as you can manage, peering through leaves as you crawl under branches to an open patch in the woods. There sits your old hive, adorned with all its fairy lights and lanterns, silly wriggler's art on sideboards hidden under ivy, the trees surrounding it bending in gentle embrace. You've seen it recently, spending nights in it, cleaning it up to make it a place to love again.

The enormous dragon resting in front of it, curled up with smoke billowing from his nostrils, eyes bright and focused on you, is a new addition.

You can't move when you see him. You can't breathe, or think, or anything. He speaks to you, though, gently, kindly, warmly as ever, in the tongue that you made sure to never lose, to never forget. "Well, look at who it is. I've been looking for you for many moons, Advoca. Where have you been?"

In an instant, you drop your bag, and run (one more time, one more burst of energy) to him, arms flung across scales and holding tight to his neck as you sob. Claws come up to cradle you closer, gentle as they hold you tight. Just like how you've wanted for sweeps, just like you remember.

It's not where you've been, but where you are. And in this moment, held by your lusus, your dad, a dream you've held onto for eons? You feel like you are home.