Flying point for someone was not as easy as it looked.

Any Vhark who spent a great deal of time flying knew that it was easier to fly in someone’s immediate wake than it was to strike one’s own course. Thus, Hark, as their slowest and weakest flier, was always positioned at someone’s tail. It was Mulin’s turn to lead that formation, and it was a rather exacting process. If he flew too slow, he wasted time and risked a collision; if too fast, his ward would fall behind and get no benefit. He needed to stay more or less directly in front, not exactly by sight, but where the flow of air was concerned – which meant dropping slightly when they reached an updraft, or side-slipping against a crosswind.

For the first few hours, he hadn’t been much help. It was getting easier, although it still took a good deal of his concentration and frequent glances over his shoulder. Vhish hadn’t been able to get the knack, and Srin couldn’t do it reliably; the more of them who could, though, the more they could swap off when someone’s attention started to fray.

But for now, he was somewhat enjoying the challenge.

Up ahead, Kisa gestured a signal, concluding it by pointing down and to the left. Mulin followed the gesture to a clearing, a place void of the sparse trees they’d been flying over since midmorning, when they’d finally left the swamp behind. Two full days it had taken them to cross the wetlands, in addition to the first afternoon; the forest made it harder to find places to land, so they took whatever they could get, but at least they wouldn’t have the smell all around them anymore.

He shifted over, cutting toward the gap in the trees. The opening in the canopy was narrow, but not so narrow as to clip wings on the way through, and long enough for an easy take-off and landing.

First, though, the trio in the lead swept past it, one directly over it, the other two splitting to the sides. Mulin bode his time, going as slow as he dared without risking that the stoutwing behind Hark might stall.

He was getting to the point that he’d have to either break off or pass over the clearing when Kisa, Kralin, and Srin signalled the all-clear.

Mulin flipped his wingtips, gave a moment for Hark to interpret the signal, and then tilted his wings upward, pulling up and out of his way. He shed speed until he was barely getting lift, by which point Hark and the stout were past the canopy; then he let air past his wings and dropped. Not quickly, but enough so that he didn’t stall, and slipped beneath the leaves two body-lengths behind the stout.

Hark had drawn his sword by the time Mulin’s feet touched the brush, but the warrior didn’t look agitated; he was scanning between the tree trunks, looking for any sign that something dangerous was nearby, his weapon held low. Mulin’s spear was close enough to hand that he didn’t bother slipping it from its clips quite yet. He just searched the other side of the clearing, watching for any sign of motion or glimmer of mana, vaguely aware of the others landing behind him.

Beyond the border of trees, nothing moved that was larger than a squirrel.

“Clear as far as I can see,” Hark announced. “Which isn’t very far. Probably as good as we’re going to get until we get past the forest and into the scrub lands.”

“There’s a stream to the east,” reported Liri. “Drink up; I’ll refill our canteens.”

Mulin’s canteen was about half full, and he wasn’t particularly thirsty, but it might take her a while to get there and back; he swallowed a good mouthful and handed it over. The three who’d been in front were, unsurprisingly, the worst off in that regard, zipping this way and that to see what passed below them from all angles; they took a breather while the rest started setting up camp.

It wouldn’t be very comfortable – the ground was tangled with roots; the clearing was just a scar where a particularly great tree had fallen, not more than a few years back, and with the brush and young trees surging into the gap, it was even worse off. The tents crowded in against the fringe of trees, where the canopy kept too much from growing at the surface.

As he rose from hammering the second-to-last stake on the tent he shared, something seemed subtly different. He couldn’t quite put a claw on exactly what, but something had changed, something that hadn’t since they landed, and it worried him.

“Something’s missing,” he said, half to himself. Something – some sound – that had been a constant before, was no longer.

“Birds.” Srin was the first to mark it. “The birds have gone quieter. There are still some, but…”

Then it became much more clear: someone was moving through the underbrush to the north, coming their way.

Hark seized the hilt of his sword, but after a few tense moments he let it go. “They’re not hiding their approach,” he decided. “They’re just not stepping on as many branches as we would. Saving energy.”

They looked at each other. None of the even needed to say it; they just stood up straight, waiting to see who was coming toward them.

It turned out to be a brown-cloaked human ranger, who held up a hand and called some manner of greeting. Kisa did the talking, once again being the only one of them who knew the language; the rest of the camp preparations went smoothly on their way while she was having that discussion. The human’s departure was decidedly anticlimactic, for all the tension that had surrounded his arrival, and Mulin said as much to Hark.

“I know the feeling,” the Stonekin said, “but let’s not forget that that’s a good thing.’

He thought that over; it slipped through his mental grasp without quite taking hold. “What do you mean? Not just that there wasn’t a fight now, I don’t imagine.”

“You and I, we’re both expecting something to happen,” the older male said, gripping his shoulders. “We both want to be ready for anything. We thought there’d be more trouble than there has been. Instead we’ve been gone most of a week and, honestly, not much has happened.”

He… had a point, really. And the conclusion that followed from it wasn’t very pretty.

“It must be that much worse for you,” Mulin said, trying to find a clue in Hark’s topaz eyes. “You’re working the hardest to keep up, but you’re mostly along in case we need to fight. And we haven’t.” The Stonekin had done some of the hunting, not because he was good at it – several of them were better – but just to have something to do.

“Maybe you’re not far off with that,” the bigger male chuckled, leaning in to nudge the base of Mulin’s horns with his snout. “But I wouldn’t want to deal with the weight on your shoulders, either. I’m anxious for lack of anything to do; you, on the other hand, have been doing things – you’ve been making decisions. And you’re worried that those decisions will turn out to be wrong, aren’t you?”

“I don’t think I even need to answer that,” Mulin sighed, leaning into the contact, and leaning in closer still when Hark’s wings curled around him. His fingers curled around the straps of the Stonekin’s harness. “I don’t know the answers. All I can do is guess at them.”

“But there are some answers that only you and your twin can know,” he replied, rubbing along Mulin’s jaw. “Answers the rest of us can’t see – important answers. And your twin is content to follow your lead. Once we do get close to wherever this is happening, what you can tell about mana is going to be even more important. There might not be time for you to try to explain it to someone else – and who could you explain it to, anyway? Liri’s not so much more experienced than you are. No. I know it’s difficult, little cousin, but try to believe in yourself.”

Mulin dared not say that at the moment, their mission wasn’t really what was worrying him the most.

How was he to interpret this moment of contact? Hark was holding him fondly enough, to be sure – but it was in a way he’d seen siblings do, especially older sibs. Nothing untoward. Just one older, more experienced person giving some comfort and support to another, not as parent and child, not as teacher and pupil, but as peers. Not as lovers, either, certainly.

“Little cousin.” There was confusion aplenty to be had right there. Was that where Hark was going to let things lie? A fondness and affection as cousins might enjoy, as might anyone in the same family, even though they weren’t related by blood?

There were worse thoughts, certainly. But in their idle moments, the only way Mulin had avoided fantasizing over his brother had been to instead turn his fantasies to someone else, and that pleased sound he’d chanced to hear from the big Stonekin that first night in the swamp had given his imagination ample fodder.

Were they never to be any closer than this chaste embrace?

He didn’t know. And because he didn’t know, he ought to do what anyone should, when unclear about someone else’s intentions. He ought to ask, to find out the true disposition of the older male’s feelings. Then, if there was nothing further intended nor wanted, he could reconcile himself to that. He could be content with the closeness and friendship they’d gained so far, and hope that Hark would respect his honesty in asking, and not feel so awkward, knowing the attraction was there, that he pulled away.

He ought to ask.

But if he asked, and the answer was negative, he’d need to put those thoughts to rest. Put them aside, not to think them again, unless things changed and the Stonekin decided later that he was interested after all.

Hark hadn’t warned him off yet, and this was hardly the first time they’d had physical contact over the past few days. It was longer, yes, and in its own way more intimate, but not unique. Maybe the Stonekin didn’t notice his interest. Maybe he did, and simply thought this was a safe enough way to indulge it without going deeper.

If he didn’t bring the question to light, maybe he could keep on enjoying these moments of proximity. Maybe he could continue imagining what it would be like, could still imagine that, someday, there might be more to it than this… this familial camaraderie.

And that was something he didn’t want to put an end to. The thought was simply too terrifying

He held his silence, and just let the bigger male hold him.

Then it was time for dinner. Hark sighed over his muzzle, touched his snout to Mulin’s cheek, and gave the younger male’s shoulders a final squeeze; then they parted, the Stonekin’s tail brushing his ankle as they did.

Such a little thing. Probably an accident; certainly the touch hadn’t lingered. But it was so deliciously easy to imagine that there was more to it, that…

Four Winds, this was no way to live.

He needed to get his thoughts in order. If he couldn’t trust his own judgement or perception, why should he expect anyone else to?