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He's high up. He's sooooooo high up. Woods and grassland flow past below him, the wind ruffles his hair, he's flying, it's amazing! He laughs in pure joy. Flying!
"But he's much too young to go night-hunting." His father sounds serious. How can anyone sound solemn and serious when they're flying?
"We're not going night-hunting." That's his mother, and there's laughter in her voice, there's nearly always laughter in her voice even when she's not laughing out loud, it's like she was dipped in a dye-bath of laughter and happiness and it soaked all the way through her, making her the bright, sparkling center of his world.
He loves his father, too, of course. His father is steady and warm and not nearly as serious as he seems; his father smiles like sunrise, and gives the best hugs, and delights in make them both laugh.
"We're just getting a look at the area ahead of time. The others will meet us at the--"
There's a scream from somewhere ahead.
The next thing he knows, they're diving towards a tree, and it's not the fun kind of flying any more; he feels a little sick at the rapid turns and changes in speed and altitude. His mother puts him on a reassuringly broad branch, not too high. "Stay here," she says. "I mean it. Stay here." She kisses his forehead the same way she always does. "We'll be right back!"
"Okay," he says and watches as they fly away, fast, without him.