Chapter Seven: The Long Road Home

Author note: My parents flew home yesterday evening (and did arrive safely back in Chicago). After driving them to the airport, I invited myself to a pity party of one. I wish they could've stayed...but...

Alone again...naturally...

And it's only now that I realize... We forgot to ask a friendly stranger to take a Christmas picture of all of us...

Greg trailed after Amber as she led the way to the farmhouse. Although that wasn't the best word for it; it was a beautiful building that looked as if it had come right out of a high class neighborhood. Now that he was moving away from the truck, Greg could see that the grounds were more than just pastureland; on the far side, he spied what looked like a small racetrack, complete with starting gate. Beyond, he could see other training areas, but the darkness hid the details.

"We raise Thoroughbreds," Amber told him, a slight smile appearing when he looked up. "Most of them are racers, but we've had a few eventers, too." The smile disappeared. "My ex wasn't interested so I…I stopped training horses. I was never a jockey, but I'd exercise my horses sometimes and I usually drove them to the track." Her glance back at the pickup truck was wistful. "Haven't driven something that big in years. Just my Firebird."

Parker regarded the young woman solemnly. She wasn't as young as he'd thought or perhaps she'd just been through quite a bit in her lifetime. He did wonder how her ex-boyfriend had gotten her to abandon a home and a career she so clearly loved, but it wasn't his place to ask, even if he could have.

Ahead of them, two people had come out of the farmhouse; Greg was surprised to see how much older the couple was. Although they were in good health, the man's hair was almost white and the woman's was gray. Both looked to be in their sixties, perhaps even early seventies, but Parker wasn't quite sure how to judge more accurately – if they were in their seventies, it was a spry, active seventies.

The man ran to meet them, gathering up his daughter in a fierce hug. Amber grabbed him back and began to sob, letting out all the tension, all the fear, all the stress she'd been living with. "Daddy," she managed around her tears. He just squeezed her tighter, eyes wet with what could have happened.

Greg looked away as the moment stretched, Amber's father not speaking, just stroking her hair. Amber's mother moved down the steps, her expression twisted with conflicting emotions. Joy to have her daughter back, terror at what could have happened, and a strange shame. Perhaps an argument from when Amber had first left?

Whatever it was, it hardly mattered. Parker stepped forward, padded around the woman, and gently coaxed her to the family embrace. As soon as she was close, Amber flung an arm out and pulled her mother in. "Mommy!"

Part of Greg was embarrassed to have witnessed the tearful reunion, but he was also pleased. A family reunited – one good thing to come out of the whole mess. A part of him was also jealous, longing for his own family reunion. Wishing for his home, even if he'd have to rebuild all his relationships from the bottom-up.

At length, the family huddle broke up and the elder man turned to the patient gryphon, one brow rising. His hands moved and Greg was abruptly caught off guard as his magic hummed, automatically translating the sign language into English. Not audible – he simply understood.

'So, this is your handsome rescuer, Amber?'

"Daddy!" Amber objected, her hands moving in time to her words. Greg wondered if that was for his benefit or if it was simply how the family worked.

The deaf man chuckled, something about the sound telling Greg that, in all likelihood, the other man had been born able to hear, but had lost the ability at some point during his life. Curiosity niggled; could the other hear at all? The gryphon trill-purred greeting, disappointed at the lack of reaction.

"The big guy says 'hi', Dad," Amber said out loud, hands flying. Glancing down at Greg, she added, "Sorry, big guy, Dad's been deaf since I was little."

Greg inclined his head in a regal fashion, earning matching smiles from father and daughter.

'Come and eat, both of you,' the mother ordered.

"Mom, out loud," Amber pleaded. "Most people don't know sign."

'Yes,' her father agreed. A glimmer of mischief appeared. 'I approve. You must not let this one get away.'

Greg flushed bright red underneath his feathers and Amber yelled, "Dad!"

The white-haired man chuckled, then gestured to the farmhouse. 'Dinner is almost ready. Will your handsome rescuer join us?'

"He'd better," Amber replied. "I don't think the horses would enjoy it if he ate with them."

She glanced down at Greg apologetically, but she was right. The last thing the Sergeant wanted was to scare a group of large, powerful, high-strung animals capable of kicking his head in.

Greg nibbled on one last bone – Amber's father had apparently done some research and educated guessing, because his large – and very filling – meal had no fewer than two dozen bones of varying sizes and sources. Hunger stated, Parker's gryphon side was more than ready for a nap, but he needed to get going. Go as far as he could while night held. So Greg pushed himself up and padded towards the farmhouse's front door.

"Wait," Amber said, drawing the gryphon's head around. He stood where he was as the young woman came to his side and knelt to meet his eyes. "You're going home, right?"

Parker nodded.

"It's a really long way away, isn't it?"

Another nod.

Amber bit her lip. "And…when you go home, your friends can help you get back to human?"

I sure hope so. For a third time, Greg nodded, refusing to let any doubt show. Giving up simply wasn't an option.

"Do…do you have to go right now?" Amber asked wistfully.

Greg looked at her sharply, wondering if he had another case of transference to worry about. Even after days of traveling together, they still didn't know each other. Especially since he couldn't even talk. He nodded yet again, the movement almost curt and perfunctory.

"Okay," she breathed. "Could you wait ten minutes? I promise I'll be fast."

The Sergeant considered, then moved to a corner and laid back down. Best to conserve as much energy as possible.

Amber beamed and his stomach made an odd lurch, totally ignoring his mental recitation: twenty years older, three kids, and he already had a girlfriend. What in the world? He didn't even know this young woman – how could you know someone when all you'd done was save them from a serial killer and share a cross-country trip together?

"Thanks, I'll be right back," she said. Bemused and still wrestling with an unexpected – unwelcome – attraction to her, Greg watched her hurry away. Futilely, he tried to ignore the part of his mind that was admiring how pretty she was and how easily she was managing to communicate with him despite his inability to speak.

Ten minutes later, Greg held still as Amber secured a black and green rubberized flash drive to his collar. The Sergeant was bemused by the action – did she really expect it would stay on? The bemusement faded as Amber used several lengths of yarn to 'weave' the flash drive onto the collar, fastening it so securely that Greg suspected it would have to be cut off. Well, well, not nearly so foolish as he thought.

When she was done, Amber guided him to the farmhouse's front door. "The horses are in the stables," she told him. "So don't worry about running into them, okay?"

Greg trill-purred acknowledgment.

Before opening the door, Amber crouched next to the gryphon and wrapped her arms around his neck in a hug. "Thank you. For everything," she whispered. Then she straightened and pulled the door open. "Safe trip."

Greg churred a farewell, then bounded through the door and out into the night. He paused long enough to focus in on the links, then turned unerringly towards Toronto. Putting his head down, he took his first steps on the long journey home.

Early on in his trek, Greg discovered that his tentative plans to avoid civilization were so futile as to be quite laughable. The United States was crisscrossed with roads, fields, tiny towns, and major cities. Had he still been in the mountains, he might have had a chance, but he certainly didn't now. The best he could do was to minimize the risks as much as possible and commit the rest to Providence. Hardly ideal, but what choice did he have?

With no map and no way to get directions, Greg was left with only his links as a reliable compass. Although he still couldn't communicate via the links, his sense of where his teammates were in relation to himself remained as strong and vivid as ever. For safety's sake, as well as a token attempt to maintain the Statute of Secrecy, the officer only traveled at night, spending his days curled up sleeping in a protected location.

So it was that Parker maintained a steady clip towards Toronto, though, of necessity, he hunted as much as he could. The longer he could forestall his stomach's inevitable complaints, the better. The Sergeant refused to even consider poaching, which sharply limited his diet and deprived him of an easy source of food. Most nights, his catches were limited to rabbits, squirrels, and the occasional slow-moving bird. One night, he happened upon a coyote about to make a meal of someone's pet dog; with a snarl and a flash of talons, the gryphon reversed the coyote's fortunes, though he ended up having to chase the dog away so it would go home.

On the border of Kentucky and Ohio, Greg discovered one of the ways Americans decided on state borders. Namely – rivers. A river stretched before him, full of boats and tugs and barges and people. That didn't even take into account the roads and towns that ran along the river. Parker spent one last day and night on the Kentucky side of the river, hunting and doing his best to judge the best time to fly across. Though his suspicions that there was no 'best' time to cross the river prove true, he did manage the feat in the wee hours of the morning. With an internal sigh of relief, Greg set out into the wilds of Ohio.

Columbus, Ohio proved to be Greg's next major obstacle, though the gnawing sensation in his stomach hinted at another emerging problem. Ever since his river crossing, hunting had steadily grown more and more difficult as he did his best to skirt the towns and villages along his route. Firmly, the Sergeant set aside his stomach's complaints. First he needed to find a way past the city in his path. Reluctantly, he detoured away from the links, heading north as he sought to work his way around the teaming mass of techie civilization in his way.

Just as he reached a point where he could angle away from the city and resume his trek to Toronto, the inevitable finally came to pass as his instincts and his stomach went to war with each other. His stomach wanted food – hunting had been extremely lean for the past two days – but his instincts were in revolt over the only available option. Dumpster diving. Even his ruthlessly pragmatic gryphon instincts were appalled at the idea of digging through rancid garbage for a bite to eat. He'd almost rather starve.

Unfortunately, the farther north he travelled, the fewer wild spaces he could find to hunt in and the more his 'typical' prey resided in neighborhoods, rather than fields and forests. Even when he did catch food, small, infrequent prey wasn't nearly enough to keep a large aerial predator in even halfway decent shape. Although Parker wasn't flying any more than he had to, the constant travel was accomplishing much the same, demanding energy and resources he was fast running out of.

Which brought him back to a course of action that utterly horrified him. Never, in all his life, even when he'd been drinking like a fish, had he ever been in a position where eating garbage was an actual consideration. Worse, he'd delayed the inevitable for so long that he was having trouble putting one foot in front of the other. He no longer had a choice, not if he wanted to survive.

A minor stroke of luck had brought him to a row of dumpsters owned by a series of restaurants in a small, outdoor shopping strip. Even better, one or more specialized in meat, granting the carnivore his preferred dish. Not that this made the officer any happier with the situation.

With extraordinary reluctance, the gryphon leapt up on the first dumpster and started digging through it for food. It was uncovered and Greg soon realized why. No food to attract scavengers. Grimacing internally, he jumped down and headed along the line, scanning specifically for dumpsters with covers. Hmmm… Secured covers.

It took another three dumpsters before he hit pay dirt. Meat. Ribs. When he spotted – and smelled – the top layer of overcooked baby back ribs, his hunger won the war and he set to work with a will, extracting every last bit of meat and bone he could reach.

Despite Greg's best efforts – and wishes – he found himself scavenging for his meals more often than not. He hated it, but his instinct to survive was more powerful than his human aversion to eating trash. Inwardly, he vowed to be more considerate towards the homeless when he finally got home. Right after he vowed to never tell his team about this part of his misadventure.

As Sergeant traveled northeast, he kept following the invisible, intangible, but still real links to his team. To his inner sight, they pulsed, reassuring him that his teammates were all still alive and physically in good health. With no map and no way to communicate, the links became his compass, guiding him through the deepest, darkest night towards home.

He did his best to maintain a straight line towards Toronto, but the highways and towns in his path continued to force deviations. Nevertheless, the Sergeant maintained his pace and route, persistently battering his way through the continental United States. The gryphon flew over roads and highways, forded streams, and wound his way around every last obstacle along his route.

Cleveland, Ohio. Greg slunk away from the green highway sign, wishing, for the approximately one-billionth time, that he could transform. His legs ached, his talons and paws were starting to burn with constant pain, and now he had to detour around a major American city. Mid-step, he froze. Blast. Double, no, triple blast. Lake Erie. Even without the Statute, there was no way he could fly across the lake without ending up drowning. He simply didn't have the endurance for a flight that long. Involuntarily, his wings slumped down. To walk around the lake would take days, forcing him to detour around beaches, towns, and the Border Patrol.

But what choice did he have? To give up was anathema, would leave his family and his team believing he was dead. What was his pain and exhaustion to that gnawing, tearing grief they were living with? How could he even think of doing that to them – leaving them with no answers and no closure.

So once more the Sergeant lifted his head, settling his wings in place with a proud ruffle. He would not give up, he would not give in, he would not lose faith. No matter what it took, he was going to find his way home, although, he reflected ruefully, at this rate, the groveling would have to wait until he could grovel. Already, he could feel the burn of muscles reaching their limit. The nonstop travel and toil were taking their toll and Greg had a suspicion that they were saving the butcher's bill for when he finally stopped. Once he made it back to Toronto, he was probably going to be in for a world of pain.

Grim, the officer set aside the issues of Lake Erie and muscle fatigue. One problem at a time, thank you. He soon discovered that he was too close to Cleveland proper to avoid the suburbs without backtracking. Grimacing internally, Greg began to cautiously work his way through each small town, doing his best to navigate from forest preserve to forest preserve.

He knew he wasn't avoiding all human contact; once he'd ended up in the suburbs, it had become inevitable that he'd be spotted, even if only on someone's security footage, but what else could he do? He had to get through and it wasn't his fault that he was trapped in his Animagus form. And so, frustrated, dejected, but still unwilling to let whoever had done this to him win, the gryphon continued his journey, ignoring the growing ache and pain from his legs and feet. He could rest when he was home.

Once he was past Cleveland, it was both harder and easier. Easier, because he could simply follow the shore of Lake Erie and harder because he knew home was across the lake. If he could only fly across, he'd be home that much faster, but beyond his concerns about the Statute, there was still the concern that he'd get partway across, run out of steam, and end up drowning. He had a sudden vision of divers finding a gryphon skeleton, collar still wrapped around its neck, and speculating about how it'd gotten there. Mentally, he shuddered. No, much better and safer by far to walk, no matter how frustrating.

Though it was tempting to 'hug' the lakeshore, Parker knew better. There were bound to be public beaches and lakeside towns along his path. Instead, he located a major highway and put it between himself and the lake. Nor did he travel along the highway, opting to keep his distance, only staying close enough to the road so he could follow it. It didn't guarantee he wouldn't be seen, but the gryphon figured it gave him the best odds, which was about as good as he could get in the North-Eastern United States.

The strategy seemed to work, as the Sergeant managed to avoid most cars and trucks, only crossing the roads in his path when there was no vehicle traffic and, of course, continuing to travel only during the night. Though he did spy several towns beyond the highway, none of them appeared to be large and his nightly hunting netted him enough prey to survive, if not quite enough to keep his stomach full. Even better, he could tell he was starting to get close to home, the very thought enough to pick up aching feet and keep driving forward.

The Canadian gryphon crossed the border from Ohio to Pennsylvania and then the border from Pennsylvania to New York with very little fanfare, only aware of the crossings by dint of the highway signs he spied, large enough to read even from his distance. A few days into his New York trek found Greg sneaking closer to the highway to inspect the road signs. The links were beginning to angle more and more away from his route, but that blasted lake was still in his path! With the links at a near perpendicular angle, the Sergeant knew it was time to reassess and see if he could figure out a more direct route, if possible. What he wouldn't give for a map.

Cautious, Greg located a highway underpass and snuck through, for the first time getting close to Lake Erie. He found an outcropping that appeared deserted and gazed out over the water, doing his best to judge the distance despite the nighttime hours. A mental frown emerged; his instincts – and, indeed, his better judgment – still regarded the distance as too far to risk it.

With a huff and sigh, Parker continued to follow the lake, opting to remain on the lake side of the highway instead of retreating. Caution was all well and good, but getting home was the goal and he could do that better if he stayed close to the lake. As the sky began to lighten, Greg found another underpass below the highway and used it to get into a handy stretch of forest. He spent the remaining hours until dawn hunting, even managing to net an older deer. The gryphon ate his meal, then found another underpass to get back to Lake Erie. It was time to see what the distance looked like in the sunlight.

Greg's daytime analysis concurred with his nighttime suspicions. Too far, even for a determined gryphon. Perhaps if he'd had more experience…but he didn't and so, he was stuck. Dejected, he found a good hiding spot and curled up to sleep until sunset.

A new travel pattern emerged. The increasingly frustrated Animagus spent most of his nights on the Lake Erie side of the highway, almost constantly scanning the lake to see if he could spy the opposite shore. When the sky began to lighten, he snuck to the opposite side of the highway to hunt down a meal, more because he knew he needed the food than because he was truly hungry. Once he ate, he snuck back under the highway and found a place to watch for daylight. He remained awake long enough to confirm that he still couldn't see the other side of Lake Erie, then located a sleeping spot for yet another day away from home.

Numb, Greg eyed the highway sign for an upcoming town called Lake View. Would this lake never end? It had to end at some point, he was sure, but as his links angled more and more to his rear, he was fast losing hope that he would ever find his way across the lake barring his path. Regardless, he could see the first rays of dawn in the distance. Time to track down his nightly meal and get ready for another day of sleeping.

Wings and tail sagging, the gryphon hunted down several rabbits and a few squirrels, the meat almost dry and tasteless in his numb depression. He knew he should care more that his stomach was starting to stop hurting, but he just couldn't muster the energy. Not with no end in sight to his trek and his links growing more distant with each step. He needed his family, but it was growing more and more likely that he'd never see them again.

Done with his meal, Greg snuck back under the highway and found a handy overlook. One quick check of the lake in the daylight, then off to bed for him. He lay down, waiting for the sun to rise as he huffed a sigh, watching the water with dull hazel eyes. Light reached down, radiating dappled patterns across the water, but the depressed gryphon had long grown used to the dawn light show. Not a feather twitched as he waited for the sun to gain enough height that he could see nothing but water in the distance.

As the sun continued to rise, Parker allowed himself to doze off. What was the use? He was never going to get around this lake, so why bother continuing to try? Maybe he should've just stayed in Kentucky. Not home, but at least Amber and her family would've been familiar. He could've learned how to make do – and maybe they could've helped him. Not that he could go back now; he'd come too far and had little to no idea of what route would lead him back to Lexington, Kentucky.

Light reflected off of something in the distance and the gryphon grumbled to himself, shifting to avoid the gleam hitting his eyes. Annoyed, he scanned the water, hoping to spot whatever had been inconsiderate enough to reflect into his sensitive eyes. Oh, that lousy lighthouse, off in the distance and hardly visible. With a low, unhappy growl, Greg picked himself up to find another place to sleep.

He began to pad away, a tickle of something at the back of his mind. Why would a lighthouse be off in the distance? Shouldn't it have been on a shore somewhere close by? Why would a lighthouse be in the middle of the water? Abruptly, he froze, head snapping back around to focus in on the lighthouse. Wings straightened and the gryphon arched his neck, tilting his head to inspect the faraway building. Sunlight was reflecting off the windows of the upper room – a lantern room? Hope surged to life, burning like a fire within the gryphon. If he could just make it across the lake, then maybe he could still reach home. Determination followed the hope and Parker turned back, padding to the edge of the outlook so he could examine every last centimeter of visible shoreline.

Night sounds murmured around the gryphon as he silently girded himself for his first ever night flight. It was one thing to fly over a road or highway for a minute, perhaps two, but this adventure would stretch him to his limits. Not the best of ideas when he was already near his physical limits, but his need to go home was overriding his common sense. No, he would not, could not back down. Not this time.

He would've felt better if he could've seen the lighthouse's sweeping glow, off in the distance, but apparently the building was long closed. Blast; he'd have to just make an estimate to where the lighthouse was. Or perhaps he could let the links guide him. A risk, but so was this whole endeavour. Greg closed his eyes and allowed a silent plea to wing skywards.

Please. Let this work; I want to go home.

He waited a minute, listening to the wind and the creaks of nighttime, then he crouched and flung himself upwards, wings stretching out to carry him skyward. Instinct drew his talons and legs back, aligning with an invisible line that seemed to cut through his body. The gryphon's wings beat steadily, carrying him higher in the night sky, and Greg realized that his limbs' instinctive positions were reducing the drag of his own body, granting him greater aerodynamics than his lion side had naturally.

As he flew out over the lake, his wings continued to pound against the wind, hauling him skyward and battling against gravity's natural pull. He allowed a low determined hiss; he'd come too far to fail now. In the depths of his mind, the Sergeant pulled his links to the fore, then silently handed flight control off to his gryphon side – he was no flyer, but the gryphon was. Best to let the expert handle things, particularly with his life on the line.

Parker's wild side graciously accepted the hand-off, adjusting his wings enough to start gliding on a handy thermal. As night deepened around him, Greg observed in amazement as his gryphon instincts worked them from thermal to thermal, catching the wind wherever it could and gliding as much as possible to conserve strength and energy. Though the Sergeant choked back panic when one thermal carried them up into the clouds, his gryphon side maintained steady flight, carrying them through the pitch black safely to open air.

As time passed, Greg began to enjoy the feel of the wind through his wings, brushing back his fur and cooling working muscles. Below him, the water drifted and he listened to the movement of the waves, so similar to what he was used to in Toronto, yet much different now that he was well away from shore. Ahead of him, he thought he saw the opposite shore, but the night hid the trees and the lighthouse from easy view, limiting his navigation to instinct and the links shining within his heart, calling him home with every determined stroke of his wings.

I'm coming, guys, I promise. I won't give up, I won't.

The silence around him ached, but he refused to let it dishearten him. He could make it and he would make it, no matter what. Once he was on the other side, he would finally be back in Canada and he knew the terrain around Toronto well enough to make an educated guess about where he would be in relation to home. The land bridge between Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, very close to Niagara Falls, though his route wouldn't bring him close to that famous landmark. Or, at least, he didn't think it would. Mentally, he tried to chart his most likely route; it would be by land, he knew…too much city buildup around Lake Ontario to risk flying into the heart of Toronto. Perhaps if he skirted Hamilton?

Plotting and planning occupied his time until he finally drew close enough to the shoreline to see the trees, darkness or no darkness. Grateful, he angled downwards; he was not used to flying for such a long time. A few minutes later, he landed heavily in the midst of what he hoped was a forest, nearly collapsing as his feet touched terra firma for the first time in hours. His feet throbbed, his wings throbbed, and his entire body ached from exertion. Slowly, the Sergeant limped back to a standing position. He needed to find food – and then he could sleep.

Days later, the gryphon dragged himself to a tiny overlook and finally gazed towards Toronto. The roads and spires of his hometown dominated the skyline, lifting a heart aching and burdened by delay after delay and hurting right down to his bones after everything he'd been through.

Greg allowed himself to enjoy the view for a minute, then limped forward to start the last leg of his journey. He ignored the pain of talons worn down almost to their nubs and the trail of blood coming from his rear paws. Once he was truly home, once he found his team, then he could stop. And he had to hurry; the links were beginning to dim, as though his absence was affecting his teammates' health.

I'm coming, guys. I'm almost there, I promise.

Pausing, the gryphon glanced behind him, imagining the play and stretch of roads and trails behind him. Imagining every stage of the long road that had led him here, to this lonely outcropping over Toronto. Then he faced forward once more and forced himself into motion.

It was time for the lost son to come home.

~ Fin

Author note: Well, it's been quite the journey for both Greg and Team One over these past few stories, so thanks for sticking with me. As always, I adore reviews and do my best to respond to each one of them.

In the meantime, we'll be greeting the New Year in style as we kick off "The OMAC Project" on Friday, January 1st 2021 in the main Flashpoint archive. Please note that although I posted a Christmas oneshot (One Last Christmas), I will not be posting a New Year's oneshot this year.

Therefore, Merry Christmas (one last time), Happy New Year, and See You on the Battlefield!