The children will not look at him.
Vikus knew it would be this way.
And he— he is prepared to do it again, for the sake of them all.
It still hurts.
The children will not look at him, because they know that he has planned it this way so that their hands are tied.
They know that he has done this knowing that they will resent him for it.
"You could choose to—" he begins.
"I could choose! I could choose! Do not offer me a choice when you know none exists!" Luxa sneers.
That is exactly why he does it, but he knows that his granddaughter will not listen to such words of consolation.
He knows all too well what it is like for one's hands to be tied.
But— they are all children. Luxa, Henry, Gregor — no matter what burdens may lie on their shoulders.
Do they not, at the very least, deserve the notion that they are still free? That they may choose whether or not they will put their lives on the line?
This is the way it is. The way of the Underand, where one must do what one must or die. It is kill or be killed, as Henry might say. There is no choice, there is only the doing.
Still, Vikus wishes the children would look at him before they set off into what may be the last journey of their lives.
"I would not part this way, but I understand your hearts. Perhaps one day you will be able to forgive me for this moment," he says. His voice has turned unclear. "Fly you high, Henry. Fly you high, Luxa."
They do not respond, but it is what is expected. At least he has been able to say his farewells to their living faces.
In the Underland, that is a rare thing.
Vikus looks at Gregor. "Fly you high, Gregor the Overlander," he says.
The boy's face is conflicted. It has turned hard fast, as is the way of the Underland. Already, convictions are being set in stone — days ago, would that same boy have challenged Vikus for saddling him with "a rat?"
No matter how many years go by, no matter what his wife says, Vikus will never cease to be pained at how easily children become cynics in this war-torn world.
Vikus is often called soft, but he has known strife too — he too has been the angry boy saddled with a rat, and he too has been the mourner at the river watching his parents' barge be lowered. He too has thought the world to be one of kill or be killed.
Is he so wrong for attempting to challenge that?
The fliers are taking off now. The children's faces remain stoic.
Vikus remembers sending his own children off to war — his own pain and anger, despite the knowledge that it was a necessity. That his children would become accustomed. That they must, lest the world break them.
Must it be a necessity?
Or is it that thought which had Judith killed and Hamnet broken?
Vikus does not hold those answers.
But it never gets easier, sending stoic-faced children off to what may be their own funeral.
He hears something. It is a shout.
"Fly you high, Vikus!"
He turns to the fliers.
"Fly you high!" shouts Gregor.
And Vikus waves back.