Moonspear the smallest steps bring about the most lasting change.

Fig's ears fell as she responded and abruptly dismissed herself.  He'd known she would do this. He'd known she would be miserable and pessimistic and bitter no matter what he tried to say. It was simply her nature, and as much as he told himself he loved her and accepted her just as she was, his mind went right to the conversation he'd had with Tauris only days ago. He did wish she would change.

It was hard to admit to himself—the guilt surrounding the acknowledgment of it was awful to feel. But he did. It was her negativity, her self-pity, her cynicism that he knew he couldn't be around. She had the power to make him feel so low when she was like this because he cared so much about her. Fig knew that was the reason he needed the distance. Somewhere in the speech he'd planned for her, he'd confidently and calmly explained that to her. But he didn't kid himself. Even in those imagined conversations, she'd still reacted like this. It never would've gone well.

Fig didn't say anything as she left. Just stood quietly at the mountain's borders, staring at the ground where she'd been not long ago. He wanted to leave, go back East and start his new life, well away from all of this drama.

But, he didn't. Because there was something he wanted even more then.

He wanted his mommy.