Targe looked up at the sky above, a swirl of stars encircling the Traveler. They seemed so remote and untouchable, despite the pine trees stretching up in jagged spikes towards them. They, at least, were touchable. He let out a sigh. He had taken to doing so not because he breathed, but because his Guardian used it as a blanket emotional response. Sometimes the tics of loved ones stick like pine sap. It drips off the tree and onto an unsuspecting shell… dust settles in, and nothing can quite clean it off again. Always sticky.

He heard the muffled voices from inside the cabin.

Targe's thoughts wandered back to the gun. The moment stretched on for an eternity. He would have sacrificed everything to give Zavala what he asked for. He would have taken a thousand bullets; he would have gladly met his end if it meant the boy could live again.

"Why not?" he asked, looking up at the Traveler. "You make the rules. I'm here for him. I'd do anything for him. Why am I powerless?"

There was, as always, no answer.

***

Many, many lifetimes later, Targe looked up at the sky above, at a swirl of stars that were not stars, clouds that were not clouds. Something was missing. He almost chuckled at the thought of the Traveler having a smaller Traveler hanging somewhere up there in its made-up atmosphere. It seemed like an oversight.

He heard the campfire crackle as somber yet hopeful voices behind him shared their triumphs and pains. If anything inside the Traveler was real, it was in those voices, the bonds of tender love, infinite longing, and fierce loyalty radiating more intense warmth than the campfire itself.

He sighed. Even here, the trees dripped sap.