James had little objection, as well, to the cute girl sitting next to him. It was a pity she was jammed between him and a very foul-smelling minotaur, but it was better than nothing, and he certainly didn't want to walk. Walking was exhausting, and flying was worse. James's wings were never really meant for long-distance flying, after all, just short aerial jaunts. Thinking about it reminded him, oddly enough, of the process of learning to fly.
It had been fairly intuitive, in retrospect, but his father had had no idea how to approach the situation. His initial ideas revolved around throwing James off a cliff, the justification being that "birds did that, or something very like it, if I can remember correctly." Luckily, his mother was not such a hopeless moron and assured his father that all winged demons figured the process out eventually without being flung into a crevasse.
James was partly convinced that it was a sort of strange attempt on his life, but his father actually seemed to like him, so it wouldn't make much sense for Hakaril to have attempted to kill him by pitching his son over a ledge so he could fall to his death. Of course, James had no interest in his father's respect--as far as he was concerned, his father could go shove his little red hat up his ass and focus on his silly desk job. Maybe he was a great hero once, or some similar bullshit, but now General Silvar sat around all day doing paperwork and occasionally reading magazines. At least, this was how James saw it. If his father had been a great man, it was only to ruin James' own chances at fame.
However, James decided that this was not particularly important at the moment, and that focusing on unpleasant memories was going to do him no good, even if they were only mildly unpleasant ones. No, it was much better to be preoccupied with the present, because at present, everything was okay.