Even as he aged, body growing weary and joints resistant, Kove could not keep himself from the borders. He gave up travelling, knowing well that he could not push himself the same that he once did, but he could not part with patrolling—not yet, that is. In time, he knew his body would reach a point where his being near the border would be a greater risk than help but, for the time being, he refused to admit to knowing such things. He was still able to patrol, he told himself, still able to defend his home.

Kove intended to stop for a drink before continuing on to the outskirts of the territory—perhaps a quick bite to eat, too, should he find himself still skillful enough to continue fishing. But once there along the water’s edge, his attention never quite reached the fish that drifted below the ice, stolen away by the sight of his grandson. Leaving his previous intentions behind him, the elder approached the boy and chuffed, saying, “Ilitannamek, West.” He was surprised at how big the boy was growing—and how quickly, too. It seemed like only yesterday he was a small child.

With an attempt at repeating the greeting back made, Kove could not help but chuckle; he did not mean it maliciously, he was merely surprised that an attempt was made at all. “Ee-lee-tahn-nah-mehq,” he repeated, enunciating each syllable. “It is a greeting for those you know well, old friends or family.” That the boy was unaware was not the least bit surprising—after all, his mother did not speak the language. “You did well repeating it,” was said next, words of praise. “I could teach you more if you’re interested.” Now that the cubs were older, he did not feel as bad making such an offer; he didn’t think Valette would mind, now that they each had fine grasps on the common tongue.

Asked about his being there, the man answered, “Falling back into old habits, I suppose.” They were the hardest habits to break. “I practically lived on the borders of my previous pack. I figured I should put myself to use and try the same here.” That he was significantly older and not getting any younger was one piece of information that he tried his best to ignore; that he was a greater risk than help by lingering in the outskirts was something he refused to accept. “What brought you out here?” A question better to be asked than to allow himself to dwell within his own thoughts.

The excitement was noticeable enough, filling the elder with joy; he could not recall when last it was he taught another his language. “If you’d like to learn, yes,” he said, agreeing. “You could be the first of your siblings to understand it.” The first and maybe even the last, he couldn’t be sure—he also wondered how their mother would feel about the lessons, and if she would approve.

Reasons were given, mindful and kind. “It’s a good way to help,” he noted, then his curiosity got the better of him. “Do you not want to go out and search for your brother? Explore the lands beyond here?” It wasn’t that he wanted his grandson to leave, no. He was merely curious, being as he, of similar youth, struck out to explore on his own so long ago.

The worries of his parents held him back, which the elder found confusing; despite the worries of his own elders way back when, he had still departed from home. The thrill of a journey, seeing and experiencing new things, had too great of a pull to ignore. But it seemed his grandson was different, and he assumed his mother would be happy for that. “Someday, yes,” he agreed, following after the boy; his own movements were slow and no marking of his own was done—it wasn’t as easy of a task for him anymore, to hike his leg up like the young’uns, and so his efforts were few and far in between.

“Well, if you’re going to be sticking around, I suppose that means you’ll have plenty of time for language lessons,” he said, picking up the pace to fall in line next to his grandson. “Is there anything you’d like to learn first?” If Kove could use his interests to come up with an outline for their lessons, it’d likely be easier on both of them.

When his grandson mentioned words focused around hunting and prey, Kove smiled; he could still remember the good ol’ days of hunting freely, before his body decided it was a task no longer meant for him. It was freeing, still—and he was glad West had an interest in it.

“Omajutsiuk,” he said slowly, drawing out the syllables. “It means to hunt game. A general term—there are some other words for announcing the hunt of a specific animal, too.” Such as duck and caribou, and even whales—would the boy know what a whale is? Given how far they were from the sea and his lack of travels, he doubted it, and so he bothered not with bringing it up. “We do not have a word for the bison here,” he commented next. “We do not really have bison in the north to need a name for them.” Prior to leaving home, he’d never actually seen one before. “Instead, we have tuttuk—caribou.” Which were just as daunting a prey as the southern bison.

The attempts, although not perfect, were close; it was more than what Kove expected, the pronunciations of his homeland differing vastly from those of the southern lands. It was the interest and effort that he appreciated the most of all, truthfully—few of those born beyond the north ever showed much of an interest, after all.

When questioned further about the caribou, his expression turned thoughtful before he nodded. “Similar to a deer but larger,” he explained. “More dangerous to hunt, like elk or moose.” But it was oftentimes more than worth it, as to fell one meaning a feast for the pack. “If ever you choose to travel, perhaps you could visit the north and see them for yourself.”

Several more words were offered as the two continued along, related to hunting and animals in general; he spoke slowly, carefully—and kept the amount low, so as not to overwhelm him. But, before long, the day was starting to catch up with the elder and he found himself needing to retire to rest. He parted from his grandson with words of encouragement sent West’s way, assuring him that he would get a handle on the language in no time.