It was unknown how Cyrus could go for a year of his life, unnoticing that Hamied “looked up to him”, probably because, though he never brushed off the younger Frostfur giving Hamied his (Cyrus’) attention when the other boy desired it, Cyrus had never stopped to look closely enough at his “shadow” (so to speak). Hamied was probably the smallest of Isi and Phoebe’s bunch and while this often earned him sympathy from the women of the family (particularly their mother), the other boys/men tended to pick on him. Cyrus, had always felt disgust at his older siblings for picking on him because he was smaller than them, or because he looked, well, entirely different from them. Cyrus had no time for such petty, childish things. Hamied was their blood and though he looked like their great-grandfather via Phoebe’s mother, Fayre Kringle-DiSarinno (whom, as Cyrus understood it, his shadow was named after) he was probably more of a Frostfur then any of the boneheads whom Cyrus had little patience for. Hamied and him, though, the closer that Cyrus examined it, were two of a kind. Both (near) spitting images of great-grandfathers, except Cyrus took after Cypress Frostfur, was even named in part for him. So, essentially, the way Cyrus had always seen it -- picking on Hamied was like picking on him and Cyrus, though he, like Isi, saw the benefits of remaining peaceable, also, wasn’t afraid to giving his siblings a good beating to remind them that they were all family and all equal. It helped that he was taller than all of his brothers, claiming even, a few inches on Isi himself. If it was a battle of dominance over size they had wanted, Cyrus would shamelessly own them, and cease to feel bad about it in the process.
To be protective was in Cyrus’ (typically) indifferent nature, and often times the bearlike Frostfur was mistaken for as being cold because of his intimidation factor and indifference. Simply, he was not good with those things called feelings and shied away from expressing them for the mere fact that he did not know how. Fluffy words were not his forte, and he could never seem to get out the right words to express how he felt. Mostly, he relied upon body language to convey it. When it came to brotherly affection he showed that he truly cared (in Hamied’s case) by protecting him and sticking up for him. If the boneheads had to be cruel to show their love, Cyrus felt bad for their mates and children. Cyrus said what he meant, and henceforth was not an overly big fan of “I didn’t mean it Cy, I was just playin’ around”. Yeah right; Cyrus believed that as much as he believed the wolf that declared himself King of the world.
Cyrus watched as Hamied drifted from his side, and when the other boy vanished, Cyrus moved to a nearby tree, lifted his hind left leg, balancing upon the other three and relieved himself, in part because he had to go, but also in the hopes that his scent (which would fade in a few days time) would keep other predators at bay while they slept in the clearing. It made him edgy to sleep above ground but as nomads there was nothing to be done about it, and likely no abandoned den big enough to fit both Hamied and himself (and if it was coming down to it, Hamied was sleeping in the den before Cyrus did, he would make sure of it). He had finished, going back to all fours, kicking up some debris just as Hamied rejoined them, informing him that there were no other wolves in the immediate area. “Good,” Cyrus said approvingly, pale, frosted green eyes watching as his younger brother plopped down and pawed at him playfully, glimpsing down at the other boy’s dainty, smaller paw as his rough pad drew across the soft, velvety fur of Cyrus’ leg.
It was hard to remember the time when he was that playful. He must have been, at one time, that was how puppy’s learned their valuable skills, after all.
In a playful manner that Cyrus had not used in, probably, a year, he cuffed Hamied as gently as Cyrus could, on the muzzle. Cyrus had, as a child, been a fan of ear biting and pulling, in particular. Phoebe’s ears had been his favorite to play with, for some reason -- though Cyrus was not much of a ‘mama’s boy’, neither was he a ‘dad’s boy’ either. He was more like the no bullshit, gruff commanding officer that had forgotten the difference between surviving and living. “You hungry, kid? We could probably wrangle some rabbits, maybe a couple of foxes? Not enough of you and I for big game unless we took a baby.” But Cyrus was not sure how well Hamied would take to eating a baby deer -- maybe he’d have no qualms about it, but Hamied was sort of like a puzzle to Cyrus, and Cyrus had learned to never assume anything.