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He shouldn’t have. Ira knew that; understood it. He shouldn’t have. He hadn’t been able to help himself, though. When he had found out that Bones had been kidnapped, taken by a group of wolves in the dark of the night he had felt sick. Sick and beyond that, angry. Irate. Who were these wolves that thought they had any right or business stealing his girlfriend? Beneath that he had felt relief. Relief that she had not left him with intention, but the relief was not enough to make the teenager see sense and without stopping to realize what he had done he had gone after her without any real direction of where she had gone. Their scents had been long faded when he had finally made his trip to Swiftcurrent Creek. He had not paused to rationalize what leaving, suddenly on the whim without bothering to talk to Jinx would do. What he, possibly, would be doing to himself.
What have I done?
He had took off without thinking, disregarding the fact that Jinx had told him he had not been allowed to leave the Mountain. He had no real intentions of leaving them with any permanence, Jinx was his mother (or at least the closest he had to one) after all and in his own twisted and dark way he loved the Kesuk woman. He loved her and was devout to her even if the stunt of rebellious, ill-guided heroics might have seemed different. It had been stupid to trek his way to Tortuga. He wasn’t sure what he had hoped to accomplish with them. He had been as insolent and arrogant as ever sure that he would storm their safe hold and rescue his damsel in distress, delivering her from the great evil that had stolen her from him.
Except the assassin in training hadn’t gotten far and the angry wound down the side of his neck — aimed for his jugular but missed due to his vigilance and defensive reflexes (or stupid luck) — spoke of how it went. He had ran when he realized that more were gathering, retreating because he had no other choice if he had fancied living (and he did), and without proper knowledge of how to care for the wound, other than trudging through the coast when he had came across it that was not claimed by Tortuga, the stinging of the salt as it burned against the split flesh the wretched boy bore with clenched teeth and pants until, eventually, it numbed as did the ache of his bruised ego. Perhaps, even, coming back to Silvertip Mountain was a mistake. Would Jinx be angry? Or worse yet, disappointed in him? Or would she not care at all? He wasn’t sure what was the worse possibility. He wasn’t even sure if she would want him back after he had pulled his stupid-ass “heroic” stunt which hadn’t been that grand or heroic. Unfortunately, it had not gone that way Ira had envisioned it going because he was still a child and didn’t, apparently, know shit about rescuing anyone.
His pace slowed as he neared Silvertip, his ears slicking back to his skull in shame and humiliation as he wondered what kind of reception he would receive. He dare not envision it in the case that it went exactly how Tortuga had gone: not at all how he wanted. He lifted his head and sent up a howl, nevertheless, waiting with an itchy wound that had been festering from the lack of care besides the salt water rinses and with baited breath hating that he didn’t know. Turns out humiliation tended to sweep arrogance under the rug leaving Ira with the deduction that he did not like humiliation very much.