“Are we there yet?!” Ira demanded raucously, squinting his eyes at the sand colored elder that limped a few paces ahead of him, attempting to burn a hole in the scarred, graying man’s butt. Given a choice, Ira would have chosen to try to burn a hole by a look to the back of the man’s head, but something the elder called ‘arthritis’ - whatever that was aside from something the elder like to complain about, much to Ira’s chagrin - made it painful for him to raise his head for more than a few moments at a time. Patience was not a virtue that Ira possessed, especially not as a child, when his attention span wavered and motivations changed abruptly and usually without much warning. Ira let out an irritated huff, and picked his pace to a trot, easily catching up the elder, though it took several quick steps to keep up with a single step of the once tall and proud warrior; though if ‘Tark’ the name that Ira knew him as, had once been something proud and majestic it was long dead. Tark was practically a cripple, half deaf, and ill. At least, that was what Ira had heard when he had been eavesdropping on his Uncle and the medic. That had been before the abrupt disappearance of his parents and the attack from a rival pack. Abandoned and left to die, Tark had found him and led Ira away. “Hey!”, Ira demanded, “I was talking to you.” He snapped impudently at Tark who stopped suddenly - as to which caused Ira narrowly avoid slamming into the elder’s left, front leg. “What, child?” Tark asked with a heavy sigh, that caused Ira to glare at him once more, eyes of youthful milky blue studying the grotesque, tattered left ear (since that was what his eyes were automatically drawn too) as Tark turned his body to the side to glimpse at him.
“Tell me where you are taking me.” Ira demanded, having changed his question in the split second, deciding that where he was being taken to was probably more important than if they were at their destination yet. He was angry about his uncle’s allowance of the invaders to take over, and he was angry about his parents abandonment, even though every attempt Tark made to broach the subject with Ira had been met with his blatant refusal to ’talk about it’. He didn’t want to talk about it, because talking about it would force the boy to recognize that beyond angry he was detrimentally hurt. To love is to destroy. It made perfect sense to Ira, given the events that had occurred in such a short span of time. “Somewhere safe, Ira.” Tark assured him, and extended his muzzle tentatively in attempts to touch the boy’s cheek, but Ira flinched away, leathery black nostrils flaring. “Don‘t touch me!” Ira spat, and scowled fiercely. “’N don‘t call me that!” How many times did he have to try to get it through Tark’s brain that he wanted to be called ‘Aethon’, yet still the stubborn old man refused. Tark recoiled, his broad shoulders rising and falling in a deep, choked sort of breath, that made the elder cough for a few moments. “We are nearly there.” Tark murmured, finally answering Ira’s initial question.
Tark’s presence had not done anything to reassure Ira, neither did he feel measurably protected. If anything, Ira had a better chance (slim and near impossible though it was) of warding off predators than Tark did. He could hunt ably enough though he ate very little, giving Ira most of his meal. At first, Ira refused to eat much Tark caught for him, but hunger soon won out his will of defiance (after all not eating was only hurting him, not the elder). Ira padded along behind Tark, his nose twitching when the scent of an unfamiliar pack assaulted his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose in contempt for a few moments, as Tark let out a quick howl where he had stopped - a respectful distance from the borders. Ira moved past Tark, nose stuck to the snow as he investigated, attempting to differentiate the new and foreign smells. “Ira.” Tark warned in a chiding tone, that caused the child to pause in his sniffing, to glimpse at the elder over his shoulder in a condescending manner. Clearly, Tark had forgotten who exactly owned who in their situation. Tark took a heavy breath as he slid down, with a grunt of pain onto his stomach, settling into a weak sphinx-like position. Ira’s ears slicked back to rest half mast atop his skull as he studied Tark’s exhausted form uninhibited. “Wass' wrong with you?” Ira demanded of the elder, though he received, much to his dismay, no response from Tark who continued to look into the territory behind the scent markers. Turning and padding a few steps closer to Tark, Ira suddenly hesitated, one paw lingering in midair, his uncle’s talk of illness echoing in his skull, disjointed and emotionless, for it had been easy to forget the timber and lilting tones of the voices he had once known so well.
Did he really want to be near Tark if this claimed illness was true, even though, if it was, it was likely not contagious? Death was what was wrong with Tark, unbeknownst to Ira. The boy’s ears slicked back against his skull, laying flat as the rattling breaths broke from Tark’s lips, leaving Ira feeling confused (though not to be mistaken with concern - Princes felt no concern for their possessions) and though he had no word for the drowning feeling - hopeless, though Ira had not quite came to terms that it was, indeed, death that was subtly sucking the life breath from his companion.