There's scarcely been a time in Llewellyn's life where he's felt angry. He could recall times where wayward children he'd meet during the migration of caribou would pick fun at him. Tease him, pull on his tail, play too rough; but he doesn't remember really being angry at them, either.

Just afraid, sensitive, as he always was.

It's an uncomfortable feeling. It's a warmth that blossomed beneath his skin. Fed into his veins, surging through his system until his face is hot and he's sputtering. His voice, still squeaky with his fraying boyhood, held just a fraction of a bark, but no bite.

It shook, too, as if he was unsure of how to be angry.

I-I know that! He huffed, the fur upon his shoulders rising in his flare. But she wasn't—she wasn't supposed to leave me yet. Not without saying goodbye because that... isn't like her. His frown grew, his ears sleek against his skull.

He's lying. While he'd known she wouldn't always be there to lick his wounds and weave feathers into his fur, he refused to accept it. She is all he knows, is all he...had. His weeping heart clenched painfully tight.

He's just a boy far too afraid to become a man.

He meets those eyes of carmine once more, this time with a glimmer of sympathy. The lump of coal has been alone for a while, then. And foolishly, he cannot help but assume he knows nothing of the love between a mother and her child. Not anymore, at least, and perhaps that's why he's so bitter.

And you're not scared? You don't miss your Ma? Llewellyn couldn't help but ask, because he couldn't possibly understand how a boy wasn't afraid of the endless tundra. How he was okay wandering alone in a world that takes and scarcely gives.