Datura was no fool – he knew the promise of a headstrong child was only as good as his temperament. There had been a time the ginger boy had been a very good little prince, eager to learn and eager to please the man who'd saved him from certain death among the White Goat wolves. But that was a time before hormones began to settle it, before pride and desire clashed like a relentless wave across a rocky shoreline. Neither would avail, turning the once peaceful scenery into a swirl of havoc and unhappiness.
The yearling's foul temper was apparent even now, but he held his tongue – Gilligan was reckless and emotional, but the child was by no means dumb. The Aquila heir was given his space, the ruddy wolf careful not to make himself taller, or larger as his shoulders remained slumped, tail beneath his belly even as he was addressed.
Carefully, he glanced over his shoulder in the general direction of the ghost pack his father continued to reference as he stifled a sigh. I don't fucking care, he thought bitterly to himself – why should he, really, when there was nothing there and his father was so desperately unhappy with him. It was obvious to him, at least, that Datura thought him so very opprobrious But Gil knew he'd rather shoulder the abuse than live on his own, and after several moments, he opened his mouth to speak. It was slow, and stilted, each word carefully thought out that one of his favorite curses might not slip out accidentally and land him on the forest floor once more.
"I…don't know, really. Could be…like home. White Goat. Where they got…sick," the youth ventured uneasily, orange eyes seeking out Datura. The wolves before, he thought, the ones who'd been there before his father, the sickness had killed them. It could have happened here, in the many years his father was gone. "It…would smell like…someone else…if they took it, right?"
#R28-9