It burned in his chest.
Inhale—like fire pouring into his lungs, followed by winter itself, causing him to cough. Every. Time. He spat something out, a glob of wetness he didn't dare look at, for he was sure there'd be dark stains in the pallid moonlight. Everything was grayed out in the night. The red would seem black, but he chose not to look at it, for he had seen it enough times already.
Not that he could quite claim to be coherent enough to say it was an informed decision.
Up until now, he had aged with grace and strength intact—he had been sturdy, his health had been mostly robust, and the ache in his joints not so bad, unless he'd slept too long on the cold ground without the added insulation of a little nest. He had been much the same as ever, maybe he'd slept more, maybe he'd needed more food but had a lesser appetite, maybe there were those gray, coarse hairs all over his silver face and up his broad legs, and some of his teeth had begun to hurt a little, and he needed more of a warm-up before exerting himself or he'd pull a muscle, or sprain something, but despite all of this, he had been a wolf still in his prime, where experience made up for physical faults.
Now, though, he wasn't even sure who he was. He shivered and panted his way through the days. His chest grated each time he breathed, and ached in that weird, not-quite-real way, as if his heart itself hurt. He spat up wads of phlegm and blood. He could barely hunt, and had lived on what he could scavenge.
But that wasn't the worst of it. Those were just the raw, hard facts, the observations one could make when viewing what had become a rather pitiable excuse of an aging, ill wolf.
The worst of it was his mind.
It wasn't so much something he was aware of, except for fleeting moments when it struck him that something was off, moments of lucidity in which he knew he was in the wrong place, and that he was more or less walking in circles in an unfamiliar north he did not know. But between those.. he walked and he walked and he walked, desperately trying to get to Swift River, because he had to get home. Because something had happened. To Kisla. To everyone. He had to get home, and tell Corinna and Indru that she was missing, that she had been taken over the mountains, that—no wait, she wasn't taken over the mountains, she was.. she was...
He stopped, out of breath just from walking, bent his head and hacked out a few more painful coughs. The frost had begun to come in the cold morning hours, and he should rest, because when it got that cold he needed to be up, to walk, but if he folded in on himself now he'd never get home, and he needed to tell them—
Tell them something—
Ice looked around himself, at the strange, forest-free landscape bathed in the silver light of a thousand distant stars. Where the hell am I?