He moves with the same confidence as his youth, the hitch in his hindquarters little more than an afterthought of each step. His strides are long and deliberate, his head high and yet, his fur is pitted now, almost two decades worth of scars beginning to peer through. He does not remember, not entirely, if the crimson and black over his back had always had so much silver and yet, he wears it with unspoken pride as he moves from the tundras, winter at his heels. It has been years since his paws have felt the soil of Moladion and for a moment, he takes pause atop an outcrop - he is glad, at least, that his eyes are still as keen as ever, intense with their longing as they move across the horizon.
He thinks briefly of the word home and yet, he shakes his head with a huff. There is no home. He must remember that - the beach has long since been lost to him...along with all those his memories are full of. He dares not commit their names to the wind lest he summon the ghosts of a past he seeks to fight against - he comes with purpose, after all. As he moves towards the south, he follows the only scent he knows well. His granddaughter, Aster. Though he registers it somewhere in the back of his mind, he does his best to ignore the glaring absences that exist.
It takes him some time to move into the realm of the plains and for a moment, he is almost...confused. He did not imagine his son leaving Iromar so willingly, particularly not for a place so vast and yet, his mind is quickly occupied with Leviathan. She had always loved the plains and suddenly, he shies away from the border before he forces himself back. His purpose is not his own, not for him, but for others. For once, he thinks, he will fight the devil in their bloodstream.
He pauses close to the pack's territory line, his chest stinging from the cold air and weeks of travel. He remains composed however and yet, he is certain now. There is something missing - somebody. He knows Halcyon and Aster but, Aithne and Praetor are absent. They are not even whispers in the wind. His face speaks of nothing though, merely an acceptance - what had he expected, after all? His blood is cursed and he knew he was returning to a place of death and terrible things. Yet, he simply places such thoughts aside. He pretends, briefly, that he can still smell the wild ocean and his children, still imagine Rogue and so many others somewhere over the horizon line. For a moment, when he sees her, he almost thinks of Caligula but there is too much missing, too many differences. And so, he waits. He waits to see if he was dead in the memory of others.