Sun Mote Copse Not sure what's worse, the waiting or the waiting room

By the time the lone wolf reached the copse, it was the golden hour. Splendid gilded sunbeams spilled down through the trees in angled shafts, spattering the forest floor with puddles of light. The air was close and still, the haze of humid summer heat left him panting softly even as he lumbered through at a gait that was little more than an amble. He might've looked like he was stalking prey, but the vague and distant look on his face spoke of split concentration. 

Travel-worn and weary, he didn't show any of the relief that he felt when he realized that he recognized the area. Simultaneously, a pang of anxiety, knowing he was that much closer to getting to the place he'd formerly called home, and the inevitable demand for an explanation. Cold shoulders, perhaps. Shunning would even be merited. He expected no forgiveness or empathy- and the heavy shame he felt made him choke up. 

He could have chosen not to return. He wasn't even sure he deserved to, even though a more rational creature might have looked upon him and pitied him. But to be pitied- or to even gain empathy- would demand that he explain and...He couldn't.

While he recognized the Copse, the plants had grown. He realized perhaps a bit late that he had walked over more than one grave that should have caused him a pang of gried, but without a pack in the area, the foliage had quickly reclaimed the paths once forged by frequent patrolling. It was the same copse, only more lush and green and grown-in than he remembered. 

Still, he found his way back to the den he'd lived in, though it'd become somewhat obscured by a patch of forget-me-nots. Calmed somewhat by its familiarity, he flopped down on the ground, content to wait for the sun to set so that he could travel without being so overheated.