Fox's Glade [M] my end and my beginning

my last too, i'll archive. thanks for this unexpected turn, it was an interesting thread!

His mouth was dry, and Cicero swallowed before he tried again, a bit louder this time. "Wait!" he called with a quavering voice that betrayed his vulnerability. In instinctive submission his tongue lapped at his nose, which was pointed down, duo-toned eyes rolled upwards to look after the disappearing white wolf. He wanted to know the circumstances of their love-making, but the fact that the white wolf did not even look round to see his face told Cicero more than he wanted to know.

Breath came out in ragged gasps as he suddenly felt cornered. He was not used to such vulnerability. Usually, he was the one asking the questions, causing the vulnerability. He was the one in control. This wolf had taken that from him. Sheogorath had taken that from him. The monster had reared its ugly head and Cicero wondered to himself if anything was really to blame on either of the wolves that he blamed. Was Sheogorath not simply him, did he not simply black out Sheogorath's thoughts because he feared him? If Sheogorath had provoked the white wolf, had wanted... this, then was Cicero not the one to blame?

Cicero was Sheogorath, after all, however different he felt.

For what felt like eternity Cicero remained crouched on the ground in the same place, feeling dirty while he was left alone with his deepest, darkest thoughts. He would have liked to tell himself that he was philosophising, but the tragic truth of the matter was that Cicero was hiding, waiting; like a frightened piece of prey.

Only when light started to show itself and his weary face was illuminated, Cicero slowly came into motion. He picked himself up from the ground and every fibre of his body ached to lay beside Damien; as though it was really Damien that he had made love to, and they had fallen asleep side by side after, both of them sated, happy, loved. His tail slid between his hind legs, tucked not only to hide the pain, but the shame of what had transpired the night before, too.

Upon shaky legs the young philosopher leaned down to lap at the narrow creek that wound through the lands. The ice was already broken to reveal a safe place to drink and he leaned down on his rump, tail tightly tucked in a false sense of security, to lap at the cold water to lubricate his dry, sore throat. Little did Cicero know that was how it had all begun the night before.