Blackfeather Woods it's time

Once upon a time, Cicero had dabbled in healing herbs. Potema had proven much more interested in fixing things, however, and Cicero himself had ended up specialising in poisons. He had little interest to return to the art of fixing things, to the point that he would rather not share with others that he knew how to fix things. Breaking things was his forte, after all, and why would an artist continue to finger paint if they had found out that with a paintbrush, they could make true art? Cicero refused to finger paint unless one of his own was in immediate danger.

The question struck a chord, and Cicero halted for a moment. He had not expected the question, even though perhaps he should have, and ears folded back and forth in consideration for it, for he had never been one to answer on impulse.

Damien.

But she would unlikely understand what he meant by that. Yet it was true in so many ways. As long as Damien stayed true to these woods, so would Cicero. His loyalty to the Woods was great, for he had been born here and he did not have any motivation to leave any time soon, yet his loyalty to Damien was the only thing greater than that, the only thing that truly anchored him to this world, for his brother meant everything to him, and very little others meant anything to him.

"A good question," Cicero answered with a slick grin. "Serving Blackfeather Woods is of interest to Cicero, but stature within the Brotherhood mean little to him. He was born into the Brotherhood, in a sense, and he would do whatever Burke requests even without a title within the Brotherhood. Cicero has done much for Blackfeather Woods and for Burke." Cicero spied a piece of poison ivy as his words faded and a smile danced across his face as he murmured, "Ah." Then he started to search for other plants nearby with which he could carry the poison ivy, so that he would not get his mouth all mangled.

It made him realise how little he knew of Nemesis, truly. And, in light of her question, how very little she knew about him. Cicero looked at her again, laying the herb he'd found aside for the moment, while he decided to be truthful. It didn't matter, anyway. Anyone with a good eye already knew. For Nemesis to ask him such a question meant she perhaps lacked the eye, and in another situation perhaps Cicero would not have shared this with her for that reason, but for some reason he did now: "The answer to your question is Damien. He is Cicero's anchor, he is what Cicero craves above all else." It was the first time that he had spoken these words to anyone, and Cicero was not sure how she would respond, but he did not care if she knew. He did not care if anyone knew. He had never tried to hide his love for Damien and to answer such a direct question for his cravings with an answer not related to Damien felt like a betrayal to the depths of his love.