Little Goat Mountain the poem that took place of a mountain

I know! o:

Any doubt that he'd had in regards to her identity disappeared when she'd spoken. His eyesight wasn't the greatest during the day, but his ears worked just fine, and so he'd been able to recognize her voice better than her appearance. It was the very same female he'd met the night before, which made his suspicion grow. It was obvious that she'd been ahead of him, yes, but fear took precedence over rationality. Had Cicero sent her to keep an eye on him? Was he planning another attack? A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of it, his legs having locked whilst an uneasy feeling settled into the pit of his stomach. His attention was, for the moment, drawn elsewhere when she'd asked a question, but for how long it'd last was unforeseeable.

"No," he'd answered, quieter than desired. After taking in a breath, however, he'd tried again. "No, I'm not following you." He was going home, where he'd then seek out his parents and settle in with them. Neither would let him be attacked, he was sure of it. But, he wondered, would he ever make it back? "Are you following me?" Xan repeated back, shifting his weight around until he'd found himself to be balanced. Without having realized it, his muscles had tensed and his ears swiveled around, assessing his surroundings just in case he'd be made to run. "Are you working for him?" The question had been given abruptly, lacking poise. Considering the possible answers, he couldn't decide which might be worse. Either Cicero had enlisted a servant to follow him around, or the male had left him without the ability to live a normal life. Swallowing, he'd looked towards her the best that he could, waiting to see how he'd have to proceed.