Witch's Marsh Oh [m]y God, she looks so helpless, and her body's saying: "Hell yes."

Who was it?

He struggled to find his voice again, realizing just how much he’d said already. It wouldn’t make a difference now, though, whether he gave a name or not. She knew what had happened, why he had left, which was what she’d been wondering. So, he didn’t answer her—not immediately. The yearling remained silent, his head tilted towards the ground. He had remained like that until the swelling had reduced enough for him to removed himself from her, and then he’d moved away. He did not leave, but couldn’t turn to face her just yet, either. The more he thought about what had happened, the more he realized that he had to tell her. It was her brother that had attacked, yes, but what would stop him from targeting her someday, too? He didn’t want to risk hearing about someone else going through what he had, especially when he could have said something to prevent it.

Turning towards her, he sought out her gaze with his own. He couldn’t read her emotions, he was too distracted to do so. Her question repeated through his mind over and over again, before he’d finally lost his ability to stay silent and shared with her—with someone—the name of his attacker: “Cicero.” And then he was quiet once again, directing his gaze elsewhere. He felt ashamed by the fact that he’d been tricked, that he’d allowed for himself to be drugged. However, he was most ashamed by the fact that he’d allowed for Cicero, of all wolves, to do as he had done. He’d not been able to fight back, he’d hardly been able to move his body, but he still should have done something to try and stop him. Yet, all he’d chosen to do was run and hide.