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

I believe you.

The words left him staring at her, having been what he’d never expected to hear. He had left in order to keep himself safe, and he’d kept silent out of fear. He’d convinced himself that no one would ever believe him, and especially not Potema or Damien—but she had. The truth had come out, and without having been argued against. Still, he wondered if anything would be done about it, if his assailant would face any consequences. Part of the yearling wished to see him dead, his blood coating the earth like some morbid painting. Yet, at the same time, he didn’t want that at all. He wanted him to continue living, to go through each day having more and more taken away from him until there was nothing left to be ripped away. To put it simply, he wanted Cicero to suffer through every day, and have no way of ending it. He wanted him to lose sleep, to be humiliated, defiled, ruined. He wanted him to lose everything in the world that he held close to his heart, but even all of that would never be enough to balance out what he had done.

With a shake of his head, he looked away from her, focusing on the ground instead. There was so much that he thought he wanted, but he wasn’t yet ready. The shame was still there, and he could already feel himself regretting having told the Princess anything. “You can’t tell anyone else about what happened,” he’d said, though it’d sounded more like he was pleading with her than making a statement. “Please, Potema, don’t tell anyone…” He’d begged, then, making it clear that he wanted for no one else to be told about what had happened. Despite his desire to see Cicero be punished, he wasn’t prepared to go through everything that came with doing so.