Blackfeather Woods revival

The world was beautiful when it was covered in ice, but it also reminded Cicero that he had no real place in this world. It made him feel ethereal for he would suffer cold every single day and night. Previous winters he had had Damien to curl up to; that was when his brother still cared whether he lived or died. But now, now the winter was cold and his thin fur did not provide the protection he would have preferred. No longer did Cicero need the poisons to make his mind twirl and to give himself the pain he so enjoyed, for the cold caused enough of it. He feared that if he did not find warmer places it might cost him dearly, for every time he awoke alone he was shivering. The forest protected him to some degree, so there was that, at least, but he wondered if it would be enough to prevent a painful and slow death or the loss of limbs this winter around.

It was another sore reminder that Damien's heart was slipping away from him and that his place in this dark forest was uncertain. And if that was uncertain, then perhaps his place in the entire world was done for, in some way.

He looked at Relmyna from the other side of the stream as she studied herself. She must feel the same in many ways, he knew, but at the same time he knew that her sorrow had not been caused by her own doing, by some beast, some demon within her, but by the demon that lived within him. When he had first returned to being Cicero Relmyna had been with him a lot, but in time he had become more recluse, had slipped away from the places they used to sleep together. She had noticed, of course, if not only by his changing tongue, by his admittance that he was now Cicero. Not that it mattered to the other inhabitants of the forest. Not to Damien, not to Potema. Oh, how he missed simpler times when he was just the philosopher Cicero. Now he felt like the beast was always there, for the doings of the beast hung over Cicero's head like a dark cloud no matter where he went. He could no longer ignore it, and he could not ignore that Sheogorath was as much a part of this body and mind as Cicero, causing him to feel as though torn apart at the seams.

A heavy sigh fell as he looked at her. Another one of Sheogorath's works... Though Cicero did not remember how this had come to be. He only remembered her name and that she was somehow linked to him — to Sheogorath. "Relmyna," he said, ragged ears thrusted forward, then falling back. Mouth hung slightly ajar as he wanted to ask how she was but changed his mind, finding no appropriate words he could say to her. He wished he could ask her how this had come to be but knew he could not. Likely he would never know.