Grouse Thicket Where the wild things are.

caligula blinks down at the crushed grasses, rather expecting something more. but he is aware that he could hardly be said to understand the intricacies of healing; in his…in his youth, then…he had never appreciated what any physician had done for him, nor their skillset. not that he would have been allowed to pursue the trade, if he had.

and yet. the thought of healing, instead of hurting, for once in his life – there is… it is a nice thought. a nice idea. it is not like he has anything else to show for himself now – nothing beyond an endless stream of memories that refuse, day after day, to leave him be.

when he lifts his eyes from the ground, she is watching him. his heartbeat jolts on automatic, the same discomfort of anyone looking at him so closely, but – and he tries, every time, so hard to remember – she is doing nothing but watching, but speaking, and not everyone attacks only because there is someone there to fight –

– and that is a foolish thought. he should know this well by now – sometimes speaking is enough.

the scar…he does not like to think about the scar. he does not like to look at it, either – another trauma, only safe when it has become so distanced from his thoughts that the knowledge of its presence lingers only in the back of his mind. like everything else caligula has become resigned to, it is not something that can be removed.

he does not look at it when she speaks. this does not prevent the knowledge of exactly what happened from rising from its place.

his breathing falters, and –

there are teeth on his skin again, dozens of fights behind him and pain wholly unlike anything he has had before, worked deep through his flesh –

– stripping skin from meat is such a delicate thing and he has always been so good at it, enjoying the screaming, and now they hold him down as they do it and it –

his chest hurts.

it did not – it should not –

grass. there is grass. the shadow of the trees, the air thick and humid and hot, sticking in his lungs. there is no snow, no ice; only mist and filtered sunlight, the singing of birds and the buzz of insects, and a single wolf, waiting, a pale and unfamiliar cream-and-grey.

there is nothing here. nothing besides what he carries with him – and those things always seem foolish, when their teeth are not set to his throat. he knows for certain they must seem foolish to other people, not the least this woman.

“my family,” caligula manages, and laughs a little. it is not a pleasant laugh. “i am sorry, it is…not a good story for me to tell. or think.” another huffed laugh. "i think the herbs might be more... pleasant."