Grouse Thicket Where the wild things are.

caligula has good days and bad days, when it comes to his thoughts. on the good days, he can move through the world without thinking so much of the scar on his chest, without his recollections threatening to drown him. his near perfect memory used to be a blessing; now it is just as much a curse.

this is not one of the good days. but those memories have, at the very least, drawn his anxieties from the wolf before him to the things lurking inside himself; her tone calms him further, and the loss of the sharp and insistent terror in his limbs leaves him, again, exhausted – enough not to question it.

his ears twitch at her admission. “i do not think many of us have the choice.” a long pause stretches before he speaks again. “it is…i do not have much experience.” caligula lowers his muzzle respectfully. “but i think that i would like to learn.” he is not thinking of the implications of this – that healing is not free of blood on its own, but then he has not truly faced such an realization; nor his he capable now, with the remnants of adrenaline still shivering through his blood, insistently ignoring the memory still clinging to the edge of his mind.

in time, of course, he will have to confront it. for now, he is content to wait.