He concealed himself in the twilight, reveling in the breath taking moonlight that sparkled on the snow. The emaciated wolf floated like a specter among the trees, taking care to make no noise and leave no new mark in the snow. He could not bring himself to shatter the quiet, regal beauty of the forest, which for once choked him beyond words. Dressed up like this, in pearl and ermine, the trees looked so quiet and serene, subdued and almost... — he barely dared to let the word slip into his thoughts— <i>heavenly</i>. Staring down at the muddied, copper twigs of his limbs, he felt dirty and unworthy of this singular beauty of the wilderness.
Eventually, he found the words, "<b>I'm sorry, so sorry.</b>" But who the apology was spoke to, he couldn't say. There were a great many things he had to be sorry for —for running away, for coming back, for running away <i>again</i>, and for standing here now. For so long, he had tried to deny the forest its intricate beauty, and for that he was sorry, too. Yet, even now, stripped bare, standing apologetic in the snow, he was afraid. The looming trunks and glittering snow were beautiful, yes, but also terrifying, ugly. There was still a war being fought in the depths of his soul. The war made him itch, made him cringe, made him hate. He found that he hated and loved this beauty all at once. Part of him was repulsed, and part of him longed for acceptance. Mostly, though, this war just made him afraid, afraid that the forest and the heathens would chew him up and spit him out before he could figure out what it was that he really wanted.
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