Noctisardor Bypass How would it ever get the guy?

backdated to 5/27. Sorry life’s been so busy but I need to get tbis in my log!

He sat at the den’s entrance, expression pulled into one of harried thought. The children kicked and screamed; both Druid and Heda mentioned they’d move to the rendezvous soon. 

Anselm’s mind was elsewhere. 

It’d been nearly two weeks since Etienne left — without even a word. Initially, Anselm had been distraught. This was a colder betrayal than anything he could ever devise — and the months he’d spent trying to dissolve the tight network of his own abandonment issues was instantly toppled. 

That initial grief was akin to a death. The death of his interpretation of who Etienne was. The death of that tentative hope between them. The death of what might have been. 

And following grief came anger. Hideous, furious, unthinkable anger. 

He told himself if Etienne returned he’d tear his throat himself. He convinced himself that he’d chase the man out, teeth snapping — that he’d lay into Etienne’s goldensun pelt the physical scar of every injury he’d mentally sowed in Anselm’s fruitless fields.  He’d run him to the sea and back, the sun always chasing the moon, the dog always chasing the hare —

And finally, his anger slipped into despondency. An emotion so intimately familiar to Anselm he wondered how he’d ever mistakenly convinced himself he was worthy of love, or friendship, or brotherhood. In his despondency he avoided them all. He and Heda had scarcely a word since their encounter — and things between him and Druid were terse. The only soul he didn’t feel judged him was Ava; even if she was capable of judgment, what could she say?

How could he? Anselm’s stomach twisted as he thought of how cold one had to be to leave without a word. The entire time Anselm nursed his wounds, it never occurred to him it was possible Etienne was hurting worse. 

Another scream punctured his thoughts. Anselm turned, herding the children back to the den with an irritated snap. 

At least they kept him busy — busy enough that while the wound still gaped, in time maybe it would patch over. 

One thing was certain.

Anselm’s heart had turned to thorns.