Wheeling Gull Isle treibloka

He steadied himself so he could meet her eyes without misgivings.

No, he replied easily, his mouth lapsing back into a real, but faint smile. You are good to me. Is not your fault.

This didn't happen often. For a moment the filament in him glowed with a sullen, self-directed anger. What a critical weakness this was -- something that he would have to rectify. In his mind's eye, he caulked over the gaping memory with furious, stiff strokes. Had it not been a reason for celebration? The recognition of his valor? What was it that caused him such fear, here and now? 

At her touch, he softened.

Sometimes I feel myself strange. His eyes narrowed into sloe slivers. I lie down and it always goes away. He let his head fall back on the sparse grass. His nostrils flared with the smell of soil. Here he was, belly-up again, though this time he was loose and ragdollish, the water on his fur like dew.