Sleepy Fox Hollow [m] nomajoka

She moved towards him to brush debris from his fur. The touch was meant as comforting, but Anselm withdrew as if she'd brandished fangs. He'd hurt her, she'd hurt him -- pari passu -- and now a growing malcontent wrestled in his stomach that had nothing to do with the token kindness she'd graciously shown him.

Her account of him was true. His actions were unkind and done deliberately so - and he knew this. He knew he did it to protect the thorny empire of his heart from hurt again.

God? Vhat god, Heda? He hissed, retracting the metaphorical arm which had been raised only moments before. He did not want to notch another hurt into her quiver; but how could she truly believe in anything other than what was right in front of her? He could not conceptualize what it must be like to believe so blindly. Your god is a jealous god. I have -- I have no god. He straightened, the warming of his flank faded now to something starkly cold. He felt naked in a way he'd never felt before - as if by bedding Heda, he'd become enlightened to all the small details of warmth missing in his life.

Who raised you like this? If it was an accusation, Anselm could not tell. No one. I just am. It was not their fault he'd turned out ugly and unlovable, cruel or mean. He knew, as much as he often reflected on the huge piece missing in his life without them, that they both loved him very much. Vho raised you to believe in a god that vould punish you for -- he wanted to say it, but it sounded so crude. For doing vhat comes naturally to us all?