Noctisardor Bypass What would I ever do with a rose?

Druid’s surmisal of his condition caused him to involuntarily raise a hind leg to kick at a tuft behind his ear. The angular limb dropped when she elaborated she meant a different kind — a facial kind. 

That implied something was wrong with him, but as proud as Anselm was, he’d take that false assumption over having to explain the truth. He felt bad for keeping this from Druid, just as he felt hideous for transforming Heda’s body, rejecting her marriage, struggling to communicate with her, and barely loving her — and his — children. Just as he felt equal parts raw and disgusting for the unspeakable and unnameable appetite that woke in him when he saw Etienne. Each emotion was just more ugliness to add to the collective cookie jar of guilt-studded thoughts and wants that was brimming over. 

Heda was hunting by the Cuesta. Anselm frowned, thinking of the caribou she’d driven off the cliff. Why had she not enlisted one of them to help? Did he believe it? Did he want to disbelieve her? Maybe all this uncharitable assumption was what landed him here in the first place. What was wrong with him that he was an asshole to everyone? Fiona had been the one to first ask that question, and now that ugly seed had grown into rotting fruit that festered every line of thought he carried. 

I stay because I care! I stay because you asked me not to leave! In his mind’s eye the golden lash of the seaborn’s tail caught the sun; he sighed, and remembered Druid stood over him. How do you connect vith them, Druid? Anselm asked suddenly, his voice twisted with anguish that thus far had remained unspoken. While he meant the children, his question was open ended enough to mean all of Rivenwood. How did she watch, and lead, and hunt, and nurse, and care, and do all of these things while still maintaining an air of kindness Anselm couldn’t hope to summon if his life depended on it.