Noctisardor Bypass How would it ever get me by?

Druid’s bristling earned a defensive look from Anselm. He never knew which way was up these days in Rivenwood; things were fine until they weren’t, and then they were fraught. Barring the last time she’d seen him, Anselm thought they’d left their last interaction on somewhat positive turns — so he took Druid’s (justifiable) visible frustration with him personally. 

She made to speak, and then stopped. Anselm’s ears posed forwards, a frown hanging on his lips. 

Druid’s delivery swept his legs out from under him, metaphorically speaking. His defensiveness ebbed away, first to confusion, then to something visible that could only be called deep distress. 

Anselm collected himself with great care; the task did not come easily, for his thoughts acted as buckshot and scattered to the thousand winds on fiercely galloping feet. First, came the initial rake of betrayal. His heart and stomach sunk as if tethered to a boulder in the arctic deep; Etienne had left without so much as a goodbye?

His ears swept back in quiet dismay. 

Then came a sense of irritation, of injustice, and finally, a growing kernel of fury. Now it was his turn to feel taken for granted. When Etienne first accused him of not caring, Anselm felt genuinely wounded by such an ugly assertion, because it was a blatant untruth.  Now, he realized it was the other way around -  people didn’t just leave things or people they cared about. 

Unless they never truly cared at all. 

His heart continued its fluttering descent in his rib cage. His breathing was uneasy, his yellow gaze unsteady. 

Was Druid the messenger, or was she, like Etienne, just another soul to lob their own false interpretations of who he was in his face? 

His gaze climbed from Druid’s darkened toes to her face, searching for any chink in the armor that could suggest it was a lie. 

He saw only bald truth. 

Ve are not — his words gritted through clenched teeth — doing anything.  He knew that sounded improbable - and up until that chance meet in the woods, he and Heda had barely tolerated one another. They were certainly not lovers. Etienne’s accusation on that front had burned him more than he knew. 

Anselm found his fury ebbing away again; this time hopelessness sunk its teeth into the brittle meat of his heart, poisoning his blood with despair. Did he tell you this?