I've been largely MIA on most of my social media sites (except instagram + pinterest), not wholly due to ragged health, but mostly because a) I'm horribly stuck on Ethandune, so I'm not usually sitting at my computer nowacurrently with the internet open, + b) I'm caught up reading "The Heir of Redclyffe" and can barely put it down.
But - good news! - I have inched forward in the Ethandune rewrite, enough to give you some bites to chew on. You all have totally better things to do with your time, but I do not, so here we go.
But the truth was that, in that moment, I was terrified of Dammerung. One was always a little terrified of him, but just then all the terror was uppermost and I wanted to back down into a run and hide like an animal from him. His finger began tapping on the arm of his chair, and a cold spell swept over my skin.
“Well, that’s something,” replied Dammerung cheerfully. He got up, and, looking down at her, added, “We’re not all bad. I won’t say we’re easy, but we’re not all bad.”
The flame licked back up in her narrow vixen face, like the side of a spear-head turned into the light. “I won’t say I’m easy either, but neither am I all bad.”
“Pax,” he said, and held out his hand.
She shivered among the bedclothes until her arm came loose, and she took his hand, like a lady; but I noticed their knuckles turned white in their grip before they let each other go.
He turned and went past me, and Aaron too, and as I stepped backward to shut the door I tried to avoid her gaze, but somehow got caught looking back at her across the distance: a small, sunk thing with narrow, brilliant blue eyes odd-glistening and unaccountably angry with me that I was watching her.
“Plenilune,” said Dammerung quietly—odd, how his voice could carry when he wanted it to, without seeming at all to raise the volume—“is it not mine to do with as I will?”
I gathered up the shaking, tumbled [goat] from the snarl of briars, lifting it to the mass of furs over my chest, but as I attempted it, the little thing suddenly spooked as though struck by an electric current, squealing in my arms and nearly hurtling back to the ground as I shrieked and struggled to grasp it.
“Hold still—hold still!” I cried. “Where have I hurt you?”
In the weird moongloom I saw it crane back its head to look at me with one eye—and that eye, rolling, rolling, slowly backward to my face, stark-white and stricken mad.
“Sh-h-h-h-h-h…” said a ghost-wind from the wood. “Don’t shout. You’ll scare the poor thing.”
My arms slackened and the kid fell in a lifeless pile to my feet. In the great black arch of the wood-mouth, into which the overgrown track ducked and vanished in an instant, there was first a rustle in the air, as of dry leaves shivering in a funeral breeze—a sudden, huge sense of a body there, looming toward me—and then I could see it.
Two rows of shining teeth and canines like a tiger’s, coming toward me in the darkness. No head, only the teeth smiling, smiling like they would laugh at any moment. Then a nose materialized, first with black holes for its nostrils and white with bone, flooding over with a dark skin only a shade paler than the night. The eyes jumped out at me in two sudden silver flashes, throwing twin bars of glare across the dark, and then the whole thing had come full from the woodshore before me, horse-big and horse-shaped, without it ears and without any muscle on its frame to hide the gaunt outline of its bones.
“Boo, little bunny.”