All that to say that I just got my brother two "Of Monsters and Men" albums for his birthday, and after hearing a couple of their newer songs, I've been playing them on YouTube and wanting to write. (No, I didn't keep the CDs: they did get to their destination.) I should be studying the American Revolution or Latin vocab, but the song "Human" obliged me to pull up Wordcrafter for a few minutes. It's getting along in fits and starts: 110,000 words in now. And heaven help me, I don't know how long the thing's going to be in the end.
I throw up my hands in despair.
We sat in silence, the wind sighing around us like the tide on the shore, the flames crackling and snapping hungrily among the branches. Copper’s veil fluttered; the light shot through it and I saw her lips parted in something like yearning. Ethan had his arm on my shoulder still and as the shofar-call slipped away his fingers dug at my collarbone, the blood thudding urgently in their tips, dragging me along with him into the heady expectation: the ale seemed to have mounted, to swirl around and around and around inside my dizzy skull…
The water from the faucet shut off; the shower was still running. He returned to the threshold, and as I raised my eyes unwillingly from the figurine it struck me, almost comically, that with his razor in his hand he looked like Death come to claim a few souls for the dance.
“So,” he said. “I wondered what the Hound found to like in you. Now I see you’ve got a fire in your belly after all. I suppose I should have known.”
The Jackal had not yet come with our horses, and while we waited for him, our backs to the light and our shadows thrown out long in front of us, Ethan spoke again. “While we are talking of saving lives,” he said, in a voice that was mellow like his father’s, “and while my lady insists on walking alone, I would that she carried this.” He fiddled with a buckle at the inside of his right thigh and the strap of the dagger sheath swung loose, the hilt falling heavy into his palm; it was plain dull metal, a match to the one he had loaned me, and it gleamed blandly in the moonlight as he offered it to our companion. “Granted, it’s not as fashionable as a pair of pistols, but it will do you more good should you find yourself in a tight corner.”
A bonfire blazed in the clearing, the flames ducking and leaping like native dancers as the breeze whirled the sparks away, and in its lurid light the standing Horsemen looked like martyrs waiting to be burned.
He poured me a cup and handed it over, warm and dripping, and glanced at [her] from under his brows. “Care for one?”
She watched him like a suspicious cat, her fingers tightening in the folds of the blanket, her mental tail lashing. “I’d love it,” she said sharply, “but I’m rather afraid you might poison it.”
His mouth jerked. “Poison isn’t my weapon of choice,” he said. “But the sentiment is there.”
His face was a thundercloud, and flushed as with too much wine; he was dark from dancing so near the fire and the smell of singed flesh hung over him. When I gripped his arm in mute acknowledgement I felt the muscles jumping frantically under my hand.
“My lord dances as though he will kill himself,” [she] remarked, almost reproachfully.