Bitterroot Valley you give out the glory of heaven, you give out the pain that is hell.

sorry. sakhmet mumbles to him, the feel of her smaller body pressing against his own and the rapid beat of his wardrum heart nearly all he can focus upon. the surprise of her attack having ebbed gleipnir is not certain that the race of his heart comes from her presence, from her touch. it perplexes him. how she can cause this within him; command the wardrum heart, summon what vapors of gentleness exist within him. a berserker. one that was not known to be merciful nor gentle.

teach me to fight, spoken before her teeth pull at the fur of his chest. disarmed by her closeness gleipnir fears he will give her anything she asks of him like this. despite this, he cannot bear to part from the press of her body against his, the tangle of her teeth in the tendrils of his fur. why? he asks once he's summoned some composure. you learn fight, he begins trying to find the words to bring to light his true fear at her request. not need me.

the thought of not being in her presence makes him feel utterly hollow. not want me? he asks trying and failing to hide the hurt that taints his tones at how he chooses to interpret her sudden desire to learn to fight.