Qeya River gnashing teeth

þú hefur ekki gefið mér tækifæri til að sanna mig, when he speaks, there comes the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. not the smug, wolfish grin she was used to, but one of genuine. his crimson eyes, often burning with defiance or malice, held a flicker of sincerity now.

he lowered himself into a seated position, tail brushing amongst the coldness of the cave floor. he would seek warmth from her but remains still, preserving what he can of his heat; she would not have him. not yet. his head dips to concede her the power in the moment.

veiðu með mér. berstu við hlið mér, he insists, reaching to press a paw to his chest; then to hers. leyfðu mér að sanna að ég haldi það sem þú telur mig skorta.

for once, he did not loom above her, did not impose his size or strength. he only offers his words, his actions, his intentions. ég mun færa þér kjöt, feldi—allt þess virði. og ef þú vilt það, mun ég ferðast til lands þíns til að sækja tákn af einlægni minni.

a frown now, as ears press to his black head, eyes looking upon her past a muzzle that carries scars of her own anger. ég veit að ég er vondur maður. en ég vil vera góður fyrir þig. his breathing coming fast now, rising his chest and flanks up and down, as he seeks to express what he feels to her with the full intensity of his being.

ég mun heiðra þig. ég mun heiðra fólkið þitt. ég mun heiðra þig á minn hátt. og ef þú velur mig ekki, þá mun ég yfirgefa hlið þína.