Nova Peak Wēkenben

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skorpa found himself readied a third time, laughing softly into ayovi's mouth as she translated more words for him. she was fair and wonderful against his chest; he did not think he would ever tire of bearing his rainwater a very great admiration.

sværd-dane had not dwelt in thought upon children. her scent had assured that they would come, therefore skorpa was free to devour each day entire with ayovi, living only in their present.

he did not need to be told what her murmured words said, and on impulse he raised limb to trace the fine shape of her jawline with his claw, cupping the warmth of her cheekbone in his palm.

heart race; his eyes stung again with that sordidly unknown, incomprehensible emotion. he did not take its name nor its meaning, but ayovi spoke such life into them that for a moment the battle-scarred warrior felt fear.

to be husband of settlehearth, to be father, it required more stability than skorpa had ever given or experienced.

his other arm embraced her tight against him. "jeg elsker dig, ayovi." what else could such a sensation be but what they named it now? "jeg vil vise dig, at jeg kan blive en bedre mand," skorpa went on, besotted with feeling. even if she did not understand his words, the look in his eye left nothing to be misconstrued: a true glimpse of the frightened, eager soul he had become in such a frightfully short time.

"jeg vil være dig værdig," and he began to caress her softly again, wanting a slow meander for them both this time, as the gravity of what they had shared began to fall in metershower around skorpa's head.

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