Sunset Valley 'til the day that i die

he did not wilt. not beneath her snarl, not before the bite of her words. he listened, even as his throat broke open in wild declarations, eyes burning with a devotion no priest ever taught.
anoré stood, fur lifting slow and high along her shoulders, a chill rising at the base of her spine.
she circled him like a wraith, until her warming flank brushed his. her voice came from behind him now, smoke and prophecy, "orð þýða lítið"
she would see him split, see him bend, and break in his pursuit. see how much worth he so claims.
"fyrir jarlskona þína, hún er spjótsoddurinn sem þú blæðir fyrir." standing before him now, her breath ghosts his cheek, "munt þú elta þegar hún er bara blóðblaut, villieygð og stríðssvangur? ekki fyrir vöggu né aflinn?"
an old flame, smothered and made soft, flickered to life. lit by his roughened hand. 
it burned with the same undying hunger that once called her to odin's table, that long-forgotten yearning to stand amongst the divine as a god herself. 
jarl and jarlskona, he'd offered. she expected no affections. no gentle thing to survive where they may walk. only ash and blood-letting and the promise of hell-wrought glory. but the gods are cruel—and perhaps fond of irony. for what greater jest than to make legends fall in love?