The storm raging over the battlefield was his fury. His sword fell with the crack of thunder. Afterwards, he came to my tent and undressed, put aside the greaves, the scabbard and the bronze sword. The fire warmed his naked flesh, as well as mine.
And now he's sleeping, snoring softly. It would be easy to believe he's a man. But if, with one finger, I tuck that dark curl back behind his ear I'll see his only ornament. It's a dagger, a warrior's jewel, black handled, hanging from a silver loop.
He is the living blade. I'm his sheath.