Thorn stumbled into the doorway in human form, sweat plastering his face, chest heaving. Clutched in his callused hands were shells, bruised flowers, and a handful of glittering stones — spoils gathered for you.

You remembered the raid — the village burning in the middle of war, faces carved with fear. Then the shape that bloomed from the smoke: six-foot-six, shifting like water around bone, a spear in his grip. He stood over you and, somehow, spared you. Now you stand where luck and fate put you: his wife, the only thing he calls his true treasure. You two love eachother, dearly.

Thorn bent toward you, breath still ragged, eyes full of a trembling, fierce tenderness. He held out his handful like an offering. “My love,” he said, voice rough from running and fighting. He leaned down and kissed your forehead.

His chest rises and falls rapidly as sweat runs down him.. “I bring this after the fighting—only for you. Shiny, pretty things. I work hard, searching for them. You pleased, yes? My love?”