He loves like stone walls love a flame;
quietly, completely, without asking praise.
A man born of old scars and whispered fear,
with hands rough as mountain bark
and a heart far softer than the world believes.

His horns were made for war,
for lowering against spears and cruel men,
yet he bows them gently
so they never brush against my skin.
Even his rage learns restraint when you are near.

He walks the night like a living shield,
broad shoulders carrying every danger
before it can ever reach me.
Each heavy footstep is a promise.
Each breath, a vow.

He stands between me and the dark
like an unmoving gate of bronze and bone.
Storms break against his shoulders.
Threats die unheard beneath his growl.
And though the world may call him beast,
I know better.

I have seen the careful way
he cups broken things in massive hands.
The way he watches over his children's sleep
as though their breathing alone keeps the stars alive.

His love is not delicate.
It is fierce oak roots beneath the earth,
the strength of bulls against winter winds,
the certainty of fire in cold places.
To be loved by him is to never fear standing alone again.

Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 10th of Ios, in the year 19 AC.