His battlefield is parchment,
and his weapon is a quill,
He needs not blade, nor bow, nor axe,
to give my heart a thrill.
It's the blush in his pale cheeks,
how it lights his inky gaze,
The little grin when his beard is tugged,
that sets me all ablaze.
His love is gentle, and it's sweet,
Like peaches and honey wine,
It grows and blooms, day by day,
And I'm so proud to call him mine.

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Phaestian, in the year 989 AF.