He had come to me once long ago- the enemy of my fathers, the warrior with the painted skin and iron hands. They say that's how they knew him, but I knew him by his eyes. Eyes that were cruel and grey, as bleak as the winters' unyielding rain, but they are eyes I have come to love.

Whether he loved me, I will never know. Perhaps he saw just a conquest through the battle the day he forged into my camp. I remember the sparks flying from the fire of the huts set ablaze and each flame reflected in the steel of the swords arching through the air. The air was thick with ash in the failing light of dusk but I saw this man with the cruel eyes across the battlefield and I fled.

Even I, daughter of the Chief, mistress of my people, knew when to run.

My heart betrayed me and the dry sand of my forefathers crushed beneath my feet as I raced, retreating to my tent beyond the perimeter. I prayed for escape, and yet hoped with each deceiving breath not just to surrender but to succumb.

I heard screams.

I heard the clash of iron and then the sound I had been waiting for, the drawing back of the heavy woven drapes surrounding me. My enemy with the cruel eyes came to me in the soft darkness and whispered in a language I knew not. He touched me with those cold hands, but all I felt was fire.

I should have fought; I know that now. But how can you fight a nightmare that rides on the edge of a dream, who awakens a longing for passion yet unseen?