To be sure, he is nervous about her opinions of him after having spent the night at his mercy - and he had indeed been just shy of merciless in his passions. Numerous passions that had found them spent only by morning light. His father had said it could be as such, of course, when it came time to speak of such things. Exhausting, exhilarating, intoxicating, addicting, and so many other terms that could have been damaging along with pleasurable. It is not that which he worries over, though. She had cleaved to each overture without complaint, dare he say with eagerness, had succumb with the same grace with which she did everything.

But his comportment had not been of a nobleman to a lady - and his only experience as such had been with the painted warrioress, after all, so he had no notion on what it should have been in it’s proper courses. She is sore, he can tell, his eyes and body having known her so fully, but she does her best to hide it and so he makes no comment. He does not wish her to think him callous, but certainly not that he regretted one atom of what they shared in the night. His shaken body stills, her voice drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

She is shy, she is aching, and still he feels his lip lift instinctively as he lifts his head and stretches his neck into a hard crane of muscle. He is glad that she is hidden into his shoulder, lest she think him some incubus come to dry her up with a need more unswerving than Set’s own greed. Her lips on his skin set his mind on finer things, like the smooth nuzzling of his own lips through the mane he can reach of her, a small circle drawn with his velvety upper lip where he had bitten her to cement their bond. She would be given the same opportunity at the birth of his firstborn son by her as his First Wife.

Her giggle draws him back in, “I slept sated and replete, basking in the perfect presence of my own goddess made flesh,” he replies with broad smile and deep masculine chuckling. There is innuendo, perhaps, but it is done in the privacy of their morning embrace and so he fears no joke nor fear nor praise. All spoken in the wee hours with her was sacred and right. She grows stiffer, though, all of a sudden-- and he remembers again that they have yet to even speak one another’s name.

She shifts away, though, and this would not be borne. Could not be. Every cell and fiber of him cried out at her retreat - and he squeals that short sound of a troubled horse, following her as though tethered to her by his own breast to follow. “ⲉⲱ̀ⲉϣⲱⲡⲓ, ⲧⲁϭⲟⲓⲥ. ” he swears to her again, “ⲡⲁ ⲕⲗⲟⲙ ϩⲓⲙⲉ. ”

“Do not run from me, I would not be able to bear your leaving now that you have spoken in my own True Language.” He pleads with her and there is pain in his voice that could have been enough proof for a hundred years of his devotion. “If you regret our consummation, I swear to you to build you a world worthy of your beauty and your pains in oathing to me…”