Battle Couple

"Oh, come on, you tease."

"No! I don't want to."

"But you promised."

"Well, I changed my mind."

"If you loved me, you'd give it to me."

"If you loved me, you wouldn't make me do it."

"Bunting, darling – "

"I said no, and that's final."

"Pulmu..."

"Skúfur, no!"

Skúfur, blond and enormous, stood up from the table, and with an agility belying her large stature, Pulmu darted up and away. The table, an oaken monstrosity, stood between them, but it only delayed Skúfur for a second, as he stepped up onto it, breaking a dish and two clay goblets in the process. He jumped over to where Pulmu stood, reaching out in an attempt to grab her. Startled, the copper-haired woman grabbed a heavy candlestick and swung it. Skúfur withdrew his grabbing hand just in time and scowled. A lock of blond hair fell into his face, covering one green eye and impeding his vision. He brushed it away angrily, and glowered at the woman across from him. She was almost as tall as he was, and just as heavily muscled. Her copper hair was cropped close to her head, and if it weren't for her prominent breasts, she could have passed for a man.

"You fight too much," he growled. Pulmu smirked, and he saw thinly-veiled amusement in her blue eyes.

"So give up."

"Not a chance." He rushed forward then, knocking the candlestick from her hand. This disoriented her for a moment, and then she clubbed her hands together and swung at his head. He ducked, and tackled her knees. She fell with a resounding crash. As she fell, she tried to grab for a pewter plate, and ended up bringing down the entire shelf it sat on. Dishware rained down on them, and a heavy mug broke on Skúfur's head. Pulmu took advantage of this, kicking out with her feet and pushing him away from her. She bounded back to her feet, and sprinted down the stairs.

Skúfur followed her into the bedroom, taking the steps two at a time. She was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, a heavy war hammer in her hands. She swung, and he jumped back as the blunt hammer crashed into a stair, sending splinters of wood flying. He darted past her as she readjusted her grip, and looked around desperately, until finally he spotted his claymore. It had been kicked partially underneath the bed, but the handle stuck out, flickering in the candlelight. He grabbed it and instinctively moved into a fighting stance, both hands gripping the heavy blade with white knuckles. There wasn't much space to maneuver in the tiny room, with the bed taking up most of the space, and a heavy chest its foot, but Skúfur made the best of what he had. He swung at Pulmu, who used her hammer to block his blade. Sweat was running down her face in little rivulets, and her breath came in short, angry puffs. She was tiring, but then again, so was he.

Sweat dripped into his eyes as he prepared to swing again, and the burn of salt blinded him. He stumbled, and Pulmu knocked the blade from his hands. Tossing aside the war hammer, she bowled into him, knocking him to the floor. She sat on him, a triumphant grin lighting her face. Defeated, Skúfur gave a half-hearted squirm, attempting to unseat her, but she remained perched on top of his chest, proud and fierce. She held his face in her hands, and lowered herself until her face was right in front of his.

"You know I don't share my sweetrolls," she said softly as she kissed him.