“Berserker’s Love And The Clerics Wrath

In a land where iron sings and frost cuts to the bone,

There walked a hulking berserker who carved kingdoms into stone.

A terror on the battlefield, a storm in mortal skin,

But even storms can soften when a gentle light walks in.

She was a cleric of the dawning sun with candles in her eyes,

A hymn upon her parted lips, a prayer that never dies.

Her touch could calm the restless dead, her words could break a curse,

Yet all her grace and radiance burned brightest for him first.

He has love only for her, and she has wrath only for him,

Holy fire for his open wounds and blood for every limb.

The gods themselves stand silent when their hearts choose to begin;

The berserker’s love is hers alone, and the cleric’s wrath is only for him.

He came from smoke and thunder, from a war that had no end,

From a world that taught him breaking things was easier than to mend.

His hands were built for ruin, his voice was made to roar,

Until the day she spoke his name and he was thunder nevermore.

She found him in a valley where the river ran with red,

Where shattered shields and broken spears lay heaped around the dead.

She did not raise her holy mace or hide behind her shield;

She simply stepped toward the beast and would not ever yield.

He said, I am a monster; I am fury wrapped in bone,

I am everything that kingdoms fear when kings sit on their thrones.

She said, You are a wounded soul that no one ever kept,

And if the gods will punish me, I still will not regret.

He has love only for her, and she has wrath only for him,

Holy fire for his open wounds and blood for every limb.

The world may call him monstrous and her devotion grim;

The berserker’s love is hers alone, and the cleric’s wrath is only for him.

He stood as tall as siege-towers and swung his axe like fate,

He crushed the iron phalanx at a charging titan’s gait.

The earth would shake beneath his boots, the sky would hold its breath,

For he was living carnage in a world that worshipped death.

But when the arrows blackened out the dawn above his head,

And all the archers loosed at once to paint the sunrise red,

She raised her holy symbol high and spoke a blazing word,

And every arrow turned to ash before it ever stirred.

He told her, Little lantern, this is not your war to fight,

I do not need a guardian when I am born for night.

She glared at him with fire bright enough to melt his rage,

And said, I do not shield you, love, I simply share this stage.

For I am not your shadow and I am not your chain,

I am the oath that walks beside you, through the blood and rain.

You may not need my armor; you may not need my hand,

But I was blessed to walk with you, and blessed I mean to stand.

He has love only for her, and she has wrath only for him,

Holy fire for his open wounds and blood for every limb.

She is mercy for the helpless and a storm for those who harm him;

The berserker’s love is hers alone, and the cleric’s wrath is only for him.

Taverns tell the story of the siege at Hallowfen,

Where ten thousand armored soldiers marched like one unending sin.

The berserker met them laughing with his war-axe in his hands,

Yet even he, the fearless, felt the weight of all those men.

He broke their charge like thunder, split their vanguard down the seam,

His roars became the battle hymn that shook them from their dreams.

But numbers are a cruel god and they bowed him to one knee,

Till she strode through the flying steel as calm as any sea.

Her robes were torn and bloodstained, yet her gaze was burning bright,

She called upon her patron, and the sky forgot the night.

Radiance like a sunrise crashed upon their iron line,

And every foe that touched her flame was stripped of will and spine.

He shouted over clashing blades, You should have run from me,

I was always more catastrophe than any mind could see.

She answered with a steady voice that wrapped around his fears,

You were always more than fury, love; you were worth a thousand years.

When at last the field fell silent and the smoke uncoiled from stone,

He stood a bleeding monument, but he did not stand alone.

She pressed her glowing hands against the scars across his chest,

And every wound that tried to close remembered she knew best.

He said, You waste your magic on a beast who will not break,

You fight the tide with candlelight for some forgotten sake.

She smiled, You idiot of iron, you avalanche in skin,

Do you not know that healing you is why my heart beats in?

He has love only for her, and she has wrath only for him,

Holy fire for his open wounds and blood for every limb.

Though he may never need her shield, he will not walk without her hymn;

The berserker’s love is hers alone, and the cleric’s wrath is only for him.

There came an age of omens when the sky itself turned black,

When dragons flew like burning stars upon a shattered track.

The oracles cried doom and said, The mountains soon will fall,

For even gods grow weary, and they will not hear you call.

The berserker strapped his armor on and took his faithful blade,

Prepared to carve a final path through half a world afraid.

He said, My love, stay far from this; the stars themselves will die,

And I can bear the ending if I never see you cry.

The berserker strapped his armor on and took his faithful blade,

Prepared to carve a final path through half a world afraid.

He said, My love, stay far from this; the stars themselves will die,

And I can bear the ending if I never see you cry.

She threw her holy symbol down and stepped into his path,

Her tears were not of sorrow but of incandescent wrath.

You do not choose my battles, you do not choose my scars,

If the world must end tonight, then we will end with stars.

If the heavens break above us, let them witness what we are:

Not a monster and a maiden, but a fury and a star.

Not a weapon and a healer, not a wound and only balm,

We are storm and we are shelter; we are terror turned to calm.

He has love only for her, and she has wrath only for him,

Holy fire for his open wounds and blood for every limb.

They will face the dark together till all constellations dim;

The berserker’s love is hers alone, and the cleric’s wrath is only for him.

Legends say the dragon came like night without a dawn,

Its shadow swallowing castles, its wings eclipsing suns.

It met the berserker roaring on a cliff of shattered stone,

And for the first time in its ages, felt a fear it had not known.

Steel and scale collided in a storm of blood and spark,

Every strike a prayer of rage, every breath a brand of dark.

But when dragonfire surrounded him and tried to take his breath,

She stepped between his burning form and whispered, Not your death.

Her shield became a fortress, her body became light,

The dragon’s breath crashed down on her and split itself in flight.

The gods themselves looked downward as if quietly ashamed,

For no celestial ever burned as fiercely as she flamed.

He cried, You should have let it take me; I was born for ash and war.

She answered, You were born for more than any legend swore.

If there is a price for loving you, then let the heavens see:

I pay it not with fear and chains, but with my will set free.

The dragon fell to ruins, broke like mountain stone,

Its wings a shattered tapestry, its roar a dying groan.

He held her as the magic dimmed, as holy fire grew thin,

And feared that all her radiance was now spent and drawn within.

But she opened tired, laughing eyes and brushed his worried brow,

Saying, Love, you mighty fool of mine, why do you tremble now?

Did you think that I would leave you when the story reached its rim?

My wrath belongs to those who harm you; my life belongs to him.

Years passed like turning pages in a book of steel and flame,

The tales of them grew wilder though their hearts remained the same.

He still woke up with battle scars that dreams could never heal,

She still woke up and wrapped those scars in warmth and shining zeal.

In villages they rescued and in cities they defended,

Children learned to speak their names as blessings never ended.

In villages they rescued and in cities they defended,

Children learned to speak their names as blessings never ended.

Bards would paint him crueler, would make her soft and small,

But those who met them understood how wrong they told it all.

For he could be astonishingly gentle with a wounded child,

And she could turn to hurricane when enemies grew wild.

He carved toys out of broken shields for hands that shook with fear,

She stitched songs into the evenings so no night felt severe.

On winter roads they traveled where the hungry spirits prowl,

Where snow remembers tragedies and lonely wolves still howl.

Bandits saw a wandering pair and thought them easy prey,

Until he grinned a bloody grin and she stepped in the way.

Her warning came like thunder wrapped in quiet, holy breath:

Touch him and you meet my god, and my god has teeth of death.

He chuckled in the aftermath when all the threats were gone,

Saying, Little light, you frighten me far more than any dawn.

She smacked his armored shoulder and then held his weathered hand,

And said, A world that hurts you, love, is one I will not stand.

He answered with a softer voice that shook despite his pride,

I fear no blade, no demon-lord; I only fear you cried.

Temples sometimes scorned her, said she walked too far from grace,

That standing by a beast like him was shame in holy place.

They spoke of rules and doctrine, of obedience and chains,

Of bowing to a distant light while others drowned in pain.

She listened with a quiet rage that made the altar shake,

Then said, If faith demands his loss, then faith itself must break.

She left those marble sanctums with her head held even higher,

For what good is a sacred flame that never leaps to fire?

A god that will not guard the ones she’s sworn to call her own

Is nothing but a hollow crown upon an empty throne.

He waited just outside the gate with worry in his eyes,

Expecting grief and exile, but instead she brought sunrise.

She told him, I renounced their halls, not what I know is true;

My vows were never stone and gold; my vows were made to you.

My power is the promise that your heart will not stand bare,

My wrath is for the world that dares to say you should not dare.

He tried to speak but words got lost like arrows in his chest,

So he only bowed his mighty head against her smaller breast.

In lonely border fortresses where watchmen feared the night,

They came and stood upon the walls and turned the dark to light.

He taught young soldiers how to stand when terror takes your knees,

How breath can be a battle-plan, how rage can learn to freeze.

She taught them how to tend their wounds and how to mourn their dead,

How kindness is a weapon too when all is soaked in red.

There was a night of silence when no enemy drew near,

No dragons on the horizon, no banners bright with fear.

They sat beside a chimney where the embers burned in gold,

And she allowed herself to lean into his endless hold.

He asked her, In another life, with no wars left to win,

Would you still choose a beast like me and all this ruin I am in?

She answered, In a gentler world with no gods left to defy,

I’d find you in a farmer’s field beneath a simple sky.

You’d still be rough and stubborn and far too big for peace,

But I would still choose all of you, from thunder down to crease.

He laughed until the rafters rang and tears blurred out his sight,

For even if the world was kind, she’d still be his true light.

Stories travel faster than the ravens on the wing,

And soon the distant monarchs heard of this unbroken king;

Not king of crown and kingdom, not king of law and throne,

But king of ruined battlefields where he refused to fall alone.

And at his side the cleric burned, a queen without a seat,

Whose coronation was the way the broken kissed her feet.

One ruler sent an envoy with a silver treaty scroll,

Saying, Come and serve my banner; I will grant your hearts a role.

You’ll lead my elite legions, you’ll command my chosen few,

Your names will stand in temple hymns as champions loyal and true.

They read the words by firelight, each line of gilded ink,

He saw the chains beneath the praise, she saw the trap in drink.

He said, We are not weapons for a crown that won’t bleed too;

I will not crush another land just to polish titles new.

She added, If your justice needs a monster at its gate,

It might be you, not we, my lord, who should reconsider fate.

They sent the envoy gentle home with every bone still right,

But messages can wound as well when spoken honest, bright.

There came a haunted autumn where a plague walked like a ghost,

It slipped through cracks in castle walls, it drifted from the coast.

The berserker felt his fury burn for foes he could not see,

He could not cleave an illness, could not shout a sickness free.

Yet she moved through each darkened room with steady, sacred flame,

Her wrath this time for senseless loss that never had a name.

He asked her through the weary dusk, Is this what makes you strong,

The way you keep on giving when the tally all feels wrong?

She answered, No, my strength is you, the proof that change is real,

A world that made you into rage now heals because you heal.

I rage against the cruelty that built your lonely past,

My wrath is not for breaking you; it’s built to make you last.

VERSE 37]

On distant roads when no one watched they argued over scars,

Not his that traced like constellations, but the ones in unseen parts.

He said he feared the day would come when she would wake and see

That loving something built for war was chaining her to grief.

She said the only fear she had was waking up to find

That he believed that broken lie and left her heart behind.

So they made a vow in quiet, not to gods or ancient stone,

But to the simple, stubborn truth that neither walked alone.

If ever dread should seize him, she would speak it out of bone,

If ever doubt should take her, he would tear it from its throne.

Their promises were not ornate, no formal, gilded hymn,

Just, I am here, and I will stay, and you belong, and swim.

At last when they grew older and his hair took threads of white,

When her hands would sometimes tremble though her eyes still held the light,

They walked once more to where they’d met in that red-rivered field,

Where once he’d stood a living storm and she refused to yield.

The ground had grown a tender green where bodies once had lain,

For even blood-soaked soil can learn to cradle life again.

He laid his battered weapons down and sank beside the stream,

She knelt and let her fingers drift through waters cold and clean.

He told her, If I die tonight, remember one thing true:

That every battle worth my life was one I fought with you.

She answered, If you fall tonight, then so the legends end:

The berserker and his only love, the cleric and her wrath to mend.

And through every trial their bond refused to sever,

For love and wrath entwined can hold a heart forever, through fire and storm.

He has love only for her, and she has wrath only for him,

Holy fire for his open wounds and blood for every limb.

When bards forget all other names and distant ages dim,

They’ll still sing how his love was hers alone,

And her wrath was only, only, only ever for him.