Chapter 1 - First glance

He's beautiful.
When you look into his face, you just can't help thinking of a large, friendly, slightly goofy yellow Labrador retriever: the eyes alert and eager and green, the hair a thick, slightly dusty gold. He usually keeps it short cropped, but lately he's been growing it out, so the bangs curve down to his eyes. Long or short, though, it's the perfect length for running my fingers through, and he always responds much like a lab would: closing his eyes, letting out a happy little sigh, and butting his head against my hand as I rub the thick, soft threads. There always seems to be a haze of stubble on his cheeks and chin, in spite of his best attempts to stay clean-shaven.
His voice, when he speaks, is soft and smooth and liquid, musical in spite of his having little grasp of music, and he stutters when he's nervous.
And it hurts nothing at all that he weighs a good seventy pounds more than I do.
I'm not sure if he gets the same enjoyment out of it that I do: he's rather self-conscious about his weight. But he carries it extremely well: it manifests in a second smooth outline around his chin when he smiles, or when he rests his head on my shoulder around the campfire, and turns to look up into my eyes. He's even more lovely when he's in armor: pooling up around the gorget at his neck, and filling the leather breastplate he wears. Between the armor and his own natural mass, he seems a creature of strength and power.
And he is strong. I've tried to carry his armor bag (helmet, shield, gorget, legs, breastplate, gauntlets, wooden sword and all) in a stubborn attempt to prove my worth as a shield-maiden, and it was all I could do to stumble along under the load. In spite of being exhausted by his work out on the practice field, and in spite of the soft fat cloaking his arms and belly, he could easily heft the same bag over his shoulder and carry it away to the tents without any trouble.
For all his strength as a fighter (and he does fight well) he's strangely shy off the field, even when among friends. He always stands as if he's not sure if he belongs among us, at least until we're all settled around the campfire, and someone has opened a jug of wine to pass around, or a bottle or three of mead. Then his face flushes, his eyes shine, and he sings merrily in spite of having no grasp of tune, and he laughs long and loud and late into the night. And he shares generously among friends: he always offers food, and space at the fire, and a cup of cider or wine to any newcomer.
He'd probably wince to hear me call him lovely, but, well, he is. And I love him. And he is my own.