“There is no word for it in our tongue,” he says, after a long moment. “No word for what the whiteskins call love. Old Gífr always thought that was a strange one. Lust, aye. We have a dozen words for that. Fucking and fighting, we have hundreds of words for both—some the same blasted thing. Faugh! We have scores of words, alone, for slaughter. But unless it’s a love of slaughter…” He trails off. “I would have slaughtered all of them, for you.”
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