Man, Kel/Joren was the best back in the day.

I. Earth

It was the impact of their bodies—muscle matching muscle, brawn for brawn and power for power—that had the heat coursing through his veins, which made him wild with anger. His body should not react this way to her, when she was hardly even female, but he could not stop the purely physical emotion that overcame him.

When he brought her down, slamming her against the ground, he tasted dirt and blood and vengeance on his tongue. She was pinned beneath him for mere moments, but he felt her heart beating fast against his chest, the ripple of sinew right before she cleverly threw him off with one of her barbarian tricks.

It was then that he realized she had consumed him.

II. Wind

He hated when she wore dresses.

It was like watching an ox put bows on its horns. He knew she meant it only as a reminder to everyone of her gender

(how could he forget)

but it came across as almost pathetic, her big and broad body in a gown. She was not an ugly girl, he could graciously admit that, but it was her confident manly stride that stole her looks away, the blacksmith's arms, and blank face.

And then, one day, he's laughing with his friends, and he turns—and it's a glimpse, a mere snatch, but it's enough. The wind whispers through his hair, through her hair, lifting it from her neck, and then flutters the hem of her dress up.

He sees long legs, well-muscled and strong, just before she quickly shoves the dress back down. But he's picturing them wrapped around his waist, and her firm thighs parted for him, and that's the first and only time she proves to him that she's a female worth desiring.

III. Fire

He never knew what caused the heat that set his bones to aching.

He preferred to think it was anger. Not the dull, throbbing anger that plagued one throughout the day—this was a hot, consuming rage that shook his hands and flooded his vision with deepest red. That was simple enough, and it was easy to place her as the cause.

But it didn't explain why the ache would spread to his groin in a throbbing rush until he could have ripped out his hair. It didn't explain why his hands were torn between wrapping around her neck and finishing her or to stroke the hard plane of her bare back, her body sprawled on top of him.

No, anger only explained half of his burn.

IV. Water

He passed her in the corridor, and inhaled the heady scent of girl and rain.

Droplets clung to the tips of her long, curling lashes, trembling, threatening to fall like tears. He wished she would cry, just once—just to prove the weakness of all women. She held her wet boots in one hand, brushed dripping hair out of her face with the other.

She moved softly, padding on quiet cat's feet and leaving puddles in her wake. Her thin cotton shirt, worn in the heat of summer, clung to her budding curves.

As he watched, one drop of water slipped a slow trail in between the shadow between her small breasts.

The smell of rain stayed with him for a long time.

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