The silken crossbreed and her companion rise as the sun begins to set, bringing a chill to the land. Sær sneezes.
"Surely a chosen undead warrior would not succumb to a mere cold?" Priscilla asks, half jokingly.
"I don't know," he replies. "I have not strained myself in such frigid weather since I awoke as the Chosen Undead."
"Then you shan't strain yourself further," she replies, picking him up as a child would a toy.
"Priscilla! I can walk! I do not need to be carried about like some wretch! I will not have you carrying me through the Archives with nary a hand free to defend yourself!"
"You do not need to be carried, yet you shall be, for I wish it," she replies. "I have spent quite enough time alone, so I would hold you regardless of health. Besides," she chuckles, "You are such a tiny thing. Even in your mail, your weight is but a pittance! 'Tis not unlike carrying an unsightly log of oak."
Sær pauses, slightly struggling to understand her cadence. "Wait... Unsight-mmph!"
Priscilla breaks into a trot, pressing his face to her fur. Not a day outside Ariamis, and she is already beginning to comprehend the stubborn foolishness of males her aunt Velka had told her of.
The Duke's Archives are as magnificent as she remembers, even if it appears smaller. Priscilla awkwardly clambers through a small door, nearly crushing poor Sær in the process.
Not much later, her bare feet strike a splinter, and she instintually grabs it with both hands. Sær plummets to the ground like a shiny brick.
As Priscilla walks through a particularly dark part of the archives, she quietly gives thanks that she has Sær to embolden her spirit. She clutches him to her chest tightly, constantly checking for danger. While she may have been used to the creatures in Ariamis, they were peaceful. And kind. Well, aside from the occasional murder here and there, but no one is perfect.
Meanwhile, a certain chosen undead is dealing with a bit of a bittersweet problem.
Sær is frantically flailing, his face pressed into a peculiarly soft part of his large, fluffy companion. He needs to escape, quick, lest he lose even more humanity. His lungs screaming for air, he frantically taps Priscilla's ribs, but she is so focused on the archives that she doesn't notice.
Sær sighs, or he would, if there was any air left in his lungs. Steeling his nerves, he presses his hands against her sizeable chest, his hands sinking in slightly.
Priscilla lets out something between a squeal and a moan, her hands flying up cover her mouth. Sær nearly falls, managing to hang on to one of her arms.
She sets him down and rounds on him angrily. "T-Thou durst to touch mine busom? Thou mayst hath at least aske-"
The rest of her outburst goes unsaid, for she sees Sær on the ground, panting, his face a brilliant shade of blue.
After several minutes of tears, apologies, and painful hugs, Sær clambers up to sit on her shoulder, both smiling warmly as they enjoy each other's company.
Until Sær gets knocked off by a roof beam.
*
The Duke's archives are massive, so much so that even Priscilla marvels at their size.
"There must be Millions of books! Oh, can we read some, can we?" She asks Sær, tail wagging furiously.
He smiles apologetically. "Unfortunately, no. It's to dangerous to let our guard down here. I couldnt live with myself if you were hur-"
TING!
Priscilla whips around, swinging her scythe off of her back and clean through an undead crystal soldier sneaking about, it's bones cut in half with a clinking sound. Sær clings to her head, the movement threatening to throw him off of his fluffy perch.
The soldier crumples, and the countless souls he had taken flow from his core into Priscilla.
"You were saying?" She says sweetly, tilting her head and batting her eyelashes. Sær gulps; from restrained attraction, or her power, which vastly exceeds his own? He cannot say, though he has a sinking feeling it is immense amounts of both.
"I was saying... It is about time to break our fast. Let us read while we eat."
Priscilla smirks. "Thought so."
*
They each eat ravenously after poring through several books, having not eaten since their departure from the land of Ariamis. The kitchens had been stocked full, no doubt to feed the scholars that the Duke allies himself with.
Priscilla sits with her legs to the side, so her tail does not get caught betwixt her and the cool stone floor. She holds an entire leg of mutton, consuming great pieces of it as her tail slowly wags in delight.
Sær happily tucks into his food, consisting of baked potatoes laden with gravy, relatively fresh greens, and roasted chicken with a succulent homemade sauce, with a pint of high-quality mead to wash it down.
Priscilla had had many years to perfect her cooking skills, seeing as it is a mite difficult to prepare a meal as a skeleton trapped in a wheel. Her experience showed; it was easily the best meal he had enjoyed in his entire life.
He swallows the chicken in his mouth. "This tastes amazing, Priscilla," he gushes. "You would make an excellent wife one day."
She drops her roast mutton and it lands on the floor with a splat. "Thou, th-th-th-th-thou w-w-w-w-wishest to m-m-m-m-m-m-m-"
"Priscilla? Are you alright?" Sær moves towards her, but she scrambles backwards, curling up into a rather fluffy ball, her tail tucked betwixt her legs.
"I am n-not ready," she gasps, hyperventilating. "Th-thine desires shall
b-b-be requited not, for though methinks I am well and truly smitten with thou, I am afraid of what mayst come."
Sær nods, even though she cannot see him, and he doesn't understand a word.
The most he can gather is she assumed he wanted to betroth her. That was not his intention, though he can't help but smile foolishly as he imagines married life with the crossbreed. A life full of broken bones and deadly cuddles, to be sure, but a pittance to pay for such a wife.
"It was an expression, Priscilla. I meant that when or if you choose to be wed, your spouse would be glad to have you," Sær says sheepishly.
Priscilla pokes her head out from her fur. "So thou dost not wish to wed me? Thou fancies me not?"
Sær gulps, turning scarlet. "No, well, I... That is... I meant it in jest, but that is not to say I don't want to wed you. Any man, especially myself, would be aglow with joy to wed you. I mean..." He sighs, realizing he is only making things worse.
"So you truly do fancy me?" She regains her composure enough to speak normally.
If Sær wasn't a human tomato before, he was now. Despite having had a bedwarmer a few times in the past, he had never felt the twinge of joy in his heart the bards sing of. Indeed, being a fisherman's son was not a situation ripe with suitors. He would travel between ports with his father, peddling their scaly wares to great success. Oft times they would never visit a port again, dashing any of his hopes of betrothing a maid there.
But with Priscilla... He had immediately been captivated. The thought of a buxom wench cannot even stir his loins; It, and his heart, only desires Priscilla. The way her head shakes when she laughs, how her tail would twist her hair when she was nervous, even her temporary lapses into old-speak only served to ensnare him more.
Priscilla tilts her head, confused at his silence.
"I, I... I..." Sær gathers his courage, standing up straight and gazing into her vertical pupils.
"I do."
Her eyes widen, and her mouth flits between gaping in shock and smiling.
Sær smiles. "-Eth. Thine fluffy visage and angelic demeanor hath peirced mine heart betimes."
She tents her fingers in front of her smiling mouth.
"You learned old-speak for me!"
"Just that bit," he admits with an embarrassed grin.
"But," says Priscilla, sadness clouding her beatiful features. "I am-"
"Be quiet," Saer snaps.
"Wha-"
"You were about to voice some trite nonsense about me taking a human lover, that you are but a crossbreed, and some other absurd reason as to why we shan't be together," he huffs.
"How did you-" Priscilla starts.
"Because I have fallen for you," he interrupts. "In more ways than one." He lapses into an embarrassed silence.
Priscilla giggles. "You are as red as a tomato."
"I suppose I am."
She holds her arms out to him, and on her face, the warmest smile Sær has ever seen. "Come," she beckons him.
"Please don't kill me this time. I don't want to wait to cuddle with you."
She titters. "Hurry, you foolish tomato."
He is overjoyed to oblige, leaping into her waiting arms. The two embrace fiercely, their size difference not mattering to either in the slightest.
The two drift off, lulled to sleep by the large meal they had eaten before their exchange. They both sigh blissfully, wriggling into each other to close any bothersome gaps betwixt them.
In his sleep, Sær dreams of only one fluffy tail.