A.N. One chapter with no Priscilla and I feel like I'm having withdrawls.

The usually quiet wood is filled with the sound of shifting dirt, clacking rocks, and frenzied grunts of exertion. Sær digs furiously, using the remaining broken half of his sword. After so long underground, it's become rusted and brittle, snapping in half soon after Sær started digging. A large mound of earth lies next to him, rising as the sun lowers. Sweat pours off his face in rivulets, dropping down into the loose earth as he works.

He is close to unearthing the buried man, so, tossing his sword away, he begins to shift the soft dirt with his hands. The going is slow, and by the time the few beams of light that can be seen are shining straight down, he is only just unearthing the man's helm. With renewed strength, Sær picks up his broken sword, using it to scrape away the earth, revealing a tangle of pulsing roots. They shift and writhe upon being uncovered, and one with draws itself from the man's chest, lunging forth. Sær's eyes glint, and he lets it peirce his shoulder, wrapping his arm around it and heaving, ripping it out of the ground as it emits an eerie screech. The root falls to the floor in a spray of blood, writhing and wriggling before going still.

Sær sets to work, mercilessly grabbing and chopping the parasitic plants. In a cascade of earth, the knight tumbles from the dirt, gasping his first breath in an impossibly long time.

"HO HO!" The man belts out, causing Sær to jump back, startled. The knight stands on shaky legs, then clasps his shoulders. "My friend! I cannot express my gratitude sufficiently! For so long I was trapped in this ghastly wood..." He shudders. "I, Solaire of Astora, pledge my leal service to you!"

"That's alright," Sær says, put off by the man's boisterousness. Optimism is the last thing he wants; it feels like a crime for happiness to exist while Priscilla still sleeps. He disentangles himself from Solaire. "Truth be told, my reasons are selfish. I need aid."

Solaire chortles. "Whatever you ask of me, you shall have it. I am at your whims!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The sun sets on the third day of Sær's awakening as the group gathers for supper. The company had grown exponentially quite quickly; dig up one person, and they dig up another, and the manpower is doubled. Within the few days since they first began, they had unearthed hundreds of trapped travelers, each with their own skills and an unrelenting eagerness to aid the man responsible for freeing them; Sær.

The group gathers around a small clearing, each eating while they chatter about their respective duties. Andre the blacksmith forges shovels and axes to aid in the rescue effort, Cale maps the forest as it's cleared, Rosabeth would light fires and burn paths with her pyromancy, and Vengarl educated the group on battle tactics and stories of old. Vengarl and Sær had become fast friends; Sær brazenly told him not to get 'a head' of himself, and that gave him the hardest laugh of his life. The entirety of the company would avoid mentioning the fact that he was naught but a head and helm, and he respected Sær for being so straightforward.

Vengarl takes a deep breath, free from the smell of earth, a scent he had to suffer for decades. The only company to be had in that miserable dirt was the occasional mole or burrowing snake; many an argument had ended with a hiss and a bite. He's happy just to talk to someone with thumbs.

"Not long now," Sær ponders beside him.

"'til we unearth your wife?"

"Not married just yet," he replies.

"If she is as fair as you claim, then you would do well to keep a close eye on her. To hear you speak, one would think that she is a veritable goddess."

"Well, she is half goddess."

"Truly?" Vengarl raises an eyebrow. "Big lass, is she?"

"You could say that. Tall, long fair hair, pristine white fur..." Sær sighs.

"White fur? Such opulence is only afforded to royalty."

"Her father's a Duke."

"A Duke?!" Vengarl's eyebrows raise even higher. "What dark sacrifice did you have to make to marry a goddess and a noble's daughter!? I call bull-shite. No man- Especially a lowly undead vagrant- could be so lucky."

"You would eat your words upon meeting her, if you had a stomach." Sær sighs, saddened by the thought of Priscilla in her earthen prison.

"Cease your incessant suspiring, Sigh-ær." Vengarl growls.

"So long as you cease your incessant barking, Ven-growl."

The two are silent, then burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the wood as the rescued company work to aid their savior.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

On the night of the first moon since Sær's awakening, the group gathers in a large clearing by Priscilla's tree. The company is five hundred strong now, with another hundred sent into the depths of the forest to rescue more unlucky souls.

The forest teems with light now, lanterns lining the bridges that run through the trees. Houses, kitchens, and even staircases have been carved into the massive trees, making massive, interconnected towers that are lit up like a starry sky. The dozen or so children that had been rescued run fearlessly along the bridges, swinging on vines and carving slides into the stairs.

Below, the pavillion is abuzz with chatter as axes and shovels are dispensed among the crowd. Solaire, sporting his typical flair for theatrics, climbs the carved steps overlooking the crowd.

"My friends! Before we begin, I bid thee all to rise your arms and praise the-" Several apples, two gauntlets and a book are promptly thrown, the apples hitting their mark and splattering against Solaire's tunic.

"Get on wif' it!"

"Stick your praise where your sun don't shine!"

"If you were my sun, you'd get a right wallopin'!"

Solaire sweeps the chunks of apple off of his shirt, used to their disdain of his obsession. "Yes, well... The time has come to free the lady Priscilla from her earthen prison! Take it a day or a year, we shall not rest until Master Sær's betrothed is free!"

A roar erupts from the crowd as they all hurry to grab their tools, eager to repay their savior. Solaire walks over to Sær, who had stood against the wall listening quietly. He claps his hand upon Sær's shoulder, only for it to emit a growl. "SUN ABOVE!" He jumps back in fright.

"Watch yourself, sun," Vengarl says, for indeed it is him. His helm (and head, for they are one) is fastened to Sær's left shoulder like a pauldron, glaring at Solaire through the mouth of his helm.

Solaire composes himself and turns to Sær. "You must be quite thrilled, eh? To see your lovely lady once again, after such a tragic parting! How romantic!" His arms swing in exaggerated motions. Sær cringes. "I cannot wait to meet her!"

"I, as well," Vengarl adds. "I have seen many things, but never a perfect woman, which she is, if you are to be believed."

Sær chuckles. "I think you two will be suprised, regardless..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A day into the rescue effort, and significant progress has been made. It is made slow going by the precautions taken so that Priscilla may not be harmed, however. holes must be carefully chisled to make sure it is safe to swing an axe, while the tunnels beneath have to be perfectly supported so as not to collapse the great tree. Sær had attempted to aid in the rescue, but could not bring himself to sink an axe into the tree, convinced it would hit Priscilla. Instead he would pace about the treetop villa, nearly wearing a hole in the floorboards.

On the eve of the second day, Sær is snapped out of his reverie by numerous shouts. Flying down the slide the children had carved, he jumps off and hits the ground running. As he approaches the tree, he sees it. A tuft of white fur.

With a yell and a teary smile, he snatches up a chisel and starts furiously chipping the wood away, wood flying. The rest of the villagers join him, careful to leave support for the tree. Soon, the forest floor is littered with wood shavings, and Priscilla tumbles out of the great tree. Sær quickly hacks at the writhing roots as the rest of the company stare in stunned silence. They all gather around the giant beauty, bewitched.

Priscilla's tail twitches and her eyes slowly open. Her slit pupils dilate, exposed to light for the first time in decades. Sær gently stokes the thin fur on her cheek. "Priscilla? Darling? Can you hear me?"

"Mmmmh... Tired..." She wraps her arms around him, nuzzling his chest. Vengarl lets out a suprised shout and Priscilla flings Sær away, scuttling back against the tree, now wide awake. "Wh-what is that monstrous growth upon your shoulder?!"

"I'm monstrous?!" Vengarl says incredulously. He drops his voice to an angry whisper, muttering to Sær. "You failed to mention that your fiancé is thrice your size," he hisses. "A little warning might have been useful!"

"Two and a half times my size," Sær corrects him. "Isn't she great?!" He beams.

Vengarl would shake his head in disbelief, if he could. And they say I have lost my head.

Once the village recovers from their initial shock, They quickly take to Priscilla like wrinkles on a hollow. They watch on in awe an no small amount of embarrassment as the two lovers cuddle, feeding each other. It takes some getting used to; it's difficult for the men to fathom having such a large partner. It becomes a strange fascination to the village, and Sær and Priscilla quickly gain celebrity status due to their pairing and Sær's rescue of most everyone there.

Priscilla isn't coping to well. This is the first time in her life she has had to interact, or even be around a group. Sær has to shoo away the crowds at least twice a day while Priscilla cowers adorably behind her tail.

"Darling." Priscilla speaks softly to him on the last day of their first week together again. She lays on a large pillow, sewn by a team of seamstresses and filled with down feathers by a team of hunters. They lay warm and comfortable inside the great tree, it's now-hollowed trunk serving as a luxurious tower for the two. The walls are covered in ornate carvings, courtesy of admiring sculptors in the village. The pair had become de facto royalty, if only in name. Grateful villagers would come bearing gifts at all times of day, and they scarcely had room to store them.

"Hm?" Sær hums.

"When shall we continue our quest?" I understand the need to rest after this ordeal, but my aunt- I mean, uncle Gwyndolin will be even weaker now. After so much time trapped, we can't afford to be as lazy as you are." She pokes his forehead admonishingly. "I begin to grow worried about my future husband's idleness. I won't be shouldered with all the housework will you sleep," she says, vigorously poking his head.

Sær winces, burrowing into her chest to evade her assault. "As soon as the scouts return," he yawns. "Your mother said we can't have help, but a little information doesn't count, right?"

"I won't tell if you won't."

Said information was not long off. The next morning, the two are visited by a courier hauling a comically large scroll, so made so Priscilla can read it. She scans it as Sær stretches, still groggy. "Darling, about the artifact we need to obtain..."

"The sword?"

"Yes. The wolf gaurding it-"

"Are you really that worried about one wolf? Art thou turning craven, milady? One kick and he'll be sent across the-"

Priscilla reaches out a hand and clams his jaw shut. "The wolf's name is Sif, the very same wolf from the legends. One he may be, but that poses a problem when he is as big as me." Sær's eyes widen.

"Oh," she says, releasing his jaw. "And he doesn't guard the sword. He uses it." She smirks. "But since I am a craven, I shall leave him to you."