A.N. Fair warning, this chapter is going to be awkward. Sweet, but awkward.
"Oooooh, Priscilla, I'm so excited for you!"
Gwynevere squeals, lifting Priscilla and hugging her tight, and Priscilla struggles as her face is pressed into her mother's breasts. She gasps, pulling away. "Is this what it's like for you?" She asks Sær.
"Pretty much," he replies as Priscilla is set down.
Gwynevere beams. "Oh! I almost forgot." She reaches behind her throne, pulling out a large box. "I've been working on this since the day I discovered I was pregnant with you." She hands it to Priscilla.
She slowly opens it, pulling out a pristine white bridal gown. It resembles Gwynevere's outfit, with ornate ribbons to wrap around her body. Over top of that is a full-body veil, which falls down in layers. At the bottom of the box is a large orchid. "That," says Gwynevere, picking it up betwixt forefinger and thumb, "Is an everlasting orchid. It's traditionally given to goddesses on their wedding day. Whenever you are close to your husband, the flower will bloom." She pulls a small, silver orchid from the box. "I know flowers aren't exactly manly~," she coos to Sær. "So I had the royal smiths craft this." She reaches out, clumsily fastening it to his neck with a black, braided leather chain.
"The orchid was dipped in high quality molten titanite."
Oooh, Sær looks so dashing in that!
Sær jumps as Priscilla's voice fills his head, letting out a startled yelp. Gwynevere giggles. "Both orchids were grown from the ash of the same bonfire," she says. "Just like the bonfires are connected, so too are these flowers. Any two undead who hold these flowers can communicate with each other, no matter how far apart they may be." She winks at him.
Sær closes his eyes in concentration.
I think your mother likes me a little too much.
Don't get a swelled head, Priscilla replies.
I won't. She's swollen enough for both of us.
Priscilla giggles. All she does is lay around eating grapes. Her posterior has grown so rotund that it makes Executioner Smough look like a stick!
The two giggle furiously as Gwynevere looks on suspiciously.
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"Forevermore, from the- thine- thee... Um..."
Gwyndolin sighs. "No! Why is this so hard for you? 'Forevermore, from thine breath today on to the breath before everlasting rest at heavenly hights, I swear my soul to you, be it dark or light.' Now you."
"I swear... Souls of... No, wait. Forevermore, when you breathe, and, and die, then... Aaaagh!" Sær exclaims frustratedly, scratching his head angrily. "How am I supposed to remember this? It's boooooorrring!"
One of Gwyndolin's snakes darts out and nips him on the navel. "Ow!"
"Keep up your whining and I'll bite even lower," he snaps.
Gwynevere sighs. "Don't take out your anger on the boy just because Ornstein hasn't been tending to your needs lately, Gwynny."
Gwyndolin flushes furiously. "That's none of your buisness! And don't call me that!"
"Gwynny."
He bites his lower lip, choking back a scream. "What about you?! Not all of us have a pet Mimic to pleasure us whenever we please!"
"I-I-I, such slanderous-! And I would never, y-you lie!"
"Oh please. I can hear you moaning all the way from my room, and that mimic giggle haunts my nightmares! Will you lay with anything with a giant tongue, woman?!"
Sær slowly backs away with Priscilla, both with a look of disgust on their faces.
"Guh-ha-huh."
A giggle emanates from behind a pillar and a lanky Mimic steps out from behind it.
Gwynevere gasps. "Chester, go back to your cage! Bad!"
Chester slinks away sulkily.
Gwynevere spots Sær and Priscilla backing away, looking at her. "It-it's not what you think!" She cries. "I mean, Seath stopped visiting decades ago, and a woman has needs, and there's no one else here except Smough, but who would do such a thing with him?! And then I foud this mimic wandering the halls and hewassosweetandhewasalwayssogentleandiwassolonely- Wait!!!"
Priscilla and Sær run full tilt down the hall.
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"Let's... Forget that ever happened," Priscilla says, shuddering. The sun has just started its long descent, and it beats down upon the cobblestone, making the many winding rooftops pleasantly warm. Priscilla pads across the angled rooftops, barefoot in a simple, sleeveless yellow dress. Sær walks along farther up so he is eye-to-eye with his lovely fiancée.
"Forget what happened?"
"Mother and her mimic lov- oh." She giggles.
The two walk in companionable silence, hopping fearlessly across ledges and gaps, jumping and rolling from stone balconies and climbing up towers using the moldings and window ledges as handholds. The Grand Archives of Lothric are truly a sight to behold, a paean of gothic architecture.
Priscilla clasps her hands behind her back, her bare feet padding the roof tiles as she walks. "I'm really excited for us to get married," she says quietly. "I'm scared, as well, and I don't even know why!" She giggles.
Sær smiles warmly, taking her tail and guiding her to the center of the roof. The very top of the archives is hundreds of feet tall, and anyone looking from the cobblestone streets below would see the couple as a speck. By now the sun is an amber orange, throwing golden light across the rooftops. "I know we're already getting married," he says, squeezing her tail. "But there's this tradition that... I..."
He breathes deeply before dropping to one knee, reaching into a large pouch on his belt.
"Priscilla Filia Gwynevere," He says, pulling out a long, ornate gold bracelet. "Princess of Ariamis, Anor Londo, and Darkroot City...
"Will you marry me?"
Tears roll down Priscilla's cheek, freezing as they reach her chin. She nods, unable to speak without her voice breaking. Sær slides the bracelet onto her tail, and it twitches as he slides it on. The criss-crossed gold band rests two-thirds from the base of her tail, and it wags happily, the tail-band holding steady. Her eyes close as she basks in the glow of the sun, enjoying the pleasurable squeeze of her wedding band. She truly does feel like a princess.
Sær uses the base of her tail as a step, climbing up to her shoulder and wrapping his arms around her neck. In a flash, they're off, dashing across the rooftops back to Anor Londo.
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They return to find Gwyndolin leaning against a cracked stone wall, with Gwynevere on the opposite side of the room with dozens of snake bite marks on the exposed areas of her skin.
"Are they alright?" Sær asks worriedly. "With all the trouble we went to to free him, if he's dead then I'll kill him!"
"How? He'd already be dead."
"Yes, but... Oh."
Priscilla walks over to Gwyndolin, picking him up gently. "From the way mother tells it, they have been fighting since they were quite young." She tucks her neck-length hair behind her ear. "I think uncle Gwyndolin is jealous of mother," she whispers. "He was raised as a girl, same as her, but nobody ever paid attention to him."
"Let's get him to bed," Sær replies. "We need to rest, too. Tomorrow is a big day, after all."
"The biggest day," Piscilla corrects him.
"Are you going to be okay? With being in front of all those people, I mean. Every single person we rescued from Darkroot Forest will be there, about six hundred in all."
She smiles, leaning down and nuzzling his ear. "It's not the crowd I'll be watching," she whispers. Her tail curls up, and Sær gulps.
"Now," she says, setting Gwyndolin down on his bed. "Apparently it's tradition that the bride and groom don't see each other on the eve of their wedding, so... I suppose this is where we part ways."
Sær nods. "Alright."
"Will you be okay sleeping by yourself? Since we met, we haven't slept apart in...
Well, ever."
"I'll cast a sleeping miracle if I have to."
"Please. Your faith isn't even strong to light a candle." She fishes out a small vial from her dress, handing it to Sær. "Take this sleeping potion. I knew you would have trouble sleeping, so I purchased this from the apothecary."
He takes the small purple vial, noticing that it's in the shape of a heart. "Thank you, Priscilla." He smiles, staring at the floor in embarrassment. "Thanks for always taking care of me."
Priscilla beams. "Always." She turns walking to the end of the hall before turning around. "I love you! See you tomorrow, Husband!"
Sær blushes, turning to walk to his room.
Priscilla crouches down and buries her face in her hands, her face redder than a Hellkite Drake.
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Sær carefully uncorks the heart shaped vial, bringing it to his lips. It tastes of parmesean and olive oil, a taste he had grown to love during his time in coastal towns, where pasta and fish were always the meals of the day. The smell that wafts from the bottle is of fur and chill winter air, Sær's favorite smell. The reason is obvious.
Sær, how is that potion working? The Everlasting Orchid around his neck glows, and Priscilla's soft, high voice fills his head.
I just drank it, Sær replies. It tastes like my favorite food, and it smells like you. Did you have it custom made?
All the ones on the shelves were yucky tasting, and I know you're a picky eater, so...
Sær smiles. Sometimes I think you care about me too much. You don't need to go through so much trouble, you know?
But helping you makes me feel all tingly, Priscilla replies nervously. A-and when I try to make you happy and you b-become happy, your happiness makes m-me happy...
I feel the same way, Sær says. I... Uh...
Sær?
Sær yawns. I think... Sleeping drink... Kicking in... G'night.
Priscilla can't keep the smile out of her voice. See you tomorrow... Darling.
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Sær was never an overly nervous person. He never really cared enough about anything to worry much at all. But he had never had a real relationship before he met Priscilla, so he was doomed to be unprepared for the anxiety.
Sær clutches his outfit, the one Priscilla commissioned for him in Majula. It's opulent enough that it would serve perfectly for wedding attire.
Leaning against the wall, his head swims, and his heartbeat thuds in his ears. "Nervous?" Vengarl inquires.
"I don't think I can do this," Sær pants. "My knees are too weak to walk down the aisle."
"Slap yourself for me," Vengarl growls. "A half-Dragon, half-Goddess princess, daughter of a princess and a duke, who is gorgeous and strong to boot, and you can't walk a hundred yards to meet her?! Pull you self together, man!"
Sær looks at him sideways. "What the hell is a yard? Is that like a meter?"
"Yes, except better. Now find your footing! The ceremony starts in half an hour!"
Sær sighs. "I wonder how Priscilla is doing..."
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"Relax, Priscilla. You've been with this boy for decades. There's no reason to be nervous!"
"I was only awake for three months through those years, mother! And how would you know?! You've never even been married!"
"I was going to marry Seath, but he said having a wife would interfere with his research."
"You have horrible taste in men."
"Seath was sweet! But boy, was he rough when he wanted to be~..."
"Stop stop stop! I already feel sick enough as it is."
"You shouldn't be nervous. It only hurts for the first hour. Of course, Seath is a dragon, so for me it hurt for Days~"
"Oh my god!"
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The great hall is packed to bursting, with well over a thousand people, all chattering excitedly as they wait for the ceremony to begin. The whole of Darkroot City is there, having quite literally crawled out of the woodwork. Humans from throughout the city left the sanctity of their homes for the first time in weeks, the streets safe once again thanks to Gwyndolin keeping the demons at bay with his magic. While royalty hasn't meant much for a long time, the wedding still holds a certain gravitas, a hope that one day the land will once again be the bustling metropolis at the heart of human advancement.
The sound of the orchestra tuning up fills the great hall, and the crowd goes silent. The thrum of the strings gradually dies down, and an eerie silence fills the hall as the crowd waits with baited breath.
The enchanting sound of a deep bass reverbates through the chests of those in the crowd. It emits a baleful melody, gradually turning lighter, and after two bars a violin joins in. The sound of Canon in D major fills the air, and the two remaining violins pick up as well. A harp strums along, accenting every fourth note, giving the song a joyous tone.
The door at the top of the west staircase opens, and Sær walks out nervously, his steps shaky yet purposeful. He descends the stairs, his short cloak fluttering with each step. Wherever he looks through the crowd, he sees nothing but proud, happy faces. Some crying, some good-naturedly jealous, but all of them joyous. Reaching the small altar placed on the steps to Gwynevere's chamber, he steps up and turns to face the east staircase.
As the song reaches it's crescendo, the large door swings open, and Sær gasps.
Even from this distance, he can tell that Priscilla is unbelievably gorgeous, even more so than usual. Her face is beaming with joy, excitement, and anxiety, but her steps are steady. Her white bridal heels clack along the stone, and her full-body veil sways as she descends. As she reaches the walkway to the altar, Sær witnesses her dress in all it's glory. The gold-laced white silk wraps around her body elegantly, and her long skirt trails behind her, open at the front from the mid-thigh down.
Flawlessly timed, the music ends just as Priscilla stops at the altar and turns to face her soon-to-be husband.
Gwyndolin flows down the steps in his standard white dress, his snakes gliding over the stone. He has a faint smile as he clears his throat and begins speaking, his voice amplified by magic.
"Dearly beloved, we gather here today to honor the union of a most unlikely pair. To honor a man whose love transcends worlds, appearances, and species. To honor a woman brave enough to abandon all she had ever known, all in the name of love. These two individuals have braved a great many trials with and without each other. If their love can withstand such hardships, then it seems a crime for them to not be recognized by gods and men. Therefore, I have deemed them worthy of the most sacred bond I can bestow; matrimony. And now, as is tradition, the bride and groom will recite their vows."
He turns to them each and gives them a warm smile. Sær shuffles nervously, running his vows through his head before finally speaking.
"Priscilla. It was in another world, battered and exhausted, that I found you. You gave me warmth, shelter, and safety, despite not knowing a thing about me. Since then, you have never ceased to aid me, and I know that I would be nowhere without you."
Priscilla gives him a tearful smile, clearing her throat. "Sær," she starts, her voice quivering. "Though I have been shunned my whole life, you immediately saw me as a woman, and a friend. You are kind, brave, and loving, more so than anyone else. You freed me from prisons both physical and emotional; your kindness has allowed me to truly live my life for the first time. I want to spend the life you gave me, with you. Always."
Gwyndolin smiles, launching into the final step of the ceremony. He clears his throat once more before speaking. "Having heard the true and honest love these two have expressed, I believe, without a shadow of a doubt, that their love shall last as long as time itself. Despite this, I would hear the proclamation from thine own lips; Do both of you swear, in sickness and health, times both good and bad, through the coldest winter or the hottest summer, to be true to one another for the rest of your days?"
"I do," the couple reply in unison."
"Then I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Priscilla leans down, lifting her veil with trembling hands. Sær grasps her face lovingly.
The two press together in a tearful, joyous kiss, and the hall erupts in cheering, every man, woman and child chanting and shouting their happines for the two. The crowd surges forward, the men lifting Sær and carrying him up the steps. The woman push at Priscilla's calves, pushing her along. After much cheering, stumbling, and whistling, the newly wed pair stand in front of the doors to the royal bedchamber. Unwilling to let the two linger any longer, the crowd pushes them through the doors and into the room.
The crowd recedes, the men chanting encouragement and advice to Priscilla as the women giggle and counsel Sær. The last chant to be heard is a chorus of cursing, jealous remarks from both sexes, before the large door slams shut. The draft from the action blows out a handful of candles, the room still well lit by the hundreds of remaining ones.
Behind her back, Priscilla's tail curls.
A.N. Consumation next chapter!