Sær wakes on top of Priscilla, the cool summer night air cooling his skin. His body feels relaxed, his mind pleasurably clouded. Pale beams of moonlight shine through the iron-laced windows, the angle indicating that the night is still young.

Priscilla shifts, murmuring. Her dry mouth smacks, and she sighs, exhaling. Sær smiles, content to simply stare at his lovely wife.

Wife, Sær thinks. I have a wife. A half-dragon, half-goddess princess more than twice my size, no less.

Thinking on it, it becomes difficult to believe that love isn't destined to be. How could someone so different, so far from human, be so alluring to him, and vice versa? Certainly, before he saw her, only human women held his eye. Not Shades nor Elves, Boreals nor Gods ever managed to attract him. Now, however, he could not fathom being with a human woman in any capacity, or anyone besides Priscilla, really.

"Mmmn..." Priscilla squirms, drunkenly opening her eyes. Her vertical pupils lock on to Sær, slowly focusing as she fumbles for his hand. She finds it, pulling him close and nuzzling her nose into his stomach.

He laughs. "How do you feel?"

"Sær..." She replies.

"That's not a feeling..."

"Sær..."

He sighs, kissing the top of her head. "Did you break into the wine for the reception while I was asleep? What if there isn't enough left for everyone?"

"Di'nt drink. I just feel floaty."

Sær frowns. "That's a bit odd. Perhaps there is something about that in your father's crossbreed physiology book that explains it."

Priscilla bolts up, alert, awake, and mortified, sending Sær tumbling off of the bed. "You saw?" She asks, mortified.

"Yes. I- sorry..."

"So you know that my tail curls when I am..."

"Aroused, yes. Yes, I, um. I know."

Priscilla buries her face in her hands, wailing. Sær pats her awkwardly. Priscilla's head slowly raises, a glint in her eye. "Then it's only fair... That I learn about you!" She lunges toward Sær, holding him down with her hand, her small, sharp, claw-like nails pinning him to the bed. "I'm always the one being embarrassed. Now it's your turn!"

She grabs the covers covering his nude form while he clings to them with a death grip. "You're my husband, are you not?! I should get to see every part of you from up close! Now LET ME SEE YOUR LOINS!"

"HO-HO! And how is the lovely coup-..." Solaire freezes at the doorway, having flung open the doors. Priscilla freezes, in the midst of pulling the covers off of a terrified Sær.

Solaire slowly walks backwards, closing the doors with a creak and a slam.

Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, Priscilla faints from embarrassment, crushing her flailing husband under her curvaceous, pliant skin.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After a throrough scrubbing to cleanse the smell of their lovemaking, Priscilla and Sær dress in fine yet comfortable clothes and head down to the reception.

The celebration had already started in earnest; well over a thousand bodies moving, dancing, drinking, all celebrating the wedding as if it's their own.

A deafening chorus of wolf whistles and catcalls erupt from the crowd as the couple walk down the stairs to the ballroom.

"Way to go Sær!"

"How was it, Priscilla?"

"We could hear you from down here!"

"You're so lucky, girl!"

Priscilla turns to Sær, who looks horrified.

"Dear, what are they talking about?"

"They heard us," he whispers. "They heard us... Doing what we did."

Priscilla's eyes glaze over. "No they didn't," she replies brightly. "No. Not true. You're so silly!"

"Priscilla..."

Her tail whips out, grabbing him and bringing him up to face level. "No. You're. So. Silly." She growls, gritting her teeth. "They didn't hear. Silly, silly, silly, silly." She sets him down, her eyes glazed with the fog of denial while Sær trembles.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The pair sit at a banquet table at a raised dais, lined with their friends. Grahame and Sif sit at one end, while Rosabeth, Vengarl and Gwynevere sit at the opposite side. Chester lounges under the table, with Gwynevere pushing his tongue off of her with her foot every so often. The entire hall is abuzz with chatter, mirth, and even the odd fistfight.

The table is laden with enough food to feed an army. Or a dozen Priscillas, at least. Lemon chicken stuffed with croutons and drizzled with olive oil, seasoned roast duck, fruit platters, salads, and a Sær-sized pile of salmon for Priscilla.

Suddenly, the music stops, and the only sound tobe heard is the shuffling of a thousand feet. The crowd parts, forming a large circle and a walkway to it.

Priscilla leans over to Gwyndolin. "Uncle, what is happening?" She whispers.

"The Turning of the Wed," he whispers back. "The couple dances a spiraling waltz. It represents the entwining of two lives becoming one."

"But I don't know how to dance!" Priscilla protests.

Gwyndolin smiles. "Well, you can't turn tail now."

"I suppose you'll just have to wing it," Rosabeth chimes in.

Vengarl grins.

"Just don't dance for too long; we don't want the reception to drag-on."

"I'm sure you'll be fangtastic at it," Sær adds. "And don't try to run; you don't have an escape claws."

Priscilla groans. "I have just married the biggest buffoon in Lordran."

"The luckiest buffoon in Lordran," Sær corrects her, climing up to her.

"The most grateful buffoon in Lordran," Sær amends, kissing her nose.

"The happiest buffoon in Lordran," Sær whispers, and the two kiss passionately.

A collective "oooooooh," emanates from the crowd, accompanied by a smattering of wolf whistles which makes Sif's ears perk up. Priscilla slowly pries her lips off of her husband with a look of abject horror on her elegant features, already beginning to swoon.

"Ah ah ah," Sær says, lightly smacking her cheeks. "You can faint after we dance."

Priscilla stumbles, red-faced, onto the red carpet leading down the steps. The couple stops and stands in the center of the circle of people, nervously waiting for the music to start.

Slowly, a joyful yet serious melody played by violins, a piano, and several flutes emits from the dais. Taking a deep breath, Sær takes Priscilla's tail in place of her hand, beginning a slow waltz. Priscilla follows his lead, her full-body veil fluttering as she moves. The two bob and weave, twirl and slide, creating their own rhythm and entrancing the crowd. Priscilla makes large, swooping twirls, her wings trailing through the air and creating a truly hypnotizing sight.

The song comes to a crescendo, and Priscilla cartwheels backward, continuing to lean back on her tail. Sær mock catches her, the bulk of her weight resting on her tail. The drums clash, and as the instruments stop and their sound still lingers in the air, they both lean in and kiss each other lovingly.

The crowd erupts into a deafening round of applause and cheers, throwing handfuls of white ash into the air. The both of them are crying, the tears tracing lines through the patches of ash.

Sær rests his forehead against her brow, staring into her beautiful jade eyes, the slit pupils peering back at him. Amidst the deafening roar, the two telepathically whisper four words in unison, as if practiced.

"I love you. Always."

A.N. There will be a one year gap in the story. To see what happens during the gap, check out my other fic, Love Rings True. Priscilla, Sær, the Firekeeper, the Ashen One, the Hunter and the Doll all journey to the Ringed City to stop it from consuming their homes. This story will continue, albeit at a slower pace.