Sær and Priscilla stare at the doctor uncomprehendingly.
"I don't understand," Sær says. "What... What does that mean? What language is that?"
The doctor stares at him blankly.
"O-oh, I understand," Sær says shakily. "You were making a joke. Whooo, you almost had me th-"
"This is not a joke," the doctor replies sternly. "Your wife has a serious illness, and physical contact will only make it worse."
"Wha-Wha... What kind of doctor are you?! That doesn't make any sense!" Sær yells. "I want a second opin-"
His complaints are cut short as Priscilla's tail wraps around his leg, hoisting him and dangling him upside-down in front of her face. "Fær," she says sternly. "Dogdor logeh if twyig to hewp uff. Don ged mad at him jufft becauff you don lieg hiff diagnofiff."
Sær stares at her blankly. "Um... What?"
Priscilla starts to respond, only to scrunch up her nose. All that talking had agitated it, and she tries desperately to hold back a sneeze. She fails.
"NO NO NO NO NO-"
"AAACHIEW!" Her sneeze hits Sær full on, the icy gust freezing him nearly solid.
Priscilla flinches. "Oobs... Sowwy."
She sets him down gently, where he shivers voilently, his long hair frozen in vertical spikes. He quickly hobbles over to the fire to thaw, creaking and cricking as the ice breaks.
The doctor reaches into his bag, pulling out a large glass jar filled with pills. He hands it to Priscilla. "These are filled with tiny, polished titanite pellets. These will break down the crystals and speed up your recovery. I suggest you take one now."
Priscilla timidly takes the jar, pulling the cork with her nail-claws. She takes a pill gingerly and pops it into her mouth. Immediately, she blanches and whines.
"Don't be such a baby," Logan scolds her, his massive hat wobbling. "You deal with the bad taste for a week, or a cold for three."
With some effort, Priscilla manages to swallow the pill. "Bleeeehh. Id tathdes ickyyyyy!"
"It's for you own good!" Logan insists. "Tell her, Sær!"
Sær sits by the fire, shivering with his knees drawn up to his chest. "No cuddles," he whispers. "No snuggles, no hugs, no embraces, no kissing, no nuzzling, no squeezing, no smooches, no rubs, no pats, no pets, no nothing. I'm dead. This is it. This is how I die. I can't take this, I can't take this, I can't take this!"
Logan sighs. How have these two even survived this long?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The door to the couples' large tree house opens, and it takes the both of them to push it shut and bar it from the torrential winds. Priscilla shrugs off her wet robes, and Sær diligently towels her off, wrapping her tightly in a warm wool blanket once his task is finished.
"Dalig, wud if dif?" She sniffles. "My bodeh if shiverig."
"You're probably just cold," Sær replies. "I suppose, being part frost dragon, you've never felt the cold before."
Priscilla shakes her head. "No. I don lieg id."
Sær goes to the closet, grabbing a down comforter and adding it to the wool one, tossing it over Priscilla. He runs around her, pulling it tight and easing her into bed, tucking her in tightly. "There! Now you look like a Brrrr-ito," he says, grinning.
Priscilla merely nods, closing her eyes, not even possessing the energy to groan at his horrid japes.
That is what worries Sær the most. "I'll... I'll make you some soup!" He says brightly, hoping to cheer her up with his enthusiasm.
"Theg 'oo," she says quietly. She gives a little cough and closes her emerald eyes. Sær grabs a silk pillow, fluffing it and gently places it under Priscilla's head. He ties her hair up into a sideways ponytail (or dragontail) so it doesn't get too hot or sweaty. Wetting a cloth, he places it on his wife's forehead, tucking it under her horns.
"Fueh?" Priscilla mumbles questioningly. "Dalihg, dif if cowd."
"I know," Sær replies. "But your head is very warm. Colds make you feel... Well, cold. You should warm up soon, though. The cooking fire should make this room toasty warm soon enough."
"Ah-key."
Sær strokes her hair, kissing her cheek briefly. "Do you need anything else before I start making the soup?"
"Yesh," Priscilla says weakly. "Mah taiw if fweezig."
Sær nods, grabbing yet another blanket. Her tail shivers and twitches, writhing to and fro. It takes a fair amount of effort, but Sær eventually manages to wrestle it into a snug blanket wrap, where it wags feebly.
Once the crossbreed is firmly wrapped up like a mummy, Sær sets to work making the soup. Estus, thyme, salt, coldflower, and a myriad of herbs are tossed into the bowl once he measures them carefully.
He lets it simmer, stirring and adding a pinch of salt here or there. He flavors it with fish oil as a substitute for fish, seeing as Doctor Logan had banned her from eating any more salmon.
Once finished, he pours the soup into the washing basin that Priscilla uses as a bowl, putting it on a platter. The platter is littered with other goodies; crackers, meticulously peeled grapes, apples, dried chicken chunks, and pine tea, Priscilla's favorite. With a grunt, he lifts the platter, carrying the heavy load to his bed-ridden dragon-lady.
"Soup's ready," Sær chirps. Priscilla hefts herself up slightly, sitting at an angle. Being wrapped up snugly seems to have improved her mood, as she smiles weakly when her husband lays the tray of food on her lap.
She sniffles. "Thenk yuh," she weezes, her sinuses a little clearer. She looks down at the brilliantly presented food, her jaw dropping slightly. It's as if her husband had read her mind! All the food on the tray is just what she had been craving.
A spot of red on Sær's fingers catches her attention. As she examines his hands more closely, she begins to notice a myriad of cuts. She shakes her head.
'What a chivalrous fool,' she thinks. For as skilled as he is with the sword, he certainly can't use a knife.
Priscilla leans forward, outsretching her arm and poking the man hard on his forehead. Sær looks at her eyebrows raised.
Priscilla has a saccharine smile on her face. "You looooove meeee~," she singsongs teasingly.
Sær blushes. "Shut up..." He grumbles embarrassed. "I have to feed you, don't I? N-now, just eat and go to sleep!"
Priscilla obliges, still beaming.Sær has been struggling with the no touching ban, and being cold to her is the only way he can keep himself from touching her.
Priscilla hums thoughtfully. Such delicious food... Sær is being so kind to me; my mouth especially! Perhaps once I am better, my mouth could return the favor~
She blushes at the lewd thoughts, pushing them from her mind. It's hard enough for her to resist touching Sær.
Besides, doesn't waiting for a treat make it taste better?