Sær tosses and turns, lying awake in a cold sweat. He breathes deeply, willing himself to rest, but sleep still eludes him.
In the year he has been with Priscilla, he has only spent four days without her by his side. Through thick and thin, monsters and mayhem, vampire trees and massive mothers, they hardly even left each other's sight.
While the three lucid days of separation in Darkroot Forest were difficult, Sær had been unable to touch her. Now, with her a mere floor below, restraining himself from burrowing into her fur is unbearable.
Some of the local housewives had even gone so far as to make him a large, fluffy pillow with her visage on it, but it simply isn't the same. Priscillow is gorgeous, to be sure, but she still doesn't share the warmth and comfort of the original.
Priscilla's deep, steady breathing from below echoes up the stairs, the sweet sound caressing Sær's ears and raising gooseflesh on his neck.
Sleeping on Priscilla is no mere casual action. It is an experience. Her soft fur would partially encircle her willing victim, and her rhythmic heartbeat is a blissful lullaby. Her large, soft breasts create a perfect valley to lay one's head in, and their rise and fall soothes effortlessly. Her arms would squeeze her prey, enough to slightly restrict breathing without being uncomfortable. Her wings would drape down around her partner and her body heat would radiate straight through her fur. Last but not least, her tail would snake up between her lover's arms, the perfect appendage for hugging to sleep. Completely encircled by soft warmth, gentle rocking, and light squeezing, Sær would be guaranteed to be asleep within the minute.
Sær groans, mentally kicking himself for thinking of the tantalizing fantasy. Turning over once more, he wraps his arms around Priscillow, praying that his lover makes a speedy recovery...
* * * * * * * *
Sær awakens to the sound of crackling frost. Bolting upright, he shivers as the cold air greets him, assaulting his flesh with it's icy tendrils.
Shoulders hunched, Sær clambers out of bed, his bare feet padding on a thin layer of ice. Taking care to place most of his weight on the banister, he slowly makes his way downstairs. The ground level is even worse, the walls coated with ice and snow swirling about the room.
The ice grows thicker towards the center of the room, where Prisilla lies shivering.
Under normal circumstances, Sær would chalk it up to a nightmare, but this illness seems to have damaged her resistance to the cold.
Piling logs onto the dwindling fire, he lights them with a quick burst of pyromancy. Sær was never very adept at magic, but seeing as pyromancy is more about subduing fire with skill rather than intelligence, he can manage the basic skills fine. Besides, Sær thinks. The most skilled mages couldn't even best a toddler with an Estoc.
A moaning from behind him draws his attention. Priscilla stirs, shifting slightly to prop herself up on her pillow. Her face, normally a pink-tinted porcelain, is greyish-blue, the hue making her eyes seem sullen. Her teeth chatter as she wraps the blankets around herself, snow tumbling off of them.
"D-d-dalihg?" She stutters. "Why if it fo cowd?"
"I think you were breathing frost in your sleep, dear," Sær replies. "I'll keep a closer eye on the fire from now on."
"What time if it?"
"Early, early morning at my guess," Sær says. The torrential rain had left the forest floor practically flooded, and the heat of the sun's first rays turn it into a thick fog. The light scatters through the mist, illuminating cracks and crevices and caves that haven't seen light for hundereds of years. It's bright as day, though in truth it can't be past five.
"Hungwy," Priscilla whines, her tail thumping in discontent.
Sær smiles, glad that she has finally decided to rely on him. Her adorable impatience isn't unwelcome, either.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Sær finishes lighting the last of the fires underneath the giant washbasin. While Priscilla's fur normally has oils that repel dirt, the ice from her breath has caked into it after days of rest, leaving it heavy and cold.
Once the water has been sufficiently heated, Priscilla waddles over, her posture stiff and her gait wobbly from the weight of the ice. Without a moments hesitation, she hops into the basin and sinks down to her shoulders. She is quickly shrouded by steam, and the hiss of melting ice is accompanied by her relieved sigh.
"Better?" Sær asks.
"Better," Priscilla replies. Some color has returned to her face, and her hair and fur floating in the water gives her an ethereal, heavenly sort of look. Using a scrub brush and lavender soap, Sær sets to work, scrubbing her dutifully and taking care not to actually touch her.
Once Priscilla is clean and dry, she is wrapped up in a thick, warm wool comforter. Her hair blends in with the white wool, and the blanket rests just a foot from the ground, making her look like a giant, gorgeous ghost.
Sær leads her back to the hollow-tree house, tucking her in once more. He turns to his wife.
"Only one thing left, and then you can get some rest," He says, holding up her medicine.
Priscilla's eyes widen, and she frantically tries to leap out of bed. She fails. Sær had how learned to tie hundreds of different knots in his childhood as a fisherman, and with a good braided rope, he could tie down Gwyn himself.
"It's for you own good," Sær chides sternly.
Priscilla shakes her head vigorously, thumping her tail in protest and pursing her lips.
"It will help you get better!"
Shake shake shake.
"Please?"
Thump thump thump.
"Fine. Will you at least give me a goodnight kiss?"
Nod nod nod.
Sær leans in to peck her lips, and the moment she opens them and leans in, he pushes the pill hidden in his cheek into her mouth. Her eyes go wide, and Sær puts all his weight into holding her jaw shut so that she doesn't spit it out. She thrashes and bucks, blanching from the taste, but her lover hangs on. Finally forced to admit defeat, she swallows the pill angrily.
Sær smiles warmly. "See? Not so bad, right?"
She coughs a burst of ice dust in his face, turning it red and snow-flecked.
"AGHK! Pteh, pthoo!" Sær coughs and splutters, quickly wiping his face of the frost. He rounds to face Priscilla with an angry glare. "You did that intentionally, didn't you?!" He accuses.
The crossbreed holds her fist to her mouth, giving exaggerated wheezy, high pitched little coughs. She motions to the kitchen, rubbing her tummy, then makes a heart with her hands while batting her eyelashes.
Make me some food, pwetty pwease?
Sær thinks for a moment, then stomps off to the kitchen, muttering. "You're lucky I'm so damn nice, you wheezy little furball."
Priscilla spits an ice-ball at him, giggling as it hits him square on the butt.