The back of Sain's knuckle knocks twice. Hers is a chamber akin to sacred ground: it houses a goddess, inside walls stained with glass, and sunlight petering onto flowers of holy ambrosia. It is a temple--of birds and love, and all sorts of pretty things--demanding the most of his respect. He'd bow his head, were the door made of more than humble wood. Still, rather than barge in of his own volition, Sain makes his presence known. He trusts that the sound of his voice would be enough of an identifier.
The knob turns. The knight enters.
"Ah... Your face. My love, did the simulation treat you harshly? I should have that monk's head, making a fair maiden put up with so much!" He's joking, mostly. A smile brighter than spring buds stretches over his cheeks, and a cheerful lift pushes his eyelids shut. Sain is the very picture of glee: a sensation no doubt brought about by seeing Priscilla's face. "You need not frown anymore, my dear. Your stalwart defender is here to mend your broken heart!"
Stepping closer, he takes her hand into his. Gentle fingers are treated like a newly hatched chick the way they are handled so delicately. Sain is sure not to tug on her wrist, nor stress her out with a grip too firm. Soft skin is smoothed by his own, and after a wink, brought to his lips to kiss. Once, to say he loves her. Twice to worship her beauty and grace. Thrice, for no manner of time nor space will ever keep them apart. She is the apple of his eye, capturing his heart with her song sweet as dove's.
"But... It is good to see you safe. I might wallow for a hundred years if forced to part with you again!" He parts with Priscilla's hand, but not without leaving it with a parting gift. A chamomile, freshly picked and with petals white as a cherub's wing, enters her grasp. It is the wordless way of saying I wish healing upon you, and I am here, should you falter.
He returns his hand to his side, but leaves a loop open for her to sling hers around.
"Do tell me if any part of you aches, though. I'll treat your wounds as tenderly as you treated mine."
She need only raise her voice loud enough to be heard through the door, for Sain required little more than an answer that wasn't no.
Not that his company is unwelcome. Hardly so, in fact. Quietly, Priscilla covets these things. In Etruria they had been allowed only in daydreams -- meant to be told only in a blushing maiden's whisper, hidden behind a carefully cupped hand.
The door closes behind him, and so Priscilla takes in the figure of her knight within the threshold of her room. Such is a thing she still has the instinct to savor, for the concept that their days together are not numbered is one that she has still yet grasped.
"That would hardly be necessary," she says with a soft shake of her head. Though, to his credit, the corners of her lips have quirked just so slightly.
He does not need to know how frequently she thought of him, then -- how the image of his lance or the singed corpse of his most beloved friend had filled her with enough grief to last a lifetime.
And as he approaches, stepping across the expanse of her room as though it is something greater than him, Priscilla feels butterflies flutter unbidden in her chest. Curse him, she thinks, unable to move from where she has perched at her windowsill.
It is with a care greater than she has perhaps ever seen that he handles her. Priscilla prays he does not notice how her hand trembles at the brush of his lips, that the warmth creeping up her neck has not reached her cheeks.
"I... yes, the feeling is mutual..." Fingers close around his own for a single heartbeat, holding them hostage just long enough to claim a moment of this affection as her own.
And when she lets go, when his touch is replaced with delicate ivory, Priscilla shuts her eyes.
"It would seem that, in your company, I have forgotten what ails me."
Princess rises, brushing wrinkles from the fabric of her skirt, and carefully threads her arm within his.
