Like two naughty children, my wife and me steal away from the fire, both of us of the same mind. Just a few steps into the dark and I pull her to me. Starving for her kisses, I can wait no longer, it must be here and now!

She nibbles at my lips and takes a taste while breathing me in. Her mouth is honey to my tongue. She sighs and draws another draught of my scent. The smell of damp roots and crushed flowers rises from her body. With it comes a flood of memories from our night in the bedbox, before the sidhe-brats attacked me. Kisses go deeper now, as I think on what I've learned since then. Cupping her face in my hands, quenching my love-thirst in greedy sips, fingers reaching to tickle her ears, I groan softly and step back before it all ends too soon.

We're near enough to the water. A splash of the cold, fresh spring, maybe a swim? The stale sweat of my day's work, does it offend her sidhe-senses? I throw off my leine and breeks and stumble towards the soft babble of the stream, hoping my wife will follow.

She doesn't. Her twinkling laughter teases me as we call silly taunts and threats back and forth to each other. The icy plunge quickly refreshes me well enough to start anew. Shivering but knowing I'll soon be warm, I launch myself from the spring with a happy salmon-leap.

Now where is my wife? I am ready for anything except a hunt.

A silver mist catches my eye, swirling slowly from behind the shadow of a tree. The sight of her takes my breath, her body sparkling with frosty rainbows, cloaked only in strands of her trailing tresses, moonlight casting bewitchments on me from her shining skin. Toad sings out a love song, bless his warty heart.

There is something sacred and magical about this moment that makes me go slow. I let the kisses linger and melt, flowing down her body until I am kneeling before her in worshipful awe. I pause and close my eyes. It feels like the holy thrill of the instant between when the bowstring is pulled back and the arrow is set free. I balance on that edge now, aimed sure and drawn taut on the verge of flight and strike.

My wife's gentle hand guides the way to our wedding bower, and after a long, sweet battle comes peace at last.