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The Isle of a Skye was a place of undomesticated beauty.

Crags and cliffs reached high into the air like fingers trying to touch the clouds. The seas were wild and waves tossed like the prideful heads of wild mares. In the mornings, thick clouds of fog hung over the moors. The grass was encased in a loving frost and delicate-footed red deer would pick their way along, grazing to heart's content.

Sea bird nests sat cradled along sea bluffs. The brave, winged creatures face the wind currents head on, diving and spinning, free.

Burbling streams drifted through cracks in stone and eroded their way through grasslands. Sometimes, glimpses of sun would reach down through the dark clouds like heaven brushing her fingers along the isle's grasses.

In the winter time, a soft snow would occasionally fall which dotted the landscape in a thin layer of white. Fawns chase each other through the world's new blanket and birds would bicker over a bundle of frosted berries.

It was also inanely cold.

At least, that's what Kassandra thought.

She's from a land of sun-kissed beaches and sweltering summers. She's used to free-moving armor, leather kissing her muscled legs as she runs. Mornings were for productivity; waking upon the deck of the Adrestia and getting the crew to work while the heat was still manageable. Afternoons were for chasing jobs through sprawling cities or landscapes, sweat stinging her eyes as the sun relentlessly beat down upon her. Evenings were for relaxation, the taste of ripened fruit blooming across her tongue as the light died in brilliant shades of pink and orange.

Even in winter, you could expect some rain but it was never cool enough where Kassandra needed to bundle beneath furs.

So, when she enters through the door of a homey tavern upon a Scottish isle and far far away from Greece, her teeth were chattering.

But she does not stop by the hearth nor does she stop for a heartening stew nor a horn of mead to warm her belly.

Instead, she makes a beeline for the stairs that lead to the rickety rooms. A withering glare is sent to whoever might dare to chuckle at her shuddering, blowing away their laughter like an extinguished candle.

She takes the steps quickly. Lithe legs push her up two at a time.

Your door is the last one on the left.

The very person she's been so eager to return to.

The door creaks open and shuts just as quickly as she shuffles in. She wouldn't dare let any of the heat out.

A small fire crackles and pops in the hearth, having been fed with enough wood to last a few more hours. Frosted window panes are inlaid in the stone, a slight chill creeping through the glass. But the room is warm, so much warmer than outside. Kassandra can already feel her palms tingling with returning heat.

Then, there was you. Right where you'd been when she'd left in the wee hours of the morning to chase a lead with Eivor.

While Kassandra was running amuck in the snow and the cold that stung her ears, you were blissfully dozing in and out of sleep… piled beneath furs and soaking up the heat of the fire near your feet. Hair fanned out against the pillow, you were sprawled like a starfish in a tide pool across the bed.

Kassandra wouldn't have it any other way.

A grin tugs at her lips as she eagerly begins to strip away her armor. Leather and buckles rasp a she tugs them loose, gently setting each piece aside. It was a ritual of hers. Something that stemmed form her early days where such things were not bought or given so easily. Boots are hastily kicked off and weapons tucked away.

Your lover doesn't even bother undoing her hair before pulling back the furs and immediately scooting close.

Callused hands brush over your waist before taking hold and pulling you close. Kassandra is unapologetic with the way she seeks warmth. Slight tremors wrack her frame even still.

You make a soft noise, half awake and half floating in the realm of dreams. But you're not resistant, you never are. Rolling over, you bury yourself against her, wiggling as close as you possibly can.

You toss a leg over Kassandra's own, face pressed to her collarbone. You push your nose against her, taking greedy inhales of sandalwood and leather.

"Your hands are cold." You complain. The words are half-muffled by the material of her tunic.

"Sorry." But you can hear by the smile in her voice that she isn't, not truly. Your suspicions are proven correct when her hands slide beneath your own woolen clothes. They knead lightly at your waist, greedily seeking the warmth of your bare skin.

She buries her face to your crown. Against her better judgment, she lets her shoulders relax as the familiar scent of your soap and the oils you use in your hair wash over her. It reminds her of a different time, when she was more free to love and give, when her time was limited to one life, when her only worry was the Cult of Kosmos.

She hasn't allowed herself this in a long time. Intimacy. It was frightening. Much too difficult to bear your soul to another, to let them nestle close to your heart, only to have that ripped away when her mission takes her elsewhere.

Kassandra can never stay in one place for long. She knows that. You both do, really. She'd made that abundantly clear when you'd first met; you standing proud at Eivor's side as the viking introduced you as a medicine woman who sometimes traveled with the best drengr's of the Ravenclan.

It's been weeks of you bandaging her wounds, offering an ear to listen, becoming place to rest. Kassandra hadn't felt this safe, this warm, in a long long time.

She also knows, in the end, that will make departing bittersweet. But what sort of life could someone have if it was bereft of love?

That's why she comes back to you, every single time without fail. Lets your warmth, your light, seep into her marrow and lets herself believe this can be something she can have.

She's broken from her thoughts by plush lips brushing over her jaw.

"I can practically hear you thinking." Your voice is still laden with the fog of sleep. Another kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Stop it and rest for once."

Kassandra fights the urge to scoff.

"It's easier said than done." She states, squinting down at you.

"So it seems." You sigh. You won't ever presume to know what lies in the cloud that tends to hang over your lover's head.

Your soft, much warmer, hands slip under her tunic. Skimming across her toned back, you start to knead at the knots you find buried in her muscles. Kassandra makes a grateful noise, leaning her head against your own as she finally lets her eyes slip shut.

As the tension is unwound from her frame, her thoughts begin to quiet. She just lets herself… be.

There is only the found of the crackling fire, the warmth of your embrace, your gentle hands, and the hushed intimacy meant for two souls entwined.