"Oh."

"Back to the real estate market with me, then."

He gives his wife a quick kiss and teleports away.

By the end of the day, he has a house in rural Esmaar, outrageously small by Esmaarlan standards, consequently not outrageously large for their little family. Piro has been notified. Piro has complained. Piro has been ignored.

Everything is... fine. Is it? Well. No, not really. But it will be.

The tiny jet girl is blissfully unaware of any and all drama. She's perfectly content to curl up on soft surfaces and nap, or cuddle up to whoever is nearby and has proven Cuddle Friendly. And of course she continues to view hugs as invitations to burrow. Her indignant squeaks when she realizes that some offending limb or another has fallen asleep are commonplace.

She likes the new house just fine. She doesn't require very much space; she's mostly on her favorite cushion. If tiny silver baby is interested, she will share. (Reluctantly.)

The tiny silver baby takes to curling up next to her favourite cushion and tucking his head under her neck or wing or other available extremity. Maybe the burrowing instincts were contagious.

They adopt the jet girl.

A month passes. The children's naming ceremonies come and go, one after the other. The boy becomes Mialavar, and the girl becomes Emrakorid.

The next twenty years are going to be... difficult. But they'll manage.

Emra does not object to being burrowed under, at least not at first. But after some time, when Mial next goes to tuck himself under her wing, she draws it back with a whimper. "Hurts," she explains.

"Yeah," says Mial, plopping his head on a corner of her cushion instead. "Me too."

"Want't t'stop," she slurs in a sleepy voice.

"Yeah," sighs Mial. (The way Mom and Dad act around this subject has not been very hope-affirming.)

"They say it will?" Emra says, sounding uncertain. "Just. Want."

"Not for a really long time. I don't wanna wait a really long time. I want it to be better now," says Mial.

"Me too. But I think we just hafta wait." She nudges despondently at her cushion, unwilling to move more. "Worst. Thing. Ow!"

"Bleh," Mial agrees emphatically.

She sighs. "Don't wanna think about it." She considers. "Think we can get Mom to tell us a story?"

Mial perks up. "I bet! Let's go find her!"

Emra looks sadly at her cushion. "I have to move," she whines, but she drags herself up. "Let's go."

Mial nudges her encouragingly with his little nose and gambols off in search of Mom, looking back frequently to check that Emra is keeping up.

Emra squeaks when nudged but follows along readily enough; the inertia was only in the getting up.

Stories happen. As the pain gets worse and it gets harder for the children to move, stories happen more frequently. Emra rarely admits to a preference, but seems to lean strongly towards fantasies and fairy tales with happy endings. Even ones with dragon protagonists.