It has not been easy, courting her, and it was not easy to be with her—he did not soothe himself with the fantasy that it would be easier once everything was put to rights, but he did not want perfect. Gwenaëlle fought back; he did not want some simpering creature. But that doesn’t mean he enjoys navigating either of their moods, when they occur. Which is—often.

“He lives.” And if it was a secret, it will not be much longer, for he was told long enough ago that he made it from there to here as quickly as he was able. His fingers curl tight around Gwenaëlle’s waist, squeezing, his hands do the same to the figure—just a twitch of movement. He stops himself, rewinds, explains.

“His Craft favors the act of creation, of making. He has seen this sort of disruption of time, this travel through it, as if years were but rooms. He says it can be undone. He and the others we thought lost, they are all well. They were brought to Kirkwall. I do not know how long it will take them to come here.”