It eases her, her shoulders rolling back and - to it, there is maybe. Surprise. He took her as she was, he always had. Good and bad and everything in between. She looks over him. It is perhaps not a good companionship. Founded in lofty ideals. It's mud and dirt and salt.

But it isn't pretending otherwise.

She steps forward, that moment, taking him in the early morning light that turns his hair lighter. The places that sea had worn into his skin. Not pretty like those pretty Orlais masks. Rougher, handsome like an old blade. The mark of it upon him like rust patterns blades. To be cleaned and more striking for it.

Lakshmi takes his hand, not directly or harshly, enough space to let him stop her. Her fingers, in many ways, no better than his, if different. A swordsman since childhood, every bit of her chipped that way. Taking it up, she presses her lips to the back of his knuckles, then presses it against her heart. Meeting his eyes level. How she never, never turns her gaze down from anything.

"As long as you fight for a life of freedom, my blade and my blood are yours to call upon when you need them."