"That's not— precisely what I mean," he responds, stumbling over his words only slightly, and though his dark complexion makes it a bit difficult to tell, at least for anyone who didn't know him so well as she did, there is color in his cheeks.

"Your loyalty has been unfailing, even when I am certain I did not deserve it. That you have stayed here in Viscint as long as you have, that you spend your time with me so freely... truly, I am humbled. I know that you're not to wander off, never to return, but I do not see you as my guard."

Of course, given all they've been through together, how could he? They were far more than that— and there is no one else in this city who would dream of calling him 'Do,' a familiarity that sets her apart, as so many things about her do.

He lowers his cup to the table once more, curling the fingers of both hands around it as he closes his eyes for a moment to compose himself.

"I was hoping you would consider becoming my wife."

For a poet, it is almost painfully unromantic, asking such a thing over afternoon tea as though it were a business proposition.