As he keeps his arm with hers, his touch remains to her wrist, his thumb idly across where her veins and blood press against her skin. She listens to her talk of Arthur often followed by her mention of the Merlin from that strand of time. Part and parcel, he guesses, that their mention should be together. What did she say, tangled like razor wire.

“It is a grand home,” he allows as he again lets his sense slide across the expanse and large number of rooms. “My home is equates to your hall, I think.” He smiles, though, his home is imbued with magic as well, so in as much as the walls and rooms are modest, they hold endless promise of space for whatever this or that interests him enough to bring it home, mainly comprised of maps and books and artifacts, some plain, some magical.

She brings his attention around with her hand on his. “No, I have not eaten.”