Not subtle at all, he finds, and to one who is hardly afraid of feedback, of redirection, it is a blessing. And using his hair as a leash hardly hurts—he is easily redirected, and goes with a smile against her skin.

He applies himself to wedding her with the sort of enthusiasm he’s reserved for the most important tasks in Thedas—teaching himself to read, Cassandra Pentaghast, his job as Division Head—and if they run up against a few walls or miscommunications, they have the ready-made excuse of several thousand years of chastity.

He is a gentleman throughout, up until the point of completion—shuddering pants with his head presses into the curve where neck meets shoulder, his hands fisted in the blanket, Sindarin he doesn’t pause to translate—and then he is just a very big elf with all his weight on top of her for as long as it takes him to remember himself and roll off her, ribs moving as he breathes deeply to gather himself. His hand finds hers, curls around it, and he turns his head to look at her. The nature of his glamour is such that no expression is projected errantly. It is chosen-- though that is not a truth he will admit to, ever, but the smile he gives her now (soft, unguarded, devoted) is clearly private.

“Hervess,” he says, and after a moment: “Wife.”