He undresses as if no one sees, and she is aware that even if someone did see him, he would hardly care. It is one of the remnants of years of war he carries with him like a habit, because in war, no one cares. War does not give privacy, and one no longer expects it.

Stretching his lithe body, muscles standing taut, the skin shining in health, the marks upon it all but marring it, she wonders whether he realises she is watching. She knows him never to miss anything, with those piercing eyes, which she has seen loving and accusing, angry and at peace. Is it a way to acquaint her to his body, to which she cannot yet lay claim, but will when enough years have passed? She doubts he is that calculating, despite the fact he is an acclaimed strategist, clever and astute.

Her thoughts dwell on the scars that are scattered across his body as if it were a map of his life. She cannot see the scar inflicted on the night she was attacked, but she can see others. Some are slowly fading, leaving white tissue that one day will be gone as well. His oldest scars must have disappeared long ago, even before she was born, but she is certain he will know where they once were, marks of distinction that they are. Others are fresher, like those on his back, shallow gashes he tries to ignore, which have only just begun to heal.

The room he stands in joins with hers, and while she lies in the darkness that is thought to be required for sleep, he stands in the artificial light of an oil lamp. He cannot see her from the light. And yet she knows he knows she is there, sleeping or awake.

Slipping on the comfortable garments he sleeps in, he sits down at the small desk that has been put there for his convenience now that she occupies this larger room. And like every night, he dips his pen into the ink jar which always stands nearby and writes, she can only guess what exactly. Predictions, reflections, regrets; over the years he has poured them onto the pages, a fit way to make room for other matters in his mind. If she closes her eyes she can imagine his precise scrawl exactly, quick but neat, characteristic of its owner. She has received letters by his hand often enough to know it as well as her own.

In the mornings he sits at the desk which stands in her room and tends to his correspondence; the light is better there that time of day. Letters to her father, informing him of her progress, mostly; he rarely responds to the Council reports he is sent, even if they do sometimes discuss them between the two of them.

It is as if the Southern Palace has become an entirely different world, and it cannot intrude upon their current one.

But at night he takes a moment to gather his thoughts of the past day, his expectations of the next. His pen is swift, and the nib scratches audibly on the parchment in the silence of night. It never takes long, but in the short while he always manages to write a page or two at the very least. Then he closes the thick diary, with all its scraps of paper sticking out, ghosting his fingers over the time-worn cover. And like every night, he sits so a moment, head bowed, before rising and coming to the door.

'Good night, my princess,' he says, the volume of his voice only just exceeding a whisper. He does not wait for an answer, and returns to extinguish the light of the lamp. He knows she is there, whether she hears his words or not. It happens like this each night, in exactly the same way.

The contrast of light and dark stands as a barrier between them; Arandîr cannot see her wide awake, and Allayna will never admit that she has observed everything. But they both know the other to be there. And for now, that is enough.